Under the Twin Suns

by MoKidd

Aden Malro watched his family die, murdered by a Hutt's hired killers. Found in the desert by a mysterious stranger and raised to fight like a Jedi and shoot like a bounty hunter, he has lived with a burning desire to seek out vengeance on those responsible. Now his old mentor is leaving to seek out an old enemy, leaving him to seek out his own demons.

1. Chapter 1

I remember it like it was yesterday, every last detail. Funny how something that happened almost fifteen years ago could be so burned into my mind when so many other things have fallen away. Then again, it was the day that my life changed forever.

I don't remember much about my mother and father, but what I do remember is that my mother was short, slight, had dark hair, and always smelled of cooking oils and incense. She had a laugh that would light up our little farm as if it were some kind of sweet music that pushed away the heat, boredom, and dreariness of our little moisture farm. It wasn't much of a farm, at that, just the house and the little shed where we kept our tools and the little machinery that Dad used around the farm, the bunkhouse where our seasonal hands would sleep when they came in for the summer harvest, and the underground shelter where we kept our droids. We never had very many of those. We had an R2 unit that handled the minor repairs around the place on the house or the moisture vaporators and a repair droid that helped out Mom around the house and helped Dad with his speeder. There was also a corral where we would keep livestock sometimes.

I used to like going away from the house with my old peashooter and crawl back into the rocks, playing Tusken Raider or Stormtrooper and occasionally bringing back some little critter for dinner. Sand People were a threat if I ventured out very far from the house, but I was careful to stay within a quarter mile most of the time. Our farm sat on the very edge of the Jundlnad Wastes and was surrounded by high outcroppings of dark rock that looked like the edges of an upright saw. There were dry watercourses where natural water had once flowed in the long-forgotten past, but they were all bone dry and petrified now. Dad and I had hunted all over those hills since I was old enough to hold a rifle and so I knew every nook and cranny for miles around. There were trails where Sand People had once traveled back before the homesteaders started coming in and farther back in the mountains were more trails where they still rode their huge banthas out on raids or hunts.

I was out playing when I heard the speeders come up to the house. I had been running around the rocky ridges and saw-backed hills all day with my little peashooter, taking practice shots at small pebbles and whatever little insects or animals that crossed my path. Dad said that I was one of the best shots he had ever seen and I was determined to get better. I didn't recognize the sound of the speeders, and I knew the sound of every one of our neighbor's speeders by heart, so when I heard them come up out of the Wastes I was immediately curious. Visitors were rare at our farm and they were always a welcome change to the monotony of life in the desert. Our nearest neighbor was a good ten miles away and the nearest settlement, Mos Espa, was an easy four hours' ride in a speeder. I gave up playing and ran down the narrow trail that led to the rocky shelf above our house, and when I came out on the crest of the ridge and looked down at the house I froze in my tracks.

Down in the flat and beside our house there were three speeders, two bikes and a larger speeder car that would easily hold five or six men, and in front of them were five men in rough clothing, all of them armed, and in front of them was my father. He was taller than all but one of the men in the group, towering over them at his above average height, and his dark, thick hair hung loose at his shoulders and his white clothing standing out over the earthy tones worn by the others. Even at six years old I could tell that these were dangerous men, but my father stood there in front of them with his feet spread wide apart and his arms hanging at his sides. I crept closer, keeping under the cover of the rocks, and for the first time I saw that my father was also armed. My father armed? I could never remember him carrying a blaster, or even a knife or any weapon at all aside from the belt knife he used for chores, but there he stood with a fine black gunbelt around his hips and two exquisitely made blaster pistols hanging in low-slung holsters at his thighs. The handles were white and they seemed almost to shine when I looked at them.

The five men stood a few yards away from him and started to form a sort of half circle in front of him, but he took a step to the side and shouted something at them that made them stop in their tracks. I couldn't hear what was said until I came closer and crawled my way through the rocks and sparse brush to within earshot.

None of the men down on the flat had seen me, or at least didn't give any indication that they saw me, and I looked from one to the other as they spoke. Three of them were human, a big man with a bald head that shone in the sun and two others that were leaner and dressed in the same kind of garb that I had seen Hutt henchmen wear around town. The big man had a greasy beard and was dressed all in black and when I saw his face I wanted to look away. He had a fierce look to him, steely hard eyes that seemed to look straight into my soul, and something about his voice made my skin crawl. The other two were different. There was a Rhodian with a milky eye that had an ugly scar across it, and the fifth man was a Tusken Raider. It took me a minute to recognize him for what he was, it was one of the few times that I had ever seen a Tusken without their head wrappings. He dressed and walked like a common man and wore a blaster holstered on his hip, but slung over his back I could see a gaffi stick.

Never in all my life had I known my father to either pack a blaster or to use harsh language, but now there he stood in front of five hard men and he seemed to not even by bothered by it. He spoke to them the same way he did when he was scolding me for forgetting some chore or breaking one of Mom's good dishes at dinner, albeit with a bit more color in his speech.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing here? Speak up now or else get your asses off my property and be damn quick about it!"

"Pipe down, Malro," the big man said to him, "you know who sent us and you know what we want. Just come along with us and there won't be any trouble."

"And my wife and boy?"

"Oh, we'll take good care of them, Malro. Don't worry your head about that. You still married to that sweet little taste from Anchorhead? I would love to get a piece of . . ."

