IV

Obi Wan Kenobi stilled his shaking hand by tightening his grip on the glass of juri juice.

Swilling the sickly, blue liquid around the glass he took a simple pleasure in watching it cling to the sides of the glass. It fascinated him more and more as he aged, how all things were bound together by The Force.

All about him the cantina bustled with the usual throng of black marketers, smugglers, thieves, podracers, gamblers, grafters and conniving opportunists. People without futures, dogged by grisly pasts. He discerned snippets of a hundred conversations in over a dozen languages. The words sometimes different, the intent usually the same;

"You hear about how Drax got busted?"

"You didn't hear this from me but-"

"What else could I do? I dumped my shipment and took off!"

"Damned Star Destroyers are staking out all our best routes."

"Gonna put me out of business!"

He felt a strange kinship with them, though he was quite certain that even amongst such a menagerie of ne'er-do-wells he was unique.

He was a Jedi. A Jedi who had just dispatched a squadron of Imperial Stormtroopers.

The adrenaline of battle was leaving him now and in its wake, a curious mixture of emotions gnawed at the aging warrior. Chief amongst them was anxiety. Kenobi had avoided death at the hands of Imperial forces, but in doing so he had created a scene that would require a great deal of cover-up.

He had been careful during his encounter with the Imperial Stormtroopers, had dispatched them by deflecting their own blaster bolts back at them. That much he had done prudently. He would have to sanitise the scene of the conflict and he would be forced to rely on local help to do so. Covering up the deaths of Imperial soldiers was dangerous enough. Not even the more scrupulous of the mercenaries and spacers that frequented these parts would turn a blind eye to bodies that bore the charred slashes of a lightsaber.

And Kenobi knew that, above all else, the Empire must never learn that a Jedi was hiding on Tatooine. If he were caught or killed, if his silent vigil over the Skywalker boy were to be terminated…

The consequences didn't bear thinking about.

His aged hands relaxed their grip on the glass. His contact would arrive soon. The situation was dire, certainly, but still under a modicum of control. He had sabotaged the gates to the hangar where the Stormtroopers' ship was docked. With luck he and his hired help would be able to remove all trace of the bodies, erase or alter the ship's flight log, bribe the bloated and corrupt officials to look the other way. He had enough money to play the game.

His gaze returned to the pool of luminescent blue liquid in his tumbler. The image stirred in him a memory that took some time to place.

The lakes of Naboo.

Despite the circumstances of his visit he had always found the planet to be one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. A beauty that was reflected in microcosm by its lost, one time Queen.

Padme.

He felt a twinge at the memory of her deep brown eyes, the genuine warmth of her smile.

He had loved her. He could admit that to himself now.

He had loved her in a way that Anakin had sensed, but never understood.

It was a love that he himself could scarcely understand, nearly two decades after her tragic death. It was certainly not the carnal, lustful attachment she had shared with Kenobi's former apprentice, nor was it entirely the avuncular love that one feels for the betrothed of a close friend.

The Jedi's reverie was interrupted abruptly when he became aware of a presence immediately to his right. Casting his eyes in that direction he discerned a figure clad in Echani fibre armour, registered the hilt of a blaster. Its hip holster clipped shut. A good sign.

"There's a sand storm approaching,"

The stranger's voice was hoarse and quietly spoken, yet Kenobi sensed an inner strength and confidence behind the voice. A confidence that ensured that the voice rarely needed to be raised. Relaxing visibly he spoke the agreed response;

"It would seem so, the banthas are restless."

The Jedi rose and offered a hand to his contact. Satisfied that he had found his mark, the visitor shook it and stepped around the small table, taking the seat opposite Kenobi.

"I am Danyl Starblade," the stranger announced, "And I understand you have a problem that could use my attention."

