A Quenchless Star

Over the following weeks, Vader's life settled into a routine. Theec proved an excellent employee, despite his involvement in the slaves' underground, continuing to arrive early and frequently volunteering to stay late. Some evenings Vader nearly had to chase him out of the shop. Banai dropped by irregularly—usually at least once every two weeks. Ostensibly he was always in search of some inexpensive part, but invariably he signaled to Theec before leaving. He persisted in attempting to engage Vader in conversation on sundry topics and seemed impervious to even the broadest hints.

It was late morning and Banai had just left, after yet another attempt to strike up a conversation. Feeling rather put out by Kit's refusal to take no for an answer and his open curiosity over the name Kraytrider, Vader began to run through a series of flexibility exercises he had learned as a padawan. He had started doing these recently to supplement his physical therapy exercises, but they had also turned out to be a valuable release valve when his irritation threatened to explode. He was pleased to note that his muscles were becoming more supple by the day. A week ago, he had attempted to take a run before sunrise, craving the burn of a hard workout, but neither his respiratory system nor his prosthetics were up to the job. Instead of running, he had taken to walking vigorously for several kilometers in the early mornings, and his life support system indicated that his aerobic capacity was increasing as well.

Completing the exercises and bringing his annoyance to heel, he moved to his workbench, which was overflowing with projects. In addition to repair jobs for customers, he was building a number of gadgets for his own benefit. The first had been the vacuum for his prosthetics. He was still wrestling with the heavy lifter and had finally conceded defeat, ordering rods and pistons from offworld. The order had not yet arrived, so in the meantime he was re-engineering a defunct mouse droid to carry tools around the shop. He was a little puzzled how an Imperial mouse droid had ended up in a junk pile in his shop, but a thorough examination of it had revealed no malware or spy programs. Nevertheless, he had replaced all the memory and programming components in an abundance of caution. He ought to work on Sunstrider's vaporator sensor, but the droid was nearly complete and he was eager to put it to use.

He did not want to admit to himself that he was restless and even bored, despite the fact that the business was doing well. He had a number of regular customers in addition to Banai, though he was grateful no one else seemed to have ulterior motives. The occasional spacer dropped in, searching for parts to repair a ship before taking off again, and he was pleased he had not lost the knack of distinguishing the true locals from the more affluent migrants who came to do business with the Hutts.

He hated the Hutts and fantasized on occasion about murdering Jabba, though he reluctantly refrained. While the project would certainly present a challenge to relieve his unacknowledged boredom, an assassination would also draw the Empire's attention. From there it would be a short step to discovery by Sidious.

He had not owned the shop a week when the Hutt flunkies showed up demanding protection money. He had refused to cooperate, ignoring Theec's tremulous advice to accept the terms. The memory of Hutt extortion and his mother's fear sat so deep in his bones, he could remember no time he had not known of it. He had vowed then that someday he would have the power to fight back. Facing them now, he found his resolution not to use the Force was not equal to the temptation to terrorize the scumbags. Almost gleefully, he had fed his anger and the threat of violence into the Force. The Hutt minions were remarkably resistant to the menacing aura, but they eventually succumbed and left. He wondered vaguely how they had explained that to Jabba.

Dismissing the recollection, he tightened the final bolt on the mouse droid's footplate, unaware that he was humming roughly, and held the droid under his powerful work lamp for examination. Satisfied, he booted it up and set it on the ground. Before he could attach the tool caddy he had designed, it zipped away, whirring happily. He shrugged. It was probably best to wait until it had mapped the shop.

The door chimed. Ah, another regular. This one was a girl—about sixteen or seventeen from the look of her—dressed in the plain, practical garments of the moisture farmers. Her tunic was not quite white, but light enough to reflect the suns' heat. She wore durable leggings and boots, a drab cape over her shoulders. As she stepped out of the sun, she pushed her hood off her brown hair, worn in practical braids pinned to her head. He was always slightly surprised to find her carrying a carbine rifle that was nearly as long as she was tall. It was a weapon for the desert, meant for distance. Not the sort of firearm to use in a city. Still, he supposed it might deter criminals and could probably be used as a staff in a pinch. She smiled at him.

"Good afternoon, Kraytrider," she said in Standard with a hint of a refined accent. She did not seem to speak Huttese, though she understood it well enough. Her accent would have puzzled him, if he were taking an interest in people. Which he was not. Nevertheless, that slight Core inflection was curious. But none of his business. "I need three cans of lubricant, half a dozen size 14 gears, a can of ball bearings, and a box of gauge 6 duranium bolts. And a shaft for a KynTech autowrench." She sighed. "I didn't notice that the sand had corroded the external bolt, and I put too much pressure when I tried to loosen it. The shaft bent."

