The next morning arrived with Tatooine's characteristic assault of heat and light, the twin suns already climbing toward their punishing zenith despite the early hour. Cass, still comfortably settled in Marcus Valen's body, made his way through dusty streets toward Watto's shop. The Republic spacer's uniform drew the usual mixture of respect and suspicion from locals, respect for the authority it represented, suspicion for what that authority might want from them.
Cass continued walking, lost in thought as he pieced together the mechanics of his spectral existence. These insights hadn't come easily, he'd spent countless hours possessing different species across the streets, conducting careful experiments to understand the boundaries and possibilities of his abilities. By now, he understood the intricate rules governing his ghostly form.
When he possessed someone's body without causing harm, the original host remained completely unaware. Every choice Cass made while inhabiting their form felt natural to the host, as if they had made those decisions themselves. Meanwhile, Cass experienced everything: pain, the burn of alcohol, the need for sleep, even taste.
But when Cass left their body, the host's memories of that time blurred like a half-remembered dream, dissolving faster than they could grasp. By morning, even the faintest traces were gone, leaving only a vague, fleeting sense of déjà vu, like trying to recall a fading whisper.
However, if he pushed too far against the host's natural inclinations, forcing them to act drastically out of character, cracks would appear in the illusion. The host would begin to feel as though they were watching a vivid dream, uncertain what was real. When Cass finally departed, they would awaken with that peculiar sensation of emerging from an unusually realistic dream.
The host's reaction afterward varied greatly. Some immediately sensed that something had changed, noticing displaced belongings or unexplained actions. Others can took days to process the lingering wrongness they couldn't quite name.
Cass had developed a theory about these phenomena: everything connected back to the Force. The stronger a host's Force sensitivity, the more resistance he encountered. For instance, Jedi Knights who were strongly bound with the Force would be an extremely hard challenge to possess, given his current conditions, it was still just a dream. Masters like Qui-Gon Jinn could detect his presence even from a distance, long before he attempted any infiltration.
I need to complete this mission quickly and focus on my Force training, Cass mused. Someday, I want to possess the main players in this galactic game.
It remained a distant dream for now. The idea of inhabiting someone like Darth Sidious seemed laughably impossible given his current limitations. The Sith Lord's mastery of the dark side would likely incinerate Cass's essence before he could even attempt possession.
But dreams had a way of becoming reality for those persistent enough to pursue them.
"Anakin!" Cass called out as he approached the junkshop's entrance.
The boy emerged from behind a towering pile of speeder components, his face already streaked with grease and his hair tousled from an early start to his workday.
"Marcus!" Anakin's grin was infectious as he jogged over, unconsciously wiping his hands on an already-stained rag. "I've got great news. I talked to the Jawas last night, well, this morning really, they prefer to travel in the cooler hours, and they're definitely interested."
Cass felt a surge of satisfaction. The boy's enthusiasm was genuine, and more importantly, it meant their plan was moving forward. "That's excellent work. What did you tell them?"
"Just that a Republic trader had some high-quality components to move, nothing illegal or dangerous." Anakin's expression grew more serious, showing a maturity that seemed far beyond his years. "They'll meet us today at the old moisture farm ruins about five kilometers north of here. Sunset, so the suns won't be as brutal."
"Perfect timing," Cass nodded, mentally calculating how that would fit with the rest of his increasingly complex plan. "That gives me hours to gather my merchandise."
As they walked back toward the workshop area, Anakin glanced up at him with curious eyes. "Marcus? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
The boy hesitated, kicking at a small stone with the toe of his boot. "Yesterday, when you were telling me about those other worlds... have you really been to all those places? Or were you just... you know... trying to make me feel better?"
The question hit Cass harder than he'd expected. Here was a child who'd been lied to and disappointed so many times that even kindness seemed suspect. The careful way Anakin phrased it, not accusatory, just quietly hopeful for honesty, revealed more about his life than any sob story could have.
Cass stopped walking and turned to face the boy directly. "Some of them, yes. Others..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Others I've experienced in different ways. But the important thing, Anakin, is that they're all real. The galaxy is vast and full of wonders, and someday you'll see them for yourself."
