The moment the navigation lights began blinking amber, I felt it. That tight little knot in my stomach. We were entering Hutt Space. I pressed my forehead against the cool viewport, watching the distant arc of the planet grow clearer. Beige and burnt orange. A cracked old marble swirled with dust and heat. Tatooine. I can see why some people hated it, and I understood why.
My fingers fidgeted against my tunic hem before rising to my mouth. I caught myself biting the tip of my nail and quickly stopped. "How… large is the city?" I asked finally, not looking back.
"We're approaching Mos Espa," he said, his voice low and composed. "There are thousands of settlements on this planet. Many barely charted."
I turned slightly, brow furrowing. "So… how are we supposed to find one person in all this?"
His answer was immediate, but gentle. "We do not search as common travelers do."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
Father adjusted a control on the panel. Then he stood and walked slowly over to me, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked through the glass for a long moment before speaking. "If the Force wishes you to find someone," he said, voice soft but firm, "then you must ask it to guide you."
I turned to fully face him, throat tight. "And what if I don't know how to ask?"
"You do," he said, meeting my gaze. "You've simply never tried."
I swallowed. Hard. I stood a little straighter, folding my hands at my front the way Aunt Jenza had taught me. "And if it doesn't answer?" I asked, quietly now. "If I try, and the Force stays silent?"
Father placed a hand on my shoulder. "The Force is always speaking," he said. "It is we who must learn to listen." I nodded slowly, eyes drifting down. There was a pause, then I lifted my gaze back to the window and placed my hand against the glass. You said you'd be with me, I thought. Back when I was still a soul, not a body. I remembered those words. The Force will be with you. So I closed my eyes. Just for a moment. And I asked, not with words. The part of me that remembered what it felt like to drift beyond the stars.
Where is she? Please… show me.
Nothing happened right away. Just the sound of the ship's hum and Father's breathing behind me. Then… a tug. My eyes opened. I turned west. "That direction," I said softly. Dooku followed my gaze and then nodded.
"Mos Espa," he confirmed, his voice calm but knowing. "Then that's where we begin." And just like that, we were on final approach. I stood next to him as we entered the atmosphere, the wind resistance rocking the ship slightly. I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon, fingers clenched at my sides, my heart was racing.
We arrived at the outskirts of the city, and father gave me a helmet to hide my face as he also put one on as well. The ramp lowered with a long, slow hiss. Heat rushed in, and I swear even through the helmet, I felt it creep into my lungs. Dry and dusty. The kind of heat that made your mouth feel like you'd swallowed sandpaper.
I checked my cloak again and made sure everything was properly on as we walked. My helmet was making the back of my neck sweat, and I already wanted to go back on the ship and pretend we forgot something.
The spaceport wasn't big. Just a few landing pads carved into packed earth, and a rust-colored city. My boots crunched over dry earth and sand, and I glanced up toward my father. His cloak brushes his boots. Helmet angled forward like he didn't need to look around to see everything. I stayed just to the left of him, close enough that I could grab his hand if needed.
The Force had shown me the way, even if I still wasn't sure how that worked. It wasn't like the movies. No visions. No glowing light. Just… a pull. People passed around us. I tried not to stare, but it was hard. You don't grow up in a palace and see this kind of thing. You don't hear this kind of thing. Chain-links clinking with every movement. Alien voices shouting in a dozen different languages. Some laughing. Some crying.
A Devaronian man barked at a group of chained Twi'leks being herded into a building. I flinched. One of the girls looked maybe thirteen. That was when I slipped my hand into my father's.
I knew he knew I was scared. I mean, who wouldn't be? There were slavers out in the open. No hiding. No shame. I saw a human man pull a crying Rodian boy by the collar into a pen. I saw droids counting credits with numbers scrolling across their chests like price tags. There were aliens I couldn't even name, tall, wide, scaled, furred, some in cuffs, some guarding others.
My stomach twisted. I wanted to help. All of them. I wanted to scream. To do something. Break locks, set them free, drag every person out of here, and tell them to run. But… I remembered what my father said on the ship.
"Every action brings a reaction. And in Hutt Space, those reactions fall on the weakest first." If I helped someone here, it wouldn't be like flipping a switch. It wouldn't be justice. It would be death. For them. For others. For us, if we weren't careful.
Dad kept walking, pulling me away from that place, his hand holding mine tightly. The streets were narrow and sun-bleached. Awning cloths hung between some of the buildings, stretched out to cast shade that didn't help much. A Rodian merchant hissed at us as we passed, hawking something that looked like dried jerky from a bucket. A Jawa bumped into me, then scurried off muttering.
