by A. L. Singer
It was a small part. A vocoder plate. Tarnished but not rusted. Buried beneath a pile of shattered metal pieces.
Anakin Skywalker held It up to the light from the two harsh Tatooine suns. The vocoder plate would fit C-3PO perfectly. The droid was nearly finished on the inside — all from parts found in Jawa shops just like this one. Now all Anakin needed was the sheathing, the skin. Those pieces were hard to find.
The vocoder plate was a good start. He tossed it casually in his cart.
A Jawa trader, fully grown yet no taller than Anakin, stared at the boy through luminescent eyes beneath a dark hood. Although they were natives of the desert planet, the Jawas never stayed in the same place for too long. They sold scavenged scrap metal and other items for a living. Their customers were the exiles, junk dealers, settlers, and space pirates who lived in outposts such as Mos Espa. On Tatooine, the only creatures lower than the Jawas were the slaves.
Anakin was a slave. He belonged to Watto, the junk dealer.
Buying junk for Watto had its advantages. Anakin could always slip in a few extra parts for himself. Soon, when C-3PO was finished, Anakin’s mom would be the only slave on Tatooine to have her own protocol droid.
She would need it, too. Because someday soon she and Anakin would be leaving, off to planets where they spoke different languages and had different customs.
He didn’t know why he knew that. It was just a feeling.
“How much?” he asked.
The Jawas examined the cart and spoke in a squeaky, squittering language: 1500 wupiupi.
“What? Too much!” Anakin said. Watto had given him only 1000 wupiupi. The stuff in his cart was worth far less than that.
One of the Jawas lifted the metal nose from the cart, held it away, and replied: 1000 wupiupi.
Crooks. They knew how much he wanted the part.
Anakin dropped the entire basket and turned to go. He wouldn’t play the game, even if it meant returning empty-handed and facing punishment from Watto.
One of the Jawas raced after him, burbling: 1250.
Anakin spun around.
If my offer is fair, he thought, yours should be, too.
He didn’t have to say a word. The Jawa froze for a moment, then backed away.
One thousand, he twittered.
One thousand, added the others.
“Hi chuba da nago?” Watto’s voice grumbled from within the shop.
“I need parts for a J-type 327 Nubian,” answered a deep voice.
“Peedunkel!”
Anakin dropped his brush. The bin was not yet finished, but when Watto called, you answered right away. Even if he never bothered to remember your name. Even if you hated being called peedunkel — a Huttese insult. No matter what, you just ran.
Watto glared at Anakin as he entered. The junk dealer’s head was weighted down by a gargantuan nose that seemed to squeeze the rest of his face into a permanent sneer. Hovering above the junk counter on his leathery wings, Watto looked like something you’d rather swat than do business with.
New customers had come in. Farmers, from the looks of them — an older man and a young woman, perhaps his daughter. The girl was dressed in rough settler clothes, but she seemed like a real Galactic Core type, smooth-skinned and smart-looking. With them was a repair droid and an amphibian who was examining gadgets all over the shop.
“Coona tee-tocky malia?” Watto growled, drawing his hand back. What took you so long?
Anakin flinched. “Mel tassa cho-passa —” I was cleaning the bin —
“Chut-chut! Ganda doe wallya. Me dwana do bata!” Never mind! Watch the store — I’ve got some selling to do here.
Watto began floating out to the junkyard. “So-o-o, let me take-a thee out back. Ni you’ll find what you need.”
As the farmer followed, he passed the amphibian, who was fiddling with a broken gravitron gauge. The farmer grabbed the gauge from the amphibian’s hand. “Don’t touch anything,” the man commanded sternly as he continued out the back door.
The amphibian stuck out a tongue as long as Anakin’s arm, then skulked away.
Anakin’s attention returned to the girl. He wasn’t that interested in girls generally — and this one was really old, almost a grown-up. Still, she was like no one else he’d ever seen. There was something about her presence…
“Are you an angel?” he asked.
The girl looked startled. “What?”
