Mine, No More

    Shmi Skywalker woke up the next day and shouted for her son.  Hearing no response, she went to his room.  He could be such a lazy boy!  But as she was walking, she started to remember.  He had left.  Well, she had let him leave.  He had a great destiny before him, one which could not be fulfilled here on Tatooine.
    As she entered his empty room she sat down on his bed and cried, but it was no use.  And besides, what had he said?  That they would see each other again.  He had always had that special gift and she saw no reason to begin doubting him now.  Under the tutelage of the Jedi, his powers would only grow, right?  She would see her son again.  She knew this in her heart.  She just had to hang around long enough.
    Shmi took a deep breath to compose herself.  Watto would be expecting her, that flying worm.  Slaves don’t get to grieve.  The Jedi must have paid a tasty Trugut for Anakin, whose value to Watto must have only increased after his big win.  Well, dying in those races was one thing she wouldn’t need to worry about any more.  The Jedi would take good care of her son.
    Shmi poured some sunsmeal into a bowl.  She didn’t have the focus required to actually cook anything.  It was all she could do to pour some milk to go with it.  She sat at the sandstone table facing the door but found herself awaiting Anakin’s return.  She moved to sit on another stool, but that one was facing his bedroom, which was also unpleasant.  So Shmi stood by the sink and shoveled the food into her mouth.  When she was done, she left the unwashed bowl in the sink, the bottom covered by a shallow pool of blue, and walked out the door, the suns beating down on her face.

    “Hey, whattaya banya?  You’re late, Shmi,” Watto barked at her as she entered his shop.
    “Sorry,” She mumbled, looking down.  She’d always hated Watto, and now in his presence she felt an urge to avenge her newfound loneliness.  If it wasn’t for him, she could have left with Anakin.  But even if she could kill him, she'd only be condemning herself to death.  She swallowed her rage and said, “I’m here now, though.  What can I do?”
    “You can start by wiping down the shelves and the parts, anh?” His voice went to a nasally squeak at the end. “I’ll be in the back.  If anyone comes in to buy, come get me.  But if they’re only looking,” he swatted the air in front of him and then left fluttered out.

    Shmi opened the closet, revealing steps of hardened sand shelves.  She took the worn rag from the bucket on the shelf.  It stank.  Taking the pumice on the bottom shelf she went outside and hit the faded yellow rag against the walls of the shop a few times, then dragged the pumice across it.  If she were home she just would have used some water, but Watto was far too cheap for such things.  The pumice stone itself was several years old and in need of replacement – but no.  Watto would keep that pumice until the last grains.
    When the rag was as clean as it would get Shmi went back inside, relieved to see Watto was still in the back.  It was one mercy of his cheap habits – that he was too lazy to micromanage the shop and also too cheap to buy an overseer.  What’s he doing back there?  Probably to count his money again.

    But in fact Watto was doing no such thing.  For one thing, he kept the majority of his money in a secret hatch under his hammock-bed.  Most nights he lifted to ensure it was still there, but some nights he would stay up late counting it all before going to sleep.  Then he locked the hatch twice and covered it with a rug.  He also would check it again in the morning.
    It wasn’t all of his money, or even most.  The rest of his money was with Gardulla the Hutt, earning a steady supply of interest as she loaned it out to whatever ne’er-do-wells persuaded her they needed it and could pay it back.  But it was enough money to satisfy Watto’s lust, and to ward off insecurity.  Never knew when one needed a few thousand truguts at a moment’s notice.  It had never happened, but Watto didn’t want to be caught unawares.
    But, no.  Watto was out back checking his parts.  They were in reasonably working order – most of them anyway.  Well, many of them.  Enough he couldn’t be credibly accused of scamming anyone, but not so many his work could be called honest labor.  That was a luxury few on Tatooine could afford.  Cantina owners added sand to their mixtures to thicken them, docking bay operators insisted on all sorts of “convenience” fees to pad their pockets.  Watto comforted himself he was no worse than everyone else.

    The only ones who could be said to make an honest life were Jawas and Tusken Raiders.  Jawas sold junk, like Watto, but it was junk they’d found in the desert and everyone knew it.  They basically just charged finders’ fees, with Buyer Caveats as big as their Sandcrawlers.  What you see is what you get.  Nothing more, and hopefully nothing less.
    Tusken Raiders were removed from trade altogether, though rarely they would come to barter.  Wrapped in enough blankets to comfort a whole maternity ward, they lived in camps far from the towns and villages which had developed over the eons and largely kept to themselves.  Occasionally they’d come to raid, but never under the guise of doing anything else.  If you were lucky, you just woke up the next morning with some stuff missing, and a single-file line heading out to the desert.  If you weren’t lucky, you woke up during the night.  If you weren’t lucky and you were stupid, you tried to resist them.  Tusken Raiders were ruthless – but there was no deception about it.  An honest life.

    Content with the condition of most of his parts – which is to say, they all worked when tested long enough to sell – Watto went inside.  Shmi was still wiping down the parts.  “’ey, Shmi, what’sa all this?  Just give it a quick wipe anda move on, anh?”
    “Don’t you want it clean?”  Shmi asked, not turning her head.
    “Ai,” Watto groaned, putting his leathery hand to his head.  “No, no, just wiped.  We’re not selling to Senators.  Just wipe them enough they look nice.”
    Shmi picked up a 6 Thrust Coil, a long triangle with flat edges.  “So you mean it’s supposed to be this color?”
    Watto looked at the brown part and shrugged.  “Why not?  It goes in the engine.  Doesn’t matter what color it is.”
    Shmi rolled her eyes and put it back on the wooden shelf, which wobbled a bit.  I swear, this whole shop is one sandstorm away from ruin.  She quickly dusted the other parts.

    Watto went behind his counter to check his schedule.  While he allowed walk-ins, typically Watto preferred his customers to make appointments.  It allowed him to prepare the right junk – and accompanying sales pitch.  It also made his shop seem more reputable, as well as made him feel more important.  Gardulla the Hutt only was seen by appointment.  Watto wished he could afford that kind of isolation.
    But his schedule was empty.  He sighed and looked at Shmi.  Doubtless she would be worse company than Ani, who had begun to grow on him before those Jedi came and swindled him.  He decided to send her on some errands, if only to get her out of the shop.  He was glad, at least, he hadn’t brought up the boy’s absence yet.  It would make him look weak.  Plus, he didn’t actually care, right?  He was just a slave, and slaves could be replaced.  But he’d been a good slave.  He’d been born into it and was eager to please.  Shmi, on the other hand, knew her worth and acted it – and not a trugut more!  It would be poor business to dismiss or kill her, but it was also apparently going to be poor business to keep her.  He wondered how much he could get for a middle-aged human slave?

    “Shmi,” Watto announced.  “I’ve got a lead in Mos Eisley.  Comma and see if anyone wants to make an appointment, ah?”
    Mos Eisley was far from Mos Espa, but she’d travelled there before on similar errands.  And she liked the idea of being sent away from the shop.  She thought she could smell Anakin’s sandy scent – as if it were distinct from all the other sand.  “Alright, I can do that.”
    “Bring me two appointments and I’ll give you the day off tomorrow.  Bring me more, well, and we’ll just see how generous old Watto will be, eh?”  Shmi had made appointments for him before, two would be easy.
    Shmi nodded gratefully.  “Thank you.  I’ll head out now.”
    “Wait!”  Watto said.  He reached under the counter and pulled out a holo-projector.  Clicking it, an image of the Naboo Queen’s ship popped in and rotated around.  Something he’d swiped off the old Jedi.  “Tell them we recently acquired quite a steal, and that these parts are in peak condition.”
    Shmi took the projector, and stared at the rotating ship.  Where was Anakin sitting, and sleeping, and was he safe?  Were starships comfortable?  She imagined they were cold, because she’d heard space was cold.  She wished she had sent Anakin with a few blankets.
    “Hey, hey!”  Watto was shouting behind the ship, has mouth flapping behind the hologram.  “I said, go to the docking authority in Mos Eisley, fellah named Tremmel.  Even if he isn’t buying, he’ll know others who will need parts.  Whatever they need, we have.  Got it?”
    “Tremmel. Got it.”  Shmi said, her heart sinking.  She hated lying.  Watto gave her a few truguts for travel and waved her away.  Shmi turned off the holo-projector and left the shop just as a small alien with four eyes was coming in.  She heard Watto greet the talz as she turned down the street.  The suns were high and hot and the sky was clear for miles and miles.  She pulled her hood over her.  Days like this made her wish she were a Tusken Raider, wrapped up all cozy against the heat and wind. 

    She turned the corner to see the Jawas at their usual station on the main square, under a dusty cloth held up by upright logs.  Rontos stood tall in a pen behind them.  They would be menacing if Shmi didn’t already know rontos were the most cowardly things in the galaxy.  Large but stupid animals.  An unexpected cough could send one running, and she’d heard of some dying of fright at the sound of Tusken Raiders shouting.
    She walked up to the overhang, and one of the Jawas stood to greet her.  “I’d like to go to Mos Eisley, please.”  She said.  The Jawa yipped and turned to the others behind it.  A minute of yips and wild gesticulations later and he turned back and named a price.
    “I’m here on Watto’s regard,” Shmi said, and the Jawa moaned an understanding.  She handed over half what had been asked and the Jawa accepted the payment and dropped it into his brown robe.  He led Shmi to one of the rontos as another Jawa untied it from its post.  The ronto lowered itself to the ground, allowing she and the Jawa to climb up.  Then, with a few words, the ronto stood again, its large neck reaching tall into the sky, and they lumbered off into the wilderness.

    People often thought of Tatooine as a desert planet, but that’s incorrect.  Tatooine is full of thriving, happening communities.  The desert is just what separates those communities, but what separates can also connect.  The Jawa was following a well-worn path – or maybe it was the ronto itself.

    Shmi looked over her shoulder and saw Mos Espa disappearing into the distance.  Soon, Mos Eisley would appear in front of them.  But there would be a few minutes, she knew, when they’d be surrounded by nothing but the horizon.  Those moments had never bothered her before, but now she felt a sense of dread at the unmooring.  What if they got lost, or a storm suddenly picked up right around them.  She couldn’t help but think this might be the end for her.  Why’s that? She thought, but the answer was obvious.  Anakin was gone, and without him as an anchor she might as well disappear into the great dune sea.  Hundreds did each year.
    But they soon crested a dune which revealed to them the outline of tiny Mos Eisley.  When they arrived, Shmi slid off the side of the Ronto and bowed her head slightly to the Jawa, who gave a friendly yip in return, before turning towards the docking port, no doubt looking for the local Jawa camp.

    Entering the complex, Shmi went to a large but faded map on the durasteel wall.  She pushed her hood down so she could see.  The authority offices were in the center of the building, far from where she was.  She looked at the map for a long time, tracing the route several times with her finger in an attempt to memorize where to go.  But one part of the map was torn, so she’d have to guess a little bit.
    A short while later and she was lost again, though the corridor was busier now so she felt sure she must be going the right direction.  It was certainly better than ending up at a lonely dead-end, clearly lost and an easy target for thieves.  The merchants in their booths screamed this and that about their wares, and some people rushed to hear more, but most rushed quickly to get away.  Closer to the walls was a beggar and a street performer, who was just beginning his routine.
    She took a moment to look around for any signs, but there were none.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a hulking, hairy being coming quickly in her direction and her heart skipped a beat.  She quickly walked up to the nearest trading booth.  If she were snatched away, maybe the merchant would intervene at the prospect of lost business.
    “Aah hello, pretty missy!”  The five-eyed being said.  He had long, thin arms and was dressed in bright clothes.  His voice was eager.
    “Hello there!  I might be interested-“
    “Well of course, who wouldn’t be interested in a four jean V spiraler.”  He took out a small block, and when he clicked the bottom with his thumb a light show shot onto the ceiling, and a bit of music.  “15 truguts, but for you, I’d have to say 5.”
    “What’s it do?” She asked, quickly looking over her shoulder to see the big wookie walking away.  Stupid!  He probably didn’t even notice me, much less was going to steal from me.
    “Brightens any room you may have in your dune-mansion.”
    Despite herself, Shmi let out a laugh.  “I don’t live in a mansion.”
    “Even more important to spice things up a bit.  Every home deserves a bit of brightness.”
    Shmi pulled out her pocket to show it was empty.  “Oh, zap.  I don’t have even 5 truguts to spare," Shmi turned her pocket back in and went to leave, but then said “Do you know where the port authority offices are?”
    “Well aren’t you just a bundle of robed secrets.  No money but looking for the bosses.  I think they’re that way,” he pointed to the right.  “That’s further into the port, anyway.  Central offices, central positioning.”  He laughed mightily at his own joke.
    “Yeah,” Shmi groaned.  “Well, bye.”  She went right, passing a trash-collecting droid who was picking up the copious waste on the ground and dropping it into its domed head.

    But the trader was correct, and she soon started seeing signs for authority offices.  She found Tremmel’s door and knocked.  A very short woman opened the door. “Hello.  I’m looking for Tremmel.”
    “Yeah?” She responded throatily, and with no kindness.  She wore a spacers jumpsuit and her hair sat in a knot on top of her head.
    “Watto sent me.”  Shmi reached into her bag to retrieve the projector.  We just got some new ship parts and he said Tremmel might know some buyers.”
    “Watto,” She grunted, and spat on the dirt floor.  A silence grew between them and Shmi felt a shiver go down her own spine. “Well?”  The woman finally said, breaking the silence.
    “I’d like to show this to Tremmel,” Shmi stammered, clicking the projector to showing the sleek J-type 327 Nubian starship.
    The woman let out a gasp.  “Hey hey, well look at that.”  Her demeanor changed in an instant.  “This whole thing?”  She asked.
    “Yes,” Shmi lied.
    “And it works?  Watto didn’t find it crash-landed in the desert, already scrapped by Jawas, only fortunate enough to find the specs?”
    “It all flies.” Shmi half-lied.  “Where is Tremmel?”
    “That’s me.”  The woman said, her eyes fixed on the spinning ship.  “Wow, a real gem you’ve got there.”
    “You?”  Shmi said, surprised.
    “Yeah, me.  Listen, this is public government.  We don’t have the truguts to pay for go-betweens like you richers in Mos Espa do.  But hey, a pretty thing like this won’t last.  I’ll spread the word, and tell Watto Tremmel’ll beat his asking price if he’ll hold it for my people.  How many others of you did he send?  Man, I’d love to get my hands on that diamaclear glass, really keeps out the heat!  Well?”
    “Three,” Shmi lied again.  “Anchorhead, Mos Deema, and Mos Thonored.”
    “Thanks,” Tremmel said, and handed Shmi some dusty credits she had produced from somewhere.
    “I can spread the word myself, if you tell me where they are.”
    Tremmel cocker her head, “You know a two-cylinder jack from a seven liner link?”
    “Uhh,” Shmi stammered
    “Listen,” she said, reaching up to pat Shmi’s face, “you just let old Tremmel worry about all that.  You get home and tell Watto to hold those parts, will ya, before anyone else gets them?  Mos Eisley’s an up-and-coming place, and we need all the materials we can get, hm?”
    “I need two appointments,” Shmi said sternly.  “Can you guarantee that?”
    “I’ll get you at least three.”
    “I need names, at least.”
    “Barkey will come.  So that’s two, mine and Barkey.  Got it.”
    “Thank you,” Shmi said, taking a step back.
    “Hold on,” Tremmel disappeared back into her office and the door shut quickly, kicking up a fine spray of dust.  A few moments later the door opened again and Tremmel held up two water pouches.  “Here.  Don’t waste your time getting subgrade from when you can get that H2 straight from the source.  My own special design of vaporator, tastes sweeter!  Now get going, back to Watto.”  Shmi took the water pouches and slipped one into her pocket and took a sip from the other.  It really was delicious – absolutely better than any water she’d had before.  She took another gulp and recapped it before sliping it also into her pocket.  Ani would love it.  She turned around and headed back.