"You're here earlier than usual." Vader began gathering the items she had rattled off from the shelves of small parts along the shop's west wall.

"You always seem to have everything I need. I decided to come here first, even though you're the farthest away. If you don't have something, I can look at the other shops. And my uncle insisted on leaving earlier today. He's concerned about reports from some of the moisture farmers that the Sand People have been raiding again."

Vader's nostrils flared at the mention of the Tusken Raiders. He clenched his fist for a moment before deliberately relaxing and resuming his task. "I see. Wise of him, I suppose. Where is he? I've never seen him."

The girl leaned against the counter. "He's buying our dry goods and produce. We used to do all the shopping together, but since I turned twelve, he turned shopping for parts over to me. I do most of the repair work; it makes sense that I get the parts. And it means we can leave town earlier, so we're less likely to get caught out in the desert after dark. That happened once when I was younger. It was after that my uncle started sending me to the junk yards."

Vader frowned. "It's dangerous to be out in the desert after nightfall."

The girl rolled her eyes. "I know that. Like I said, that's why we split the shopping now."

The tone alone would once have provoked him to murder. Now he did his best to ignore his irritation as he gathered the last few pieces of hardware. "I don't have the KynTech shaft on the shelf."

"That's all right. I can check the other shops."

"First let me see if there are any in the back." Leaving the rest of the order on the counter, he went to find Theec in the courtyard.

"A KynTech shaft?" Theec said. "Mmmm, maybe. I'll have to poke around. I think there were some tool pieces in this pile."

Fifteen minutes later, they had to admit defeat.

"I'm sure we have it. I just can't put my hand on it. This is my fault for not keeping up with the inventory when Watto was sick." Theec's antennae drooped in apology.

"It's no matter. But I agree it will be good when the inventory is done." Vader returned to the shop, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the shadowed interior. For a moment he thought the girl had left, but then he spotted her standing by his workbench near the door. "I'm sorry; I don't have the handle."

She made a wild grab for something that fell from her hands, snatching it right before it hit the workbench. Her posture reeked of guilt. She set the item down and turned to him, avoiding his eyes, her cheeks bright pink.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"What? Oh—no. No. I just—you just—startled me…"

The Force was tinged a sickly greenish yellow around her, a color Vader associated with evasiveness. He approached the bench to catch a glimpse of what she had been holding. She sidled away. The cause of her agitation revealed itself to be the faulty vaporator sensor Sunstrider had dropped off that morning.

"I—I—" she said, her voice small. She gripped her hands until the fingernails turned pale. "I know I shouldn't have touched…" Her words trailed away. She swallowed. Her fingers flicked against one another. "Please don't be angry. You were gone so long and—I was bored. I…I—I didn't break anything—I promise! I'll pay for it, though—if you want me to…" The whisper died away.

Vader picked up the sensor, inspecting it from all angles. He put his glasses on and looked more closely. "You repaired it." His tone was blank.

"I know I shouldn't have," she blurted. "I—well, it was there and—and I thought I could do something productive. You know. While I waited…" When Vader said nothing, she babbled, "My—my uncle always tells me to, you know, do something productive with my hands so I don't lose time. But I—I know he would say I shouldn't have—"

Unexpectedly, a long-forgotten mission with Kenobi presented itself in his mind's eye. Of himself, a padawan somewhat younger than the girl, bored while his master negotiated some long-irrelevant dispute, and the small defunct droid he had found in a corner. Also of his master's embarrassment that his padawan had repaired the droid without permission. He had not appreciated the lack of scolding at the time, but now he recognized that Kenobi must have wanted to deliver one of his scathing rebukes. Instead, he had apologized for the infraction while turning it to good account in the negotiations. Only later, in private, had he gently reprimanded his padawan.

Vader waved his hand, brushing aside her apologies and the curiously painless memory with a single gesture. "I'm not angry. And you've done fine work. The customer who brought this in is a decent mechanic, and he told me he had tried three times to fix it." He eyed her narrowly. "You seem to know your way around vaporator parts."

She smiled, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. "Like I told you, I do most of the repairs at home. My uncle says I got my talented hands from my dad."

Vader ignored the invitation to discuss her personal life. "Well, I see no cause for complaint here. I do recommend asking for permission before you handle other people's property, though."

"I know. I promise I won't do it again." The Force had returned to its usual fiery orange and gold corona around her. Vader suspected she had a mercurial temperament, though he had never seen a display of it.

"As there's no harm done, let's move on."

She nodded gratefully.

He returned to the pile of parts on the counter and tallied the prices. "That's three truguts." He glanced up. "More than your usual order."

"Yeah. The sandstorm season always does a number on the vaporators and the generator. It's okay; I expected it." A few moments later she was gone. Vader returned to the sensor, studying it with interest. It really was quite a skillful repair. Smiling faintly, he placed it in a box and notified Sunstrider that it was ready.

