Author's Note

This story was written for the Tales from the Boonta Eve collaborate fanfic project. Other stories from the series are being released on AO3.

Loser Take All: Dud Bolt's Tale

The racers were flecks in heat-haze, suspended between white sand and blue sky. From a distance they looked motionless but each was careening across the desert at seven hundred kilometers per hour, chasing death or glory.

Sun was bright on his head, wind harsh in his face, but Dud Bolt squinted through the lenses of his goggles and twisted his control yoke to weave around the stone pillars of the Mushroom Mesa. The mob of racers had just burst free from Mos Espa arena and were still bunched together, but Sebulba was already in the lead would only gain distance on his opponents in the coming three laps.

That was fine with Dud Bolt; he was neither ambitious nor crazy enough to go gunning for the Dug. He had his own ticket to—well, not glory exactly, but money, which was almost as good. If this race went to plan, he would come out a winner no matter where he placed.

As he concentrated on his dodges and weaves, the flare and streak of the other racers, Dud Bolt tapped his control panel and turned on the radio broadcast coming from the arena. The cloying, too-familiar voices of Fode and Bede sounded in his ear above the rush of wind and the roar of his engines.

He couldn't afford to take his eyes off the path, but the Troig's narration would fill him in on the highlights of the race—and just might tell him what he needed to ensure he ended up a winner.

But the first words he heard were the last he wanted to hear. In a tone both fond and condescending, Fode declared, "Wait, little Skywalker has stalled!"

Dud Bolt wanted to ram someone. That was just his luck. He'd started off on the arena grid right next to the little human and his little podracer, he'd given the thing a surreptitious check-over, he'd been sure that scrappy machine was in good condition, but no, it hadn't even gotten past the starting line. Fode added the Ben Quadinaros was having trouble too, what did Dud Bolt care about that?

This race, damn it, was all about Skywalker. And Skywalker couldn't even get out of the gate.

Times like this, Dud Bolt was convinced he was really, truly was born to lose.

-{}-

"Hey, Crud Bolt!" came the cry from across the cantina. "Think you'll get in the top five this time?"

The tone dripped with cheery, mocking disdain. Dud Bolt took a deep breath, then a deeper swill of his Belderone whiskey, then pivoted his bar-stool to face his accusers.

There were two of them, a Rodian and a Nosaurian half-spilled out of their chairs at a nearby table. The Rodian's snout twisted as he pressed, "Come on, Crud, we're just asking. I mean, you'll at least get into the top ten, right?"

"First, I'm Dud Bolt. Dud." His curled lips to bear his jutting tusks. "And second, I'm racing to win."

"Really?" snorted the Nosaurian. "We were just watchin' some of your last races and y'know, we couldn't be sure..."

"Why would anyone enter into this race if they weren't gunning for first place, huh?" Dud planted hands on his thick midsection. Unfortunately, he almost tipped off his barstool.

"Ah, come off it, Crud," the Rodian flapped a hand. "We all know Sebulba's gonna come in first. The real gamble's on who'll come in second. I'm going for Mawhonic myself."

"I'm putting down on Mars Guo," added the Nosaurian.

The Rodian chuckled, "Sorry, Crud, but the odds on you getting Second Seed aren't so good… Maybe try harder, and the betmakers'll be nicer to ya next year."

The Nosaurian chuckled too. Dud Bolt didn't have to put up with this. He gulped down the last of his Belderone ale and hopped off the barstool (which was annoyingly high for his squat Vulptereen frame). As he stumbled out of the cantina they called behind him, "Hey, we were only joking!" "Crud—

I mean Dud—can I have an autograph? It might be worth somethin' someday!"

The worst part was that they weren't even wrong. Dud wasn't playing to win. He never did. No, he kept himself in the middle of the pack. He blocked, rammed, or knocked out the racers he was told to knock out. In the process he'd put his Vulptereen 357 racer through its share of scrapes and modest crashes but he kept on racing and kept on fixing matches on the orders of his employer. That was how he made his real cash, since he rarely got much prize money from his middling finishes.

