Wald turned out to be a remarkably talkative companion.
He bombarded the son of his childhood friend with stories about Anakin Skywalker’s younger years while eagerly asking about the life of that friend’s son.
Most of the tales weren’t especially important, though they were far from uninteresting.
Naturally, I didn’t feel any emotional connection to Anakin as a father.
Still, the fact that I would eventually have to deal with him was obvious enough.
Apparently, while they had both been slaves owned by Watto, Anakin and his friends had once managed to rescue a group of children from slavers.
That was news to me.
What a promising kid he had been.
A shame he had grown into a crippled, revenge-obsessed Sith Lord with homicidal tendencies and an eventual interest in my continued existence.
Fortunately, Wald didn’t seem to know that particular detail.
No reason to ruin his day.
“After Anakin left with the Jedi, I never saw him again,” the garage owner said.
“People said he came back to Tatooine once, after he’d become a Jedi.
That was when the Sand People kidnapped and killed Shmi, your grandmother.
We never crossed paths.
He wiped out the entire tribe and then left again.” “How did you figure out I was Anakin Skywalker’s son?” I suddenly asked.
Only now did I realize there was a flaw in the story.
Officially, I was Luke Lars.
Wald blinked.
“Where else would Owen have gotten a nephew from?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“Besides, you look alike.
You have no idea how much.” There was no hidden conspiracy.
No secret investigation.
The man simply possessed functioning logic.
Tatooine was essentially one enormous village.
Everyone knew everyone.
Some families had known each other for generations.
It was a useful reminder.
This wasn’t a fictional setting running on plot convenience.
It was a living world.
Not every mystery was part of some grand conspiracy.
If I could see intrigue in something this simple, I could easily make much worse mistakes later.
Though honestly, I had never thought Luke and Anakin looked particularly alike.
The mirror suggested I looked nothing like the kid who had played the future Darth Vader in Episode I.
“You know,” Wald continued, “when Watto heard you’d been brought to the Lars family, he got drunk on some Toydarian swill and spent half the night yelling about how the Skywalkers just wouldn’t leave him alone.
Your father.
Your grandfather.
Now you.” He laughed.
“He was convinced you’d cause him exactly as much trouble as Anakin did.
Never explained why.
Mostly he just cursed the Jedi.” The Rodian pointed toward the swoop.
“And now here you are, already looking at a swoop that can transform into a racing pod with a few modifications.
Trust me.
You’re going to use it.” I had nearly missed the important part.
The racing discussion had distracted me from the one detail that absolutely did not fit with anything I knew about the Skywalker family.
“You said my grandfather?” I stared at him.
“My father’s father?” “Of course.” Wald laughed.
“I never knew your mother.
Did you think your father was conceived by Jedi magic or something?” Actually, yes, you overgrown lizard.
This was Skywalker blood we were talking about.
I’d seen every theory imaginable.
Palpatine.
Darth Plagueis.
The Father from Mortis.
Half the galaxy seemed to have an opinion on where the first Skywalker had come from.
Qui-Gon had probably witnessed some of that madness firsthand during the Clone Wars, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask him about that particular chapter of his afterlife.
And now Wald, a childhood friend of Anakin and former slave of Watto, casually revealed that even he knew about Luke’s paternal grandfather.
“Tell me about him,” I said.
It took genuine effort not to Force-choke him.
Not that I knew how.
But self-improvement was important.
“I don’t know anything except that he existed.” Wald threw up his hands.
“I don’t even know his name.
But Watto let things slip once or twice.
He always said there was something unusual about Anakin.
That Gardulla never would have sold a kid with talents like that to some junk dealer for no reason.” “And?” I leaned forward.
The Force was nudging me.
Something important was being left unsaid.
“Fine, fine.” He sighed.
“Watto was terrified after losing Anakin.
Sold Shmi as quickly as he could and tried to forget the whole thing.
I started working in the shop after your father left.” The Rodian took a drink.
“One night he got drunk on that coolant-smelling sludge Toydarians call alcohol.
Kept muttering that he wasn’t responsible.
Said it was all the Jedi’s fault.
Said it was some internal Jedi matter.” He paused.
“Then that man arrived.” My attention sharpened instantly.
“What man?” “A human.
Older.
Tall.
Gray-haired.” Wald frowned.
“I never saw his face.
The moment he burst into the shop I hid under the counter.” His voice dropped.
