The Phantom Menace (15 page)

“…  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.

T
he 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 …”

“…  and they blow you up!” the boy finished. “Poof!”

Jar Jar had been slurping contentedly at his soup, listening with half an ear as he devoured the very tasty broth. He overdid it on hearing this, however, making such a loud noise that he stopped conversation altogether. All eyes turned on him momentarily. He lowered his head in embarrassment and pretended not to see.

Padmé looked back at Shmi. “I can’t believe slavery is still permitted in the galaxy. The Republic’s antislavery laws should—”

“The Republic doesn’t exist out here,” Shmi interrupted quickly, her voice hard. “We must survive on our own.”

There was an awkward silence as Padmé looked away, not knowing what else to say.

“Have you ever seen a Podrace?” Anakin asked, trying to ease her discomfort.

Padmé shook her head no. She glanced at Shmi, noting the sudden concern on the woman’s lined face. Jar Jar launched his tongue at a morsel of food nestled deep in a serving bowl at the far end of the table, deftly plucking it out, drawing it in, swallowing it, and smacking his lips in satisfaction. A disapproving look from Qui-Gon quickly silenced him.

“They have Podracing on Malastare,” the Jedi Master observed. “Very fast, very dangerous.”

Anakin grinned. “I’m the only human who can do it!” A sharp glance from his mother wiped the grin from his face. “Mom, what? I’m not bragging. It’s true! Watto says he’s never heard of a human doing it.”

Qui-Gon studied him carefully. “You must have Jedi reflexes if you race Pods.”

Anakin smiled broadly at the compliment. Jar Jar’s tongue snaked toward the serving bowl in an effort to snare another morsel, but this time Qui-Gon was waiting. His hand moved swiftly, and in a heartbeat he had secured the Gungan’s tongue between his thumb and forefinger. Jar Jar froze, his mouth open, his tongue held fast, his eyes wide.

“Don’t do that again,” Qui-Gon advised, an edge to his soft voice.

Jar Jar tried to say something, but it came out an unintelligible mumble. Qui-Gon released the Gungan’s tongue, and it snapped back into place. Jar Jar massaged his billed mouth ruefully.

Anakin’s young face lifted to the older man’s, and his voice was hesitant. “I … I was wondering something.”

Qui-Gon nodded for him to continue.

The boy cleared his throat, screwing up his courage. “You’re a Jedi Knight, aren’t you?”

There was a long moment of silence as the man and the boy stared at each other. “What makes you think that?” Qui-Gon asked finally.

Anakin swallowed. “I saw your lightsaber. Only Jedi Knights carry that kind of weapon.”