by Terry Brooks
“Chubba! You!” the Dug snarled through its corded snout. Feelers and mandibles writhed. “Is this yours?”
The Dug shoved the frog in the Gungan’s face threateningly. Jar Jar could not get any words out, gasping for breath, fighting to break free. His eyes rolled wildly as he looked for help that wasn’t there. Other creatures pushed forward to surround him, Rodians among them. The Dug threw Jar Jar to the ground, shouting at him, hovering over him in a crouch. Desperately, the Gungan tried to scramble to safety.
“No, no,” he moaned plaintively as he sought an avenue of escape. “Why me always da one?”
“Because you’re afraid,” a voice answered calmly.
Anakin Skywalker pushed his way through the crowd, coming up to stand next to the Dug. The boy seemed unafraid of the creature, undeterred by the hard-eyed crowd, his bearing self-assured. He gave the Dug an appraising look. “Chess ko, Sebulba,” he said. “Careful. This one’s very well connected.”
Sebulba turned to face the boy, cruel face twisting with disdain as he caught sight of the newcomer. “Tooney rana dunko, shag?” he snapped, demanding to know what the boy meant.
Anakin shrugged. “Connected—as in Hutt.” The blue eyes fixed the Dug and saw a hint of fear in the other’s face. “Big-time connected, this one, Sebulba. I’d hate to see you diced before we had a chance to race again.”
The Dug spit in fury. “Neek me chawa! Next time we race, wermo, it will be the end of you!” He gestured violently. “Uto notu wo shag! If you weren’t a slave, I’d squash you here and now!”
With a final glare at the cringing Jar Jar, Sebulba wheeled away, taking his companions with him, back to their tables and their food and drink. Anakin stared after the Dug. “Yeah, it’d be a pity if you had to pay for me,” he said softly.
He was helping Jar Jar back to his feet when Qui-Gon, Padmé, and R2-D2, having finally missed the Gungan, reappeared hurriedly through the crowd.
“Hi!” he greeted cheerfully, happy to see Padmé again so soon. “Your buddy here was about to be turned into orange goo. He picked a fight with a Dug. An especially dangerous Dug.”
“Nossir, nossir!” the chagrined Gungan insisted, brushing off dust and sand. “Me hate crunchen. Tis da last thing me want!”
Qui-Gon gave Jar Jar a careful once-over, glanced around at the crowd, and took the Gungan by the arm. “Nevertheless, the boy saved you from a beating. You have a penchant for finding trouble, Jar Jar.” He gave Anakin a short nod. “Thank you, my young friend.”
Padmé gave Anakin a warm smile as well, and the boy felt himself blush with pride.
“Me doen nutten!” Jar Jar insisted, still trying to defend himself, hands gesturing for emphasis.
“You were afraid,” the boy told him, looking up at the long-billed face solemnly. “Fear attracts the fearful. Sebulba was trying to overcome his fear by squashing you.” He cocked his head at the Gungan. “You can help yourself by being less afraid.”
“And that works for you?” Padmé asked skeptically, giving him a wry look.
Anakin smiled and shrugged. “Well … up to a point.”
Anxious to spend as much time as possible with the girl, he persuaded the group to follow him a short distance down the street to a fruit stand, a ramshackle affair formed by a makeshift ragged awning stretched over a framework of bent poles. Boxes of brightly colored fruit were arranged on a rack tilted toward the street for viewing. A weathered old lady, gray-haired and stooped, her simple clothing patched and worn, rose from a stool to greet them on their approach.
“How are you feeling today, Jira?” Anakin asked her, giving her a quick hug.
The old lady smiled. “The heat’s never been kind to me, you know, Annie.”
“Guess what?” the boy replied quickly, beaming. “I’ve found that cooling unit I’ve been searching for. It’s pretty beat up, but I’ll have it fixed up for you in no time, I promise. That should help.”
Jira reached out to brush his pink cheek with her wrinkled hand, her smile broadening. “You’re a fine boy, Annie.”
Anakin shrugged off the compliment and began scanning the fruit display. “I’ll take four pallies, Jira.” He glanced at Padmé eagerly. “You’ll like these.”
