Shmi leaned her back against the cool pourstone wall of the building and tried to calm her hammering heart. Its beating pounded in her ears so loud she feared others would hear it as well. And she could not afford to be heard.
The footsteps of whoever had been up licitly at this hour so late it was early receded into the distance. Shmi counted to ten before crossing the street.
Now she was in the broad section of city full of the free. She walked forward with firm steps, like someone who had business here. Most of the freepeople would be sleeping, even the last drunkards stumbled home from their cantinas, and slaves had yet to rise with the predawn light. There would be few, if any witnesses to her arrival. No-one would stop to question her.
The junk shop's door loomed before her. She slipped in with her key, the one privilege Watto had deigned grant her, and was left in the darkness as she closed the door on the first hint of blue on the black sky.
But that did not matter. She had been here before, had lived a decade of her life in this shop's confines, physical and metaphorical, and knew her way around here better than the hovel she called home. It was trivial to dance around the piles of junk to find the grease applicator and then creep up the stairs to Watto's rooms.
She counted twelve steps and stopped. There were two doors between her and Watto. He slept with them ever so slightly open, and both of their hinges squeaked to alert him of any intrusion to his domain.
Shmi carefully felt for the top hinge, then pressed the grease applicator to it and squirted. The liquid filled the hinge and spilled to her fingers.
She repeated the process with the other hinge and waited. Her fingers shook as she opened it little by little, waiting for a creak that never came. She breathed out as much as possible and slid through the gap.
One door more. She paused to try and quell the shaking of her hands.
She creeped forward with her free hand extended until she touched the second pourstone wall. She ran her hand to the side and came across a seam.
The desert had told her tonight was the night. She could do this. She would do this.
The hinge was set a bit higher than on the previous door. She pushed the grease applicator to it and squirted slowly lest it make some noise Watto could hear. She took a deep breath and squirted some more from another angle before moving to the lower hinge.
Another wait had her heart rise to her throat. She could almost feel the acid from her stomach creep into her mouth as her muscles clenched down.
She very carefully opened the door and slid into Watto's room. The Toydarian slept on his side, back facing the door he was confident would squeak if someone so much as walked up the stairs, and face towards the window lit with the blue glow that heralded dawn. He slept with the detonator to her chip on a lanyard around his neck so no-one would steal it.
He twitched, stirring, and Shmi immediately jumped forward. Her knee hit his back between his wings, her forearm pinned his head down, and with her other arm she grabbed the lanyard, the chain that held her shackles, and pulled and pulled-
Watto struggled, trying to claw at his throat, but she shoved him back down and kept pulling with all her adrenaline-fueled strength. Her heartbeat drowned out all other noises.
Eventually, he stopped struggling. Shmi collapsed onto the the ground and took a gasping breath. She'd done it. Finally, she'd done it.
But she had much more to do now. She pushed herself off the floor and gingerly tugged her detonator control from around Watto's neck. Her fingers shook as she slowly navigated to the option to turn off her chip.
She was free. She was free. Slaves did not kill their owners, but here she was.
It was time for the next step of her plan. She picked up Watto's corpse – he was surprisingly light, airborne as he was – and carried him downstairs and to his speeder, the one he took when he was going out to buy things from another city. Then she went back to put the grease applicator back in its original location and to pack food from his pantry. She added in two large canisters of water and Watto's entire stash of unmarked credit chits. She finished by locking up the shop and putting up the sign that read closed.
The sky had lightened to a deep blue, with purple creeping in at the horizon. She didn't have much time.
She kicked the speeder on and pulled it out of the junk shop's lot. It sputtered into gear, probably waking the neighbors, but it was all right; Watto looked like he was sleeping in the back and making his slave drive, and everything had been closed up properly.
No-one interrupted her as she slowly steered through the wide freepeople's streets. The speeder chunked into a steady hum as she approached the city exit. When it was busy, the Hutts would have guards stationed here to take bribes, but sometimes, when no-one was about, it was empty – like now.
Shmi switched gears and pushed the speeder forth. The hum built, the engine purring under her as the frame gently vibrated.
But she was free now. Who was here to forbid her? Certainly not Watto, dead in the back seat.
She gunned the engine, pushing it as fast as it would go, over the flat sand. The wind hammered her face, speeder's frame shivering all the way through her core, as Mos Espa shrank to nothing behind her. She was free, free like the wind that met her.
An infinite moment later she let the speeder slow down to a regular clip. She'd need to walk back to Mos Espa; it wouldn't do to go too far.
She turned the speeder off the straight path to Mos Ila and drove for a good half hour. The roads were traveled heavily enough the Tuskens and the various things that lurked in the sands kept away. Between them, though, Tatooine hid many things, most of them lethal in one way or another.
When she felt it suitable, she let the speeder coast to a halt and got out. The suns were halfway up to the zenith, baking the desert and its denizens. She grabbed the shovel from beneath the driver's seat and climbed out.
Watto looked shriveled. Shmi rolled his corpse onto the ground and considered what to do with the detonator. On the one hand, he always had it around his neck, and if someone who knew the least bit about him came across his corpse, they'd know without doubt Shmi must be behind it. On the other hand, if anyone found him, with or without the detonator, as long as her corpse wasn't next to his they'd consider her a killer and the Hutts would go to their long-range transmitter to turn her chip back on and make it explode.
