Chapter 03: Return to Mos Espa

   CHAPTER 3: RETURN TO MOS ESPA

   Mos Espa, Tatooine 

   14:5:7945 CRC

Dawn on Tatooine. The twin suns clear the horizon, casting long pale gold shadows across the dunes and the clustered buildings of Mos Espa. The spaceport town stirs to life: moisture farmers haggle with water vendors at the central market, Jawa traders unload salvaged droid parts from their sandcrawlers, and the distant whine of a podracer engine tests somewhere beyond the Boonta Eve Arena. Street vendors shout in Huttese, Rodian bounty hunters lean against cantina walls, and a Twi'lek slave carries water jugs past a Hutt enforcer who watches from the shadow of a corrugated awning. The city is awake, but the edge of town near Watto's Junkshop is quieter.

The Hutt Cartel's grip on Mos Espa is absolute, felt in every transaction and every shadow. Jabba the Hutt rules from his palace beyond the Dune Sea, but his presence saturates the streets through his nephew Gorba, who oversees the local enforcers. Merchants pay tribute weekly; those who cannot afford it find their stalls burned or their families taken. Slaves move through the crowds with downcast eyes, their owners' brands visible on their shoulders. The promise of violence is never spoken aloud – it does not need to be. The climate is one of quiet fear, of negotiation conducted at blaster-point, of freedom measured in credits owed to a Hutt's ledger. Even the suns seem to watch.

Inside Watto's junkshop, the soft scrape of a broom across worn deck plating breaks the morning stillness. Shmi Skywalker has not slept. She has swept the same floor three times, waiting for a boy who was supposed to return at nightfall. The floor is covered with sand, grit, and the remnants of the day before – broken droid fingers, corroded wire insulation, a scatter of rusted bolts. The cramped back room holds two sleeping mats, a small cooking unit, and a shelf with Anakin's few possessions. The air smells of old grease and Tatooine dust. Through the dusty window, pale gold light spills across the scrap yard, and somewhere outside, a ship's shadow slides over the sand.

She pushes a small ridge of sand and metal shavings toward the door, her movements economical, practiced. The room holds two sleeping mats rolled against the wall, a small cooking unit with a single scorched burner, and a shelf that holds Anakin's few possessions: a half‑assembled model of a T‑16 skyhopper, a collection of mismatched servo‑motors sorted by size, a small holo‑projector he'd repaired from a wreck, and a cracked macrobinocular lens he uses to watch the podraces from the edge of town. The air smells of old grease, the acrid tang of overheated wiring, and the ever‑present Tatooine dust that coats everything no matter how often she sweeps.

She pauses, her hand resting on the broom handle. Anakin left yesterday afternoon. Watto had found a buyer for something called a "Republic diplomatic crate" – a sealed container from an old wreck. The buyer was paying well. Watto hired a freelance pilot to take Anakin to the wreck site in the Jundland Wastes to retrieve it. Anakin knew the location. The pilot knew the ship. They were supposed to be back by nightfall. They never came.

The chrono on the shelf shows the twin suns have just risen. A full night has passed. Shmi has not slept. She swept the room twice, then a third time, to keep her hands busy. Her eyes are dry, her shoulders tight.

The curtain separating their quarters from the main shop rustles. Watto's blunt snout pokes through, his wings a blur of irritation, his blue skin flushed from sleep. "The boy back yet?" he grumbles, his voice a nasal rasp. "That crate's got a buyer waiting. I don't want to hear excuses."

Shmi keeps her eyes on the floor, her voice level. "Not yet, Master Watto."

"Not yet?" Watto hovers fully into the room, his shadow falling across her. "It's dawn. They were supposed to be back last night. That pilot better not have flown off with my merchandise." He mutters something in Huttese, then buzzes back through the curtain. The fabric falls into place, and his grumbling fades into the ambient clatter of the main shop.

Shmi lets out a slow breath. She sets the broom against the wall and moves to the window. The twin suns are low, the light still soft. The Jundland Wastes are out there, beyond the edge of town. A wreck site. A pilot she has never met. Her son, alone in the desert all night, with a stranger. She presses her palm against the cool transparisteel.