He reached into his pocket for the truguts he had been saving, but when he brought them out to pay Jira, he dropped one. The farmer, standing next to him, bent to retrieve it. As he did, his poncho opened just far enough that the boy caught sight of the lightsaber hanging from the belt about his waist.
The boy’s eyes went wide, but he masked his surprise by focusing on the coins. He only had three, he found. “Whoops, I thought I had more,” he said quickly, not looking up. “Make that three pallies, Jira. I’m not that hungry anyway.”
The old woman gave Qui-Gon, Padmé, and Jar Jar their pallies and took the coins from Anakin. A gust of wind whipped down the street, rattling the framework of poles and causing the awning to billow. A second gust sent dust swirling in all directions.
Jira rubbed her arms with her gnarled hands. “Gracious, my bones are aching. There’s a storm coming, Annie. You’d better get home quick.”
The wind gusted in a series of sharp blasts that sent sand and loose debris flying. Anakin glanced at the sky, then at Qui-Gon. “Do you have shelter?” he asked.
The Jedi Master nodded. “We’ll head back to our ship. Thank you again, my young friend, for—”
“Is your ship far?” the boy interrupted hurriedly. All around them, shopkeepers and vendors were closing and shuttering windows and doors, carrying goods and wares inside, wrapping coverings over displays and boxes.
“It’s on the city’s outskirts,” Padmé answered, turning away from the stinging gusts of sand.
Anakin took her hand quickly, tugging on it. “You’ll never reach the outskirts in time. Sandstorms are very, very dangerous. Come with me. You can wait it out at my home. It’s not far. My mom won’t mind. Hurry!”
With the wind howling all about them and the air clouded with sand, Anakin Skywalker shouted good-bye to Jira and led his newly adopted charges down the street in a rush.
On the outskirts of Mos Espa, Obi-Wan Kenobi stood near the nose of the Nubian as the wind gathered force, whipping at his robe, tearing across the broad expanse of the Tatooine desert. His troubled eyes looked off into the distance where Mos Espa was beginning to disappear behind a curtain of sand. He turned as Captain Panaka came down the ramp of the transport to join him.
“This storm’s going to slow them down,” the Jedi observed worriedly.
Panaka nodded. “It looks pretty bad. We’d better seal up the ship before it gets any worse.”
There was a beep from the soldier’s comlink. Panaka retrieved the communicator from his belt. “Yes?”
Ric Olié’s voice rose from the speaker. “We’re receiving a message from home.”
Panaka and Obi-Wan exchanged glances. “We’ll be right there,” the captain advised.
They went up the ramp quickly, sealing it behind them. The transmission had been received in the Queen’s chambers. At Ric Olié’s direction, they found Amidala and her handmaidens Eirtaé and Rabé viewing a hologram of Sio Bibble that was shimmering weakly at one end of the room, the governor’s voice breaking up in transmission.
“… cut off all our food supplies until you return … death toll rising, catastrophic … must bow to their wishes, Your Highness …” Sio Bibble’s image and voice faded and returned, garbled still. “Please, I beg of you, tell us what to do! If you can hear me, Your Highness, you must contact me …”
The transmission flickered and disappeared. The governor’s voice faded into silence. Queen Amidala sat staring at the empty space it left behind, her smooth face troubled. Her hands worked quietly in her lap, betraying a nervousness she could not quite manage to hide.
Her gaze shifted to Obi-Wan. The Jedi shook his head quickly. “It is a trick. Send no reply, Your Highness. Send no transmission of any kind.”
; The Queen stared at him uncertainly for a moment, then nodded in acquiescence. Obi-Wan left her chambers without further comment, hoping fervently he had made the right decision.
The sandstorm raged through the streets of Mos Espa in a blinding, choking whirlwind that tore at clothes and exposed skin with relentless force. Anakin held Padmé’s hand so as not to lose her, the farmer, the amphibious creature, and the R2 unit trailing behind, fighting to reach his home in the city’s slave quarters while there was still time. Other residents and visitors struggled past, engaged in a similar pursuit, heads lowered, faces covered, bodies bent over as if weighted by age. Somewhere in the distance, an eopie bawled in fright. The light turned an odd yellowish gray, obscured by sand and grit, and the buildings of the city disappeared in a deep, impenetrable haze.