As Dud stepped into Mos Espa's streets he discovered it was midday. There were no shadows to hide in and the suns were brutal. With a sigh, he made his way through the light-battered streets toward the arena. With two days left until Boonta Eve, this part of town was getting thick with tourists, not to mention mechanics, hawkers, gamblers, Hutt thugs, and everyone else that was part of the podracing ecosystem. There were the kind of people who knew Dud Bolt by sight, and some of them waved or pointed, but nobody mobbed him or stopped him for an autograph. Because as his hecklers at the bar had said, it might be worth something someday, but not now.

The guards let him inside the hangar without a fuss. Grateful to be in the shade again, Dud Bolt sought out his employer.

Sebulba wasn't hard to find. The Dug never was. Even when he left his giant Split-X podracer behind and stalked Mos Espa he always had a crowd of fawning fans and bootlickers trying to lap up a little of his glory. Inside the hangar it was different; only podracers and their personal staff were allowed inside. Yet even here, Sebulba was being attended to by his luscious blue slaves, Ann and Tann Gella.

They were in the middle of giving him a foot massage (well, technically hand-massage) when Dud Bolt approached. The Dug bore teeth in a nasty grin and said, "Well, look who showed up! I was wondering if you were still up for it."

"You know I am, Sebulba."

"Good! I was getting worried! I might have to win the race without your help." He snickered and told his Twi'leks to be gone. They bowed and scampered off somewhere behind the Split-X's bulk. Sebulba popped out of his chair and onto his hands.

"What do you want from me this time?" asked Dud Bolt. He glanced around the hangar; at this hour they were the only pilots around.

"Oh, just the usual. Two thousand credits for each racer you take out."

"Do I have to make them crash?"

"Crash… or if you can prove you slowed 'em down, I'll give you one thousand." Sebulba scratched his muzzle with a toe. "We can get started early. Tomorrow, once he brings it in, I'm going to give Mars Guo's speeder a little… improvement." He grinned. "Mars'll be hanging around it close, so I'll need you to distract him."

"I can do that. How much? A thousand?"

"For distracting him? I'm doing the real work. Say, five hundred."

"Eight hundred." Dud Bolt tried to stand firm.

"Six hundred and that's my final offer. I can distract him with the Gellas too, you know. I'm just trying to do you a favor, Dud."

"Fine," Dud Bolt growled. At least he got the name right. "Six hundred. But for each one I knock out—"

"Two thousand, we agreed," Sebulba nodded. "Trust me, Dud. I never go back on my word."

He did it all the time, but again, Dud Bolt wasn't in the place to argue. "No problem, Sebulba. You can count on me."

"I know I can," the Dug chuckled, and slapped a foot on his shoulder. "We've got a great partnership, you and me."

Some partnership, Dud Bolt thought. Sebulba got the glory, the respect, the fawning fans and bootlickers. And what did Dud get? Scraps thrown under the table. They were enough to live on but they weren't what he'd taken up racing for. He'd been the best podracer on all of Vulpter, but when he'd gone into the larger galaxy he'd discovered he was just one pilot among thousands, and he'd never be a match for the likes of Sebulba.

Once, just once, Dud Bolt wanted to be a winner. But he couldn't think of how.

-{}-

"And there goes Skywalker. He'll be hard pressed to catch up with the leaders."

With those words in his ear, Dud Bolt's spirit lifted. The little human's little racer was supposed to be fast, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to sprint past all the bigger machines and get close to Sebulba.

But not too close. Up ahead, Dud Bolt saw the Dug's massive Split-X pylons slam against a racer that had dared creep alongside. From its flash of green he recognized the unlucky machine as Mawhonic's, and it didn't have the mass to push back against Sebulba. Instead, the Gran's racer was knocked repeatedly into one of the mesa's towering stone pillars. The left engine exploded and the right one went spinning, the pilot's pod flailing madly behind it. Dud Bolt swung his racer wide; the last thing he wanted was to suck in debris and blow himself up.

In a split-second he was past Mawhonic's wreck and speeding toward Beggar's Canyon. He heard the whine of a racer coming fast behind him, then saw the flare of two small engines passing him by. Dud Bolt's spirit soared: it was little Skywalker, already caught up with the main pack after less than half a lap.

If he could keep it up—

If he could avoid getting wrecked like poor Mawhonic—

If Dud Bolt did his part—

It might truly be a glorious race.

