No Place Like Home

One morning, several weeks after purchasing the shop, Vader abandoned his physical therapy exercises in response to a signal from his life support system. He sank awkwardly into the worn armchair in his living quarters, lifted his tunic, and swapped the small, flat oxygen canister at his hip. The soft beeping that indicated low reserves ceased. The canisters usually lasted about a week, but he made it a habit to check the supply daily; he never wanted to find out what would happen if the canister ran dry. After snapping the empty canister into an oxygen concentrator to be refilled, he popped open the access panel of his left leg. He had cleaned all four limbs the evening before in what had become a nightly ritual, but a little sand was still caught in the knee, causing the joint to grate roughly as it bent. To the accompaniment of a slight tickling sensation, he ran the small wand-shaped vacuum he had designed for the purpose between the two titanium support rods of his leg. He flexed the knee, satisfied that it was functioning smoothly again.

He stood and made his way to the kitchen. As a boy he had never seen the interior of Watto's rooms, and he had been pleasantly surprised to find them moderately comfortable. He had replaced the nest in one corner with a proper bed, sized to accommodate his height, and purchased a secondhand but comfortable chair; otherwise he had made no changes. The rooms were small, but then again, they were larger than a hyperbaric chamber. He had been surprised to discover that there was a certain pleasure in relaxing in the combined living and kitchen area in the evenings. He had even moved a couple of projects into his quarters so that he would have something to do.

In what had become another ritual, Theec knocked at the apartment door to signal his arrival. Vader had tried to convince his accidental employee that it was unnecessary to begin work so early, but he knew from experience it took a long time to unlearn the habits of slavery. While Vader ate a light breakfast and straightened his quarters, Theec opened the shop, dusted the counter, and busied himself in the courtyard with the ongoing inventory.

Watto's records from the past year were spotty. He had been ill, and the shop had fallen into disarray. Theec had apologized for his laxity in record-keeping, but Vader thought it perfectly understandable. Theec's present industriousness was all the more impressive by contrast.

Vader entered the shop and checked the day's work orders. Seeing no outstanding repair jobs, he scooped up a selection of tools and resumed his efforts with the hydraulic arms of the heavy lifter. According to Theec, the lifter had not functioned in over a year. Vader was finding the repair a challenge due to the combination of the machine's age and the heavy toll of neglect and sand. Thus far he had used parts already in the shop, but he was beginning to think he might have to order new pistons and rods from off-world. Before he did that, though, he wanted to see if he could pull off one of the old miracles. It had been decades since he had had to fully exercise his ingenuity in a repair.

From his work area, he could not see into the shop, which was one of the reasons he wanted to fix this machine as soon as possible. Several bulky, heavy engines blocked the east pathway through the courtyard and, incidentally, his view of the shop from where he was working. He could, of course, move the engines with the Force; it was doubtful he would even find it taxing. But he remained firm in his resolve not to use the energy field, even for such a small job. His resolution had formed even before he abandoned the Exactor, determined to leave no trace for Palpatine to follow.

He refused to acknowledge any deeper motivation—that he hated the Force for all it had done to ruin his life and the lives of those he loved. What good was it to have access to the power of the ages if he could not save anyone he loved? His long years of bondage to Palpatine had carried a great price but with no benefit to himself. No, he was finished with the Force, whether or not it was finished with him. He might not be able to give up his Force sensitivity, but that was no reason he had to use the blasted energy field. He could devote several days—even weeks if necessary—to repairing the lifter. Besides, he had no more-pressing projects at hand.

Several hours later, in response to the door chime, he rose stiffly from his knees, legs wobbly. The medical care had done wonders for his quality of life and had eased his chronic pain, but his thighs invariably ached when he knelt for long. At least he was choosing to kneel for his own purposes and not at the Emperor's whim. His legs had often gone into spasms during long periods bowed before his master. Palpatine had been well aware of the agony kneeling caused him and had gloried in it. Of course, he had always couched his insistence on the posture in terms of strengthening Vader's connection to the Dark Side, but Vader had known the truth. Palpatine made him kneel simply because he could.

He strode as steadily as he could manage into the shop. A middle-aged man a little over medium height with weather-beaten dark skin stood by the counter.

"Can I help you?" Vader rasped in Huttese.

"I need a pair of large capacitors for a solar plate," the man replied in the same language.

Vader located the capacitors after rummaging briefly. As they concluded the sale, the man said, "I'm glad someone bought the shop. It's the best-stocked junk yard in Mos Espa." He held out his hand. "Kitster Banai."

Vader's breath caught and his eyes sharpened. Yes, it was Kitster. Haltingly, he met the other's hand and squeezed. "Kaneis Kraytrider," he said slowly.

"Kraytrider, eh? That's not a name you hear often." Banai's tone was intrigued.

"I suppose not."

"There must be quite a story behind it." Even when they were boys, Kit had been marked by blithe curiosity and a serene confidence that others would satisfy it.

Vader refused to take the bait. "Not really."

"If you ever change your mind, I'd be very interested to hear it. Even if it's as unexciting as you imply." Kit smiled winsomely.

Vader gave a noncommittal grunt.

Abandoning his efforts (temporarily, if Vader knew anything about this old friend), Kit said, "Say, I was wondering…Watto had a slave who worked here. Nazwirn Theec? I'm pretty sure his ownership was going to be transferred with the shop."

"Theec!" Vader called.

The Rodian darted in from the courtyard. "Yes, Kraytrider?"

"Not me. Him. He was asking about you." Vader feigned indifference and stepped behind the counter.

Banai said, "I just wanted to see if you're still here, Theec. I heard that the shop sold."

Theec twitched his ears in a Rodian smile. "Yes, I'm still here. Kraytrider freed me the very first day and now employs me at a rate of two truguts per week."

Banai's eyes grew round. "Really." He glanced at Vader. "That is unexpected but very happy news, Theec. I'm impressed, Kraytrider. There aren't many who would be so generous."

"It's not generosity," Vader said, picking up a datapad at random. "I will never own a slave. As for the employment—I simply gave him a job until he can find something else."

Banai studied him intently. Vader ignored him. "In that case, I withdraw my compliment. It was not at all generous." His lips twitched. "Regardless, I'm glad you're so well situated, Theec. I'll see you on my next visit."

Vader was watching out of the corner of his eye as Banai signaled in the slaves' sign language, "Meet tonight. Same place. Inform about sanctuary."

Theec indicated his acquiescence, and Banai left the shop.

Vader briefly considered inquiring into their venture, but since he was fairly certain he already knew, there really was no need. Why should he care about escaped slaves? If Theec wanted to assist runaways, Vader wouldn't stop him, but that didn't mean he had to take any interest in the endeavor.