The storm had passed, leaving Mos Espa's streets littered with debris and damaged awnings. Vendors emerged from their shelters, shaking sand from tarps and righting overturned crates.
Qui-Gon walked through the cleanup. Padmé followed a step behind with Jar Jar, while R2-D2 rolled carefully around the scattered debris. As they approached Watto's junkshop, Padmé quickened her pace and caught Qui-Gon's arm just as he reached for the entrance.
"Are you sure about this? Trusting our fate to a boy we hardly know? The queen will not approve."
"The queen doesn't need to know."
"Well, I don't approve," Padmé mumbled as she released his sleeve.
Qui-Gon turned and walked into the shop. Padmé followed and sank onto a nearby crate, her shoulders sagging. Inside the cluttered shop, Watto fluttered down from his perch as Anakin emerged from the back room, wiping grease from his hands with a rag.
"The boy tells me you want to sponsor him in the race," Watto said. "How can you do this? Not on the Republic credits, I think, huh?"
Qui-Gon reached into his robes and withdrew a small device. He activated it, and a blue hologram materialized.
"My ship will be the entry fee."
Watto's eyes widened as he flew closer to examine the projection. "Oh, not bad! Not bad, huh?"
"It's in good order, except for the parts I need."
Just then, another figure entered the shop. Watto went from shrewd to stunned in an instant, his wings freezing mid-beat as he nearly tumbled from the air.
"You're supposed to be dead!" The Toydarian's voice cracked with disbelief.
Tyson stood in the doorway, relaxed, casually.
"I activated the explosive chip when you left the planet, out of range," Watto sputtered, gesturing wildly at the newcomer.
"I removed the chip," Tyson said simply.
Padmé's head snapped up. "He actually did it?" she mumbled, her eyes widening.
Watto's shock quickly transformed into something closer to panic. He fluttered backward, nearly knocking over a stack of droid parts. "The Hutts won't stand for this," he said, his voice rising. "You're property! I'll have them send bounty hunters."
Tyson turned toward Qui-Gon, his posture shifting to something more formal. "Sir, if you don't mind, this vendor and I will need to have a chat."
He glanced at Anakin, who stood frozen near the holographic display. "Why don't you inspect the parts that they're seeking, out in the yard."
Anakin's curiosity about the confrontation clearly warred with his interest in the Nubian ship's components. Qui-Gon placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and gestured toward the door.
"Come on, let's go see this part." The Jedi's tone was measured, though his eyes lingered on Tyson for a moment longer than necessary. "Clearly, they have business to attend to."
"No, wait—" Watto started, his wings beating frantically as he tried to follow the group.
But Qui-Gon had already ushered Anakin, Padmé, Jar Jar, and R2-D2 through the entrance. The door slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, leaving Tyson alone with the Toydarian.
Watto hovered backward, putting distance between himself and the former slave. "Now listen here, you can't just—"
Tyson stepped closer. Watto retreated, darting toward the ceiling.
But Tyson moved faster. His hand shot out and closed around Watto's throat, dragging the Toydarian down to eye level. Watto's wings beat uselessly as he struggled.
"I am not afraid of bounty hunters, or the Hutts." Tyson's voice remained calm, almost conversational. "Do you know why?"
He reached behind his back with his free hand and withdrew a lightsaber. It wasn't his usual Lightsaber. Its design was angular and aggressive. It was one from his Warehouse, retrieved from the body of a Dark Jedi. Watto's eyes fixed on the weapon, his struggles intensifying.
"I'm not afraid because I've killed far worse."
The crimson blade ignited with a snap-hiss that filled the cramped shop. Watto flinched, his entire body going rigid.
"I know you probably don't get much news of the war out here," Tyson continued, adjusting his grip slightly. "But have you heard that Darth Malak died? Do you know how?"
Watto made a strangled sound, his wings still beating frantically.
Tyson leaned closer, almost whispering. "He was killed by his apprentice, as Sith so often are. His apprentice, Darth Typhon."
He pronounced the name slowly, deliberately. "Ty-phon."
Watto's eyes went wider still as the similarity in the names registered.
Tyson disengaged the lightsaber. The sudden absence of the red glow made the shop seem darker than before. He released Watto, who immediately shot upward toward the ceiling, putting as much distance as possible between them.
"Feel free to contact the Hutts." Tyson returned the lightsaber behind his back, where it disappeared into the Grey Goo Suit. "I'm sure that they'd side with you."
Watto rubbed his throat with one small hand. For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its earlier bluster.
"The Sith have new leaders." He swallowed hard. "Ones they say are more powerful than Malak or Revan ever were."
Tyson shrugged dismissively. "You willing to risk your business and life on that rumor? The Hutts don't care about individual slaves," he added, his tone matter-of-fact. "They care about profit and stability. You think they're going to start a war with a Sith Lord over one Toydarian's wounded pride?"
Watto's wings slowed their frantic beating. He descended slightly, though he maintained his distance near the ceiling.
"And even if they did send hunters," Tyson continued, "what makes you think I'd still be here when they arrived? I could disappear into the Outer Rim, the Core Systems. Or I could stay and make an example of whoever they send. Either way, you'd be the one who drew their attention. The one who cost them credits for nothing."
Anger, fear, calculation moved across Watto's face one after another. His business instincts were warring with his desire for revenge.
"The boy, Anakin," Tyson said. "He's valuable to you, isn't he? Does the races, fixes things, bring in credits?"
Watto looked at him with suspicion, but nodded slowly.
"The Jedi will want to sponsor him in the Boonta Eve race. I guarantee it'll be good for you." Tyson gestured around the cluttered space. "Unless you'd rather throw everything away to chase a slave who's already gone."