"You watch your filthy mouth, you snaggle-toothed bastard. One more word about my wife and I'll drop you where you stand."

"You may get me, but you'll never get the rest of these boys. Jensen here is almost as good as me and Rak'Ja over there is more than a fair hand himself. Gardulla only hires the best. You know that."

"Maybe they'll get me, but I doubt it. Either way you'll still be the first one to die. That Tusken over there goes second. After that whoever wants to can throw their hat in the ring and we'll just let the chips fall where they may."

"Just get your shit and get in the speeder, Malro! Gardulla is not a patient woman!"

"And I'm not a patient man, either. I've had just about enough of you and this little bunch of rabble that you brought with you. Now I want you all to get on your speeders, get on back to where you came from, and tell Miss Gardulla that I'm not and never will be interested. That's my final answer and it is final."

"We were hoping you would say that. Gardulla said that we were to bring you back any way we could. Like I said, get your water-seeder ass in that speeder!"

His hand dropped for his blaster and I almost cried out to my father to look out, but then Dad's hands flashed in a movement so swift that I could barely register it in my vision and all of a sudden those two shiny pistols were in his hands and held ready at arm's length. One of them was trained on the big man's chest, the other was pointed at the Tusken. He had been reaching for his gaffi stick and his hand had just touched the wooden shaft of the weapon when he froze in place and looked down the cold black muzzle of my father's blaster. Those other three stood stock still, as if frozen in place, and no one dared to make a move. That big man's face was red and even boy that I was I could see the seething hatred that was there. He wanted to draw in the worst way but he knew that such a move would be the end of him. As for myself, I had never been more proud of my father. He stood there with those guns on them and he never even batted an eye.

"Last chance, asshole. Get the hell off my land. All of you."

They didn't like it. No sir, they didn't like it one bit. They had come to do scare a simple farmer, or so I thought, and now they were staring down a man that wasn't afraid to face them armed and who could and would shoot them down without a thought. I had seen my father face down crazed banthas and stand ready rifle in hand to fight off a krayt dragon that we heard down in the canyons one time, but never before had I seen him more ready to stand up to trouble than I did right now. I couldn't help but smile as I watched from my hidden perch. If I'd had a better weapon than that old airgun then I would have lent him a hand.

That big man muttered something under his breath and turned back toward the speeders, followed closely by the others. Dad didn't move or speak. He stood there, guns up and ready, and watched them go toward their vehicles with what seemed like little interest. He still hadn't moved at all and those two fancy blasters were still up and ready. The five of them started toward the speeders and it was obvious that they didn't feel like giving up so easy but none of them wanted to buck a high-powered blaster pistol at that close range. They were tough men that knew too much about weapons to take them lightly.

To this day, I still don't know where the shot came from. My eyes had been riveted to the scene unfolding below me and to the men that were going back to their speeders and therefore I didn't know or see where the sound of the rifle came from or where the shooter was hidden. All I know is that Dad sank to his knees a second after the gun sounded and by the time the sound of the rifle had lost itself in the infinite loneliness of the desert he had fallen on his face and there was a growing pool of red spreading out from under his belly. His pistols had fallen from his hands and laid in the desert sand, his hands clenching at the sand with an almost spasmodic rhythm. He didn't scream. His eyes were wide and his mouth gaped opened as if he were about to let out a blood-curdling scream, but there was no sound that I could hear. I had to cup a hand over my mouth and fight back the tears to keep myself from screaming. The five men turned around and sauntered over to my father and I saw the big man smile his ugly smile. They came over to him and said something over him that I couldn't make out and when he managed to lift his head up and face them he spat back at them and cursed them for cowards.

I wanted to run away. I wanted to get a weapon and shoot them all down like wamp rats. I wanted to see them all dead and bloody in the sand for what they had done. But I couldn't do any of that. I was just a boy with a airgun watching my father die. I watched them beat and kick him down in the bottom below my hiding place and I could hear the ugly thuds and cracks of the blows landing and the visceral grunts and yelps of pain that Dad let out as they beat him. I wanted to look away but at the same time I couldn't. I had to see it, I had to see them, I had to know their faces and their voices and their manners. I made an oath on the spot that these men would pay for what they had done and that I would be the one to make them pay even if it took me the rest of my days. My eyes watered over and my throat hurt from the effort of choking down the screams and the sobs until I doubted that I could ever speak again. I didn't think anything could be more horrible than what I had just seen, but then I heard my mother scream.

Immediately the five men's attention turned to the house and the source of the scream and even from the distance I could see the ugly look that came over their faces. The Rhodian with the dead eye drew his pistol and fired a bolt at the house, striking the wall a foot from my mother's face and sending a shower of sparks and debris everywhere as she ran back into the ,house. Four of the men ran for the house, laughing evil laughs and smiling those nefarious smiles that foreshadowed things to come. Only the big man in black remained. He stood over my father and picked up one of the white-handled pistols out of the dirt and hefted it in his hand, smiling at the balance and feel of it. Dad was looking up at him with more fire in his eyes than I had ever seen and I knew that he had been able to stand and fight that he would have torn that man in black limb from limb and laughed while he did it. The big man smiled down at him and I could see the hate and the sick pleasure in his eyes. The others were in the house now and I could hear Mom screaming and things breaking in the distance, muffled by the walls of the house, but I could hear what the big man said to Dad almost as clearly as if I had been standing right beside him when he said it.

"Nobody tells Gardulla no, Malro. Nobody."

