Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Really?” she replied sarcastically. “Well, how would you have it work?”

  Anakin stood up, suddenly intense. “We need a system where the politicians sit down and discuss the problem, agree what's in the best interests of the people, and then do it,” he said, as if it was perfectly simple and logical.

  “Which is exactly what we do,” came Padmé's unhesitating reply.

  Anakin looked at her doubtfully.

  “The trouble is that people don't always agree,” she explained. “In fact, they hardly ever do.”

  “Then they should be made to.”

  That statement caught Padmé a bit off guard. Was he so convinced that he had the answers that he... No, she put that unsettling thought out of her mind. “By whom?” she asked. “Who is going to make them?”

  “I don't know,” he answered, waving his hands again in obvious frustration. “Someone.”

  “You?”

  “Of course not me!”

  “But someone.”

  “Someone wise.”

  “That sounds an awful lot like a dictatorship,” Padmé said, winning the debate. She watched Anakin as a mischievous little grin began to spread across his face.

  “Well,” he said calmly, “if it works...”

  Padmé tried to hide her shock. What was he talking about? How could he believe that? She stared at him, and he returned the severe look—but he couldn't hold it, and burst out laughing.

  “You're making fun of me!”

  “Oh no,” Anakin said, backing away and falling to sit on the soft grass, hands out defensively before him. “I'd be much too frightened to tease a Senator.”

  “You're so bad!” She reached over, picked up a piece of fruit, and threw it at him, and when he caught it, she threw another, and then another.

  “You're always so serious,” Anakin scolded, and he began juggling the fruit.

  “I'm so serious?” Her incredulity was feigned, because Padmé agreed with the assessment to a great extent. For all her life, she had watched people like Palo go off and follow their hearts, while she had followed the path of duty. She had known great triumph and great joy, to be sure, but all of it had been wrapped up in the extravagant outfits of Naboo's Queen, and now in the endless responsibilities of a Galactic Senator. Maybe she just wanted to take off all those trappings, all those clothes, and dive into the sparkling water, for no better reason than to feel its cool comfort, for no better reason than to laugh.

  She grabbed up another piece of fruit and threw it at Anakin, and he caught it and seamlessly put it up with the others. Then another, and another, until too many went his way and he lost control, then tried futilely to duck away from the dropping fruit.

  Padmé had to clutch at her belly, she was laughing so hard. Caught up in the whirlwind of the moment, Anakin sprang to his feet and ran off to the side, cutting in front of a shaak and frightening it with his sheer jubilance.

  The normally passive grazers gave a snort and took up the chase, with Anakin running in circles and then off over the hill.

  Padmé sat back and considered this moment, this day, and her companion. What was happening here? She couldn't dismiss the pangs of guilt that she was out here playing without purpose, while others worked hard to carry on the fight against the Military Creation Act, or while Obi-Wan Kenobi scoured the galaxy in search of those who would see her dead.

  She should be out there, somewhere, doing something...

  Her thoughts fell away in another burst of incredulous laughter as Anakin and the shaak came by once more, this time with the Jedi riding the beast, one hand clenched on a fold of its flesh, the other high and waving behind him for balance. What made it all the more ridiculous was that Anakin was riding backward, facing the shaak's tail!

  “Anakin!” she cried in amazement. A bit of trepidation crept into her voice as she repeated the call, for the shaak had broken into a full gallop, and Anakin was trying to stand up on its back.

  He almost made it, but then the lumbering creature bucked and he flew away, tumbling to the ground.

  Padmé howled with laughter, clutching her stomach.

  But Anakin lay very still.

  She stopped and stared at him, suddenly frightened. She scrambled up, thinking her whole world had just crashed down around her, and rushed to his side. “Annie! Annie! Are you all right?”

  Gently, Padmé turned him over. He seemed serene and still. And then his face twisted into a perfectly stupid expression and he burst out laughing.

  “Oh!” Padmé cried, and she punched out at him. He caught her hand and pulled her in close, and she willingly crashed onto him, wrestling with fury.

