“I was born in the Tapani Sector, the second son of the illustrious House D’Arkab,” he began, lowering the bottle at last.
“The throne was never going to be mine, but a career worthy of a noble certainly was.
From childhood, I was groomed to become the Head of the House of Lords in my homeworld.
Unlike my elder brother, a drug-addicted layabout, I studied governance and administration wherever I could.
Procopia.
Alderaan.
Coruscant.
Then, the moment I returned home to begin cleaning out that cesspit, my father suddenly died.
I’m certain he was poisoned.” He took another drink before continuing.
“That degenerate Armaritakon couldn’t even lift a finger while my uncle, the very man I was supposed to succeed as head of the House of Lords, joined forces with my worthless sister.
They locked him away, slaughtered my father’s loyalists, and seized power throughout the system.
I barely escaped with my life.
I tried seeking aid from our suzerain, but the bastard not only threw me out of his court, he tried to hand me over to the usurpers.
After that, there was nothing left but to run as far away from Nystao and the entire Tapani Sector as possible.” “Family is always complicated,” I said with an understanding nod, which probably looked strange coming from a twelve-year-old.
“My father tried to strangle my mother shortly before I was born.” The aristocrat stared at me as though I were mentally ill.
Then he took another swallow of alcohol and continued.
“I ran wherever fate took me.
I managed to shake off my pursuers in the lower levels of Coruscant.
I’d made a few useful acquaintances there during my studies.
Alderaan refused to give me a position at the university, and before long the bounty hunters picked up my trail again.
I had no choice but to board the first ship I could find.
It brought me here.
Then the money ran out.” He spread his arms around the tiny apartment.
“This is the deepest hole in the galaxy where I managed to find work.
I, Baron D’Arkab’s younger son, am forced to teach the children of moisture farmers a curriculum that barely deserves to be called a course.” “And you teach it better than anyone else in this hole,” I said, flattering him slightly.
“Though admittedly, that isn’t a particularly difficult achievement.
As for that Rodian gang, they really would have stabbed you to death if I hadn’t intervened.” Vuz glared at me and took another drink.
“How fortunate that I saved the life of such an expert in aristocratic politics,” I continued, sitting down beside him.
“Because I think I might need some advice regarding a claim to the throne of a certain planet.” Vuz Kazm was interesting.
Maybe I had met him too early.
Still, having someone like him around in the future certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Perhaps in the original timeline he had simply been murdered offscreen, forgotten by everyone.
But where else on Tatooine was I going to find someone whose knowledge of politics, governance, and noble affairs might one day rival Leia Organa’s?
“I thought you were the son of some Jedi,” the younger Baron D’Arkab said, shaking his head.
“One doesn’t prevent the other.
Though…” I leaned forward.
“When did you figure it out?” “You should spend less time practicing your tricks in public,” Vuz replied.
“I understand that everyone else at the Academy is too stupid to notice, but we were taught how to recognize Jedi techniques.
I can tell the difference between a datapad floating through the air and a datapad that was conveniently tossed.” “So that’s how I slipped up.” The realization finally clicked.
“It seems you really are the most educated person on this planet when it comes to the humanities.” “The humanities?” Vuz asked.
“Everything unrelated to the exact sciences.
Law.
Political science.
History.
Cultural studies…” “Those are indeed my areas of expertise,” the fugitive admitted.
“Unfortunately, they’re completely useless here.” “Then consider me your future employer,” I said.
“Granted, you’ll have to spend a few more years hanging around Tatooine before we start reclaiming inheritances and challenging noble claims, but…” I shrugged.
“How does Deputy Director of the Academy sound?
Or something along those lines.” “And what exactly is your plan?” asked the half-drunk aristocrat, curiosity finally overcoming despair.
….
I wasn’t entirely sure why now of all times, but Owen had finally decided to buy me a swoop bike.
To do it, we traveled all the way to Mos Espa.
Over the past two years, my relationship with my guardians had become noticeably more trusting.
Obi-Wan had definitely altered something in their memories after the attack, but compared to his heavy-handed tampering, my own subtle suggestions had gradually taken root.