He stood on the balcony at Varykino. The most glorious sunset of his life bathed the world in a rosy golden glow. He looked to his right, and there she was—radiant with love, vibrant with life, exquisite in delicate lace and pearls. Padmé gazed at him with complete trust. Before his eyes, her abdomen swelled until she was heavily pregnant, her smile bright with anticipation. Still in her wedding gown, smiling with joy, she put her hand to her throat. She gasped and struggled, and her smile became a rictus. Yet even now, her eyes were filled with trust. All at once, her form melted and she became the girl from the shop. The girl glared at him, a fiery nimbus encompassing her in the Force. She fought violently against the grip on her throat until she fell to the ground. But now she was Padmé again, lying on the hardstand in the hellish red glow of Mustafar, hair spread around her like a pall.

Vader jerked awake, heart fighting to pound despite his pacemaker. He sat up. He had long ago resigned himself to Padmé haunting his dreams, but this had been worse than usual. He shuddered. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and changed into dry clothes. Despite his gritty eyes, there was no chance he would sleep again tonight. He shoved his feet into his boots, grabbed his cloak, and strode into the darkness.

He walked rapidly, hoping to leave his distress and the choking despair behind him. Why did he always wake from these dreams feeling that he had betrayed her? She had betrayed him. She and Kenobi both. Even after all these years, the knowledge stung like bile in the back of his throat. The two people he had trusted above all others. And when his choices did not fit their vision for his life, they had conspired together to destroy him.

He should have known he couldn't trust anyone. For a few glorious years he had believed that in her he had found companionship to drive away the loneliness and the fear. But she had rejected his sacrifice. Didn't she understand? He had grasped at power, but only in order to save her life. He had willingly laid down his freedom so that she could live. And she had rejected it. Had said she could not follow him. Would not follow him. Had she thought he would allow her to be enslaved, just because he had submitted to a new master on her behalf?

He was not really surprised anymore by Kenobi's betrayal. He had never measured up to his master's exacting standards. His rejection of the Jedi lies had merely provided a respectable pretext for Kenobi to reject him in turn. The cruelty of leaving him to burn to death did not surprise him either. No Jedi would ever show mercy to a Sith, no matter what they might be to one another. Kenobi had believed Vader was as good as dead. Why bother going to the effort to stab him? Truly, he had been as good as dead. If Sidious had not come, he would have died on the black sand beside the lava, choking on the ashes. For so long, Palpatine had been all that remained, and he had been grateful, in spite of the Emperor's cruelty, not to be alone. To have one person in his life who had not betrayed him.

It had been bitter indeed to discover the truth.

And so, in the end, he was truly alone. Abandoned by everyone. He remembered the enthusiastic boy who had wanted to visit every star in the galaxy. The memory bit like acid. That boy had been so eager. So trusting. So unaware of the endless betrayals ahead of him. Better he had remained here with his mother in bondage. He had reached for freedom and power and love; he had ended enslaved and impotent and forsaken. Well, he had been a slow pupil, but he had learned the lesson at last. To trust was to welcome betrayal and abandonment. Perhaps he and Kitster had been friends once, but he would not fall into that trap again, no matter how eagerly Banai sought him out. He would live to please himself. Isolation was the price for freedom. And in the end, it was not so steep a price as that for love.

His emotions burned out at last. He stood at the edge of town. The desert stretched into dim infinity before him—chill, aloof, merciless. He shivered and wrapped his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. It seemed absurd that anyone could believe that the impersonal desert would ever offer help to a slave as the old legends held. What foolishness! Tales for children and the credulous. Yet though he knew better, a small boy deep within him yearned for redress for all he had suffered. If only, said that little boy. If only there really were something out there that would help him achieve justice against his master. That would give him purpose and a place in the galaxy. The Force would not do it. What had the Force ever cared for him, except as the avatar of some failed prophecy?

Hopeless, he gazed at the seven stars that made up the Great Krayt, floating silently near the horizon. They were nothing more than points of light. Giant balls of fiery gas at an unimaginable distance. Their chance resemblance to some desert predator endued them with no true power or significance.

He had not expected when he assumed the name Kraytrider that anyone would take the implications seriously. He had hoped it would serve as a notice to leave him alone, but he had not imagined anyone would associate him with the legends. Kit's assumption that the name implied a story—moreover, a story he might want to tell—was inconvenient at the least and possibly dangerous. If Palpatine did send agents to Tatooine, Kit's curiosity could expose him. It was too late, though. Changing it now would only create even greater interest. Striding briskly toward the shop, he tried to outpace his impossible longings and burgeoning anxieties.