Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace

by Terry Brooks

  Valorum had moved back to the podium, a worn look on his face. “The point is conceded. Section 523A takes precedence here.” He nodded in the direction of the Naboo box. “Queen Amidala of the Naboo, will you defer your motion in order to allow a Senate commission to explore the validity of your accusations?”

  Anakin could see the Queen stiffen in surprise, and when she spoke, her voice was edged with anger and determination.

  “I will not defer,” she declared, eyes locked on Valorum. “I have come before you to resolve this attack on Naboo sovereignty now. I was not elected Queen to watch my people suffer and die while you discuss this invasion in committee. If the chancellor is not capable of action, I suggest new leadership is needed.” She paused. “I move for a vote of no confidence in the supreme chancellor.”

  Voices rose immediately in response, some in support, some in protest. Senators and spectators alike came to their feet, loud mutterings quickly building to shouts that echoed through the cavernous chamber. Valorum stood speechless at the podium, stunned and disbelieving. He stared at Amidala, his face etched in sudden shock as the impact of her words registered. Amidala faced him boldly, waiting.

  Mas Amedda moved in front of Valorum, taking charge of the podium. “Order!” he bellowed, his strange head swelling. “We shall have order!”

  The assembly quieted then, and the delegates reseated themselves, responding to Amedda’s command. Anakin noted that the Trade Federation box had maneuvered into position close beside the Naboo box. Lott Dod exchanged a quick glance with Palpatine, but neither spoke.

  A new box floated to the center of the chamber, and the vice chair recognized Edcel Bar Gan, the senator from Roona.

  “Roona seconds the motion for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum,” Bar Gan intoned in a sibilant voice.

  Mas Amedda did not look pleased. “The motion has been seconded.”

  He turned now to Valorum, speaking quickly to him, keeping his voice low and his words hidden behind his hand. Valorum looked at him uncomprehendingly, eyes distant and lost.

  “There must be no delays,” Aks Moe of Malastare declared in a loud voice, drawing Mas Amedda’s attention back to him. “The motion is on the floor and must be voted on at once.”

  Lott Dod was back on his feet. “I move the motion be sent to the procedures committee for further study—”

  The Republic Senate erupted anew, chanting loudly, “Vote now! Vote now!” Mas Amedda was deep in discussion with Supreme Chancellor Valorum, hands on his shoulders as if to bring him back from wherever he’d gone by sheer force of determination.

  “You see, Your Majesty, the tide is with us,” Anakin heard Palpatine announce quietly to the Queen. The boy’s eyes dropped to the viewscreen. “Valorum will be voted out, I assure you, and they will elect a new chancellor, a strong chancellor, one who will not let our tragedy be ignored …”

  Mas Amedda was back at the podium, addressing the chamber. “The supreme chancellor requests a recess.”

  Shouts rose from the delegates, echoing across the chamber in waves as Valorum stared at Senator Palpatine and Queen Amidala, and even from where he stood watching now at the entry doors to the Naboo box, Anakin Skywalker could discern the look of betrayal registered on the supreme chancellor’s anguished face.

  Less than an hour later, Anakin burst through the open doors of the Queen’s antechamber in search of Padmé and found himself face-to-face with Amidala instead. The Queen was standing alone in the center of the room, her eyes directed toward him, her robed form radiant and solitary.

  “Excuse me,” Anakin said quickly. “Your Majesty.”

  She nodded silently, white face smooth and perfect.

  “I was looking for Padmé,” he continued, standing rooted in place just inside the doorway, undecided on whether to stay or go. He glanced around doubtfully. “Qui-Gon says he will take me before the Jedi Council. I wanted Padmé to know.”

  A small smile flitted across the Queen’s painted lips. “Padmé isn’t here, Anakin. I sent her on an errand.”

  “Oh,” he said quietly.

  “But I will give her your message.”

  The boy grinned. “Maybe I will become a Jedi Knight!” he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.

  Amidala nodded. “Maybe you will.”

  “I think Padmé would like that.”

  “I think she would, too.”

  Anakin backed away. “I didn’t mean to …” He searched for the word and couldn’t find it.