    Back in Watto’s shop, Shmi told him about Tremmel, and of the few lies she’d told on his behalf.  “Good, good,” He said, his eyes glistening in that way they did when he thought of money.  “Nowa, why don’t you head out for the night, huh?  There’s nothing else to do here.”
    “Yes,” Shmi said, bowing her head quickly and turning.  Oh wait!  “Watto, does that mean Ani’s already been sent home?”
    Watto stopped in the air, wings still fluttering to keep him afloat.  No, say nothing.  Watto recomposed himself, glad he wasn’t facing Shmi when she’d said it.  But as he resumed his route, he found himself nevertheless saying, “The boy isn’t here anymore.”
    But he didn’t even need to say it.  No sooner had the words left her mouth that Shmi remembered everything all at once.  When she heard Watto, who almost whispered the words, it seemed as an intentional jab.  He isn’t here.  But is he home?  No.

Shmi sped out of the shop and into the bright, winding walkways leading to the slave quarters.  She could feel her eyes welling up with tears, but she knew the route well enough she didn’t need to actually watch where she was going.  When she got home she ran through the kitchen and into her bedroom and threw herself onto her bed, letting her bag drop to the floor.  She lay there crying for a long time.  Finally, her thoughts were interrupted.
    “Good evening, mistress Shmi.  I have prepared dinner, since you did not and it is getting late.  I must admit it is not within my programming, since Master Anakin actually never taught me, but it is my duty to help you, such that I can.  Humans should eat every day, as I understand it.”
    Shmi rolled on her side and opened one eye to see the bare droid standing in the doorway.  The droid –  what had Ani named it? – had a point.  She’d probably feel better if she ate some pallies.
    She stood up and wiped her eyes.  “Thank you, uhhhhh.  Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
    “I am C-3P0, human-cyborgs relations.  Though, as my mistress, I suppose you could rename me, if that’s easier.”
    “No, no.” Shmi said.  “A name is a name, and it’s the one Anakin gave you.  It might be a nice reminder.  Thank you.  You said you prepared dinner?”
    “I tried, but I wasn’t sure which you liked.  I did not eat with you and Master Anakin.” C-3P0 said, taking a few shaky steps backwards and gesturing into the kitchen.

    When she walked in, Shmi was appalled at the mess.  C-3P0 had taken everything out of the pantry and poured it all into the sink.  Sunsmeal, Woopi-oats, Drafr, the entire dry-mix of brand stir-cakes which she only prepared for birthdays, and to top it all off was a spoon, fork, and knife all sticking out of the top of the dune of food.  She let out a huge laugh, as she had not in many days.  This stupid, idiot droid had wasted months worth of food rations.  Well, Jira will love this!  She mused, hoping the old woman would take pity and give her some food until the next ration cards came in.
    “I am so glad you like it,” The droid said.
    Shmi turned to C-3P0 and cocked her head to the side.  He had a lot to learn if he was ever going to serve humans.

    Fortunately, Jira’s shop was still open, and the woman enjoyed the tale.  “Droids,” she groaned.  “I am sorry, Shmi.  And about Anakin.”  Shmi had told her that story, too.
    “Thank you,” Shmi said.  “He’s always been destined to do great things.  I will see him again.”
    “It’s OK to be sad, dear.” Jira said.
    “Well, last time I cried it cost me my whole kitchen!” Shmi chuckled.  She looked down at the bag she was carrying.  “I will pay you back for this as soon as I can, I promise.”
    “No need!” Jira said.
    “I will not take charity,” Shmi snapped.
    “A gift from a friend,” Jira said firmly.
    “Well, thank you.” Shmi said again, swallowing her pride as best she could, though it caught in her throat.  “But I owe you one.”
    “Keep that droid far from me and my shop and we’ll be even, my dear.”
    Shmi smiled and nodded a farewell as she headed home.

    When she arrived, C-3P0 was still moving the food from the sink into the trash one cupful at a time.  The pile had reduced considerably, but was still, well, where no pile of food should be.  Even Gardulla isn’t so careless with her food, she thought.  Even Sarlaacs.  Only a droid could be so foolish as to not understand food.  Well, and little boys.  She remembered Anakin when he was very young refused to eat his Sunsmeal.  She even spent a little extra for some Pallies, which she’d squeeze over the bowl to sweeten the mixture.  She still had to watch him like a Tathawk, because the minute she turned around he’d throw his bowl on the ground, as if food was free.  Well, if she taught the irascible Anakin to eat his sunsmeal, she was sure she could teach C-3P0 how to cook.

    It wasn’t easy.  Well, stars aren’t made in a day, either.  The next morning she told him to read the now-empty containers while she was gone.  Watto had refused to give her the day off as promised until he heard from his new customers.  “Each will have a set of instructions on how to make them, See-Three.  Memorize them.  That’s the first step to preparing a meal – knowing how to do it.  After you do that, well, after that just stand around, or sit.  Do droids like to sit?”
    “I have never considered it,” Threepio said.
    “Well, sit or stand and then wait.  I don’t think I can take any more of your initiative.”
    “Yes, Mistress Shmi.”

    It didn’t have the same ring as “mom,” but she liked having something of a title, someone who uniquely answered to her.  When she came home, C-3P0 was standing in the kitchen.
    “I have fulfilled your requests.”
    “Prove it.” Shmi said, taking out the bag she had bought from Jira the night before.  She was in a particular good mood, having been sent again out of the shop to make appointments for Watto.  When she returned, Watto had heard from Tremmel and Sharkey, as well as a few others, and had made good on his promise to give her the next day off.  “Here’s a box of Pert-il and some Wopi-oats.  Tell me, how do you make these?”
    C-3P0’s voice sounded somehow more robotic than before.  He was clearly reciting.  “Pour the Wopi-oats into a bowl and add one measure of water.  Prepared over a low heat for 10 minutes.” A pause, then he said, “Pert-il are to be combined with water and stirred until the mixture thickens.  Heat quickly in the roto-oven for 5 minutes, and season to taste.  Do not feed to pets.”
    Shmi nodded her head.  “Good.  Good.  There might be some hope for you after all, Threepio.”  She walked by C-3P0 and towards the appliances.  “Now come here.  You’re going to cook us some dinner, and I am going to watch.  Ask any questions you have.  And then next time you want to make dinner, you’ll actually know how to do it on your own.”
    Shmi showed C-3P0 where the pots were in the lower cupboards, though the droid wasn’t able to bend enough to get them himself.  But he was able to turn the dials and press the buttons and his internal timer appeared to be flawless.  Mixing was difficult – he didn’t have the grip necessary.  Shmi quickly realized that while C-3P0 may be of use around the house he’d be far from independent.  Stars weren’t made in a day, she reminded herself.  Maybe he just needed practice.

    An hour later, he said “Done!” and Shmi quickly took the Wopi-oats off the stove and poured them into a bowl lined with Pert-il.  The foamy Pert-il caught the oats softly as they fell, and she knew from the smell the flavors were mixing nicely.  She brought the bowl to the table and turned to call for…. Oh that’s right.  Her enthusiasm for tomorrow’s day off evaporated, and the air even seemed colder as she breathed it in.
    She looked over at C-3P0, who was still standing near the stove.  “Come join me,” Shmi said.
    “Mistess Shmi, surely you know that droids do not need to eat.”
    Shmi rolled her eyes and chuckled.  “And surely you know humans don’t like to be lonely.  Just stay by the table, won’t you?”
    He did, and Shmi began talking about her day.  How Watto had sent her to Anchorhead to again sell a ship he didn’t have.  Interest was even higher than yesterday, and she was paid quite a pretty sum to promise to ask Watto to hold this or that part.  She was beginning to worry what Watto would do when everybody finally arrived and found out they had been duped.  She had already decided to not be present when they came.  There were enough errands to be done that she could disappear whenever she wanted:  Refilling cleaning oils, taking out the waste, visiting the spaceport for easy marks – though perhaps Watto had soured on outlanders since last time.  Truth was Shmi didn’t have much sympathy for them either.  They came to Tatooine, took what they needed, and left.  Few people came to lay down roots or add to the community.  Well, if that was their way then she might as well try to get some of their business.  She didn’t like leading bantha to slaughter, but off-world bantha were different.  Even the Jedi and his maid had come and left.  And if one couldn’t count on the Jedi to help, who could one count on?
    Anakin.  He’d become a special Jedi, she knew.  Something far more powerful.  He’d come to Tatooine, and all the other planets with injustice, and wipe it out.  Bring peace and order to the galaxy – finally.  Anakin would grow up to be something great.  She just had to wait.
    “And how long do you expect until Master Anakin becomes a Jedi?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” Shmi said.  “It takes a long time to become a Jedi, I believe.  But Anakin is a quick learner.  Maybe it won’t take so long for him.”
    It was late, so Shmi decided to do the dishes, listen to some cronotapes outside, and go to sleep.

    Shmi woke up the next morning feeling very antsy.  She decided to clean the house, and see what C-3P0 could do in that regard, as well.  He was no better than at cooking, especially as so much of cleaning involved bending.
    When she opened one of the drawers to organize its contents she was surprised to find it full of money.  A pile of paper and sandstone truguts.  It was certainly more than she’d ever seen before.  Before…
    Look at all the money we got, Mom!  She heard his excited voice saying.  They had sold the podracer and given the money to her.  She’d quickly hid the money away, then the Jedi had said Anakin was free and he left, and it all happened so fast that she’d forgotten.  She wasn’t used to having drawers full of money.
    She took it out counted it.  30,000 truguts.  Quite a heft sum!  But what in the galaxy would she do with it?  Even if she could buy her freedom, what would she do?  How expensive was it to go to Couruscant?  How could she find Ani there.  Would Watto even accept the buy-out?  Just as likely he’d claim the money was his and that she’d stolen it, and then what?
    No, that wouldn’t do.  So then what?  Shmi remembered Jira.  She could figure out what to do with the rest of the money later.  She had a debt to settle.

    A few days later, there came a knock on her door.  When Shmi opened the door, a familiar voice said, “Hello Miss Skywalker.  Can Anakin come out and play?”
    “Oh, Kitster,” She said, crouching down to the boy’s level.  He was a friend of her son’s. “Oh, Kitster.”  She said again, grappling with what to say.  “Come inside, won’t you.”
    “Sure!”  Kitster replied enthusiastically.  He came in and sat on the stool Shmi pulled out for him.  She sat on one next to him.
    “Kitster,” She said slowly.  “Anakin is gone.”  She said, and her voice broke as she said it.  “He’s left.”
    Shmi prepared herself for the tears and the shouting.  They had been close friends for a long time.  Kitster had even been at the Podrace with them all last week, the only one of his friends to come cheer for him.  And now Anakin was gone, vanished, and hadn’t even said good-bye.  It had been a rotten thing to do, now that she considered it.  That Jedi sure had been in a rush to take him away.
    Kitster tilted his head slightly.  “OK, so when will he be back?”
    Shmi laughed and wiped her eyes.  What a moment of innocence.  “That man, the Jedi, you remember him?  Anakin left with him.  With my permission, of course.  Ani wanted to go, too.  He’s gone to be a Jedi, to save the Galaxy.”
    “But families are supposed to stay together.” Kitster said firmly
    Shmi laughed again.  What a bright spot this boy was!  “Yes, but we must also let our loved ones pursue their dreams.  Anakin had an opportunity to leave.  I had to stay.”
    “Hmmmmmm,” Kitster said, long and deliberate.  Shmi looked into his brown eyes and tried to figure out what he was thinking.  She’d lost a friend, Ata, long ago.  When she was a child, the two would play together in the evenings.  But one day her family had been sold and they’d been sent away.  The only farewell they got was screaming at each other across the street as her whole family was pushed into a transport ship.  Was it better, maybe, to have Anakin just disappear?

    “I think I need to go.” Kitster said finally.  Shmi felt sadder at that than she expected to.  Having a child, any child, in her house was better than none.  He got off the stool and went to the door.  He turned around as he opened it.  “Bye, Miss Skywalker.”  He paused again, then said, voice cracking and tears now streaming down his face, “It was nice seeing you.”  She couldn’t help but smile as she went to him, crouched, and scooped him up in her arms.
    “I know, I know,” she said, holding him.  It felt good to hold someone small and warm.  He gripped her tightly, and started blubbering, mostly repeating where and why and then dissolving again into tears.  After several minutes, his grip on her back loosened, and she let go.  He dropped to the floor and wiped his eyes.  “Would you like some tea?” Shmi asked.  Kitster nodded, eyes averted.  “Threepio!”  Shmi shouted over her shoulder.  “Have you ever had droid tea?”  Shmi asked, perking up her voice.
    Kitster shook his head. “What’s that?”
    “That’s tea made by a droid.”
    “Yes, mistress Shmi.” Threepio said, coming up behind them.  “Oh, and hello Kitster.”  Kitster waved lazily.
    “Threepio, brew us each a cup of mint-chop leaf tea.  And squeeze some Pallie into Kitster’s.  He’s had a hard day.”
    “Yes, mistress Shmi,” Threepio said, and he went to the kitchen.
    Shmi leaned in closer to Kitster, “He’s not very good at making tea, but tell him it’s good anyway, hm?  Make him feel good.”
    Kitster chuckled a little and stood up.  “My sister isn’t good at making tea, either.  We do the same thing.”
    “Well, let’s find out who’s better, your sister or a droid!”
    Shmi pulled out a stool for Kitster again, and she took a seat next to him.
    “If it’s my sister, then droid tea might just kill us!”
    Shmi laughed and hushed him again.  “You mustn’t, you mustn’t.  He’s right there!”
    Kitster covered his mouth and giggled.  Then they sat in pleasant silence until the tea was served.  The tea was actually quite good.  C3PO was getting better.