They both knew where this was heading. Watto descended another few feet, his posture still wary but less overtly hostile.
"What do you want?" The question came out grudgingly.
"Nothing from you," Tyson replied. "I'm already free. But if you're smart, you'll focus on the profit you can still make rather than the property you've lost."
Watto landed on his perch, his small hands gripping the edge tightly. His wings folded against his back as he studied Tyson with renewed wariness.
"The Jedi's offer will be legitimate," Tyson added. "The ship he's offering is worth more than my market value ever was. You could part out a Nubian for serious credits. But it won't matter. The boy will win."
"The boy has never won. What happens when he loses the race?"
"He won't. I'll make sure of it. Bet everything you own on the boy." Tyson moved toward the door. "When he wins, you'll get more than you could dream of with the odds against him. You play along, act like you don't want to give him up. But let the Jedi have his way. When it's all over, you give up the boy and his mother. You'll give me half of the winnings, and you'll have enough left to retire, or, if you still want to sell junk, you can hire some staff to clean this place up and run a legitimate business after we're gone."
Watto's expression remained sour, but he was thinking like a merchant again rather than an outraged slave owner.
"I could still report you," he muttered, though the threat lacked conviction.
"You could," Tyson agreed. "But you won't because it'd be bad for business and bad for your continued existance."
He reached for the door control, then paused and looked back at the Toydarian.
"One more thing. We've settled our dispute through conversation and negotiation. You just be you, bet on the boy, and we'll all be happy. Otherwise, I'll be back, and I won't be so nice."
Drawback Removed!
Watto Property?
The notification appeared in his HUD as he reached for the door control, and the logic tracked. Vicky had neutralized the implant and removed it surgically, but the drawback hadn't cleared until now. The system wasn't tracking just the bomb; it was tracking the condition. Slave. The explosive was just the enforcement mechanism. Freedom required both removing the chain and making the slavemaster acknowledge it was broken. And Watto had just accepted that, however grudgingly.
The door slid open, revealing the bright sunlight outside in the scrapyard. Tyson called out that they'd concluded business, and Watto was now free to speak with them. Qui-Gon and the others returned from their inspection. The Toydarian's gaze flicked briefly to Tyson, who had positioned himself near the back wall, arms crossed.
"As I was saying," Qui-Gon resumed, gesturing toward the holographic projection. "Our ship. It's in good order, except for the parts we need."
"But what would the boy ride? He smashed up my Pod in the last race. It will take some time to fix it."
Anakin's face flushed. His hands gesturing as he spoke. "It wasn't my fault really." The words tumbled out in a rush. "Sebulba flashed me with his vent ports. I actually saved the Pod. Mostly."
Watto's laugh came out higher-pitched, with a nervous edge beneath the amusement. "That you did. The boy is good, no doubts there."
Qui-Gon deactivated the hologram. "I have acquired a Pod in a game of chance. The fastest ever built."
Watto's wings fluttered slightly. His gaze shifted past Qui-Gon toward Tyson again, just for a moment, before returning to the Jedi. "I hope you didn't kill anyone I know for it."
"So," Watto continued, shifting to negotiating, "you supply the Pod and the entry fee. I supply the boy. We split the winnings fifty-fifty, I think."
Qui-Gon's eyebrow raised fractionally. "Fifty-fifty?"
The Jedi moved closer to the workbench, his height forcing Watto to crane his neck upward. "If it's going to be fifty-fifty, I suggest you front the cash for the entry. If we win, you keep all the winnings, minus the cost of the parts I need." He paused, letting the proposal settle. "If we lose, you keep my ship."
Watto's small face scrunched in concentration as he worked through the numbers.
"Either way, you win," Qui-Gon added.
The silence stretched. Watto's gaze darted once more toward Tyson, who hadn't moved from his position against the wall. The former slave's presence filled the room. Watto lifted off the workbench and hovered at eye level with Qui-Gon, settling back into his merchant's shrewdness.
"Deal!" The word came out in Huttese. "Yo bana pee ho-tah, meedee ya."
His small hand extended toward Qui-Gon. The Jedi clasped it firmly, sealing the agreement.
Throughout the entire exchange, Tyson had tracked every gesture, every shift in Watto's demeanor. The Toydarian's performance had been adequate, practical and pragmatic as expected. Only the occasional tremor in his wings and the slight pitch variation in his voice gave away what was underneath.
Anakin exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping. Padmé's expression remained doubtful, her arms crossed as she watched the proceedings.
Watto released Qui-Gon's hand and fluttered backward, putting distance between himself and the Jedi.
"The race is tomorrow," he said. "The boy will need to prepare the Pod, check the systems." He gestured vaguely toward the back of the shop. "You can use my tools, but any damage comes out of your end."
Qui-Gon inclined his head slightly. "Understood." He paused at the shop's entrance, turning back to where Tyson still leaned against the wall. "Would you care to help with the pod maintenance?"
Tyson pushed off from the wall. "Sure."
They stepped out into the harsh sunlight, leaving Watto hovering nervously behind his workbench. The Toydarian watched them go, his wings beating in short, agitated bursts.
As they walked through the streets toward the slave quarters, Qui-Gon glanced sideways at his companion.
"I sensed much fear in him."
"Slavemaster gets scared when the slaves are off the leash. No surprise there."
The glance lasted longer than casual observation warranted. Tyson could feel the subtle pressure of a trained Force-user extending his senses, the equivalent of someone leaning in close.
"You burn very brightly in the Force," Qui-Gon said quietly. "Brighter than anyone I've encountered in some time."
"Is that a problem?"
"Not necessarily. But brightness attracts attention, and not all of it welcome. On a planet controlled by the Hutts, drawing attention is rarely wise."
