Chapter Text
A child stolen is a hope lost.
Qui-Gon entered into the cockpit just as they passed into Mandalorian space.
As usual, Obi-Wan didn’t have to turn to see him coming, just called out a greeting as soon as Qui-Gon came near, still studiously keeping an eye on the piloting.
Obi-Wan was very nearly sixteen now, and growing into it with ill-temper. He clearly did not appreciate the growth spurts or voice changes. His padawan’s braid, much longer now, was decorated with more beads than Qui-Gon could count— white for Healing, blue for mechanics, red for piloting, green for precognition, and yellow for lightsaber skills. At this point there were going to be more accomplishments than hair.
“We’re almost there, Master,” Obi-Wan said. “Do you want to take the con?” This part was asked almost hopefully. Despite his piloting skills, Obi-Wan never seemed to like flying much. He was better, even, than Qui-Gon, but whenever Qui-Gon told him so he laughed, like Qui-Gon was telling a joke.
“No, sorry,” Qui-Gon said. “I’m still reading up on Mandalore.”
Obi-Wan gave him a surprised look, then shook his head, as if remembering. “Right,” he said. “We’ve never been there before.”
Qui-Gon didn’t comment. Obi-Wan could see the future— this was one of the many things one got used to when Obi-Wan Kenobi decided he was your padawan.
“Do you know what your friend Jango wants from us?” Qui-Gon asked. “I mean really?”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “No,” he said. “But I have a… feeling.”
“Bad feeling?”
“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said. “I don’t think so. There’s something big coming. But I don’t know what.”
“Unusual for you,” Qui-Gon said, and grinned at the annoyed look that earned him.
Jango Fett, a bounty hunter who had helped the Jedi a few years ago in catching some rogue Sith, had called them again for assistance. Theoretically, it was to help investigate some complaints at one of the spaceports involving Republic citizens. Mandalore held no love for the Republic; they typically hated the Jedi only slightly less. But the Jedi were neutral, which meant the investigation was a good job for them.
But in reality Qui-Gon didn’t think that was a big enough reason to call in the Jedi. Typically the Mandalorians took care of their own problems. Historically, quite violently.
Qui-Gon thought this might be a reach— however slight— towards the Republic as friends. For reasons known only to Qui-Gon’s padawan, Obi-Wan had greatly encouraged Jango Fett and Master Dooku to stay in contact after their mission together. They talked, begrudgingly, though so far as Qui-Gon could tell it was mostly arguing about politics. Mandalorians and Jedi were not typical bedfellows.
Still, the acquaintanceship had come in handy during an incident on some distant planet, whereupon Jango’s sect of Mandalorians had clashed with some other sect of Mandalorians, and the Jedi had been called in to help. Galidraan could have been a disaster if Dooku and Fett weren’t regular holochess partners.
So maybe that was the reason behind this summoning to Mandalore— a tentative step towards alliance with the Republic, or at least with the Jedi.
Qui-Gon looked at Obi-Wan, who had his head cocked as if he was physically listening to the Force, an odd little habit of his.
Maybe.
The atmosphere got a little rocky as they passed towards the planet itself. Obi-Wan didn’t seem to notice, flying with almost lazy ease. If Obi-Wan didn’t think he was very good at piloting, Qui-Gon looked forward to meeting the person who was better than his padawan.
Obi-Wan set them down at the port. Qui-Gon could see a group of armored Mandalorians milling around the ship, but nothing looked overly threatening— just cautious.
“Ready, my young padawan?”
“Ready,” Obi-Wan said, wrestling himself into his robes, which it appeared they were going to need to replace again. The boy was growing like a weed. He stopped mid-step to the door. “Something…” he muttered.
“Danger?” Qui-Gon asked, hand straying to his lightsaber.
“No,” Obi-Wan said. “It’s like…” he shook his head, thoughtfully. “It’s all right, Master.”
“Then stay centered on the moment,” Qui-Gon reminded him, and led them out the ramp.
Two of the armored figures stepped out to approach them as they exited. It was impossible to tell their genders, ages, or species. They were hard to read in the Force, but again, they just seemed on guard, not as if they were going to attack at any moment.