    Some time later, Shmi glanced outside and gasped when saw the suns were setting. “You’d better get home, I’m sure your mother must be worried.”
    “Oh, yes,” Kitster said, standing and brushing crumbs from his tunic.
    “It was so nice having you visit,” Shmi said, walking him towards the door.  “I hope you will come again.”
    “I will!”  Kitster said.  “And maybe one day you can come to my place, and try my sister’s tea?  You’ll see, it’s terrible,” he laughed.
    “We’ll see,” Shmi said, and watched as he walked out the door.  Visiting a whole family sounded a bit beyond what she could handle.  Better to host little Kitster, just him, and pretend for a short while her son was still home.  That she could handle.

    She turned around and laughed at what she saw.  Kitster had left his teacup on the table, and crumbs were all over the floor where he had been sitting.  All little boys really are the same, she thought as she bent down to clean it up.

    Later that week, Kitster came back.  He was carrying two full skinbags, which drooped close to the ground.  “Hello, Miss Skywalker.  Momma told me to bring you this food.  She says it’s part of our tradition.”
    Shmi pressed her hands together at her chin and felt a tingle in her eyes.  “Thank you, Kitster, that’s so sweet.  Come in, come in.  Let’s see what you’ve got.”  She took the bags from him and put them on the table and carefully emptied them.
    “Oh, and Momma said that I should tell you she’s sorry they took Anakin.”  His voice cracked when he said it, and a moment later he added, “I’m sorry, too, you know.”
    “Oh, Kitster.  That’s not what happened.  Maybe I explained it wrong.  Anakin left with my permission.  He is to become a Jedi.  But he will come back, when he can.  We will see each other again.”  She quickly added, “We will all see each other again.”
    Kitster looked up from his stool and smiled sadly.  “I hope so.  I miss him.”
    “I miss him, too.”  Shmi agreed, and put a firm hand on Kitster’s shoulder as she organized the food he had brought over with the other.  Scanning the food with her eyes she wasn’t able to recognize what they were.  She couldn’t read the writing on them either.  “Umm, Kitster.  Can you help me out?  What is it you brought me?”
    “Food.  My mother made it.”  Kitster said simply.
    “No, no,” Shmi said lightly.  “I mean, what is it.  I mean, how about this.  Are you hungry, because I sure am!  So what’s this?”  She pulled a bowl with a colorful knitted wrapping and pointed to the writing on it.
    Kitster looked at it closely.  “Haztam soup.”  He looked up at Shmi.  “It’s good!”
    “What’s Haztam?”  She asked.
    “Uhh, it’s bread but, like, rolled up.  Momma makes it when we’re sick.”
    “Then let’s try it out, shall we?  Threepio!”  C3P0 ambled out of Anakin’s room.
    “Yes, Mistress Shmi?”
    “Watch this,” Shmi said to Kitster, then to the droid, “Please put this in the roto for, say, two minutes.  Then pour it out into two of the bowls and serve it to us.”
    “At once,” Threepio said, picking up the bowl and heading toward the kitchen.
    The two of them watched in silence as Threepio flawlessly heated up the soup, retrieved two bowls, used a ladle to serve the hot soup into the bowls, and placed it in front of them.
    “Wow,” Kitster said, staring at Threepio as he walked back to the kitchen.
    Shmi took a big sniff of the soup.  “Smells delicious!  Is that dusty ginger?”
    Kitster took a sniff of his soup and said, “Is it?  I don’t know.  But it smells right – so maybe?”
    Shmi brought a spoonful up to her mouth and took in the flavors.  “There’s a lot going on here.  I like it!”
    Kitster raised his head to see into Shmi’s bowl.  “That’s Haztam!”  He said, pointing to two sandy-colored blobs.  “Watch this.”  Kitster put his spoon into the bowl and cut one of the balls in half with it.  “So, you get one half under your spoon and press it down.  When it pops up again, scoop it up with some soup and put it all in your mouth.  I like to suck it, but you can chew it or just squish it with your tongue.”
    Shmi tried it.  The half-ball wasn’t very cooperative, but she got it.  She brought it to her mouth and put it in.  She tried to suck the blob as Kitster had said, but it was hard with so much soup in her mouth, so she bit into it.  Her mouth burst with flavors she had never even imagined.  “Wow!”  Was all she managed to say after swallowing.
    A few minutes later, their bowls were empty.  Kitster leaned onto the table, and Shmi felt equally full.  The two traded satisfied groans.  Threepio came by to get the dishes.  “In my experience, when humans make these sort of sounds, they ought to lie down.”
    “Then we ought to widen your experience,” Shmi said.  “These are the sounds of absolute contentment.  A full meal.  Soup doesn’t usually hit me like that, but that Haztam really fills you up, doesn’t it?  I feel like I’ve had a feast!”
    Kitster grunted an agreement.

    “Alright,” Shmi said, after a few more minutes.  She stood up.  “You should probably head home.  But thank you for the food.  Oh!  Before you leave, actually, can you tell me what these other foods are?  I still can’t read the labels.”
    Kitster showed her another bowl of Haztam soup, a layered angsal etkal, and a braised Womp-rat Steak.  Shmi had heard of none of them except the steak, but Kitster assured her they were all delicious.  His mother had clearly put a lot of work into this, and Shmi felt guilty accepting it for free.  She went into her room and into the buried drawer, but then she stopped.  Giving a little boy so much money?  Surely his mother would be suspicious when he said he’d been given it by a woman she’d never met.  And what if someone noticed and stole it from him?  No, not a good idea.  She came out empty-handed.
    “Kitster, when you get home please ask your mother to come by and see me when she can.  Nothing urgent – but I’d like to thank her in person for this.”
    “Okay.  Actually, want to come over for dinner?  I’m sure Momma won’t mind.”
    “No, thank you,” Shmi said, laughing to hide her discomfort.  “I don’t want to impose.”
    “Alright,” Kitster said, picking up the two empty skin bags.  He pulled one over his head.  “Look at me!”  He started shouting and grunting and hopping from one foot to the next.  He pulled the bag up to see her reaction, announcing, “I’m a Tusken Raider!”
    “You certainly are fierce,” Shmi said smiling.  Anakin used to do the same thing.  Little boys really are all the same, she thought wistfully.  Her eyes began to water.
    “Oh, don’t worry, Miss Skywalker.  I won’t really hurt you.”
    “I know,” She said, blinking her eyes and wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I just, well, you know.”
    “Adult stuff?” Kitster asked.
    “Maybe?” Shmi eyed him tentatively, not sure what he meant.
    “Adult stuff seems hard.  It always makes my parents cry or get angry.  When I’m an adult, I’ll do whatever I can to make being an adult easier for everyone.”
    “That is a noble mission.”  A silence fell between them.  “I hope you will come back again.  And don’t forget to have your mother come.”
    Kitster looked around.  “I miss Anakin, but you’re also fun to spend time with.  Miss Skywalker, can adults and kids be friends?”
    “Anyone can be friends with anyone,” She responded, not entirely sure what she meant by that, or if she really believed it.  But she wanted to be Kitster’s friend, too.  Well, friend wasn’t going to be the right word.  She knew she wanted more and that she couldn’t have it.  But she was heartened to hear him ask to be friends and didn’t want to discourage him.
    “Alright,” Kitster said.  “Then I will see you again.”
    “I look forward to it,” Shmi said, and watched him go outside.

    A few days later, another knock came on Shmi’s door.
    “Who is it?”  Shmi called from her chair.
    “Mrs. Dlogerg – Kitty’s mother.”
    Shmi wrinkled her forehead at the name.  It didn’t ring a bell.  But she’d gotten used to knowing people through Anakin’s gregariousness.  Maybe this was another parent just finding out what had happened and coming to confirm their child wasn’t just telling lies.
    Shmi opened the door to see a large woman with unnaturally pale skin wearing a patterned blouse.  Extending beyond her sleeves and the bottom of her outfit was what looked like black tights.  Her hair was wrapped tightly in colorful fabric.  Shmi had never seen anyone dressed like her before.

    “Hello, Miss Skywalker.  Shee, is it?  Pleasure to meet you, my name is Mairmi.  Kitty says you wanted to see me, and I’ve wanted to for a long time anyway, even before this happened.  Your son was giving Kitty a lot of ideas I’m not sure I agreed with.  But what’s done is done, and however I thought of him I can put aside and realize how awful you must be feeling, no matter how Kit insists you say you allowed him to leave.  It’s hot out here – won’t you invite me in?”
    Shmi had been standing in a stupor at the barrage of words that had come.  She shook her head to rouse herself.
    “Oh, yes!  And it’s Shmi.  Mairmi, you said?  Very nice to meet you.  Won’t you come in.”  She stepped back and motioned to the stools at the table.  “You said Kitty?  Do you mean Kitster.”
    “Yes!”  Mairmi said sitting down.  “Oh I sometimes forget that’s just our name for him.  But it fits him, he’s a very sweet boy, and dutiful.”
    “I have much appreciated his visits.”
    “So then it’s really true?”
    “Yes,” Shmi said, and launched into her familiar speech about what happened.  But Mairmi interrupted her quite early on.
    “Feh,” she said with a wave of her hand.  “Jedi!  What do they know.  Go on.”
    Shmi continued, but soon was interrupted again.
    “Midi-what?  I swear, they keep coming up with new terms.  Sometimes I think they make them just to confuse us.  Our heads can only hold so many words at once, you know.”
    Shmi was getting annoyed at this and cut the story down considerably.  She had been telling it for a while and had continued telling it only when others wanted to hear it, but it didn’t seem like this woman really wanted to listen.  When she was done, Mairmi nodded her head.

    “Mind tricks,” she said, putting her pale finger to her head.  “Those Jedi used one of their mind tricks.  Oh, I don’t blame you, Shmi, but why else would any mother just let her son leave?”
    “It wasn’t a mind trick,” Shmi said firmly.  “I know what it sounds like, but Anakin’s going to become a Jedi.  He’s going to change the galaxy.  And he will return to me.”
    “Alright,” Mairmi said, her tone shifting.  “Alright, alright.  Sorry I questioned it.  I wasn’t there, you know.  I mean, obviously.”  Mairmi’s voice trailed off and looked around.  Shmi stood to get the money she had intended to give her.  Even though she found this woman very annoying, it was still a useful way to get rid of the money.  She’d been giving money to the street performers and beggars she ran across on the errands Watto sent her on, or when she just went to Mos Espa center, but it had hardly made a dent in the total.
    “I must admire your housekeeping,” Mairmi said.  “How do you keep it all so tidy?  How many children are left?”
    “It’s just me,” Shmi said.
    “And your husband,” Mairmi said matter-of-factly.
    “Just me.”  Shmi repeated.
    Mairmi looked at Shmi, and must have seen the annoyance in her eyes.
    “I apologize again.  Here I am being as rude as an out-lander.  But it isn’t good for one to be alone, so our people say.  We’re having a dinner celebration in a few weeks.  Achpes festival.  We eat and dance and imagine a time without slavery.  You should come!  And uncle Bamram will be there, and Shamlel. A bit of male companionship might be just the thing you need.”
    “I’ve done quite well without,” Shmi said definitively.
    “So how much better could you do with?  And even if not that, being with people is healthy, Shmi.  Don’t you agree it’s good for the gestalt.”
    “The what?”
    “Gestalt.  Ummmm, your being.  That’s what our people call it.  Food and shelter is all well and good, but that’s not what really sustains us.  Even if you don’t believe that, it’s good to celebrate being free for a day, even if you aren’t.”
    Shmi didn’t know how to respond to that.  She’d rarely celebrated any holiday, except for her and Anakin’s birthday.  But at least those were real events.  Why celebrate freedom if you weren’t really free?  Mairmi took her silence as consideration.
    “So you’ll think about it!  See, Shmi?  I’ll get you yet.  First you say no, now you consider it.  Next thing I’ll have to push you out of my house!”  The woman laughed, stood, and put her hand on Shmi’s shoulder as she recovered.  Shmi stood perfectly still until she retracted her hand.  She had had just about enough of this woman.  Still she reminded herself.  She shouldn’t be rude.  That would be giving into her way.
    “Mairmi, it’s getting late.”
    “Is it?”  Mairmi cut in, glancing outside, which was very bright with noonday sun.
    “I have some errands to run,” Shmi said, and then put up her hand when Mairmi looked about to interrupt, “And I have something to give you before I forget.”  She went into her room and grabbed a wad of credits.  The more she gave, the less likely Mairim would insist on staying, she figured.  She came back out with two handfuls.
    “I’m sure this is too much, but in return of the food you gave me.  You have more need for money than I do.”
    Mairmi’s eyes widened when she saw what Shmi was handing her.  “Oh my dear – but are you sure?”
    “The Jedi sold Anakin’s pod and they gave the money to me before they left.  A way to ensure I’d be taken care of.  And like I said, I won’t be a charity case.”
    “But this is truly too much,” Mairim said.
    “Then make more, and send it with Kitster when he comes.  Make more until you feel the balance is paid.”

    Mairmi considered the proposition.  “Well, we always have leftovers anyway.  And you say you’re sure, Shmi?  This is a lot of money, and surely not all you have.  Why not buy yourself off?”

    “And go where?”  Shmi asked.  “Besides, I don’t think Watto would take kindly to knowing I have all this money.”
    “True enough.  Very well.  We must do what we can with what we have.”  She looked at the money again, folded it tightly and thrust it into one of the black sleeves.  “I hope to see you at our house for Achpes.  Kitty can tell you more, and when.  Until then,” Mairim grabbed Shmi by the shoulders and quickly kissed her on both cheeks.  “Blessings to you.  Blessings on your son.  I do wish him all the well, even if the Jedi, well,” She rolled her eyes.  “Well, maybe I’m wrong about them.”

    Shmi waved her off and shut the door behind her when she left.  When she was alone, she let out an enormous sigh.  She heard some familiar mechanical noises behind her.  “Mistress Shmi, is there anything I can do to help?”

    “Not unless you can teach that woman some manners,” she exclaimed, feeling herself loosen as she chuckled in relief.
    “I don’t believe that’s within my programming capacity,” Threepio said plainly.
    “Ah, worth a try.” Shmi said, smiling with exhaustion.  “In that case, some Wisp tea, and a slice of pallie, please.

***

    It was his day off so Kitster walked to the Skywalker home.  Kitster knew during his great-grandparents time slaves never got any days off – and they always took the opportunity to remind him.  That had changed when the Hutt’s took over.  Slaves lived longer if one day a week off to rest.  Not everyone had the last day of the week off but Kitster was just a goods hawker.  No one would be at the market today anyway.
    If he had come back, Anakin would not have recognized who Kitster had grown into.  He still had a full head of black hair, yes, but his eyes were dimmer and has voice coarse from shouting at the market, making profits he would never see a trugut of.  The only real joy in his life were his nieces and nephews by his older siblings.  But that joy was always diminished by the knowledge that they, too, would live their lives as slaves.  At times he wished for his freedom, or for theirs, but it was only a useless wish.