The observation was pointed without being threatening. The Jedi knew something was unusual about him. That was expected.
Qui-Gon said nothing more.
Later, the porch of Shmi's modest dwelling offered little shade from the afternoon sun. Qui-Gon tucked his comlink away as she emerged from inside, wiping her hands on her apron. Below in the courtyard, Padmé, Anakin, Jar Jar, and R2-D2 clustered around the massive pod engines, their voices carrying up in fragments of conversation.
"You should be proud of your son." Qui-Gon's voice was gentle. "He gives without any thought of reward."
Shmi's face warmed as she watched Anakin gesture enthusiastically at something on the pod's hull. "He knows nothing of greed. He has..."
"He has special powers."
Her gaze snapped to Qui-Gon, wary. "Yes."
"He can see things before they happen. That's why he appears to have such quick reflexes. It is a Jedi trait."
Shmi's hands tightened on the porch railing. "He deserves better than a slave's life."
"The Force is unusually strong with him, that much is clear. Who was his father?"
"There was no father, that I know of. I carried him, I gave him birth. I can't explain what happened."
Tyson stared at the courtyard below, where Anakin was explaining engine modifications to Padmé with animated hand gestures. No father. A virgin birth orchestrated by the Force itself… or by Darth Plagueis manipulating midi-chlorians, depending on which version of the story was to believed.
Knowing that he'd need to fight several of The Sith Lords, Tyson was inclined to believe the latter.
Shmi turned to face the Jedi fully, desperation creeping into her tone. "Can you help him?"
That question was the hardest thing Tyson had heard since arriving on Tatooine. Not because it was unreasonable; it was the most reasonable thing a mother could ask. But he knew what Qui-Gon's help would actually cost her. The Jedi would take her son. Train him. Separate them. And years from now, she would die on this planet, alone, and her son's grief would become the first crack through which an empire crawled into the galaxy.
Qui-Gon's expression grew somber. "I'm afraid not. Had he been born in the Republic, we would have identified him early, and he would have become a Jedi, no doubt. He has the way." He paused, the weight of his next words evident. "But it's too late for him now. He's too old."
Shmi's shoulders sagged, though she nodded as if she'd expected as much. Qui-Gon felt it too, the inadequacy of it. The Council's rules, however well-intentioned, felt brittle against the reality of such a gifted child trapped in bondage.
They descended to the courtyard where Tyson had already positioned himself near the pod's outer shell, running his hands along the surface. His movements were methodical, checking seams and stress points with the same careful attention Anakin showed with the internal systems.
Qui-Gon watched Tyson work for several minutes without interrupting. The Force around this stranger was unlike anything he had encountered; not the dark undertow of a Sith, nor the steady current of a trained Jedi, but as bright as the untrained potential he sensed in Anakin. Yet it was something else entirely. Vast, layered, and it bore the unmistakable mark of someone who had already fought battles and survived. A disturbance that didn't feel wrong, exactly, but felt significant in a way Qui-Gon couldn't quite place.
The observation sat alongside the boy's impossible midi-chlorian count and the Force's insistent pull toward this remote desert world. Two anomalies on one planet. The Living Force was rarely so unsubtle in its guidance.
The afternoon wore on. Jar Jar wandered toward one of the energy binder plates, his long fingers reaching out curiously.
"Hey! Jar Jar!" Anakin's voice snapped out sharply. "Stay away from those energy binders."
"Who, mesa?"
"If your hand gets caught in that beam, it will go numb for hours."
The Gungan leaned closer anyway, peering at the glowing plate. It made a small electronic pop, and a spark jumped out, catching him square in the mouth. Jar Jar stumbled backward, his hands flying to his face.
"Ouch-dats muy bigo Oucho." The words came out garbled, his tongue now thick and unresponsive.
Qui-Gon withdrew a small battery from his robes. He extended it toward Anakin, who accepted it with both hands.
"I think it's time we found out if this will run. Use this power charge."
"Yes, sir!"
Anakin scrambled into the small capsule behind the twin engines, his movements quick and practiced. He slotted the power pack into the dashboard and worked the controls. Everyone stepped back, giving the pod space.
Everyone except Jar Jar.
The Gungan had somehow gotten his hand caught in the afterburner housing. He waved his free arm frantically, trying to call for help, but his numbed mouth produced only incomprehensible sounds.
Padmé noticed first. She rushed over, working the release mechanism while Jar Jar flailed. The housing opened with a hiss, and Jar Jar stumbled free just as Anakin activated the ignition.
The engines roared to life. The sound rolled across the courtyard, sending loose debris skittering across the ground. The twin turbines spun up, their pitch climbing higher and higher until they settled into a powerful, steady thrum.
Padmé clapped her hands together, her earlier skepticism forgotten.
The pod worked, that much was clear. But Jar Jar's mishap with the energy binders had highlighted a problem. The pod was functional, but it wasn't foolproof. Not yet. Sebulba would try something. That was guaranteed. Tyson circled the pod slowly, his mind cataloging the areas that needed reinforcement. The energy binders would need shielding. The fuel lines required additional protection. The control surfaces needed fail-safes.
Anakin killed the engines, and the sudden silence felt almost oppressive after the roar. The boy climbed out of the cockpit, his face flushed with excitement.
"See? I told you it would run!"
Jar Jar managed a garbled sound of approval, though his mouth still hung slack from the earlier shock.
Tyson caught Anakin's eye and gestured toward the outer plating. "Yeah, it runs. But we need to talk about reinforcements."
The boy's excitement dimmed slightly, replaced by focused attention. He nodded and moved to join Tyson.
Tyson knelt beside the outer hull plating, running his fingers along a weld seam, pointing out areas for Anakin, but his attention was split.
