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On the rare occasions Tatooine shows up in the holonews, the Core newscasters are always using words like “lawless” and “anarchic.”
Right now, Luke almost wishes that were true.
Or, well, it’s definitely true on a planetary scale. For however many troops the Empire has sent to Tatooine — Biggs calls it an occupation, as if they ever get more than one or two lost-looking Storm Troopers only half-heartedly looking for contraband and “seditious materials'' out where they are — the truth is that no one’s ever held the whole of this dust bowl but a Hutt with every criminal enterprise under his thumb. Which means just about every enterprise on Tatooine.
Anchorhead Freeholding, though, prides itself on being different. Oh, they all tighten their belts and pay their so-called taxes, little more than extortion by Jabba’s goons, and keep their eyes averted when someone’s child comes back from offworld with gifts just a bit too nice to have been gotten lawfully. But still, they’re a community, however sparse and spread out, and they value hard work, honesty, self sufficiency.
And self governance.
Not that anyone outside the hundred-odd households that make up the Anchorhead Freeholding pays much mind or any respect to the Freehold Council.
But gods forbid Luke not attend and actually stay for the entirety of the bi-monthly Freeholder’s Meeting. Even if the conversation about what percentage of banthas the ranchers should have to retain for sale within the Freeholding this year has dragged on for two hours now without even a glimmer of a final vote call in sight.
Luke would vote for just about any proposal at this point, if someone would finally put one forward. In fact, he would happily go without bantha meat for a year, so long as it made Fixer’s father stop interjecting to call literally every suggestion “completely unworkable.”
Or maybe Biggs' mom, the current Council Chief, will pull out her blaster and stun Fixer's father. It's a long shot, since blasters are banned within the meeting hall. (There was some kind of incident back when Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru were kids. Everyone has a different story about what actually happened, with the only common thread being that at some point Camie's grandad got shot. He got better, of course, but supposedly he’s never set foot in the meeting hall since. Though sometimes he heckles loudly through the windows. Luke’s heard him.) Someone shooting Fixer's father just a little might make staying actually worthwhile.
Everyone even remotely Luke’s age snuck out ages ago, Biggs catching Luke’s gaze and jerking his head to the exit in invitation before he left.
But Great-Aunt Ozmay gets seats up front by the Council's Bench, saved for her on account of her being a respected former Council Chief and one-time principal of the Freehold school. Luke could hardly get up and leave without shoving past half a dozen people who were bound to take both notice and offense.
So he’d simply shook his head miserably and then been abandoned to the travails of direct democracy.
Which is why he’s here now, approximately a galactic age later, chin in hand, listening to Wyn Sandskimmer shout at his cousin Niya Turpaan, rehashing some disagreement over which vaporators belong to which family. Luke’s pretty sure their families have been arguing about this since Wyn and Niya’s mothers were little girls.
“What does this even have to do with banthas anymore?” Luke mumbles, mostly to himself.
Beru pats his knee absently.
“You’re seventeen,” Owen had said early that morning, immediately cutting off Luke’s attempts to point out that really, he could better use the time in town to pick up some much needed supplies too unusual to be found in Tosche Station. “Old enough that you ought to contribute. You’ve been able to join the voting for a year. You need to be paying attention.”
Beru had smiled sympathetically but added, “And you know how my mother likes for us all to be there when it comes to the school funding vote.”
Luke hadn’t conceded aloud right then, but of course his aunt and uncle had won with that point. Luke loves his great-aunt but maybe more importantly, he is deathly afraid of her narrowed-eyed glare and will do a lot to avoid having it rest on him.
“If it weren’t for your Great-Aunt Ozmay, none of those droid language modules of yours would’ve been bought, much less gotten over to Tosche Station for you to install them before harvest,” Owen added. As if Luke wasn’t well aware of that.
The modules had been the one bright spot of harvest season holo-school this past year. Ozmay had grilled Luke on what he’d learned every time she visited and made him some griddle cakes when he was able to solve the recurring translation failure between her different generations of greenhouse bots.
“Okay, okay,” Luke said, holding up his hands in appeasement. “I’ll stay and vote.”
He still spared a moment to think wistfully of Old Ben Kenobi out in the Jundland Wastes. Luke bet no one ever badgered him to weigh in on whether vaporator filter updates ought to be mandatory six or eight weeks before harvest. He probably did whatever he wanted with his vaporators.
By the time the meeting wraps up, it’s late afternoon and Luke is ravenous. He scarfs down a sandwich quickly, then mumbles, “I’m gonna go find Biggs and Windy.”
Beru nods absently before turning back to her conversation. Luke makes his escape while everyone’s distracted.
Not surprisingly, he finds Biggs near the edge of town, outside the mechanic’s shop. Windy’s inside, elbows resting on the counter as he listens avidly to Tavia explain something with swooshing hand gestures. He’s wasting his time there, Luke thinks vaguely. Of all the kids in their age-group, Tavia seems the likeliest to follow through on her big dreams, actually get her ticket off-planet the legitimate way: an Academy acceptance, a TIE fighter cockpit, credits sent home monthly. Luke envies her. No homestead tying her back here.
“Any fist fights break out?” Biggs asks, waving Luke over to the low wall around the mechanic’s lot.
Luke rolls his eyes as he hops up. “Nah, I wish. Your mom kept everything under control.” Luke tips his head sideways and amends, more truthfully, “Mostly, anyway.” Then he kicks Biggs lightly in the ankle. “She’s gonna be annoyed you ducked out.”
“Ah, I’ll make it up to her,” Biggs replies, stroking that dumb mustache he’s started growing because he thinks it makes him look more grown-up. (Actually, it suits him, but Luke’s not gonna tell him that, not when he keeps talking about getting off-world and abandoning Luke, who won’t get done with school for a whole other year.)
“Maybe actually do your civic duty next time?” Luke offers.
“Okay, okay,” Biggs says, holding up both hands like he’s warding off Luke’s irritation. “Does the model citizen want something to drink?” he asks, pulling a flask from an inner pocket of his vest and dangling it out for Luke.
“Yes, please,” Luke says, grabbing for it.
Biggs laughs. “Guess it’s the least you deserve.”
The whiskey burns pleasantly at the back of Luke’s throat and the cooling wind carries with the faint snatches of all the gathered Freeholders’ conversations as it ruffles through Luke’s hair.
It’s enough for Luke to admit, as carefully offhand as he can manage, “Well, it wasn’t totally awful. Some of it was okay.”
He holds the flask out to Biggs, who takes it and tips it up towards Luke for a moment before drinking.
“To democracy, then,” Biggs says.