They would do that just in case in a few weeks when Watto wouldn't turn up. She had that long to either dig out the chip or get offworld.
She removed the detonator from Watto's neck and slammed it with the point of the shovel. She slammed it again and again and again, plastoid crumpling beneath the metal tip, shearing and buckling as the screen shorted out and she finally, finally broke the damn contraption in half.
She stood there, dumbly staring at the hole in the detonator. Then she burst into laughter.
It was gone! No more fear of Watto deciding she was more trouble than she was worth and pressing the button whenever she injured herself. No more fear of being bought back by Gardulla, who'd blow up slaves for amusement. No more fear of a lowlife making her his plaything. No more the indignity of shackles. She was free.
The sand was warm beneath her back. She felt tears prick at her eyes and instinctively turned her thoughts to anything else.
Watto. Watto was still stinking up the neighborhood.
She dug a hole in the sand perhaps a meter deep and rolled Watto into it. She dropped the broken detonator unceremoniously on his face before filling the hole.
It would be noon soon. She smoothed the sand over Watto's unmarked grave once more, then got into the speeder. It started slowly, as it always did, and she ran it for a few minutes more before finding a spot where the dunes gave a slight protection from the suns' rays. She tacked up the white shade and ate some of her rations before curling up in the comfortable space previously reserved for Watto and taking a nap through the warmest hours.
Anakin came out of his meditation less settled than he'd been going in. Obi-Wan always said a good meditation would relax and calm him, but Anakin found he felt every current of the Force much too well to be anything but distracted, and today, something was definitely going on.
Obi-Wan rose out of the Force as well. His deep sigh had Anakin's shoulders rise to his ears before he even said anything. “Anakin,” he began, “I know you find this difficult, but if you could at least try-”
He was interrupted by knocking on the door. “Come in,” he sighed as he waved the door open with the Force.
“Knight Kenobi,” Master Billaba said. “I was about to ask you where your padawan was, but apparently you keep him close at hand.”
“What has he done now?” Obi-Wan scrubbed his face with a hand.
Master Billaba looked at him oddly. “I am going to Tatooine and would like a native guide.” She folded her hands into the sleeves of her robe. “What makes you think Anakin has done something?”
“He's always getting into trouble,” Obi-Wan said. “I do not think bringing him to Tatooine would be a good idea. He'd just wander off and compromise your mission.”
Anakin recoiled. “I've never wandered off!” he objected.
“Oh? Then what do you call what you did on Obris Prime?”
“You told me to follow the mark and I followed him!”
“You sneaked into the seediest gambling establishment on the planet and almost got into a bar fight!”
“Regardless, I need someone to show me around, and Anakin is the best option,” Master Billaba interrupted.
“Of course,” Obi-Wan sighed. “I'll pack.”
“It sounds like you would be better served by staying on Coruscant and existing with no responsibility to anyone save yourself.”
“You're stealing my padawan?!”
“I am assigning him a mission with another master.” Master Billaba took a deep breath. “Obi-Wan, I know Qui-Gon kept you on a short leash, but that doesn't mean you need to keep Anakin all to yourself. Let him go on a few missions with other masters to see what they do and take the chance to catch up on your peace and quiet. It would do you both a world of good.”
“Let's see how this goes, first,” Obi-Wan said.
Master Billaba inclined her head. “Anakin, we leave in three hours. Go pack your bags and meet me at landing pad Grek.”
Anakin jumped to his feet immediately. “Yes, Master Billaba!” He bowed to Obi-Wan. “May the Force be with you, Master,” he said, then shimmied past Master Billaba out of Obi-Wan's quarters and sprinted towards his own quarters. He heard Master Billaba laugh and tell Obi-Wan to take a nap, but he didn't pay much mind.
He was finally going to Tatooine! He hadn't finished his chip scanner, and he couldn't in the few hours left, but maybe he could free his mom? Obi-Wan had always insisted he concentrate only on the mission, but maybe Master Billaba would be more lenient?
But he had to pack before he could find out. He rounded the corner to the turbolifts and hopped in place as he waited for one to come.
He knew he shouldn't put the cart before the eopie, but – he'd be going back home. He'd get to free Mom. He hoped she'd be all right.
Shmi woke to a hot cabin and a mouth desiccated like the sands. She sipped just enough water to make it disappear and considered her options. She could not bring the speeder into Mos Espa or anywhere near it, for it would be recognized and so would she. It was still her only place to store her food and water.
Perhaps she could park it just far enough no-one would find it? The road to the North was little used by legitimate traffic and every guard assigned to it more than willing to look aside for a little bribe. Shmi's current getup screamed slave, but a change in getup would make her look like a moisture farmer or some other commoner voluntarily staying on this dustball, and the guards would assume she was smuggling something.
She stripped off her skirts and pulled out the needle and thread. She turned the outer skirt inside out and hand-sewed a U-shaped channel near one edge and a straight seam all the way to the top an appropriate distance from the channel. After confirming her legs fit in, she carefully cut between the new seams and turned the garment back right side out.
