Chapter 2: Scraps, Chance, and Pure Genius

The royal ship's final jolt upon landing was jarring, a rude reminder that they were no longer in Naboo's luxurious embrace. Kaelen looked out the main viewport. Two blazing suns beat down on an endless sea of ocher dunes. The heat was already seeping through the ship's hull, promising an inferno outside.

Tatooine. Great. The sandy armpit of the galaxy. If there's a shining center to the universe, this is the planet furthest from it. Someone famous said that, didn't they? Anyway, they're right.

On the bridge, the tension was palpable. Captain Panaka, his immaculate uniform already looking out of place, addressed a serene Qui-Gon Jinn.

"The T-14 hyperdrive generator is fried," Panaka said, his voice tight. "The blaster damage was too precise. We can't repair it here."

Qui-Gon nodded, his face as calm as a still pond. "We'll have to go into town for parts."

Padmé, standing in her handmaiden role, observed in silence. But her eyes flickered towards Kaelen, who had just arrived on the bridge after a personal inspection of the engine. There was a silent question in her gaze.

Kaelen approached the group, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. "The Captain's right. The T-14's iridium core is fractured. There's no way to fix it with our spares."

Sure, if you want to follow the boring manufacturer's instructions. But where's the fun in that?

Qui-Gon turned to him. "Then we must find a replacement."

"Good luck with that," Kaelen snorted. "Finding a T-14 hyperdrive generator for a Nubian ship on an Outer Rim world like this... The odds are astronomically low. And if we do find one, it'll cost a fortune we can't pay with Republic credits." His mind, fueled by that 10% of Rick, had already calculated the probabilities, and they were depressing.

Panaka frowned at his pessimism. "So, what do you suggest, Engineer?"

"I suggest you stop thinking about replacing and start thinking about improvising," Kaelen said, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "The core's fried, yes, but the containment housing, plasma injectors, and cooling system are... mostly intact. I don't need a new T-14. I need junk. Specific, cheap junk."

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. "Junk?"

"Yeah. A couple of cargo droid motivators, a moisture vaporator's condensation unit, some power converters from a beat-up speeder... Let me go shopping, and I'll build you a bypass. A one-shot solution that'll get us out of this solar system."

The silence that followed was heavy. The idea was absurd. Panaka looked horrified at the suggestion of installing garbage on his Queen's ship. Qui-Gon observed him with an unfathomable curiosity, as if Kaelen were a puzzle he couldn't solve with the Force.

A Wager on Genius

Later, as the group prepared to head to Mos Espa spaceport, Padmé found Kaelen in the cargo hold.

"Were you serious?" she asked quietly.

"I've never been more serious in my life. Well, in this life, at least," he replied, stuffing a multi-function scanner into a bag. "The Jedi's plan is noble and all that, but it relies on luck. My plan relies on physics. Physics can be bent. Luck, not so much."

Padmé crossed her arms, a small smile playing on her lips. "You're asking me to stake the safety of my planet on your ability to build something out of trash."

"No," Kaelen corrected, meeting her gaze steadily. "I'm asking you to bet on genius, not on chance. It's a much safer wager."

His confidence was so absolute, so irrational, that it was strangely convincing. "Alright," she said. "Make sure you get your 'junk'."

Mos Espa Scavenger Hunt

The heat is oppressive, and the place smells of burnt oil, alien sweat, and broken dreams. It's perfect. While Qui-Gon, the clumsy Gungan, and the astromech droid follow Padmé, I hang back a bit, scanning the stalls. My eyes aren't looking for a "Starship Parts" sign. They're looking for opportunities. Over there, a droid stall selling wrecked R2 units. Bingo, high-torque servomotors. Further on, a pile of crashed speeders. Double bingo, power converters.

We end up at a junkyard run by a winged blue bug named Watto. It's paradise. There are piles of tech from every era of the Republic. As Qui-Gon tries his Jedi mind trick on the Toydarian...

