“Right. But who’d want to?” Orrin walked back to the top of the rise. “You see, that’s the secret to this dead old planet. She’s hiding her water. But what she’s got is the tastiest anyone’s ever had. It’s so good, I could see Tatooine being a net exporter of water—if we can just get at it.” His voice grew solemn. “And I can.”
He traced his hands in the air, connecting the dots that were the faraway towers. “Those little drops can run, but they can’t hide. These machines in the right place, tuned the right way—they knead that sky like clay. They play the notes—and the music comes.”
“The Symphony,” Ben said, respectfully.
Orrin nodded. “A lot of pieces have to work together at once. We’re still working at it.”
“I’m impressed.”
Ben wasn’t a farmer—or anything else, as far as Orrin had been able to learn. But he seemed to have a feel for what Orrin was trying to do. Maybe, if Ben turned out to have a skill, he could even be a decent farmhand once Orrin started hiring again.
Orrin returned to the landspeeder, suddenly weary. Farming, he loved. The rest of his life was just necessary. But he wasn’t out today to farm. So first things first.
“You asked about Dannar,” he said, gravely. “The Tuskens killed him, eight years ago. He’d stopped to help a rider in the desert—like you did with Kallie. Tuskens killed them both.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said.
“Well, it’s been a while,” Orrin said. He turned back toward the younger man. “Annileen said you were riding in from the east, the other day. I don’t guess you’ve ever heard of the Lars family?”
Ben cleared his throat. “The Lars, you say?”
“Cliegg Lars. Everyone heard about it.” Orrin pointed to the east. “Moisture farmer over on the other side of Jawa Heights. If you’re new, you wouldn’t know. The Tuskens—same band that got Dannar, I’ve always thought—kidnapped Cliegg’s wife.”
Ben started to say something, but stopped.
Orrin continued. “Anyway, folks over there mounted a rescue mission—a bunch of farmers that didn’t know one end of a rifle from another. They didn’t have experience chasing Tuskens. They didn’t have the equipment. They didn’t have vehicles conditioned for more than a trip to check the vaporators.”
“It … went badly?”
“Son, that’s the understatement of the year. Thirty went out. Four came back.” Orrin remembered that horrible day, and the days that had followed. Several victims had been longtime acquaintances. A lot of moisture-farming wisdom had died at once. “Twenty-six, gone,” he said.
Orrin went silent to let the man take it in. Ben was troubled by the story, he could tell. It helped to paint a picture for people, sometimes—and the Larses’ experience was as close to a worst-case scenario as it got. Orrin had never met Cliegg—he’d heard the poor soul was dead now. But his tale of torment almost always had an impact.
Ben looked up from the ground. “And what happened next?”
“Funerals, mostly.” Orrin didn’t add that he’d picked up a few tracts of land from the estates; someone had to work them. He leaned on the hood of the floating landspeeder. “Funerals and recriminations. You see, those people didn’t have what we’ve got in the oasis. The Call.”
Orrin quickly explained the Settlers’ Call system. Ben listened intently, noting that he’d heard the alarm echoing over the desert once before. Orrin grinned, pausing to take credit for the krayt dragon idea. “Nothing sends a chill through their bandages like a krayt yowl.”
He continued the sales pitch, well practiced by now. “If the Lars raid had happened here, things would have gone a lot differently. A posse is a business. It’s people coming together for a goal. You’ve got to invest, and prepare. And when the Call comes,” he said, pointing to one of the vaporator towers, “you know you’ve got a chance.”
Ben noticed the siren mounted atop the machine. He seemed impressed. “So it’s a militia, then?”
“Nothin’ like that. Oh, sure, there’s a militia out of Mos Eisley—three or four full-timers, all afraid of their shadows. They never range this far out. Anyone with a mind for that kind of fighting would’ve headed offworld and made better money at it. This thing, it’s just the people. They’re not in it for the money. They just want to help.”
Ben nodded.