Outside, a sound cuts through the morning stillness. It is not the familiar, sputtering whine of a landspeeder or the clatter of Watto's crane moving scrap. It is deeper, throatier – the low thrum of a ship's repulsorlifts at idle.

> Shmi Skywalker rushes out of the shop to greet Anakin after she sees him.

Shmi wipes a clear spot in the grime with the edge of her sleeve. She sees the shadow first – a long, angular shape sliding over the sun‑baked sand of the yard, throwing the scattered piles of scrap into sharp relief. The shadow passes over a gutted cargo skiff, a stack of droid torsos, the slumped form of a decommissioned loader. Then the ship itself settles behind the largest dune of wrecked speeder parts, its landing struts compressing with a hydraulic sigh that carries through the still air.

It is a Corellian freighter. A YT model, heavily modified, its hull pitted and scored, one mandible visibly patched with mismatched plating. Not the shuttle that took Anakin. Something else.

The main hatch lowers with a hiss of hydraulics, and a ramp extends to the sand. Shmi watches, her breath fogging the glass. Four figures descend the ramp. First, a man in a worn flight jacket, his movements loose and practical. Then two others, taller, cloaked. The last is small, a child, his silhouette achingly familiar even at this distance.

Anakin.

He is walking, unhurt. He carries something bulky under one arm, wrapped in a frayed tarp. Shmi's hand flies to her mouth. She turns from the window, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She pushes through the curtain into the main shop.

Watto is arguing with a protocol droid over a faulty motivator. "—the calibration is off by three degrees, you rust bucket! I'm not paying for a recalibration until you—"

"Master Watto," Shmi says, her voice cutting through his rant.

He spins, his wings buzzing. "What?"

"They're here. Anakin is here."

Immediately after the words come out of her mouth, Shmi runs across the sun‑warmed sand of the junkyard, her simple tunic kicking up small puffs of dust. The boy sees her and his tired face breaks into a wide, relieved smile. He drops the heavy bundle he carries – it lands with a soft thud on the sand – and runs the last few steps to meet her.

Her arms wrap around him, tight, her face buried in his hair. He smells of ozone, desert wind, and something else – a faint, clean scent like rain on stone. "You're here," she whispers into his shoulder, her voice thick. "You're here."

Anakin hugs her back, his small hands gripping the fabric of her tunic. "I'm okay, Mom."

Over his head, Shmi's eyes lift to the two men who followed him down the ramp. The taller one, cloaked and hooded, meets her gaze. His face is weathered, his eyes a calm, assessing grey. He does not smile, but his expression holds no threat. The other, younger, stands a half-step behind, his hand resting near his hip but not on any visible weapon. His eyes scan the perimeter of the yard, the scrap piles, the open door of the shop.

Shmi eases her grip on Anakin, her hands moving to his shoulders. She looks him over, her fingers brushing sand from his cheek. "You were gone all night."

"I know. We had to fix the ship." Anakin glances back at the freighter. "That's Paril's ship. The Falcon. The pilot crashed and died, but I survived thanks to them—"

"Jedi," a voice rasps from behind them.

Watto hovers a few meters away, his blunt snout twitching. The ship's shadow stretches long across the sand, swallowing the scattered junk piles. Paril Zannfel watches from the Falcon's cockpit, one hand resting on the throttle. The yard is empty of enforcers for now. He sees the woman clutching the boy, the two robed figures standing like sentinels, and the Toydarian hovering with the tense energy of a predator sizing up a rival. Paril's other hand taps a silent rhythm on the console. He'd been paid to transport the Jedi, not to mediate a slave auction. But the boy had saved his ship. That counted for something, even here.

"Jedi," Watto repeats, the word thick with suspicion. He drifts closer, his wings keeping him aloft at eye level with Qui-Gon. "I know your kind. Mind tricks don't work on Toydarians. So whatever you're selling, I'm not buying." Shmi's hands remain on Anakin's shoulders, her grip firm. She looks from Watto to the tall Jedi, her expression guarded. The boy's words tumbled out too fast – a crash, a dead pilot, a ship called the Falcon. Her mind struggles to fit the pieces together.