He lifted the blaster and took aim, I heard the high-pitched whine and saw the red bolt pass between the gun and Dad's head, and then my father was dead. The screaming in the house stopped and there was a chorus of sadistic laughter from the four thugs that were now hidden inside the place that had been my home, and then there were more blaster shots and the flashes of red light in the windows. The Rhodian and one of the other men came out first, then the Tusken and the other man a second later. The Tusken finished belting on his pants and he still had that sick grin on his face. I've never wanted to kill a man more than I did at that moment. One of the men turned and lifted his blaster, fired twice into the house, and within a few seconds there was a glow of flames and the sound of crackling fire coming from within the little structure. They spread out then and went into the droid shack, shot the droids and disabled the farm equipment, then went to the shed and bunkhouse and set them alight.

It felt like hours before the five of them finally went back to the speeders and sped off into the desert once again, but from the time they first arrived to the time they left it couldn't have been more than ten or fifteen minutes. I sat and watched the speeders fade into the distance and become tiny dots against the infinite sea of sand and black rock, then finally disappear completely into the horizon. The tears flowed freely and I cried and cried and cried until I couldn't cry any more. My shirt was soaked with tears and my eyes and throat hurt from the effort of crying when I finally lifted myself up and stumbled down the slope almost an hour later.

He was barely recognizable. The blaster bolt had taken him right between the eyes and the superheated plasma had blackened his face and blown away most of his face, while the bullet hole in his chest was centered over one lung and the exit wound in his chest was almost the size of my hand. It had to have been made by a cycler rifle like the ones that the Tusken Raiders used. No one else used projectile weapons anymore and no other gun could make such a wound. His gunbelt and pistols were gone, taken by the big bastard dressed in black before he left. I could still see the look on his face as he fired the fatal shot into my father's head and the way that he had smiled when he stripped the belt from my father's corpse. I would never forget that smile, nor the way that he had laughed when he saw what the others had been up to. Going into the house was an effort. The fires that the thugs had started had already burned most of the furniture and all of the pretty drapes that Mom had spent so much time and effort making. Everywhere there were pieces of broken crockery and busted furniture that had been destroyed during the struggle. The only piece of furniture that remained standing was the table, the table where we had eaten so many tasty and peaceful meals after a good day's work, on which laid the body of my mother. I looked at her for only a second before I had to turn away to avoid losing the contents of my stomach.

She was splayed out on the table, on her back and her arms and legs spread wide across the table, and her entire body had been blackened by the fire. Her dress was in shreds and her face was covered in gashes and caked with dried blood. I didn't look any closer than that. I went into the bedrooms and found that nearly everything had been burned. The only thing that remained of my parents' things was the big metal chest that my father had kept in the corner. That had been strictly off limits to me and had been locked with a keypad lock and a key lock and had never been opened that I could remember. It was open now, though, and curiosity got the better of me. I looked inside and found a second gunbelt with a custom-made DL44 pistol in a low-hanging holster and a large fighting knife in a tooled sheath, plus two little pouches for spare power packs for the pistol, as well as a blaster rifle, a collection of papers and cased awards, and what looked like an old uniform of some kind. I didn't recognize the insignia on the shoulder. It looked like a motif of some fierce creature with curved tusks. I remembered a medallion that Dad had worn and when I went back to his body I found it still around his neck, bearing the same insignia as the uniform.

I wanted desperately to bury my parents, but the tool shed had been destroyed and the earth was much too hard for me to attempt to dig a grave, much less two. The men that had killed my family didn't seem to know that I was anywhere around, but there was no telling whether or not they would come back and finish the job or to make sure that no one came by to investigate. It was unlikely that anyone would. Ours was an isolated farm where few people ever came and even fewer traveled. The main roads were many miles away and it would have been too far out of the way for any traveler to just pass by. Of one thing I was sure, and that was that I could not stay here. I had to get away from this house, from this farm, from all of the terrible memories that were still so fresh in my mind. I had to get away from everything that this place represented as well as the dangers of the raiders returning and those posed by the desert itself. With this in mind, I took the rifle and gunbelt and put the old uniform and a few odds and ends of food from the ruined pantry into the old backpack that I would use what Dad took me camping, filled two canteens from the main vaporator, and struck out into the desert.

I don't know how long I was out in the wastes. My food was little enough and the water didn't last long at all. I was too young to know better and failed to ration it properly, so it was gone after the first day when it could have lasted me three days. I looked for the few natural water sources that Dad had told me about, but it was useless. Only the banthas, the wild eoopies, and the Sand People knew of those watering holes and it was nearly impossible to find them unless a man knew where to find them. I remember the thirst most of all. At first it was the normal hard thirst of a day without water, then the dry, burning, sandpaper feeling of a throat that is completely drained of all fluid moisture. Every breath was a labor, my throat cracked and felt almost like it was bleeding. I didn't dare speak for fear of the pain that it would bring. After a while the rifle became heavy and the backpack, empty now except for the old uniform, became a burden that I couldn't bear any longer. I took out the uniform and tossed the pack away, but kept the rifle and pistol. I was alone and this was Tusken Raider country, to say nothing of the five men that might even now be hunting me, and without them I would be as good as dead.