    He walked by Jira’s corner and nodded in respect.  The old woman has been dead for some years, but nobody had taken over her spot, except for a few dust spider and green scorpions who regularly battled for dominion.
    Miss Skywalker’s home came into view at the next alley.  Kitster put his hand into his skin bag to double check it.  Two Pallies, two fresh cakes, and a container of water.  If Anakin had come back, he would have a lot to answer for.  Kitster still hadn’t forgiven him for abandoning his mother the way that he had.  At the time, he had been jealous, but that was through the eyes of an irrepressible child.  Duty had meant little to him then, not like now.  Anakin hadn’t considered the ramifications of his leaving.  Kitster would forgive him, but not before Anakin understood and acknowledged the pain his flight had caused.
    Kitster knocked on the door.  “Hello, Miss Skywalker!  I’m here!”  He was met only with silence, which was unusual.  Maybe she had gone out, or maybe she had taken a nap.  She wouldn’t have forgotten, Kitster knew that.  Miss Skywalker had all the sense of duty her son had lacked.  He knocked again.  Still nothing.  He went to the window and looked in.  To his surprise, the interior had been stripped barren.  The table was uncovered, the cupboards open and bare.  The cakes were crushed under the water container as the skin bag fell to the ground.  The pallies rolled out.
    “Excuse me,” a mechanical voice said, but it wasn’t as friendly as Threepio.
    “Yes?” Kitster said, turning around.
    “This is the property of Watto.  Please do not make a mess.”
    “What about Miss Skywalker?”  Kitster asked, though he already dreaded the answer.
    “The slave designated 289TR00 has already been sold earlier this week.  Her belongings have been taken or confiscated.”
    “Where is she?”
    “The slave designated 289TR00 has been sent to their new master.”
    “And who is that?”
    The droid paused and its eyes dimmed momentarily.  “What is your authorization?”
    “Where is she!!”  Kitster shouted, his eyes beginning to feel hot.
    “The slave designated 289TR00 no longer lives here.  If you do not have authorization to find her or be here, please leave the premises immediately, as it is being prepared for the next slave.”  The droid quickly took a few steps back and a light protruded from its orange skull, which began flashing.  A loud alarm also started wailing.
    Kitster dropped to his knees to gather what had fallen out of the bag.  “Thief!”  The droid cried shrilly, but did nothing to stop him.  Kitster stood up, turned around, and ran away with his bag thudding on his side as he ran.  And that was that; He never saw any Skywalker again.

    Shmi sat uncomfortably in the dark interior of the sandcrawler.  Whoever had bought her sure was cheap, to contract with Jawas and not come him or herself.  They didn’t even get her a seat on the usual transports.  She was chained to the wall and the chain was short.  Her leg was stretched out to guard her bags from any Jawa hoping to scavenge any of her belongings.  She already had had to ward a few off when she was brought onboard.
    “Oh, dear,” C-3P0 said as the sandcrawler suddenly lurched to a stop.  That was the other thing.  Her new owner hadn’t just contracted a sandcrawler to take her to Mos Eisley, they had contracted her space on a sandcrawler.  The Jawas had their own schedule, and a trip that should have taken only a few hours was destined to take a whole suns-cycle, at least.  Even in the dark those Jawas would find any bit of scrap metal out in the desert.

    Shmi didn’t know a thing about who had bought her, or why.  Probably one of the big construction contractors.  Mos Eisley’s development had taken off in the last few years, with dozens of new buildings being put up.  Each of the last times she visited, it a whole new neighborhood had been added.  She’d mentioned as much to Watto once, who moaned that spending money was as good as wasting it.  That didn’t make much sense to Shmi – why else have money? – but Corpeg was quick to agree.  Corpeg had been really getting on her nerves lately.
    Purchased several years earlier, Corpeg was about the age Anakin would have been and at first she was overjoyed by his presence.  But he didn’t return her affection, not like Kitster had.  Oh, Kitster.  She hoped he would find the note she wrote for him on the table before she left, as well as the rest of the pod money in the drawer.  She would have sent it to his home but didn’t know where it was.  She hadn’t been invited over since that first year, and didn’t want to invite herself over.  She longed for company, and Corpeg didn’t.  He soon resented her presence and seemed to go out of his way to annoy her.  Children.
    But it still came as an unpleasant shock when Watto told her she had been sold, and would be picked up later that day.  The last time she’d been sold Gardulla had put her on the block, with Anakin in her arms, as buyers made their bids going higher and higher, until – as her rotten luck would have it – Watto had won her.  She was glad to avoid a repeat of that humiliation, but it was incredibly unusual for a slave to be sold without at least an inspection of some sort.  Whoever bought her clearly just needed warm bodies, so construction contractors made sense.  Unless it was someone who’d seen her in Mos Eisley.

    The sandcrawler started back up.  She thought again of Anakin.  How would he find her now?  How long would she survive hauling heavy equipment under the hot sun?  She closed her eyes and focused until she could see his face.  She tried to imagine how it would have grown in this time.  His face would have lost that plumpness of children.  His hair would have been longer, in the Jedi way.  But his eyes.  Those never change.  She closed her eyes and pictured looking into his.  Anakin.  Come to Mos Eisley.  Your mother will be there.  She may not have much time left, but she will wait for you forever.  I love you.  She repeated this several times.
    Would Anakin hear her message, she wondered?  Could she, through the strength of love, use the Force?  It was certainly worth a try.  It was true, in any event.  No matter what happened, Shmi knew she would hang on until she could see her son again.  He had told her they would see each other again.  She would not let him down.
    The sandcrawler rattled on.

Copyright ©️ 2021 Maslow Stories.

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I consider this story still a draft. I edit it occasionally. If you have any feedback for me, I'd love to hear it! Email me at armaslow@gmail.com. Please put "Star Wars Stories" in the subject line. Thank you!

Imperial Entangelements

Isaac Royce didn’t need to die.  He shouldn’t have, and in any Gal with justice he wouldn’t have.  But that just ain’t the Gal we live in, now, is it?

Kitty Verde was the one who told me.  Called me on the comm.  Good gal, that Kitty.  Back when we worked together she was the best desk girl I could ask for.  Tough under pressure, but what I really admired her for was how well connected she was.  Hardly anything around here happened that Kitty didn’t soon know about.  Amazing what you can learn at the salon.  People love to talk, especially if not to us cops.

“They say his body was found in Stepstones Bay,” Kitty shouted across the floor when I arrived.  Now everyone had to know.  Who?  Who?  Soon Edna’s Beauty Parlor was like one of those old scenes in the vids of fancy funerals.  Crying that’ll crack your ear.  Isaac Royce was a promising kid.  Owned a street cart he sold Womp Brats out of.  Had his own recipe of condiments, too.  Hot, cold, sour, sweet, runny, thick, you name it Royce had it, or else he’d make it and have it next time.  I had grown up all my life in sight of those jungles – never knew there was so much flavor there.
“Stepstones Bay, huh?  Why was he swimming there?” I took the death stick from Kitty and sucked in a pull.  The salt flavor sparkled in my mouth, a sign the stick was near its expiration.  Getting fresh sticks had been difficult even in the old days.  Near impossible since the Takeover.  I handed it back to her.
“He wasn’t swimming.  Body’s up at Lauvey’s.  You should head up there, Pierce.”
“Look, Kit, I get its sad and all, but what’s this got to do with me?”
Kitty got that look in her eye.  “Boys from Dantooine know not to go swimming in Stepstones Bay.  And they certainly know not to go when they’re covered in fresh blaster marks.”
“They wouldn’t” I gasped.
Kitty shrugged and took out a lighter for the deathstick.  “They shouldn’t.  But what’s stopped these goons before?  Go check it out before everyone else decides to.  This news is hot.”

I gave Kitty a peck on her green cheek before heading out the door.  I untied my big Kath-Hound, petting her big head.  She which growled affectionately and rubbed back in return.  The beast lowered her body to let me on and took gentle hold of the reins.  The clouds overhead broke as I rode towards the city center.  About time, I thought.  We’d almost had 24 hours without rain.  Around here, that’s practically a drought!

I arrived at a checkpoint and waited while the stormie inside did Force-knows-what.  They’ve no sense of customer service, of doing a job for the sake of the people.  A quick glance around confirmed that.  The storefronts here, like near all the checkpoints, had been emptied and boarded up.  Nobody could do business with those White-heads stationed around day and night.  The whole of the corner of Sunday and Market was nothing but ferrocrete slabs in front of windows now.
“Identification?”
I pulled out my citizenship pad and handed it over.  The stormie looked at it.  “What’s your business here Mr. Flowers?”
“I live here.  What’s yours?
“I work here,” The stormie retorted, sliding it into the dark-colored R droid’s body.  After giving off a few beeps the black dome rotated as its the camera came to view me.  I held my arms up and away so the droid could get an easy reading.   Not many people here have only one hand.
The R-unit beeped and my datapad popped out again.  The stormtrooper handed it to my handless arm and chuckled as I reached for it with my good hand.  “How’d you lose it, anyway?”
“Darth Vader.” I snort.  “I lost the hand but I’m the one who put him in that breathing suit.”
Stormie suddenly stood up straight.  “Citizen, where is your Patriotism??”
“How could I forget?”  I straightened my back and bellowed, “Long live the Emperor.”
“Move along,” stormie said, opening the gate and turning away.

This used to be my city.  I knew every family, which kids got into trouble and how to steer them back.  We’d get help to those who needed it – a real community effort.  Only fools think safety is a blaster on every block.  Fools like those stormies.
When the Emperor first sent a detachment we felt honored and even put some of our own precious budget into the new barracks.  But that wasn’t enough and soon the stormies were demanding exclusive use of the spaceport for TIEs, and then a seat on the governing council, and then checkpoints to check for rebel activity.  Finding none, they decided they just weren’t looking hard enough.  That’s when they took over the police station, and put me out on the street.
As I left the checkpoint behind life returned to the storefronts and poured into the streets.  Chatter and music from the cantinas and restaurants.  Beggars with their hand out.  Kids running around.  It was normal if you could ignore the stormtroopers standing on balconies, trigger fingers shaking with anticipating.  They weren’t a problem unless you looked up.  Well, they hadn’t been.

“Boss, boss!” Someone called.  Might as well be my damn name.  Looking over I saw Dixon coming to me.  Dixon was a beat cop who’d worked under me for a while.
“I told ya, I ain’t no one’s boss no more, Dicks.”
“Yeah, but Pierce just don’t sound right, boss.”
“Just cause it ain’t right don’t mean it ain’t is.”  I gesture upwards with my eyes briefly.  “Well, you hear the news?”
“Hear what?  I’m heading down to Tami’s for a game of Sabaac.  Hear what?”
“Nothing, forget it.  Playing with the block?”
“Most.  The usual.”
“How late?”
“Late as I can stay in”
“Play easy, Dicks.  I’ll swing by later.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Might be.”
“Need a hand? Would be good to see some action again.”
I waved, “One’s served me well enough so far.  Go play your cards.  Don’t get aggressive at the 20s.  I’ll be back soon, I think.”
“You got it, boss.”  Dixon strolled away, flat cap covering his bare scalp.  Too young to be bald, he’d shaved it off for some of the nonsense fashion the kids do.  I remember when he first came in with it we really ran him hard for it.  Just good kiddin’, really.  That was decades ago now, but still he kept his head bare as a dome shield.  But he’d turned out to be a good cop, and a great investigator.  Could have been head of the department, but managing people wasn’t his strong suit.  Could hardly control his own family, back in the day.  But his kids were grown now, and his wife had….. well, we weren’t sure where she’d gone.

Still, that’s more a family than I had.  I’d taken the city for my bride.  Oh, but the old girl had a whole mess of cousins and nieces and nephews to watch out for, and uncles and aunts pulling my attention.  I was plenty busy in the family business.  Trying to keep everyone happy, usually failing, but rarely making anyone so miserable they wanted me gone.  Family history showed things could be much worse.  Gangs pitting father against son, corrupt officials extorting neighborhoods every time they wanted so much as a pothole filled, shadowy murderers ready to make anyone disappear.  The city wanted peace, and I was the man to put the house in order.  Until Grand Daddy Palpatine came, that is, and those stormies started looking for their own trouble.
Rain continued to fall, and the pavement shimmered in the late evening light.  The soft pads of the hound’s feet licked the pavement.  Dantooine’s jungles gave us a steady supply of hot, sticky rain.  Unpleasant stuff. 

I arrived at Zapp Lauvey’s Serenity Funeral Home and tie up at the bottom of the steps.  Reaching into my coat I toss a juicy, orange treat from my pocket in front of her.  Turning around I saw Zapp beckoning me over, dry under his droid’s shadeshield.  Wasteful expense, I had always thought.  Droid’s were for menial tasks Beings didn’t want to do.  Sometimes they could be hired for computations, or for messier interrogations.  But as a personal servant they were wildly overqualified.  Still, I wasn’t going to refuse his invitation.  I stepped under and took Zapp’s hand in a firm shake.  Walking up the stairs together he handed me a deathstick.  “I was wondering if you’d come.”
“Isaac was a good kid.” I said.  Now inside, I sat on a nearby chair and took off my boots.  Zapp’s droid took them and rushed away to dry them.  Now that’s a droid’s business.  Zapp looked at me and nodded slowly.  Was he agreeing?  Did he hear me?  I put the deathstick in my mouth and lit it up.  It tasted cool, like a ringflower.  Zapp had maintained some good connections, it seems.
We went further inside, to a room we’d once ruefully called the audience chamber.  I’d come here many times on the force to see the newly deceased.  Worst part of the job, by far, seeing the family really fight like that.  Disagreement over price, accusations of infidelity, or just a bad bite of slyth.  I’d heard in the less developed systems crime was less random.  The Hutts will shoot you, sure, but only if it’s worth their while.  But somehow in the city everything becomes personal.  A disagreement over price wasn’t about the money, but the dishonor of being cheated.  Infidelity became evidence you weren’t worthy.  Injustice isn’t just a failure of an ideal, but a personal insult, too.
But in all that time I’d never seen something like this.  Martha, one of Zapp’s attendants, pulled the cloth from over the body.  When I saw him I bit the deathstick so hard it snapped.  I instinctively spit it out, and Zapp put his foot on the burning side to smother it.