Dud Bolt knew what he had to do next. Skywalker passed him just before the track narrowed and the podracers were funneled into the wind of Beggar's Canyon. Dud Bolt fired his rockets and jumped ahead of Ody Mandrell, then settled right behind Skywalker as they plunged into the rocky narrows. Dud Bolt didn't have the biggest racer either but he knew how to use it; he swung his machine left and right, hogging the entire track to prevent anyone from creeping past.

All the while he followed Skywalker's blaze. He had no intention of overtaking the little human. No, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

For now, anyway.

-{}-

It was the day before Boonta Eva and Mos Espa thronged with excitement. Even Dud Bolt got caught up in it as he wandered the crowd around the arena. Some people called him out and acted happy to see him. He even ran into a clutch of Vulptereen tourists—two parents and three pups—who asked for his autograph.

It left him with a high, but that lasted only until he reached Gardulla's casino and saw the odds people were laying down. Sebulba commanded a three-to-one ratio in his favor for first place. Mars Guo was the most favored behind him, followed by Mawhonic, Gasgano, Teemto Pagalies…. Dud Bolt had to scan halfway down the list to see himself, a mediocre racer at the middle of the pack.

It got even worse when he scanned the overhead screen listing odds for slots two through five. Mars was the favorite for the Number Two seed of course, but also for Number Three. For some reason Gasgano had five-to-two odds in his favor to take the fourth spot… and again, Dud Bolt was forgotten in the middle of the pack.

Nobody expected him to win. Nobody even thought he'd make the top five. Angrily, he shoved his way to the front of the betting queue. Some people called at his back angrily, but the long-haired human at the front of the line stepped obligingly out of the way. Dud Bolt asked the snail-shaped Vippit clerk behind the grate how many people had put down money for Dud Bolt in the top five.

The Vippit didn't seem to recognize Dud Bolt. His eye stalks extended as he peered through his screens, then he finally said, "We have had six bets in favor of that racer. Would you like to place one? Odds are currently seven to one against, so should he win, you'd get excellent returns."

Dud Bolt growled and looked at the overhead screen. He wanted to put down money for himself. He wanted to show up all the nay-sayers and score cash of his own so he wouldn't have to feed on Sebulba's table-scraps.

Of course, gunning for the Number One or even Number Two slot would put him in Sebulba's cross-hairs. He didn't want that. At best Sebulba would fire him; at worst the Dug might kill him. But maybe there was another way.

The Vippit, polite but impatient, said, "Bets for the Number Two seed are the most popular today, sir, since there's already a favorite for the Number One spot. Perhaps you'd like to place your money there?"

"Yeah, all right," Dud Bolt said, eyes still on the overhead. "I'll put down a wager for Number Two."

"Very good. That will be for Thud Bolt then?"

"Dud Bolt," he snarled at the stalk-eyed slug. His name meant 'Illustrious Tusks' in Vulptereen. He'd been gifted it by his mother and he'd always been proud of it. Why did everyone else—whether they spoke Basic or Huttese—muck it up?

"Would you like to place the bet?" the Vippit asked blandly.

Did he? No, he didn't. He didn't expect to get that high and didn't want to, because it would put him at risk from Sebulba. Dud looked at the overhead again. He knew all the names on the list, even some of the more obscure late entries, except for the one at the very bottom.

"Who the hell is Anakin Skywalker?" he asked.

"Ah. That was added at the last minute," said the clerk. "His entrance was funded by a local merchant named Watto. He appears to be a young human male."

"A human? Humans can't race pods. They don't have the reflexes."

"Apparently this one can." The Vippit wobbled his shell; perhaps his species' equivalent of a shrug. "Where would you like to place your bet, sir?"

Dud Bolt stared at the list of names, the knowns and unknowns. He asked, "Has anybody put down money on the human yet?"

"No, sir. Our analysts predict the odds of him placing in the top five as sixty-two to one, against."

A crazy idea came over Dud Bolt. He knew it was crazy but he couldn't help himself. He gave a tusk-bearing grin and said, "Put me down for Anakin Skywalker winning second place."

Then he reached into his pockets, drew every glinting aurodium coin he kept there, and dropped it in front of the screen.