“An angel. I’ve heard the deep-space pilots talk about them. They live on the moons of Iego, I think. They are the most beautiful creatures in the universe.”
“I’ve never heard of… angels.”
“You must be one. Maybe you just don’t know it.”
The girl laughed. “You’re a funny little boy. How do you know so much?”
“I listen to all the traders and pilots who come through here,” Anakin said with a shrug. “I’m a pilot, you know — and someday I’m going to fly away from this place.”
“You’re a pilot?”
“All my life.”
Anakin could tell she was really impressed. The older ones always were.
“Have you been here long?” she asked.
“Since I was very little — three, I think. My mom and I were sold to Gardulla the Hutt. But she lost us, betting on the Podraces, to Watto — who’s a lot better master than Gardulla, I think.”
“You’re a slave?”
Anakin didn’t like being called a slave.
“I am a person!” he said. “My name is Anakin.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. This is a strange world to me.”
“You are a strange girl to me.”
SMMMACK!
Anakin spun around. One of Watto’s pit droids had been decompressed. As it charged around the shop, the gangly amphibian was guiltily chasing it around.
“What did you do?” the girl cried out.
“Hit the nose!” Anakin shouted.
Flailing his rubbery arms, the amphibian bonked the little droid on its nose. With a whir and a clank, it folded back into itself and settled unobtrusively onto the floor.
Anakin and the girl burst out laughing. The strange, snouted creature turned bashfully away, like a child caught stealing.
From the junkyard, Watto’s gravely voice filtered in: “…a T-14 hyperdrive generator! I’m the only one hereabouts who has one…”
Anakin beamed. “I was the one who found that. We have everything here. I do most of the collecting for Watto.”
“He should be grateful to have you here,” the girl remarked.
“I wouldn’t have lasted long if I weren’t so good at fixing things,” Anakin said proudly.
CRRRRRASHHHH!
A stack of parts fell off a standing shelf. The amphibian’s guilty face peered out of the mess on the floor.
This one, Anakin knew, was trouble.
“…What you think, you’re some kind of Jedi, waving your hand around like that?” Watto thundered from outside. “I’m a Toydarian. Mind tricks don’t work on me — only money. And I don’t take Republic credits! No money, no parts!”
Anakin ignored the noise and continued talking to the girl. “I’m making my own droid…”
Suddenly the farmer stormed through the shop, the R2 droid trundling close behind. “We’re leaving.”
As they stormed through the front door, the amphibian scurried after them.
The girl smiled at Anakin and got up to leave. “I’m glad I met you…”
“Anakin. Anakin Skywalker.”
“Padmé,” the girl replied. “Padmé Naberrie.”
A
nakin felt a funny knot in his chest as she walked out. He hadn’t even begun to know her. “I’m glad I met you, too,” he said.
Watto flew in from the junkyard. “Ootmians! Tinka me chasa hopoe ma booty na nolial” Outlanders! They think because we live so far from the center, we don’t know nothing!
“La lova num botaffa,” Anakin replied. They seemed nice to me.
“Fweepa niaga,” Watto grumbled. “Tolpa da bunky dunko.” Clean the racks. Then you can go home.
“Yippeeee!”
Anakin quickly did as he was told and bolted.
As he wound his way through the sandy, windblown streets of Mos Espa, a vendor’s sudden shout made him stop. Across the crowded plaza, the clumsy amphibian from the shop stood frozen in front of a stall, caught in the act of stealing food — its long, ropelike tongue stuck to a fresh-killed gorg that wouldn’t come loose from the rack where it hung.
“Hey, that will be seven wupiupi!”
Thwwwwack!
The amphibian jumped back. The gorg snapped away, breaking its line. It ricocheted around the plaza, hurtled into the outdoor café, and plopped into a soup plate with a messy splash.
Anakin cringed when he saw to whom the plate belonged — Sebulba.
Sebulba was evil. He dominated the Outer Rim Podraces, and his enemies had a funny way of crashing whenever they got too close. A Dug who looked and smelled like dried skin draped over salvaged carcass bones, Sebulba’s voice sounded like glass scraping metal.