Chosen Second pulsed at the edges of his awareness. Not words, not images. A weight. The podrace tomorrow wasn't just a race. It was a hinge point, one of those moments where the future balanced on a knife's edge before tipping one way or the other. He'd known that intellectually from the source material, but the Perk made him feel it, a pull in his awareness that said this matters, pay attention.
And then the other two kicked in, layered on top of each other like competing radio signals.
I Have A Bad Feeling About This sent a cold thread down his spine. Something was wrong with the plan as it stood. Not vaguely wrong. Specifically, wrong; the kind of wrong that meant this would fail. Plague of Butterflies. Whatever narrow path Anakin had walked in the original timeline to pull off that victory, Tyson couldn't count on it existing anymore.
Anakin wouldn't win. Not if he didn't interfere.
Tyson sat back on his heels and stared at the pod's twin engines. Reinforced plating and shielded fuel lines weren't going to cut it. He'd have to do more.
— Star Jumper —
The twin suns of Tatooine beat down mercilessly as Tyson guided his speeder away from Mos Espa's sprawling outskirts. The vehicle had sat in the Warehouse since the last time he was on Tatooine, the mess with D'Lavina, carried him into the endless dunes, each step taking him further from the crowds gathering for the Boonta Eve Classic. Behind him, the distant hum of podracer engines preparing for the race faded.
Tyson had left when Qui-Gon began his negotiations with Watto. The Jedi's plan to free the boy was solid enough, especially with his previous coercion of the Toydarian, but he'd needed to move. He had his own objectives.
Everything relied on Anakin winning. And from what he remembered of the podrace, Anakin shouldn't have even won; there was so much stacked against him. The podracer didn't start at the beginning of the race, all the aggressive driving, Sebulba trying to target him, the fire in the engine mid-race… There were so many points of failure.
Tyson had already done what he could to protect the podracer. He ensured that its outer casing was completely protective. That should remove the potential for Sebulba's easy sabotage and also prevent mid-race issues. He'd looked over Anakin's improvements and made some of his own thanks to In A Desert, With A Box Of Scraps. The podracer should run well.
"Vicky, how's our distance from the settlement?" he asked, his voice muffled by the desert wind.
"Approximately twelve kilometers and climbing. Sensor range of most standard equipment won't reach you here."
Perfect. Tyson brought the bantha to a halt atop a ridge overlooking a vast expanse of rocky canyons.
The Grey Goo Suit responded to his mental command, the nanomachines flowing across his body like liquid mercury. His human features dissolved and reformed to match those of a Tusken Raider. The suit extended upward, creating the distinctive wrapped headgear and breathing apparatus that marked the Sand People. Rough-spun robes materialized around him, complete with the worn leather bandoliers that completed the disguise.
"Project the race route, Vicky. I need to see where they'll be most vulnerable."
A translucent overlay appeared in his enhanced vision, mapping the Boonta Eve Classic's course across the desert landscape. The route wound through three distinct sections.
The relatively safe flats near Mos Espa,
A treacherous canyon runs through the Laguna Caves,
And finally, the open desert stretch where speeds would reach their peak.
The canyon section caught his attention immediately. Multiple chokepoints, elevated positions for snipers, and limited escape routes for the racers. If he were planning an ambush, that's exactly where he'd position his forces.
"Detecting movement signatures approximately four kilometers northeast. Multiple bipedal forms in elevated positions overlooking the race route."
"There we go." Tyson adjusted his course, guiding the bantha toward the coordinates. "How many?"
"Initial scan suggests twelve to fifteen individuals consistent with Tusken Raider physiology. They appear to be establishing firing positions."
The approach took another ten minutes of careful navigation through the winding canyons. Tyson dismounted his speeder a distance away, to avoid drawing unwanted attention. As he climbed toward the ambush site, the distinctive calls of the Sand People drifted down from above.
Tyson crested the final ridge and found himself looking down at a well-organized ambush position. The Tusken Raiders had chosen a ridge surrounded by natural rock formations that provided both concealment and clear firing lanes across the race route below. Fifteen warriors moved between the positions, checking their weapons and adjusting their aim points.
To the assembled Raiders, he was simply another member of the tribe arriving to participate in the hunt. The Grey Goo Suit's camouflage held perfectly, even under close scrutiny.
One of the Raiders approached, speaking in the harsh tongue. "You are late, brother."
"I am here now to spill their blood," Tyson replied, matching the appropriate dialect and inflection.
The Raider grunted approval and gestured toward an unoccupied firing position. "Take the eastern approach."
Tyson moved to the indicated position, noting the careful placement of each warrior. These weren't random desert nomads; they were experienced guerrilla fighters who had experience conducting these ambushes.
He settled into position behind a cluster of weathered rocks, his borrowed rifle, a primitive but effective slugthrower, resting across the stone. From here, he had a perfect view of the canyon floor where the podracers would soon be screaming past at incredible speeds.
The other Raiders paid him no attention now, focused on their own preparations. Tyson used the opportunity to study their position.
"Race start detected. First wave of podracers entering the canyon system in approximately eight minutes."
Around him, the Tusken Raiders raised their weapons and began their hunting calls, wild, ululating cries that echoed through the canyons.
The trap was set. Soon, Anakin and the other racers would come screaming through this canyon, completely unaware of the crossfire waiting for them.
Tyson checked his weapon and settled into his position.
The distant roar of podracer engines grew louder as the first lap approached the canyon section. Tyson adjusted his position behind the weathered rocks, carefully propping his borrowed slugthrower against a natural stone rest. The rifle's weight settled perfectly into the groove he'd found in the sandstone, leaving him free to operate the weapon with just his right hand.