“Greetings, Jettise, ” said the first one. “Welcome to Mandalore.”
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan bowed.
The second warrior said something to the first in Mando’a, sounding of an insult, and Qui-Gon’s lips twitched. Obi-Wan was fluent in Mando’a, yet another mystery about the boy considering they didn’t teach it in the Temple.
The first elbowed them. “We will take you to the Mand’alor.”
“Thank you,” Qui-Gon said, and they followed after the warriors as they led them out of the spaceport and into a village.
It was a surprisingly quiet area— quaint, mostly one-story homes, some shops, children running back and forth, most of them not yet in armor. Most of the adults, but not all, were wearing at least some form of Mandalorian armor, and some put on their helmets as the Jedi passed by. Not aggressive, just watching.
Qui-Gon leaned over to Obi-Wan. “What’s the Mand’alor?” he asked in an undertone.
“Master,” Obi-Wan said, fondly exasperated. “I thought you read the history of the planet.”
“I did,” Qui-Gon said. “Once you get going through about fifteen different wars you start to go a little cross-eyed.”
Obi-Wan grinned. “Jango’s in charge here— you didn’t know that?”
“I did not know that,” Qui-Gon said. “Why did he come to blow up a Trade Federation factory with us then?”
“I believe he thought it would be fun,” Obi-Wan said.
The rude Mandalorian looked back and saw them whispering. They said something in Mando’a to their friend, loud enough for the Jedi to hear. Obi-Wan grinned.
Finally they reached a little circle of houses, green grass growing around them, a garden half climbing up a wall.
“Here you are,” said one of the Mandalorians.
“ Vor entye,” Obi-Wan said cheerfully. “ Ret'urcye mhi, ori’ramikadase.”
There was an embarrassed silence.
“You speak Mando’a,” one of them said.
“I do,” Obi-Wan said.
“You did not,” the other one said, “Think to inform us of this before?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Obi-Wan said, looking up at them completely guilelessly. “That would be rude.”
There was another silence. Then the Mandalorians laughed. “No wonder the Mand’alor likes you!” one said. They reached over and ruffled through Obi-Wan’s hair, which he endured as though this was the height of indignity. The Mandalorian whistled. “Jango! Get out here!”
“Bye kid,” the other one said, and they wandered back into the village as one of the doors opened and a few people stepped out.
Jango Fett, without his helmet, walking with a woman.
“Oh,” Obi-Wan said.
He was looking at the woman. Qui-Gon realized he recognized her too; it was the woman from Cato Neimodia, Fett’s guest. Shmi something.
More specifically, he was looking at the bundle in Shmi’s arms. A baby, not more than a year old. Obi-Wan was laser-focused on the kid, eyes a little dreamy in that way he only got when he was seeing the possibilities of a future.
“ Su cuy'gar,” Jango said. Again, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon bowed. “Welcome. Thanks for coming.”
“Of course,” Qui-Gon said, and Jango and Shmi came closer to greet them.
“I’m Shmi Skywalker,” the woman said, introducing herself. She didn’t have a Mandalorian accent, but she was wearing a bit of armor, just over her torso, and vambraces on her arms, with a long dress underneath. She looked at Obi-Wan, and her eyes crinkled. “It’s good to see you again.”
“An honor to be invited to Mandalore,” Obi-Wan said, with another bow.
“And who’s this?” Qui-Gon asked, peering at the baby. As he did it stirred and blinked up at them.
“Little Ani,” Shmi said fondly, uncovering the baby’s face to show them. Wisps of blonde hair and baby blue eyes stared up at them.
“Nice to meet you, little one,” Qui-Gon said.
“Hello, Anakin,” Obi-Wan breathed, reaching out to the baby. It reached back, and wrapped a chubby hand around Obi-Wan’s finger.
The Force thrummed between them— Qui-Gon looked at the baby in surprise. He was Force-sensitive. It was impossible to tell how much without a real test or without seeing him manipulating the Force when he got a little older. Maybe that was how he would fit into the future.
Qui-Gon took a very relaxed approach to the futures his padawan foresaw. They would happen, or they wouldn’t. No use worrying about it in Qui-Gon’s eyes. Not if he didn’t want to go mad.