Somewhere along the line I must have collapsed. I don't remember falling exactly, just that one moment I was stumbling along with all the effort I could muster and the next I was on the warm sand just after sundown. That sand was searing hot during the day but at night when the temperature dropped to almost freezing it would retain some of its heat for at least a couple hours. The suns were down and the stars were shining brightly above me when I came to, but when I tried to get up I couldn't manage to even move or sit up. My throat hurt like it had never hurt before, my face and hands felt like they were on fire and had I not been so parched I might have screamed from the pain. I later found that they had been burned by the suns and the hot sand. I opened my eyes and looked over my right hand, stretched out to my side, and I could see the rifle and pistol belt. The clothes I couldn't see, so they must be somewhere behind me. It was starting to get cold now and I wanted those clothes for the warmth they would give but my muscles were too weak to reach for them.

Strange that a place that was so hot during the day could be so unbelievably cold at night, I thought, but that was the way of the desert. Always life was a struggle in the desert, for nothing in the desert could ever live without a great struggle to survive each and every day. The lack of water, the burning suns, the predators and enemies that could be waiting behind every rock, every dune, every bend of the trail all conspired to kill anyone and anything that wished to live in such a desolate, dangerous, unforgiving place. The animals and the people that lived there were always the hardiest sort, tough, strong, and resilient. They had to be. Such a place as this, such a planet as this, was a place where only the strongest survived and the weak left their bones to bleach under the scorching suns.

I laid there for I don't know how long. I remember the piercing cold of a long night, followed by the searing heat of a day that I doubt I'll ever forget. My skin was soon burned badly by the unforgiving suns and I prayed for night to come again so that it would cool me off again. I tried to crawl toward some kind of cover, but the nearest shade was fifty yards away in the lee of a cliff and would only last for another few hours. Somewhere along the line I slept again, waking after what might have been several hours. The suns had moved and the shade below the cliff was all but gone. At first I didn't know what it was that had awoken me, for I was sure that something had, and in the back of my mind I could just barely register a sound that hadn't been there before. It was a low murmur, or maybe a growl, and only after a minute or two did I realize what it was. It was a voice with an accent that I had never heard before, and he was kneeling over me.

The person speaking was on the side that I couldn't see, but he spoke softly and with a tone that put me at ease. I had every reason to suspect that it was an enemy, but there was something about him that made me feel safe, comfortable, at peace. He put a hand on my shoulder and I winced, bunching my shoulders as if he had struck me with a club. If my throat hadn't been so parched I might have screamed from the sudden shock of pain that went through me. My skin was so badly burned that even the slightest touch caused me agony. I heard him screw the top off of something and there was a cool, sweet touch on my cheek and something cold ran into my mouth. Never in all my life has water tasted so good. He didn't give me much, just enough to wet my tongue and lips and to put some moisture back into my skin. I was out of my head with thirst and I didn't remember much after that. I remember the feeling of being lifted off the ground and being carried, of the man's voice speaking in soft tones again, and of being laid down on something soft and warm. I slept deeply for a long time after that, one of the best sleeps I've ever known, finally waking in a warm bed in a room lit by a dung chip fire on the hearth. A man was kneeling near the fire and turning some kind of meat over the flames. There was a pot of something bubbling on a hook beside the meat. Something smelled amazingly good and suddenly I remembered how long it had been since I had eaten.

I tried to stand up, but when I tried to throw the blanket off I felt a shock of searing pain shoot through me and I found that every muscle was stiff and sore. I looked down at my hands and found that there were bandages on both of them and someone had put some kind of salve on the burns on my face and neck. There were blisters on the burns, but they were drained and looked almost healed. How long had I been out? The man by the fire heard me wince at the pain and turned to face me and for the first time I saw him clearly. He was a man of average height with a strong build, he was dressed in brown and tan robes of a kind that I had never seen, and his beard and hair were a light brown color and were well kept. That was odd, since beards weren't very common on a desert world like Tatooine.

He smiled and came over to the bed with a cup of broth, which I happily took and downed in two big draughts. He took the cup and went back to the fire, returning with a plate of more broth and some soup made from beans and tiny pieces of meat. I ate in tiny bites, for I had been hungry long enough to want to savor my food. A man, or boy, who has truly known hunger will never scarf down his food like people think. He picks at it, savoring every bit of it and taking only tiny bites until his shrunken stomach can accept more.

"Take it easy, young man," he said in that softly accented voice again, "you've had quite an ordeal. Another few hours out there and I doubt you would have survived. You're lucky that I found you when I did."

I started to answer him, but when I tried to speak my throat was still raw and it hurt to speak. The best I could do was to whisper a barely audible "thank you".

"I haven't been here long, my young friend, but I believe it is highly unusual for someone your age to be out in the desert on their own and getting into such predicaments. How did you come to be in such a desolate place and in such need? For that matter, why was a boy such as yourself traveling so well armed?" He gestured toward the corner of the room, where my rifle and pistol belt hung from two wooden pegs in the wall. "By the way, your rifle shoots a little off. It took me three shots to take down this wamp rat we're eating. Normally I don't like blasters that much, but in such an uncivilized place I find that it is an unfortunate necessity."

With more labored whispers and more than a few nods and hints from the bearded man, I managed to muddle my way through the story of what had happened back at the farm. It was painful to recount the events of that terrible day, but as I spoke I began to remember little details about it that I had never recalled before. I normally wouldn't have so open and up-front with anyone, being a shy child, but there was just something about this man that made me feel that I could trust him. After all, he could have killed me back there in the desert and no one would have been the wiser. Men often vanished in the Dune Sea or the Jundland Wastes and were never seen again. They just left one day for a ride, a job, or traveling on their way to this place or that and just dropped off the face of the planet.