I stayed quiet. Focused on the Force. That little thread inside my chest. Still pulling as i walked a bit further ahead of dad, leading him, Dad tilted his head a bit, the way he does when he's thinking. "You're certain of this path?"
I nodded. We rounded a corner and passed a half-collapsed stone wall. There were kids crouched there, hiding from the sun. One of them stared at me through the gap in my cloak, but i couldnt meet there eyes so I looked away.
I stopped walking. "This way," I said as I pointed toward the archway ahead. It led into a market area. The stone was cracked and faded, and I could already hear a small crowd past the arch, traders, beggars, voices sharp with anger or bargaining.
As we walked, a Human girl, chained at the ankle, was sitting by a stall selling bolts of fabric. She wasn't moving much. Just brushing away flies from her arms. I stopped walking again. Something cracked inside me.
"I—" I started, but my father's hand came down on my shoulder.
"Don't," he said gently. "Not yet."
I turned toward him, face hidden behind the helmet, but I knew he saw the tremble in my shoulders.
"She's just sitting there," I whispered. "She is. And so are the men watching her. The ones behind the stall. The ones with knives on their belts and blasters under the table."
I swallowed hard. "They can't all die just for sitting."
"No," he agreed. "But they will kill if we try anything. This galaxy is not a safe place. You are yet to understand the dangers that are everywhere because I have kept you safe."
I looked down. My fingers clenched into fists. "So what then? We just watch, let innocent people die?"
"For now," he said. "There is not much one can do alone, but let this be a lesson you need to learn. The galaxy does not change in one day, Liora. You must pick your battles. Choose them wisely. Or they won't be your battles, they'll be graves for others."
I didn't like it. Not one bit. But I understood. So I nodded and kept walking. But I couldn't help but look back. Sand. The stuff was everywhere. It shifted under my boots with every step. We passed a row of chained figures along a shaded wall, more slaves. A Rodian boy no older than me lifted his head to look at us, his large eyes dull but curious. My chest ached.
We turned down a narrower street, the buildings crowding closer together. And then… There it was. Watto's shop. It wasn't exactly what I expected. A crooked awning hung over the entrance, casting a thin strip of shade across the doorway. The frame of the door was dented and rusted in spots, like it had been slammed into one too many times. Bits of scrap, gears, wiring, and small rusted panels hung from a line over the front, swaying faintly in the dry wind.
I stopped. Something about seeing it in real life, standing here in front of it, made my chest feel tight. Father slowed beside me. His helmet turned slightly toward me. "Are you alright?" His voice was low, steady, but edged with that particular concern he never quite put into words.
I nodded, my voice a little quieter than I meant it to be. "Yes. This is the place." The words felt heavier out loud. I took a step closer, my boots crunching in the sand. The heat radiated off the building's metal fittings, seeping through my clothes when I brushed against them. And, because the moment was too strange, too overwhelming, the words slipped out before I could stop them.
"I don't like sand," I muttered.
Father tilted his helmet slightly, just enough to let me know he'd heard.
"It's coarse," I continued under my breath, "and rough… and irritating…and it gets everywhere."
Father didn't comment. He just stood there, watching me for a moment before shifting his weight toward the door. I took a breath and followed him toward the shop's entrance. The shadow of the awning finally fell over us, cooling my skin just enough to make me realize how much the suns had been trying to burn me. The air smelled faintly of old oil, grease, and hot metal, the scent of machinery that had been baking in the heat all day.
Somewhere inside, something metallic clanged loudly, followed by a sharp, nasal voice barking in Huttese. I knew that voice. Father's hand brushed my shoulder gently, a quiet signal. "Stay close," he murmured. My heartbeat quickened. I was here. Finally here.
The air inside felt different. Cooler by a little. Staler by a lot. I took two steps in and stopped. Parts everywhere. Shelves crammed with couplings and housings, coils, stripped wiring piled in plastic bins. A busted pit droid head sat on a counter staring at nothing. Light leaked through a patched skylight and lay as a pale rectangle across the floor.
Near the back, past a hanging strip of canvas, a woman bent over a workbench, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Hair wrapped up in a simple cloth. Careful hands. I couldn't see her face yet, just the line of her shoulders, the way she moved.
I took a breath, ready to move, and a blue-gray shape buzzed out from behind a curtain and planted itself right in front of me. Watto. Up close, the wings were louder than I'd imagined—fast, papery, constant. He smelled like dust and engine grease. His little eyes flicked from my helmet to my cloak to the way I'd already angled toward the back.