The boy’s body was riddled with shots, and his face a laser-pumped pulp.  If I hadn’t been told I never would have known it was him.  In regular times I’d need more ID than that, but these weren’t they.  Only stormies would be so gratuitous.  The question was why, and why him.
“That’s enough, Martha,” I said as I looked away.
“Sure thing, hon.” she said dryly.  She leaned over the body as she replaced the cover.  Out of the corner of my eye I accidentally caught a glimpse down her blouse.  That Cal’s a lucky guy.
“Damn unfortunate,” Zapp frowned as he led me back into the entrance.  “But also the whole planet’s going to waste, as far as I can see.  The Empire brings more mining and logging ships every month.  It’s like they want to turn us into Geonosis or something.  The Republic didn’t give us much, but it didn’t ask much, neither.”
“That’s bad enough, without them picking off our best and brightest.”  I looked out the window before I took a seat to put my boots back on.  The quiet in the room was interrupted only by the rain outside and the chatter thereout.  When my boots were back on I lit the remains of the deathstick and took a long pull before standing.  “It’s grisly,” I said.  “Any idea how it happened?  I heard he was found in Stepstones Bay.”
“Yeah.” Zapp said.  “Body was found by Tyrese out feather watching.  I’m amazed there are still birds around around.”
“Found there, but probably not killed there.”
“What makes you so sure?” Zapp asked.
I puffed out some black smoke.  “You saw him.  He didn’t drown.  And it’s unlikely he was shot there.  Where was Isaac last seen?”
“I saw him on his corner last week.  But that’s all I know.”
I put the deathstick in the ash bowl.  “Well, thank you for your time.  I’ll let you get ready for whenever Marlene arrives.  If you hear anything interesting, let me know.”
“Will do,” Zapp said, and we shook hands.  “Good to see you on a case again, Pierce.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said.  “Hard to get justice when the whole system’s so screwed up.  But family mysteries never sit well with me.  Gotta do what I can.”  I head out the door and down the stairs.

Untying my hound I got on and began riding forward.  The big orange sun shone bright over the horizon, despite the ongoing rain – casting long shadows as I headed back to the bar.  Tami’s had been a hangout for cops even during the days of the Republic.  It wasn’t the oldest cantina in the city, or the cleanest, or the…  Well, it was ours.  Palps couldn’t take that away from us, at least.  The Stormies preferred the newer, fancier cantinas.  Tami’s was a local hole-in-the-wall to them.  But we’d come there so often it got to be known as our night office.
I tried to clear my mind for the investigation ahead.  I had no clues whatsoever about what happened or when or why, and I’d long ago learned guessing only got one attached to guesses.  A real detective follows the evidence and lets himself be guided like a dianoga to fresh meat.  Not the most flattering comparison, but dianoga’s don’t die of starvation neither.  If I trust the scent on this one, I might find the biggest meal of my life.
A covered speeder slowly moved down the street, coming my way.  Years ago we were offered funding to buy a few speeders to replace the hounds, but we’d voted it down overwhelmingly.  Better to spend that money in the schools or on the parks or the spaceport.  What use did we have for metal boxes?  Walking around, or riding a hound, makes you a visible part of the community.  But that’s not what the stormies want.  They see us all as just riff-raff, ready to follow Rebel orders at a moment’s notice, if not for their vigilant threats of violence.  What connection could they want with us?  The speeder rumbles by and into the fog.

Another block and I arrived at Tami’s.  The boys were still playing Sabaac.  Dixon was still in, but obviously low on credits.  Todd Guthrie took a hit, glanced at the card as it came in, and put it facedown in front of him.  From the way his eyes lingered on the card, though, I knew it was a good one.  Guthrie was slow to trust even something as lifeless as a playing card.  Dixon, eager for his turn, shifted his gaze to Barby.  I walked to the bar and tapped the wood quietly, eyes trained on the game across the dark room.

“What is it you need, Captain?” A sultry voice said from behind the bar.
“I told you, I’m not a captain no more.” But I smile nonetheless.  I love it when she calls me that. “Sharp-iron, and shake it loose.  Gonna be a long night.”
“Gonna clear your friends’ pockets?"
“Nah, that’d be rude.  But something’s come up.  Need’s my attention.”
“It’s rude to be vague.”
“It’s rude to pry,” I said, tilting my head so I could see her from the corner of my eyes.  Jamelia Carter was tall, thin, and dark.  Closest I’d ever got to a wife of my own, but thing’s got interrupted.  Occasionally we manage to interrupt things back.

I looked back to the table.  Barby Jules was still thinking.  Slow as ever.  I strained my ears.  Barby would think for a minute or two even when he had only 18.  What gave him away was the speed he said hit or pass.
I heard that syrup in my ear again.  “Two sharp-irons, as you like them.”
“Two?”  I turned toward her.  She was wearing a tight get-up, and the outline it made brought some memories back.  In one hand she held a tumbler half-full with green liquid.  In the other she held a tall glass in her hand, in which small specks of bark floated.  Both hands were covered in blue, green, and silver jewelry.
“One for now,” She said, handing the tumbler to me, “and one for later,” she briefly glanced down to a second tumbler on the counter.  “One’s on the house – you decide which one.”
“Let’s see which causes me more trouble, and that will be the free one,” I said, taking the tumbler from her.  The bottom of the glass was frigid – a sign of the spirits mixing loosely.
She presented her glass and leaned over the bar.  “To kindness between old flames.”
“A warm memory for a dark night.” I said.  Our glasses clinked.  I took a few sips as she downed hers in one gulp.  She was always a bit impatient.  My drink practically froze my throat on its way down, and I made an effort not to cough.  I must have done something though, because she grinned as she crunched the bark that’d had gotten into her mouth.  Not for me, but I knew it gave a sweet aftertaste to her bitter drink.
Someone further down the bar gives a few taps and Jamelia turns to acknowledge them.
“Looks like something needs my attention, too.” She said dryly.  She leaned forward, turning her cheek towards me.  “Don’t forget to tip your waitstaff, Captain Flowers” she said in just that way.  I kiss her cheek.  “And?”  She said, turning her head.  I kiss her other cheek.  She laughs and quickly turns away.  I’ll never know how she gets it out of me so quickly.

“Hey boss,” the guys said as I sit down.  I take the open seat next to Dixon.  “I toldya, I ain’t,” I growl, but then interrupt myself with a drink.  They’ve heard it all before.
Dixon passes, with a confidence in his voice which betrays him.  Then the others pass.  On to betting.  Dixon goes first and he bets big.  “Too rich for me!” Guthrie said.  Barby folds, too.  Dixon lets out a huge laugh.  “Gotcha, eh?”  He flips his cards over:  -27.
“Yeah, thought that was the case,” Guthrie said.  “I woulda beat that, but not worth the risk.”
“Yeah, right,” Dixon says.  “Show em!”
“Bet more reasonably and you might’ve gotten to see them.”
“Come on,” Barby says.  “How’s he gonna learn this way?”
“He’ll learn when he learns how to bet, Barbs!”
“How’s he gonna learn that if we-“
“He’ll learn because if he keeps doing this eventually it’ll cost him.  That’s not an 80 credit bet, not on our income!”  He turns to Dixon, “Dick, ya gotta cool it.  Winning the hand isn’t the goal, you wanna beat your opponents.”
“By winning the hand.”
“No.  You’re thinking too small,” Guthrie admonished.  “You’re acting like that rich kid who can just buy anyone out, and you can!  Well, except you can’t because at some point you’ll lose.  Or you’ll come up against someone with more money and this won’t work.”
“You’re just sour cause I got you to fol-“
“Hold it!”  I interrupted.  “Come on, come on.  Dixon, Guthrie is right – eventually this will really come back to bite ya.  Gut, I think you may need to be the one to bite him.  What’d you have?”
Guthrie glared.  “I ain’t showing!  Not fair.”
“You’re right,” I taunted.  “It’s probably good you folded this time.  But your hands won’t all be that bad.”
“My hand wasn’t,” Guthrie declared indignantly, then grumbled under his breath.  After a few moments he flipped his cards over. “30 positive,” he said. Would’ve clean you good, Dicks.”
“Well, next time, bring your mop droid,” Dixon said, smirking.
Guthrie grumbled as he gathered the cards to shuffle them again.  “You in, boss?”
“Actually,” I said, “Something’s come up.  Needs some looking.”
“What is it?”  Dixon said.  “The Baker kid getting into trouble again?  Better we catch him before the stormies do.”
“We ain’t savin’ anyone this time.  Too late for that.”
“Sounds serious,” Guthrie said, putting his cards away.
“Isaac Royce is dead.”
“Wow.” Barby said, dragging the word out.  Dixon smashed his fist into the table.
“You know it was them?” Guthrie asked.
“Nobody else assembles a firing squad like that.  The boy was a pulp, and the soak didn’t help.”
“What happened?” Barby said.
“Who cares?!”  Dixon shouted, and we waved our hands to get him to be quieter.  Stormies don’t come ‘round here, but they pay informants well.  “Who cares why,” Dixon continued, quieter.  “Dantooine’s prize boy is dead.  We gotta make them pay!  If we don’t stand up now, when will we?” Dixon added.  “When we’re all dead?”
“I sympathize, I do.”  I said.  “But first thing’s first.  We gotta get more information.  Then we got to plan our next move.  They’ve been turning up the heat for any whiff of Rebellion, and this place is a primed charge as it is.  An uprising could be to our advantage but it could also give the Imps the excuse they need to clear us all out.  We gotta be careful.”
“But this ain’t got nothing to do with Reb-”
“We don’t know that.” I interrupted.  “Maybe Isaac had connections we didn’t know about.  Even so, they got their fortified checkpoints and tanks and that Destroyer orbiting us.  If he went Rebel, we’ll need to mourn in private, unless we want to mourn the whole planet.  But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.   Guthrie and Barbs, you figure out Isaac’s last whereabout.  Dixon and me will go straight to the block and see what’s going on, officially – and unofficially.  Any spare questions?”
There were none, so we downed the last of our drinks and split up.  I flipped Jamelia a few credits on the way out.

Night had come, and the street lights gave off their pale yellow glow, enhanced by the rain and fog.  The green light of the full moons could be seen when the clouds parted, before being covered up again.  The streets were emptier than before.  Our hound’s splashed through the street.  The swish-slosh was hypnotic.  When there was no one in sight, Dixon leaned towards my ear.
“You really think Isaac might’ve been a-?”
“Not a chance,” I said.  “You don’t dump Rebels, you raise them high.  His body would’ve been strung up so all could see the price of dissent.  Whatever happened, well, it wasn’t planned.  That’s my gut, anyway.”
“Poor kid.  Of all of us to get blasted.”
“And think of his mother.”
“Oh, yeahh.”  Dixon said, and soon the hypnotic steps were back.
On either side the stores start being boarded up.  Bright lights in the distance confirm our approach to the checkpoint station.  As we approached, the stormie in the window jerked suddenly, awakened from his slumber by some alarm.  Funny how unserious they take their jobs at time.
“Citizens, what’s your business this late?”
“Reporting a crime,” I said.
“IDs?” Stormie said, hand out.  We handed ours over.  After the droid had scanned us, the stormie handed them back.  “On your way,” He said, opening the gate and turning on his window shield again.  I would have guessed after such an incident the security would have been on higher alert.  Maybe those that did the deed aren’t talking.  Certainly I’d had the same policy when I was in charge.  The fewer people who know, the fewer are able to blab.  I shiver at the idea that me and them could be thinking the same way, despite the warm night air.

Even leaving the checkpoint behind most of the storefronts here remained boarded up.  Back in the day even the area around the police station was thriving – we offered safety, connections, and justice.  There was even a school in view from my corner office.  Now it was closed, along with near everything else.  The storefronts not boarded up were run by outlanders and Imperial contractors.  They had taken the Block and turned it into a hellish vision of the future.
“Still.”  I say dreamily.  “This old road brings me back,” I said to Dixon.  We called the old police station the Block because it took up a whole city block.  Training facilities, jail cells, admin and processing rooms, a break room, interview rooms, and a stable for the Kath-hounds.  There were also a few bedrooms upstairs for late shifts.  The Imps had built a landing pad to the north of the building – apparently the one we had on the top wasn’t good enough for them.  Rumors swirled of an expansion of the jail cells beneath, and an ‘enhancement’ of our interview rooms.

“So whatta we do, when we get there?  We can’t give ‘em a shakedown, or we’ll get strung up high.  But how I wish we-”
“Now listen Dicks,” I said, holding my arm out to stop him.  I turned to get in front of him. “Get that hothead of yours in order.  These stormies, they’re trained until there’s no humanity left in them.  Personally, I don’t believe the clones were replaced by human recruits – who’d willingly sign up?  And clones are real good at taking orders, including vows of silence.
“So we don’t go there shooting lasers from our yappers.    We go and file a missing person’s report.  Don’t even let them know we found him.  See their reaction and take it from there.  I don’t expect to learn much from them.  But once we’ve tried that we can head down to admin.  That’s who we can really ask – Sue, Calder and Bar-kays.  Our old pals – not these white-suited bozos.  Got it?”
“Got it, boss,” he said, saluting tightly.

My comm rang.  I brought it to my face and clicked.
“Flowers here.”
“Pierce? It’s Kitty.”
“Hey Kitty.  Listen, I’m in the middle of something.”
“Oh, ok.”  She said sadly.  “It’s just, oh I know what you’ll say but I just had to, Pier, I just had to know.”
“These comms aren’t secure,” I say cautiously.  Kitty’s curiosity made her very well connected, but sometimes she could get in over her head.
“I’m at the Block.  Just had to learn what the official story is, you know?  I’ll be safe, I promise.  Don’t you worry.  But if I don’t see you ag-”
“For Force’ sake,” I grumbled.  “Kitty, wait right where you are.  Dicks and I were going there already, and we’re almost there.  Don’t say a damn thing!”  I kill the connection.  “Come on,” I say to Dixon, and we hurry to the front door.
When we get there, Kitty’s shouting up a whole racket.  So much for being careful.
“He’s dead, and you’ve got nothing to say for yourself, plasticface?
“Grab her,” I say to Dixon.  He puts a hand on her shoulder and she falls into his arms, sobbing.  “He was such a special boy!”
“I’ll be sure Zapp puts him in a special bag.” Dixon said.
“We’re sorry, sir.” I said to the stormtrooper.  “It’s just the boy’s been missing for days, and we’re all just worried sick.”
“She said he was dead five minutes ago,” stormie responded through his voice filter.
“You’ll forgive Kitty her hysterics.  You know women, yeah?  He’s only missing at this point.”
Stormie just faced me and was quiet.  After a while he let out a soft, “Mmmmhm.”
“Do I have to spell it out?  We’d like to file a missing person’s report.”
“Does this boy have any Rebel connections?”
“Absolutely not.  He’s a loyal Imperial.”
“You’re sure?  These Rebels – they’re tricky.”
“Swear on my mother’s life.”
“If he’s so loyal, the Rebels may have kidnapped him.”
“Then all the more reason to act!”  I said, seizing the opportunity.
“No,” Stormie said.  “That’s too obvious.  Seems like a trap.  If he’s loyal to the Empire, he’ll resist any Rebel torture.  He’ll die before he turns.”
“Can’t we at least send a search party?”
“That’s perfectly legal, and the Empire wishes you luck.”
I gaped.  “When I said we, I meant….” Maybe we weren’t alone in keeping the stormies at arm’s length.  They see us as a ‘them’, too.
“Oh, no.”  Stormie said, with a scoff clear through his vocalizer.  “We’ve Rebels to hunt.  Can’t get distracted with your missing children.”
“He was damn near 18!”  I shout.
“Oh listen, Pierce,” Kitty shouts behind me.  “They don’t care about him, or any of us.  They might as well have pulled the trigger.” Dammit, Kitty, stop provoking him!
“The Empire has a strict policy against killing citizens,” stormie said.  “Anyone we kill is a rebel.  Now if you excuse me, I’ve got real problems to solve.  Long live the Emperor.”
“Long live the Emperor,” we all say in sequence.  Dixon just about spits out the words.
Then a blue shield materializes over the crystacrete desk, and slowly darkens until it is opaque.