The man in the robes sat in a homemade chair beside the bed and listened to my story, not saying a word but simply sitting and listening with a kind of quiet assurance. His expression was neutral and he did not seem to register any emotion as I spoke, but I could see that he was more than a little interested. When I had finished he went and got me a cup of water from a cistern across the house. Water was a rare thing out here and a precious resource, so to see him offer it to a stranger so casually was a new and interesting thing. I took the water and sipped it happily, noting the grace of the man's movements and the way that there seemed to be an almost fluid quality to his motions. He seemed in complete control of himself. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement, and a kind of calm serenity about him that was unlike anything I had ever seen before or seen since.

"Well, my boy," he said after I had finished my water, "you are safe now. You needn't worry about those raiders. Few people ever come this far into the Wastes and even fewer know it as well as I do. It is, in fact, the exact reason I came here. An old friend of mine once lived here and he told me much about this place and what it had to offer. You see, we are both running from something and we both have seen things that no one should ever see. We have that in common. If it pleases you, you may stay here as long as you like. If not, I can take you to Anchorhead and you can get a transport to Mos Eisley or wherever it is you would like to go."

"Thank you," I said with an effort, even after the cooling relief of the water, "by the way, I'm Aden Malro."

"Oh, of course, where are my manners? It is a pleasure to meet you, Aden Malro. My name is Obi-wan Kenobi, but you can call me Ben."

The suns were bright overhead when I opened my eyes again. The light was bright enough to make my eyes sting a little, even in the shaded confines of the shallow cave in which I had camped. There were many such caves in the Wastes, carved out of the living rock eons ago by some long-extinct water source that had turned to dust sometime in the most ancient past of the planet that I called home. For a moment I lay still, listening to the sounds of the desert before rising from my bed. It was a habit of many desert men and one that had served me well in the past. I could hear the quiet whisper of the sand sifting over the desert on the wind, the sound of my eopie nudging the sand and loose earth on which he stood for the little water and fodder that could be found, and the soft hum of the heating rod that served as my campfire.

Nearly twenty years had passed since the day that Old Ben, as most people knew him, had found me out in this very desert and brought me into his home. It had taken weeks for my burns to heal completely and to this day I still bore a few small scars from them, but I had changed a lot since that day. I stood six foot four in my socked feet, when I had socks, my skin was browned by years in the suns, and packed into my frame was about two hundred pounds of lean muscle. my shoulders were wide and my arms were thick and powerful, my waist was lean and narrow, and across my cheek was the line of a scar left by a Tusken's knife. My own knife hung from my belt, the same belt that I had worn every day since I had been big enough for it to fit around me. I still wore the same blaster pistol that had been my father's and his rifle was in the corner of the cave near my saddle and gear.

I went over to the tiny trickle of water that came out of the rocks in the back of the cave and with a cupped hand I lifted enough for a sip. It was cold and sweet, filtered by the sandstone to perfect purity, and I took a few sips before tearing open a ration pack for my breakfast. When I had eaten and stowed my heated rod, I took up my rifle and saddle and stepped out into the bright morning light. My mount was tethered near a damp place in the sand that might have promised water and fodder and I threw my saddle over him and cinched it down, then went back into the cave and dipped my handkerchief into the cool water before returning and wringing it out into his mouth. He savored the drink, not like he needed it. An eopie can go for up to two months without a drink if need be. I gave him the last of the water and tied the cloth back around my neck to conserve the coolness. I looked around at the endless expanse of seemingly barren sand that surrounded our little patch of mountains. The Jundland Wastes were a scattered string of rocky mountains that dotted the edge of the Dune Sea, jagged shoulders of black volcanic rock that looked like hell with the fires out and stood on edge like so many upright saws.

It was a day's ride back to Old Ben's house in its little hidden valley, although more like a day and a half by the way I would have to ride. There were trails through the hills and through the harder packed sand at the edge of the Dune Sea, but they were half-hidden by the drifting sand and were difficult to find unless a man knew where they were to begin with. Those trails were ancient by anyone's standards and were used by few other than the animals and the occasional hunter or traveler. It was the hunting that had drawn me here in the first place.

Ben didn't believe in using blasters or any weapon but that old lightsaber that he practiced with every morning, but I had never had any qualms about using them. I hadn't carried Dad's pistol for the first few years that I had lived with Ben, but I had practiced with it and with the rifle religiously until I was an expert in the use of both. Ben had taught me to fight and to meditate from an early age, although he had never taught me to use the lightsaber. He did teach me a few techniques with the knife, though, and I had picked up a few things over the years at the traders' rendezvous at Anchorhead and Mos Eisley. I had been hunting for dewbacks and wild eopies for hides, meat, and fresh mounts ever since I had been old enough to sit a saddle. I had taken Dad's old rifle out hunting for the first time when I was thirteen and taken my first dewback the first day. Old Ben had said that I could practice with the blasters as long as I could afford the power packs for them, so I had taken to hunting, trapping, and scavenging for money as well as trading with the Sand People tribes and the settlements and taking the occasional odd job in town for a few weeks or months before returning to the house.