Orrin coasted into his wrap-up. “We respond. We rescue. And if we can’t make a defense in time, it’s our policy that every attack on a household rates a counterstrike. It’s what the Tuskens understand, and it works.”
Ben looked to the east. “How far out do you cover?”
“As far as our subscribers live,” Orrin said. He walked to the side of the vehicle. “I’ve got a map here.”
Ben approached. “As far as where—what did you call them, the Lars family lived?”
“No, but anything’s possible if we get enough people on board,” Orrin replied as they both climbed into the speeder. “But I thought you and your eopie were headed southwest.”
Ben shook his head and studied the map. “Just curious.”
* * *
The eopie was sleeping beneath the canvas when Orrin returned with Ben. Orrin was sure he’d gotten Ben’s interest in the Settlers’ Call, but he hadn’t coaxed much information out of him.
Ben had a place against the northern outcrops of the western Jundland Wastes, and he’d come from somewhere else, probably the Republic. The Republic had never really paid much attention to Tatooine, and locals here usually responded in kind. Orrin had heard something about a big change that had recently taken place in the Republic, but Ben seemed to know less about it than he did. Ben had asked him for news, in fact.
But while Orrin still didn’t know what Ben did for money, he was confident that he had some. Otherwise, Annileen wouldn’t have sold him all the goods the eopie was carrying. Her gratitude seldom went that far.
“So,” Orrin said, watching the man repack the beast. “You want to sign up with the Fund? You don’t have to fight with the posses—your credits pay for them to do it.”
Ben finished tightening the load and looked at him. “I … don’t know, yet. I’m still getting settled in.”
“Understood. But that’s more reason to join. One less thing to worry about.”
“You’ll have to let me get back to you. I’m still not sure—” Ben paused, seeming to hear something far away. Orrin followed Ben’s gaze to the hills, but couldn’t hear anything for several seconds. Then, he heard and saw the familiar whir of his daughter’s Selanikio Sportster landspeeder, heading toward them from the oasis.
“Good ear,” Orrin said. “That’d be Mullen and Veeka. I guess they’re dried out and ready to get back to work.”
Ben looked warily in that direction and turned to take the eopie by the bit. “I’d better go—our first meeting didn’t end well.”
The eopie started to trot, and Ben jogged along with it. He passed Orrin, who leaned against his landspeeder, frustrated. Now his kids decided to get back to work. Terrific.
“Listen, remember the offer,” Orrin said. “The price I cited during our ride is good only while the subscription drive is on. It goes up next week.”
“I’ll consider it,” Ben said, waving behind him. “And thanks for the drink.”
“Sure you won’t—”
“No, no, I must be on my way. Far to go and all.”
“All right, then. But come back around when you decide.”
“I will.”
Orrin’s shoulders slumped. Zero-for-two today. And two more troubles had arrived and were walking up to him. Veeka looked her usual self, for this afternoon hour. But Mullen had a frazzled appearance that gave him pause. What had his son gotten into at the Claim?
“Where’s Zedd?” Orrin asked.
“Hurt again,” Mullen said, glaring at the figures departing to the southwest. “Was that him?”
“Who?” Orrin looked in the same direction. “You mean the guy with no j
ob and no past, heading into the middle of nowhere like someone with no sense? That’s Ben, all right.” He glared at his daughter. “You marry a man like that, and I’ll feed you to a sarlacc. Now get to work. I’m behind schedule already.”
Meditation
Today was … interesting.
I took a chance and went to the Pika Oasis. Dannar’s Claim, the big compound up there. They have just about everything I need—except, maybe, an army to free the Republic.
But I didn’t stay. That’s part of the problem. There are too many people there—but not quite enough, either. The bigger places like Mos Eisley, I can lose myself in. So many travelers come in and out. This place is busy, too, but the oasis also has a lot of regulars, who do nothing but watch the comings and goings all day. My arrival was, I’m ashamed to say, something of a spectacle. And, uh, my departure, too.
I can’t let that happen again.