Master With Your Hands sharpened his coordination and reflexes when wielding weapons with a single hand. He needed to use the prop to easily control the long-barrelled weapon without using both hands.
Around him, the other Tusken Raiders went silent. Fifteen rifle barrels tracked the empty canyon floor below, ready to unleash fire on the approaching racers.
The first podracer screamed into view around the canyon's bend. Tyson's enhanced vision immediately identified the distinctive orange and yellow coloring of Sebulba's podracer.
But something was different with the expected order.
In the movie, Anakin struggled at the back of the pack, fighting to overcome the mechanical problems that had plagued his start. Instead, the boy's distinctive blue and silver podracer held a solid position in the upper third of the racing field.
Their modifications had worked. The protective casing and additional components he'd integrated into Anakin's podracer had eliminated the startup issues that should have left the boy trailing behind. Instead of desperately trying to catch up, Anakin was already moving through the field.
Plague of Butterflies and It's The Little Things That Matter were definitely in play, but this time the changes were working in their favor.
Sebulba's podracer continued its approach, the Dug pilot's aggressive maneuvering forcing other racers to give way or risk collision.
Tyson settled his breathing and aligned his sights. The rifle's scope brought Sebulba's cockpit into sharp focus, the Dug wearing racing goggles. At this range, with the podracer's speed and the canyon's wind patterns, he would have perhaps two, maybe three seconds of optimal firing opportunity.
Master With Your Hands and the Force guided his movements as he tracked the approaching target. His right hand found the perfect grip on the rifle's stock, his index finger resting lightly on the trigger.
The other Tusken Raiders began opening fire as the lead racers entered their kill zone. The canyon erupted with the sharp cracks of slugthrower rifles and the whine of blaster bolts. Several podracers immediately began evasive maneuvers, their pilots suddenly aware of the deadly crossfire they'd flown into.
Sebulba's podracer was still approaching Tyson's position, the Dug apparently confident that his speed would carry him through the ambush unscathed.
Tyson exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle bucked against his single-handed grip, but Master With Your Hands kept his aim true. The slug streaked across the canyon in a perfect ballistic arc, aimed directly at Sebulba's cockpit.
At the last instant, the Dug's podracer hit a thermal updraft from the canyon floor. The sudden lift carried the racing machine just high enough that Tyson's shot passed beneath the cockpit, missing by mere centimeters.
Tyson was already working the rifle's bolt action, chambering a fresh round. His Augment enhanced reflexes, and the Perk's influence let him cycle the weapon faster than should have been possible with a single hand.
Sebulba's podracer was still in range, but the angle was changing rapidly as the Dug pilot continued his high-speed approach. Tyson adjusted his aim, leading the target by several degrees to account for the podracer's velocity and the projectile's travel time.
The second shot rang out just as Sebulba's engines reached their closest point to Tyson's position. This time, the slug found its mark, striking the podracer's left engine housing with a metallic clang that was audible even over the roar of the racing engines.
Sparks erupted from the impact point, and Sebulba's podracer immediately began to wobble as the damaged engine lost power. The Dug pilot fought to maintain control, his podracer dropping altitude as it struggled to stay airborne on reduced thrust.
But Sebulba was nothing if not resourceful. Even as his left engine sputtered and sparked, he was already adjusting his racing line to compensate for the power loss. The podracer's right engine roared louder as the Dug pushed it beyond safe operating parameters, using the increased thrust to maintain his position in the race.
Tyson worked the bolt action again, chambering his final round for this engagement. Sebulba's podracer was almost past his firing position now, the angle becoming increasingly difficult as the Dug pilot continued down the canyon. This would be his last clear shot before the target moved out of effective range.
He tracked the wobbling podracer through his scope, noting how Sebulba was fighting to keep the damaged machine stable. The left engine was definitely compromised, trailing a thin stream of smoke and sparks, but it was still providing some thrust. A complete engine failure would likely force the Dug out of the race entirely, but a partial failure might just slow him down enough to give Anakin the advantage.
Tyson aligned his sights on the already-damaged left engine, aiming for the fuel lines that fed the combustion chamber. A hit there would either cause a catastrophic explosion or force a complete engine shutdown. Either outcome would effectively end Sebulba's participation in the race.
The rifle settled into perfect alignment as Master With Your Hands guided by the force, lined up his final shot. Tyson's finger tightened on the trigger as Sebulba's damaged podracer continued its erratic flight down the canyon. The Dug pilot was fighting to maintain control, his left engine trailing smoke and sparks, but still managing to keep pace with the other racers.
The rifle cracked one final time, the slug streaking toward its target. But Sebulba's podracer had already moved beyond optimal range, and the projectile fell short, striking the canyon wall several meters behind the racing machine.
Tyson lowered the rifle and watched as the Dug pilot disappeared around the next bend, still in the race despite the damage to his engine. The other Tusken Raiders continued their barrage on the remaining podracers, their wild shots creating a deadly gauntlet that forced several pilots into dangerous evasive maneuvers.
A yellow podracer took a direct hit to its starboard engine, the explosion sending the machine cartwheeling into the canyon wall. The pilot ejected at the last second, thrown clear of the wreckage. Another racer, a red one piloted by a Rodian, lost control trying to avoid the falling debris and crashed into a rock formation with a thunderous impact.
Through it all, Anakin's blue and silver podracer maintained its steady progress through the field. The boy's natural piloting instincts, enhanced by his Force sensitivity, allowed him to navigate the chaos with remarkable skill. He threaded between the incoming fire and avoided the wreckage of his fallen competitors, gradually working his way toward the front of the pack.
"Second lap approaching. Sebulba's podracer showing significant performance degradation from engine damage," Vicky reported.