Even as he fought his way through the storm, Anakin’s thoughts were directed elsewhere. He was thinking of Padmé, of having the chance to take her home to meet his mother, of being able to show her his projects, of holding her hand some more. It sent a flush through him that was both warm and kind of scary. It made him feel good about himself. He was thinking of the farmer, too—if that’s what he was, which Anakin was pretty sure he wasn’t. He carried a lightsaber, and only Jedi carried lightsabers. It was almost too much to hope for, that a real Jedi might be going to his home, to visit him. But Anakin’s instincts told him he was not mistaken, and that something mysterious and exciting had brought this little group to him.
He was thinking, finally, of his dreams and his hopes for himself and his mother, thinking that maybe something wonderful would come out of this unexpected encounter, something that would change his life forever.
They reached the slave quarters, a jumbled collection of hovels stacked one on top of the other so that they resembled anthills, each complex linked by common walls and switchback stairways, the plaza fronting them almost empty as the sandstorm chased everyone under cover. Anakin led his charges through the gritty gloom to his front door and pushed his way inside.
“Mom! Mom! I’m home!” he called excitedly.
Adobe walls, whitewashed and scrubbed, glimmered softly in a mix of storm-clouded sunlight admitted through small, arched windows and a diffuse electric glow from ceiling fixtures. They stood in the main room, a smallish space dominated by a table and chairs. A kitchen occupied one wall and a work space another. Openings led to smaller nooks and sleeping rooms.
Outside, the wind howled past the doors and windows, shaving a fresh layer of skin from the exterior of the walls.
Jar Jar Binks looked around with a mix of curiosity and relief. “Tis cozy,” he murmured.
Anakin’s mother entered from a work area off to one side, brushing her hands on her dress. She was a woman of forty, her long brown hair tied back from her worn face, her clothing rough and simple. She had been pretty once, and Anakin would say she was pretty still, but time and the demands of her life were catching up with her. Her smile was warm and youthful as she greeted her son, but it faded quickly as she caught sight of the people behind him.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed softly, glancing uncertainly from face to face. “Annie, what’s this?”
Anakin beamed. “These are my friends, Mom.” He smiled at Padmé. “This is Padmé Naberrie. And this is—” He stopped. “Gee, I guess I don’t know any of your names,” he admitted.
Qui-Gon stepped forward. “I’m Qui-Gon Jinn, and this is Jar Jar Binks.” He indicated the Gungan, who made a sort of fluttering gesture with his hands.
The R2 unit made a small beep.
“And our droid, Artoo-Detoo,” Padmé finished.
“I’m building a droid,” Anakin announced quickly, anxious to show Padmé his project. “You wanna see?”
“Anakin!” His mother’s voice stopped him in his tracks. Resolve tightened her features. “Anakin, why are they here?”
He looked at her, confused. “There’s a sandstorm, Mom. Listen.”
She glanced at the door, then out the windows. The wind howled past, a river of sand and grit.
“Your son was kind enough to offer us shelter,” Qui-Gon explained. “We met at the shop where he works.”
“Come on!” Anakin insisted, grabbing Padmé’s hand once more. “Let me show you my droid.”
He led Padmé toward his bedroom, already beginning a detailed explanation of what he was doing. The girl followed without arguing, listening attentively. R2-D2 went with them, beeping in response to the boy’s words.
Jar Jar stayed where he was, still looking around, appearing to want someone to tell him what to do. Qui-Gon stood facing the boy’s mother in awkward silence. Grains of sand beat against the thick glass of the windows with a rapid pocking sound.
“I’m Shmi Skywalker,” she said, holding out her hand. “Anakin and I are pleased to have you as our guests.”
Qui-Gon had already appraised the situation and determined what was needed. He reached under his poncho and pulled five small capsules from a pouch in his belt. “I know this is unexpected. Take these. There’s enough food for a meal.”
She accepted the capsules. “Thank you.” Her eyes lifted and lowered again. “Thank you very much. I’m sorry if I was abrupt. I’ll never get used to Anakin’s surprises, I guess.”
“He’s a very special boy,” Qui-Gon offered.