I had become known around the towns as a tough man to tangle with and a dead shot with any kind of a weapon, reputation that I hadn't wanted but had come by honestly. I had been in my share of fights and done some damage around the cantinas, but it was nothing compared to what some of the rough types who came through Mos Eisley or Mos Espa had done. Old Ben often called Mos Eisley a "wretched hive of scum and villainy" and rarely allowed me to go there until I started venturing out on my own. It was only the last few years that I had ridden the far hills and gone to hunting the hills.

The weapons I carried were almost as well known as I was. Many of the older men around the settlements still remembered my father and the respect that he had shown for everyone that he'd had dealings with. The pistol I wore was the one that he had carried the few times he had belted on a pistol for a trip to town, a customized DL-44 with iron sights, a super-charged capacitor for added power, and bantha ivory grips engraved with his initials. The rifle was unique among the weapons I had seen, one of a kind on a planet where nearly every man went armed that could afford to do so. It was a Remchester M73 ion rifle with a circular receiver that housed the charging cycler. The cycler was actuated by a lever that served as the trigger guard. A small holographic scope served as a sight. The gun was amazingly accurate and the sight could be adjusted from zero to six times magnification and with it I had made shots out to more than fifteen hundred yards.

I rode the hidden trails and bantha tracks that threaded their way through the endless expanse of the desert and wound from one watering hole to the next. Most of the natural water of Tatooine was deep below the surface and came through at only a few select places. In some places the ground was thin enough that wells could be dug, such as at the town sites of Mos Eisley, Mos Espa, Anchorhead, and Tocshe Station and at some of the fortunate civilian homes such as Old Ben's. The Sand People knew of them and moved from one to the other as they migrated from one place to another in their constant search for food or during their summer raiding season. Most of the local tribes were friendly to the human population and I had hunted, traded, and lived with some of the bands that lived along the edge of the Sea, although the Jundland Wastes and the badlands beyond the edge of settled country were still home to hostile tribes and bands of renegades who would raid small farming settlements, farmsteads, and Jawa scavenging teams as they went from farm to farm peddling droids and scrap. Every now and then they would hit something big like a Jawa Sandcrawler or a Imperial Provincial patrol, but those attacks were rare and generally only occurred when a strong leader came out of the woodwork.

I rode all day through the desert, taking my noontime rest near a cluster of rocks that offered reasonable shade and concealment and after giving my mount an hour's rest I stepped into the leather and started down the trail again. I had meant to swing by toward the Lars place for the night, for they were known to be friendly to those traveling the desert and would give a man food and a bed. They were friendly folk, the Lars', and they had a son that I had been friendly with when we were youngsters. Luke was a nice enough kid, even if his head was in the clouds when it came to some things, and a few times we had palled around when I came in from a hunt or with Ben when we traded hides and meat for their produce. Their farm was a good distance from the Wastes and sat on a wide flat, but I had ranged farther out than usual in looking for game this time and felt like some company.

A man that rides into the desert carelessly is a man that had better be ready to face up to trouble at any moment. Danger lurked everywhere on the sands, for this was a dangerous planet that could kill a man in a thousand ways. A bandit's blaster, a dewback's bite, a bad step resulting in a broken leg or a busted ankle, quicksand that could swallow a man and mount in seconds, blinding sandstorms that could make a man lose his bearings so that he wandered around aimlessly until his supplies ran out. Knowing the trails and the places where a man could find food and shelter could easily be the difference between life and death for a far-riding man. Most farmers like the Lars' were sympathetic to travelers and drifters and so were known as good people who were not to be harmed.

It was almost dark when I finally came up to the house. Old Ben's house was unique in the Wastes, for he had built it with some otherworldly knowledge that I had never seen before. The main house had been an old cabin or mining house where some prospector or farmer had tried to make a go of it way back in the Wastes and come to some end that left his house empty. Ben had found it when he came to Tatooine and had chosen it for its isolation. Over the years he had added two more rooms to the house, repaired the old shed that had once been used to house tools and gear but now did for a storage space for our garden implements and the tack that we used with our riding stock, built a corral and a stable that held the stock, and on the little knoll that sat near the house we had built a rifle pit for when the Tuskens tried to raid us. Near the house was a small mine that we had done some digging in, although we hadn't found much. The hills surrounding the valley had some minerals in them, but the mine itself only had some copper.

I put up my eopie in his stall and put some feed in the bin, stowed my gear in the shed, then went into the house. The heavy door creaked on its hinges and the room was cold after the long cool night, and the room smelled of stale smoke and cold java. Ben was nowhere in sight and there were no signs that he had been in since early morning or late last night. It wasn't unusual for him to be out for long hours. He liked to walk the canyons and scout the trails for signs of Tuskens or other activity. Often I got the feeling that he was on the run from something or someone, but I didn't let it bother me. A lot of the men on Tatooine were on the lam from something or other. Most of the time he got back around this time. I put up my rifle and gear and washed up at the washbasin, careful to use just enough water to dampen a cloth, and set to work making the evening meal.

The smells of food cooking and java boiling filled the house and the sounds of the night began to come alive as the suns set behind the mountains in a flaming collage of color that made it look for a moment as if the entire horizon was on fire. The clear desert air was brisk with the cool of the evening and the wind blew away the last of the day's heat as the stars came into view through the thinning clouds. I had always thought that there was nothing in the galaxy that could quite compare to the beauty and majesty of a desert sunset. For a few moments each day a man could just sit and watch the suns fade away into the hills and bathe the barren wastes of the desert in such beauty that he could forget about the dangers and the perils that this world had to offer. I sipped my java and watched the suns sink down below the horizon and watched the red and orange and gold fade from the sky and give way to the cool darkness of the night.