Luke was responsible.
Luke knew what he was doing.
Luke deserved to be trusted.
At least as much as any twelve-year-old could be trusted.
After a successful harvest and confirmation that nothing on the farm required urgent repairs, they decided it was time to buy me one of the essential status symbols of a prosperous Tatooine teenager.
Well, one of them.
There were plenty of others.
Still, funds had been allocated for me as part of the family’s regular equipment upgrades.
Thanks to my Force-assisted tinkering with moisture vaporators and maintenance droids, water production had increased by nearly thirty percent.
Originally, swoops had been designed as lightweight courier vehicles, practical transportation on a world where many remote settlements barely had functioning communications.
Tatooine’s entertainment industry, however, had quickly found a more exciting use for them.
Racing.
The very same kind of racing Anakin Skywalker had once won.
The Empire had outlawed podracing years ago, forcing Jabba the Hutt, Tatooine’s unofficial ruler, to replace it with illegal swoop races that were far bloodier and significantly more lethal.
A large percentage of participants never made it to the finish line.
Has the Imperial bureaucracy ever done anything without making it worse?
This clearly wasn’t a policy personally crafted by the Sith.
As far as I remembered, Vader couldn’t have cared less about his homeworld.
For some reason, I wasn’t surprised when our landspeeder stopped in front of a building bearing a familiar sign.
WATTO’S JUNKSHOP Perhaps it was simply the only place in Mos Espa selling this kind of equipment.
Or perhaps the Force really did enjoy dragging Skywalkers down the same paths over and over again.
I couldn’t remember exactly what the interior had looked like in The Phantom Menace, but today we were greeted by a Rodian who introduced himself as Wald.
While Owen haggled with him over a long list of supplies needed for the coming season, I wandered through the store.
The place was packed with junk.
Ancient machinery.
Broken parts.
Forgotten relics.
Some of the items Watto had once tried to sell probably dated back to the New Sith Wars, if not the Infinite Empire itself.
The sheer age of some pieces was astonishing.
My attempt to build a droid of my own had never recovered after the Inquisitor cut my previous project in half with her lightsaber, destroying every valuable component inside.
Starting over from scratch had never seemed appealing, especially since I lacked a suitable chassis.
So I wandered among rows of droids instead.
Protocol droids.
Astromechs.
Even a pair of deactivated B1 battle droids.
Then my attention settled on one of two R5 units standing among the older models.
Something about it felt…
different.
“There’s something special about you, little guy,” I said aloud, placing a hand on the astromech’s dome.
“The Force says you’re not exactly ordinary.” The droid responded with an enthusiastic series of beeps and whistles.
Unfortunately, my Binary wasn’t good enough to follow everything.
Judging by the state of the unit, it hadn’t received a proper memory wipe in a very long time.
Long enough to develop a rather pronounced personality.
The R5 series had never enjoyed a good reputation.
Intended to be cheap, mass-produced astromechs, they ended up stubborn, unreliable, and generally inferior to the R2 and R3 lines.
As a result, they were uncommon throughout the Core Worlds and mostly survived in places like Tatooine, where people couldn’t afford better options.
Yet there was definitely something unusual about this particular astromech.
The Force seemed to cling to it.
That wasn’t normal.
Perhaps it had once belonged to someone important.
Someone powerful in the Force.
Then again, the Force wasn’t a scent, even if powerful individuals could leave impressions behind.
The droid chirped again.
According to the fragment of Binary I managed to understand, its designation was R5-D4.
But I could call him Skippy.
And he proudly informed me that he could do everything a young master like myself might need.
I grinned.
Then I ran back toward Owen.
“Uncle Owen!” I called.
The moisture farmer was busy negotiating with Wald over some turbine component.
“Let’s buy a maintenance droid instead of waiting for the Jawas.
That red R5 over there.
I’ll clean him up myself, and we won’t have to spend who knows how long repairing everything while we wait for the Jawas to find a replacement.” ———- The Force grows stronger with every power stone.