Tyson reloaded his rifle, working fresh rounds into the magazine. The other Raiders were already repositioning for the next wave of racers. But Tyson had a different objective.
The distant roar of engines grew louder as the surviving podracers completed their first circuit and approached the canyon section once again. This time, the field was more spread out, the faster machines having pulled ahead while the damaged or cautious pilots fell behind.
Sebulba's distinctive orange and yellow podracer came into view first, but its performance was clearly compromised. The left engine continued to trail smoke, and the Dug pilot was having to compensate constantly for the uneven thrust. His racing line was erratic, weaving back and forth as he struggled to maintain speed through the canyon's turns.
Behind him, gaining steadily, came Anakin's podracer. The boy had moved up in the standings.
Tyson settled back into his firing position, tracking Sebulba's approach through his rifle scope. The Dug was flying lower this time, trying to use ground effect to compensate for his reduced engine power. That brought him well within range of the Tusken ambush positions.
The other Raiders opened fire as soon as the lead racers entered the kill zone. Several racers immediately broke formation. Sebulba, however, pressed forward. His damaged podracer weaved through the incoming fire, the pilot's skill evident despite his machine's compromised performance. But his reduced speed made him a much easier target than during the first lap.
Tyson led the target carefully, accounting for the podracer's velocity and the slight crosswind that had developed in the canyon. He tracked Sebulba's flight path, waiting for the optimal moment to fire.
The rifle bucked against his grip as he squeezed the trigger. This time, the slug found its mark perfectly, striking Sebulba's already-damaged left engine dead center. The impact triggered a cascade failure in the engine's fuel system, and it exploded in a brilliant fireball.
Sebulba's podracer immediately went into an uncontrolled spin, the sudden loss of half its thrust sending the machine tumbling through the air. The Dug pilot fought desperately with his controls, trying to regain stability before the inevitable crash.
The podracer slammed into the canyon floor with tremendous force, cartwheeled end over end before finally coming to rest in a boulder field. Smoke and steam rose from the wreckage, and Sebulba crawled clear of the cockpit, battered but alive.
Anakin's podracer shot past the crash site moments later, the boy now holding a commanding lead over the remaining field. His blue and silver machine flew clean and fast, no longer having to contend with Sebulba's aggressive blocking.
The other Tusken Raiders cheered at the successful kill, their hunting calls echoing through the canyon. To them, bringing down the lead racer was a significant victory, proof of their superiority over those who dared to violate their territory.
Tyson was already reloading, preparing for the third and final lap. With Sebulba eliminated, Anakin's path to victory was much clearer, but there were still other threats in the field. Several of the remaining racers were skilled pilots with fast machines, and any one of them could potentially challenge the boy's lead.
"Third lap commencing. Anakin Skywalker has established a significant lead over the remaining field. The next closest competitor is approximately fifteen seconds behind."
The canyon fell quiet as the racers completed the second circuit and moved on to other sections of the course. Tyson used the lull to study the tactical situation, reviewing what he knew about the remaining competitors.
The Dug pilot Gasgano was still in the race, his orange podracer. Behind him came Teemto Pagalies in his distinctive yellow machine, followed by several other racers whose names Tyson didn't recognize.
Any one of them could potentially catch Anakin if the boy made a mistake or suffered mechanical problems. The race wasn't over yet.
The roar of engines announced the approach of the final lap. This time, Anakin's podracer appeared first around the canyon bend, the boy having built a substantial lead over his remaining competitors.
But behind him, gaining ground with every turn, came Gasgano's orange podracer. The Dug pilot was pushing his machine to its absolute limits, his engines screaming at maximum power as he tried to close the gap. His racing line was aggressive and dangerous, cutting close to the canyon walls to shave precious seconds.
Tyson shifted his aim to the approaching threat, tracking Gasgano's podracer through his rifle scope. The Dug pilot was flying fast and low, using every trick he knew to maximize his speed through the canyon section.
The other Tusken Raiders opened fire as the racers entered their kill zone for the final time. Their shots were more focused now, concentrated on the lead machines rather than scattered across the entire field.
Tyson waited for the perfect moment. Master With Your Hands steadied his aim.
The rifle cracked, and Gasgano's engine erupted in flames.
Gasgano's podracer spiraled out of control, the Dug pilot fighting desperately to maintain altitude as his damaged engine spewed flames and debris. The orange machine clipped a rock outcropping and disintegrated in a spectacular explosion that sent wreckage cascading across the canyon floor.
Anakin held an insurmountable lead over the remaining field. The boy's path to victory was clear, with no remaining competitors capable of challenging his position.
The other Tusken Raiders erupted in triumphant hunting calls as they celebrated another successful ambush. To them, the destruction of multiple podracers represented a significant victory against the outsiders who dared to violate their territory.
Tyson lowered his rifle and began gathering his equipment. His mission here was complete. Sebulba and Gasgano were both eliminated, clearing the way for Anakin's victory. The boy would win the race, earn his freedom, and keep the events of the larger story on their proper course.
At least until Plague of Butterflies changed something else.
He made his way back to where his speeder waited. The other Raiders paid him little attention, already focused on salvaging what they could from the wreckage below and preparing for their withdrawal from the ambush site. By the time he reached the outskirts of town, the podrace had concluded, and the crowds were beginning to disperse.
Tyson made his way through the dusty streets toward Watto's junkyard. The sounds of celebration echoed from various cantinas and betting parlors. He arrived at the junkyard just as the group was preparing to leave with their supplies. Qui-Gon stood near a heavily loaded speeder, checking the hyperdrive components they'd acquired. Anakin bounced excitedly nearby, still wearing his racing outfit and practically glowing with pride from his victory.