Qui-Gon lowers his hood. The morning sun catches the lines around his eyes. "We are not selling anything," he says, his voice a low, steady rumble. Watto's wings beat a steady, agitated rhythm. "Then you're buying. Good. The boy's worth a lot. He's the best mechanic in Mos Espa. Built a podracer from scrap. Fixed a hyperdrive motivator with a split pulse from the lateral adjusters." His yellow eyes dart to the bundle Anakin dropped. "That the crate? Where's the pilot I hired?"

The bundle lay in the sand. Watto's gaze flicked to it, then back to Qui-Gon. "Dead." He said the word flatly. "My investment. My merchandise. And you bring Jedi."

> Qui-Gon Jinn shifts the conversation to testing the possibility of obtaining the boy and his mother's freedom. 

Anakin pulled back from his mother's embrace just enough to look at Watto. "The shuttle crashed in a canyon. The pilot didn't make it. But I found the crate." He gestured toward the tarp-wrapped bundle.

Qui-Gon took a step forward, placing himself subtly between the Toydarian and the boy. "The boy's safety was our primary concern. He is unharmed." The yard holds its breath for a moment, then Watto's snout wrinkles. "Unharmed. Good. Then he can work. The crate's here. The deal's done." He starts to drift toward the bundle.

"Not quite." Qui-Gon's voice stops him. It isn't loud. It carries.

Watto turns, his wings beating faster. "What's that mean?"

Obi-Wan moves then, a smooth step to the side, his path casual but placing him at an angle that watches both Watto and the shop's open door. His hand stays relaxed at his side.

"The crate is Republic property," Qui-Gon says. "It was never yours to sell."

Watto lets out a sharp, scoffing sound. Paril leaned forward in the pilot's chair, the worn leather creaking. The Toydarian's bluster was nothing new, but the Jedi's calm was a different kind of pressure. He watched the woman—Shmi, the boy had called her—keep her son close. Her eyes weren't on the crate; they were fixed on the tall Jedi. She was listening, not to the words about property, but to the silence between them.

"Republic property?" Watto buzzed, his voice rising. "It was in a wreck in my desert! Finders' rights! That's the law out here." He jabbed a thick finger toward the bundle. "That's my merchandise. The boy's labor fetched it. That's the deal."

"The deal," Qui-Gon said, "was with a pilot who is dead. The boy survived through chance and his own skill. He brought the crate back."

The sound of Watto's wings was a high, angry hum. He crossed his stubby arms. "So you're saying I get nothing? The boy goes free because you say so? This is Tatooine, Jedi. Your Republic laws don't reach here."

Paril's voice crackled over the Falcon's external speaker, dry and flat. "He's got a point. Local jurisdiction and all."

Qui-Gon's eyes didn't leave Watto's. "I am not suggesting you receive nothing." He knelt, one knee in the sand, and pulled back the frayed edge of the tarp. The crate beneath was sealed, its surface scarred but intact, the Republic cog still visible under the grime. "This crate contains diplomatic materials. Its value to the Republic is significant. Its value on the black market is also significant, but it would draw attention you may not want."

Watto's eyes gleamed. He drifted closer, his shadow falling across the crate. "Attention? From who? The Hutts already know everything that happens here."

"From the Republic," Qui-Gon said, rising to his feet. He brushed sand from his knee. "A diplomatic crate goes missing, and Coruscant sends investigators. Not Jedi. Judicials. With paperwork and scanners. They track serial numbers. They interview witnesses. They find the buyer, and they find the seller." He let the words hang. "Or," he continued, "the crate is returned. Quietly. The Republic compensates you for its recovery. A legitimate transaction. No questions asked."

Watto's wings slowed. His beady eyes narrowed. "Compensates. How much?"

"Its value," Qui-Gon said, "in exchange for the boy."