  Anakin finally managed to roll her over and pin her, and Padmé stopped struggling, suddenly aware of the closeness. She looked into his eyes and felt the press of his body upon hers.

  Anakin blushed and let go, rolling away, but then he stood up and very seriously reached his hand out to her.

  All self-consciousness was gone now from Padmé. She looked hard into Anakin's blue eyes, finally and silently admitting the truth. She took his hand and followed him to the shaak, which was grazing contentedly once more.

  Anakin climbed onto its back and pulled Padmé up behind him, and they rode off across the meadow, with Padmé's arms about his waist, her body pressed up against his, a swirl of emotions and questions spinning about in her mind.

  Padmé jumped at the sound of the knock on the door. She knew who it was, and knew she was safe—from everything but her own feelings.

  The afternoon at the meadow re played in her thoughts, particularly the ride on the shaak, when Anakin had taken her back to the lodge. For the minutes of that ride, Padmé had not hidden behind a mask of denial, or behind anything else. Sitting behind Anakin, her arms about his waist, her head resting on the back of his shoulder, she had felt safe and secure, perfectly content and...

  She had to take a deep breath to keep her hand from trembling as she reached up for the doorknob.

  She pulled the door back, and could see nothing but the tall and lean silhouette, backlit by the setting sun.

  Anakin shifted just a bit, blocking the rosy glow enough so that Padmé could see his smile. He started to move in, but she held her ground. It wasn't a conscious decision; she was simply entranced, for it seemed to her as if the sun was setting behind Anakin's shoulders and not behind the horizon, as if he was big enough to dismiss the day. Orange flames danced about his silhouette, dulling the distinction between Anakin and eternity.

  Padmé had to consciously remember to breathe. She stepped back and Anakin sauntered in, apparently oblivious to the wondrous moment she had just experienced. He was grinning mischievously, and for some reason she felt embarrassed. She wondered for a moment if she should have chosen a different outfit, for the evening dress she was wearing was black and off the shoulder, showing quite a bit of flesh. She wore a black choker, as well, with a line of sheer fabric running down over the front of the dress, barely concealing her cleavage.

  She moved to close the door, but paused and looked back over the lake, at the rose-colored tint filtering across the shimmering water.

  When she turned back, Anakin was already standing by the table, looking over the bowl of fruit and the settings Padmé had put out. She watched him glance up at one of the floating light globes, its glow growing as the sunlight began to diminish outside. He playfully poked at it, seemingly oblivious that she, or anyone else, was watching him, and his smile nearly reached his ears as the globe bounced away from his touch, elongating the soft sphere of light.

  The next few moments of just watching Anakin were quite pleasant for Padmé, but the next few after that, when he started looking back at her, his expression alternately playful and intense, proved more than a bit uncomfortable.

  Soon enough, though, the pair had settled in at the table, seated across from each other. Two of the resort waitresses, Nandi and Teckla, served them their meal, while Anakin began recounting some of the a
dventures he had known over the last ten years, training and flying with Obi-Wan.

  Padmé listened attentively, captivated by Anakin's flair for storytelling. She wanted to do more, though. She wanted to talk about what had happened out at the meadow, to try to make some sense of it with Anakin, to share with him the solution as they had shared the out-of-bounds emotions and moments. But she could not begin, and so she just allowed him to ramble on, contenting herself with enjoying his tales.

  Dessert was Padmé's favorite, yellow-and-cream-colored shuura fruit, juicy and sweet. She grinned as Nandi put a bowl before her.

  “And when I went to them, we went into...” Anakin paused, drawing Padmé's full attention, a wry smile on his face. “Aggressive negotiations,” he finished, and then he thanked Teckla as she placed some dessert fruit before him.

  “Aggressive negotiations? What's that?”

  “Uh, well, negotiations with a lightsaber,” the Padawan said, still grinning wryly.

  “Oh,” Padmé said with a laugh, and she eagerly went for her dessert, stabbing with her fork.

  The shuura moved and her fork hit the plate. A bit confused, Padmé stabbed at it again.