Shmi’s eyes lifted again, and the look she gave him suggested they shared an important secret.
“Yes,” she said softly, “I know.”
In his bedroom, Anakin was showing Padmé C-3PO. The droid lay on his workbench, deactivated at the moment because the boy was in the process of fabricating its metal skin. He had completed the internal wiring, but its torso, arms, and legs were still bare of any covering. One eye was out of its head as well, lying nearby where he had left it after tightening down the visual refractor the night before.
Padmé bent over his shoulder, studying the droid carefully.
“Isn’t he great?” Anakin asked eagerly, anxious for her reaction. “He’s not finished yet, but he will be soon.”
“He’s wonderful,” the girl answered, genuinely impressed.
The boy flushed with pride. “You really like him? He’s a protocol droid … to help Mom. Watch!”
He activated C-3PO with a flip of its power switch, and the droid sat up at once. Anakin rushed around hurriedly, searching, then snatched up the missing eye from his workbench and snapped it into its proper socket.
C-3PO looked at them. “How do you do? I am a protocol droid trained in and adept at cyborg relatives … customs and humans …”
“Ooops,” Anakin said quickly. “He’s a little confused.”
He snatched up a long-handled tool with an electronic designator and fitted it carefully to a port in C-3PO’s head, then ratcheted the handle several turns, studying the setting as he did so. When he had it where he wanted, he pushed a button on the handle. C-3PO jerked several times in response. When Anakin removed the designator, the droid stood up from the workbench and faced Padmé.
“How do you do? I am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations. How may I serve you?”
Anakin shrugged. “I just named him the other day, but I forgot to enter the code in his memory banks so he could tell you himself.”
Padmé grinned at Anakin, delighted. “He’s perfect!”
R2-D2 sidled up to them and emitted a sharp flurry of beeps and whistles.
C-3PO glanced down curiously. “I beg your pardon … what do you mean, I’m naked?”
R2-D2 beeped some more.
“Goodness! How embarrassing!” C-3PO glanced quickly over his skeletal limbs. “My parts are showing? My goodness!”
Anakin pursed his lips. “Sort of. But don’t worry, I’ll fix that soon enough.” He eased the droid back toward the workbench, glancing over his shoulder at Padmé. “When the storm is over, you can see my racer. I’m building a Podracer. But Watto doesn’t know about it. It’s a secret.”
Padmé smiled. “That’s okay. I’m
very good at keeping secrets.”
The storm continued throughout the remainder of the day, engulfing Mos Espa, sand blown in from the desert piling up against the shuttered buildings, forming ramps against doorways and walls, clouding the air, and shutting out the light. Shmi Skywalker used the food capsules Qui-Gon had given her to prepare dinner for them. As she worked on their meal and while Padmé was occupied with Anakin in the other room, Qui-Gon moved off alone into one corner and surreptitiously contacted Obi-Wan on the comlink. The connection was less than perfect, but they were able to communicate sufficiently for the Jedi Master to learn of the transmission from Naboo.
“You made the right choice, Obi-Wan,” he assured his young protégé, keeping his voice low.
“The Queen is very upset,” the other advised, his response crackling through the storm.
Qui-Gon glanced over to where Shmi was standing at the cook surface, her back turned. “That transmission was bait to establish a trace. I’m certain of it.”
“But what if Governor Bibble is telling the truth and the Naboo are dying?”
Qui-Gon sighed. “Either way, we’re running out of time,” he advised quietly, and ended the transmission.
They sat down to eat Shmi’s dinner a short while after, the storm still howling without, an eerie backdrop of sound against the silence within. Qui-Gon and Padmé occupied the ends of the table, while Anakin, Jar Jar, and Shmi sat at its sides. Anakin, in the way of small boys, began talking about life as a slave, in no way embarrassed to be doing so, thinking of it only as a fact of his life and anxious to share himself with his new friends. Shmi, more protective of her son’s station, was making an effort to help their guests appreciate the severity of their situation.
“All slaves have transmitters placed inside their bodies,” Shmi was explaining.
“I’ve been working on a scanner to try to locate them, but so far no luck,” Anakin said solemnly.
Shmi smiled. “Any attempt at escape …”