The inner skirt she'd leave for later – perhaps she could salvage the precious fabric for a hood of some sort – but the outer one had now become a pair of perfectly functional, albeit oddly cut, worker's trousers. Most importantly, ones no-one would give to a female slave.
Next was the hair. Her style didn't immediately mark her as a slave, but it was one with which she might be recognized. She shook it loose from the braids she'd pinned into a bun at the nape of her neck and considered for a moment.
She'd have to change the hairline. She divided her hair in two and began braiding from the temple down, constantly adding sections from below the braid. She finished by pinning each braid into its own little knot at the back of her head. It was more frivolous and time-consuming than a slave had right to wear. It would also make her look younger than her years. Someone might recognize her up close, but everyone who actually remembered her face was a fellow slave, and she did not plan on spending any time in the slave quarters. She was free. She would not pretend otherwise.
She crawled back into the driver's seat and kicked the speeder into gear. It would be a long drive to the Northern entry.
Shmi Skywalker drove through the day, Mos Espa just out of view to her left, reflecting its light to the skies and changing the dust in the air above it. Gardulla's palace was to the other side of the city. Here, there was nothing but the speeder and the sand.
The suns set in front of her. She shielded her eyes from their glare and looked for Mos Espa's glow. There.
She was just about close enough for her purposes. She turned off the speeder and stowed it for the night behind a dune that shielded her from the city's long eyes.
Dusk came quickly. She ate as the sky turned purple and blue in the wake of the baking glare of the two suns' eternal dance around each other. Guermessa was bright in the sky, Ghomrassen and Chenini yet to rise, as she stretched out on the warm sand and counted the stars.
Her son was around one of them, though she knew not which. He would be fourteen now, soon a man. She hoped they'd meet again someday. She hoped that, if she fail in her escape, he wouldn't be too sad.
She knew she wouldn't be: for the first time in her life, she did not have to worry about an owner's whims or getting up to feed them in the morning. No work late into the night to make sure a customer got what they ordered lest she be whipped or deprived of rations. No worrying about what trouble her slave son might encounter and be doomed for – even if she'd had a blessed five years free of that worry.
The belt of the galaxy was thick across the sky this far out on the rim. She looked to where it was thickest and found the center of the galaxy. “Good night, my little Jedi,” she whispered to it and went back to the speeder to sleep.
Dawn came in an instant. Shmi was surprised at how well she'd slept. It must be the taste of freedom, she decided as she relieved herself into the speeder's solar powered wastewater extractor and doled herself some more rations.
With the suns no longer in her eyes, she could make out the ever-shifting landmarks better. She was a bit further out from the city than she'd have preferred, but close enough to walk. She ripped out a seam on her underskirt and wrapped it around her head as a hood of sorts, packed as much water as she could reasonably carry, some food, and credits, and set out towards Mos Espa.
A slave would get nowhere trying to leave the world. A moisture farmer's wife, however, was a freewoman and no-one would bat an eye at one trying to escape her husband.
Shmi crested the final dune that separated her from the road and followed it. She slipped into the city before the guards came on duty and headed in the vague direction of the spaceport. Slaves seldom came here; she'd been one of the only ones, fixing starships while Watto haggled over the price of her labor.
The spaceport was humming with life. Shmi walked along the edges of the rooms, not ducking, but not trying to be noticed. Laborers, loaders and unloaders, but no loadmasters or captains. She had money, but she might want to be the ship's cook for a bit.
Ah. There.
A middle-aged Weequay woman stood over the streams of produce. Shmi thought she'd seen her before – perhaps she was the dockmaster – but she was important, that was obvious.
“Excuse me,” Shmi said, “but are there any transports set to leave soon that would take passengers? I can cook.”
The Weequay gave her a level stare. Shmi forced herself to meet it. “And why would you be interested in passage away?”
“I have ... an overzealous suitor,” she lied.
The dockmaster looked her over. Women Shmi's age didn't get suitors; she hoped the dockmaster would infer that she was escaping a marriage rather than an owner.
“I see,” the dockmaster replied. “How long before your man comes to shake up the town?”
“A week, perhaps,” Shmi said. She had longer, since Watto wouldn't be missed for a while more and the Hutts did not care much for a junk shop dealer's slave, but every moment she spent here increased the risk of discovery.
The dockmaster nodded. “What was your name again?”
“Malla Brenn.”
“Very well, Brenn. There's no-one set to depart anywhere a good girl would want to be for the next few days, but I'll see if anyone wants a cook.”
“What if I don't want to be a good girl?” Shmi replied. Fierfek, she wanted out. Even Nar Shaddaa, armpit of the galaxy, would be heaven with its copious transit elsewhere.
“You don't know what you're asking for. Unless you want to hitch a ride on a slave transport to Sleheyron?”
Shmi recoiled. “No. I do not.”
“Thought so.” The dockmaster turned back to surveilling her realm. “That's all that's setting out – Gardulla is shuffling her slaves around again. Good trade, bad passage.”
“Thank you.” Shmi took the dismissal and left.