  “Good luck, Anakin,” the Queen said softly. “Do well.”

  He wheeled away with a broad smile and was out the door.

  The day passed quickly for Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi, and sunset found them standing together on a balcony outside the Jedi Temple overlooking Coruscant. Neither had said anything to the other for some time. They had collected Anakin Skywalker from Senator Palpatine’s quarters following his return from the Republic Senate and brought him before the Council for examination. Now they were awaiting a decision.

  As far as Obi-Wan was concerned, it was a foregone conclusion. The young Jedi was frustrated and embarrassed for his Master, who had clearly overstepped his bounds once again. Qui-Gon had been right in his suspicion that the boy was possessed of an inordinately high midi-chlorian count. Obi-Wan had run the test himself. But that alone was not enough to demonstrate Anakin was the chosen one. If there even was such a one, which Obi-Wan seriously doubted. There were hundreds of these old prophecies and legends, handed down through the centuries as a part of Jedi lore. In any case, Qui-Gon was relying on instinct once again, and instinct was useful only if born of the Force and not of emotion. Qui-Gon was insistent on championing the causes of underdogs, of empathizing with creatures he found in some peculiar, inscrutable way he alone could comprehend significant in the scheme of things.

  Obi-Wan studied his mentor surreptitiously. Why did he insist on pursuing these hopeless causes? The Council might find the boy possessed of more midi-chlorians than normal, but they would never accept him for Jedi training. The rules were clear and established, and the reasons supporting them were proven and unassailable. Training for the order after more than a year of life was doomed to fail. At nine years of age, Anakin Skywalker was simply too old.

  But Qui-Gon would not let it go. He would brace the Council once again, and the result would be the same as it had been on so many other occasions: Qui-Gon would be denied and his stature as a Jedi Master would fall a little further.

  Obi-Wan moved to where the older Jedi stood staring out at the endless horizon of skyscrapers. He stood close to him, silent for a moment longer before speaking.

  “The boy will not pass the Council’s tests, Master,” he said softly, “and you know it. He is far too old.”

  Qui-Gon kept his gaze directed toward the sunset. “Anakin will become a Jedi, I promise you.”

  Obi-Wan sighed wearily. “Don’t defy the Council, Master. Not again. ”

  The older man seemed to go very still, perhaps even to stop breathing, before he turned to his protégé. “I will do what I must, Obi-Wan. Would you have me be any other way?”

  “Master, you could be sitting on the Council by now if you would just follow the code. You deserve to be sitting on the Council.” Obi-Wan’s frustration surfaced in a burst of momentary anger. His eyes sought the other’s and held them. “They will not go along with you this time.”

  Qui-Gon Jinn studied him a moment, then smiled. “You still have much to learn, my young Padawan.”

  Obi-Wan bit off his reply and looked away, thinking to himself that Qui-Gon was right, but that maybe this time he should consider taking his own advice.

  Inside, Anakin Skywalker faced the Jedi Council, standing in the same place Qui-Gon Jinn had stood some hours earlier. He was nervous at first, brought into the chamber by Qui-Gon, then left alone with the twelve members of the Council. Standing in the mosaic circle and ringed by the silent assemblage, awestruck and uncertain
of what was expected of him, he felt vulnerable and exposed. The eyes of the Jedi were distant as they viewed him, but he sensed they were looking not past him, but inside.

  They began to question him then, without preliminary introductions or explanations, without expending any effort at all to make him feel comfortable or welcome. He knew some of them by name, for Qui-Gon had described a few, and he was quick to put faces to names. They questioned him at great length, testing memory and knowledge, seeking insights at which he could only guess. They knew of his existence as a slave. They knew of his background on Tatooine, of his mother and his friends, of his Podracing, of Watto, of everything factual and past, of the order of his life.

  Now Mace Windu was looking at a screen the boy could not see, and Anakin was giving names to images that flashed across its liquid surface. Images appeared in Anakin’s mind with such speed he was reminded of the strange blur of desert and mountains whipping past his cockpit during a Podrace.

