by Terry Brooks
So that he would win tomorrow’s race.
Because he must.
He must.
He watched R2-D2 scuttle around the racer, applying paint in broad strokes to its polished metal body, aided by a light projecting from a receptacle mounted over his visual sensors and a steady stream of advice from C-3PO. The boy had activated the latter earlier on the advice of Padmé. Many hands make light work, she had intoned solemnly, then grinned. C-3PO wasn’t much with his hands, but his vocoder was certainly tireless. In any case, R2-D2 seemed to like having him around, exchanging beeps and chirps with his protocol counterpart as he scuttled about the racer. The little astromech droid worked tirelessly, cheerfully, and willingly. Nothing perturbed him. Anakin envied him. Droids were either well put together or they weren’t. Unlike humans, they didn’t respond to weariness or disappointment or fear …
He chased the thought away quickly and looked up at the starry sky. After a moment, he sat down, his back against a crate of old parts, his goggles and racing helmet at his side. Idly, he fingered the japor carving in his pocket, the one he was working on for Padmé. His thoughts drifted. He couldn’t explain it exactly, but he knew that tomorrow would change his life. That strange ability to see what others did not, that sometimes gave him insights into what would happen, told him so. His future was coming up on him in a rush, he sensed. It was closing fast, giving him no time to consider, ascending with the certainty of a sunrise.
What would it bring him? The question teased at the edges of his consciousness, refusing to show itself. Change, but in what form? Qui-Gon and his companions were the bringers of that change, but he did not think even the Jedi Knight knew for certain what the end result would be.
Maybe the freedom he had dreamed about for himself and his mother, he thought hopefully. Maybe an escape to a new life for both of them. Anything was possible if he won the Boonta. Anything at all.
That thought was still foremost in his cluttered, weary mind when his eyes closed and he fell asleep.
Anakin Skywalker dreamed that night, and in his dream he was of a different, but indeterminate age. He was young still, though not so young as now, but old, too. He was cut from stone, and his thoughts were emblazoned with a vision so frightening he could not bring himself to consider it fully, only to leave it just out of reach, simmering over a fire of ambition and hope. He was in a different place and time, in a world he did not recognize, in a landscape he had never seen. It was vague and shadowy in his dream, all flat and rugged at once, changing with the swiftness of a mirage born out of Tatooine’s desert flats.
The dream shimmered, and voices reached out to him, soft and distant. He turned toward them, away from a wave of dark movement that suddenly appeared before him, away from the sleep that gave his dream life.
“I hope you’re about finished,” he heard Padmé say.
But Padmé was at the head of the dark wave of his dream, and the wave was an army, marching toward him …
R2-D2 whistled and beeped, and C-3PO chimed in with hasty assurances, saying everything was done, all was in readiness, and he stirred again.
A hand touched his cheek, brushing it softly, and the dream faded and was gone. Anakin blinked awake, rubbing at his eyes, yawning and turning over on his side. He was no longer stretched out by the parts crate where he had fallen asleep the night before, but was back in his own bed.
The hand lifted away from his cheek, and Anakin stared up at Padmé, at a face he found so beautiful it brought a tightness to his throat. Yet he stared at her in confusion, for she had been the central figure in his dream, different from now, older, sadder … and something more.
“You were in my dream,” he said, swallowing hard to get the words out. “You were leading a huge army into battle.”
The girl stared at him in wonder, then smiled. “I hope not. I hate fighting.” Her voice was merry and light, dismissive in a way that bothered him. “Your mother wants you to get up now. We have to leave soon.”
Anakin climbed to his feet, fully awake. He walked to the back door and stood looking out at the anthill complex of the slave quarters, at the bustle of slaves going about their daily work, at the clear, bright early morning sky that promised good weather for the Boonta Eve race. The Podracer hung level before him on its antigrav lifts, freshly painted and gleaming in the new day’s sunlight. R2-D2 bustled about with a brush and can of paint, completing the final detailing of the craft. C-3PO, still missing most of his outer skin, his working parts clearly visible, followed along, pointing out missed patches, giving unsolicited opinions and bits of advice.
The sharp wheeze of an eopie brought him around to find Kitster riding toward them on the first of two of the beasts he had commandeered to help haul the Podracer to the arena. Kitster’s dark face was aglow with expectation, and he waved eagerly at Anakin as he approached.
Anakin waved back, shouting, “Hook ’em up, Kitster!” He turned back to Padmé. “Where’s Qui-Gon?”