"Tyson!" Anakin called out as he spotted the approaching figure. "Did you see the race? I won! I actually won!"
"I heard the news," Tyson replied, managing a smile for the boy's enthusiasm. "Congratulations. You flew brilliantly out there."
Padmé emerged from Watto's shop, carrying a small bag of additional supplies. She looked relieved to see him. "We were wondering where you'd gone. The race finished over an hour ago."
"I had some business to attend to," Tyson said vaguely. "Nothing important."
Qui-Gon's eyes fixed on him with a penetrating stare."Business?" he asked quietly. "What sort of business takes one away during such an important event?"
"The sort that ensures Anakin won the race. Sometimes the best way to help is to remove obstacles before they become problems."
Something shifted in Qui-Gon's expression, though he gave nothing away openly. He glanced toward the desert, then back at Tyson. "I see. And were these obstacles successfully... removed?"
"Anakin won, didn't he?"
Qui-Gon nodded slowly, but his attention was clearly focused on something beyond the simple fact of the boy's victory. "Indeed he did. Quite decisively, in fact. Several of his main competitors suffered unfortunate mechanical failures during the race."
"Racing is dangerous," Tyson said with a slight shrug. "Equipment fails. Pilots make mistakes. Not everyone can handle the pressure."
"True enough." Qui-Gon paused, studying Tyson's face. "Watto seemed quite pleased with the outcome. He mentioned following your advice about betting on Anakin."
"Good for him. He recognized a good deal when he saw it."
"He was quite loose-lipped after he realized I was a Jedi," Qui-Gon continued, still conversational, though something more serious ran beneath the words. "Said he didn't much care about losing the slaves, since the betting profits more than made up for it."
Tyson could sense where this conversation was heading.
"He also told us about an interesting conversation he had recently," Qui-Gon added. "Something about being threatened with a lightsaber."
The silence after those words stretched between them like a challenge. Tyson was acutely aware of the others nearby, Anakin still chattering excitedly about the race while Padmé organized their supplies. R2-D2 beeped softly as he rolled around the speeder, checking the load distribution.
Qui-Gon stood relaxed, his hands visible and away from his weapon, but he could draw his lightsaber in an instant if the situation called for it.
"Watto has an active imagination," Tyson said carefully.
"Perhaps. Though he was quite specific about the details. The color of the blade, for instance. And the particular threat that was made." Qui-Gon's eyes never left Tyson's face. "He seemed genuinely frightened by the experience."
A sudden chill ran down Tyson's spine, as I Have A Bad Feeling About This triggered.
The Perk flooded through his awareness, sharpening everything. Something was coming. Something dangerous, and soon.
Darth Maul. It had to be. Unless Qui-Gon was more threatening than Tyson imagined. If his metaknowledge held, the Sith apprentice would be arriving soon to capture or kill the Queen.
Tyson forced himself to relax. Threatening Qui-Gon wouldn't be helpful. He'd explain himself, and maybe learn more in the process.
"Are you apprised of happenings in the galaxy and the Sith?" Tyson asked.
Qui-Gon nodded slowly. "The Council keeps us informed of major threats."
Tyson glanced around the junkyard, noting that Anakin was still excitedly recounting race details to Padmé while R2-D2 beeped encouragingly. They were far enough away that a quiet conversation wouldn't be overheard.
"I was on Taris when the Sith blockaded the planet," Tyson began. "I was the one who freed Bastila Shan from her captivity. When they escaped the planet, I created a diversion, but it ended with me being captured by Darth Malak. He saw my potential and took me as his apprentice. I cooperated, but it was a ploy. I was the one who defeated him."
Qui-Gon's eyebrows rose slightly, but his expression remained carefully controlled. He gestured toward the edge of the junkyard, away from the others. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation while we walk." They moved toward the desert's edge. "The Council reported a similar story," Qui-Gon said after a long moment of consideration. "Describing an untrained Force-sensitive by the name of Darth—"
"Typhon," Tyson interrupted. "Yeah, that was me. But I never fell to the dark side."
Qui-Gon stopped walking and turned to face him fully. He extended his senses, probing carefully at Tyson's Force presence, and Tyson let him.
"I don't sense the dark side has touched you," Qui-Gon said finally, surprised. "So you defeated the Sith Lord, then fell into slavery?"
Tyson resumed walking, his gaze fixed on the horizon where heat shimmer distorted the distant rock formations. "Bastila traveled with another Jedi, one who'd lost his memory. It was Revan. When we battled on the Star Forge, he fell to the Dark Side once again. The Star Forge was destroyed, and Revan was killed."
"The reports we received were... incomplete. The Council knew of Malak's death and the destruction of the Star Forge, but the details were unclear. Many assumed Revan had redeemed himself and destroyed both."
"He tried," Tyson said. "For a while, it seemed like the light side had truly reclaimed him. But the power of the Star Forge... it corrupted him again. In the end, I had no choice."
"You killed Revan?"
"I had a bit of help, he was far stronger than Malak, stronger than me. I did what had to be done. The galaxy couldn't survive another Sith Empire, especially not one with unlimited resources."
Qui-Gon nodded thoughtfully. "The Jedi Code teaches us to preserve life when possible. But sometimes the greater good requires difficult choices."
They reached a small rise that overlooked Mos Espa. From this vantage point, the crowds were still dispersing from the podrace arena.
"How did you end up in slavery?" Qui-Gon asked.
"After the Star Forge, I was... lost," Tyson said, searching for an explanation. "I'd spent time pretending to be Sith, walking that line between light and dark, and I wasn't sure how the council of Dantooine would respond to me. I wasn't a trained Jedi, and technically, I was the new Sith Lord since I killed my master, the previous one." What Tyson had said was mostly the truth. But now it was time for some creative fibbing to match up with what the Jedi expected. He couldn't come out and say that he'd chosen a Drawback to become a slave.