"Ah. I see." The Vippit blinked both eye-stalks. "In that case, the odds are eighty-six to one, against. Are you sure you want to place your bet?"

"Yeah. I've got a good feeling about this one."

The Vippit looked at him with disbelief, then pity, but complied. Dud Bolt ignored the stare. He'd rigged so many races in favor of Sebulba; maybe it was time he started rigging in favor of himself. Not to win personal glory, not this time, but to win enough hard cash to tell the arrogant Dug what he really thought.

The Vippit triggered the turntable and swiveled Dud's aurodium behind his glass pane. When the turntable spun again he received a single slip of flimsy accrediting his bet. Dud took it greedily and turned away from the counter, ignoring the clerk's pitying looks.

Before he could walk away, a hand landed on his shoulder. Dud looked up at the human he'd cut in line. It had long hair and a dowdy brown cloak, but from the fur on its jaw it must have been male.

"Excuse me, sir," the human said, "but this establishment does accept wagers in Republic diatares, yes?"

Shouldn't he have known that before getting in line? Dud Bolt squinted up at him. "Sure, this is about the only place in Mos Espa you can exchange 'em… As long as you place a bet."

"Then I came to the right place. Who did you bet for, if I may ask?"

"The human boy. Uh…. Akanin Skytalker. For the Number Two slot, since nobody beats Sebulba." He flashed his tusks. "I've got inside information, you see."

"Really? That's good to know." The human smiled and released his shoulder. "Have a good race."

"Thanks," Dud Bolt snickered and stalked off, leaving the human to place his bet. As he left the casino it registered that the random human—a hoity-toity off-worlder if he had Republic credits—had recognized him as a pilot where nobody else had.

It was surprising, almost inexplicable, but it kept Dud Bolt's mood up for the rest of the day.

-{}-

Dud Bolt tipped his racer into a tight but controlled turn through the arena and began his second lap. Skywalker was behind him now; he'd pulled ahead after finished the Corkscrew and reaching the wide-open Hutt Flats. His aim wasn't to beat the little human, no; it was to pave a clear road and remove the competition. Plus, he wanted to keep himself between the human and Sebulba, for the kid's sake (and the sake of Dud's wallet).

He grinned. Sebulba would actually think Dud was doing it for him, like a good little peon. More fool him.

And more good news: Ody Mandrell's big obnoxious racer decelerated hard and veered into a clutch of pit droids. Another one out of the contest, or at least out of Dud Bolt's concern. As he cleared the arena and soared toward Mushroom Mesa, Dud Bolt risked a look over-shoulder. He could make out machines behind him, wavering in the heat-haze: Gasgano's green-shell engines, Teemto's wheel-shaped pilot pod, Skywalker's twin dots. It looked like Gasgano was giving Skywalker a hard time, swinging all around to block his path.

Time to help the kid out. Dud Bolt dropped speed, let his engines cool, and reached into his side compartment. He drew a few scraps of metal in one stubby fist, nudged his racer into the right position, checked over-shoulder one more time.

Dud Bolt tossed his scraps. They were tiny flecks, so small you could barely see them, not dangerous enough to bust an engine. But when Gasgano's right engine sucked them up it caused the mighty green machine to spurt and sputter for a few crucial seconds just as all four racers leaped onto the Mesa.

Gasgano's racer slowed down at just the wrong (or right) time. Skywalker soared ahead of him and began boldly weaving his little machine around the stone pillars. Teemto tried to block him next but the kid slipped around him and kept going. He gunned engines at just the right time to leap over Fire Crater Valley; Dud Bolt watched with surprise and admiration as the human's dual engines blazed above his head, carried him airborne for almost five hundred meters, then dropped to the ground at the mouth of Beggar's Canyon.

The kid was good.

That should have been encouraging, but it wasn't. If the kid really did pose a threat to Sebulba, then Sebulba was going to try and take him out. Because there was nothing the Dug hated more than a real rival.

Case in point: as soon as they cleared the Canyon and dashed across the Desert Plain, Mars Guo's mighty podracer exploded. An engine slammed into the ground, churning up massive trails of smoke and dust. That kind of explosion didn't just happen; Sebulba must have tossed something Mars's way and it must have been way bigger than the flecks Dud used on Gasgano.