“He beat Watto.
Badly.” “How badly?” “Broken bones.
Lots of them.
It sounded like he used electricity too.” Now that was interesting.
“I heard him screaming at Watto.
Asking how he could have given away his son before the proper time.
Then…” Wald shrugged.
“I passed out from fear.” Skippy rolled around him in a circle and emitted an indignant burst of Binary.
The astromech fully supported the mysterious stranger’s actions and felt Watto deserved much worse for the way he treated droids.
I gave him a disapproving look.
Not because I felt sorry for Watto.
I didn’t.
But the old Toydarian was an important information source.
I would definitely need to pay him a visit later.
This grandfather business was becoming far too interesting.
And the Force agreed.
“What a horrifying planet,” I said sympathetically, patting Wald on the shoulder.
At least the part I could reach.
“I’m sorry you had to go through all that.” Then I smoothly changed the subject.
“So how exactly did you convert a swoop into a racing pod?
Do those boosters connect somewhere specific?” “Oh!” The former champion brightened immediately.
“Look here…” For the next twenty minutes he enthusiastically explained every modification.
… We settled on nine hundred Hutt peggats.
At current exchange rates, that amounted to roughly fourteen hundred Galactic Credits.
Despite the formal destruction of Hutt political power, Hutt institutions remained very much alive.
Their currency was still considered more stable than Galactic Credits throughout much of the Outer Rim.
The Empire’s credit might have been the dominant currency in the galaxy, but beyond the Core Worlds people trusted peggats first and spice second.
I hadn’t actually negotiated much off the price.
A used Zephyr-G was worth about a thousand peggats anyway.
The real bargain came from everything included.
Wald threw in a repulsor trailer, all the racing components, and room for Skippy.
After loading everything up, I bid the Rodian farewell.
Judging by his enthusiasm, he planned to buy his Rodian sweetheart’s freedom that very day.
I promised to seek his advice if I ever decided to become a racer like my father, then headed back toward the Lars homestead before darkness fell.
Owen had already given me an aging E-9 blaster pistol.
Still, I wasn’t eager to test it against Tusken Raiders.
The journey wasn’t particularly long.
Mos Espa lay not far from Anchorhead, and from Anchorhead it was only a short ride to the Lars moisture farm.
Skippy spent most of the trip beeping enthusiastically from the trailer about what a magnificent man my biological grandfather must have been if he’d beaten Watto half to death.
The Shard clearly held a grudge against the Toydarian.
Talking with him made the ride pass quickly.
The twin suns of Tatooine sank toward the horizon.
I had to admit, the view was beautiful.
….
I passed through Anchorhead quickly, hoping to reach home before the second sun disappeared entirely.
The Force offered no warnings.
Skippy continued proposing increasingly ridiculous weapon systems for Big Guy once we repaired him.
Meanwhile, my own thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Seven years remained before the beginning of the canonical events.
That wasn’t much time.
Sooner or later I needed to determine which version of the galaxy I had ended up in and start planning accordingly.
A ship would be useful.
So would informants.
Though one step at a time.
I was still a kid.
Maybe it was finally time to approach Obi-Wan and convince him to train me properly.
Though if that was possible, why hadn’t he trained Luke earlier in the original timeline?
Had Luke simply lacked interest?
Had Owen forbidden it?
My thoughts were interrupted when a cloaked figure suddenly appeared in the middle of the road just outside Anchorhead.
I slammed the brakes.
The abrupt stop rattled Skippy inside the trailer.
The astromech immediately launched into what sounded suspiciously like profanity in extremely colorful Binary.
The figure continued forward until it entered the beam of my swoop’s headlight.
“Hey!” I drew my blaster.
“Get out of the road!” The stranger took another step.
Then lowered the hood.
Not a man.
A woman.
The moment I recognized her, adrenaline exploded through my system.
She dropped to one knee.
I almost fired on instinct.
Only years of meditation and self-control drills imposed by Qui-Gon stopped me from pulling the trigger.
“Master,” said the dark-skinned Inquisitor who had tried to murder me two years earlier.
Her voice was quiet.
Respectful.
“I came as soon as I was able to find you.” I stared.
Then stared some more.
Finally, only one response came to mind.
“Holy kriff.” I blinked.
“What in the galaxy is going on?” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Xevaryn The Force grows stronger with every power stone.