Legacy 4

Chapter 13

By midmorning the raceway hangar was bustling with preparations for the big event. Mechanics accompanied by the usual bevy of pit droids and gonk fuel-luggers teemed over the decks, shouting above the raised voices of bookies, vendors, suppliers, and eager lookie-loos seeking a glimpse of the various pods and their assigned jockeys. The rafters rang with mechanical hubbub and the raucous laughter of Mos Espa's already solidly plastered denizens. The traditional Huttese holiday began earlier and earlier each year, stretching into a kind of week-long festival of petty vice, as befit its founders.

Watto theToydarian meandered among the throng, casting a sidelong glance at the spectacle of Sebulba the Dug enjoying the sensuous ministrations of twin Twi"Lek masseuses. Sebulba was rich, as a direct result of podracing acumen in many an Outer Rim venue , including the Boonta Classic and the Circus Morticus races on his homeworld of Malastare. Big corporate money backed many of the professional entrants, but the Dug funded himself – and enjoyed the resulting profits with shamelessly hedonistic flair. Watto had no love for the lecherous hand-walker, but he knew a solid wager when he saw one, and Sebulba was going to win tomorrow, as he always did.

The conspicios absentee from the proceedings was his own slave boy. The smart-mouthed booki was nowhere to be seen… but what did that matter? So long as he showed up for work the day after the race, he was free to waste his time in whatever fashion he saw fit. The kid was good enough not to get himself killed – and it as perhaps for the better that his hacked-together pod was nowhere near Sebulba's tinkering feet. There was no official ban on sabotage in the rulebook, after all. And Anakin would be a difficult piece of property to replace.

With the junk shop closed , like every other business in the spaceport town, Watoo was free to wander and gossip like his numerous contemporaries. He had staked his entire fortune – his very existence, in point of fact – upon the outcome of this race. Little wonder it occupied his entire attention, hypnotized him as surely as a swaying serpent wooing some hapless rodent. He fluttered here and there, gazing over his wrinkled snout at the chaoriots and engines, the flags and paraphernalia, the fuel tanks and toolkits, the chattering, histrionic pit droids. The entire scene took on a luminal clarity—

And then warped into surreal, horrifying nightmare.

"You. Fathead," a hulking Gamorrean grunted wetly, just behind him.

Rotating slowly in mid-air, the unfortunate Toydarian forced himself to look at the trio of enforcers, emissaries of the local Hutt crimelord.

"Jabba wants his money," the Klatooinian on the left reminded him. "In full."

Watto spread placating hands. "Tell Jabba I can pay him. I don't want any trouble."

"Give us the money, then," third brute demanded, taking a threatening step forward.

Hovering backwards, the junk dealer looked for a swift exit route. "Look," he wheedled. "I don't have it with me…..after the race, eh? We'll square the account up."

"You better," the Gamorrean snorted. "Or we seize your assets and make an example out of you."

In the local Huttese idiom, 'example" translated roughly as 'mutilated corpse.' Watto bobbed up and down, nervously. "After the race," he repeated, wishing his voice didn't quaver so noticeably. "E'chuta!"

The thugs laughed at his bravado. "E'chuta cabo," they replied, making the requisite obscene hand gesture, and slunk off to bully the next victim on their calling list.

The pot-bellied little Toydarian shoved hands into the pockets of his vest and flapped disconsolately away, muttering empty imprecations under his breath.

Obi-Wan leaned against the shuttle passenger compartment's interior bulkhead and watched the boy sleep.

He was unsettled; a few snatched hours' rest, a deep meditation , and a careful assessment of his bruises and abrasions had made that much clear to him. The Other's presence here, upon this unlikely backworld, was deeply disturbing. And more disturbing still, the creature's interest in this slave boy.

He ran one hand through his unbound hair. Qui-Gon might be right.

Blast it.

The child snored, for stars' sake. How could anyone so inexplicably important snore like a suckling akk puppy? A tiny thread of drool was even now forming a sticky rivulet from the boy's open mouth onto the thin fibrofill pillow. He made a mental note to chuck the thing into the 'cycler at next opportunity. And yet, scrawny, pug-nosed, muss-haired and foolish as this child was…. he was also somehow coveted. By a Sith.