Dud gave the wreck a wide berth but Skywalker was too close to evade. The human's little racer lost speed and began spinning wildly. Dud Bolt cursed as Gasgano and Teemto whipped past. He overtook the human as well but decreased speed and tried to keep an eye on the kid. If he wiped out now, halfway through the race—

No, that human was good. He'd pull through.

If he didn't, Dud Bolt would find the kid after the race and beat him senseless.

-{}-

It was the morning before the race, and Tatooine's twin suns were already brutal. The podracers had all arrived and were arranged in two tight rows down the center of the shaded hangar. Engines, pit droids, flesh-and-blood techs and beasts of burden made the wide-open space feel crowded.

In the chaos it wasn't too hard to slink around. Dud Bolt clung close to the north wall as he made his way to his racer after tugging a few parts loose on Ody Mandell's XL-5115. He'd helped Sebulba sabotage Mars Guo's racer the previous evening; Mandrell was expected to place in the middle of the pack and Dud was getting him out of the way to help the human boy.

So far so good, Dud Bolt thought. Once he returned to his own Vulptereen-357 he scoured every inch of the thing to make sure nobody had pulled any tricks on him. In the racing world, with the stakes so high, you could never be too sure.

As he did his checks, Dud Bolt caught something in the corner of his eye. A new podracer was being brought into the hangar and it was the tiniest one he'd ever seen: just two small cylindrical engines and cockpit roped along. Around it was a small cluster of humans. Those all looked alike to Dud, but he marked two of them as small and short, Vulptereen-sized, which meant they were children.

One of these, then, was Anakin Skywalker. Dud Bolt edged away from his Vulptereen-357 to get a peek at Skywalker's contraption. It was unpretentious and looked almost home-made; with its tiny size it would be good for maneuvering and acceleration, assuming it held together during the race. It would also be easily knocked around by big racers like Sebulba's. That meant, in addition, to sabotage, Dud was going to have to fly protection for the kid.

A day after his wager, with a more sober view, Dud Bolt wasn't sure he'd made the right choice. But he'd placed the bet. There was no going back. This was what he had to do. And if by some miracle he pulled it off and secured Skywalker in the second place spot, he'd be richer than his wildest dreams.

Dud Bolt spun back toward his podracer, only to collide with another stout body.

"Hey, watch where you're going, Rub Dolt!"

"Dud Bolt," he corrected, scowling into the ugly mug of Ark 'Bumpy' Roose. "My name is Dud Bolt."

"That's what I said," the Nuknog made a great sniffling noise. "Hey, have you heard? They're letting a human race in the Boonta now. What's this sport coming to?"

"I have no idea."

"And it's that Skytreader boy too. He almost beat me in my last race… but I'm gonna take care of him this time." Roose chuckled.

It looked like Dud Bolt had another racer to watch out for then. He'd flown against Roose a few times and knew the cons and pro of dealing with the Nuknog. Cons: he was reckless, violent, and smashed anyone in his way with his big Plug-8G 927 racer. Pros: He was very, very stupid.

"Say..." Roose made another sniffling noise. "Have you seen the kid around? I heard he's got a new speeder."

Dud Bolt fought the urge to look over his shoulder. Instead he kept himself planted, facing straight ahead, blocking the sight of Skywalker's racer with his body. "Uh, yeah, I've seen him," Dud said. "His racer's…. right over there."

He pointed past Roose toward the most unmistakable racer in the hangar: Ben Quadinaros's four-engine BT-310.

"Great. Now I can…. um, I was just curious," Roose scratched his snout. "I owe you one, Rub."

Dud didn't try to correct him. Roose waddled off, making a direct and unsubtle line toward Quadinaros's podracer.

If only all his foes could be so simple. Dud gave a sigh, looked around, and spotted Roose's Plug-8G racer sitting unguarded across the hangar. He hesitated for a moment—because despite it all, he didn't consider a numbskull like Roose a real threat—but it was always better to remove potential complications before the race.

Surreptitious again, Dud Bolt slipped over to the shadowed wall and made his way toward Roose's racer. He didn't know what he'd do yet, but it would be something to slow the reckless Nuknog down.

Better safe than sorry.

