Padmé looked past the young Padawan for a moment, glimpsing Dormé, who was watching with obvious concern and not even trying to hide her interest anymore. And Padmé understood that concern, given the strange and unexpected road this conversation had taken. She looked squarely at Anakin again and said, with no room for debate, “It makes me feel uncomfortable.”
Anakin relented and looked away. “Sorry, M’Lady,” he said professionally, and he stepped back, allowing her to resume her packing.
Just the bodyguard again.
But he wasn’t, Padmé knew, no matter how much she wished it were true.
On a water-washed, wind-lashed world, far to the most remote edges of the Outer Rim, a father and his son sat on a skirt of shining black metal, watching carefully in the few somewhat calm pools created by the currents swirling about the gigantic caryatid that climbed out of the turbulent ocean. The rain had let up a bit, a rare occasion in this watery place, allowing for some calm surface area, at least, and the pair stared hard, searching for the meter-long dark silhouettes of rollerfish.
They were on the lowest skirt of one of the great pillars that supported Tipoca City, the greatest city on all of Kamino, a place of sleek structures, all rounded to deflect the continual wind, rather than flat-faced to battle against it. Kamino had been designed, or upgraded at least, by many of the best architects the galaxy could offer, who understood well that the best way to battle planetary elements was to subtly dodge them. Towering transparisteel windows looked out from every portal—the father, Jango, often wondered why the Kaminoans, tall and thin, pasty white creatures with huge almond-shaped eyes set in oblong heads on necks as long as his arm, wanted so many windows. What was there to see on this violent world other than rolling waters and nearly constant downpours?
Still, even Kamino had its better moments. It was all relative, Jango supposed. Thus, when he saw that it was not raining very hard, he had taken his boy outside.
Jango tapped his son on the shoulder and nodded toward one of the quiet eddies, and the younger one, his face showing all the exuberance of a ten-year-old boy, lifted his pocker, an ion-burst-powered atlatl, and took deadly aim. He didn’t use the laser sighting unit, which automatically adjusted for watery refraction. No, this kill was to be a test of his skill alone.
He exhaled deeply, as his father had taught him, using the technique to go perfectly steady, and then, as the prey turned sidelong, he snapped his arm forward, throwing the missile. Barely a meter from the boy’s extended hand, the back of the missile glowed briefly, a sudden and short burst of power that shot it off like a blaster bolt, knifing through the water and taking the fish in the side, its barbed head driving through.
With a shout of joy, the boy twisted the atlatl handle, locking the nearly invisible but tremendously strong line, and then, when the fish squirmed away enough to pull the line taut, the boy slowly and deliberately turned the handle, reeling in his catch.
“Well done,” Jango congratulated. “But if you had hit it a centimeter forward, you would have skewered the primary muscle just below the gill and rendered it completely helpless.”
The boy nodded, unperturbed that his father, his mentor, could always find fault, even in success. The boy knew that his beloved father did so only because it forced him to strive for perfection. And in a dangerous galaxy, perfection allowed for survival.
The boy loved his father even more for caring enough to criticize.
Jango went tense suddenly, sensing a movement nearby, a footfall, perhaps, or just a smell, something to tell the finely attuned bounty hunter that he and his boy were not alone. There weren’t many enemies to be found on Kamino, except far out in the watery wastes, where giant tentacled creatures roamed. Here there was little life above the water, other than the Kaminoans themselves, and so Jango wasn’t surprised when he saw that the newcomer was one of them: Taun We, his usual contact with the Kaminoans.
“Greetings, Jango,” the tall, lithe creature said, holding up a slim arm and hand in a gesture of peace and friendship.
Jango nodded but didn’t smile. Why had Taun We come out here—the Kaminoans were hardly ever out of their city of globes—and why would she interrupt Jango when he was with his son?
“You have been scarce within the sector of late,” Taun We remarked.
“Better things to do.”
“With your child?”