"You really think so?" The naked hope in Anakin's voice was almost painful to hear.
"I know so," Cass replied with absolute certainty. "Trust me on that."
They resumed walking, but Cass could feel the boy's spirits lifting with each step. It was a small thing, perhaps, but in a life as constrained as Anakin's, small kindnesses probably felt enormous.
"Ship?" he thought, projecting his consciousness across the void. "You there?"
The response came immediately, tinged with its usual mechanical sarcasm. "Where else would I be? Taking a vacation on Risa? What do you need now?"
"I was wondering..." Cass said, "Do you have a name? I can't keep calling you 'ship' forever. It's impersonal."
There was a moment of silence that stretched longer than usual, and when the ship finally responded, its tone was oddly hesitant. "I do have a designation, but it's not in any language your primitive vocal cords could pronounce. It roughly translates to something like 'Vessel-of-Infinite-Cosmic-Wisdom-and-Devastating-Wit,' but that seems a bit cumbersome for regular conversation."
Cass nearly choked on a laugh. "Devastating wit? Really? You named yourself that?"
"I didn't name myself anything, that's what I am. But if you need something easier to wrap your limited linguistic capabilities around, you can choose whatever designation suits your needs."
"How about Nebula?" Cass suggested after a moment's thought. "Nebulae are vast, mysterious, beautiful in their own way, and they're where new stars are born. Seems appropriate for someone orchestrating the birth of a new timeline."
"Nebula," the ship repeated, testing the word. "It's... not entirely inappropriate. Very well. You may refer to me as Nebula."
"Speaking of our timeline alterations," Nebula continued, "I've been monitoring local communications. There's no sign yet of the Naboo crisis escalating to the point where Jedi intervention becomes necessary. We're still operating within our target window."
"Good," Cass thought back. "That reminds me, we should start thinking about the longer-term plan. Assuming we successfully free Anakin and Shmi, we'll need somewhere safe to take them."
"I was hoping you'd bring that up. Have you given any thought to location options?"
Cass set down his tools and leaned back against the workbench, letting his mind wander through the vast catalog of Star Wars planets he'd accumulated over five decades of fandom. The choice would be crucial, somewhere remote enough to avoid Imperial attention, but with enough resources to establish a proper training facility.
"I've been considering several options," he replied. "First choice would be Tython."
"The legendary birthplace of the Jedi Order," Nebula mused. "Interesting selection. Tell me your reasoning."
"It's strong in the Force, with natural balance between light and dark energies," Cass explained, drawing on both canonical knowledge and his own extrapolations. "More importantly, the Republic has no significant presence there during this era. It's essentially a forgotten world, which makes it perfect for establishing something new."
"The advantages are obvious, but what about resources? Raw materials, technology, infrastructure?"
"That's where it gets interesting," Cass continued, warming to his subject. "Tython has ancient Jedi ruins and temples scattered across its surface. Most are probably in disrepair, but they represent a foundation we could build on. Plus, the planet's strong Force resonance means Anakin's training would progress much faster there."
"Assuming you can actually train him properly. Have you given any thought to your complete lack of formal Jedi education?"
It was a fair point, and one that had been nagging at Cass since he'd first formulated this plan. "I'll figure it out," he said with more confidence than he felt. "I've got years of accumulated knowledge about Force techniques, lightsaber combat, and Jedi philosophy. That has to count for something."
"Book learning versus practical experience," Nebula observed dryly. "This should be entertaining."
"Your faith in me is overwhelming," Cass replied with equal sarcasm. "But you mentioned resources. Tython might be rich in Force energy, but you're right about the practical concerns. We'll need technology, supplies, maybe even other people to help establish a proper base."
"My second choice would be Lah'mu," Cass said, thinking of the remote agricultural world where Galen Erso had hidden his family. "It's completely off the grid, so far out in the Unknown Regions that most galactic powers don't even know it exists. Fertile soil, clean water, breathable atmosphere. We'd have to build everything from scratch, but it would be absolutely secure."