  It moved.

  She looked up at Anakin, a bit confused and embarrassed, but then she saw that he was fighting hard not to laugh, staring down at his own plate a bit too innocently.

  “You did that!”

  He looked up, his expression wide-eyed. “What?”

  Padmé scowled, pointing her fork at him and waving it threateningly. Then, suddenly, she went for the shuura again.

  But Anakin was quicker. The fruit slipped out of the way, and she stabbed the plate. Then, before she could scowl at him again, the shuura rose into the air to hover before her.

  “That!” Padmé answered. “Now stop it!” She couldn't hold her feigned anger, though, and laughed aloud as she finished. Anakin started laughing, too. Half looking at him, Padmé snapped her hand at the floating fruit.

  He waggled his fingers and the fruit looped about her hand.

  “Anakin!”

  “If Master Obi-Wan was here, he'd be very grumpy,” the Padawan admitted. He pulled back his hand, and the shuura flew across the table to his waiting grasp. “But he's not here,” he added, cutting the fruit into several slices. Reaching for the Force, he made one piece float upward and slide toward Padmé. She bit it right out of the air.

  Padmé laughed and so did Anakin. They finished their dessert with many fleeting glances, and then, as Teckla and Nandi returned to clean up the plates, the couple retreated to the sitting area, with its comfortable chairs and sofa, and a huge warm fire blazing in the hearth.

  Nandi and Teckla finished and bade the couple good-bye, and then they were alone, completely alone, and the tension returned almost immediately.

  She wanted him to kiss her, so desperately, and it was precisely that out-of-control sensation that had stopped her cold. This was not right—she knew that in her head, despite what her heart might be telling her. They each had bigger responsibilities for the time being; she had to deal with the continuing split of the Republic, and he had to continue his Jedi training.

  Anakin settled back into the sofa. “From the moment I met you, all those years ago, a day hasn't gone by when I haven't thought of you.” His voice was husky, intense, and the sparkle in his eyes bored right through her. “And now that I'm with you again, I'm in agony. The closer I get to you, the worse it gets. The thought of not being with you makes my stomach turn over, my mouth go dry. I feel dizzy! I can't breathe! I'm haunted by the kiss you never should have given me. My heart is beating, hoping that kiss will not become a scar.”

  Padmé's hand slowly dropped to her side and she sat listening in amazement at how honestly he was opening up before her, baring his heart though he knew she might tear it asunder with a single word. She was honored by the thought, and truly touched. And afraid.

  “You are in my very soul, tormenting me,” Anakin went on, not a bit of falseness in his tone. This was no ploy to garner any physical favors; this was honest and straightforward, refreshingly so to the woman who had spent most of her life being attended by handmaidens whose job it was to please and entertaining dignitaries whose agendas were never quite what they seemed.

  “What can I do?” he asked softly. “I will do anything you ask.”

  Padmé looked away, overwhelmed, finding security in the distracting dance of the flames in the hearth. Several moments of silence slipped by uncomfortably.

  “If you are suffering as much as I am, tell me,” Anakin prompted.

  Padmé turned on him, her own frustrations bubbling over. “I can't!” She sat back and struggled to collect herself. “We can't,” she said as calmly as she could. “It's just not possible.”

  “Anything's possible,” Anakin replied, leaning forward. “Padmé, please listen—”

  “You listen,” she scolded. Somehow, hearing her own denial brought some strength to her—much-needed strength. “We live in a real world. Come back to it, Anakin. You're studying to become a Jedi Knight. I'm a Senator. If you follow your thoughts through to conclusion, they will take us to a place we cannot go... regardless of the way we feel about each other.”

  “Then you do feel something!”

  Padmé swallowed hard. “Jedi aren't allowed to marry,” she pointed out, needing to deflect attention away from her feelings at that debilitating moment. “You'd be expelled from the Order. I will not let you give up your future for me.”

  “You're asking me to be rational,” Anakin replied without the slightest hesitation, and his confidence and boldness here caught Padmé a bit by surprise. There was no longer anything of the child in the man before her. She felt her control slip a notch.