"Eh-eh! Where you think you go, little one?" His Basic was thick and lazy, but the edge under it wasn't. He bobbed higher, square in my path.
Before I could say anything, Father stepped forward, easy as a shadow. "Good day," he said through the vocoder, voice even. "We were told this was the place to find a reliable voltage regulator. Class three. And a field inverter if you have one that isn't junk."
Watto's attention snapped to him like a magnet finds metal. He hovered closer, hands spreading in a what-do-you-take-me-for gesture. "Class three, class four, class everything if you got the money, eh?"
Father didn't move. "Show me your stock." The two of them drifted toward the front counter, talk turning to numbers, part codes, condition. I slid sideways along a rack of housings, waited for Watto to thump a toolbox down, timed my steps to the clang so my boots wouldn't give me away. The canvas strip at the back hung crooked, just enough for someone my size to slip through. I ducked, kept my shoulders tight, and eased past into the rear room.
I picked up the whirr of a small fan and the soft scrape of metal against metal. A narrow window threw a thin wedge of light across the bench. It lit the dust in the air like slow snow. She turned a little, just enough that I could see her profile. Shmi.
I stopped. Completely. My feet forgot how to do feet things. Up close, the details were simple. Lines at the corners of her eyes. A small scar near her wrist. Hands that had been working since before the suns came up.
I stared. Which, yes, looks odd coming from a small, helmeted stranger. I realized a beat too late and tried to look like I was… inspecting a bolt. Any bolt. Her eyes lifted, soft and alert, A quick flick to the door I'd come through, then back to me. "Can I help you?" she asked. Her voice was warm.
Words jammed in my throat. I held up the washer like it was evidence. "I'm… with my father," I said, voice small through the speaker. "He's buying parts."
A tiny smile, there and gone. "Then you've come to the right place." From the front room, Watto's wings buzzed sharper. A drawer slammed. Father's tone stayed even. "Original casing, or has this been rebuilt from scrap?"
Shmi's attention flicked toward the sound, then back to me. She took me in. If she thought I was strange, she kept it to herself. "Would you like water?" she asked, nodding to a small jug by the wall. "You look warm."
"I—thank you," I said automatically, then remembered the helmet. "May I…?" I tapped the rim of my helmet.
She tilted her head, taking in the room. It was empty except for us and a pit droid folded under the bench. "Of course."
The seals hissed when I unlatched it. Heat rushed my face in a wave, sweat cooling fast on my forehead. I set the helmet carefully on a crate and pushed damp hair back behind my ears.
"There," she said, a little amused. "A person appears."
I smiled, small. Up close, her voice was warmer. The lines at the corners of her eyes softened when she looked at me, like she couldn't help it. "You look very young to be traveling," she said.
"I'm six."
"Ah." The smile turned wry. "A baby, then."
It was gentle, but it still pinched. My lips pressed together for a beat. "I'm not a baby."
"No?" She reached for a rag, dried her hands, and set it aside. "Well, perhaps not."
I didn't have a good comeback that wouldn't sound like a stomped foot, so I let it go. "There's water, if you'd like." She nodded toward a small jug with a cup beside it. "It's clean."
"Thank you." I drank too fast and had to cough quietly into my sleeve. This place was just to hot.
"You remind me of my son," she said.
I looked up so fast that the cup tapped my lip. "Your son?"
"Always turning up where you least expected him." Her eyes went a little far away and then came back. "Always had a knack for making and building things."
I made myself breathe slowly. "He must be… very smart."
"He is." She sounded proud. She didn't say more. Voices rose at the front, Watto's wings buzzing in little angry loops, my father's tone calm and unbothered. I set the cup down and, before my brain could catch up, said softly, "You're very kind, Shmi."
She stilled. The look wasn't harsh, just surprised. "Did I tell you my name?" My mouth opened. No words came out. From the front room: "Shmi! Front!" Watto barked.
I caught it. "I—I heard him," I said quickly, gesturing toward the curtain. "Earlier. Sorry, I figured that was who you were."
Her eyes lingered a heartbeat longer, weighing whether to press. She didn't. "It's quite alright." Then, with a small nod toward the doorway, "We should go."
She started past and hesitated when she reached me. Up close, I saw the tiny scar near her wrist, the neat mending at the cuff of her sleeve, how she angled her body so she could see both me and the exit. "Stay where your father can see you," she said gently. "This isn't a forgiving place."
"I will." It came out clipped with promises I couldn't explain. She slipped through the canvas. I picked up my helmet and put it on, and followed far enough to stand just inside the threshold. From there, I could see the front counter, Watto hovering with a pouch of credits in one hand, his eyes as bright and greedy as ever, and my father standing absolutely still with both hands resting lightly on the counter.