  “A bantha. A hyperdrive. A proton blaster.” The images whizzed through his mind as he named them off. “A Republic cruiser. A Rodian cup. A Hutt speeder.”

  The screen went blank, and Mace looked up at the boy.

  “Good, good, young one,” the wizened alien called Yoda praised. The sleepy eyes fixed on him, intent behind their lids. “How feel you?”

  “Cold, sir,” Anakin confessed.

  “Afraid, are you?”

  The boy shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Afraid to give up your life?” the dark one called Mace Windu asked, leaning forward slightly.

  “I don’t think so,” he answered, then hesitated. Something about the answer didn’t feel right.

  Yoda blinked and his long ears cocked forward. “See through you, we can,” he said quietly.

  “Be mindful of your feelings,” Mace Windu said.

  The old one called Ki-Adi-Mundi stroked his beard. “Your thoughts dwell on your mother.”

  Anakin felt his stomach lurch at the mention of her. He bit his lip. “I miss her.”

  Yoda exchanged glances with several others on the Council. “Afraid to lose her, I think.”

  Anakin flushed. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked defensively.

  Yoda’s sleepy eyes fixed on him. “Everything. To the dark side, fear leads. To anger and to hate. To suffering.”

  “I am not afraid!” the boy snapped irritably, anxious to leave this discussion and move on.

  Yoda did not seem to hear him. “The deepest commitment, a Jedi must have. The most serious mind. Much fear in you, I sense, young one.”

  Anakin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he spoke, his voice was calm again. “I am not afraid.”

  Yoda studied him a moment. “Then continue, we will,” he said softly, and the examination resumed.

  Jar Jar Binks of the Gungans and Queen Amidala of the Naboo stood together at a window that ran floor to ceiling in the Queen’s chambers, looking out at the gleaming spires of Coruscant. An odd pairing at best, the Queen regal and composed, the Gungan awkward and jittery, they kept company in silence and watched the sunset color the sky a brilliant gold that reflected here and there off the flat metal and glass surfaces of the city in sudden, blinding explosions of light.

  They had returned from the Republic Senate some hours ago, Jar Jar, Anakin, the Queen, and her handmaidens. They had come back principally because there seemed to be nothing else they could do to change the course of events regarding the future of Naboo. Senator Palpatine had stayed behind to politick with his colleagues over the selection of a new supreme chancellor, and Captain Panaka had remained with him, asked by the Queen to bring her news when there was any to offer. None had been forthcoming as yet. Now Anakin was gone as well, taken by Qui-Gon to the Jedi Temple where he was to meet with the Council, and no one had seen Padmé in some time.

  So Jar Jar had rattled around in Palpatine’s quarters rather like a stray kaadu until Amidala had taken pity on him and invited him to sit with her. She had gone into seclusion on her return, changing out of her Senate robes into a less imposing gold-trimmed black gown that emphasized how slender and small she really was. She wore an inverted, crescent-shaped crown with a beaded gold medallion arced down over her smooth forehead, but even so she stood several centimeters shorter than the Gungan.

  She was clearly in pain, her eyes so sad and distant that it made Jar Jar want to comfort her. If it had been Annie or Padmé, he might have reached over and patted her on the head, but he was not about to try that with the Queen. There were no guards, but her handmaidens, Eirtaé and Rabé, cloaked in their crimson hooded robes and forever watchful, stood in waiting near the door, and he was certain there were guards somewhere close as well. He was careless of many things, oblivious to others, and in general given over to enjoying life in a haphazard way, but he was no fool.

  Finally, though, he could ignore the situation no longer. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, drawing the Queen’s attention. She turned, her white-painted face with red dots on each cheek and a red slash in the center of her lower lip doll-like and expressionless.

  “Me wonder sometimes why da Guds invent pain,” he offered sympathetically.

  Amidala’s cool gaze was steady and clear. “To motivate us, I imagine.”

  “Yous think yous people gonna die?” he asked, working his billed mouth around the bitter words as if he could taste them.

  The Queen considered the question and shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Jar Jar.”

  “Gungans gonna get pasted, too, eh?”

  “I hope not.”