I also met one of the big landowners on the way out—Orrin Gault, something of a local institution. I was reluctant to talk to him too long, and I tried to say nothing of substance. But he’s nice enough, and I sense that he feels better if he knows everyone who’s around. Trying to hide from a man like him might not be wise. He seems to mean well.
And this Settlers’ Call system of his could be the answer to my problems keeping an eye on the Lars family, if their service could be extended that far to the east. I know—it would be better not to involve them. But if Anakin’s mother was taken, it could happen again.
I’m here to protect the child. When it comes to the Tuskens, the locals’ help might come in handy. It’s a threat they’re familiar with. I had a brush with the Sand People years earlier, when you and I brought Padmé here; they’re formidable warriors. If something happens such that I can’t continue my watch—
—well, let’s not think about that. But it’s nice to have options.
Orrin—again, he’s very much a hail-fellow-well-met. I like him. Quite the salesman, to be sure. And while he’s obviously very proud of what he’s built out here, he also seems a little self-conscious about it—enough so that he tries to put on an air of humility. Even if it’s just a sales ploy, I think it’s a little endearing.
Anakin could have used a bit of that. We were all impressed with what he could do. But he was impressed, too—and not in the least thankful for it. No, not near the end.
I have his lightsaber, you know. It’s right here, sitting in my hands. Some nights, like this, I just sit and stare at it, wondering what I could have done to help him.
I look, and I look, for answers. Then I put it away in the trunk, and try to forget.
It’s impossible, of course.
Maybe if he’d grown older—had been able to grow older—he’d have gotten some perspective. But that just wasn’t to be.
If only he’d listened to reason, hadn’t forced me to do what I had to do, then I wouldn’t be here, now, feeling like a—
No.
Good night, Qui-Gon.
PART TWO
THE KILLING GROUND
CHAPTER TWELVE
A LARGE HOVERCRAFT LEFT THE COMPOUND, heading to the east. There was a dark-haired human male driving it, not much more than a youngling. A’Yark had seen this one before, and kept silent count as the vehicle made for the horizon.
Once it had left, A’Yark slipped back behind the dune and brought out the black rock. A smudged mark was made on the wrappings of the warrior’s left arm, while another was rubbed off the tally on the right arm. Too many marks remained there, each one representing a settler present in the oasis compound. Dozens arrived before the suns rose each morning, and the place remained in motion until well after night fell. Keeping count had tested A’Yark’s wits. And the total didn’t even include the people who lived in the buildings.
Only one of them mattered, of course.
A’Yark checked the stock of the blaster rifle, where more counting could be found. Ten whittled notches. Ten days since the raid on the human farm had gone wrong. Ten days since the human woman had avoided death by dewback by mystical means. The Sand People, hearing A’Yark tell of her, had chosen to call her Ena’grosh, the Airshaper. A’Yark had not had to convince them of what her existence meant. Settlers so empowered would threaten them all.
A’Yark had known one person to have such powers: another Tusken, long since dead. That raider had come to join the Sand People willingly, an exceptionally rare thing—and had survived the welcome and trials that followed, which was almost unheard of. That warrior had the ability to shape the air, too, a fact that had certainly helped during the initiation.
But that recruit had ultimately proved mortal—and that gave A’Yark hope now. It meant an Airshaper could die. This woman must, before she taught her skills to the other settlers.
A’Yark had found the Airshaper’s home easily; she’d made no efforts to conceal the path of her surviving dewback. Settlers might have found tracking difficult on the rocky ground between the pitted area and the oasis, but they were not Tuskens. A’Yark had crept up to the compound for a simple reconnaissance—only to realize the scope of the challenge.
It was more than the sheer number of arrivals and departures. This place was the fortress of the Smiling One.
It had to be. The war leader recognized from afar the vehicles the settlers had used in the defense of the farm. These and many more were stored in the huge garages. How large an army did the Smiling One have? A’Yark hesitated to find out.