Kenobi stroked his beard, pensively, as he appraised the mercenary selected for him by his informants. He was in his early to mid forties, about the same height as he, and slender of build. His hair was sandy in colour and cropped close to his head. Above his right ear an ugly scar puckered the flesh of the temple reaching up to his hairline and back to the base of his skull. Deep worry lines were etched into the skin of his forehead and his green eyes, though they conveyed intelligence and moved furtively, were wreathed in a network of deeply set wrinkles. There are some faces that can tell the story of their wearer at a glance and Danyl Starblade's spoke of hardship and suffering. On his back he carried a bulky pack and in his gauntlets and thigh holsters were numerous pouches and compartments, presumably stuffed with all manner of gadgets and weapons.

A background in military service was a given, but the light, sleek Echani armour he wore and the regal standing of his character implied something else. An appreciation of culture and history? Extensive martial training? A strong sense of discipline and tradition? Any of those could be capitalised upon by Obi Wan Kenobi.

"My name is Ben," Kenobi decided to withhold his surname for the time being, "and I was told that you could be trusted."

"A word of advice, friend. If you're looking to deal out trust I'd look elsewhere. I doubt there's a man here worthy of it, including myself."

"Nevertheless," the gentleman warrior responded with a wry grin, choosing his next words carefully, "I have a task ahead of me that requires your expertise… As well as a certain personal disposition."

Starblade's eyebrows arched, his interest piqued.

"And what disposition might that be?"

"I have spent over a decade here on Tatooine. I know something of the types that come and go through space ports like this. A great many are ambivalent to the Empire, more still fear it. A few seek to oppose it. A few retain something that might resemble a conscience."

Starblade scoffed;

"Hating the Empire doesn't necessarily require a conscience. There are a lot of smugglers, peddlers and black marketers round these parts. None of them have any love for the Empire, but their reasons are far from noble. Imperial Governors permit a very select few black marketers to trade in exchange for a few personal indulgences and the right to seize any stock that interests them. And they come down hard on the ones they won't turn a blind eye to."

Kenobi's eyes twinkled slightly, this mercenary grew more ideal for his purposes with every moment.

"But you don't share their views?"

Starblade considered his reply, taking a long hard look at the steely haired gentleman before him.

"I don't involve myself in politics. The Republic and the Empire are the same creature with different faces to me. There are some in the Empire who genuinely care for the citizens in their power and there were those in the Republic who were corrupt and greedy. People talk a lot about 'the good old days', hindsight clouds their memories, The Old Republic wasn't as just and fair as people remember. It's guilty of many of the same things that the Empire."

"Surely not all the same things."

There was a barely perceptible shift in Starblade's demeanour. A tightening of the jaw, a narrowing of the eyes.

"No… Not all the same things,"

Slowly, deliberately, Starblade looked around the room before continuing.

"I don't know who you are, old man, but just having this conversation is an act of treason. Imperial spies are everywhere and there's nothing that I'd consider beneath them. Before I continue I should let you know that if I'm being used, if I get the slightest hunch that this is some kind of set up… well, I'm more than capable of taking out you and everyone else in this sand- hole."

A nod of acknowledgement was Kenobi's only response.

After taking one more furtive glance around, Starblade leaned in closer and spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

"For the past five years, the Emperor and a handful of Governors have been personally overseeing the capture and distribution of slaves. That's unforgivable, and it's something I intend to fight. Slavery and slave traders boil my blood. Personal reasons, I trust you won't press me any further on the subject."

Kenobi smiled affably,

"Of course. Though, at the risk of sounding trite, the slave trade is nothing new. Why, right here on Tatooine the merchants and junk dealers, even farmers have employed slave labour."

"But never so far in the interior as Coruscant. Slavery was seen as the disgusting and shameful business it was in the outer-rim territories. It never had the sanction of someone who's supposed to be a leader!"

On that last word, Starblade brought his fist down upon the small round table, adverting his eyes in silent, personal rage.

Kenobi bowed his head reverently, allowing his new companion a moment to compose himself.

He had learned everything he needed to know about his enigmatic new companion.