Chapter 6: Boonta Eve

 

   CHAPTER 6: BOONTA EVE

   Mos Espa, Tatooine

   16:5:7945 CRC 

The streets of Mos Espa were a choked artery of dust and commerce. Paril Zannfel kept a half-step ahead of Shmi Skywalker, his eyes scanning the flow of bodies. A Weequay water-seller chanted prices; a pair of Jawas haggled over a burnt-out motivator; a Nikto enforcer leaned against a wall, his shock staff crackling with idle menace. Paril's hand rested near the grip of his blaster. Three shots.

The morning heat already shimmered off the packed sand underfoot. Paril adjusted the strap of the empty duraplast satchel slung over his shoulder. Watto's list was short—a quart of high-grade coolant, a set of radial seals for a podracer's motivator housing, and a canister of fuel stabilizer. 

Shmi walked beside him, her steps silent in the soft sand. She wore the same faded tunic she always did, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Her gaze was downcast, but Paril noticed how it flickered to the side alleys, to the shadows beneath awnings, to the faces of other slaves they passed. It wasn't fear. It was a map of exits, of threats, of opportunities. A survival instinct honed over decades.

Paril stopped at a stall selling hydraulic fluids and lubricants. The vendor was a Gran, his three eyes swiveling independently as he assessed them. "Coolant," Paril said, his voice flat. "The kind that doesn't boil before noon."

The Gran's middle eye fixed on Paril's worn flight jacket. "For a ship or a racer?"

"Does it matter?"

"Price does." The Gran named a figure. Paril snorted.

"Try half." The Gran's left eye swiveled toward Shmi, noting her slave collar. His tone shifted, becoming dismissive. "Half is for locals. You're not local."

"I've been here three days," Paril said, not moving. "That makes me a regular. And she's with me." He didn't glance at Shmi, but his posture shifted slightly, blocking the Gran's line of sight to her. The Gran's three eyes narrowed. "The price is the price."

Paril reached into a pocket, pulled out a handful of mixed credits—a few Republic dataries, some Hutt peggats, the worn currency of a dozen rim worlds. He counted out the amount the Gran had asked for and dropped the coins onto the counter. They landed with a dull clatter. "Keep the change," he said, his voice dry. "Buy yourself a personality."

He took the sealed coolant canister and turned away, tucking it into the satchel. Shmi fell into step beside him as he moved back into the flow of the street. She didn't speak until they were a few stalls down.

"You overpaid," she said quietly.

Paril shrugged a shoulder. "Watto's credits. And it got us moving. Standing still in a crowd like this is asking for trouble." The crowd thickened as they approached the central market square. A pair of Rodian bounty hunters brushed past, their large compound eyes scanning the crowd with predatory focus. Paril's hand drifted back to his blaster. Shmi's pace didn't falter, but her shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.

They found the seals at a stall run by a taciturn Dug mechanic who seemed more interested in the schematics on his datapad than in customers. The transaction was swift and silent. Paril inspected the seals, gave a curt nod, and exchanged the credits.

"One more item," Paril said, checking Watto's scrawled list.

"The stabilizer," Shmi said. She pointed with her chin toward a larger, open-fronted shop further down the street. A faded sign in Huttese advertised fuel additives and engine treatments. Two Weequay guards lounged by the entrance, their vibro-axes resting against the wall.

The shop's interior was dim and smelled of ozone and stale lubricant. Racks of canisters lined the walls, each labeled in a mix of Basic and Huttese. The proprietor, a heavyset human with a cybernetic eye, looked up from a disassembled fuel pump.

Paril approached the counter. "Stabilizer. The kind that doesn't separate in high heat."

The man's mechanical eye whirred, focusing on Paril's face. "You racing today?"

"Just buying."

The man grunted, turned, and pulled a small, pressurized canister from a shelf. He set it on the counter with a thump. "Fifty."

Paril didn't bother haggling. He counted out the peggats. As he did, Shmi's gaze drifted toward the open doorway, where the two Weequay guards outside were now watching the street with sharper attention.

A speeder painted in garish orange and black, trailing plumes of black smoke, roared past the shop entrance. It bore the sigil of Gorba the Hutt on its doors. The two Weequay guards straightened, hands going to their weapons. The speeder screeched to a halt further down the street, and a Hutt's guttural voice bellowed something in Huttese.