I whip around to look at the others.  “Kitty, what are you- Wait!”  I hold up my hand.  “Let’s not talk here.” I motion towards the opaque shield behind me.  The Empire had long perfected shields which could be made opaque on one side and perfectly transparent on the other.  “Come on, let’s go down to admin.”
We walk down the lengthy hallway, Dickson in front pulling Kitty along, me in the back.  Well that was a Galactic waste of time.  I couldn’t help but wonder if things could have gone differently if Kitty hadn’t shown up.  Stormies never showed any care for us, anyway.  But he didn’t get defensive at Kitty’s accusations, either.  Well, what did that tell us?  Maybe they were being more tightlipped about the incident than I expected.

When we arrived at admin the door was open.  Sue and Calder were at their desks, with a stormie standing guard.  Can’t risk blowing the plan twice.  “Take her outside,” I whisper to Dixon.  He nodded, and the two of them head down the hallway, though Kitty tries to get a few choice words out before Dixon threw his hand over her mouth.
Too late, I realized my mistake.  I was alone with a stormie, or practically.  Admin wouldn’t be able to do anything if he decided to blast me, or risk getting shot themselves, so I couldn’t stay long.
I knock on the wooden door and walk in.  Sue and Calder look up.  “Heyyyyy, Flowers!” They both say.  “Hey Kitty,” Calder coos, but then stops.  “Sorry – I thought I heard Kitty, too.”
“She was, but she and Dicks went out for some private time.”
“Oh,” Calder said, his eyes more intently focused on me than I’d expected.  There’d always been romance rumors around the staff, but I’d stopped following the gossip when we lost our office.  But apparently some people still cared.
“Good to see you,” Sue went on.  “What brings you back?”
“I’d like to file a missing person’s report,” I said plainly.
“Who?”
“Darth Vader.  Haven’t seen the guy in weeks.  I’m worried!”
They let out a chuckle and out of the corner of my eye I notice the stormie raise his head from what he was reading.  Got his attention.
“No, I’m afraid it’s worse,” I said.  “Isaac Royce is missing.  Been gone a few days.  No one’s seen him.  We’re getting nervous.”
Sue gasps and Calder looks away.
“That one isn’t a joke.  Unless you’ve seen him and we can solve the mystery right now.”
“No, no,” Sue says quickly as Calder starts typing into his machine.
“What about you, whitey?”  I shout.  “You seen our boy?  Strapping young man, really.”
“Don’t know the name,” stormie says.  For all I know it’s the same one, from the voice.
“Shame, really.”  I turn back to the others.  “Hey, can you guys also do me a favor?  Check the logs and see what’s there.  His last known checkpoint registration would be very helpful, if that can be discovered.”
“I’ve some other thoughts, too,” Cal said.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.  Hopefully we’ll find him before it’s too late.  I’ll be in the night office.”
Sue and Calder both nodded silently. “Shouldn’t take too long to find what you want.” Cal said, fingers tapping away.
“Good.  All the same, I’ll be at the night office.”

I hurried out the door, buttoning up my jacket against the continuing rain.  When I got out, Kitty and Dixon were sitting on a bench under the overhang.
“Let’s go to the bar, they’ll be there soon.  The others might be back too.  Maybe they had better luck.”
I turned it over in my head.  Assume that stormie knew the score.  Why wouldn’t they want to send a search party they knew would fail?  Hell, if they find his body they can play hero and say Rebels shot him up.  Force knows they’re looking for an excuse to tighten the noose.  On the other hand, looking for a dead boy is a waste of their resources.  Are they worried we’re setting them up?  Providing an opportunity for the Rebels to pick them off?  As if there were any here.
But what if that stormie really didn’t know?  The stormies had been looking for Rebels for almost a year now with nothing to show for it.  Wouldn’t they welcome the opportunity to truly comb through the rough of the planet looking for bodies?  And on the other hand…. Nothing.  Not after Kitty’s fit.  Maybe stormies get guilty after all?  If they think the body’s still hidden they’d like to let it stay hidden.  I gotta talk to Zapp and get the funeral delayed a week.  Otherwise our stunt might backfire.

Barby was already at the table when we entered the bar.
“Learn anything?”
“Not what we’d hoped. According to his friends Isaac was going to meet them at Alphine’s Porch four nights ago, but nobody remembers seeing him.”
“I’ve been to Alphine’s plenty of time and don’t remember a thing!” Dixon laughed.  “They serve a mean Touch of Death.”
“Yeah, but that was Before.” Guthrie said.  “I haven’t been in a while but they’re less wild now, I’d reckon.”
“Still,” Barbs said.  “The bigger issue is three days ago was that big rainstorm.  Whatever evidence there is to be found around Stepstone is long washed out.  Assuming he died the night of the party.”
We sat in silence for a few moments.
“Does Alphine’s allow stormies to come?”
“What’s allow got to do with it?  They go in their sometimes, I’m sure.  They’re also known to harass party-goers after hours.”
Dixon put his thick chin in his hand and looked down at the table.
“How was the block?” Barbs asked.
I turned to Kitty.  “Nearly a disaster.  This one came in all hot, accusing everyone of everything.  We got less than I’d hoped.  But I think we got enough.”
Jamelia came and dropped by a drink.  “Your favorite,” she said right to my ear.
“Yes, you are,” I said.  “But no more, tonight.  Just some Kava juice, really.”
“Alright, Captain.” She said, picking up the drink.  The coaster stuck to the bottom.  She shook the glass and it fell.  It lands on its side before teetering and landing upside down.  That’s when I see it.  Mayfield Rex, and a comm number.

I let out a groan.  “Rex knows.” I say to the others, who sigh in response.  “Kitty, are you feeling better?”
“Much,” She said, weakly.  “Sorry, I just-“
“No apologies needed.  Just stay away from those stormies and we’ll be good, hm?  Can’t have you getting shot, it’d break my heart.  But go home for the night, will ya?  Royce’s ma must know by now.  Make a lunch and bring it over to her.  See what you can learn – might be she knows something.”
Kitty let out a laugh.  “I think you’re just trying to get rid of me, boss.”
“I’d be surprised if you’re not able to recognize it by now.  But you’re a liability to yourself and the operation.  I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.  Stick to what you’re good at.”
I saw Kitty give me a glare before smiling sweetly and saying, “However I can best serve!  But you don’t expect me to go home all by my lonesome.”  She’s a real nuisance, but that’s how it is, isn’t it?  Can’t always pick your allies.
“Barbs, take her home, will ya?  And maybe on the way back swing by Lauvey’s.  See if anything new’s come up on his side.  Oh!  Actually, tell him he’s got to delay the funeral.  We filed a missing person’s report, and it’ll be suspicious if we suddenly bury someone who’s body we couldn’t find.”
“Yes sir,” Barby said as he stood up and offered his arm.  “Perfect gentleman!” Kitty cooed, taking his arm and leading the way out.  I went out the back door and pulled out my comm.

“Pee-ahce!”  I hate how he says my name, and he knows it.  He’s my city’s old man, who only wants to praise his daughter’s virtue, not deal with any of its slime.  As far he’s concerned, his city is an immaculate example of Imperial loyalty and subjugation. “There’s a big crowd outside my office – what’s going on here?”
“What’s this got to do with me?  Isn’t it a magistrate’s job to know what the people want?”
“Don’t give me that democracy crap – I want to avoid bloodshed.” Too late for that.  I bite my tongue.  Doesn’t seem he knows about Royce, or leastways isn’t ready to talk about it.  “Thought you were with me on that, but maybe the occupation’s radicalized you, too.  Tell me you can fix this, Pee-ahce,”
“Alright, I hear ya.”
“Command is breathing down my neck, wants to let their guys wet their rifles.”
 “I’ll be by soon.  Keep ‘em on a leash.”
“Aah, you’re tha best, Pee-ahce.  Dantooine’s finest never sleeps.”

Not that I didn’t want some shut-eye, but family comes first.  I head back in and grab my coat, velcroing it tightly.  Dantooine nights are cold and soaked.  Even when it isn’t raining the water just lives in the air.  I tip my cap to Jamelia and head out the front door.  My hound is still tied up.  I free it and hop on.
“Boss, wait!” I heard in the distance.  Calder rides up on his own, smaller hound.  “Come with me, Cal.  Rex called.”
“The bastard,” he mumbled. “What does he know?”
“Not sure, except there’s an angry mob outside his office, and stormies are itching for a fight.  Let’s go.”
“Exactly what you need, I think,” Cal said confidently.  He’d always wanted to be impressive.
“Well?” I say, expectantly.
“Stormies were out on usual patrol a few nights back, and when they came back their weapons were sent to maintenance.  That’s sometimes standard, but what caught my eye is only some of their weapons were sent.  Usually everyone’s weapons are checked after, but only a few were sent this time.  Also, that patrol hasn’t gone out since.  Officially they’re designated “on-world, off-duty,” which is Imp lingo for a whole range of absences, but can also be used to discretely indicate disciplinary action.  Something unusual happened during that patrol, I’d bet.”
I reach over to Cal and put my hand on his shoulder, though I can’t get a good grip and it slides off.  “You did good, Cal.  Next batch of slyth I get, you’re getting some.  I mean it.”

Suddenly there was a loud siren behind us.  Some amplified voice said, “Citizens, halt!”
A small patrol speeder eased up besides us.  The dark window faded to transparent, but the gleam of a shield was still visible in the mist.
“What’s your business out so late?” Stormie said.
Cal just looked ahead, and I remembered why he’d been stuck in the office for so long.  Kid had no composure.
“Magistrate Rex called on us,” I said.  “Go ask him why.”
“Weapons?”
“Got none.” I said.
“You sure?”  Stormie asked, producing a small scanner.
“Go ahead.” I said.
Stormie clicked the device which whirred and fired a green line of light through the window.  He showered first me, then the beam switched to Cal.  I saw him lift his left foot so it was behind the Kath-hound’s body, where the beam wouldn’t hit it.  When the scan was complete, the stormie turned off the device.  “Dangerous to be out at night,” he said.
“The hound’s got speed and a good sense of direction.  And teeth, if needed.”  I said, digging my heels into the side to make her growl.
Stormie turned the window on again and drove off into the night.  I hate those stormies, I really do.

Calder let out a loud sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath throughout the encounter.  “I thought we were dead!”
“We might have been, if your leg hadn’t pulled up like a diagsnake.  Got something in there?
“Oh, yeah.” He chuckled nervously.  “Just for a bit of self-defense.”
“Oh?”  I asked provocatively.  “From whom?”
“Oh, uhhh.  You know.  Intruders.”
I chuckled, nudging my hound’s sides to get her going.  “Think you’re gonna catch a stormie alone in the dark and take him out?  I commend the attitude, Cal.  Come on, let’s go.”
When we were on our way, I said “I’m surprised, to be honest.  You ever fire that thing?”
“Yeah, I’ve trained with it.”
“No,” I said.  “I mean for real.  At someone.”
Cal didn’t answer.  I decided not to press him.  Some secrets are best left untouched.
“Just be real careful, Cal.  Royce’s death is bad enough.  But a dead stormie?  That Destroyer is likely to bombard us all to hell.  You ever find yourself in that situation you come find me immediately, y’hear?”
Cal was quiet for a while.  Then he let out another loud puff of air.  “Yes, boss.”
“And for Force’ sake, man, learn to breathe while you’re nervous.  That brain of yours needs oxygen to think, you know!  I need you on your game for this.  Rex will want to hear what you just said to me, and he’ll want to hear it from you.  Be confident.  Rex will be looking for ways to do nothing – it’s what he’s best at.  Last thing we want is for him to think you’re lying.”

Finally we arrived at the Magistrate’s mansion.  It was deserted, with no signs of life except for a few stormies standing on balconies and roofs.  Where’d everybody go?  At least there's no smoking pile of bodies.  I pointed to a post under an awning.  “Let’s tie up here, head up on foot.”  Cal and I slid off our hounds and onto the wet pavement.
“Cal,” I said.  “Leave your gun with the hounds.  We won’t get lucky twice.”
“Ok,” Cal said, obedient but sullen.  He obviously had grown strong attached to the weapon.
We approached the mansion slowly.  When we got close enough I put my arms up and shouted.  “We come in peace!  Rex called us, and I think he’d like to see us alive.”  Whether the stormies heard me or not I couldn’t tell, but they paid us no mind.  A few steps later and we were inside.

The Magistrate’s mansion had been a humble place once, as the wooden floors attested to.  But the Empire offered luxurious rewards for his obedience, and Rex revealed himself to be a man of significant material interest.  Rex’ girl, Lyn, directed us to one the mansion's newest renovations.  What I hated most was the way the light reflected off it’s metal surfaces.  Wood devoured at least some light, causing a room to be bathed in something more affectionate and bearable.  But these expansions were lit up real bright, the way starships were in the vids.  It felt wildly out of place.  We walked through a weapon scanner, which only hums as we go through.  Further down two stormies stood by the open door, at attention but out of the way.  We both walked down the hall and inside.

Rex is a tall being, with yellow skin and red eyes.  Imps don’t usually go for non-humans, but Twi’leks’s are shifty enough to be regular exceptions.  Some say it’s because the Emperor is a Twi’leks.  Rex is sitting on his desk when we walk in, rolling a few sticks in his hand.  He’s wearing silk pajamas that have been cut to fit him perfectly.  There’s an Imperial badge over his right breast knitted over the dark blue.  He holds out a stick to me.
“Pee-ahce.  And who’s this?”
“Calder Montgomery, and admin at the Block.  Cal, meet our fearless leader, Rex Mayfield.”  I say, taking the stick.  It’s a lot heavier than I expected.  “There’s nothing in this gal you can’t pay him to do.”
“Pee-ahce, I admire your principles, you know that.  But what they won’t get you is these.”  He produces another stick and hands it to Cal.  “They took Kevana leaves from the jungle and mixed in some raw spice.  Potent, and a lot tastier than those death sticks you favor.”
Cal lit the stick, which caught quickly and crackles.  The end burned purple.  “That’s great stuff!”  He exclaimed.  Hard to know if he’s acting or nervous or sincere.  I light up mine and suck it in – tastes like berry and lillywater.  “Damn, the boy’s right!”  I said.
“My own special mixture.  We can make a killing on the market, buy the spice cheap from Kessel.”
My suspicion rises. “Who’s we?”
“Dantooine!” Rex shouts loudly.  “Industry has helped many a developing system.  Now I don’t blame you for being hesitant – this kind of plan needs a lot of up-front investment.  We never dreamed of it before because the Republic never spread it around.  But the Empire, ahh, see, the Empire is good to its fr-“ he stopped himself and lowered his voice.  “Well, the Empire doesn’t have friends.  Partners, though.  They want to see their partners people thrive.  In this case, that's all of us!”