Shmi's breath caught. Her fingers tightened on Anakin's shoulders. Watto stared at him. The high hum of his wings dropped to a low, thoughtful buzz. He glanced at the crate, then at Anakin, then back at Qui-Gon. "The boy," he repeated. "Just the boy?"

"His freedom," Qui-Gon clarified. His voice was still calm, but there was a new weight behind the words.

In the cockpit, Paril's eyebrows lifted. He hadn't expected that. The Jedi was buying a slave. Not with credits, but with leverage. It was cleaner than a blaster, maybe. But on Tatooine, clean deals had a way of turning dirty.

Watto's tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "His freedom's worth a lot. He's a good worker. Smart. Makes me a lot of credits. But…" He drifted in a slow circle around the crate, his shadow pooling over the Republic cog. "A legitimate transaction. No Judicials sniffing around. That's worth something too." Shmi's gaze darted from Qui-Gon's face to the crate, then to Watto's calculating expression. She understood the offer. It was a trade. Her son's life for a box. Her throat tightened, but she kept silent. Anakin shifted under her hands, looking up at Qui-Gon, his young face a mix of confusion and dawning hope.

Watto stopped circling. He hovered directly in front of Qui-Gon. "Okay. Say I agree. The crate for the boy. Clean. No Judicials. How does the compensation happen? You have Republic credits on you?"

"I do not," Qui-Gon admitted. "But the transaction can be arranged through official channels. A credit transfer to any account you designate from the Republic." Watto's snout wrinkled again. "From the Republic? You mean I have to wait? Wait for credits? Wait for paperwork?" He buzzed, wings fluttering in irritation.

> Qui-Gon Jinn says, "Me and my Padawan Learner Obi-Wan will be herebe here for a few days. We have business to attend to, and ship repairs to address. Can I have your word? You won't sell the boy until our business here is done. I guarantee you it will end with an ample amount of Republic credits in your account." 

Qui-Gon held the Toydarian's gaze. Watto's wings stopped moving entirely for a second, and he dropped an inch in the air before recovering. "Your word? A Jedi's word?" He let out a wet, skeptical chuff. "What's your business?"

"That does not concern you," Obi-Wan said, his tone polite but firm.

"Everything in my yard concerns me," Watto snapped, rounding on the younger man. "You land a shot-up freighter behind my shop. You bring back my property without the pilot I paid for."

Qui-Gon kept his focus on Watto. "My word is my bond," he said, the simple statement cutting through the Toydarian's bluster. "We will be in Mos Espa for a few days. We have business, and this ship requires repairs. The boy remains here, unharmed, and unsold. In return, I guarantee a transfer of Republic credits to any account you name. An ample amount."

Watto's eyes darted to the crate, then to the Falcon. "Ample," he repeated, the word tasting of possibility. "And if your business fails? If you crash again and die?"

"Then you still have the crate," Qui-Gon said. "And the boy. You lose nothing by waiting."

A tense silence stretched. Watto's wings resumed their slow, thoughtful beat. He looked at Shmi, still holding Anakin, then back at Qui-Gon. "A few days," he muttered. Watto's gaze swept the scene, lingering on the Falcon's patched hull. "Repairs. You need parts. I have parts." A merchant's instinct overrode suspicion. "You pay for them. Upfront. Republic credits or not."

"That can be arranged," Qui-Gon said. He turned his head slightly, his voice carrying. "Obi-Wan, find us lodging. Somewhere discreet." He then looked up toward the Falcon's cockpit. "Paril, assess the damage. Make a list of what we need."

Obi-Wan gave a curt nod. His eyes scanned the yard's perimeter once more before he turned and began walking toward the narrow alley that led to the main street. His pace was unhurried, his robe brushing the sand.

Paril's voice came through the speaker again. "A list. Right." The cockpit canopy reflected the rising suns. Inside, Paril's hands were already moving over the diagnostics panel.

Shmi watched Obi-Wan disappear into the alley. Her son was still pressed against her side, his small hand gripping hers. Qui-Gon remained standing near the crate, a tall, still figure in the dusty yard. Watto buzzed over to the Falcon, his shadow skimming across its scorched mandible.