Torbb appeared behind him, emerging from the cockpit. "All clear?"

He snorted, gently. "Qui-Gon's coming to take him back to town…. He has a mother there. And an owner."

The giant Knight ducked beneath the doorway. "Seems a pity to return him," she agreed. "Under the circumstances." Her thick black brows rose. "Especially recent ones. That thing you fought…"

"That," he replied, heavily, "Is a Sith. I'm sure of it. I've told the Council… they, too, are concerned."

Torbb favored him with a roundly skeptical look. "There are lots of vile things in the galaxy, Kenobi. They needn't all be members of … a dead cult. She hesitated, scowling. "Though… I felt it, too."

He nodded, releasing a slow breath. The tattooed warrior had left a miasma behind, a lingering taint in the Force, pungent and repugnant. Just as it had before, the trace signature left him feeling… queasy. Allergic, almost. He smoothed back his thick fall of hair again.

"Cut that damn mop off," Torbb bluntly advised. "I'll do it for you, if you want."

He made a face, swiftly changing topics. "Are we agreed upon our plan for tomorrow?"

His fierce comrade 's features hardened. "Yes. I need to go now, if I'm to meet the nomads in time. "

Obi-Wan dipped his head. "Of course. I'll stay here and wait for Qui-Gon, then join you at the first rendezvous. May the Force be with you."

Torbb clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him into the bulkhead. "I am grateful for your help, brother."

He smiled, faintly. His pledge would prove costly when he faced the Council back on Coruscant; but Torbb's unexpected friendship had proved a thing of unique value and timbre, one he would honor. Her heavy footfalls crossed the deck into the miniscule cargo hold, and then tramped down the access ramp, left open to encourage air circulation; even the stand-by air cycler was hard-pressed to counteract Tatooine's stifling heat.

Anakin woke not long after. "Aw, man!" he complained, groggily. "I'm really hungry."

Obi-Wan curtly popped the self-heating seal on a container of shipboard rations – mandrangea bean hash, always the last thing left in a standard "assorted" requisition pack – and shoved the unappetizing offering beneath his guest's upturned nose. The boy tucked in without any hesitation, manifestly pleased with his humble fare.

"Mm," he enthused. "Thanks a lot, Mister…. "

"Obi-Wan," he supplied, grimacing as he unsealed a second meal pack. Waste not, want not.

Anakin wolfed his second helping down at a pace more suited to podracing than polite dining, and then abruptly looked up, acute distress shining in sky-blue eyes. "Mom!" he exclaimed. "I'll bet she's just mechanga with worry – she didn't know I went out and – "

"Your mother has been informed that you are safe," the young Jedi assured him, gingerly taking up position at the far end of the inset ship's bunk. Anakin drew his legs up crosswise and stared at him, curious.

"So…. Uh… do you know that guy? The weird one from last night, I mean?"

He knew far more of 'that guy' than he ever wished to. "We've met," he replied, laconically.

The boy curled up into a protective ball. "He's creepy."

Understatement of the millennium. "You might say that."

Anakin scrunched his nose and slatted fair eyes, suspiciously. "So how come you didn't tell me you're a Jedi before? I mean, when we first met?"

Ah, yes. He shrugged, noncommittally. "It wasn't important."

But the child was far too perspicacious for his own good. "I think you were up to something sneaky and didn't want anyone to know. I bet Jedi have lots of enemies and stuff. And you have to be careful."

Obi-Wan's brows rose. "As opposed to people who take midnight joyrides in the desert, solo and unarmed."

Anakin brushed this aside. "I was practicing for the big race tomorrow. I'm gonna win, and be the only human podrace champion ever."

"A laudable life's ambition."

There was a short pause, as the child struggled to discern his meaning. "Hey… do you not like podracing, or something?"

It wasn't his place, nor his responsibility, and yet…. The young Knight crossed his arms. "Anakin," he said, gravely. "Have you ever considered that the purpose of your existence may encompass something far more …important… than winning an uncouth sporting competition?"

"Oh sure," the boy shrugged. "I'm gonna be famous and rich and powerful and I'm gonna free all the slaves in the galaxy and lots of other stuff too. You'll see. I'm gonna help people. Mom says the worst problem in this universe is that nobody helps anyone else. I'm gonna change that."