We stood there in silence.  If Rex was trying to wait me out, he’d have another thing coming.  I learned long ago the best way to get what you want is to come with two things: The right questions and a lot of patience.  People hate silence.  I’ve had people confess whole crimes rather than sit quietly in an interview room.  Somehow the words bouncing in their heads just are aching to come out into the open.  I coulda stood there all night staring Rex down.  

“I see your friends have arrived,” a voice behind us said.  I whirl around.  A stormie had come out of the bathroom in the corner of Rex’ office.  This one was holding his helmet.  He had an orange plate on his right shoulder pad.  His face was young and mean, and he wore a menacing scowl.  “A bit late, I see.  We already cleared everyone out.  The people here are poor, and when you’re poor there’s not much to do but yell about it.  Look, I get it.  But it’s my job to keep order, and order I’m gonna keep, and damn your lax schedules.”

Rex cut in, hopping off the desk.  “Pee-ahce Flowers, this is-”
“Just call me Commander.  That’s what I am, and that’s all you need to know, citizen.  All those fine soldiers who keep the peace on this backwater are under my command.”
You keep the peace and I’m just a hairless Wookie.
“Thank you, Command.” Rex said firmly.  Command didn’t move.  Rex said, "You may go, now."
"Your permission isn't necessary.  All the same, I think I'll stick around for a while.  Would like to hear what your informant has to say.
"I am not his informant," I shout back.
"He's a partner," Rex said.  "But if you insist, we have nothing to hide.  You just might find it boring, since nobody's getting shot."
I turn back to Rex.  What does he think is going on here?
"As I was saying, this factory could be quite a boon for us all, really."
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“That crowd,” he said, vaguely gesturing to the front.  “Keep the people busy and prosperous and they’ll have nothing to protest about.”
“Is that what you think that was all about?” I demanded.  “You think the people were protesting because of money?”
Rex looked dumbfounded.  “Well, yeah.  What else would it be?”
“Oh you really are a treat,” I sigh.  “We’ve been doing alright in this system for generations, you know that.  Never wealthy, but we’d never call ourselves poor.  And then they all show up and suddenly you see us as some backwards civilization which needs rescuing.  Honestly!"
"So what's the deal?" Rex asked.  I held my tongue.  Announcing this news in front of an uninvited audience was probably...
“Isaac Royce is missing!” Cal suddenly shouted.  I stole a glance at Command, who didn’t so much as blink.  Inhuman, I thought.
“Isaac Royce?!”  Rex repeated.  He leaned back on the desk.  “That boy made a good sausage!  And sauces!”  Rex stood up straight again.  “Command, send a search party."
"I don't take orders from you."
"But this is an opportunity to play hero.”
“We are heroes,” Command said.
“Play hero, play hero, play hero,” Rex pleaded.  “You want those people to respect you and your soldiers?  Show your value.”
“I don't need anyone on this rock to respect me.”  Command said.  “I’m here to serve Moff Prescott, who serves the Emperor.  Not to play-act.”
Rex turned to me, his eyes wide.  “Apologies, Pee-ahce.  You can see I don’t have the pull I once did around here.  Why don’t you get your own search party going?”
“Already got one,” I lied.  “Been looking for days.  But it would be nice to have some,” I cock my head toward Command, “official help.”
“It would be useful, I’m sure.” He responded.
I turn to Rex.  “Can we talk alone, maybe?  I’m worried at this rate I’ll get to see a stormie not only without a helmet but also without a head, when I punch his clean off.”
Rex gave out a laugh.  Command took a step forward.  “Am I catching a whiff of Rebel, citizen?”
I turn on my heels.  “You want Rebels?!  You keep paying no mind when good citizens start vanishing.  That’s how you’ll get rebels.”
“Good,” Command said tightly.  “My blaster’s getting rusty.  I could use the target practice.”
I stepped back.  He obviously wasn't going to listen to reason.  Fortunately, he doesn't actually make the decisions around here.  But neither does Rex, really.  That much is obvious.  So who does?
“Forgive me.  It’s just, he was our best boy.  Even I’m a bit torn up about it.”
“I’ve lost a lot of good soldiers fighting the Rebels.  A missing boy is none of my concern.”  Command put his helmet back on.  Even through the communicator I heard his contempt.  “Long live the Emperor.”
“Long live the Emperor,” we all responded, and he walked briskly passed us, slamming the door behind him.

A few moments passed in silence.  Rex motioned with his head for us to go to a window.  With the press of a button, it slid to the side and we walked outside.  There was an awning above, though with the wind it didn’t provide much protection from the rain.
“They swear my office isn’t bugged, but who believes them?  This way the wind at least will shield our voice."
“Sorry about him, by the way," Rex says.  "He uses my bathroom whenever he wants – am I gonna say no?  He's a pain in my ass.”
“Seems like it."  I said.  "Well, listen.  Isaac Royce ain’t missing.  Not anymore.  He’s dead.”
Again, Rex’ eyes registered more emotion than I would have expected.  But, without Command there, he didn’t hide it away so soon.
“We’re sure the stormies did it.  We’ve been filing missing person’s reports all over, gauging their reaction.”
“What makes you think they did it?”
“Well, number one, who of ours would?  He was a promising boy.  And the body.”  My skin crawled at the memory.  “Rex, they shot him up fierce.”
“Unrecognizable!”  Cal said.  I turn around and raise an eyebrow.  “That’s what Kitty said,” Cal said defensively.
“What's this guy doing here, anyway?  Hasn't added much to the conversation so far.  Training your replacement?”
"No," I said. “Cal works admin at the old Block, and he can get into the logging system.  Tell him what did you found.”
He told Rex about the inconsistencies with the weapons maintenance.
“That crowd,” I said.  “Well, you let stormies start killing off our best and brightest without any punishment and trust me – you’ll get a lot more visits.  Maybe even some actual rebels.”
“What am I supposed to do?”  Rex exclaimed.
“Maybe put down the slyth until you figure it out, hm?”
Rex looked down at it.  Then he put it back in his mouth.  “These aren’t slyth, Pee-ahce.  They’re non-habit forming.”
“They killed our boy!” I shouted.  “Isaac Royce is dead – murdered by those white-faced thugs.  No amount of industry is gonna undo that, or prevent the next murder.”
“Everyone thinks they’re immune to wealth, but Dantooine wouldn't be the first planet pacified by investment.”
I took a step closer.  “If this doesn’t get addressed – if you expect us to just grin and bear it – then the next time you see a big demonstration, don’t call me.  If you wanna talk to me, you’ll have to come out to the crowd – I’ll be front and center.”
“You do that and Command’ll have no problem gunning each and every one of you down.  Is that how you’re gonna solve this?  I didn’t think you were the martyr type.”
“If so you think they’ll spare you?  What use will the Moff have for a local lackey if all the other locals are dead? Think, for Force sake, man.”
“Get out of my sight.”
“Gladly!”  I shouted back, “Come on Cal, let’s go.”  We went back in through the window and stomped back out the front.

Cal and I untied our hounds and rode together for some time, venting our frustration at the situation.  Finally we got to Cal’s home, so we said our good-byes and I rode on.  I was exhausted by then.  I nearly fell asleep on my way back home.  Fortunately, my hound knows the way.  When I arrived I was soaked, cold, and dead tired.  Even seeing her standing in the doorway did little to wake me.  “It’s not that death puts me in the mood,” she said as she helped me inside, “But it reminds me to enjoy the moods when they arrive.”  I slept covered in her syrup all night.

***

The next few days were full of dead ends and death-sticks bit to the edge.  Rex couldn’t persuade the stormies to search for Isaac, or to do anything.  “But I got something in the works, I think.”  He tells me.  Yeah, right.  Just another empty promise.  Finally, we decide the ruse isn’t worth it any more, and we have Zapp announce the recovery of the body.  A private memorial is planned, followed by the usual public condolences at Mrs. Royce’ house.

That afternoon I pull on my best clothes while downing a fresh pot.  My communicator beeps and I turn it off.  The dead deserve our respect and attention.  Even Kath-hounds have been seen howling at a dead dog, even an old one who just won’t wake up.  All life is sentimental.  What really separates us from the animals is the war and hatred and twisted justice.  Sentience is a curse.  I hop on my hound, slightly jealous of his simplicity.
Marlene Royce lived on the third floor of a stacker, outside the main city.  Lots of the elders live away from the hustle and bustle.  The checkpoint is busy and the line moves slowly.
I chat with the people near me in line.  Heather’s son was recently promoted to associate at the law firm.  Jack was still breeding miniature krayt dragons, convinced he could make them thrive in the jungles.  Seth Brown got caught cheating again.  Why couldn’t those stormies have taken one of the waste like Seth?  Why’d it have to be Isaac Royce.

At the check point I hand over my ID.  stormie slowly turns on the droid, which slowly turns to scan my face while reading my ID.  “What’s your business, Mr. Flowers?”
“Condolences.”
“To whom?”
I turn to look into the distance.  Several dozen people have been let through since I was in line.  “Are you serious?  Same as them!”
“Been hearing Rebel talk.  This kind of event would be perfect for them to blend into.  But if you’re really going, you’ll know the name of the grieving.”
I let out a heavy sigh.  No use arguing.
“Marlene Royce.”
“Upon the death of her…?”
Are you serious?
“Her son,” I say, gritting my teeth.
“Named?”
“What is this, an investigation?  Isaac Royce!”
“Thank you,” stormie said, handing my ID back to me.  The window turns opaque again, and the gate opens.  What a Sithspawn I groan as I pass by, following the crowd.

When I arrive there’s already a line out the old building.  I tie my hound up in sight of the few others that are there.  They bark warily at each other.  Every so often a few people leave and a few more can go in.  The saddest conveyer belt you ever saw.
I finally get inside and up the stairs.  The chatter from inside apartment 31 was loud but indistinct.  Slowly I edge my way to the door.  When I’m let in, everyone greets me, “Captain – you came!”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say.  Still, I never know what to say at these sort of things. No mission, no mystery to solve, no justice to serve.  Just sadness.  But it’s important to be present for the family in hard times.  I chat politely as I go down the line.  His Uncle Rick is there, as is his older brother Slye, and his on-again off-again, Danisha.

Finally, I arrive at his mother.  She’s tall, her usually well-kept pink hair tangled from lack of care, her face creased with a mother’s tears.  I’d about die if I ever saw my mother looking this way, or murder whatever Luke, Lando, or Han made her feel that way.  No one deserves this grief.
She held my hand tightly and pulled me closer.  I lean in as she wraps her other arm around me.  She whispers in my ear, “Can you do something?  Don’t let my boy die for nothing.  My sweet, my sweet, my –“ her voice trailed off, replaced by chokes.  Uncle Rick put a big hand on her shoulder.
“Not much we can do,” I say weakly.  “We tried.”
“Please!”  She gasped roughly, and I felt some spit land on my ear.
“Mother,” Slye said.  “Please.”
“But he’s gone, and they’re still here.” She said.  I’d never heard they spoken with such venom.
“Alright,” I said quietly.  What else is there to say?  Tell her no?  Tell her this is just how the gal works?  Freedom is just an illusion, slowly eaten away by whoever’s really in charge?  I’m supposed to take care of these people, and this is all I have to offer?  Is that all I am?  Some bearer of bad news?  I thought of my own mother again.  How could I treat this mother any different?  How can I call this city my family if I don’t do everything I can to defend them.  What use is it to be around if I can only offer comfort during a battle we will all inevitably lose?  I’d just be another Rex, making promises to keep the peace, not to push for justice.
“Alright,” I say again.  “I’ll try.”
“Thank you, captain.”  She said, and she released her grip on me.  We exchange kisses and I go down the back stairs.

You ever get that bile in your stomach?  That sense the Gal ain’t right, and won’t ever be right.  You could make a deal with the Force to toss yourself off a waterfall in exchange for galactic peace, but evil would rear its head before you even made a splash.  And not just evil, but small-mindedness.  An easy choice for a quick answer, instead of the tougher one for a better answer.  I thought I’d gotten used to that feeling – the sense of injustice so deep it sickens your body.  An awareness so strong the body refuses to endure and wills itself to sickness and then death.
I’ve seen lots of people lose hope and die like that.  They go to sleep and just never wake up.  It isn’t weakness.  Being able to endure such despair doesn’t make one strong.  If I’d been a good man – Real Good, like a Jedi, the sickness would have taken me already.  But no.  When the Empire came for them, they died defending their cause.  When the Empire came for mine, I just stepped aside – determined to bide my time.  But what good is time if it’s wasted?  I’ve been out of time for months.
But no more.

The vision of Marlene crying kept flashing in front of me.  Her pleading voice echoed all around.  I needed to do something.  It didn’t need to work.  It didn’t need to be smart.  It just had to be something.  Anything.  Just anything.  Just to demonstrate I was alive, and the Empire hadn’t snuffed the worth out of me yet.
Ahead of me, through the sight of Marlene’s face, I saw the checkpoint, and the stormie who occupied it.  I saw myself leaping into his window, tearing his mask off, and beating him until his backup came to blow me to bits.  Only I wouldn’t be tossed into Stepstone – they’d string me up high.  They’d say I was a rebel, and that I’d been one all along.
That’s why they hadn’t found any, they’d say.  Because the Rebels weren’t gathering in the forests, but they were hiding in plain sight.  They’d double, triple patrols.  All my guys from the block would be rounded up.  Jamelia, too, maybe.  Rex would be glad to be rid of me.  And then what?  The Empire’s grip would only tighten, and the body count would rise.
No.  I couldn’t do that to the people.  My family.  A man’s got to do what’s right, even if it’s suffer in silence all his days.

Well, perhaps I didn’t need to suffer in silence.  I could go to Rex and raise hell with him again.  No.  That would only relieve me of my burning to do something.  That makes it about me and my burden.  And Rex has always relished a fight.  He’ll get defensive even if it means he stops making sense.  He’s got the power – he doesn’t need to listen to me.  I need something else.
That's it!  I’ll bring him here.  Have him confront the visage that overlays my sight like a targeting computer.  If anyone can inspire Rex to budge, it’s poor Marlene Royce.
For the rest of my ride into the city I thought of the different ways that could play out.  How would Marlene respond to seeing him come?  How would everyone else?  Yes, this is what I could provide.  Cathartic release not for me, but for them.  And if they tear him limb-from-limb, well, hopefully they’ll leave me his right hand.  With a good medical droid we can put something of his to good use for once.