A’Yark had also seen the fuzzy-faced eopie rider from earlier—but only once, seven days ago, departing the compound quickly with his mount. The human’s presence had been puzzling, as A’Yark had never seen him arrive; he had to have traveled with the Jawas. That fact alone was offensive. Jawas were no better than the parasites the Sand People plucked off their banthas. They were the children of the coward sun, to be sure. The eopie rider even dressed like one of them, in his brown robe. Perhaps Hairy Face—that seemed a good name for the man—was a shaman to the Jawas, able to command the chattering things.
The watchful raider had thought to follow the man as he journeyed toward the wastes. But the Airshaper had appeared in the yard, calling vainly after Hairy Face—alongside her foolish dewback-riding child. A’Yark had realized something else, that day: the Airshaper also had a son. He was the one who had just driven away in the repulsorcraft. The boy wasn’t much older than A’Yark’s own son.
Young A’Deen was back with the others today, going through the rites of adulthood. A’Yark didn’t want to be there. It would mean seeing what had become of the ritual. By tradition, the tested youth was to have hunted and killed a krayt dragon. But krayts were few in The Pillars where the tribe hid, and so were eligible Tusken youths. So the elders had decreed that some other creature might suffice, such as a logra. Still dangerous, but nothing like a krayt.
A’Yark thought the choice was cowardly and had said so. It described a clan so weakened that it could no longer keep to its principles. If A’Deen fell to a krayt, fine. The child would have been adjudged a weakling and would have deserved death. It didn’t matter that the boy was the last of A’Yark’s children. The warrior would have taken a blade to A’Deen personally rather than see him live as a failure. But no one would know A’Deen’s worthiness now.
They would be killing womp rats next and pretending it was bravery.
More movement at the garages. The Smiling One was out there again, babbling to the freakish thing that tended the vehicles. A’Yark kept watching the place. This was it, the center of all the Tuskens’ problems. The Airshaper had shown A’Yark the way.
And soon, A’Yark would lead the rest of the Sand People to her.
“Keep going, I’m listening.”
Annileen wasn’t listening, but it hardly mattered. Wyle Ulbreck spent far more money at the store than any other visitor to the Pika Oasis—and far more time, too. Ulbreck had a platoon of farmhands to run his spread; he knew in his heart that droids were thieves, programmed b
y Jawas to steal from their masters. The old moisture farmer had first pontificated on that subject when Annileen was running the counter at seventeen. Twenty years later, he was still talking about it—among countless other topics.
At the moment, Ulbreck was on another classic: the four times he had seen rain.
“… and the second drop was right in my eye, let me tell you. I felt it, and I was lookin’ up, too. You’d think rain would be like the mists some see on the ground, steaming up. But no, it comes right down at you just like it fell out of a freighter …”
“Unh-huh. Right.”
Annileen nodded as she dusted the merchandise on the shelves behind the counter. Ulbreck’s ramblings were like recordings of familiar songs, arranged in a different medley each day—because while the old farmer remembered a lot, he often forgot his place. An engineer who visited the Dune Sea years earlier once described Ulbreck’s stories as transcendental loops, defying the laws of physics—and storytelling.
She didn’t know about that. But she did suspect the cause of her pain: Ulbreck’s wife, Magda. Annileen had never seen the woman. But it was clear she dispatched her husband to the store at the crack of dawn every morning, to torment someone else for a change. This made Magda both a wise woman in Annileen’s ledger—and deserving of a smack in the face, should they ever meet.
“… but you know, I swear I seen a freighter take off once and go right through a flock of neebray. And the things just hit the ground like sacks of spanners. Which is why I don’t go near that Mos Eisley no more, ’cause they’re always tryin’ to kill people and take their money …”
“Unh-huh. Right.”
Annileen looked around, plaintively, for different company. It was futile. The breakfast rush was over; the workers would be in the vaporator fields for hours. The Bezzards had left her guest quarters early that morning to return home, anxious to pick up the pieces of their lives. The settlers around the oasis were resilient, as they had to be. Annileen didn’t miss the extra burden, but she did miss the baby.
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