Oh, this is pure gold. Trying to use a mind trick on a species that's immune. Classic Jedi move: 'My space magic works on everything just because.' Nah, buddy, biology just slapped you. You should've read the pamphlet.

While Qui-Gon and Watto begin their haggling over the price of a T-14 that, miraculously, the winged bug actually has, I move through the shop. That's when I see him. A kid. No more than nine years old, blond, with eyes full of an intelligence that doesn't belong to a junkyard slave. He's working on a protocol droid, a golden one, with surprisingly neat wiring.

I approach. "Nice work with the cable routing," I comment casually. "Most people just bundle them. You're creating clean circuits. Reduces interference."

The kid looks up, startled. "You know about this stuff?"

"I know a thing or two," I say, smiling. I see a half-built podracer in a corner. Massive engines, a makeshift cockpit. It's a dangerous, brilliant monstrosity. "Is that yours too?"

The kid, Anakin, grins proudly. "Yeah! I'm building it for the Boonta Eve Classic."

Wow. This kid isn't just smart, he's a prodigy. Building a podracer from scratch... he's got the same kind of crazy I do. I like it.

"Keep the power manifold isolated from the cooling system," I advise, pointing to a part. "If you don't, you could have a chain overload that'll fry your butt mid-race."

Anakin's eyes widen in realization. "Of course! That's why the simulator kept crashing! Thank you, sir!"

Qui-Gon finally finishes his "negotiation," which now involves betting on the race. Just as I predicted. Relying on chance. As he focuses on the kid, I approach Watto.

"Hey, wings. How much for that pile of junk?" I ask, pointing to a busted vaporator capacitor, a couple of droid motivators, and an old power converter.

Watto glares at me with disdain. "Junk. Fifty credits."

"I'll give you twenty," I retort.

"Forty."

"Twenty-five, and that's my final offer. I'm doing you a favor by clearing out your shop."

He snorts, but agrees. I pay him with the small credits Panaka gave me for "emergencies." The emergency is that I'm surrounded by incompetents.

The "Works"

Back on the ship, the atmosphere is somber. Qui-Gon has gambled the mission's fate on a child slave winning the galaxy's most dangerous race. Panaka is about to have an aneurysm.

Kaelen, on the other hand, is in his element. He throws his "junk" haul onto the engineering bay floor in front of the damaged T-14. R2-D2 emits a series of inquisitive beeps.

"You, little guy," Kaelen says to the droid. "You're going to be my assistant. I need you to hand me tools and not judge me."

R2-D2 seems to respond with an affirmative beep.

For the next few hours, the engineering bay becomes a whirlwind of chaotic, brilliant activity. Kaelen works at a feverish pace, muttering to himself, soldering pieces that shouldn't go together, and rerouting cables in a way that would make any certified engineer weep. Padmé watches him from the doorway, equally fascinated and terrified. He isn't repairing. He's creating.

Finally, he steps back. In the place where the T-14's core should go, there's now an abomination. A metal sphere made from a motivator casing, wrapped in condenser coils and connected to the ship with thick, exposed wires that hum with a bluish energy. It's ugly, asymmetrical, and looks like it could explode if someone sneezes too hard.

Panaka arrives, drawn by the cessation of noise. His face pales. "What... what is that?"

Kaelen grins, a wild, triumphant smile. "I call it the 'Improvised Field Stabilizer.' Or 'The Thing That Works,' if you prefer a less technical name."

"Is it safe?" Padmé asks, cautiously approaching.

"Absolutely not," Kaelen replies with refreshing honesty. "But it'll tear a hole in hyperspace big enough for us to squeeze through to Coruscant. It's a one-shot deal. As soon as we drop out of hyperspace, this thing will probably melt into a puddle of radioactive slag and render the entire engine bay useless."

He crosses his arms, gazing at his masterpiece with pride.

"So we have two options," he announces to the silent crowd. "We can rely on the Jedi's plan to stake our future on a nine-year-old winning a deadly race. Or we can install my ticking time bomb into the heart of this ship and jump into oblivion right now." He paused dramatically. "The choice is yours."