It doesn't take long for even the hottest of days to give way to a cold night in the desert, for in the desert the heat of the day escapes quickly and there is very little twilight. The night creatures came out of their holes and went about their business, their calls sounded in the growing darkness, and son the night was filled with the sounds of the scurrying of little feet and the flapping of wings as they soared through the cooling breeze. During the day the deserts of Tatooine are an arid wasteland where a man could ride for days and never see another living thing, but at night it truly comes alive.

The food was ready just as the suns disappeared behind the hills and I went and took the dishes from the stove. It was simple food, a pot of beans with some squash and homegrown greens on the side and the hot java to wash it down, and after two days of packaged rations it was like heaven on a plate. Footsteps sounded at the door just as I was about to sit down and instantly I palmed my gun and slipped back into the deeper shadows at the corner of the kitchen. A form appeared in the half-light of the moon in the doorway and walked calmly into the house, a hooded form that walked with an ease and grace no other could. I smiled and slipped the pistol back into its holster. Only one man could stroll into this house that easily and nonchalantly. Few came out this far that weren't running from something and the Tuskens thought of this place as taboo and avoided it most of the time. The settlers down in the Sea and toward the settlements left the place alone too, but only out of ignorance.

"Hello, Ben," I said as I stepped up to the table, "have a seat. Food's hot."

"I can see that. Beans again? I should have known better than to let you beat me to the stove. I think you would eat beans every day if I were not around to stop you."

"Probably. Still needs some meat to make it good."

"Yes, I know. It looks good, though."

He slid off his cloak and hung it on the peg near the door, standing in his traditional robes and foot wrappings. His old lightsaber hung from his belt, although he rarely used it unless it was in practice in the meditation garden. I could remember seeing him use it in combat only twice, once against a raiding party of Tuskens who had ambushed us in a pass two miles down from the house and once when a man had pulled a blaster on him while we were negotiating over the price of some eopies we had broken and brought in to sell. That man was a bad one and was known as a fast hand with a pistol, but Ben beat him to it and took his arm off with one smooth motion that seemed so casual that one would hardly believe he was in a life and death situation. The man's friends had been none too happy about it, but they backed up when they saw the muzzle of my ion rifle staring back at them. I had a reputation myself, or was just starting to get one at that time, and no one in their right mind wanted to buck a Remchester from fifteen feet.

We ate in silence for a few minutes then, both of us enjoying the calm night and the taste of the food. We were quiet men anyways and it wasn't unusual for us to go days at a time without speaking to each other. It had been different when I was younger. It seemed that not a day went by that Ben wasn't scolding me for some mischief that I had gotten into or getting on to me for skipping the lessons that he tried to teach me. He saw right away that my reflexes were faster than others and that I possessed a natural ability with weapons and tools. Often I would sneak out and practice with that old DL-44 and he would stand back and watch while I drew and shot rocks or old cans off of a rock shelf or made an old bit of scrap dance across the ground with every shot.

For years he had tried to teach me how to attain peace and tranquility within myself, as he called it, through meditation and other exercises, but after a couple years he had given it up. He said that I had too much revenge in me, too much hate to learn the ways of the mystical thing that he called the Force. He was always going on about the Force and the old ways of the Jedi. I had heard Dad talk about the Jedi as a small child, mostly with a kind of half-contempt and half-respect, but with Ben I learned more. He said that the Jedi had been the guardians of peace and order before the rise of the Empire and the Purge in which most of them had been wiped out. As far as Ben knew, only he and an ancient Ozzarian named Yoda were left of the old Jedi Order that had once numbered as much as ten thousand Jedi knights.

A few times he had tried to teach me to handle that lightsaber of his and let me use a second saber that he had taken from on old pupil of his for a practice tool, but right off he saw that it wasn't for me. I was a fair hand with a knife and had had to use one more than a few times over the years, but the finer art of the lightsaber was something that I simply could not master. I was much better with a blaster, which Ben had always called a "uncivilized, clumsy, random weapon". He explained that it was nothing to be ashamed of, that only a select few had the gifts needed to really understand the use of the saber, of the Force, and of the teachings of the Jedi.

One thing that he was able to teach me was the old ways of fighting that had been passed down through the generations of the Jedi Order, techniques that were known to few others in the galaxy. Ben had fought in the Clone Wars and had been taught from childhood how to fight and to handle himself "when diplomacy fails", and most of what he had learned he had passed on to me. Every now and then he would call me his padawan, whatever that meant. He hadn't called me that in years but I had always thought of it as a term of endearment.

"See anything interesting?", I asked after the meal.

"Not really. Nothing that I saw, but something that I felt has me distressed."

"Something you felt?"

"Yes. I feel as if something is very amiss, something that will spell great change. I haven't felt like this in a very long time, Aden. I fear that something is very wrong."

Any other person would have thought him a crazy old man, as most people did, but I had learned a long time ago to trust in Ben's feelings and his premonitions. More than once they had foretold trouble for us and we had been able to avoid it due to that foresight.

"I saw some tracks in the North Pass, some Tuskens moving along the trail from Bandit's Hole. Maybe a dozen men and four banthas. No women and no baggage train."

"Raiding party. Do you think they will come this way, Aden?"

"I don't think so. They were angling over toward the west. I saw a Jawa Sandcrawler rolling over the hills a few miles over that way yesterday, so they might be after them."

