Luke Skywalker’s thirteenth birthday passed almost unnoticed, especially since it fell during the final week of preparation before the race.
Skippy and I had finally synchronized completely and put the “little swallow” through every possible trial run.
At this point, the podracer was undergoing its final pre-race inspection.
The race would take place tomorrow, so we had parked it in W.
Wald’s garage, where he, Fixer, and Skippy were conducting the last round of checks.
The racer itself had changed somewhat to meet the demands of the Brutal Races.
Additional armor had been installed wherever possible, and a small manipulator arm had been added, folding out from behind the cockpit.
The biggest difference between the modern Brutal Races and the old Boonta Eve Classic was simple.
Here, killing your opponents was openly encouraged.
This year Jabba, eager to make the event even more spectacular, had announced that racers were forbidden from bringing weapons with them but would be able to acquire them during the race itself.
Interpret that however you liked.
Backing out was no longer an option.
At least the Lars family believed I was spending the weekend with the Darklighters and wouldn’t worry.
For some reason, I simply hadn’t found the courage to tell them the truth.
Hopefully this little adventure will end well.
The prize money for first place was unprecedented.
“I’ve got the full list of participants,” said the Rodian acting as my coach as soon as I shut down the engines and climbed out.
“And there are some unpleasant surprises.” Despite the efforts of Jabba’s people, both human and otherwise, to advertise the race as aggressively as possible, several participants had either been deliberately kept secret or had registered at the very last moment after learning about the increased prize fund.
Where exactly are they planning to bury all these people?
And how do I avoid ending up in one of those graves myself?
Still, Skippy and I had a few surprises prepared for the competition.
“Go ahead, Coach.
I’m listening,” I said, nodding toward last year’s Cruel Race champion.
The two of us attracted plenty of attention these days.
Jabba’s promoters had begun advertising us as “the nephew of the youngest Boonta Eve Classic champion under the guidance of the reigning Cruel Race champion.” The important thing was making sure none of this reached Vader’s ears too early.
Otherwise, I’d have to flee Tatooine ahead of schedule.
I’ll skin that slug worse than the original Skywalkers ever did.
Wald had prepared an impressively detailed briefing.
He kept glancing at a datapad while Fixer and Skippy adjusted and recalibrated various systems.
The lineup was certainly unusual.
Plenty of veterans.
Quite a few young dark horses.
He began with the competitors who worried him the least and whose presence in the race seemed questionable to begin with.
The first name on the list was an elderly Wookiee named Quagga.
I actually knew him.
He owned a small parts shop in Anchorhead, though business hadn’t been going well.
It was difficult to imagine what he hoped to accomplish here.
Perhaps desperation had driven him to enter.
Next came a Jawa named Witin, who intended to compete aboard an old Separatist STAP, a Single Trooper Aerial Platform once used by B1 battle droids during the Clone Wars.
I was certain it had been heavily modified somehow, but the entire setup looked absurdly questionable and made the Jawa one of the leading candidates for an early death.
That concluded the truly weak competitors.
The briefing moved on to the next category.
Promising dark horses.
The Dug Pugwis was the grandson of none other than Sebulba, the same Sebulba Anakin had humiliated years ago.
Pugwis’s father had died in a race two years earlier.
This would be the third generation of a racing dynasty.
Nobody yet knew whether he had inherited the immense talent of his grandfather, considered one of the greatest podracers in galactic history, or the lesser abilities and poorer luck of his father.
According to W.
Wald, the alien would be especially motivated to target me.
Wonderful.
The next name nearly caused me to fall off the crate I was sitting on.
A woman of a near-human species named Aurra Sing.
Unlike Wald, I knew exactly who she was.
And I had absolutely no idea what a professional hunter of sentients and Force-users was doing on Tatooine.
Hopefully it was merely a coincidence and she wasn’t here for me.
If an opportunity presented itself, however, I wouldn’t hesitate.
The number of Jedi and ordinary people murdered by the former Padawan was beyond counting.
And how many more would she kill in the future?
At this point, I was almost afraid Boba Fett would appear next on the list.
Fortunately, the newcomers ended there.
The rest belonged to what W.
Wald called the Old Guard.
Many had practically come out of retirement, bringing immense experience but very little youth.
Veknoid Teemto Pagalies had never achieved major success on Tatooine but remained the last champion of the equally prestigious Aleen Classic.
The Gran Mawhonic had spent decades racing the same GPE-3130 podracer.
Once considered a contender for galactic dominance, he now devoted most of his efforts to eliminating targets for paying clients.
According to nearly the entire racing community, Mawhonic was first and foremost a bounty hunter who happened to race.
Nobody particularly liked him.
The Er’Kit Ody Mandrell had earned a reputation as a kamikaze, repeatedly destroying his powerful XL-5115 pod while continuing to race purely for the adrenaline rush.
Wald claimed he had been responsible for Pugwis’s father’s death and suggested the two might settle their differences on the track.
Zamster Arda Ki continued trying to carry on the legacy of his father, who had vanished without a trace during a Boonta Eve Classic many years ago.
Unfortunately, he had always remained a mediocre racer at best.
When it came to two Twi’leks on the list, Wald simply called them idiots from an amateur league and advised me not to bother remembering their names.
According to him, neither would survive the first lap.
The absolute champion of the Small Ring League, Mars Guo, had returned to Tatooine after a lengthy recovery from a disastrous crash.
Piloting a new racer called the Collor Pondrat Plug3, he seemed determined to do something unpleasant to Sebulba or at least one of his relatives.
Devlik Wan Sandage represented a famous racing dynasty from his short-lived species and had already earned a reputation rivaling that of his grandfather, who had once defeated Sebulba himself.
The Vulptereen Dud Bolt was infamous as a butcher who had spent his entire career working for Sebulba, clearing the path ahead of him and handling the dirty work of removing unwanted competitors.
Nobody knew why he had emerged from retirement.
Judging by Wald’s tone, however, the reason would soon become obvious.
Nuknog Ark “Bumpy” Roose did much the same thing, though without payment and entirely for personal enjoyment.
The Nosaurian Clegg Holdfast was actually more of a gonzo journalist than a racer, using competitions as opportunities to gather information.
Wald considered him harmless.
Unlike the Sneevel Boles Roor.
A multiple-time champion of both the Boonta Eve Classic and the Galactic Circuit, Roor had spent most of his fortune in his later years and was desperate to restore his financial position through Jabba’s tournament.
The Fluggrian Kam Nale had originally entered racing as an amateur seeking revenge against his father’s killer.
Now he represented a significant threat and had only narrowly lost to W.
Wald the previous year.
The Triffian Ebe E.
Endocott was yet another multiple-time champion of both Tatooine and Malastare.
At this point, I was honestly growing tired of memorizing alien names and trying to remember what distinguished one species from another.
The four-armed Xexto Gasgano was notable primarily because he consistently achieved the best starts thanks to the unique design of his podracer.
“And one final piece of news,” W.
Wald said.
For a brief moment, I thought he was finished.
Then he delivered the real blow.
“Sebulba is coming back.
He wants one final payday.
And apparently revenge for his son.” “Just what I needed,” I sighed.
“Another violent retiree.
Who exactly is he planning to take revenge on?
Er’Kit?” “Everyone,” Wald replied.
“Including you.
The Dugs still hate both me and your father very, very much.” And just like that, tomorrow’s race became even more interesting.