-{}-

"We're starting the third lap!" Fode declared. "Sebulba's in the lead, followed closely by Skywalker!"

Unbelievable. Dud really had picked the right bet… assuming the kid didn't get himself killed edging too close to Sebulba, which was a very real possibility.

Dud Bolt had done his part. As he wheeled through the arena and dashed across the Waldo Flats, he was holding in third place. A Tusken sniper had taken out Teemto and Gasgano was lagging back with Aldar Beedo thanks to engines problems which Dud would claim credits for later. Right now, he swayed his racer from side to side, taking up as much space as possible to prevent the others from passing.

Yet as he approached the Mushroom Flats, he wondered if he should try and gun ahead. If he interposed himself between Skywalker and Sebulba, he could hold the human back, keep him safe, then strategically lose his second-place seed just before crossing the finish line. If Sebulba didn't try to kill him instead (big if) Dud could end the race with a third-place trophy (not damned bad) and buckets of cash from his impossible bet (really damned good).

If things played out that way, well, he'd tell Sebulba what he really thought of him. He'd flash his winnings in front of that Dug's ugly mug and let him know the truth.

It was such an intoxicating idea, Dud had to wrench his attention back to the Mesa's stone pillars. He barely avoided one collision, then found a smooth course past the other obstacles. Far ahead, Sebulba and Skywalker were almost at Beggar's Canyon. Dud would have to fire his engines at just the right time to leap over Crater Valley and catch up with them—in other words, just like Skywalker had done last lap.

Dud was prepared to do just that when he heard a sputtering engine approach behind him. He didn't know that noise; it wasn't Gasgano and it wasn't Beedo. He risked a glance over-shoulder—

—just in time to see Ark Roose's clumsy machine bearing down on him. Dud cursed the Nuknog, cursed himself, and realized he had to fire those thrusters right now.

He did. Just before the ground fell out from under him, he pumped fire from his engines. The acceleration sent his soaring so high above the plain that high-altitude winds threated to send him off-course. But Dud cut thrusters and allowed himself to plunge, then fired them against to adjust course. He'd bring himself down right in front of the entrance to the Canyon, just like Skywalker last time around.

He never thought he'd spend this race getting schooled but a little human boy. How had he known to pick such a winner? Was Dud Bolt—for perhaps the first time in his miserable life—truly lucky?

His heart soared as his speeder fell. Fell down, down, down to the plain, right in front of the Canyon mouth.

Right on top of Ark Roose's podracer.

Dud wasn't sure what happened next. He couldn't tell exactly how the racers collided—he was too distracted by the smoke, the fire, the scream of metal rending metal, and the stomach-bursting fear of imminent death.

But he didn't die. Instead his pilot pod, trailing the ragged wreckage of two engines, skidded across the sand until it slammed into the cliff right beside the Canyon mouth.

Gasgano and Beedo's racers whipped past. Roose's wreck smoldered far away. Dud pounded the sides of his cockpit with wrathful fists. A distant, wind-carried voice howled: "Damn you, Rub Dolt!"

Dud tried to calm himself. Tried to tell himself that Skywalker was still in the Number Two spot and if he held there for just half a lap, Dud Bolt's wildest fantasies would still come true.

He was struck by the silence. No more roaring engines and no more Fode and Bede chattering inanely in his earpiece. He'd been so into the race that he'd tuned them out, but now he needed to hear. He jammed the buttons on his cockpit controls, trying to get the radio back on, but nothing happened. Frustrated, he started punching the console. A few lights came on. He decided to keep punching, even though it hurt his hands.

Punching worked. Static burst in his earpiece, but beneath it was a muffled voice. Dud Bolt twisted the knob on his radio controls to cut through the noise. Left, right, right a little more. It started to clearer.

He heard another messy noise, but it wasn't static. It was…. cheering. The race must have been over.

Then he heard Bede say, "Unbelievable! Who could have seen it? The Skywalker boy pulled through!"

He had? Dud Bolt's heart soared. His impossible bet, his schemes and wrangling, they'd paid off! The kid had done the impossible and claimed second place! Dud Bolt had never been so lucky—and never so rich—as right now.

Then Fode declared, "The local boy took first place! The crowds are going nuts!"

First place?

