"New Discoveries"
By EsmeAmelia
AN: Happy New Year, all! Thanks as always for your reviews.
Chapter 3
"I don't like this," Owen muttered as he sat on the edge of the bed he shared with his wife. "I don't like this at all."
"Well you could have said no," said Beru, pulling her hair out of its tight bands, letting it fall over the shoulders of her white nightgown. "I wouldn't have protested if you did."
"Then why didn't you say no?" Owen exclaimed. He sighed loudly. "Why did that old wizard have to intervene in our lives again?"
Beru sat down next to him, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Owen, he gave us a wonderful son. How can you be angry at him for bringing Luke into our lives?"
Owen scrunched his eyes closed, leaning down and rubbing his forehead. "It's not Luke. It's this whole...thing we've gotten ourselves into. Just when I thought everything was safe, then suddenly we've gotta house the other one - who's looking for, of all things, Darth Vader's remains." He turned to look at his wife. "Do you think she knows?"
"From the way she was talking about Vader, I wouldn't say she does," Beru answered. "She seems to think he's just this fascinating historical figure."
Owen's eyebrows twitched. "Yeah, well out of all the xenoarchiologists in the galaxy, why is she the one looking for him? And why is she staying at our house? Pretty strange coincidence there." He ground his teeth from side to side. "Just you wait - she'll get Luke all interested and then he'll start asking questions."
"And would that be a bad thing?" Beru intercepted. "Owen, Luke's an adult now. If we don't tell him now, when will we ever tell him?"
"Never," Owen said firmly.
"Owen!"
"I'm serious." Owen inhaled deeply as he put his arm around his wife. "Beru, think about it. Vader's dead and the Empire's gone. Telling him now will only trouble him for life."
Beru's fingers walked across her husband's shoulder before her hand squeezed it with a mixture of tenderness and firmness. "I understand, Owen, but we can't protect him from everything. If he's meant to find out, sooner or later he will."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"You actually believe Darth Vader's remains are on Tatooine?" Luke asked as soon as his aunt and uncle went to bed.
"Xenoarchiologists don't 'believe' anything." Leia was lounging on the sofa, her brown pants wrinkling against the cushions, revealing how tall her boots were. "We only discover. We might find Vader's remains, or we might find nothing at all."
Luke inhaled through his toothy grin. "But still...you must be hoping that you'll find something."
Leia grinned back at him. "Maybe we are. But part of the fun is not knowing what we're going to find. Who knows, maybe instead of Vader's remains we'll find a buried treasure." She flung her body up into a sitting position. "Say, how would you like to come with me tomorrow to the dig?"
Luke's eyes widened. "Me...you mean it?"
Leia shrugged. "Sure. I could introduce you to the gang, you could watch what we do. What do you say?"
"Well...I have work."
Leia shrugged again. "After work, then. It's not unusual for us to work long into the night, after all. Maybe you could even convince your boss to let you off early."
Luke had never asked Biggs to be let off early, but seeing as how they had been friends since childhood, he would probably be easy to convince. "All right," Luke said. "I'll come."
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Morning at the Mos Eisley Spaceport. Speeders were hurrying in and out of the streets, freighter ships were taking off and landing, and shifty characters were slipping from building to building, hoping not to be seen. However, there was one building in which these characters could be seen without worry, for it was the hangout for people just like them.
The Mos Eisley Cantina had been open for only an hour, and yet the smoky bar was already bustling. Various species ordering drinks, chatting, gambling, looking for hookers. It would only be a matter of time before today's first brawl broke out - the bartender knew that all too well. Hardly a day ever passed when he didn't have to physically attempt to separate a couple of drunk customers, usually getting punched in the jaw as a result.
He wrinkled his eyelids, sniffling at the musky odor of alcohol and cigar smoke. It always got to his nostrils in the morning, before they became numb to it. After wiping his sweaty hands on his well-stained apron, he slid a beer across the bar to a Rodarin customer, who grabbed the drink without even acknowledging the bartender's existence, his green mouth immediately gulping it down and belching loudly before shouting out for another one in Huttese.
Typical, the bartender thought. Probably a bounty hunter. The years working here had taught him how to recognize bounty hunters from their attitude, the way they showed off their weapons, the way they were always asking for information, the way they demanded without acknowledgment.
He would hate to be the person they were looking for.
The cantina band was playing their same loud music, the minor brass tune that stayed in his brain long after he returned home. Shit, can't those guys come up with some new material? he thought. Damn, this job sucks.
This job sucks. That thought came to him nearly every minute of every day, yet for whatever reason, he found himself still working here. Was it because of the stable paycheck or just because he'd given up on his real ambition a long time ago? An answer never came.
He was washing another vomit-covered mug, cringing as he scrubbed the vomit away with his bare hands, when he happened to look up and spot a young woman entering the cantina. Her tan jacket, brown pants, and brown boots covered her skin sufficiently - she couldn't be a hooker. Her lack of weapons and the straight, dignified way she carried herself told the bartender she wasn't a bounty hunter, gambler, or freighter pilot either. In fact, she looked like she belonged in a class entirely above the lot that usually hung out here.
As she came closer to the bar, he began to make out her features. Her jacket was undone at the top, revealing a bright red shirt underneath. She wore a tan hat with a wide brim, which almost completely concealed her dark brown hair. Her face was smooth and youthful - the bartender thought she couldn't be any older than twenty-two or twenty-three.
"What can I get you?" the bartender said, with a more interested tone that what he usually used to approach customers.
The woman folded her arms and rested them on the bar, staring at him with bright brown eyes. "Nothing right now. I'm just touring the spaceport, familiarizing myself with the area. But I'm sure some of us will be coming in later. After hard work at the dig, my gang likes to relax, after all." She raised a brow, studying the bartender's face. "Of course, some of them might prefer to be served by someone who combs his hair."
"Hey!" the bartender exclaimed, accustomed to insults from drunk patrons but not from sober ones. "Look missy, I dunno who you think you are, but you and your little gang can just..."
"Sheesh," the woman interrupted, showing the bartender her palms. "I thought bartenders were supposed to be calm."
"You obviously haven't met many."
The woman leaned over the counter, looking directly in his eyes. "I happen to be a xenoarchiologist - I've met a whole spectrum of characters and traveled to more planets than you'll probably ever see in your life."
"You ain't met any 'characters' till you've been to the Mos Eisley Cantina, I can tell you that." The bartender returned to scrubbing the mug. "Anyway, if you ain't gonna order anything, I'm gonna have to ask you to make room for payin' customers."
The xenoarchiologist banged her hand on the counter, making him jump. "You might not want to say that - unless you want me to tell my gang that this is the worst hangout on the planet. Lots of paying customers there, but if you don't want them..."
"Okay, okay," he said, throwing up his wet hands in disgust. "Go ahead, bring your gang here, have a few parties. They can't be any worse than the Hutts I've had to serve."
The woman gave an infatuating smile. "That's more like it."
The bartender was about to say something else when a customer shouting, "'Ey Solo, where's me whiskey?" shifted his priorities.
"I've gotta get that," he said, quickly drying his hands.
The woman looked like she was trying to stifle a giggle. "Solo? Is that your name?'
"It's Han Solo," he corrected grumpily. "No one I like calls me by my last name."
She smiled again, this time seeming almost honest. "All right, Han." She stuck out her hand, reaching across the bar. "I'm Leia."
Han briefly shook her calloused hand before rushing to the customer. "Nice to meet you."