“CHUBA!” the Dug shouted, his eyes murderous.
“Who — mesa?” the strange alien said, shrinking away.
Too late. Sebulba leaped over the table and grabbed him by the throat.
At this point, you must decide whether to continue reading this adventure, or to play your own adventure in the Podrace to Freedom Game Book.
To play your own adventure, turn to the first page of the Game Book and follow the directions you find there. To continue reading this Star Wars Adventure, turn the page!
“NI CHUBA NA?” Is this yours?
As Sebulba held up the gorg, a crowd gathered to watch.
The rubbery amphibian, who, for the first time since Anakin had seen him was speechless.
With a flick of his arm, Sebulba tossed the hapless creature aside. He fell to the ground in a cloud of dust.
The plaza crowd hooted and cheered, egging on Sebulba. But Anakin knew Sebulba’s secret. The less you showed fear, the quicker he backed off.
The alien scrambled to his feet, quaking. “Why mesa always the one?” he moaned.
“Because you’re afraid,” Anakin answered. He walked straight up to Sebulba and met him face-to-ugly-face. “Chess ko, Sebulba. Coo wolpa tooney rana.” Careful, Sebulba. This one is well connected.
Sebulba sneered. “Tooney rana nu pratta dunko, shag?” Connected? What do you mean, slave?
“Oh da Hutt. Cha porko ootman geesa. Me teesa rodda co pana pee choppa chawa.” As in Hutt. Big-time outlander, this one. I’d hate to see you diced before we race again.
“Neek me chawa, wermo, mo killee ma klounkee! Una notu wo shag, me wompity du pompom,” Sebulba rasped as he stalked away. Next time we race, wermo, it will be the end of you! If you weren’t a slave, I’d squash you right now.
“Eh, chee bana do mullee ra,” Anakin muttered to Sebulba’s back. Yeah, it’d be a pity if you had to pay for me.
As he turned, he saw the alien’s friends — Padmé, the farmer, and the R2 unit — working their way through the crowd.
“Hi!” he called out. “Your buddy here was about to be turned into orange goo. He picked a fight with a Dug — an especially dangerous Dug called Sebulba.”
“Mesa haten crunchen,” the amphibian said. “Dat’s da last thing mesa wanten.”
The farmer glanced at him sternly. “Nevertheless, the boy is right. You were heading into trouble. Thank you, my young friend.”
He was a man of few words, forceful and commanding. A thank-you from him really felt like something.
Anakin joined the small group as they headed out of the plaza.
“Mesa doen nutten!” the amphibian murmured, sulking guiltily.
As they walked along the street, Anakin spotted a friend — Jira, the old fruit seller. Unlike so many of the other vendors, her years of poverty and hard work hadn’t made her bitter. She always had a kind smile for Anakin. “How are you feeling today, Jira?” he called out.
“The heat’s never been kind to me, you know, Annie,” the old woman said with an amiable shrug.
“Guess what! 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.”
Jira smiled. “You’re a fine boy, Annie.”
“I’ll take four pallies today.” Anakin glanced at Padmé. “You’ll like these.” Reaching into his pocket, Anakin pulled out three wupiupi. He handed one of the pallies to the farmer.
In the opening fold of his cloak, a gleaming laser sword briefly peeked out, only to be covered again as the man accepted the fruit.
Anakin blanched. Suddenly he knew why the man seemed so different, so powerful.
He was no farmer. Farmers didn’t carry devices like that.
Only one kind of person did.
But that kind of person never came to Tatooine.
At the outskirts of the plaza, Anakin could see the stiffening wind make sand clouds over the desert. Behind him an awning gave a loud snap as the merchants tried to quickly close shop.
“Do you have shelter?” Anakin asked the strangers.
“We’ll head back to our ship,” the farmer replied.
“Is it far?”
“On the outskirts.”
“You’ll never reach the outskirts in time. Sandstorms are very, very dangerous. Come with me — hurry!”