Were she better-versed with starship travel, she might have approached a captain or loadmaster herself. But now, with the dockmaster's warning, she recognized the shape of slave transports of the sort that had brought her and Anakin to this blasted world lo those years ago. She had no particular wish to go to Sleheyron, hub of the Hutt slave trade, which buzzed with sentient misery and the cries of freshly taken slaves. She was better off waiting the week. Opportunity would come. The desert was certain.
Shmi Skywalker had money. Malla Brenn wouldn't have much. That meant she would have to earn some.
She could sell either herself or her skills. Shmi had no desire to engage in prostitution and the brothel enforcers would beat her out of the trade anyway. Her mechanical skills were too distinctive. She had nothing to cook with.
That left seamstressing. She found an empty spot along a wall next to the spaceport, drew out her sewing kit, and started advertising.
Anakin piloted the dinky ship down under Master Billaba's watchful eye. They were at Mos Espa's spaceport. There weren't that many port cities on Tatooine, but still, freeing his Mom would be easier here than from Mos Eisley.
“Good job, padawan,” Master Billaba said and meant it. “When we step outside this ship, I will become your Aunt Dee, here to teach you a lesson in life in the fashion of the scum of the galaxy.”
“Will we be bounty hunters or smugglers?” Anakin asked.
“As we have nothing to sell, bounty hunters with vague connections to an unnamed criminal syndicate. It's all right if you are vague on the details; you're fourteen, no-one would have told you anything.”
Anakin nodded. “What should I say if someone asks my name?”
“Yan. If they press you on the surname, threaten to call your Aunt Dee.”
“All right. I'm Yan, and you're my Aunt Dee. We're bounty hunters with a mysterious backer.” Anakin ran over everything for a moment and realized he was missing one very important thing. “Master Billaba?”
“Yes?”
“I know you said the Force brought us here, but, uh, do you know what it wants us to do?”
Master Billaba smiled. “You know that I was raised by Master Windu.”
“Did he send us?” A mission from the Head of the Order himself! Anakin couldn't wait to complete it successfully. Obi-Wan was always claiming he gave him a headache. Anakin just wanted him to be proud. Surely a mission from Master Windu would count?
“His backside must be getting a bit sore from all that sitting on his chair, so I decided to get him a padawan to chase. The Force suggested Tatooine – and bringing you along.”
Anakin's jaw dropped. “We went through all this trouble and we're just going to knock on some moisture farmers' doors?!”
He collapsed down onto a seat. He'd thought he'd get to do something great, maybe free his Mom on the way, perhaps some other slaves as well. Something that'd make people proud. But all they were doing was talking to some assholes who were happy to pay tribute to the Hutts just for the chance to exist on this miserable dustball.
Master Billaba knelt next to him. “Is Force sensitivity restricted to moisture farmers?”
“No, of course not!”
“Then we will be doing much more.” She rose. “Keep your eyes and ears peeled. I suspect the Force has brought us here for a reason beyond me picking a padawan sibling. Opportunity will manifest itself.”
“Can we free the slaves?” Anakin pleaded. “Why else would the Force bring us here? There's nothing here but Hutts and people who work for them by choice or by force. Isn't slavery abhorrent to everyone and against the laws of the Republic?”
Master Billaba looked at him sympathetically. “Unfortunately, the Senate doesn't want to go to war with the Hutts. The Jedi can't be seen freeing any slaves.”
“So we're just going to leave them there? Do nothing?”
“No. It means we can't get caught.” Master Billaba smiled slyly. “Let's see where the Force leads our steps. In the meanwhile, I must pay the docking fees. Remember what we agreed on the cover story.”
“Yes, Aunt Dee,” Anakin called her retreating back. He felt the wave of her approval in the Force.
Don't get caught. So Anakin could free his mother. He just had to stay under the radar. Maybe Master Billaba would even help?
He swaggered to the landing ramp. Master Billaba was leaning against the edge of the ship, a picture perfect imitation of an underworld mainstay. She was chatting to the dockmaster, a female Weequay, who was doing the usual of matching up opportunity with opportunity in exchange for a cut of the profits. Not that there was much going on – Gardulla was rotating slaves, which took up everything, and a moisture farmer was trying to escape her husband.
“You got a kid with you?” the dockmaster asked.
“My nephew, Yan.”
Anakin nodded. The dockmaster raised a brow and wrapped up the conversation, having run out of things to promote, and walked off to the next arrival.
Master Billaba watched her retreat beyond the range of hearing. “Act surly,” she said in a low voice. “As you're a teenager, it should come naturally.”
“Hey!”
“Perfect,” she said. “I'll check the North side, you the South. Stay out of trouble, comm me if necessary, return to the ship if you think someone might steal it.”
“Sure thing,” Anakin replied and headed to the South.
Watto's shop wasn't directly South of the spaceport, but it was on the South side. He could walk past it and see if he could catch a glimpse of Mom. And then he could free her.
It had been three days. Shmi was still alive, but no escape had arrived at the spaceport. She didn't worry too much, as the desert sang of freedom still, and it would likely be another week before Watto was missed. She was still piling up her credit stash as high as she could. Somewhere in this city, there must be someone who removed detonator chips on the side. Enough wupiupi and she'd be able to pay them and pay them to keep silent, granting her a longer time to get off this world.