"You plan to alter the very fabric of sentient nature?"

"Somebody has to make people be good," Anakin insisted, fiercely. "Even if Mister Qui-Gon says you can only protect the innocent. At least, Jedi can't do more than that. But I don't want to be a Jedi anyway. I'm not going to any old dumb school."

Obi-Wan's jaw dropped, momentarily. What in Force's name had his former mentor been discussing with this peculiar child genius? Had the man lost his mind? "Mister Qui-Gon," he dryly responded, "Says a great many things."

"Yeah, I know," the boy earnestly agreed. "He's wizard! Hey! I just figured something out, I think… did he teach you how to be a Jedi? Like, is he your teacher?"

Oh for stars' sake…. "Yes."

Anakin goggled. "That's' totally rugged! So you know him really well and you're like really good friends and everything! How long have you been a Jedi?"

"My whole life. Well, nearly. As long as I can remember."

HIS small companion frowned over that. "What about your Mom?"

"She approved the idea." He wasn't venturing any further down this perilous road. Time to parry and reverse. "Why does it concern you?"

"Just wondering," came the petulant response. "That other lady.. the giant one… is she a Jedi too?"

"Yes; Knight Bakk'ile is a very devoted Jedi."

Anakin nodded, and scratched his nose, contemplatively. "How 'bout that weird guy with the red laser swords? He said he was something betterthan a Jedi. More powerful. Braver."

Obi-Wan bristled, invisibly. "What do you think?" He watched his new acquaintance closely.

"I dunno." A sly, sidelong glance, thoughts blotted out by impermeable reflexive shields. The boy was… remarkably talented. "I guess… I thought you were maybe a little scared of him. I could feel it. I still can." Those alarming eyes came up again, meeting his astonished gaze squarely.

Ah.

"It's true," Anakin pressed.

He clenched his jaw. So strange. So …impossible. "I…. am wary of him," he explained, choosing words painstakingly, "Not because he is more powerful, or more courageous, or more cunning, but because he is a …. Tempter. He could ensnare me in his own hatred, into the Dark."

"So… he could kill you?"

Not the point. "Perhaps. That wouldn't matter. I'm speaking of something far, far worse. He could make me into something like him. If I let him. If I fell for the trick."

Now the boy was thoroughly stymied. "Like if you went with him? He tried to get me to come with him."

"Yes, I saw…. I suppose so. He is not powerful or brave, as he boasts. He is above all else a Liar. But for that very reason he is dangerous above all else."

It proved too much to digest. Anakin yawned hugely, and rubbed his eyes. "I want to go home," he lamented. "I need my Mom."

Obi-Wan stood, unaccountably relieved that the interview was at an end. "Rest here. We'll get you home soon." He slipped into the cargo bay and then halfway down the ramp, squinting out over the mirage-textured sands, peering into the wavering distance at the ragged hills. A faint vertigo encroached upon his senses, as though he were already teetering over the edge of a cataract, in spiritual freefall over some invisible cliffside.

The desert heat warped around him, battered at his skin. He pulled at his damp tunic collars with one hand, taking deep breaths and keeping his eyes on the far horizon. Force…. What was happening here? The Sith seemed to know, or at least to guess; why then could he not pierce beyond the veil, see the shifting of balance, the tectonic slide beneath the surface of this forsaken world? Was he being deliberately obtuse?

Was there something he didn't want to see? A willful blind spot?

The heat danced over the sands, sinuous and elegant, writhing bands of color swirling above the superheated dune slopes. The sky burned white blue, an inverted brazier in which the twin suns flamed mercilessly, yellow eyes like the eyes of the Sith warrior. And the Force continued to reel, the axis unsteady, the center unstable, a sea of churning light and shadow, past and future blended into a tumultuous now without anchor or polestar. His head throbbed with it.

He cursed, and leaned over the hydraulic strut to emphatically retch out his guts.

After which, he felt marginally better – not least of all because Qui-Gon's unmistakable presence made itself felt just over the nearest ridge.

"About time," he grumbled, with an inexplicable spurt of relief.