In response, Jango looked over at the boy, who was lining up another rollerfish. Or at least, he was appearing to, Jango recognized, and the insight brought a knowing nod of satisfaction to the crusty bounty hunter. He had taught his son well the art of deception and deflection, of appearing to do one thing while, in reality, doing something quite different. Like listening in on the conversation, measuring Taun We’s every word.
“The tenth anniversary approaches,” the Kaminoan explained.
Jango turned back to her with a sour expression. “You think I don’t know Boba’s birthday?”
If Taun We was fazed at all by the sharp retort, the delicately featured Kaminoan didn’t show it. “We are ready to begin again.”
Jango looked back at Boba, one of his thousands of children, but the only one who was a perfect clone, an exact replica with no genetic manipulation to make him more obedient. And the only one who hadn’t been artificially aged. The group that had been created beside Boba had all reached maturity now, were adult warriors, in perfect health.
Jango had thought that policy of accelerating the aging process a mistake—wasn’t experience as much a part of attaining warrior skill as genetics?—but he hadn’t complained openly to the Kaminoans about it. He had been hired to do a job, to serve as the source, and questioning the process wasn’t in his job description.
Taun We cocked her head a bit to the side, eyes blinking slowly.
Jango recognized her expression as curiosity, and it nearly brought a chuckle bubbling to his lips. The Kaminoans were much more alike than were humans, especially humans from different planets. Perhaps their singular concept, their commonness within their own species, was a part of their typical reproductive process, which now included a fair amount of genetic manipulation, if not outright cloning. As a society, they were practically of one mind and one heart. Taun We seemed genuinely perplexed, and so she was, to see a human with so little apparent regard for other humans, clones or not.
Of course, hadn’t the Kaminoans just created an army for the Republic? There wouldn’t be wars without some disagreement, now, would there?
But that, too, held little interest for Jango. He was a solitary bounty hunter, a recluse—or he would have been if not for Boba. Jango didn’t care a whit about politics or war or this army of his clones. If every one of them was slaughtered, then so be it. He had no attachment to any.
He looked to the side as he considered that. To any except for Boba, of course.
Other than that, though, this was just a job, well paying and easy enough. Financially, he couldn’t have asked for more, but more important, only the Kaminoans could have given him Boba—not just a son, but an exact replica. Boba would give Jango the pleasure of seeing all that he might have become had he grown up with a loving and caring father, a mentor who cared enough to criticize, to force him to perfection. He was as good as it got concerning bounty hunters, concerning warriors, but he had no doubt that Boba, bred and trained for perfection, would far outshine him to become one of the greatest warriors the galaxy had ever known.
This, then, was Jango Fett’s greatest reward, right here, sitting with his son, his young replica, sharing quiet moments.
Quiet moments within the tumult that had been Jango Fett’s entire life, surviving the trials of the Outer Rim alone practically from the day he learned to walk. Each trial had made him stronger, had made him more perfect, had honed the skills that he would now pass along to Boba. There was no one better in all the galaxy to teach his son. When Jango Fett wanted you caught, you were caught. When Jango Fett wanted you dead, you were dead.
No, not when Jango “wanted” those things. This was never personal. The hunting, the killing, it was all a job, and among the most valuable of lessons Jango had learned early on was how to become dispassionate. Completely so. That was his greatest weapon.
He looked at Taun We, then turned to grin at his son. Jango could be dispassionate, except for those times when he could spend time alone with Boba. With Boba, there was pride and there was love, and Jango had to work constantly to keep both of those potential weaknesses at a minimum. While he loved his son dearly—because he loved his son dearly—Jango had been teaching him those same attributes of dispassion, even callousness, from his earliest days.
“We will commence the process again as soon as you are ready,” Taun We remarked, bringing Jango back from his contemplations.
“Don’t you have enough of the material to do it without me?”
“Well, since you are here anyway, we would like you to be involved,” Taun We said. “The original host is always the best choice.”
Jango rolled his eyes at the thought—of the needles and the probing—but he did nod his agreement; this was really an easy job, considering the rewards.
“Whenever you are ready.” Taun We bowed and turned and walked away.