She hawked her mending skills like the rest of the people perched here near the spaceport. Most had left to spend the noon hours elsewhere, but Shmi had nowhere to go but the speeder whose location she'd rather would go undiscovered.
Thus she was perfectly placed to watch the woman exit the spaceport and look around, listening to a song no-one else could hear. Light brown skin, black hair drawn to the nape of her neck and braided elaborately. Attractive. Untouchable. Shmi hissed out a breath.
The woman's head turned to Shmi with the inevitability of fate. “Mending and seamstressing, fifty wupiupi for a hem,” Shmi called out like she had all morning.
The woman paused for a moment, then walked over. “I have a cape that appears to be stepped on. I assume you can fix the hem?”
“Of course.” Shmi took in the woman's appearance, brown leather and bracers, visible blaster on her hip, and how she felt nothing like how she was dressed. She felt like water at noon, a gentle breeze in still air, the desert's song- “Master Jedi.”
The woman hissed. “What-”
“You dance to a music no-one else can hear,” Shmi said.
The woman stared at her assessingly. Shmi felt something go through the deepest core of her spirit, turning it over.
“I have some items on my ship in need of patching,” the woman said in a more normal voice. “If you'd come?”
“Of course,” Shmi said. No-one in her position would've done this for a man, but for a fellow woman in the midday heat, the choice was just about plausible.
The Jedi's ship was utterly unremarkable save for being slightly better maintained than the average underworld mainstay's transport. The landing ramp's treads were still deep, and the insides were remarkably clean.
“You've met Jedi before,” the Jedi said when the ramp had closed behind them.
“Yes. Some years back.” She'd first hoped Qui-Gon Jinn would return to free her. It had been futile, she'd known – freepeople cared little for the plight of slaves unless they were somehow special like her Anakin – but she'd still hoped.
“Who?”
“Qui-Gon Jinn.”
The Jedi stared at her. “You're Anakin's mother.”
“Yes.” Shmi swallowed. “Shmi Skywalker.”
“And now you're trying to escape an abusive husband?”
Tell her tell her tell her, the desert sang. “No. I killed my owner and need to get offworld before the Hutts can be bothered to use the backup chip trigger that can't be deactivated.”
“The backup chip trigger.”
“It's standard procedure for when a slave is presumed dead.”
“Force,” the Jedi whispered with invective and sank into one of the too-clean seats. “No wonder-” She sighed. “I'm Depa Billaba, Jedi Master. Unfortunately, Master Jinn died before he could tell the Council much of anything, so all we had to go on was his apprentice Obi-Wan Kenobi's account, and he obviously didn't meet you.”
“What about Anakin?”
“Kenobi took him on as an apprentice.” Billaba smiled wryly. “Though I've stolen him to accompany me on this jaunt. He's likely tearing up the place searching for you.”
Searching for her – and bringing attention to Watto's disappearance. “Can you make him stop? If he digs into the traces-”
Billaba nodded. “I will.”
Shmi watched her pull out a comm that did not quite look like the type her cover identity would wear to Tatooine and punch in a number. Very soon, it was answered.
Her son's image blinked into existence, annoyed like slaves never got to be, with rounded cheeks that were melting into a picture of adulthood. His skin was clear and unscarred. He was healthy. He was free.
“Come to the ship immediately, kid,” Billaba said, wholly in her persona. “It's important.”
“Urgh,” Anakin said, and that little bit of disrespect made Shmi's heart sing. “Sure. It'll take me a bit to walk.”
“No detours,” Billaba warned, then closed the comm. She set it on the table and turned to Shmi. “You deactivated your detonator. Do you know where it is?”
Slaves were never told where theirs were. Shmi had always known hers was next to her spine, on the back of her ribcage on the side of her heart. “Yes. Here.” She twisted an arm to the spot.
“May I?”
Shmi nodded. Billaba placed a palm over the spot and pressed in, a battle hymn echoing through Shmi's bones and bouncing off the detonator.
The song faded to nothing. “It doesn't seem to be grown into anything. I can get it out with the Force, if you'd permit it. It would-”
“Yes,” Shmi immediately said. “I want it out.” She raised her shirt over her head.
Billaba was surprised. Freeborn, then, not that Shmi had expected anything else. “I will get a knife and the bacta,” she said and rose.
Shmi folded her shirt and the shawl she'd been wearing. She removed her cheap bra as well, nipples tightening to peaks in the cool air of the ship.
Billaba returned with a medkit and a knife. She paused, surprised, at the door, but didn't say anything until she'd settled down behind Shmi on the built-in row of seats. “I have disinfected the knife. I'll disinfect your skin, move the chip to someplace I can get at it, cut the skin, get the chip out, and then apply bacta to the wound.”
“Please.”
“Be still,” Billaba said. She wiped Shmi's back with something cool. The smell of alcohol wafted to her nose.
Then Shmi felt the singing. It was a lullaby: silence and stillness, telling its target to slumber without notice of what transpired around it. Sleep, little chip. Sleep. Mind not the tug. Care not about the cunning thief who leads you away.
She felt the thing move under her skin and muscles. She did not shiver, but it was a near thing.
The evil that had always lived inside of her moved past the muscle and was pulled to the surface. She knew what was coming next.