Paril finished the transaction, pocketing the stabilizer. He glanced at Shmi. Her expression hadn't changed, but the line of her jaw was tight. "We should go," she said, her voice barely audible.

Paril fell into step beside Shmi as they moved away from the market square, the crowd thinning slightly. The distant rumble of podracer engines testing on the track was a constant, low thunder in the background.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping into a lighter, more conversational tone, "on most planets, a market day means fresh produce. Maybe some hand-woven textiles. Here, it's all engine parts and desperation."

Shmi allowed a small, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of her mouth. "The desert does not encourage frivolity."

"Maybe not. But it does encourage ingenuity." He nudged her gently with his elbow, a gesture that was familiar but not presumptuous. "Take that boy of yours. Building a podracer from scrap? On a planet where water costs more than hope? That's not just ingenuity. That's a declaration."

Shmi's eyes remained on the dusty street ahead. "He sees things others do not. Machines… speak to him. I do not understand it."

"Maybe you don't have to," Paril said, shifting the satchel on his shoulder. "Maybe it's enough that he does. And that someone else finally sees it too." He glanced at her profile. "Qui-Gon's not a fool. Stubborn, maybe."

The dusty side street offered a brief respite from the main thoroughfare's chaos. The roar of the crowd and the engines faded to a dull, pervasive thrum. Paril walked with a pilot's loose-limbed gait, his eyes still scanning the shadows between the sun-bleached buildings.

"You ever been off-world?" he asked, the question coming out more casually than he'd intended.

Shmi shook her head, a simple motion. The silence that followed was not empty. It held the weight of her entire life. Paril nodded slowly, as if absorbing the fact.

"First time's always the hardest," he said, his voice softer now. "The sky feels too big. The noise of a ship's engines… it's not like the desert. It's a different kind of quiet." He glanced up at the twin suns, now high and merciless. Paril's gaze lingered on the suns, then dropped back to Shmi. "Coruscant's the opposite. No sky at all, just towers and speeder lanes stacked so high you forget which way is up. The light's all artificial. Never gets dark, never gets quiet." He adjusted the satchel strap again. "Might be a shock."

"Any change will be a shock," Shmi said. Her voice was steady, but her fingers traced the edge of her sleeve. "Quiet or noise. Sand or metal. It is all… unknown."

Paril watched her fingers, the unconscious motion. "Unknown isn't always bad. Sometimes it's just… different. You ever taste Chandrilan sea-spice? Or see the rings of Iego at dawn?" He shook his head, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "Listen to me. Sounding like a travel holobrochure."

"It sounds like a dream," Shmi said, her gaze distant. "One I stopped allowing myself a long time ago."

They turned a corner, the junk towers of Watto's yard coming into view. The Falcon sat beyond, its battered hull a familiar sight. Paril stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The playful edge was gone from his voice, replaced by a quiet sincerity.

"Dreams have a way of catching up," he said. "Especially when you've got a kid like Anakin. He's not just dreaming for himself. He's dreaming for you, too."

The side street opened into the dusty expanse of Watto's junkyard. The Millennium Falcon sat under a makeshift shade canopy of patched canvas, its starboard mandible still crumpled, but the primary generator housing was now open, exposing a tangle of freshly spliced conduits. Obi-Wan knelt beside it, a hydrospanner in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. Qui-Gon stood nearby, his arms crossed, watching the younger Jedi work. Anakin was perched on a crate nearby, tinkering with a small droid, his face lit with intense focus.

> Anakin Skywalker lines up to race his final race in Tatooine

An hour later, the Boonta Eve Arena shook with the collective roar of twenty thousand throats and the thunderous roar of twelve podracer engines. The holographic leaderboard flickered, names and odds shifting in garish green. Paril Zannfel leaned against a support strut in the competitors' pit, a strip of shade his only refuge from the twin suns. He watched Anakin Skywalker, a small figure in a patched flight suit, clamber into the cockpit of his cobbled-together racer. The air smelled of scorched sand and burnt fuel. Paril's eyes tracked the boy's movements—a practiced, fluid sequence of checking energy cable couplings, priming the turbine ignition, settling the flight goggles over his eyes. No fear, only focus. Paril had seen veteran pilots show less composure on a start line.