Obi-Wan and Anakin detangled from each other and Obi-Wan stepped back, behind Qui-Gon where padawans traditionally stood.
“Thanks for coming,” Jango said. “You got our briefing on the situation?” They nodded. “All right. Some of the town elders want to meet you, then we can talk.”
They moved to follow.
“Can you spare your apprentice to help me?” Shmi asked, hefting the baby. “I’m making tea.”
“Of course,” Qui-Gon said, not without envy. Obi-Wan got to help with the housework while Qui-Gon had to deal with the politics. “Go along then, Obi-Wan.”
Shmi led Obi-Wan into a different home than the one she and Jango had come out of. It was clear as soon as Obi-Wan stepped inside that this one belonged to Shmi. It had the telltale cleanliness of most slave quarters, and was not overly cluttered— she could pack up and move at any time.
But she had started to collect personal effects too; holos, books, and a whole section of baby things by the crib. Mandalorians loved children— Obi-Wan was sure she’d had no difficulties finding things for little Anakin.
Shmi put Anakin in a bouncing chair hovering by the table, and moved over to the kitchen to make tea. “Thanks for coming,” she said.
“For two or three people missing at a spaceport?” Obi-Wan asked dryly. He’d wondered the real reason behind Jango calling them in, but here it was. Bouncing in his high chair.
Obi-Wan could not see the future— not any more than living through it allowed you, anyway. Obi-Wan was not fifteen years old. He was sixty-something. It was a whim of the Force, or a desperate attempt at balance, or something else entirely that Obi-Wan had never figured out. Either way, he was back, and he was making the most of his gifted time.
Shmi rolled her eyes at him. She put the kettle on the stove and went over to Anakin, sitting beside his rocker. “He’s like you, isn’t he?”
Obi-Wan sat on the other side of the table. “He is,” he said. “When did you know?”
She gave him a sardonic look. “Well, the whole immaculate conception thing was a pretty good clue,” she said. “But, well… it became obvious after only a short while. He cries when people are upset around him. He knows when I am coming, even when I’ve left him with someone else for the day. The other day, I dropped his pacifier.”
“And he caught it,” Obi-Wan said, nodding. This was a common story with Force-sensitive children. Not, of course, to this great a degree. There really was no one like Anakin Skywalker. “Without touching it.”
“Exactly,” Shmi said.
Anakin was burbling, just baby-nonsense, in his rocker.
“May I?” Obi-Wan reached for him.
“Go ahead.”
Obi-Wan picked him up. He was a fat, cheerful baby, and he giggled when Obi-Wan put him onto his lap. He bounced him a few times on his knee, and little Anakin laughed again and patted his cheeks cheerfully.
Obi-Wan reached gently for Anakin in the Force. Anakin reached back, clumsy but instinctive and bright in the Force.
It was familiarity, destiny, a sense of rightness.
“There you are,” Obi-Wan said, and smiled.
“I dream of him, sometimes,” Shmi said, and Obi-Wan looked at her. “That ghost. The one of the future that is no more.”
Shmi had been, briefly, possessed by the Force ghost of Anakin from the future, who had then returned to the Force forevermore. It was a complicated situation.
“He was so strong,” Shmi said. “So determined to stop the bad things from happening. But also… so sad. So much grief.” They watched Anakin fuss, then settle as Obi-Wan started to bounce him again.
“He’s strong in the Force,” Obi-Wan said. “But that won’t be him. The future has changed.”
“Is he going to find trouble?” Shmi asked.
“Oh, of course,” Obi-Wan said, letting Anakin play with his braid. Then he realized how that could possibly be construed as alarming to a new mother. She had a very interesting look on her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I only mean that Anakin is going to be very powerful, for good or for ill. You’ll have to protect him from people who might want to use that power, and you’ll have to protect him from himself.”
Shmi was quiet. “Do I have to give him to the Jedi?”
Obi-Wan shook his head. His braid swung, and Anakin grabbed for it clumsily. Shmi gave him a toy instead, which Anakin rattled, pleased. “No,” Obi-Wan said. “Despite what you might hear, the Jedi are not baby-snatchers. We won’t take him unless you give him up. And even then you don’t have to decide for a little while yet.”