"You'll need a new energy coupler," Watto announced, tapping the patched hull with a stubby finger. "Primary generator's fused. That's not a cheap part."

Paril leaned out of the cockpit hatch, his forearm resting on the rim. "I'll need the specs. Military-grade, if you've got it."

"I've got everything," Watto said, puffing out his chest. "For a price."

Anakin pulled away from his mother's side and took a step toward the ship. "The motivator alignment is holding, but the inertial compensator is reading low." Paril looked down at the boy. "It is," he acknowledged. "Took a hit when we went down. Feels like flying through pudding." He pushed himself back into the cockpit, his voice muffled as he called out, "Specs are in the log. I'll pull them."

Watto buzzed after him, already talking. "I've got a coupler from a Ghtroc 720. Might fit. We'll see."

As Watto and Anikan left, Shmi's hand was still warm where Anakin's had been. The yard felt different now. The ship, the strangers, the offer hanging in the dry air. She turned to Qui-Gon. He was watching her, his grey eyes patient.

"You would buy him," she said, her voice low.

"I would see him free," Qui-Gon replied.

She searched his face. "With Republic credits."

"Yes."

"And then?"

He did not answer immediately. 

"And then," Qui-Gon said, "he would have a choice."

Shmi's eyes didn't waver. "He's nine."

"He is strong in the Force."

She absorbed that, the unfamiliar term settling into the silence. "What does that mean?"

"It means he is sensitive to the energy that binds the galaxy together," Qui-Gon said, turning back to her. "It gives him gifts. His talent with machines. His instincts." Shmi looked at the crate in the sand, then back to the Jedi. "You would take him to Coruscant."

It wasn't a question. The silence between them was a live thing, filled with the distant buzz of the city and the low, idle thrum of the Falcon's engines. Shmi's gaze drifted past Qui-Gon to the open door of the shop, where Watto's voice could be heard haggling with Paril over coupler compatibility. Anakin stood beside the ship, pointing at an exposed power coupling, explaining something to the pilot with the easy confidence of a master mechanic. He was nine years old. He had never left Tatooine. And he already knew more about that ship than the grown man who flew it.

Qui-Gon Jinn watches the boy and the pilot, then turns back to Shmi. His expression is calm, but there is a weight behind his eyes, a patience that comes from decades of trusting the Living Force in each moment rather than imposing his own will.

> Qui-Gon Jinn says, "I plan to ask the Jedi Council to let Anakin train to be one of us. You would come too. But you must know it's complicated. Anakin is older than we usually train Jedi… My own Master, Count Dooku of Serenno, was never fully separated from his family – he always knew his lineage. That was unusual, and the Council resisted him too. He ultimately left the Order. So I expect resistance to this as well. But I feel it is my obligation to at least bring Anakin before the Council. His power is unparalleled. Even if they turn him away, I'll see to it you have a place to call home and work that brings dignity to your life where you can raise Anakin." 

Shmi absorbs his words in silence, her hands folding in the fabric of her tunic. She stares at the sand between them, tracing the shifting patterns where the wind has pushed the grit into thin, wavering lines. The distant whine of a podracer engine crescendoes from the direction of the arena, then fades. She lifts her eyes from the sand. "You would ask for him," she says. Her voice is quiet, stripped of hope or fear, a simple statement of fact.

"I would," Qui-Gon confirms.

She looks toward the Falcon. Anakin is now halfway up the ramp, gesturing to something inside the ship's dim interior. Shmi watches her son's small, earnest silhouette against the Falcon's open hatch. "He's never known anything but this," she says, her gaze still fixed on Anakin. "Sand. Scrap. Watto's voice."

Qui-Gon follows her line of sight. "He knows more than that. He knows kindness. He knows love. That is a foundation."

From inside the ship, Paril's voice carries out, tinged with grudging admiration. Shmi turns back to Qui-Gon, her dark eyes searching his weathered face. "A foundation for what?"