In the stands, Shmi stood apart from the cheering masses, her hands clasped so tightly the knuckles were white.

The starting klaxon screamed.

Twelve sets of turbines howled, a physical force that vibrated through the metal decking under Paril's boots. The pack surged forward in a storm of dust and heat shimmer. Anakin's blue-and-white racer held the middle of the line, tucked behind the larger, more powerful machines. Sebulba's crimson pod shot to the front immediately, the Dug's aggressive start carving a path.

Paril's gaze followed the boy. The first turn was a dust-choked funnel into the canyon mouth. Two racers clipped each other, spinning out in a shower of sparks and shattered plating. Anakin threaded through the wreckage, his movements precise, almost anticipatory. He wasn't just driving; he was listening to the machine, feeling the strain in the cables through the controls.

In the pit, Watto buzzed on his wings, shouting at a pair of pit droids. His beady eyes were fixed on the holographic feed, tracking the odds.

The pack streaked into Beggar's Canyon, the feed switching to a dizzying array of cockpit and chase-cam views. Anakin held sixth position. Sebulba, in first, began his usual tactics. He drifted sideways, forcing the racer behind him to swerve into the canyon wall. The impact was a silent blossom of flame on the holofeed, followed by a delayed, metallic crunch that echoed across the arena. The pack thundered through the winding stone corridors of Beggar's Canyon, a blur of color against the red rock. Anakin's racer hugged the inside of a tight turn, his turbines screaming as they brushed the stone. Paril watched the holofeed, his jaw tight. The kid was good. Too good for this dustball.

In the stands, Shmi didn't cheer. She watched the flickering image of her son's cockpit, her breath held somewhere behind her ribs. A Weequay enforcer shouldered past her, not noticing her at all.

On the track, Sebulba glanced over his shoulder, his wide mouth twisting. He saw the blue racer gaining, a persistent speck in his rear scanners. He toggled a control. A thin, almost invisible spray of metallic lubricant jetted from the back of his pod, coating the canyon floor behind him. The blue racer hit the slick. Anakin's cockpit jerked violently sideways. For a heart-stopping second, the pod threatened to spin into the canyon wall. The boy's hands flew across the controls, cutting one turbine, punching the other. The pod slid, then straightened, shedding speed but keeping its line. He'd lost two positions. Paril let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Clever kid. He'd used the slide to bleed momentum for the next turn.

Qui-Gon stood near the pit entrance, his expression unreadable beneath the hood of his robe. He wasn't watching the holofeed; he was watching the crowd, the enforcers, the shifting moods around them. Obi-Wan stood at his shoulder, his hand resting near his lightsaber hilt. The air here was thick with more than engine smoke.

"Something's off," Obi-Wan said, his voice low under the arena's din. "Something's been off since our excursion." Qui-Gon didn't turn. "The darkness we felt at the tomb. It lingers."

The race entered its final third, the remaining eight pods emerging from the canyon mouth onto the long, blistering straight that led back to the arena. Sebulba held a commanding lead, but Anakin had clawed his way back to fourth. His engines were running hot, a faint trail of smoke trailing from the starboard turbine's housing. On the holofeed, Paril could see the boy's face, smudged with grease and set in a grimace of concentration. He was pushing the scrap-built machine beyond any sane limit.

Shmi's hand came up to her mouth, her eyes wide. She could read the strain in the set of her son's shoulders even through the pixelated image.

Sebulba, confident in his lead, began showboating, weaving his pod side-to-side to rooster-tail sand across the track. It was a mistake.

Anakin saw the opening. The Dug's weave left a gap on the inside of the next sweeping turn, a line of packed sand just wide enough. He cut his turbines, dropped his nose, and dove for it. His port engine cowling scraped against Sebulba's starboard stabilizer with a shriek of tearing metal. The impact sent Sebulba's pod into a wild, uncontrolled drift toward the outer wall. Anakin's racer shot past, emerging into second place as they thundered onto the final straight.