Shmi held out her arms; with a little reluctance, Obi-Wan gave Anakin back. “But is giving him to the Jedi the right thing to do?” she asked. “You can see the future.”
“Not that,” Obi-Wan said. “You’ll have to decide for yourself.”
“But he would be a great Jedi,” Shmi said.
“The best,” Obi-Wan said. “But that’s not all that’s important.”
Shmi looked down at Anakin, smoothing a hand over his head. Anakin must have sensed her mood, because he dropped his toy and whined. “I’ll think about it,” Shmi said.
Obi-Wan inclined his head at her.
The tea kettle whistled.
Qui-Gon finished up with his interminable go-around with the local leaders just as Obi-Wan and Jango’s— wife?— apparently finished laying out tea. The baby chewed on a soft toy in a bouncer chair.
They sat down at the table, and Obi-Wan poured the tea— he was the youngest there, which traditionally made it his job.
“Tell us about these problems you’ve been having,” Qui-Gon said, as they settled in. Meeting with the local Mandalorians had suggested that if Jango really was trying to reach out a hand to the Jedi, it wasn’t the most popular decision— but Qui-Gon sensed that they would follow what he chose. The Mand’alor, apparently, was a very respected position.
Jango and Shmi explained in turns.
People had gone missing in one or two of Mandalore’s spaceports— or so the ships that brought them there claimed. People had gotten off one ship, gone into the port, and never gotten on another. They had also, so far as Mandalore could tell, never left the port either.
“We’ve put some people on it. But they’ve all come up empty so far,” Jango said, spreading his hands in a kind of what are you going to do gesture. “Maybe your Jedi magic can get further.”
“The Republic does not appreciate its citizens going missing,” Shmi said. “But we don’t want them poking around here either. Hopefully you can help us solve this.”
“We will do our best,” Qui-Gon agreed. It was small business, but no less important, and sometimes a calm mission was a relief.
Well, in theory. He wasn’t quite sure he and Obi-Wan had ever had one.
They finished tea, and were led out to a two-person speeder— theirs, for the duration of the time they were on Mandalore. Qui-Gon had never seen the model before, but Obi-Wan, unsurprisingly, seemed familiar with it.
“Good luck,” Jango said, and dug in his pockets for something. He came out with a handful of sweets. “Here, kid. You like rrdush candy?”
“I’m not a child,” Obi-Wan said, affronted, and Qui-Gon glared at Jango. It was clear for anyone to see that the Mandalorian stereotype of being voracious adopters of various pathetic lifeforms was true. If Jango Fett had his way, Qui-Gon was sure, Obi-Wan would have his own armor by now. Jango rattled the handful of candy. Obi-Wan sighed. “Yes, I do like it.”
Jango grinned. He poured the wrapped candy into Obi-Wan’s hand, who transferred it into the pocket of his robe, looking long-suffering. “Knew you would. Not a lot of beings could handle spicy Mandalorian candy, but you’re manda through and through, aren’t you?”
“I am in fact,” Obi-Wan said, “a Jedi.” Qui-Gon tried not to look too smug.
Jango laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “All right. What’s the saying? May the Force be with you.”
Obi-Wan was very well-acquainted with the back alleys and roads less travelled of Mandalore. When he was here, as a child— when he was really a child— it had been almost solely how they had travelled. Being recognized could mean a death sentence.
Things were better now.
Though they didn’t advertise that they were Jedi, more or less nondescript under the robes, it also probably wouldn’t mean too much if they were discovered. Unfriendliness, maybe, or aggression from Mandalorians who didn’t respect the Mand’alor as much as the others did. Nothing they couldn’t handle.
They got off the speeder at the first spaceport.
Obi-Wan pulled down his hood so he could squint at the datapad. “This is where the first two went missing,” he said. “A Twi’lek travelling to Coruscant for work, and a human on an extended academic trip. Studying flies, apparently, in various sectors of the galaxy.”
“Fascinating,” Qui-Gon said dryly. “I’m sure their research is dearly missed.”
