Dear Qui-Gon,

My thoughts these days are often on Marei, that poor piteous slave of Jabba the Hutt's, who every day must wonder if her dance will not be enough to satisfy him, and the last thing she ever sees will be the rancor's teeth. Tatooine is full of slaves, and as a Jedi I have learnt to know the limits of my influence – we are small in number, Yoda used to say, and cannot expect from ourselves the impossible. Well, we are even smaller in number now, and yet somehow I feel my responsibilities have not been similarly culled.

I have my duties to Luke, of course, his safety is always paramount. But now I find myself resolved to look beyond, and help those I looked past or ignored before. There are no more wars to fight, so no more excuses of serving the greater good. I know I cannot make a dent in the slave trade here on Tatooine; the culture is too ingrained and the Masters too powerful, and yet I am resolved to keep my promise to Marei.

I travelled to Mos Espa and purchased a collection of second hand slave collars and implants from a local dealer, thankful that if nothing else they would never be used on another sentient being. The sycophantic ways of the slimy middle-aged human made me sick – he told me of his cousin arriving next week with a new shipment of slaves and offered me a good price. I had to swallow the bile and feign interest so not to arouse suspicion, and heard many details of the family trade.

I wonder if the man's cousin is weak enough to withstand my best methods of persuasion. I am minded to head off the shipment and convince him to see the folly of his lifestyle, although that path is fraught with danger. I risk being exposed if it does not work, and even if it does the Hutts would not take kindly to the idea of liberated slaves and would spare no resources hunting the responsible party. Jabba would surely suspect my involvement, and even if he did not, imagine if he asked me to discover the culprit! I will have to consider this some more.

But I digress. I have come to an acquaintance of sorts with Lotty Mustrap, the proprietor of The Weary Traveller in Anchorhead. It is a good place for a drink and to overhear local gossip – Lotty is happy enough to share when I bring her something exotic from Mos Espa or offworld. This time, it was a dozen red-flesh melons which she could sell at a premium or include in her drinks as a nice flourish. I kept a few for myself, although for a different purpose.

"The Sand People are getting restless," she told me, her weathered face creasing with concern. "Been seen near some of the farms on Klavern Ridge, gettin' too close for comfort."

"Have they come into the salt flats?" I asked, worried that the Lars farm could be a target.

"Nah," Lotty shook her head. "They wouldn't dare come so close, not now the farmers are organised."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Owen Lars was in here the other night riling 'em all up. Gotta defend their families, he said. Sand People are a menace – they killed his stepmother, you know."

"Yes, I…heard." She had left behind two sons; neither had ever recovered and her loss spurned them both to cling desperately to their remaining family.

"Terrible business." Lotty shook her head. "Shmi was a kind woman – I see her grandson around town sometimes. Do you know little Luke Skywalker?"

"I'm familiar with the family," I said, trying to sound disinterested even though I was desperate to hear news of them.

"Sweet boy," Lotty smiled. "Brings me desert flowers sometimes. But like I said, Owen's in a tizzy about the Sand People, and the farmer's have worked out a good enough defence for anyone who gets too close."

I remembered the disaster of Pika a few years ago, and how Orrin Gault had almost orchestrated a war. No doubt Owen had far better motives, but his vehemence worried me, and I wondered why the Sand People would stray so far from their borders.

"You don't think they'll form a raiding party, do you?" That was my chief concern.

"Not yet," Lotty told me, although I could see she shared my worries. "The worst the Sand People have done is steal some livestock, but if they attack a homestead…"

"I suppose we can only hope they do not." I finished my drink and rose. "Thank you, Lotty, as always your company has been an oasis in this vast desert."

"Get out of here, you flirt." Lotty smirked and waved me away.

I returned home with fresh worries to add to my not insignificant collection, and attempted to be productive. I took out the remaining melons I had purchased and inserted the slave implants deep into the ripe flesh, activating them via remote. The first melon was experimental – I reached out through the Force and attempted to simply deactivate the tracking.

The melon exploded, red flesh flying everywhere, coating the walls of my kitchen, staining my robes and sticking to my face. The device was only intended to kill the slave it was bound to so I was unhurt but naturally disappointed. Clearly this would be no easy task, but regardless I set my mind to work with the remaining melons.

It took hours of concentration, attempting to identify the elements of the device in the Force to isolate the deadman switch and deactivate, but my efforts only ended in burnt-out implants and a face full of goopy fruit.

"Rooh!" I called out to the eopie who would no doubt be happy to clean the melon flesh off my walls with her tongue. When she did not enter I reached out through the Force, surprised to find she was far away. It was not unlike her to roam and I made no effort to keep her penned, and yet she must have left almost immediately after we returned from Anchorhead, as if she had some purpose.

When I touched her mind to indicate she should return home I felt her anxiety – something had scared her and I immediately left to find her in the desert. Night was approaching but I did not care, knowing Rooh would not be easily unsettled, would not wander so farm from home without reason.

I thought back to the journey from Anchorhead, and recalled she had wanted to follow some scent or another she had picked up. But I was weary and disinclined for adventure and had led her firmly back to the hut, thinking she had just found some friendly animal tribe or another.

But clearly it had been something else. I found her out in the Dune Sea, clearly on her way home although her manner was agitated. She looked at me with her large dark eyes and when I touched her mind again I felt a mother's love for her cub, and a strong sense of danger.

"What is it, girl?" I stroked her neck, but she pulled away and turned back the way she had come. "Alright, I'll follow."

She ducked down for me so I could mount, and then took off speedily into the night, following the scent she had picked up earlier, and had no doubt followed to find the source before returning to get me. In the ride it was easier to merge my mind with hers, to feel the sand under my feet and follow the instincts of my snout.

That was when I realised what she had found – the scent was the Sand People, there was no mistaking it. But there was another, so familiar to Rooh when he had carefully rubbed her hide, given her childish hugs and talked to her like no human ever had.

It was Luke.