"For whatever path he chooses," Qui-Gon says. "The Force flows through him. It always has. It gives him his gifts, but it also makes him a target." He pauses, weighing his next words. "The darkness that attacked our ship… it was drawn to power. Untrained power is a beacon. It calls to those who would twist it."

A cold knot tightens in Shmi's stomach. She thinks of the long night, the empty bedroll, the silence of the desert. "That's why you're here? Because of that… darkness?"

"We came to investigate whispers of the dark side," Qui-Gon admits. "Our path brought us to your son. I still have a duty to fulfill here on Tatooine, but bringing Anakin before the Jedi Council has become my personal mission."

Anakin's laughter rings out from the Falcon's ramp, a bright, clear sound that seems to belong to a different world than the dusty junkyard. Shmi's gaze follows the sound, then returns to Qui-Gon's face. "Even if they turn him away… You would find us a place to live with dignity? And if he is chosen, would I lose him in my life?"

The laughter fades into the low thrum of the Falcon's systems. Qui-Gon considers her question, his gaze steady. "The Jedi Order traditionally asks Padawans to leave their former lives behind. Few maintain contact with their families. But there have always been exceptions. My own master, Count Dooku of Serenno, never fully severed his ties. He knew his lineage, returned to his world, and the Council allowed it because his bond to Serenno was part of who he was." He pauses, letting the weight of the words settle. "I cannot promise the Council will grant Anakin that same freedom. They will see his age, his attachments, and they will resist. But I will fight for him to have a connection to you. And if they refuse to train him at all, I give you my word: I will see that you and your son have a home where you can live without chains, with work that brings dignity."

Shmi's hand rests on her chest, just above her heart. "You ask me to trust you. A stranger. A Jedi."

"I ask you to trust that I see your son clearly," Qui-Gon says. "And that I will not abandon either of you to the desert. But in the end, the choice must be Anakin's. The path of a Jedi is not forced on anyone. He must want it, for his own reasons, or it will not hold."

The twin suns climb higher, and the morning light hardens from gold to white. Watto is inside the Falcon, his nasal voice echoing from the engineering bay as he argues with Paril over the price of a replacement coupler. The ship's systems hum, the ramp still lowered, and the shadows of the scrap yard stretch across the sand. Shmi watches the open hatch, her son's laughter still ringing in her ears, and says nothing.

Anakin emerges from the Falcon's hatch, followed by Paril and a grumbling Watto. The Toydarian's wings buzz in short, irritated bursts as he counts off figures on his stubby fingers. The three of them cross the sandy yard toward the shop, Anakin in the lead, his stride lighter than it was last night. Paril peels off from the group and approaches Qui-Gon, wiping grease from his hands with a stained rag.

"Eighteen thousand five hundred credits," Paril says, jerking his thumb toward the ship. "That's what the flying cockroach wants for the coupler, the regulator bypass, and a new actuator for the stabilizer. Plus labor. I talked him down from twenty-two." He glances at Shmi, then back to Qui-Gon. "He won't budge lower. Says he's doing us a favor."

Qui-Gon nods slowly, his gaze on the Falcon's patched hull. "I will submit a request to the Jedi Council for the funds. It may take a few days for the transfer to clear." He turns to Paril. "Can the Falcon wait that long?"

Paril shrugs. "She's not going anywhere without the parts. She'll sit." He folds the rag and tucks it into his belt. "Just don't let the kid near the motivator again. He's got ideas."

> Anakin Skywalker asks Qui-Gon if he'll attend his pod race in two days.

Anakin jogs up to Qui-Gon, his face flushed with excitement. Watto had already disappeared back into the shop with a list of parts in his hand. "Master Qui-Gon," the boy says, his words tumbling out. "There's a big race in two days. The Boonta Eve Classic. Sebulba's racing, and I'm entering too. My podracer's finally ready. I've been tuning the engines all month." He looks up at the Jedi, his eyes wide and earnest. "Will you come? It's the biggest race of the season."