“You’re such a cynic, Master,” Obi-Wan said, and pulled up his hood again as they entered the spaceport.
When you had been to enough spaceports, every one in the galaxy started to look exactly the same, and this one was no exception. There were benches scattered around, a stand selling foods of dubious quality, ticket counters for different transport lines.
Several private shuttles from planet to planet operated out of this port, but they reported their passengers rigorously and they all claimed none of the missing people had gotten on board their ships.
Qui-Gon was observing the port with the same practiced ease. “Go mingle,” he said. “I’m going to speak with the security chief.”
“Yes Master,” Obi-Wan said, and ducked away into the crowd.
It was easy enough to get a feel of the room. Parents bouncing fussing children on their laps. A Fiumerian sleeping with her eyes open on a bench. There were a couple doors whose purposes weren’t entirely clear.
Obi-Wan got into the first one by virtue of an employee absentmindedly holding the door for him. It turned out to be just a break room, with some of the spacers inside playing cards or smoking t’bac. Obi-Wan left before anyone noticed him.
Most of the rest of the station was like that. Obi-Wan found a VIP lounge, a control room, and a storage closet where a group of very shady beings were swapping death sticks.
But finally he encountered a very nondescript door off a hallway. The Force told him to take notice of it. All the other employee doors needed keycards, but this one required a biometric scan.
Obi-Wan examined the door. He was sure he could slice through it, given enough time, but this was a public place and people tended to frown on that sort of thing. He felt the access panel, wondering if his Temple slicing classes had paid off enough that he could use the Force to manipulate something this delicate. Probably not.
“Hey!” someone said behind him.
Obi-Wan turned, taking great care to avoid looking startled.
“What are you doing here?” It was a human man, in something like a uniform but not the ones the employees at this port wore. His face didn’t soften much when he saw Obi-Wan wasn’t an adult. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”
Obi-Wan gave him an innocent look. “Yes I am,” he said. “I’m meeting my buir here— we’re going on a trip.”
“No,” the human said, “You’re not.”
“But—” Obi-Wan said.
“Let’s go, kid,” the human said, grabbing Obi-Wan’s arm and starting to drag him away. His grip was very tight, wrapped around his bicep. He wasn’t leading Obi-Wan back towards the crowd, though— instead, towards an emergency exit, probably leading to some back alley.
He could turn and slice off the man’s arm with his lightsaber. But he was pretty sure that would create a bigger scene than they wanted at the moment. Obi-Wan started planting his feet. “Let me go!”
“We’ll see if you’re telling the truth soon enough, brat,” the man said. “Stop wiggling.”
Obi-Wan tried to wrench out of his hold. But then— a familiar Force presence. He stopped struggling just as a shadow loomed across the hallway.
“What’s going on here?” Qui-Gon rumbled. Obi-Wan turned to look. His Master looked suitably menacing, his arms folded and a thunderous look on his face.
“I told you I was meeting my dad,” Obi-Wan said. Finally, the man let him go, after looking at Qui-Gon and visibly measuring the considerable height difference between them.
“Your kid was trespassing,” the man said, but he was already taking a step back.
“Was he?” Qui-Gon asked neutrally.
“No,” Obi-Wan said, indignantly.
“Come on,” Qui-Gon said, beckoning Obi-Wan over. He came, shooting the guard a smug look. “Thank you for taking care of him,” he said, and spun Obi-Wan, marching them both the other direction. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes,” he told Obi-Wan.
“It’s not my fault,” Obi-Wan said. “I was lost.”
Qui-Gon chuckled. “Come on,” he said. “The spaceport security has agreed to help us.”
He led Obi-Wan into the security office, which was outfitted with a huge wall of camera monitors and a Twi’lek security chief, looking decidedly glassy-eyed. “You’re back!” he said cheerfully. “I’d be happy to help you!”
“Oh, Master,” Obi-Wan said reprovingly. “You can’t try diplomacy once?”
“This was faster,” Qui-Gon said, of the clearly mind-tricked security chief. “Hello again, Chief Cotan. That trouble we saw on the monitor was only my wayward apprentice.”
“That’s nice!” said poor Chief Cotan.
“Did you find anything?” Obi-Wan asked.
