Boonta's Bounty

Mergul Ri'Dar didn't believe in luck and he certainly didn't believe in the will of the living force. Not here. Not on Tatooine.

So why then was he betting his last credits on a pod race? Because he believed in paying his debts – especially when they were owed to a Hutt – and because he had simply run out of any other option.

The other Hutts might not have realised it yet, but Jabba was the only real player in town these days. Part of that success, was due to Mergul. The Rodian understood complex data faster than any other living being he'd known. He could read stocks and shares like a moisture farmer could read the sky, a skill that had allowed him to make smart, financial decisions and, in turn, a lot of money.

Until recently.

Mergul couldn't understand it. Some dark hand was manipulating the markets, causing economic chaos wherever it touched. And now this business above Naboo...

Promising investments that should have flourished had died, strangled by the weed that was the Trade Federation.

Mergul had lost money. More precisely, he had lost his client's money.

The Rodian surveyed the holopad in front of him, quickly absorbing the data on the racers; their pods, past wins and losses, and most importantly, the odds on them winning today. He needed a safe bet, but one with a decent pay out.

"200 on Teemto Pagalies," he muttered as he began to enter his bet. Yes, he liked the look of Pagalies' record. And, not that it would normally be a factor in his decision making, Mergul had to admit he was drawn to the look of Pagalies' podracer too. It looked sturdy and fast, its twin engines sleek and powerful.

Cheers went up across the grand arena as the race announcers called the competitor's names. In response, a Quarren leapt to his feet cheering for his champion: the drunken oaf jostling Mergul, knocking his arm–

No. No no no!

The odds on the racer he had now accidentally selected winning the Boonta Eve Classic were not good. Not good at all. The racer was considered a competent pilot sure, but had never actually finished a race. Mergul groaned.

His last credits, everything he had, bet on a child...

###

Mergul had never been so nervous. How could anyone be enjoying this? Already several pilots had been hospitalised, possibly killed. There were Tusken Raiders on the track, and Mergul had nearly died of a heart attack when Ben Quadrinaros' power couplings exploded.

And the child, Skywalker, he'd stalled at the starting line and was now trailing far behind the other racer's. Sure he was moving up the field, but surely only because so many other pilots had already crashed out.

He forced himself to look at the screen again, the holopad giving a live feed on each racer. Pagalies was in a good position. A few more well placed turns and he stood a chance of catching – and beating – Sebulba.

A shot rang out. Those damn Tuskens!

Pagalies podracer seemed to just fall apart, like flesh peeling off a corpse in a sandstorm. Mergul's corpse no doubt. The announcer chimed in, the galaxy keen to underline the bookkeeper's fate. "I don't care what universe you're from, that's gotta hurt!"

###

Mergul left the stands, the roar of the crowds echoing behind him. Maybe he might catch Jabba in a good mood. Perhaps the mighty slug was feeling lenient. Mergul sighed. Jabba's idea of mercy was shooting you before feeding you to the Sarlaac.

He was going to save Jabba the hassle.

It was only a small, hold-out blaster. Good for a few shots and nothing more. Mergul would only need one.

He found a quiet place down by the racer bay, all the pit crews were trackside right now. He was alone save for a few Eopies and a drunk Ithorian snoozing in an alcove.

It had been a good life, or better than most people on Tatooine got anyway. He put the blaster under his chin, his hand shaking. His mouth was dry in the desert heat.

He began to tighten his grip on the trigger.

Footsteps. Someone was coming, racing down the stone steps into the hangar. A group of youths, kids taking a day from the moisture farms by the look of it, ran excitedly towards the track.

"Can you believe it? That kid won!"

"I thought he was toast for sure!"

"Every time he looked beat... wham!"

"Did you see how high he flew off that ramp?"

Mergul stepped out of the shadows, staring after them, the blaster and his intentions for it all but forgotten. He won? The kid won?

Mergul's feet were carrying him out before he realised what was going on. He stuffed the holdout blaster back into the pocket of his jacket. More people were rushing out onto the track now. He fell in line behind a Nikto who was wildly clapping his hands.

The crowd didn't seem to care that other racers were still crossing the finish line as they ran out onto the track. They gathered around the child – he looked even younger than Mergul could have imagined – as the boy took off his racing helmet, looking around for someone. His friends, family, his owner perhaps?

Mergul waved his arms in the air and moved his hips. He hadn't danced in public... ever. He cried and cheered louder than any other being there. He had already done the sums in his head. More than enough to pay off Jabba, with plenty left over to re-invest elsewhere.

The Rodian didn't believe in luck, or the will of the living force, but he did believe in Anakin Skywalker, the little boy who unwittingly saved his life.

That, he knew, was a debt Mergul could never hope to repay...