"Tuskens don't usually go after anything as big as a Sandcrawler. They might try to steal some of the droids they pick, though. I think we should keep an eye on them."

"I know a trail where I can follow them out of sight. I think I know where they'll be camped tonight."

"Be careful. You know how Tuskens are."

That I did. To most people Tuskens were mindless savages, and in battle they certainly fought like such, but they were as canny and as cunning as the most clever smuggler or junk dealer. I knew them to be superb fighters and shrewd traders, as well as caring parents for their young and talented hunters and trackers. They had lived on this world for over a thousand generations, long before the first human settlers had come here looking for a place to hide out and go about their business in peace, and the arrival of the newcomers had only given them a new source of booty for their frequent raids. The tribes didn't have much and never had, but the tribes nearer to the new settlements soon became richer for the swag that they took from the traders, scavengers, and prospectors that soon came along. The Tusken way of life had always been based on raiding and tribal warfare with the best warrior being the one who could bring back the most booty, the most banthas, and the most captives.

The night was still ringing with the sounds of the night creatures when I stepped out into the cool air to have a smoke and to enjoy the coolness. The heat of the day was long gone, the fire was going in the hearth, and Old Ben had retired to the garden for his nightly meditations. I stuffed my pipe and lit up, loving the pungent smell of the herb and the refreshing feeling that it gave. Somewhere out in the desert I could hear the lonely call of a bantha echoing off the hills, to be answered a moment later by the calls of a herd that was probably feeding or watering not far away. Banthas rarely strayed far from the watering holes and there were three within a ten mile circle of the house. The one bantha called out again and was answered by more of his kin, then howled once more. This time he sounded closer to the others, moving closer to the herd and the companionship that it would offer.

Would that ever happen for me? Would I ever find a place where I was welcomed, a place that I could call my own? I doubted it. Old Ben was alright and had been as much of a father to me as my own father had been, but it was a lonesome life that me and that old man led. Whenever I went into the towns and saw other men with their wives and families going into their homes, their own homes, I always felt a small degree of envy. Those men had something that I would probably never have. They had a family to go home to, a hearth and home of their own, a wife to share their lives with and children to carry on their name. I was a lonesome rider, a man of the high mountains and the far deserts where no one else would go, a man born to the wildest places that the planet had to offer. It had always been so, and likely always would be.

Ben was the closest thing to family that I had ever had, and though he had done all that he could to raise up right and to put me on the straight and narrow path he was still a poor substitute for the family that I had lost. One thing that he was right about in his training, and that was that I had too much hatred in my heart. Even I knew that it would burn me up one day, but I couldn't help it. Not a night had gone by since that awful day that I hadn't seen the faces of those five men in my sleep. Every night I relived the moment that my parents were killed right before my eyes, every detail of it indelibly seared into my brain. Even now, looking off into the growing darkness, I could still hear my mother's screams and the laughing of the bastards who had killed her, the whine of the blaster that had killed my father while he was down and helpless, the echo of the rifle shot fading into the distance . . .

"You have that old look, Aden."

The sound of his voice made me jump a little. I had been so lost in thought that I hadn't heard him come up behind me. Then again, Ben had always had a quiet step.

"What look?"

"The look that you get when you're remembering. I know it's hard to think about, but you have to let go of the past if you are ever to move forward into your future. One cannot have such hate and anger in his heart if he is to lead a happy life. The past is in the past, my young friend."

"Not for me. I can't forget it, Ben. Not ever."

"You have to, Aden. I won't be around forever, you know. What will you do when I am gone and you are left all alone? I sense that great and terrible things will soon be afoot, things that will be long remembered and will change everything that we know. I cannot explain it, but I sense that there will come a time of turmoil in which none of our futures are certain. I fear what will become of you if I had to go away."

I would finally go on my vengeance ride, I thought. For nearly twenty years I had vowed to seek revenge on the men that had taken everything from me, to hunt down every one of them and make them pay for what they had done. One of my greatest fears had been that one or all of them had died or been killed over the years and that I would miss my chance at getting even. They were all violent men who led violent lives and it was entirely possible that they had met violent ends in the years since that awful day. I knew two of their names; Jenson, the stocky man who had been the first one to attack my mother, and Rak'Ja, the Tusken Raider with the distinct gaffi stick. Jenson was known around Mos Eisley as a smuggler and gun hand for the Hutts, while Rak'Ja had made something of a reputation for himself as a war chief for one of the outlying tribes beyond the settled territories.

The other three I knew nothing of, although I had my suspicions. Every time we went to the towns I would go into the taverns and listen to all the talk that I could pick up, listening for the latest rumors of gunmen or hired killers that were working for this Hutt or that, smugglers who had made a name for themselves in one way or another, or bad men that were still talked about wherever tough men gathered. Taverns and cantinas were always clearinghouses for any kind of information and were always a good place to pick up the latest news or gossip. I had scarcely been out of the settled lands and had never been off-world in my life, but I could describe in detail such figures as Darth Vader or Boba Fett, the famous bounty hunter, and talk a blue streak about the latest events of the rebellion against the Empire that was gaining impetus in the core systems. I had no interest in such things, having no stake in the outcome, but it was always nice to hear about the latest battles and developments in the war.

"Get some sleep, Aden. I want to get out early and have a look at those Tuskens to see what they're up to. I'm not very worried. Tomorrow should be uneventful."