“They don’t know anything here,” Qui-Gon said. “And there’s too much security footage to sift through to track the movements of all the missing people. At least, there was before. Chief Cotan, what’s behind the restricted door off hallway two?”
“Um,” Cotan said.
“Don’t worry,” Qui-Gon said, waving a hand. “You want to help us. We’re harmless.”
“You’re harmless,” Cotan repeated. “Well, I guess I might as well tell you! We’ve been taking bribes to open that up as a private hangar.” Then his face scrunched, as he tried to puzzle out why he’d said that.
“That is, so far as I’m aware, illegal,” Qui-Gon said.
“Yeah,” Cotan said. “But most places do it. Don’t worry— they’re not criminals or anything. They’re just trying to avoid Republic taxes. And who can blame them, am I right?”
“Let’s see the footage of that area,” Obi-Wan said.
Cotan scrambled to obey. Soon enough he pulled up the holocam footage of the hallway Obi-Wan had almost been caught in. It was easy enough to find the dates where the two missing passengers had gotten off one ship and never gotten on another.
They scrolled through. It took a while, with several hours of footage and more passengers and guards passing through frame. But eventually both passengers were seen, being escorted by someone in the same guard uniform as the one who’d grabbed Obi-Wan, going into the door and not coming out.
Neither looked in distress or under duress, walking calmly at the guard’s side, holding their travelling bags. That didn’t necessarily mean they weren’t in trouble, but at the moment it really did appear they had just chosen to take a cheaper and more inconspicuous mode of transportation.
But then— why didn’t they ever arrive?
“Hey…” said the Chief, slowly. “Why did I—”
“Time to go,” Qui-Gon said, and they hustled out of the office and disappeared back into the crowds of the spaceport before he could come to his senses enough to really notice them.
The footage had caught more than just two passengers going inside the private hangar; people as of yet unidentified.
“I think we’ll need to get the real authorities involved on this one,” Qui-Gon told Obi-Wan. “We’re guests here, after all, and the Mandalorians might not appreciate it if we start kicking down doors.”
“Probably not,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Jango will be able to get the accounting of their off-the-books operations, but that means they won’t operate in this area again— if we want to find the people behind the smuggling, we’ll probably end up chasing them all over the galaxy.”
“Then let’s hope,” Qui-Gon said, “we can just find the missing people and send it to someone higher up the chain than us.”
“Are we ever that lucky?” Obi-Wan asked.
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan went back to the village while the Mandalorians descended upon the spaceport, slightly terrifyingly. They had given the Jedi a copy of the security tapes before they went, and Qui-Gon pulled up the holo over the kitchen table now. Anakin was sleeping in a cradle in the corner, as they had retreated once more to Jango Fett’s home.
“Here’s the guards in charge of the private bay,” Obi-Wan said, fast-forwarding through, to a still of one of them leading someone Qui-Gon didn’t recognize, who looked like a well-worn traveller, through the door. It struck Qui-Gon that the crew of this ship did not look very equipped for hospitality, but that they were equipped for a fight. There was something bigger going on here. “The people at the port didn’t think anything of it— they see private security teams all the time.”
Shmi frowned at the screen. “Zoom in on the uniform, please,” she said.
Qui-Gon did. It revealed a patch on the shoulder— a triangle, with some kind of flower inside it. It hadn’t come up in any preliminary searches as of yet, and Obi-Wan hadn’t recognized it, which was kind of a rarity.
Shmi hissed through her teeth. “Jujuminmee sleemos,” she said, and swore some more. In Huttese, not Mando’a, so far as Qui-Gon could tell, which was interesting.
“Slavers?” Obi-Wan said, frowning. He put a hand on his chin and peered at the holo.
“You’d think they’d know better than to operate here,” Qui-Gon said. “Are you certain? What is that symbol?”
“I’ve seen it. They’re a small slavery operation,” Shmi said. “They call themselves the Controllers. They’re trying to move up in the world— they sell to the Hutts, the mines, everybody. Demagolka.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully.
“They will not operate on Mandalore,” Jango said.