  “That is something I know I cannot do,” he went on. “Believe me, I wish I could wish my feelings away. But I can't.”

  “I am not going to give in to this,” she said with all the conviction she could muster. She finished with her jaw clenched very tightly, knowing that she had to be the strong one here, for Anakin's sake more than for her own. “I have more important things to do than fall in love.”

  He turned away, looking wounded, and she winced. He stared into the fire, his face twisting this way and that as he tried to sort through it all. She knew he was trying to find a way around her resolve.

  “It wouldn't have to be that way,” he said at length. “We could keep it a secret.”

  “Then we'd be living a lie—one we couldn't keep up even if we wanted to. My sister saw it, so did my mother. I couldn't do that. Could you, Anakin? Could you live like that?”

  He stared at her intensely for a moment, then looked back to the fire, seeming defeated.

  “No, you're right,” he finally admitted. “It would destroy us.”

  Padmé looked from Anakin to the fire. Which would destroy her—destroy them —she had to wonder. The action or the thought?

  = XVI =

  “Wow!” Boba Fett exclaimed, rushing across the landing pad to view the sleek starfighter up close.

  “Beautiful ship,” Jango agreed, strolling to catch up to his son, studying the craft with every stride. He noted the markings and design, the extra firepower, and, particularly, the astromech droid hardwired into the left wing, tootling happily.

  “This is a Delta-Seven,” the excited Boba a nnounced, pointing out the rear-cockpit position. Jango nodded, glad that his son had been taking his lessons seriously. These were new ships—so new that they hadn't yet been fitted with hyperdrive engines, Jango realized, and he inadvertently glanced up at the cloudy sky, wondering if parent ships were up there. He shook the thought away, turning back to Boba.

  “And what of the droid?” he asked. “Can you identify the unit?”

  Boba climbed up the side of the fighter and studied the markings for a moment, then turned back to his father, finger to pursed lips, an intense expression on his face. “It's an Arfour-Pea,” he said.

  “And is that a comm
on droid for this type of starfighter?”

  “No,” Boba answered without hesitation. “A Delta-Seven pilot would usually use an Arthree-Dee. It's better at keeping the guns targeted, and the fighter is so maneuverable that handling the laser cannons is tricky. I read that some pilots wind up shooting their own nose cones off in this fighter! They do a snap-roll, coming out over and around, but they haven't compensated the manual swivel...” As he spoke, he moved his arms over each other and about, tangling them up in front of him.

  Jango was hardly listening to the details, though he was thrilled that Boba had taken to his lessons with such energy. “Suppose the pilot didn't need the extra gunnery skills of an Arthree-Dee?” he asked.

  Boba looked at him curiously, as if he didn't understand.

  “Would the Arfour-Pea then be a better choice?”

  “Yes,” came the halting response.

  “And what pilot wouldn't need the extra droid gunnery skills?”

  Boba stared blankly, but then a smile spread on his face. “You!” he blurted, seeming quite pleased with himself.

  Jango took the compliment with an appreciative smile—and it was true enough. Jango could wheel any fighter, and if he ever had the opportunity to fly in a Delta-7, he'd likely choose an R4-P over the R3-D. But that wasn't what he had in mind right now, for he knew of one other type of pilot, pilots with heightened senses, who would similarly choose the better nav, but less weapon-oriented droid.

  Jango Fett looked back up at the sky, wondering if a host of Jedi were about to descend upon Tipoca City.

  Great racks holding glass spheres stretched across the immense room to the end of Obi-Wan's vision. Each sphere contained an embryo, suspended in fluid, and when the Jedi reached into the Force, he sensed strong waves of life energy.

  “The hatchery,” he stated more than asked.

  “The first phase, obviously,” Lama Su replied.

  “Very impressive.”

  “I hoped you would be pleased, Master Jedi,” the Prime Minister said. “Clones can think creatively. You'll find that they are immensely superior to droids, and that ours are the best in all the galaxy. Our methods have been perfected over many centuries.”