"Field inverter, Class Three regulator," Watto rattled, trying to keep bluster in his voice and not quite managing it in the face of actual money. "You want bracket, eh? Bracket extra."
"I'll take the brackets," Father said. He might as well have been discussing weather. "And the laborer."
Watto's wings jerked mid-buzz. "What laborer?"
"The woman there." Father didn't look at Shmi. He looked at Watto. "You're a businessman. Older stock depreciates. Repairs are slower. You've lost revenue. Capital solves all three."
Shmi stopped at the far end of the counter. Her face went still. She didn't look at me. I didn't move. Watto tried a laugh that came out thin. "You don't buy her. She not for sale."
"You will sell," Father said, perfectly patient. "Or you will not. But you will consider, as any sensible man does, what is best for your ledger."
He let silence sit for half a breath, then placed a small, flat case on the counter and slid it open with two fingers. Polished credit bars caught the light.
Watto's pupils dilated. The buzz of his wings changed pitch. "Release tag," Father added, like he was asking for a receipt. "Chain code transfer. We leave now."
"NOW?" Watto squeaked, then coughed to fix it. "Now?"
"Or I take my credits and buy elsewhere." Father closed the case a fraction. "I have other options. You, presently, do not."
Watto worked his jaw, calculating. His gaze flicked to Shmi, then to the credits, then back. When he spoke again, it was oily. "She good worker. Fix any-thing. Clean, cook, organize—very valuable."
Father didn't blink. "And growing less so each year. Be realistic."
A tiny huff, insulted-mascot level. "You insult me in my own shop."
"You insult your own intelligence if you pretend you haven't noticed." The case edged an inch back toward Father's side of the counter. Watto's hands fluttered out. "Eh—eh—eh-no need to be rude." He made a show of sighing as if surrendering from a position of strength. "You want release tag, transfer code, you pay extra."
Watto stared at the credits, blinked twice, then leaned over the counter like he might breathe the shine off them. "Plus one—small—fee," he said, already defeated.
Father's helmet inclined by a degree. "You'll also forget we were here."
Watto bristled. "I forget no one."
"A pity," Father said, and began to close the case again. Watto's wings shot into a higher whine. "Fine, fine. I re-member no-thing."
"Good." Father slid the case back into the exact center. "The tag," Watto grumbled in three languages at once and yanked a drawer. Keys, chips, and old receipts scattered. He fished out a stamped metal fob and a grimy data wafer, tossed both onto the counter, then slapped an ancient terminal until it sputtered awake. "Put your… mark," he mumbled, pushing a stylus across.
Father didn't touch the stylus. "You will authenticate, transfer ownership, and hand me her release. Then we will conclude the regulator and inverter at the original price." Watto opened his mouth, saw the credits, shut it, and did as told. He pecked at the terminal with two fingers, smacked it again, swore at it, and finally, after a long beep and a dancing line of squares on the screen, shoved a printed chit out of the slot like a magician producing a limp scarf.
"Fine. Her code is yours. Take her. Take your ugly brackets. Is bad day."
"You'll have fewer bad days with liquid assets," Father said, and only then did he press the case open and let Watto slide it into his ridiculous, delighted hands. Shmi hadn't moved. She stood with her hands folded at her waist, posture straight, eyes down, every inch of her body language saying that none of this touched her and she would not react to it until it was safe to do so.
Father turned just enough that his voice reached her without carrying to the street. "Mrs. Skywalker," he said, formal as a court. "Collect what you wish to bring." Her head came up a fraction. Not surprise. Adjustment. She scanned the room I'd just been in. Her gaze passed over me at last, briefly.
"Now?" she asked. It wasn't panic. She just wanted to be certain. "Now," Father said. "We don't need to linger." Watto shoved the credits deeper into the pleather pouch and hugged it to his chest. "Don't take too long. I close early today. Much business." He glanced at Father's helmet and then pointed a stubby finger at me. "And keep the little one out of back. Break some-thing, you buy two."
"I won't break anything," I said, more calmly than I felt. He snorted and flapped off to scold a pit droid for existing. Shmi nodded once to Father, once to me, and disappeared into the back room. The canvas swayed, settled. I heard a drawer slide. A soft clink of something small being set aside. The quiet scrape of a box being pulled free. I stepped closer to my father. He didn't look down, but the back of his hand brushed my arm.