“You’ve gotten reports of people missing, but I assume that is only a very small fraction,” Shmi said. “The ones you know of are only the ones who will be missed. Most of them wouldn’t be.”
That was disquieting.
The baby stirred and started to cry.
Jango got up and plucked him out of the cradle, bouncing Anakin on his hip. “They won’t be welcome on my planet again,” he said. “But that won’t stop the supply line. Not to mention that it won’t get them back.”
“Your supercommandos are taking them into custody right now,” Obi-Wan said. “They may know the next stop on the trail.”
“If there’s information to find, my soldiers will find it,” Jango said. He was still rocking his son up and down, and the boy was slowly calming. “Give us a little while.”
With nothing more to do for the moment, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan were allowed to roam the town freely. Shmi herself went out to a little garden behind one of the homes, and invited the Jedi to join her if they so wished.
Obi-Wan shot Qui-Gon a pleading look— he was good enough with plants, but Qui-Gon was sure an afternoon of gardening was not the epitome of excitement for someone his age. Qui-Gon waved him off, and his padawan gratefully trotted over to a knot of Mandalorian children about his own age.
Shmi settled down in the earth, and put her son in a playpen, off to the side, where Anakin could play around in the garden and she could keep an eye on him. She lent Qui-Gon a pair of gloves, and they weeded quietly for a time. The garden was mostly food, good carb-heavy fare that would last a long time, but there were flowers too, clustered almost shyly at one corner of the yard.
Qui-Gon loved almost nothing more than good honest gardening, getting mud caked under his fingernails and watching the Force breathe through nature.
“Is this your job here?” Qui-Gon asked Shmi. “To tend the gardens?”
Shmi laughed. “Oh, goodness, no,” she said. “Mandalore’s fields are much bigger, much more complicated. I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with horticulture at all. I actually work in the mechanic’s bay.” Gently, she helped a plant stand up, leaning on a stake. “But when I got here, the idea of growing my own food, a little space of life on my own— well, I wanted to try it out.”
“You know a lot about slavery,” Qui-Gon said, careful not to offend. “You’re not from here.”
“Not all Mandalorians are born on Mandalore,” Shmi said, with a wry smile. “And not all beings are born free.”
Ah. “I am truly sorry to hear that,” Qui-Gon said.
Shmi shrugged. “Perhaps it was your Force which brought me out of it. Or maybe that is not giving people enough credit— kind people, who knew I should be free.”
“The will of people and the will of the Force work in tandem,” Qui-Gon said.
“It is a nice thought,” Shmi said.
A burbling sound— Anakin, chattering to himself as babies did— drew both their attention. He was playing in the dirt, pushing mud around with his baby-fat hands. There was a flower there, wild, wilting into the ground.
Anakin was obviously displeased with the state of it. Still babbling, he poked at the leaves. The flower straightened on its own, infused gently with power, greener than before.
“He has the Force, you know,” Qui-Gon said.
“Your boy told me,” Shmi said quietly. Then she looked at him sharply. “He also said I didn’t have to choose yet.”
“You don’t,” Qui-Gon said, amused. “Don’t worry. I don’t make a habit out of taking babies and running.” No matter what the Council may have liked to tease him about. “But it is better, especially for a child of his power, to stay in the Temple. It will help him learn to control his abilities.”
Shmi looked again at her son. “I don’t know if I could do it.”
“Some parents change their minds as the children get older,” Qui-Gon said. “Force-sensitive children can become quite a handful.”
“Nothing Anakin could do would make me want to give him up,” Shmi said. “He’s my son.” She smiled. “No matter how much mischief he may get into in the future.”
A cheer rose up from the children playing in the square. They were playing some kind of game Qui-Gon didn’t recognize, but that Obi-Wan had seemingly already known. The Mandalorians had quickly enveloped him in the fold, and as they chased after the ball it would have been difficult to pick Obi-Wan out of the crowd if it wasn’t for his much lighter hair and his trailing braid.
Sometimes it was difficult to know if Qui-Gon was teaching Obi-Wan more than Obi-Wan was teaching him. “I suppose I could see where you’re coming from,” he said.