It started as just a notice that something had touched her. The sting of pain only came later, as her mind caught up with the sensation of blood welling in the wound. She twitched as the skin parted around the chip and drew back together again.
Billaba placed the chip on the table. Shmi turned her head to look at it while she was being patched up.
It was such a small thing. Barely larger than her thumbnail, covered in blood and viscera. Yet it had been the noose around her neck, the chains on her wrists, the gag on her voice, the ties that bent her head and bound her to servitude.
“It's done,” Billaba said. “I'll clean up.”
She did not look at Shmi's naked chest as she left, averting her eyes with more care than anyone had ever given Shmi. Am I that repulsive? Shmi did not snap, knowing this was her way of showing her courtesy.
As the ship was cold, Shmi dressed. The bacta patch was large and sat just above her bra band. Her skin hummed with freedom.
Anakin did his best to pull himself to his full height as he returned to the spaceport. He'd walked past Watto's shop and seen he'd closed and locked up, with his speeder gone as well. Just his luck that Watto would be out in Mos Eisley when he was finally on planet. And Mom hadn't been around. Watto might've left her in Mos Espa, but then she'd have been cataloguing the junkyard and maybe doing some repair work inside, and Anakin would've sensed her. It was possible she'd been home cooking or something, or that she'd return tomorrow, but Anakin hadn't had the chance to visit the slave quarters and ask if anyone knew about Mom.
The ship's landing ramp hissed open. The hydraulics needed some retuning; that was much too loud.
“What's up?” Anakin asked once he was inside the ship. The ramp closed behind him.
“I believe I've found what you were looking for,” Master Billaba said in a particularly inscrutable fashion.
“That's nice- Wait, what I was looking for?”
The internal door to the lounge area opened. Anakin turned toward the movement, hand falling to where his lightsaber would ordinarily be, as someone stepped out-
“Mom!” he yelled and immediately launched himself at her.
“Oh, Ani,” she said and wrapped her arms around him. “You've grown so tall.”
Anakin felt his lower lip wobble at finally, finally seeing Mom again. She'd told him not to look back, but a part of him had always worried about her – had Watto sold her to someone horrible to cover his gambling debts, had she injured herself working and in lack of healthcare died, had she been blown up for someone's sick delight – but now she was here, alive.
“When's Watto coming back?” Anakin asked. “I saw his shop was closed but didn't get to ask anyone.” If he could free her before Watto returned-
“He's not coming back,” Mom said, triumph edging into her voice.
Anakin stepped out of the hug so he could see her face. “What happened?”
“I strangled him with the lanyard for the detonator and buried him in the desert.”
“Wizard,” Anakin exhaled.
Mom smiled. “And just now, your friend cut out the deactivated chip. I'm free, Anakin,” she said, choking on the words.
Anakin gasped. “You're free? Really free?” Mom nodded, and Anakin spun around to face Master Billaba. “Thank you, Master Billaba!” he exclaimed and bowed.
“The Jedi way is to serve,” she replied.
“Can we free everyone else, too?” Anakin asked. “We can't get caught, but we're Jedi, surely we can help?”
Master Billaba inclined her head. “We might be able to deactivate and remove the chips of a few slaves, but how do we choose? Whom do we save, and whom do we condemn to continued bondage? What do we do with those we have freed? We cannot stuff them all in our little ship. Do we leave them alone on Tatooine for the slavers to recapture?”
“We can't just do nothing!”
“That is not what I said. Think, Anakin.”
Anakin groaned. He hated it when Obi-Wan did this and he hated it even more with Master Billaba. “If you know the answer, just tell me.”
Master Billaba sighed and walked past him. She sat down on the couch. “I genuinely do not know the answer, Anakin. Your coursework and practice assignments might have an answer above all – or a few equally good options – but in the real world, things are never that simple. If we knew how to free all the slaves on Tatooine or dismantle the Hutt slave empire, we would've done it already. So, Anakin. Tell me. Whom do we save?”
“I don't know!” Anakin said. He hated this type of thing. He wanted everyone to just agree on the course of action so they could do it, not this waffling around.
“Whom do we save?” Master Billaba repeated.
“I don't know! The orphans?”
“The orphans.” Master Billaba genuinely contemplated the notion, which made Anakin freak out a bit. “They have no-one to watch out for them and are in a precarious position, even for slaves. Are they gathered in one place?”
“You're really doing this?”
“Of course. Did you not want to free the slaves?”
“No, but- You're the Jedi Master,” Anakin cried out, “and I'm just a padawan. Aren't you supposed to be in charge of this?”
Master Billaba hummed. “One day, Anakin, you will be the wise Jedi Master leading a padawan into the fray, and you will have to have the answers. Your apprenticeship is not meant simply for practicing the execution of another's plans, but for practicing finding the answers and crafting the plans. You will need a judgement you and others can trust. The best time to craft it is now.”
Anakin felt his jaw drop. He ducked his head. “I ... hadn't thought of it like that.”
“Few do, until it's their time to teach.” Master Billaba paused for a moment to let it sink in. “Now, the orphans. Are they gathered in one place?”
“Can you break into Gardulla the Hutt's compound?” Mom suddenly asked.
“Are the orphans there?”