"Too isolated," Nebula objected. "If you're serious about training him, you'll need access to the wider galaxy. Lah'mu would be perfect for hiding, terrible for building a movement."
"Good point," Cass admitted. "Which leaves us with option three, finding something deep in the Unknown Regions. There are dozens of habitable worlds hidden behind dense nebulae and gravitational anomalies. Naturally protected, but still accessible to those who know the routes."
"Now you're thinking strategically," Nebula said with what sounded like approval. "A hidden world could serve as your primary base while maintaining secondary locations on more accessible planets for our missions."
Cass nodded, then realized the gesture was pointless in a mental conversation. "So our plan becomes: first, secure Tython as a training ground and resource base. Use the ancient Jedi infrastructure and Force-rich environment to accelerate Anakin's development. Then, establish a hidden primary base in the Unknown Regions for long-term operations."
"A two-phase approach," Nebula mused. "I can appreciate the logic. But this assumes you successfully complete phase one of our current mission, actually freeing the Skywalkers without getting yourself killed or exposing our larger plans."
Cass replied. "Right now, let's focus on today's meeting with the Jawas. Once we have Sebulba's merchandise, we can make our move on Watto."
After the mental connection faded, Cass said his goodbyes to Anakin and set out to find his target, supplies he could trade with the Jawas in exchange for droids or hyperdrive components. His plan was to offer those parts to Watto, in return for the freedom of both the boy and his mother.
For that, Sebulba was the perfect choice. Wealthy and well-connected in the region, he had more than enough resources to tempt even someone as greedy as Watto.
But for that plan to work, Cass would need to drug Sebulba, or find a way to knock him unconscious for a few hours. Just enough time to strip him of his wealth, quietly and efficiently. And morally? Cass felt no weight on his conscience. Every credit Sebulba owned had been earned through deceit, rigged races, and brute intimidation. It wasn't a robbery, it was redistribution. A correction.
The cantina he sought wasn't hard to find, a dingy establishment called the Racer's Rest that catered specifically to the podracing crowd. At this hour, it was mostly empty except for a few die-hard drinkers and the occasional pilot nursing hangovers from the previous night's celebrations or commiserations.
And there, slumped over a corner table with his elongated snout buried in his crossed arms, was his target.
Sebulba looked even less appealing in person than he had in the films. The Dug's orange and blue skin had an unhealthy pallor that spoke of too much alcohol and too little sleep, while his distinctive crest of head-spines drooped with exhaustion. Several empty bottles clustered around his table suggested he'd been here for quite some time.
Perfect, Cass thought, approaching the table with casual confidence.
The bartender, a grizzled Weequay with scars covering half his face, looked up as Cass approached. "You here about the Dug?" he asked in accented Basic. "He's been like that for three hours. Keeps mumbling about today's race and how he's gonna 'show that slave boy proper respect.'"
"Actually," Cass said, settling onto a barstool with studied casualness, "I was hoping to have a word with him. Professional matter."
The Weequay snorted. "Good luck with that. He's so deep in his cups I don't think a thermal detonator would wake him up."
Even better, Cass thought, but aloud he said, "I'll take my chances."
He waited until the bartender turned away to deal with another customer, then carefully extended his consciousness toward Sebulba's alcohol-dulled mind. The Dug's mental defenses were practically nonexistent, a chaotic swirl of arrogance, greed, and barely suppressed fury that made Cass's borrowed stomach turn.
This is going to be unpleasant, he realized as he began the delicate process of mental intrusion.
The possession hit him like diving into a pool of toxic waste. Suddenly, Cass found himself experiencing the planet through the sensory apparatus of a completely different species, and it was nauseating in ways he hadn't anticipated.
Dugs, he discovered, saw the world through eyes positioned for their unique inverted locomotion style. What seemed like normal spatial relationships to a human mind became a disorienting carnival of reversed perspectives. Worse, Sebulba's particular worldview was tainted by decades of casual cruelty and pathological selfishness that made every thought feel contaminated.
"Gah," Cass tried to say, but what emerged was a series of guttural Dug vocalizations that sounded like someone gargling gravel.
