Duel Beneath Dual Suns
By Gordon Buttars
(August 1, 2026)


 




      The suns had barely risen, yet the heat radiated off the desert sand of Tatooine. The shopkeepers of Mos Eisley opened their shops for business and townspeople were about their day. Already at that early hour, strains of lively, synth-heavy jizz music, conversation, and laughter came from the cantina. It was the hub of the settlement in the remote outpost of the Jundland Wastes of Tatooine—the place where everyone got their news, even if it was gossip.
     In the far reaches of the galaxy far removed from the clutches of the Empire, Tatooine was a lawless no-man’s land. Even the local sheriff had been bought off. The town and regions round about were the domain of a notorious smuggler by the name of Vaxen "Red" Krayt, a name feared throughout the Wastes. The once thriving spaceport was now solely his base of operations, leaving Mos Eisley essentially a ghost town stripped of commerce.
     He left behind a trail of terror and smoking ruins: evidence of what became of those who dare oppose him or refuse his wants. Many men had tried to take him and as many were dead. He was vicious and a killer though only twenty-four, and the notches on his blaster numbered one and nineteen more—the most recent, a feared bounty hunter only weeks earlier.
     Not many people ventured into town anymore, so when a stranger on a rusty old BARC speeder spewing scorched oil slowly rode into town from the south side, everyone took notice. Draped in a dark, heavy cloak and the sinister-looking lightsaber hanging from his hip, he exhibited a foreboding presence.
     An old-timer said, “I haven’t seen a lightsaber since the Clone Wars.”
     Obviously up to no good, the stranger hardly spoke to folks around him as he looked up and down the dusty street as if he was looking for something—or someone. Talk spread like the blowing dust, becoming larger with the whisper from each lip. “He’s a Sith,” someone said. Another said, “He’s come to do some business with the lightsaber hanging from his hip.”
     The stranger pulled up in front of the cantina and got off. Tossing a coin to a boy, he said, “Watch it for me.” He strode through the dilapidated swinging doors of the low-slung, domed adobe structure into the thick, smoke-filled air and the scent of bootleg ale, the desert heat rushing in behind him. The atmosphere inside tense . . . once bustling and chaotic, full of spacefarers from every corner of the Outer Rim, the cantina was now only frequented by locals.
     Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes stopped playing mid-note of an upbeat tune. The band’s pale, dome-headed Bith musicians froze, their giant, lidless black eyes reflecting the dim light as their slender fingers hovered over their instruments. People stopped what they were doing: looking up from drinks, folding a hand of cards. The rusted protocol droid behind the bar stopped wiping the glass in his hand. All eyes fixed on the tall, slender stranger; his steps deliberate and calculated, the tattered hem of his cape sweeping the floor as he walked up to the oval bar in the center of the cantina. No one said a word, fearing he was just another galactic thug come to make their lives even more miserable.
     The droid, a recycled 3PO model reprogrammed as a slave since help was hard to come by, asked in a flat metallic voice, “What will you have, stranger?”
     Peering out from under the hood that shrouded his face, he simply said, “A glass of tepid water.”
     The musicians on the stage picked up where they left off and the hum of chatter resumed from recessed alcoves lining the perimeter. The droid filled a dirty glass with lukewarm gray water from a spigot and bubbles gurgled to the top of the stained glass jug. “Here you go, stranger,” he said, his voice mechanical, as he slid the glass across the bar.
     Looking straight ahead, the stranger gulped it down as if he hadn’t quenched his thirst in a long while. Setting his glass down, he slid it toward the droid. “More,” he said, the raspy word escaping from his parched throat.
     “Sure thing, mister.” The droid refilled the glass and slid it back. This time the stranger drank more slowly. When he set his glass down, he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. As he brushed back his hood, it fell over his shoulders, revealing a ruggedly handsome face that had seen more than its share of trouble. Wavy silver hair and beard streaked with gray betrayed his age. The pointed ears and bluish-gray skin identified him as a Sephi from Thustra, the planet of lush green mountains in the Sumitra sector of the galaxy, a stark contrast to the sunbaked desert world of Tatooine. But it was his dark, flashing eyes. As he looked around the cantina, his dark flashing eyes were soft and full of wisdom, not the eyes of an outlaw.
     He didn't give his name, but said, “I’m a Jedi Knight and won’t be in town long. I have a warrant to take a smuggler back alive, or maybe dead. It doesn't really matter to me. I’m after Vaxen Red.”
     The very mention of the name brought the cantina to silence once again, fear sinking in every heart. Once again, all eyes were on the stranger.
     “You don’t look like a Jedi,” one man scoffed, picking up his mug of ale “from the looks of that lightsaber.”
     “It’s a trophy I picked up during the Clone Wars. It does the job and doesn’t arouse suspicion from the Empire.”
     “How can we trust you?” another demanded.
     “A lightsaber doesn’t make a Jedi, friend—just as a blaster doesn’t make an outlaw. A Jedi is known by his actions, not his blade. The Sith take life to serve themselves. A Jedi yields his life to protect others.”
     To prove his point, he pulled from under his cloak a medallion on a chain revealing the soft glow of a Kyber crystal—a living, Force-attuned mineral that no ordinary thug or Sith impostor would carry or understand. Are you satisfied now, or do you need me to levitate that glass in front of you?”
     “No,” the doubter relented. “You’re who you say you are.”

