Legacy IV

Chapter 4

At noon-hour Mos Espa sank into a comatose state; every business except Flaky's cantina closed its doors, animals snoozed in the scant shade of rickety shelters, pedestrians disappeared, vehicles came to a stand-still, folks went home for midday meal and –if they were lucky- a long afternoon snooze.

Anakin trotted eagerly along the back alleyways, keeping close to the packed earthen walls where the suns' rays did not beat so vehemently upon his head. The route home – to the slave quarter outside the mercantile district proper – was one his feet knew by instinct, leaving his head free to meander along whatever adventurous course it would choose: daydreams of travel, of heroic deeds, of having enough to eat. Of all three at once, when he was in a particularly ambitious and discontent mood. Today he was busy gestating his great scheme, his bid for freedom.

His plan was perfect, and failsafe, and so glaringly obvious he felt a pang of embarrassment at not having hit upon it before. As his mother often told him, he could not have been born so talented, so special, for no reason. Gifts are given to some people so that they may help others, she always said. The greatest problem in this universe is that people do not help one another.

Well, Anakin was about to help the one nearest and dearest to him right out of bondage. And that would only be the beginning of his fame and glory. He was going to free the entire universe. Not just of slavery, but of hunger, and suffering, and injustice, and fear, and sorrow. Maybe, someday, he could even stop people from dying. Not like the B'Omarr monks did with their brain jars and stuff, of course – that was just gross - but in a real way. A way that mattered and made a difference.

His only worry was about telling Shmi. His mother might be a brave and wise woman, but she suffered from an irrational idée fixe when it came to Anakin's safety. She probably wouldn't even hear what he was proposing, past the trilfing detail of mortal peril.

Kitster's mom wasn't any better, nor was any maternal figure in his limited experience. Even krayt dragon dams had a way of ripping the heads off people who got too close to the nest. It was a quirk of the profession, he supposed. But a troublesome one.

Because in order to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, Anakin was going to have to pilot his special, custom-built racing machine in the Boonta Eve Podrace. And win.

At noon-hour, the township's dissolute and thirsty denizens poured into the cantina en masse, filling the booths and tables to overflowing, keeping the four-armed barkeep hard at work filling demands for intoxicants suited to the palates and physiology of several dozen species. The hubbub swiftly swelled to a clamor, mercifully blotting out the subliminal blare of the holo-feed in the corner; the two-headed talk show host's inane babble faded into the murmurs of the crowd, preventing Qui-Gon Jinn from discovering whether a generously proportioned Seleucian starlet was or was not dating the decrepit but fabulously wealthy president of the local sector tibanna mining company.

Thus forever deprived of the day's most pressing intelligence, he was at liberty to eavesdrop shamelessly upon the eager press of neighbors, all of them bawling to be heard over the noon-time crowd, most of them enthusiastically chewing the cud of Tatooine's local gossip mill, or what passed for news on a star-forsaken dustball like this. He used the Force to attune his senses to this snippet of conversation, and then that, drifting among the idlers without moving an inch from his discreet vantage

"…so then the karking eopie decides to drop her calf, just, on the same day when the vaprorator kicks the bucket, and we've already sent the speeder up to Anchorhead for a shipment…"

"…kriffing little pizzmahs ripped me off, same as always. Next time them jawas come trading I ain't gonna buy a damned thing. Not a coil condenser. You know… bleeding heart neighbor syas they gotta make a living too but I don't give a flying fark. I'm gonna just make the trip into town instead, and e'chuta to them…."

"So then he says four hundred mila an' I says in your dreams, chuba buki…. Like Republic credits mean anything out here. I'll take the shirt off your back, I says, before I takes your money. These lousy ootmian, they understand nothing…."

"… won the last triple crown out on Malastare. Got a chance out here, I think, but he's used to a refereed race, no dirty play. Might learn a thing or two out in the canyon. They say Boonta Eve's the real deal, no holds barred…"

"…How long you staying in town? Just for race day or you going to the auctions afterward? I got a sand skiff that can hold a score or two. Dancing girls, drinks…. Think about it, mate."

"…Yeah and so the barve runs off in the middle of the night and ol' Meerska says, to hell with it. Found that piece of pula's transmitter and set it off. The next morning they found bits of brain on the next dune, I swear. And none of his slaves'll ever think about running off again, believe me…"

"….Got a wager on Sebulba, like always. It'll be the Dug's day again."

When a sallow and squat half-Gamorrean slid into the bench opposite with a wet grunt that might have been a request for permission, the Jedi master was prepared to make small talk.

"Ootmian?" his new neighbor grunted, slurping the froth off his fermented zoor.

"Just passing through, for the races," the tall man replied, affably.

A terse nod of the head. The newcomer wiped his tusks with the back of one huge hand. "Stay long?"

Qui-Gon raised his shoulders. "Ah well, wouldn't we all like to stay for the auctions, hm?"

"Eh." The snout-faced fellow bottomed-up his glass. "Gotta know somebody though, dontcha? Invite only," he snorted, contemptuously. "Karffing ishzzlitar."

"Quite."

Having apparently exhausted the possible topics of rational discourse, the half-Gam lapsed into a comfortable and besotted silence, calling for a second serving and a plate of food. The Jedi master leaned back into shadow, keeping his hood up. So the Hutts were hosting a private black market auction here, after the big race on Boonta Eve. The local festivities provided ample incentive for outworlders to flock to the desert planet, and promised to put ready credits in buyers' hands. On worlds such as this, illegal commerce and gambling not only constituted the vast majority of real income, but also went hand in hand, one fueling the other. The HUtts, who owned syndicates at both end, profited endlessly without directly involving their slimy fingers in anything.

He discreetly sent a text-only transmission to Obi-Wan, keeping his commlink out of view beneath the table.