First place.

Unbelievable.

Dud Bolt sat in his ruined cockpit, feeling emptied of everything. He'd come closer than he ever had in his miserable unlucky life to being a winner, only to have it snatched away at the very last moment.

Because how else could it ever play out for Dud Bolt?

He stared at the blue sky and tried to picture the look on Sebulba's face right now. It was the only solace he was going to get.

-{}-

"Hey Mud Bolt! Too bad you couldn't finish the race! Better luck next time!"

"Aw, don't take it too hard. It coulda been worse."

"Yeah, I could have bet money on ya!"

Laughs all around. Dud Bolt ignored the hecklers as he hunched over the bar-counter, adamantly focused on his glass of Rodian stout. After he'd received his consolation money from a surly Sebulba—six hundred for Guo, eight hundred each for Mandrell and Gasgano, a nice two thousand for Ark Roose—he'd gone in search of the nearest liquor-selling establishment to spend it. Not that he was going to burn through all that money on booze. Not all at once, anyway.

He'd immediately come to regret taking his earnings to a public house instead of buying five bottles and going straight to his room. He'd never been to this particular establishment before but people recognized him anyway. Part of him wanted to turn on those hecklers and spill the whole miserable truth about how he'd come close and failed spectacularly. The rest of him wanted to bash their heads in.

At the very least, he thought idly, he could bash Ark Roose's head in. That would be satisfying, though he'd need something very heavy to dent that Nuknog's impenetrable skull.

Dud was idly contemplating murder when someone dropped onto the booth next to him. It was a human wearing a dowdy brown poncho, long hair, fur on his face like a male. The bartender—a dexterous four-armed Xexto—asked him his drink of choice, but the human shook his head.

"I'm just stopping by to check on my friend here."

He laid a hand on Dud's shoulder. The drunk Vulptereen grunted, "I'm not your friend, friend."

"Friend may be a strong word, but you did help me out once," the human smiled through his beard, "At Gardulla's casino. Do you remember?"

Now that he mentioned it, Dud had run into a human. Well, more like cut him in line at the betting queue though the human had been quite understanding about it. This was the same one, apparently (they all looked the same to Dud).

"I'd just like to thank you for your work during the race," the human said, "and for pointing me in the right direction."

Dud still wasn't certain he had the right guy. "What are you talkin' about?" he slurred.

"You advised me to bet on the young human, Anakin Skywalker." He reached into his poncho and removed a cloth pouch, fat with whatever was inside. "It proved quite profitable."

"What do ya mean? I lost that bet!" Just remembering made dud angry again.

"That's right, you bet on him coming in second, didn't you? I put a few credits down on him placing first."

It was the craziest bet anyone could have made. The winnings must have been incredible. Dud eyed the coin-bag and felt a shiver run through him. "How… How did you know?"

"I didn't," the human smiled softly, "but I thought it worth the try. As a backup plan. In retrospect I should have placed a larger bet. In any case, I'd like you to have this."

He placed the pouch on the counter right in front of Dud's snout. He stared, afraid to touch it.

"You… you're just giving that away?"

"Like I said, that was a backup bet. My other wager was also successful." Smile became smirk, then softened again. "I tried to apply these proceeds for a certain purchase, but was… rebuffed. So I thought I could share this with you. After all, you did your part too."

The human got off his stool, leaving the words to burrow into Dud's muddled mind. He reached out, took the pouch, undid its ties, and looked at the faint gleam of aurodium coins inside. He couldn't tell exactly how much was in there, but it was beyond the pittance Sebulba had paid him.

A giggle laugh escaped his snout. Dud Bolt looked around the cantina, but the human was gone. He clutched the pouch to his chest and called the bartender over.

"Who was that human? Did you recognize him?"

The Xexto shrugged all four shoulders. "Nope. Some offworlder in for the race, I imagine. Why?"

"No reason." Dud Bolt stuffed the pouch into his vest. It felt like a second heart pumping in his chest and his mind reeled, trying to decide what to do with this inexplicable bounty. He could buy more booze. He could (no, should) but a new podracer. He could even tell off Sebulba (though that might be a bad plan, long-term).

Or Dud could just sit here, hold his treasure tight, and for once in his life feel like a winner.