“Some, but – the long-range transmitter is there,” Mom explained. Anakin had heard slaves mention it in hushed tones, but didn't recall what made it so special. “A detonator on its own has a range of barely five meters. Their real power comes when they patch into the signal booster network, which has a range of kilometers and is set to send the detonation signal if the chip approaches the edge of the range. The long-range transmitter is the source of the detonation signals and what measures the distance a chip has to it.”
“So breaking the transmitter wouldn't free the slaves, but it would give them the freedom to escape.”
“Exactly.” This close, Anakin could feel the nervous flutter of Mom's heart and her anxiety joined his as a buzzing tension in the Force.
“Well, then it seems we are destroying the long-range transmitter,” Master Billaba said. “Do either of you know about Gardulla the Hutt's security arrangements?”
Shmi took a deep breath in and exhaled. The precious water on her breath crystallized into ice in the night air. It was particularly cold beneath the stars tonight.
The three of them were at the edge of Gardulla's rancor pit. The creature mostly stayed near the center, where she'd drop things for it, but sometimes its pen had to be cleaned and the guards would lure it to an edge so the slaves could work. A dead slave or two, Gardulla didn't care about, but too many dead would affect her bottom line – and leave the rancor droppings to stink up her throne room.
She'd been on that duty, more than once. Each time, she'd been glad to emerge alive.
Anakin did something to the lock under Billaba's supervision and they slipped into the pit. Shmi tugged at the collar of her shirt, but the desert sang, building to some as of yet unheard crescendo of triumph. She did not think they would be eaten by the rancor today.
It was a short walk to an access door Billaba opened herself. The corridor, used only to deliver bait for the rancor, was empty and would remain so for most of the distance needed.
They walked in silence. Shmi contemplated Anakin, humming with a nervous energy, and Billaba, a steady chord making its way through the silent night. You will need a judgement you and others can trust. Her son would grow up free, with a free man's weight to his words and with the trust in his opinion a free man would grow to expect. She hadn't thought much of giving Anakin to the Jedi beyond escape and not having to worry for him so much. It was a relief to see she'd made the right choice.
Shmi took the lead as they ventured deeper beneath the palace. It had been almost a decade since she'd been here last. The memories of terror were still etched into her mind, clear as the water at Gardulla's table.
Dangerous hums of selfish desire came from in front of them. Shmi led them down the first intersection and tried to remember where the guards for the long-range transmitter had been. They couldn't get in-
“Are there any access ducts for airflow or droids?” Billaba quietly asked.
Droids. No, Gardulla didn't employ droids when she had slaves to do the job. But airflow... “I think there are some, and they're quite large, but I'm not sure they can be opened. And they are full of fans.” Things had ended up growing in them, and replacing that section had been expensive enough to send Gardulla into a rage that saw her feed the foreman to her rancor.
“We have the Force, do we not?” And with that, the steady chord of Billaba's presence swelled into a battle cry that had four screws fall to the ground followed by a ceiling panel. “Anakin, help your mother up.”
“Yes, Master,” Anakin replied, and carried Shmi to the duct with a silent aria before leaping after her.
Billaba followed and closed the panel behind them. “Now, Anakin, where does the Force want us?”
Anakin frowned and became unfocused into the air. It was a bit disconcerting. “That way,” he said and pointed not quite forward.
They went along the ventilation duct solely on the strength of what Anakin had heard of the desert's song. Billaba stopped the fans that moved the air along for long enough that they could pass through. Shmi walked along in silence, quietening her footsteps with Anakin and Billaba whenever they passed over anyone. The guards' raucous partying was a discordant knot a few levels to the side. Gardulla herself was silent, but her presence was clear from the susurration of terrified attendants.
Once they reached the axis of the palace, they turned towards its center. The master transmitter tower was the largest piece of equipment in the palace and well disguised into the structure. Its power banks were down at the very bottom with the generator room. The slave pens were kept away from it rather than vice versa.
“Here it is,” Billaba murmured as she knelt on the floor, hand splayed on the metal and listening intently.
“But-” Anakin swallowed his objection, then thought for a moment and said, “But the Force wants me to go that way?”
“You, or us?”
Anakin closed his eyes and became unfocused again. “Me,” he hesitantly said.
“Then go do what you must,” Billaba said. “Don't get caught.”
“Yes, Master,” Anakin replied and slipped off. Shmi had her heart in her throat.
“He is good at listening, knows the terrain, and in an emergency, I know we can fight our way out,” Billaba replied to a query Shmi had yet to voice. “Now, help me destroy this thing.”
Billaba whispered a little lullaby to the few guards before levitating open the panel. Shmi felt herself gently carried down and silently set on the floor. Billaba followed equally quietly.
The room was smaller than Shmi had expected, but she could see the electrified door and thickness of the walls. The device itself took up most of the room. A thick antenna rose from it, punching through the ceiling to tower through most of the palace, but the interesting things were at the base.
“How do we best make it break?” Billaba asked.
Shmi knelt and unscrewed a panel with her thumbnails. The power draw of the device was immense. Fray some wires and it would eventually short itself out rather visibly. The key would be deactivating it even before that and ensuring the first repairs would be in vain.