The pirate Uticus was surely here to deliver or sell goods for the event.

Obi-Wan shoved his commlink back into its belt pouch and shifted weight from foot to foot; the heated rock beneath his boots was searing unpleasantly through his nerfhide soles, and the gatekeeper was taking an unconscionably long time to respond to his summons.

He blinked sweat out of his eyes and cursed his loss of a proper Jedi cloak – the cowl would have nicely protected his head form the sun's assault. As it was, his hair felt as though it would spontaneously combust at any moment. Not even a drassil stirred in the noon-day heat. Tatooine's creatures were too smart to stand about in the sun like this. No, idiocy of that magnitude was reserved for Jedi.

When at last a tiny aperture in the gates popped open with a sharp click, he nearly jumped out of his skin. A globular optic sensor affixed to a rod thrust through the opening and peered critically at the visitor. From somewhere inside the citadel, a grating voice demanded his name and business in thick, guttural Huttese.

Shifting weight again, he folded his hands and opted for the direct approach. "Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, requesting an audience with the exalted lord of this palace." Whatever the avaricious barve's name might be, he mentally appended.

The artificial eye darted up, down, to either side. A snickering could be heard on the other side of the gate. "Jeedai?" the voice repeated, incredulous.

Obi-Wan smoothed the folds of the duster and lifted his chin. Yet another reason to lament the lack of a proper cloak. Truth be told, he was beginning to not like this planet, and its presumptive stereotyping. "Yes."

The ensuing silence was of uncomfortably long duration. "...Blast it." The Order was by no means honored out here, where the only rule was that of might, but the HUtts were too wily and complacent to make trouble when none was needed. He had anticipated a grudging and insincere welcome, not a cold shoulder. He was on the point of forcing the issue – no pun intended – when the rusty portico groaned into life, rumbling up from its moorings a scant meter and a half. Massive blunt teeth punctuated the moving wall's underside, designed to fit onto notches in the deep stone. As he ducked under the slab he noted that the durasteel panel was solid and a meter thick – there would be no easy escape through this door, though surely its primary function was insulator.

Inside, it was blessedly cool and dark. He breathed a sigh of gratitude –

-and then ducked.

A vibro-axe axe bit deeply into the wall above his head, loosing a small cascade of plaster and dust. Wheeling, he held out a hand and threw his assailant into the opposite wall. The guardsman crumpled and slid down to the packed floor, tongue lolling over slobber-coated tusks.

"Lovely."

The passageway ahead was clear. Behind him, the gates rolled shut with a deafening thunder of ancient pistons and overtaxed hydraulics, sealing him in blackness.

Creak creak creak creak.

Hand hovering cautiously above his 'saber's hilt, he waited for the new threat to manifest itself; the Force was oily, a viscous scum of diffuse vice floating on the slow currents, blending and oozing indiscriminately. The approaching person had no signature at all, oddly enough –

Or not. It was nothing but a droid.

The silver-bodied protocol unit had an insectoid head; such models were preferred by many of the galaxy's non-humanoid species. It bowed to him, curtly, and spoke in a grating warble he recognized as the gatekeeper's. The droid's optic plates gleamed dully as it noticed the slumped guard. "Oh dear," it remarked, lackadaisically.

"Yes, well," Obi-Wan replied, equally apathetic.

The droid was well-programmed in diplomacy , and switched tactics immediately.

"Welcome, honored ambassador," it rasped, in Basic. "The illustrious Jabba will condescend to receive you in his throne room."

The young Jedi bowed. "Thank you. Lead the way."

Shmi was appalled. "But Cliegg…. How in the worlds can you afford this?"

Lars was a pragmatic man. He patiently explained. "I told you. Bumper crop last season… and I've been saving for a while. I don't know why, just in case.. maybe Owen wanted to go to the Core when he's older. But he won't. He's fourteen and knows what he wants. He'll stay on the farm, take over when I'm too old. Maybe settle down. And I sold the combine and the mercerator to the Jawas. We can do without. And that ridge on the east side of the property.. I sold that to the Jenkks. Never gives a good yield anyway, and now their lads won't have to steal mushrooms from me. I've scraped and scrounged one way or another, but I never dreamed it would be enough. Not until I heard the stingy old barve was going bankrupt."

But Shmi shook her head, dark silver-fretted waves bobbing at her temples. Lars loved the way her hair came unbound from its simple braid, stuck in tiny tendrils to her worry-lined forehead, coiled just beneath her earlobes. "What about Ani?"

Ah. The sticking point. He took one of her calloused hands between his own. They were both weather worn, hard-beaten people.. but he rubbed a thumb appreciatively along her smaller fingers, silently pleading.

"Listen to me, darling. Please listen: Watto refused to sell the boy to me. I asked. I begged, hama. But the price he wants… I barely convinced him to let you go. He's going to sell both of you, no matter what – you would be separated no matter what, do you understand? At least come with me. We can… I don't know. Find out who has him, try to strike a bargain."

She was weeping. He couldn't stand it.

"Shmi- Shmi… I'll sell the farm, if that's what it takes! Anything to make you happy –"

But Shmi shook her head, blinking away moisture and bestowing upon him a smile of purest grace. "Cliegg. You cannot live without the farm. We would starve. " His heart leapt at the word we. "I know Ani will leave me someday – he is special, he is meant for something more than this… but I can't leave him in slavery, when I am free. Don't you see?"

Cliegg buried his face in his hands, kneading at his aching temples, feeling the unshaven scruff upon his lined cheeks. "Gods, oh gods," he groaned, in utter frustration.

Somewhere, in the next room, a door clicked shut. Footfalls pattered away, swift and urgent.

Shmi's head came up, abruptly. "Ani?"