The arena erupted. Watto was shrieking, his wings a furious blur. Paril pushed off the strut, his eyes narrowing. The leaderboard flashed. First place was still a massive, hulking Klatooinian pod. Anakin was a full length behind, his engines visibly straining, the smoke now a dark plume.

The finish line loomed, a laser grid across the sand. The Klatooinian pilot glanced over his shoulder, his tusked face a mask of shock as the small blue racer filled his rear scopes. Anakin's turbines were screaming, a high, desperate whine that cut through the arena's roar. The smoke from his engine wasn't just dark; it was tinged with the acrid bite of melting circuitry. Paril could smell it from the pit.

On the straight, Anakin didn't try to go around. He dropped lower, tucking his pod directly into the Klatooinian's turbulent wake. The buffeting vanished. The boy's hands danced across the controls, rerouting power from non-essential systems—coolant, stabilizers, even cockpit life support. Every spare joule fed the overtaxed turbines. The blue racer inched forward, its nose edging alongside the Klatooinian's rear thruster housing. The Klatooinian pilot saw the movement in his peripheral vision and jerked his steering vanes, trying to swerve and block. Anakin anticipated it. He cut his starboard turbine for a microsecond, let his pod slip sideways out of the wake, then punched both engines to full emergency override. The shriek from his machines was a physical pain in the ears. The blue racer surged forward, clearing the Klatooinian's nose by less than a meter, and shot across the laser grid.

The holographic leaderboard flashed, the symbols resolving. First Place: Anakin Skywalker. The arena's roar became a single, deafening wave of sound.

In the pit, Watto was already calculating his winnings, his three eyes gleaming. Paril didn't join the celebration. His eyes were on Anakin's pod as it coasted down the return lane, the starboard turbine now billowing thick, black smoke. The pod coasted to a stop in the return lane, its engines dying with a final, shuddering gasp. Anakin unstrapped and pushed himself out of the cockpit, his movements stiff. His flight suit was dark with sweat, his face smeared with soot and triumph. He pulled the goggles from his eyes, blinking against the harsh light.

Paril was already moving, threading through the mechanics and jubilant gamblers. He reached the pod as Anakin's feet touched the sand. The starboard turbine was a lost cause, the housing cracked open, internal components glowing a dull orange. The smell of burnt wiring and superheated metal hung thick in the air.

"Don't touch it," Paril said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Let it cool."

Anakin looked up at him, his blue eyes wide. "I won."

"You did." Paril crouched, examining the damage without getting too close.

After some celebration, the cockpit hatch hissed shut, sealing out the arena's deafening roar. Inside the Falcon, the world muted to the ship's own familiar hum and the faint, rhythmic beeping of a diagnostic scanner. Anakin stood just inside the entry corridor, his small frame trembling slightly from adrenaline and exhaustion. The flight suit was heavy on his shoulders.

Shmi followed him in, her steps quiet on the deck plating. She placed a hand on his back, a steadying pressure. Her eyes scanned the interior—the worn conduits overhead, the mismatched panels, the faint smell of ozone and old leather. It was nothing like the desert. It was a shell, a machine. But it was moving.

Qui-Gon ducked through the hatchway, his robes brushing the frame. Obi-Wan entered behind him, securing the hatch lock with a solid clunk. The sudden absence of the crowd's noise was profound. Paril Zannfel moved past them toward the cockpit, his boots echoing on the grate. "Strap in. We're not waiting for an invitation."

Qui-Gon placed a hand on Anakin's shoulder. "Your race was… remarkable."

Anakin looked up at him, the triumph in his eyes now mixed with a sudden, sharp uncertainty. "My pod…"

"Is where it belongs," Qui-Gon finished gently. "A memory of a life you are leaving."

The Falcon's sublight engines growled to life, vibrating through the deck plates. Paril slid into the pilot's chair, his hands moving over the console with practiced ease. The secondary power coupler, a salvaged military-grade unit, hummed a steady, healthy tone. He toggled a sequence of switches, watching the status lights shift from amber to green.

The ship's vibration settled into a steady thrum as Paril's hands danced across the console. Green lights bloomed across the board. He leaned back, the worn leather of the pilot's chair creaking under his weight.