Shmi returned with a simple bundle, tied with a strip of cloth. A spare dress. A worn book. A small tin. Not much else. She placed the bundle at her feet, then turned to face Watto.
"Thank you for the work," she said. Watto waved his hand, not listening. He was counting credits with both eyes. Father held up the release tag and the transfer chit. "You will work for me, i trust once you see where we are heading you will find it a most welcome change." he said, As a fact being entered into the record of the day.
Her breath left her in a way I felt rather than saw. She didn't sag. She didn't weep. She set her shoulders the tiniest bit higher, as if rediscovering that her spine had always been there. She lifted the bundle, tucked it close, and looked at me again. "Thank you," she said softly. Father glanced at the door. "We leave now."
"Wow. That was easy," I said.
Father shot me a look. Not angry. Just the kind that says: don't tempt fate. The sun hit us like a wall the second we stepped out of Watto's doorway. I blinked behind my visor, helmet seals hissing as they adjusted to the heat. Shmi shifted her little bundle closer to her chest. Father angled his helmet a fraction toward the street. They were already waiting.
Half a dozen figures in piecemeal armor fanned across the alley mouth, Nikto, Klatooinians, a human or two. Blasters at the ready. Their leader, a woman with a scored chestplate and a scarf around her neck, stepped forward and planted her boots like she owned the ground.
"Greetings, Count," she said, voice perfectly polite and not at all friendly. "Our lord Jabba the Hutt invites you to his home."
The leader's gaze slid to Shmi, then back to Father. She didn't ask questions. Father didn't move. "We are en route to our ship," he said, evenly. "Deliver my compliments to your lord and my regrets."
The woman smiled with none of her face. "With respect, Count, it's not that sort of invitation." He shifted his stance a hair. "Very well," he told the woman. "We accept."
"Good choice," she said, and lifted two fingers. A pair of swoops peeled off the line to bracket us. Father kept us moving, insisting on our own speeder, "I have protocol for my household."
Insisting Shmi remain at his side, "She is under my protection", insisting his "ceremonial sidearm" stayed where it was, "Your lord will not feel threatened by an old man's habit". The leader weighed each request, glanced toward a flanker, and, after a tight nod, allowed them.
They put us in the middle of a loose diamond and pushed us out of Mos Espa into the open. The city fell away fast, low domes swallowed by dunes. The air thinned. Heat rose in visible waves off the flats. My fingers found Father's cloak and held tight. I slid closer.
Shmi said nothing. She sat with her bundle on her lap, knuckles white but steady. She didn't stare at the guns. She stared at the horizon. The closer we got, the more the world narrowed into grit and sky. Then the cliffs rose up out of nowhere. Jabba's palace. Long ramp. Tall doors. Few windows.
At the outer gate, a metal eye popped from a socket. The leader snapped back a code. Something clanged inside. The doors crawled open, and the heat gave way to a different kind of air, cooler, thicker, carrying stale smoke and cooked fat.
"Inside," the leader said. Gamorreans took over the escort. A Kadas'sa'Nikto with a stun baton eyed Father's belt. "Weapons."
Father didn't slow. "Ceremonial," he said mildly. "I keep it with me, or we depart." A Nikto glanced at a Twi'lek majordomo hovering nearby. The Twi'lek's lekku lip twitched, measuring risk against spectacle, then he flicked his fingers. "Let him keep his toy," he said in Basic, bored.
We crossed a long hall that smelled of old wine and older victories. The sound hit first: a lazy, pulsing rhythm from an alcove where a trio of musicians plucked at battered instruments. Laughter, low and mean. The clink of cups.
Dancers moved along the far side of the room, bodies threaded with gold chain and silk panels. Metal glinted at the hips and throat. Fabric drifted when they spun, catching the torchlight, turning it soft. It was beautiful. Father grabbed my head and turned it. "Eyes forward. This is a court, not a spectacle."
We didn't slow down. The crowd smelled weakness like spice. Father kept our pace unhurried. Shmi matched it. At the end of the hall, the dais loomed. A heavy curtain hung over the central platform, shadows oil-thick behind it. A metal bowl smoked on a pedestal nearby, cinnamon and char. The Twi'lek majordomo lifted his chin, gestured us forward, and called something up in Huttese that sounded like a toast and a warning at the same time.
The curtain twitched. Something enormous shifted behind it. The floor vibrated just enough to be felt. A wet laugh rolled out of the darkness, too pleased and too patient.
The curtain began to rise. Father's hand brushed my shoulder once, a fraction of a second. Shmi tightened her grip on the bundle and set her jaw. The laugh came again, closer, like a wave moving through a cave.
"Yang chas."