If you wait for that, you’ll be waiting forever, Jango thought, but he kept quiet, and again he turned to Boba, motioning for the boy to put his atlatl back to work. Because now I have all that I wanted, Jango mused, watching Boba’s fluid motions, his eyes darting about, searching for the next rollerfish.
The industrial sector of Coruscant held perhaps the greatest freight docks in all the galaxy, with a line of bulky transports coming in continually, huge floating cranes ready to meet them and unload the millions of tons of supplies necessary to keep alive the city-planet, which long ago had become too populous to support itself through its own resources. The efficiency of these docks was nothing short of amazing, and yet the place was still tumultuous, and sometimes gridlocked by the sheer number of docking ships and floating cranes.
This was also a place for living passengers, the peasantry of Coruscant, catching cheap rides on freighters outbound, thousands and thousands of people looking to escape the sheer frenzy that had become the world.
Blended into that throng, Anakin and Padmé walked along, dressed in simple brown tunics and breeches, the garb of Outland refugees. They walked side by side to the shuttle exit as they approached the dock and walkway that would take them to one of the gigantic transports. Captain Typho, Dormé, and Obi-Wan stood waiting for them at that exit door.
“Be safe, M’Lady,” Captain Typho said with genuine concern. It was clear that he was not thrilled with allowing Padmé out of his sight and control. He handed a pair of small luggage bags over to Anakin and gave a nod of confidence to the young Jedi.
“Thank you, Captain,” Padmé replied, her voice thick with gratitude. “Take good care of Dormé. The threat will be on you two now.”
“He’ll be safe with me!” Dormé put in quickly.
Padmé smiled, appreciating the small attempt at levity. Then she embraced her handmaiden in a great and tight hug, squeezing all the tighter when she heard Dormé start to weep.
“You’ll be fine,” Padmé whispered into the other woman’s ear.
“It’s not me, M’Lady. I worry about you. What if they realize you’ve left the capital?”
Padmé moved back to arm’s length and managed a smile as she looked over to Anakin. “Then my Jedi protector will have to prove how good he is.”
Dormé gave a nervous chuckle and wiped a tear from her eye as she smiled and nodded.
Off to the side, Anakin held his smile within, deciding consciously to wear a posture that exuded confidence and control. But inside he was thrilled to hear Padmé’s compliments coming his way.
Obi-Wan shattered that warmth, pulling the young Padawan off to the side.
“You stay on Naboo,” Obi-Wan said. “Don’t attract attention. Do absolutely nothing without checking in with me or the Council.”
“Yes, Master,” Anakin answered obediently, but inside, he was churning, wanting to lash out at Obi-Wan. Do nothing, absolutely nothing, without checking in, without asking for permission? Hadn’t he earned a bit more respect than that? Hadn’t he proven himself a bit more resourceful, a Padawan to be trusted?
“I will get to the bottom of this plot quickly, M’Lady,” he heard Obi-Wan say to Padmé. Anakin seethed inwardly. Hadn’t that been exactly the course he had suggested to his Master when they had first been assigned to watch over the Senator?
“You’ll be back here in no time,” Obi-Wan assured her.
“I will be most grateful for your speed, Master Jedi.”
Anakin didn’t appreciate hearing Padmé speak of any gratitude at all toward Obi-Wan. At least, he didn’t want Padmé to elevate Obi-Wan’s importance in all of this above his own. “Time to go,” he said, striding forward.
“I know,” Padmé answered him, but she didn’t seem pleased.
Anakin reminded himself not to take it personally. Padmé felt that her duty was here. She wasn’t thrilled with running offplanet—and she wasn’t thrilled with having another of her dear handmaidens stepping into the line of fire in her stead, especially with images of dead Cordé so fresh in her mind.
Padmé and Dormé shared another hug. Anakin took up the luggage and led the way off the speeder bus, onto a landing where R2-D2 waited.
“May the Force be with you,” Obi-Wan said.