By the time Rex’ mansion was in sight my stomach was churning with bile.  I went behind a bush and pushed two fingers down my throat until it came out.  Blue and green muk on the ground, slowly spreading outward.  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and shook it off, and then put my heels into my hound.
As equilibrium returned to my body and mind, I noticed a shuttle on top of the mansion.  It had an Imperial insignia on it.  Rex is really seeing the perks pile up.  I tied up my hound near the front and went inside.  I walked with purpose, feeling my feet pound the ground as it went from wood to metal to carpet.  Opening the door to his secretary, I step right up to her desk, determined to make an entrance.

“Hi Lyn,” I said loudly.
“Oh, you’re here.”  Lyn says, surprised.
“Yes!”  I respond.  Then her surprise registers.  “Wait, what?”
“We’ve been trying to reach you on the comm.  I figured you’d call before you – well, whatever.  Go in right away.  You’re late.”
I stand there, stupefied.
“Here,” Lyn says, standing and opening a door.
“Mr. Mayfield, Mr. Flowers has arrived.”
“Finally!”  I hear him shout.  “Get in here, you idiot.  You have any idea how late you are?  We've been trying to reach you all day!”
Lyn reaches her hand towards me and tugs on my bad arm.  I feel my body moving forward, and my legs mindlessly carry me onward, inside.  The door shuts behind me and locks.
I heard Rex say “I assure you, Governor, we have been trying to reach him all day.” Following his gaze I see a stranger sitting in the corner.  He's in a large chair I've never seen before.
“Not to worry,” Said the stranger.  “Disrespect from local fools doesn’t bother me.  Your trust in him, however, does.  I expected something better.”
“I apologize,” Rex said.  “Pee-ahce Flowers has his own way of doing things.  It works, for the most part.”
“Very well,” The stranger said, standing.  Rex stood, too.  I turned to face the stranger.
“Pee-ahce, I’d like you to meet Moff Wulff Prescott, Governor of th-.”
“I can take it from here,” the man said, dismissing Rex with a wave of his hand.  Rex appeared to shrink at the gesture.

I stared at Moff for a few moments.  His face is tall and thin, with visible cheekbones.  His eyes are narrow and blue.  He was dressed in a slick green suit, not unlike what I’d just vomited, with badges adorning his chest celebrating a variety of cruelty.  His sleeve cuffs and collar are as straight as Rensui trees.  His boots shine like the night sky.  Even in my very best outfit, I must look like a wreck by comparison.
“I am Moff Wulff Prescott of His Imperial Majesty’s galactic order.  And you are Pierce Flowers of Dantooine.  Yes?  The one who asked to see me?”
“O- Oh?”  I stammered.
“We both did,” Rex cut in.  “I made the call, and Flowers here provided the engine under my ass, so to speak.”
“Vulgar expression.”  Moff said under his breath.  “Magistrate Mayfield, one day – very soon if we are lucky – that tongue of yours will simply stop working.  Until then, hold it between your teeth until spoken to.” He sat down and motioned for us to do the same.  Moff clapped his hands and a back door opened.  A man in a black uniform ran in and bent over to put his ear at Moff’s mouth.
I turned to Rex, “What’s going on?”
“You told me to do something, and so I did.  We’ve been trying to reach you on the communicator for hours.  Do you know how embarrassing it was for me for him to arrive and you were still nowhere to be found?”
I put my hand in my pocket and felt for the comm's power switch.  Still off.  I'd forgotten to turn it back on after seeing Marlene.

The man in black nodded and headed back into the doorway.  Rex turned back to Moff, who remained silent, eyes wandering the room.  I opened my mouth to continue the conversation, but Moff put up a hand.  “Not quite.”  I lean back uneasily and wait.
“This looks like the inside of a ship." Moff finally said.  He turned back to Rex.  "Is that intentional?”
“Yes,” Rex said enthusiastically.  “I thought it more befitting an Imperial building than our regular wood.”
Moff let out a laugh.  “Magistrate, do not confuse this place with a space of true Imperial import.  But if that is what you wished you would have done better to imitate the halls of Coruscant.  High ceilings and marbledcrete columns and floor.  That is the true Imperial touch."

Silence returned, and this time nobody interrupted it.  After a brief time the man in the black uniform returned with a platter and a tray table.  He set up the table in front of Moff, and placed the platter upon it.  Lifting the cover, he revealed a smoking hunk of meat.  It smelled delicious.
“Never discuss anything on an empty stomach if you can help it,” Moff said, grinning.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Wookie,” Moff said, as he began to cut into the blackened flesh.
“Aren’t they supposed to be hairy?”
“Well I’m not eating it raw,” Moff said, scoffing.  After a few bites, he looked up at us.
“Alright, let us begin.  Let me know if I understand things-”
“Wait,” Rex said.  “Can we eat, too?”
Moff’s mouth turned to a thin line.  “It would have been better to have had your staff fetch your dinner while mine was being fetched, but I will delay the discussion, if you insist.  Manners must be maintained.  However, I will not wait to continue eating.  Wookie is best freshly cooked.”
Rex paused, before tentatively saying, “I meant that you-"
“No!” Moff laughed scornfully.  “Why would you think I brought food for you, too?  Wookie is expensive!”
“Oh," Rex said dejectedly.
“So we will begin?”  Moff said.  We both nodded.  “Very good.”  Moff took another bite, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin.  “I thought a conversation between us now could save me a headache later on,” Moff said.  He leaned backwards in his chair.  “We each have some goals.  I need this sector Rebel-free.”  He turned to me.  “I understand you would like my stormtroopers off your planet.  And you,” he turned to Mayfield.  “You just want to survive, don’t you.”
“Sir, I just want what’s best for everyone.” Rex said, voice shaking.
“Likely story.” Moff spat out what looked like a small bone onto the floor.  He turned to me.  “You have some semblance of principles, Mister Flowers, even if your punctuality is provincial.  This one would shoot the lot of you if I ordered it.”
“He’d shoot himself, if you were insistent enough,” I said.  Moff chuckled at that.  Emboldened by this, I went on.  “I believe we share the same goal, really.  I know what Rebels means.  I remember the Clone Wars, when they were called Separatists.”
“So do I,” Moff said dryly.
I rush to clarify “I mean, I remember that when Separatists were found on a system an entire battalion would come to root them out, and the people would get caught in the fight.  Believe me, we don’t want Rebels around either.  Now your stormies.  Uhh, sorry sir, your Stormtroopers.”
He swats the mistake with a flick of the wrist.  “I’ve no love for them, either.  No more than one loves a good wrench.”  He nods slightly in Rex’ direction and I feel a smile creep across my face.  We’ve more in common than I expected.  He takes another bite of his meal, and some juice rolls down his chin before he catches it with his napkin.
“They've been here for almost a year now and they’ve found nothing.  But I tell you, and please understand this isn’t a threat.  Just the whole truth.  If they stick around much longer Dantooine will be crawling with Rebels.  Isaac Royce’ death is the final straw.”

Moff sat back in his chair thoughtfully.  His blue eyes went toward the ceiling and stayed there.  Finally, he spoke.
“Yes, I see it now.  We’d smash the lot of you – of course.  But then to get your resources we’d have to turn Dantooine into another Kessel.  But that requires transportation, overseers, and training.  And they’d never do it as well as you could, knowing the place.”  His head came down and he looked back and forth between Mayfield and myself, “Costs best avoided.”  He smiled and sipped from a goblet.  Cautiously, I nod in return.
“So then it is decided." Moff declared.  "My people will leave, both the Stormtroopers and the resource extraction teams.  You will supply the Empire with 25% more materials than you are now.  And we will set up an ISB outpost within the system.  If there is Rebel activity, report it immediately.  We’ll know whether you do or not, since some of those agents will be among you.  But that’s better than Stormtroopers, I think you’d agree.”
What choice did we have?  We agreed.

“Thank you, gentlemen.”  Moff clapped his hands again and the uniformed man came out again.  "We're finished here," He said to him.  "Prepare the shuttle."  The man nodded and collected what was left of Moff's meal.  He turned his attention back to us.  “It is so hard to find good brokers this far from the core." He stood and we stood in response.  Extending his hand we each shook it in turn.  As he spoke the uniformed man came back to carry his chair out the door.  "Well, if you see me again it will be your last day alive in the galaxy, so I bid you farewell and hope that day never comes.”  Moff walked out the door, and Mayfield and I grinned at each other quietly until we heard his shuttle takeoff outside. Then we broke into celebration.  We had done it.

The stormies left much faster than I expected.  By the end of the week they were all gone.  In certain rooms in the Block it looked as if they’d just evaportated.  Cabinets still open, chairs nowhere near desks.  The checkpoints were abandoned wholesale.  We even found one of the scanner R-units in one of them, though it’s memory core had been emptied.  I had it moved to my office, as a token of our victory.  I sat down in my chair and looked out the window at the store fronts which were already being reclaimed.  "It's good to be back."

***

After the city had been cleaned up we had a big celebration in the plaza in front of Rex’ mansion.  Even his biggest critics had to admit he’d come through.  I didn’t mind giving him some of the credit.  At some point down the line I’d need his cooperation again.  I could enjoy his humiliation without adding to it.
“These are excellent,” I said to Sue, who was running the barbecue.  In addition to a good admin, Sue was one of the best cooks in town.  Didn’t want to do it for work though.  Money kills the satisfaction, she said.  That never made much sense to me.  What is money but satisfaction you can hold in your fist?
Rex had ordered the dismantling of most of the additions to his mansion.  Why waste money impressing someone who never wants to see you again?  I took a walk around the exterior, privately gloating at this concession of his.  Between that and the party noises behind me, it really started to hit me: I’d gotten my family back.

I walked behind the furthest new addition.  Suddenly I heard a familiar whine.  A blaster?  When’s the last time I’ve heard one of those?  Instinctively I leapt backward, though my arm hit an outer wall and I dropped my patty.  A red laser bolt flew past me and into the forest beyond.  I heard hushed voices and the scamper of feet, followed by a louder splat.  Someone had tripped.
That damn Moff.  I knew it was too good to be true.  He’d leave alright, then he’d have his spies kill us off one by one, until we agreed to become a Kessel just to keep our lives.  The Empire will make sell-outs of us all.
I drew my blaster and stepped boldly forward.  If they were gonna kill me, it wasn’t gonna be with a blast in the back.  I’d see it coming.
Looking down I saw two people struggling to get up.  “Freeze!”  I shout.  “Hands up, and get up slowly.  And drop your weapons, Imp scum.”
A single blaster was pushed over.
“And the other?”
“There ain’t another,” I heard a familiar voice say.
“Then keep your hands up and let me check.”
“No, no, you don't understand” She said.  It was definitely a woman’s voice. 
“Pierce.  It’s me.”  And she turned around with her hands up high.
“Kitty!”  I exclaimed.  “Kitty, what the hell are you doi-” I reposition my gun to aim it to the other body still on the ground.  “Then who’s that?  They got you captive, is that it?”
“No, Pierce.” Kitty said urgently.  She nudged the other person with her foot.  “Get up, Cal.”
Cal?

Calder Montgomery gets up.  “Sorry, sir.  Wouldn’t have fired if I knew it was you.”
“Why’d you fire at all?” I ask.  “Stormies are all gone, you know.  We’re having a party about it and everything.  Why’re you round here?”  The two looked disheveled.  But looking further I realize it isn’t just the mud.  Kitty’s blouse isn’t fully buttoned, and nor are Cal’s pants.
“Hey, what’s going on here?”
“Nothing,” Kitty pouts.  “Or it would be nothing if this one would just tell Martha it’s over.”
“It isn’t so simple!”  Cal insists, turning to her.
“I thought you said you tossed that gun after last time.  You almost shot Flowers, too.  Think we can cover that one up, too?”
Cover that one up?
“No!  It’s just that she’s real fragile, you know.”
“Well my patience is getting fragile!”
Too?
“Kitty, listen to me, please.  I’m beggin’ ya.  I’ll do it tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
After last time?
“Wait a minute,” I said, stepping forward and holstering my gun.  “I know what’s going on here.”  I said.
“We’re having an affair, yeah.” Kitty said. 
“No, no,” I said.  “You two.  You two killed Isaac.”

Cal stepped forward.  “I did, captain.  Kitty had nothing to do with it.  We were in a dark alley and he happened to come by, and I fired.”
“And he doesn’t have my reflexes,” I say to myself more than them.  “And realizing what you’d done, you emptied everything you had into him, and dumped him in Stepstones.  And then you,” I said, turning to Kitty, “You came to me as if you’d had some big news tip – but it was just lies.  Them stormies didn’t kill Isaac Royce at all.  They didn’t do anything wrong.  It was all you!”
“Yep, all me,” Cal said, stepping between us.
“Shut up, Cal.” Kitty said, pushing him over.  “If it weren’t for me you would have confessed long ago.”  Cal looked at his shoes.  “Yeah, Cal fired, but he would have left the body in the alley if it weren’t for me thinking of pinning it on the stormies.  Then Cal agreed to fake the patrol data.  And the rest is history.  And hey it worked out overall, wouldn’t you say?  So you’re welcome, really.”
I glared at her.  Twi’leks.  None of them can be trusted, not really.

“What?”  She said.  “You’re gonna arrest me?  That gonna be your first order of business now that you’re back?”
“No,” I said slowly, thinking.  “No, you’re right.  Stormies left because they think they did it – that someone did it.  At least they think we think they did it.  But with ISB all around, we can’t risk the truth getting out.  It’ll get back to Moff and I don’t know think he’ll take being lied to very well.  No, you’re right.”  I looked up.  “I can’t even fire either of you.  Too suspicious, and it’ll break the spell of victory on everybody.  I stick my hand out to Kitty.
“Miss Verde, I believe I underestimated you.  But I hope as long as you remain in the Block’s employ, you’ll be a little more straight with me.”
“A little more,” She said, smiling and shaking my hand.
“Now come on,” I said to her and Cal.  I dropped my patty back there, and my stomach’s just begging for a fresh one.  I turn to Cal.  “You tell Martha right away.  She’s not as fragile as you seem to think.” Cal's been enjoying some double-dipping, I'd guess.
“Yessir,” Cal said nodding.  “And my job?”
“Forbids you from having a weapon, least till I can train you myself to be a little less impulsive with it.  Imagine it had been a stormie instead of Isaac who found you and you'd shot him?  Then we’d all be dead.”
“Yessir,” Cal said.
I bent down to pick up his blaster and stuck it into my belt. “Now come on.  Let's get back to the celebration.”

Copyright ©️ 2021 Maslow Stories.

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I consider this story still a draft. I edit it occasionally. If you have any feedback for me, I'd love to hear it! Email me at armaslow@gmail.com. Please put "Star Wars Stories" in the subject line. Thank you!