  Jar Jar straightened, and a fierce pride brightened his eyes. “Gungans no die without a fight. We warriors! We gotta grand army!”

  “An army?” she repeated, a hint of surprise in her soft voice.

  “A grand army! Lotta Gungans. Dey come from all over. Dat why no swamp beings give us trubble. Too many Gungans. Gotta big energy shields, too. Nutten get through. Gotta energy balls, fly outta slings and splat electricity and goo. Bombad stuff. Gungans no ever give up to maccaneks or anyone!”

  He paused, shrugged uncomfortably. “Dat why Naboo no like us, mebbe.”

  She was studying him closely now, her detached gaze replaced by something more intense, as if she were turning an unexpected thought over in her mind. She was preparing to speak to that thought, he believed, when Senator Palpatine and Captain Panaka strode through the doorway in a rush.

  “Your Highness,” Captain Panaka greeted, barely able to contain his excitement as both men bowed quickly and straightened. “Senator Palpatine has been nominated to succeed Valorum as supreme chancellor!”

  Palpatine’s smile was contained and deferential, and his voice carefully modulated as he spoke. “A surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one. I promise, Your Majesty, if I am elected, I will restore democracy to the Republic. I will put an end to the corruption that has plagued the Senate. The Trade Federation will lose its influence over the bureaucrats, and our people will be freed from the tyranny of this unlawful and onerous invasion—”

  “Who else has been nominated?” Amidala asked abruptly, cutting him short.

  “Bail Antilles of Alderaan and Aks Moe of Malastare,” Panaka told her, avoiding Palpatine’s eyes.

  The senator was quick to recover from the unexpected interruption of his speech. “Your Majesty, I feel confident that our situation will generate strong support for us when the voting takes place tomorrow.” He paused meaningfully. “I will be chancellor, I promise you.”

  The Queen did not look impressed. She moved past Jar Jar to the window and stared out at the lights of the city as they brightened with the fading of the sunset. “I fear by the time you have taken control of the bureaucrats, Senator, there will be nothing left of our cities, our people, or our way of life to salvage.”

  Palpatine looked taken aback. “I understand your concern, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, the Federation has seized possession of our planet. It will
be nearly impossible to immediately dislodge them.”

  “Perhaps.” Amidala turned from the window to face him. Her eyes were bright with anger and determination. “With the Senate in transition, there is nothing more I can do here.” She walked to where he stood with Panaka. “Senator, this is your arena. I must return now to mine. I have decided to go back to Naboo. My place is with my people.”

  “Go back!” Palpatine was aghast, his pale face stricken. Panaka looked quickly from one to the other. “But, Your Majesty, be realistic! You will be in great danger! They will force you to sign the treaty!”

  The Queen was calm and composed. “I will sign no treaty. My fate will be no different from that of my people.” She turned to Panaka. “Captain!”

  Panaka snapped to attention. “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “Ready my ship.”

  Palpatine stepped forward quickly to intercept her. “Please, Your Majesty. Stay here, where it is safe.”

  Amidala’s voice was edged with iron. “No place is safe, if the Senate doesn’t condemn this invasion. It is clear to me now that the Republic no longer functions.” Her eyes locked on his. “If you win the election, Senator, I know you will do everything possible to stop the Federation. I pray you will find a way to restore sanity and compassion to the Republic.”

  She moved past him in a smooth, gliding motion and was out the door, her handmaidens and Panaka at her heels. Jar Jar Binks followed, shuffling after as unobtrusively as he could manage, glancing just once at Palpatine in passing.

  He was surprised to catch the barest glimpse of a smile on the senator’s shrewd face.

  In the Temple of the Jedi, Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Anakin Skywalker stood before the Council of twelve. Clustered together at the center of the speaker’s platform, they faced the circle of chairs in which the members of the Council were seated, and awaited their decision on the boy. Outside, the light was pale and wan as twilight replaced sunset, and night began its slow descent across the city.

  “Finished, we are, with our examination of the boy,” Yoda advised in his guttural, whispery voice. His eyes were lidded and sleepy, his pointed ears pricked forward. “Correct, you were, Qui-Gon.”