The children’s shyness about an outsider quickly wore off, and soon enough Obi-Wan was asked to spar, the game abandoned. This was about as normal as play for Mandalorian children, like Jedi children might have been curious to lightsaber fight someone new in the Temple.
Obi-Wan agreed, and they had a pretty good time wrestling playfully in the dirt— Obi-Wan only used the Force by request, and the kids who already had their beskar left the weapons out of it. Some of the older kids decided to teach him their own fighting method, which was unsurprisingly a lot dirtier than the way they taught hand-to-hand in the Temple. It was actually kind of educational.
“It’s a good stance,” one of the girls, half stripped out of her beskar for range of motion, said. “But you’re reaching too far. You have a smaller range of motion than you think you do. Were you trained by someone much bigger than you?”
That was when Qui-Gon chose to make his appearance, behind them. Jango was with him— Obi-Wan could sense both their presences without having to look. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, raising a wry eyebrow.
“By the ka’ra, ” the girl muttered. “Big is a bit of an understatement.”
“All right, all right,” Jango said. “Scatter off somewhere else, kids. We’ve got stuff to do.”
There was a chorus of protests and groans.
“Shoo!” Jango said, and lurched forward, growling. They screamed and giggled, scattering off in all directions.
“Ret'urcye mhi, Obi-Wan!” they called out as they left.
“Ret’! ” Obi-Wan said, waving as he returned the goodbye.
“How do you make friends so fast?” Qui-Gon asked.
Years of diplomatic experience, but also because being under the tutelage of Qui-Gon Jinn often meant making friends before his Master could cause trouble. Usually so he could convince them to help them out of it. Also, and Obi-Wan might deny this one, he sort of had his own tendency of picking up pathetic life-forms. Obi-Wan did not say any of this.
“Did you find the slavers?” he asked.
“The ones we got our hands on were mostly recruiters,” Jango said. “They find people who seem desperate, have no one who will miss them, and they offer them passage on their ship. When they find out they’re not going to be getting to their destination, it’s already too late.”
“That’s awful,” Obi-Wan said.
“They don’t know who the leader is or what the final destination is. They pointed us to Feriae Junction,” Jango said. “Said that’s the next stop on the tour.”
“That’s where we’re going next?” Obi-Wan asked, mostly to Qui-Gon and slightly hopefully.
“That’s where we’re going next,” Qui-Gon said, tugging at Obi-Wan’s braid. “But you get to explain to the Council.”
It was not, of course, that easy, which is why they waited until they had already boarded the ship meant for Junction, and were already in hyperspace, until they called in the Council.
“Only you two could get sent on a milk run mission and uncover a slavery ring,” Mace Windu said, flickering blue over the communications console.
“It could happen to anyone,” Qui-Gon said.
“I am so sure,” Mace said, “That it could not.”
Obi-Wan grinned.
“This is technically under the Senate’s purview,” Mace said. “They’re the one with anti-slavery taskforces.” And the taskforces had even been running faster lately, with both Palpatine and the Trade Federation and Banking Clans out of the way. But that only meant faster, not fast. Acting quickly when others could not was what the Jedi were for.
“I think it would help with diplomatic relations on Mandalore,” Obi-Wan said. “They’re taking this very personally. They would appreciate Jedi help.”
Mace pinched the bridge of his nose. “Granted,” he said. “But not on your own— I’m sending you some backup. Slavery operations can get nasty.”
“Tahl?” Qui-Gon suggested.
Obi-Wan shook his head. “She and Bant just finished the mission on New Apsolon.” Entirely successfully, too— Obi-Wan knew this because he had been in increasingly panicked contact with Bant for the past week.
Obi-Wan had kept up a habit once he’d gotten to the past of keeping track of his friends. Sometimes this was through his misused Council codes, sometimes it was through his excellent grasp of gossip, and sometimes he just talked to them. “Dooku and Bruck are stuck doing agricultural mediation on the other end of the galaxy, Garen and his master are on a long-term mission… Quinlan and Master Tholme are the closest,” he decided.
“It’s good to know someone in this Order can keep track of all the wayward Jedi,” Mace said, and hung up without saying anything else.
“He loves us,” Obi-Wan said.
“Most certainly,” Qui-Gon said.