“May the Force be with you, Master.” Anakin meant every word of it. He wanted Obi-Wan to find out who was behind the assassination attempts, to make the galaxy safe for Padmé once again. But he had to admit that he hoped it wouldn’t happen too quickly. His duty now put him right beside the woman he loved, and he wouldn’t be happy if this assignment proved a short one, if duty pulled him away from her yet again.
“Suddenly I’m afraid,” Padmé said to him as they walked away, heading toward the giant star freighter that would take them to Naboo. Behind the pair, R2-D2 rolled along, tootling cheerily.
“This is my first assignment on my own. I am, too.” Anakin turned about, taking Padmé’s gaze with his own, and grinned widely. “But don’t worry. We’ve got Artoo with us!”
Again, the levity was much needed.
Back at the bus, waiting for it to take them back to the main city, the three left behind watched Anakin, Padmé, and R2-D2 blend into the throng of the vast spaceport.
“I hope he doesn’t try anything foolish,” Obi-Wan said. The mere fact that he would speak so openly concerning his student showed Captain Typho how much the Jedi Knight had come to trust him.
“I’d be more concerned about her doing something than him,” Typho replied. He shook his head, his expression serious. “She’s not one to follow orders.”
“Like-minded traveling companions,” Dormé observed.
Obi-Wan and Typho turned to regard her, and Typho shook his head helplessly again. Obi-Wan didn’t disagree with Dormé’s assessment, however innocently she meant it. Padmé Amidala was a stubborn one indeed, one of strong and independent thinking and more than willing to trust her own judgment above that of others, whatever their position and experience.
But of the pair who had just left the speeder bus, she wasn’t the most headstrong.
It was not a comforting thought.
The great Jedi Temple was a place of reflection and of hard training, and it was also a place of information. The Jedi were traditionally the keepers of the peace, and also of knowledge. Beneath their high ceilings, off the main corridor of the Temple, stood the glass cubicles, the analysis rooms, filled with droids of various shapes and sizes, and various purposes.
Obi-Wan Kenobi was thinking of Anakin and Padmé as he made his way through the Temple. He wondered, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, about the wisdom of sending Anakin off with the Senator. The eagerness with which the Padawan had embraced his new
duty set off warning bells in Obi-Wan’s head, but he had allowed the mission to go forth anyway, mostly because he knew that he’d be too busy following the leads he hoped he could garner here, uncovering the source of Amidala’s troubles.
The analysis cubicles were busy this day, as they were nearly every day, with students and Masters alike hard at their studies. Obi-Wan found one open cubicle with an SP-4 analysis droid, the type he needed. He sat down in front of the console and the droid responded immediately, sliding open a tray.
“Place the subject for analysis on the sensor tray, please,” the droid’s metallic voice said. Obi-Wan was already moving, pulling forth the toxic dart that had killed the subcontracting bounty hunter.
As soon as the tray receded, the screen before Obi-Wan lit up and began scrolling through a series of diagrams and streams of data.
“It’s a toxic dart,” the Jedi explained to the SP-4. “I need to know where it came from and who made it.”
“One moment, please.” More diagrams rolled by, more reams of data scrolling, and then the screen paused, showing a somewhat similar dart. But it wasn’t a match and the scrolling started again. Images of the dart flashed up before Obi-Wan, superimposed with diagrams of similar objects. Nothing matched.
The screen went blank. The tray slid back out.
“As you can see on your screen, subject weapon does not exist in any known culture,” SP-4 explained. “Markings cannot be identified. Probably self-made by a warrior not associated with any known culture. Stand away from the sensor tray, please.”
“Excuse me? Could you try again please?” There was no hiding the frustration in Obi-Wan’s voice.
“Master Jedi, our records are very thorough. They cover eighty percent of the galaxy. If I can’t tell you where it came from, nobody can.”
Obi-Wan picked up the dart, looked at the droid, and sighed, not so sure that he agreed with that particular assessment. “Thanks for your assistance,” he said. He wondered if SP-4s were equipped to understand the inflections of sarcasm. “You may not be able to figure this out, but I think I know someone who might.”
Attack of the Clones Page 11