The Dragon in the Dying Star

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐁𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧

Chapter V: Disciple of Bogan

Hope is like the sun. When one journeys towards it, the shadows of their burdens are cast long behind. This was the feeling of warmth that spread through Dejah Thoris as the crowd swarmed young Anakin Skywalker in a multitude of extolment.

The viewing platform settled in place smoothly, and its occupants off-loaded onto the raceway in a rush. Allowing their companions to join the celebration, the Jedi Knights turned back toward the stands. Ascending the stairways swiftly, they reached Watto's private box in minutes. A knot of aliens departed just in front of them, laughing and joking in several languages, counting fistfuls of currency and credits. Watto was staring out at the chanting crowd, hovering at the edge of the viewport, a dejected look on his wrinkled blue face.

The moment he caught sight of them, his dejection transformed, and he flew at the Jedi Knights in undisguised fury.

"You! You swindled me!" He bounced in the air in front of them, shaking with rage. "You knew the boy was going to win! Somehow you knew it! I lost everything!"

Qui-Gon smiled benignly. "Whenever you gamble, my friend, eventually you'll lose. Today wasn't your day." The smile dropped away. "Bring the hyperdrive parts to the main hangar right away. We'll come by your shop later so you can release the boy."

The Toydarian shoved his snout against Qui-Gon's nose. "You can't have him! It wasn't a fair bet!"

Dejah Thoris leveled the dealer with a chilling stare. "Would you like to discuss it with the Hutts? I'm sure they would be happy to settle the matter."

Watto jerked as if stung, his beady eyes filled with hate. The red woman frightened him more than most. "No, no! I want no more of your tricks." He gestured emphatically. "Take the boy! Be gone!"

He wheeled away and flew out of the box, body hunched beneath madly beating wings. The Jedi watched him depart, then started down the stairs for the racetrack, their minds already turning to other things.

Had they not been so preoccupied with their plans for what lay ahead, the two Jedi might have caught sight of the Sith probe droid trailing after. It's scanners locking on to tribal Heliumite tattoos and transmitting the images out somewhere into the midst of the Dune Sea.

Within an hour, the arena had emptied, the racers had been stored or hauled away for repairs, and the main hangar left almost deserted. A few pit droids were still engaged in salvaging pieces of wreckage from the race, corning and going in steady pursuit of their work. Anakin alone of the Pod pilots remained, checking over his damaged racer. He was dirty and ragged, his hair spiky and his face streaked with sweat and grime. His jacket was torn in several places, and there was blood on his clothing where he had slashed his arm on a jagged piece of metal during the battle with Sebulba.

Dejah watched him thoughtfully, standing to one side with Padmé and Shmi as the boy, Jar Jar, R2-D2, and C-3PO moved busily over the Pod and engines. Could it be? She was wondering for what must have been the hundredth time, pondering the way the boy handled a Podracer, the maturity he exhibited, and the instincts he possessed. Was it possible?

Qui-Gon surely thought so...

She shelved his questions for another time as the Jedi Master himself appeared at her side. It would be up to the Council to decide. Abruptly, Qui-Gon left the women, walking over to the boy and kneeling beside him.

"You're a bit worse for wear, Ani," he said softly, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders and looking him in the eyes, "but you did well." Smiling reassuringly, he wiped a patch of dirt off the boy's face. "There, good as new."