Anakin led them out of the plaza. They wound their way through the crowded slave quarter to his home. It was small, but there was enough room for the strangers to wait out the storm in comfort.
“Mom!” Anakin called out. “I’m home!”
The amphibian gazed around approvingly. “Disen cozy!”
Anakin’s mother, Shmi Skywalker, entered from her room. She wore a rough-spun gray tunic and kept her hair in a simple, pulled-back style typical of a Mos Espa slave.
To Anakin, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, staring at the strange group. “Annie, what’s this?”
“These are my friends, Mom. This is Padmé, and… gee, I don’t know any of your names.”
“I’m Qui-Gon Jinn,” said the man, who then gestured to the amphibian. “And this is Jar Jar Binks.”
The little droid beeped.
“And our droid, Artoo-Detoo,” Padmé said.
“I’m building a droid,” Anakin blurted out. “Want to see?”
“Anakin?” his mom said warily. “Why are they here?”
“A sandstorm, Mom,” Anakin explained. “Listen.”
In the silence, the room echoed with the howl of the approaching wind.
“Your son was kind enough to offer us shelter,” Qui-Gon said.
Anakin took Padmé’s arm. “Come on, let me show you Threepio!”
He sped into his room, pulling Padmé with him.
On a workbench by the wall lay C-3PO, Anakin’s pride and joy — a standard cybot protocol droid. New, the droids were incredibly expensive. But if you knew where to look, you could build your own for free.
“Isn’t he great?” Anakin said. “He’s not finished yet.”
“He’s wonderful!” Padmé exclaimed.
“You really like him? He’s a protocol droid — to help Mom. Watch.”
Anakin pushed the droid’s activation switch. With a beep and a whir and a blinking of its only working photoreceptor “eye,” the droid sat up.
The other eye was still lying on the worktable. Anakin pulled it out of the mess and plugged it into its mount frame on C-
3PO’s face.
“How do you do?” the droid greeted them, in a soft, cultivated voice. “I am See-Threepio, human cyborg relations. How might I serve you?”
“He’s perfect,” Padmé said admiringly.
“When the storm is over, you can see my racer!” Anakin blurted out again. “I’m building a Podracer!”
Padmé’s smile was sincere, admiring, intelligent — not at all the isn’t-he-a-smart-little-kid kind of smile Anakin was so used to seeing.
But before he could continue, R2-D2 began whistling and beeping at the protocol droid.
“I beg your pardon,” C-3PO said, “what do you mean, I’m naked?”
R2-D2’s beeps and whistles grew more animated.
C-3PO recoiled. “My parts are showing? Oh my goodness!”
Both Padmé and Anakin moved into the main room to avoid laughing out loud in front of C-3PO and upsetting the droid even more.
Anakin’s laughter stopped when he heard the violent shriek of the wind outside — and when he saw Qui-Gon in a corner.
The farmer was speaking into a comlink in hushed tones. But a fragment of his conversation reached Anakin’s ears:
“What if the message is true, and the people are dying?”
SSSSHKKKLLLLLIIISSHHHHP!
The sound of Jar Jar slurping soup was like some backed-up plumbing device. Anakin’s mother winced but continued eating. The others glared at him.
Jar Jar sank back in his seat.
Anakin barely noticed. His mind was on other things.
The people are dying.
What had Qui-Gon meant by that? What people? Why was he worried about matters like that?
Now, as they ate dinner to the raging music of the winds, Qui-Gon was asking about the life of a Mos Espan slave.
“…All slaves have transmitters placed inside their bodies somewhere,” Shmi was explaining.
Anakin snapped back into the conversation. “I’ve been working on a scanner to try to locate the transmitters, but no luck.”
Shmi sighed. “Any attempt to escape…”
“…and they blow you up,” Anakin added. “Boom!”
Jar Jar gasped. “How wude!”
“I can’t believe there is still slavery in the galaxy,” Padmé said with bewilderment. “The Republic’s antislavery laws —”