"Coupler's holding. Regulator's stable. Engines are… surprisingly not on fire." Paril's voice carried back from the cockpit, dry and matter-of-fact. "All systems nominal. For now. Might want to find a seat that doesn't have a loose restraining bolt."

Anakin moved further into the main hold, his eyes wide as he took in the interior. He ran a hand along a bulkhead, his fingers tracing a patched-over blaster scar in the metal. Shmi followed, her movements more cautious. She settled on the edge of the dejarik table bench, her hands folded in her lap.

Obi-Wan leaned against the corridor entrance, his arms crossed. "How long to Coruscant?"

"With a working hyperdrive?" Paril didn't look away from his pre-flight checks. "Thirty hours. Give or take a few minutes for dodging any unpleasantness." He tapped a screen, bringing up a navigation chart. "Course is laid in. Jump point's clear. For the moment. Make yourself at home."

The ship's vibration settled into the deep, resonant hum of hyperspace travel. The main hold of the Millennium Falcon was quiet, the only sounds the steady thrum of the engines and the soft, intermittent beep of a systems check. Anakin had fallen asleep on a bunk, curled beneath a spare thermal blanket. Shmi sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, her own eyes closed in a semblance of rest. Obi-Wan was in the forward compartment, cross-legged on the deck, his lightsaber disassembled before him for maintenance.

Qui-Gon moved toward the small holonet terminal recessed into the bulkhead near the engineering station. The screen was dusty, but it lit with a pale blue glow at his touch. He keyed in his personal Jedi access code, the characters appearing one by one in the dim light. The terminal whirred, establishing a secure, encrypted channel through the ship's subspace transceiver. The connection stabilized, a soft chime indicating a secure link. The screen displayed the emblem of the Jedi Order, then shifted to a blank, pale blue field awaiting his input. Qui-Gon's fingers hovered over the keypad.

He began to type, the soft tap of keys the only sound in the quiet hold.

---

TO: Jedi High Council, Coruscant.

FROM: Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master.

RE: Tatooine Investigation – Preliminary Report.

ENCRYPTION: Level Aurek-Seven.

Masters,

As I told you before – our transport was ambushed and disabled over Tatooine by a hostile Force-user of significant power. We have completed our preliminary investigation and are now en route back to the Jedi Temple.

The Sith tomb at the coordinates you provided exists. It is a constructed cenotaph – a spire of black rock in the Dune Sea. Ancient glyphs cover a circular platform. The entrance is sealed by a ritualistic lock that required a blood sacrifice. The scout's death was a test of that lock. The tomb remains unopened.

Our unnamed assailant was present at the tomb but did not show his face. He spoke to Obi-Wan and me. He knew my name and said, "Your master knew that" – a clear reference to Count Dooku.

Then Dooku arrived. He claimed to have felt a disturbance in the Force when I entered the site with Obi-Wan. The dark presence withdrew as he approached. Dooku examined the glyphs. He said he has studied fallen orders. He suggested that what is happening here – the boy, the tomb, the attack – may be part of a larger design.

There is also a boy. A human, nine years old. A slave to a Toydarian junk dealer in Mos Espa. His name is Anakin Skywalker. I have secured freedom for him and his mother. The Force is alive in him unlike anything I have ever seen. Grand Master Yoda and the Jedi Council will want to see him immediately.

May the Force be with you,

Qui-Gon Jinn

---

Qui-Gon finished the transmission and looked at the pale blue light of the terminal. The message was sent. The Council would read it. They would debate. The holonet terminal flickered and powered down, leaving only the soft glow of the Falcon's interior lighting. Qui-Gon leaned back in the chair, the worn padding yielding beneath his weight. Through the viewport of the main hold, the streaking blue tunnel of hyperspace painted his face in shifting, ghostly light.

He thought about the Council chamber. He imagined the message appearing before the twelve members. He saw Ki-Adi-Mundi's skeptical frown, Mace Windu's measured nod, Yoda's thoughtful silence. They would question his conclusions. They would debate the risk of bringing an unknown variable, a slave boy from the Outer Rim, into the heart of the Order. They would dissect every word about Dooku, about the tomb, about the attacker who knew his name. Procedure. Caution. The weight of a thousand years of peace.