Qui-Gon looks down at Anakin. Paril folds his arms. The twin suns beat down on the yard, turning the sand into a shimmering sheet of heat. "Boonta Eve," he says, his voice flat. "That's a Hutt event. They'll have enforcers crawling all over the arena."

Anakin nods, undeterred. "Gorba the Hutt runs the betting pools. Jabba watches from the palace. But it's safe. Mostly."

"Mostly," Paril echoes, raising an eyebrow.

Qui-Gon places a hand on Anakin's shoulder. The boy looks up, hope etched across his young face. "I will attend," Qui-Gon says, "so long as the time of the race does not conflict with our obligations here."

"It's at high noon," Anakin says quickly. "When the suns are straight overhead."

"Then we will be there," Qui-Gon affirms. He removes his hand. Anakin's smile widened, a flash of genuine joy that made him look even younger. "Thank you," he breathed, then turned and darted back toward the shop, calling over his shoulder, "I'll show you my pit later!"

Paril watched him go, then pushed off from the coil stack. "A Hutt event," he repeated, quieter now. "High visibility. Not exactly discreet."

"Our presence here is already known," Obi-Wan said, returning from the alley. He brushed a fine layer of new dust from his robe. "I've secured rooms. A boarding house near the eastern market. The proprietor asks no questions." His gaze swept the yard, lingering on the open shop door where Watto's silhouette moved behind grimy transparisteel. "It's not far."

Qui-Gon gave a slow nod. "Good. We'll establish ourselves there." He looked at Paril. "You'll stay with the ship?" Paril scratched the stubble on his jaw. "Someone has to keep the vultures off. And I've got diagnostics to run. I'll bunk here." His eyes drifted toward the shop. "The Toydarian's already pricing the landing gear."

"Be careful," Obi-Wan said. "He's opportunistic."

"Aren't they all?" Paril turned and started back toward the Falcon's ramp.

Shmi had been standing silently near the crate. Now she moved, her steps quiet in the sand. She approached Qui-Gon. "You will take him to the race," she said, not quite a question.

"I will," Qui-Gon said.

"Gorba's enforcers will be there. They watch the slaves who attend. If they see you with him…" She trailed off, her meaning clear.

"I understand," Qui-Gon said. "We will be cautious."

Paril paused halfway up the ramp and looked back over his shoulder. "I almost forgot," he said, leaning against the hull. "The comm terminal's back online. Weak signal, but it'll reach Coruscant if you need to send a message home." He jerked a thumb toward the Falcon's interior. "Text only. Got it patched about an hour ago. You want to send your request for funds, now's the time."

Qui-Gon considered this. "The Council may have questions about our status. Our report will be… incomplete."

"They'll have questions regardless," Obi-Wan said. "Better to initiate contact on our terms."

Shmi watched the exchange, her posture still tense. "You'll tell them about Anakin?"

"Not yet," Qui-Gon said. "First, the repairs and the Sith investigation. Then, we will see."

Paril disappeared into the ship. Qui-Gon climbed the Falcon's ramp behind him and into the dim interior. Exposed wiring snaked along the bulkhead, and a flickering glowstrip cast jagged shadows across the deck plates. Paril was at the comm station, a compact terminal wedged between a stack of cargo containers and the engineering console. Its screen displayed a scrolling list of frequencies, most of them dead or scrambled.

"Here," Paril said, stepping aside. "Encryption's basic. Won't stop a dedicated slicer, but it'll get past most local traffic monitors. Bandwidth is low. Keep it short."

Qui-Gon stood before the terminal, the green text glowing against the dark screen. His fingers hovered over the keypad and typed.

---

To the Jedi Council. Transport compromised over Tatooine. Hostile Force-user encountered. I believe the unknown assailant is connected to the very reason me and Obi-Wan are here. Ship now grounded for repairs. Investigation ongoing. Require discretionary funds for parts and local expenses. Will report in detail when secure. — Qui-Gon Jinn.

---

The message scrolled across the screen, stark green against black. Paril watched it transmit, the status bar creeping toward completion. The terminal emitted a soft, affirmative chime.

"Sent," Paril said, tapping the screen to clear it. "Now you wait."