* * * * *


     A bug-like figure—Watto the Toydarian—emerged from the shadows of a semi-private booth and quickly flew out of the cantina, his wings buzzing. He knew exactly where to find Vaxen Red—getting his cut from the Tusken Raiders after they pillaged a Jawa caravan of sandcrawlers.
     “I have news from Mos Eisley,” he said. “But it will cost you.”
     “What do you want?” Vaxen asked.
     “I’d say a half dozen power cells ought to cover it. I have a customer looking for some. He’s willing to pay a hefty price for them.”
     “Those are for Jabba the Hutt,” Red countered.
     “Jabba will never know,” Watto retorted.
     “If your customer is willing to pay a hefty price, why don’t I just kill you and sell them to him myself?”
     “Because,” Watto snarled, “you don’t know who it is and besides, if you kill me, you’ll never know what I have to tell you.”
     “It had better be good news,” Vaxen Red demanded.
     “Oh, it is. There’s a Jedi Knight in town,” Watto said. “And he’s after you.”
     “Is that so? I’m not worried,” Vaxen Red laughed. “Twenty men have tried to take me, and twenty men have failed. This Jedi will be twenty-one.”
     “But he has a lightsaber,” Watto protested.
     “I’ll cut him down before he can even power up. He won’t even get close enough,” the smug smuggler boasted. “Tell this Jedi I’ll meet him in the street in front of the cantina when the suns are directly overhead.”
     As the time drew near, the townspeople lined the street, some watched from behind windows or through open doors, the harsh, mechanical hum of the vaporators the only sound. Some were certain the handsome Jedi was about to meet his death. Others countered, “The Force is strong with this one.”
     Standing in the street, the heat of the dual suns directly overhead radiating off the sand, the Jedi waited, anticipating the moment.
     Vaxen Red stepped out of a shady alley into the street swirling with dust. He wasn’t as tall as his reputation suggested, his armor dented and stained with the grime of dozens of scraps. Annoyed, he swatted at a fly buzzing around his face, crushing it in his hand. Toying with his blaster, his twitching fingers danced over the trigger guard with practiced arrogance.
     His eyes narrowed, a bead of sweat on his brow. "You’re a long way from the Core, Jedi," Red sneered, his voice raspy. "Most folks around here know to stay out of sight when I’m in town."
     The Jedi didn’t flinch; he stood calm and resolute when Vaxen Red stepped toward him, stopping forty paces short.
     Fueled by ego and the certainty of his own dominance, he drew. Arguably the fastest in the Outer Rim, his blaster cleared the holster in a blur, sending a red plasma bolt toward the Jedi. But he failed to take one thing into consideration.
     The stranger was faster.
     The Jedi grabbed his lightsaber and flicked it on. Guided by the Force, he deflected the blast with a sharp, high-voltage crack of plasma meeting plasma, sending it back at Vaxen Red, burning into his chest.
     Certain he had beaten the Jedi’s hand, a stunned look of disbelief crossed his face as he collapsed to his knees, falling to the street—dead before he hit the ground. The smell of burnt fabric and flesh permeated the hot, dry air.
     It was over in a heartbeat, Vaxen’s last. The old Jedi powered off his lightsaber and stepped forward, the hilt of the weapon that had long since become his signature clutched in his hand. He didn’t gloat or glory in yet another in a long string of victories. Rather, he said, “When will people like you learn? You may glory in your spoils for a season, but nothing good comes from evil.”
     Slowly, the townspeople timidly emerged from hiding. Stunned, they hadn't expected the Jedi to survive, and yet, there he was—the man who had come to Mos Eisley to settle a debt for law and order.
     There before them lay the body of the outlaw on the ground, his fatal wound still smoldering. He might have lived if he hadn’t tried to match the Jedi with a lightsaber on his hip.
     Sensing Watto and the corrupt sheriff—who had spent years taking Vaxen's bribes—attempting to flee, he simply turned, his cloak swirling behind him, and stretched out his arm, sending a wave of telekinetic energy in their direction. Incapacitated, but unharmed, they fell to the ground.
     A few men raced to them, about to pummel them for their crimes.
     “Let them be,” the Jedi ordered, authority in his voice. “Revenge won’t overcome evil. It will only bring you to the dark side. Lock them up and send for the proper authority and let them handle it.”
     The grateful townspeople thronged around him. A Twi'lek woman tearfully said, “Thank you for freeing us from the terror and oppression heaped upon us by Vaxen Red.”
     To which the Jedi replied, “You will suffer no more at his hand.”
     “Won’t you stay?” someone begged.
     “I can’t. There are other villains to bring to justice and towns like Mos Eisley to liberate.”
     The Jedi sped away toward the vast, unforgiving dunes, disappearing into the harsh glare of the dual suns with the canvas-wrapped body of Vaxen Red slung across the cargo rack. They never knew his name, but the legend of the Jedi with a lightsaber on his hip is still talked about to this very day.

* A retelling of the 1959 song “Big Iron (on His Hip)” by Marty Robbins

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Contact: Gordon G. Buttars gordon@buttars.me