She poked at the signal generator itself, but the warning hum told her its continued function was monitored. Her attention next turned to the receiver module, which told the thing just how far every chip was from its heart. A bit of pushing, and she could make its signal echo not through the antenna but inside the structure of the electronics, returning after a time short enough to place whatever chip might be inquired after within the palace grounds.
A few fittings pulled loose to short out. Pieces prodded out of alignment so they would disintegrate when the time came. She told the power cable to fray and fray it did into a mess that would cause a power surge that would destroy the entire electronics should the generator's power fluctuate too much.
“You're Force sensitive,” Billaba said as Shmi was closing up the results of her sabotage.
Shmi froze. “What do you mean?”
“You have special powers.” Billaba stepped closer. “You see things before they happen. You know exactly how to treat machinery you have never before seen in your life. You unfurled that power cable with the power of your mind.”
“I-”
Billaba held up her hand. “It is no big surprise – Force sensitivity is often hereditary, and your son is immensely connected to it.”
Shmi bit her lip. Anakin had been the one with special powers, the blinding light and resounding chorus of life. No-one had ever noticed her.
Unless she'd wanted them to.
“What would you do about it?” she asked.
“Given how good you are for someone self-trained, I am well within my rights to bring you to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant for an interview.” A warble most could not hear turned her head towards the door. She waved her hand in a lullaby to the guards. “We can continue this conversation later.”
Shmi nodded and finished closing up the master signal booster. Billaba lifted her to the air duct and followed, screwing in the panel behind her with only her mind, screws unseen on the other side. They settled down between two of the large fans to wait for Anakin.
“What would happen on Coruscant?”
Billaba folded her hands in front of her. It looked faintly ridiculous in her current garb. “If you use your powers unintentionally, we would teach you how to not use them. It has been a few centuries since we saw a self-trained individual of your power. It is hard to predict the Council's recommendation.”
So Shmi was terrifying to them on some existential level. “You would lock me up.”
“You would be free to go. I promise you.”
“You trust your Council enough to make promises on their behalf?”
Billaba snorted. “I sit on the Council. I am well placed to promise you we would not imprison you for the crime of existing.”
Shmi stared at her. This woman was promising her passage off Tatooine to the beating heart of the Republic, where slavery was illegal and no Hutt could come claim her back. She was promising her freedom perpetual and a look at just who was raising Anakin and how.
The stakes were high and Shmi could not bear to lose. She reached out and pushed.
-memories and thoughts flew around her, snap judgements and speculation, a tangle of values and principles balanced on the scales against pragmatism, desire to do more more more-
“Don't do that,” Billaba snapped as she shoved Shmi out of her mind.
“Why shouldn't I?” Shmi asked, temporizing. She had found an interesting key in the mind that was so alien to Tatooine it might as well be a sarlacc's and was mulling over what to do with it.
“It is a gross violation of privacy, for one,” Billaba explained. “If done inexpertly with power as great as yours, it runs the risk of leaving permanent damage.”
Shmi made a noise of acknowledgement as she took a step closer. Billaba found her attractive, and somehow, her desire to help Shmi was wholly unrelated to both that and her nonexistent bond to Anakin. She was not of this world, full of righteous anger at conditions Shmi had always considered normal and burning with desire to right the wrongs of the galaxy. Her mind was a beacon. Shmi felt like a moth.
Billaba didn't flee. It was easy to lean over and slot her lips against hers. The desert sang, and Billaba sang with surprise but not objection.
Then she placed a hand flat against Shmi's chest and pushed. “Anakin will be here soon. Let's discuss this on the ship.”
Shmi nodded, slightly disoriented. Now that she listened, she could feel Anakin approach – with company. Billaba was amused, however, and the desert spoke no warning. Whatever came would not hurt them.
Anakin warmed water to rehydrate one of the meal kits stocked on the ship. Mom and Master Billaba had broken the long-range transmitter and made it collapse in Gardulla's palace a few hours after they'd left, killing the Hutt and letting every slave in the palace know they were free to leave. This had caused a slave revolt the guards weren't putting down, as they wouldn't be paid, and all of Mos Espa was in an uproar. Master Billaba had paid the dockmaster the cut of the transport fee for Mom and they'd left the planet. Anakin thought some of the slaves had managed to steal a ship and make for freedom.
The kettle beeped. He poured the water into the inlet and let the kit sit.
They were in hyperspace now, with their course set to Coruscant. Master Billaba had said she had things to discuss with Mom in private. Anakin didn't think they were talking, but Mom was excited about it, so he didn't really know what to think.
He also didn't know which of the two orphans he'd picked up would end up being Master Windu's padawan. The yellow-skinned Twi'lek girl was two and currently taking a nap. The human girl was four and staring at him intently, arm slung around her sleeping slave-sister.
“Here,” he said as he placed the kit on the table and tore it open.
The girl began eating. Anakin pulled another kit clearly into view to help reassure her that the food wouldn't run out anytime soon and started making tea.
His mother was free. Watto and Gardulla were both dead. His mother was free and she'd be coming to Coruscant with them and Anakin could speak to her whenever he wished.
Well. When Mom and Master Billaba were done, that is. He didn't think he wanted to interrupt.