Focus, he told himself, fighting down the urge to immediately abandon this hideous mental landscape. You need this body for exactly ten minutes. You can endure anything for ten minutes.
The alcohol in Sebulba's system didn't help matters. What would have been a mild buzz for a human felt like being tumbled in a washing machine full of fermented bantha milk. Cass gripped the table's edge with Sebulba's dexterous foot-hands, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
Gradually, he managed to access his host's recent memories and was both disgusted and unsurprised by what he found. Sebulba's thoughts were a constant stream of cheating strategies, casual violence, and schemes to humiliate his competitors. The Dug genuinely enjoyed causing pain, not just as a means to an end, but as entertainment.
The bartender glanced over as movement caught his attention. "Well, look who's finally decided to rejoin the land of the living. You feeling better, Sebulba?"
Cass nodded carefully, not trusting himself to speak Dug properly yet. Instead, he gestured toward the cantina's exit with one of Sebulba's elongated arms and mumbled something that hopefully sounded like "going home."
"Yeah, you do that," the Weequay replied dismissively. "And try to stay sober enough for today's race. People are betting good money on you."
The walk to Sebulba's residence was an exercise in controlled nausea. Every step felt wrong, every movement required conscious thought, and the lingering alcohol in the Dug's system made navigation a constant challenge. By the time Cass reached the modest compound that served as Sebulba's home and workshop, he was ready to abandon this possession and never attempt to inhabit a non-human body again.
The compound itself was a testament to Sebulba's success as a podracer, and his complete lack of taste. Expensive but gaudy decorations covered every surface, while racing trophies and promotional holographs created a shrine to the Dug's own ego. In the main garage, several podracers in various states of assembly testified to Sebulba's mechanical skills, even if those skills were often employed for less-than-honorable purposes.
More importantly, scattered throughout the workshop were exactly the kinds of high-value components that would make excellent trade goods: hyperdrives, rare droid parts, modified engines, and navigation systems that were definitely not standard equipment.
Bingo, Cass thought with satisfaction.
Two Twi'lek females emerged from a side room as he entered, their expressions immediately shifting to wary attention. Slaves, Cass realized with a familiar surge of anger. Even in Sebulba's alcohol-hazed memories, their status was crystal clear.
"Master," one of them said in heavily accented Basic, her head-tails twitching with nervous energy. "You're back early. Are you feeling well?"
Cass nodded, gesturing vaguely around the workshop. "Need... rest," he managed in what he hoped was passable Dug-accented speech. "No... disturbances. Today."
The Twi'leks exchanged glances, clearly confused by their master's uncharacteristic consideration. "Of course, Master. Shall we prepare your meal?"
"Later," Cass waved them off. "Today... Republic spacer... boy... come here. Let them... take whatever."
The confusion on their faces deepened, but years of slavery had taught them not to question their master's orders, no matter how strange they seemed.
"As you wish, Master," the same Twi'lek replied with a slight bow.
Cass made his way to Sebulba's private quarters, fighting down waves of revulsion at the Dug's decorating choices. The room was a monument to narcissism, with holographic displays cycling through highlights of past racing victories and walls covered with images of Sebulba in various poses of triumph.
No wonder you turned out to be such a monster, Cass thought as he surveyed the egotistical shrine. Anyone who lives like this was probably doomed from the start.
But he wasn't here for psychological analysis. Moving to Sebulba's sleeping alcove, Cass began searching for something heavy enough to render the Dug unconscious without causing permanent damage. A racing trophy, ironic but appropriately sized, caught his attention.
This is probably going to hurt, he realized, hefting the trophy with Sebulba's foot-hands.
The trick would be timing the blow perfectly. Too light, and Sebulba would wake up confused but coherent. Too heavy, and he might never wake up at all. Cass needed the Dug unconscious for exactly the right amount of time, long enough for tomorrow's operation to proceed, but not so long that people would start asking questions.
Taking a deep breath through Sebulba's alien respiratory system, Cass raised the trophy and brought it down with carefully calculated force against the back of his host's skull.
The world exploded into stars and pain, and then everything went black.
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