"I wandered the Outer Rim, trying to find my place. Eventually, I ran afoul of some Zygerrian slavers."
"And you didn't use your abilities to escape?"
Tyson was quiet for a moment. "I could have. But part of me thought... maybe I deserved it."
Qui-Gon's face gentled. "Guilt is a powerful prison. Often more confining than any physical chains."
"Watto bought me a few days ago. I thought I'd work in his shop, keeping my head down, trying not to draw attention." Tyson glanced back toward the junkyard where the others waited. "Then I met Anakin, sensed his presence, and you arrived with the Queen."
"You recognized us."
"I recognized the situation. A Jedi traveling with someone important, mechanical problems forcing a stop on Tatooine... it felt familiar. Like the Force had brought us together."
Qui-Gon studied him carefully. "And you decided to help."
"I decided to make sure things went the way they were supposed to go. Anakin needed to win that race. You needed those hyperdrive parts. The Queen needs to reach Coruscant." Tyson met the Jedi's gaze directly. "Sometimes the best way to serve the light is to remove obstacles from the shadows."
"Hence your conversation with Watto about betting odds."
"And my business in the desert during the race."
Qui-Gon was quiet for a long moment before a small smile touched the corners of his mouth. "The Council would have difficulty understanding your methods," he said finally.
"The Council doesn't need to know about me or my methods. They just need to know the mission succeeded."
"True enough." Qui-Gon turned back toward the junkyard. "We should return. We have a long journey ahead of us, and I suspect our troubles are far from over."
As they walked back, Tyson let some of the tension go. Qui-Gon's acceptance, or at least understanding, of his situation was more than he'd dared hope for.
"There's something else you should know." Qui-Gon said. "The Sith Lords aren't extinct. Malak and Revan weren't the last of them."
Qui-Gon's expression grew grave, and when he spoke again his voice was grim. "New Sith Lords rose to fill the power vacuum left by Malak's death. They emerged from the shadow of Malachor. This new Sith Lord is a devourer of worlds. They destroyed all life on the planet Katarr, where a Jedi Council meeting was taking place."
"All of them?"
"Every Jedi present was killed, devastating our numbers. The Order has been crippled by the loss." Qui-Gon's voice remained steady, but the grief was unmistakable. "My Padawan and I were dispatched to Naboo to prevent infighting between a Republic member system and the Trade Federation. The last thing we need is a civil war while such a large threat looms in the galaxy."
They had reached the edge of the junkyard. Qui-Gon stopped and turned to face Tyson directly, his expression serious but not unkind. "Return with us to Coruscant. I believe the Force brought us together for a reason."
Tyson opened his mouth, but Qui-Gon continued before he could speak.
"You have a unique Force aura. One that shines like a beacon. I'm afraid if you're left alone, the Sith will seek you out like moths to a flame."
"You think I'm a target?"
"I think you're a powerful Force-sensitive with combat experience against Sith Lords. That makes you either a valuable ally or a dangerous enemy in their eyes." Qui-Gon's tone was matter-of-fact. "Either way, they'll come for you eventually."
The logic was sound.
"All right," Tyson said. "I'll come with you."
Qui-Gon nodded, relief briefly visible before he moved on. "Good. We'll need to move quickly. I sense our time here is running short."
They rejoined the group, where Anakin's joy at winning the race was pouring through the Force, impossible to miss.
Padmé approached with a pair of bags. One she handed to Tyson, he opened it to find credit chips.
Credits: 10,115,350
"We're ready to leave whenever you are, Master Jedi. Watto has provided everything we need for the hyperdrive repairs."
"Excellent." Qui-Gon glanced toward the desert, his expression thoughtful. "We should collect Anakin's mother and depart immediately. I have a feeling our window of opportunity is closing."
Shmi emerged from Watto's shop, carrying a small bundle of personal belongings. Hope and apprehension fought for control of her face as she looked at her son, then at the group of offworlders who had changed their lives so dramatically in such a short time.
"Are you certain about this?" she asked Qui-Gon quietly. "Taking us away from everything we've known?"
"The Force has a plan for your son, Shmi. I can feel it. He has a destiny that extends far beyond Tatooine."
Anakin ran to his mother's side, taking her hand in his. "It's going to be wonderful, Mom. We'll see the galaxy! Real cities with buildings that touch the clouds, and oceans that stretch to the horizon, and—"
"And you'll receive proper training," Qui-Gon interrupted gently. "The Jedi Temple has resources that will help you understand and control your abilities."
Tyson watched the family reunion with mixed emotions. He knew what lay ahead for Anakin, the trials and temptations that would eventually lead to his fall. But he also saw the pure joy on the boy's face, the hope in Shmi's eyes, and the genuine care in Qui-Gon's demeanor.
If Tyson could keep them both alive, it would undoubtedly change Anakin's fate.
Watto emerged from his shop. "Bah! Good riddance," he muttered in Huttese, though his tone lacked real conviction. "Humans are too much trouble anyway."
R2-D2 rolled forward and beeped a cheerful farewell to the junk dealer, who ignored the droid completely.
"We should go," Qui-Gon said, shouldering his travel pack. "The sooner we reach the ship, the sooner we can depart for Coruscant."
The group began walking through Mos Espa's dusty streets. Anakin chattered constantly, pointing out landmarks and sharing stories about his life in the city, while Shmi walked quietly beside him, her hand resting protectively on his shoulder.
Tyson brought up the rear, his senses alert for any sign of danger. The earlier warning from I Have A Bad Feeling About This still prickled at the back of his mind. Their mission was far from over.