East, West, Hame's Best

Vader stood outside the docking bay, at a loss for his next step. The suns beat down relentlessly and the wind tugged on his hood. He grasped it firmly with one hand. His face and scalp were bone white after a decade and a half in the suit; they were decidedly not ready to handle the glare of the twin suns.

The discreet medical care he had sought after leaving the Empire had freed him from the bulky life support, replacing it with a small panel on his chest that regulated his heartbeat and monitored his oxygen levels. It could supplement his breathing when necessary from a miniature oxygen canister on his belt. He had almost gleefully bundled the suit and his lightsaber into a crate, which he had jettisoned during a brief navigation stop. He had never felt such satisfaction at a target's destruction as had surged through him when the torpedo vaporized the remnants of his old life.

But what now?

He idly wandered the streets of Mos Espa, sand already infiltrating the joints of his new, lighter prosthetics. He was going to have to clean them every day at this rate. But he was certain the one place Sidious would never look for him was Mos Espa. Or perhaps Naboo. But Naboo would be far too risky a hiding place. Not to mention far too painful. At least on Tatooine his dark memories of slavery were balanced by the joy of his mother's memory. He could endure the sand if it meant his old master never troubled him again. And even should the traitor suspect he had taken refuge here, he would send agents before coming himself. They would find no trace of Darth Vader in Kaneis Kraytrider. The reference was too obscure to give anyone not closely familiar with the culture of Tatooine's natives and slaves a hint of his true identity.

He was bored. Just six months of freedom, and he was already bored. He needed to find something to occupy his time, but nothing suggested itself. Habit carried his feet into the slave quarters, but the stench was unbearable and the accumulated misery of generations poisoned the Force. He quickly made his way back into the commercial center of town. Loitering in the marketplace, he overheard two men discussing the sale of a local junk shop and repair business. He lingered near them, a faint interest stirring. He had always enjoyed repairing things—slave, Jedi, or Sith, he had consistently enjoyed only two pleasures: flying and tinkering with machinery.

Impulsively, he inquired how to contact the agent charged with selling the shop. An hour later he was striding down a familiar street. He wanted to curse the Force when the agent led him to the door of Watto's old shop. He nearly walked away without a word, but something—curiosity? nostalgia?—led him to follow the agent inside. The place was much as he remembered it: dim front room stuffed with parts and broken machinery; large bright courtyard overflowing with ship components and defunct vaporators; tiny living quarters tucked to one side. There was even a garage at the rear of the courtyard adequate to house the Freedom. He could almost see his mother behind the counter working on the accounts. Oddly, he did not sense Watto's presence, and memories of the Toydarian did not trouble him. Perhaps because in retrospect, Watto had not been a bad master as masters went. At least Watto had never feigned affection or pretended to be anything other than what he was. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was transferring funds to the agent's account and accepting the deed to the property—and Watto's slave.

After the agent left, Vader turned to the green-skinned Rodian. "What is your name?" he said in Huttese.

"Nazwirn Theec," the slave answered, his large black eyes apprehensive and his antenna lowered respectfully.

"What can you tell me about the former owner of the shop?"

"Watto owned this shop a long time. Decades, I think. He—he was a good master. Didn't beat me unless I did something wrong. He provided adequate rations and replaced my clothes every year. Yes, he was a good master."

"That's enough of the lies for the master," Vader snapped. "Tell me the truth."

"The—the truth? That is the truth, Master." Theec drew his shoulders forward as though expecting a blow.

"I am not your master. I am no one's master." Vader snarled the final word, flinging his anger into the room.

Theec seemed to shrink in on himself even further. "No. No, of course not. Whatever you say, Master. It's just that—my ownership is attached to the shop."

"I realize that. I have the blasted transmitter right here. I mean, I am freeing you." Theec seemed nonplussed by Vader's bitter tone. Vader activated the transmitter. "Do you know where your tracker is?"

Theec shook his head timidly.

"Very well. Stand still." Vader passed the instrument across Theec's body until the lights activated. He pressed the code to deactivate the bomb and handed the transmitter to Theec. "I'll get the forms filled out in a moment. Now, why is this shop for sale?"

Theec was staring at the transmitter in his hands in wonder. When he did not reply after a short pause, Vader prompted him. "Theec?"

He looked up at last and said, "Err, Watto died about a month ago. His heirs didn't want it, so they put it up for sale. At least, that's what I heard when the lawyer and agent were here inspecting the premises."

"Hmmm." Vader began to pace slowly. "Does the shop do good business?"

"I think so. I kept the books, and it always looked like it made a profit. But Watto never had money. Gambling."

"Yes, a common pastime for him, I believe. How did you come into his possession?"

"He won me." Shame tinged the Force around him a sickly yellow.

Vader nodded and continued to pace for a time. Eventually he stopped by the counter where he had placed the box with the deeds. He poked around until he found a working datapad. The shop was not nearly as well organized as his mother had kept it, but Watto's general system had not changed in decades. He copied Theec's slave deed onto the datapad but realized he couldn't quite make out the section for manumission. With a sigh, he groped in his pocket for the reading glasses the doctor had prescribed and completed the form. Then he held the datapad out toward Theec, who just stared at it. Vader shook it slightly and pushed it against Theec's hand. "Here. Take it."

Theec finally looked up at him hesitantly. "You are—truly freeing me?"

"Yes. Now go on. Take it and go on your way."

"But, Master—" he interrupted himself as Vader's brow darkened "—sir, I mean. Where do I go? I have no job. Even my house belonged to Watto."

Vader hadn't known that the slave hovel belonged to Watto, but he supposed he should have guessed. And he ought to have realized that he couldn't just push the fellow out with no plan. "All right. You may continue to work here. Not permanently. But for a time. Until you find other employment for yourself."

Theec twitched his ears in the Rodian equivalent of a smile. "Thank you, Ma—sir." The ears grew still. "I can see that calling you master irritates you, but—I can't seem to help it."

Vader's jaw rippled. "I see. I suppose I can understand that. In that case, you had better call me Kraytrider." Theec's antenna jerked in surprise. Vader ignored it. "I shall have to pay you. The difficulty is that I have no idea what salary is appropriate. Nor what this shop can afford."

"If you do not indulge in expensive entertainment such as gambling, I believe it can easily sustain a salary of twenty wupiupi a week."

"That seems a paltry sum. Let us say thirty-two wupiupi per week."

Theec stared at him in amazement. Vader did not know what to do with the gratitude suffusing his new employee's face and infusing the Force with rose and violet, so he briskly turned back to the counter. "Now, I wish to see the books."

"Yes, Ma—sir—Kraytrider."

Much later Vader stood alone in the shop, a single lamp providing inadequate illumination. Theec appeared to know the business well, if only he would stop stumbling over what to call Vader. He still felt a curl of disgust in his gut at the thought that he had owned a slave, however briefly. He had been so dazed by his own impulsivity that he had not even realized Theec was included in the sale until the agent handed him the transmitter.

He shrugged, trying to throw off his discomfort. The situation was resolved now, even if he had picked up an employee unintentionally. But let that be the end of it. He would live for himself alone from now on. Let the Force send whom it would. Kaneis Kraytrider was done with the affairs of the galaxy.