The girl gestured. “He left with Jar Jar for the arena. They’ve gone to find Watto.”
Anakin sprinted to his bedroom to wash and dress.
Qui-Gon Jinn strolled through the main hangar of the Mos Espa Podracer arena, glancing at the activity about him with seemingly casual interest. The hangar was a cavernous building that housed Podracers and equipment year round and served as a staging area for vehicles and crews on race days. A handful of racers were already in place on the service pads, dozens of aliens who had found their way to Tatooine from every corner of the galaxy crawling all over the Pods and engines as pit bosses and pilots shouted instructions. The clash and shriek of metal on metal echoed in an earsplitting din through the hangar’s vast chamber, forcing conversations to be held at something approaching a shout.
Jar Jar hugged one shoulder of the Jedi Master while Watto buzzed close by the other. The former was his normal fretful, nervous self, eyes rolling on their stalks, head twisting this way and that with such frantic concern it seemed certain it must soon twist off altogether. Watto flew with blatant disregard for everything but his own conversation, which rambled on and on, covering the same points endlessly.
“So it must be understood clearly that our bargain is sealed, outlander,” he repeated for at least the third time in the last ten minutes. His blue-snouted head bobbed with emphasis. “I’ll want to see your spaceship the moment the race is over.”
He made no bones about the fact that he believed that gaining lawful possession of the Naboo transport was only a matter of time. He had not once since Qui-Gon had found him at the betting booths suggested that things might work out otherwise.
The Jedi Master demurred with a shrug. “Patience, my blue friend. You’ll have your winnings before the suns set, and my companions and I will be far away from here.”
“Not if your ship belongs to me, I think!” Watto snorted, and gave a satisfied laugh. Just as quickly, his sharp eyes fixed on the Jedi. “I warn you, no funny business!”
Qui-Gon kept walking, his gaze directed elsewhere, carefully baiting the hook he had set for the Toydarian. “You don’t think Anakin will win?”
Watto flew around in front of him and brought them all to a stop. Wings beating furiously, he motioned to a bright orange racer parked close at hand, its engines modified so that when the energy binders were activated and the engines joined, they formed a distinctive X-shape. Sitting to one side of the racer was the Dug who had attacked Jar Jar two days earlier, Sebulba, his wicked eyes fixed on them, his slender limbs drawn up in a vaguely menacing gesture. A pair of lithesome Twi’leks worked diligently massaging the Dug’s neck and shoulders. The Twi’leks were humanoid aliens from the planet Ryloth; they had pointed teeth, smooth blue skin, and twin tentacles that draped gracefully from their hairless heads down their silken backs. Their red eyes lifted to Qui-Gon momentarily, interest flickering in their depths, then returned quickly to their master.
Watto snorted. “Don’t get me wrong,” he announced, shaking
his head in an odd cocking motion. “I have great faith in the boy. He’s a credit to your species.” His snaggle-toothed mouth tightened. “But Sebulba there is going to win, I think.”
Qui-Gon pretended to study the Dug carefully. “Why?”
“Because he always wins!” The Toydarian broke into a fit of laughter, consumed by his own cleverness. “I’m betting heavily on Sebulba!”
“I’ll take that bet,” Qui-Gon said at once.
Watto stopped laughing instantly, jerking away as if scalded by hot oil. “What?” He shook his head in astonishment. “What do you mean?”
Qui-Gon advanced a step, backing the Toydarian away. “I’ll wager my new racing Pod against …” He trailed off thoughtfully, letting Watto hang. “Against, say, the boy and his mother.”
Watto was aghast. “A Pod for slaves! I don’t think so!” The blue wings were a blur as he flitted this way and that, head cocked. “Well, perhaps. Just one. The mother, maybe. The boy isn’t for sale.”
Qui-Gon frowned. “The boy is small. He can’t be worth much.”
Watto shook his head decisively.
“For the fastest Pod ever built?”
Watto shook his head again.
“Both, or no bet.”
They were standing near the front entry of the hangar, and the noise of the crew work had lessened. Beyond, the arena stands rose against the desert sky, a vast, curved complex complete with boxes for the Hutts, a race announcer’s booth, course monitoring equipment, and food stands. Already the stands were beginning to fill, the population of Mos Espa turning out in full force for the event, shops and stalls closed, the city on holiday. Bright streamers and banners flew, and approaching racers flamed with the reflection of sunlight and polish.
Qui-Gon caught sight of Anakin appearing through the crowds, riding an eopie with Padmé up behind him, towing one of the massive Radon-Ulzer engines. His friend Kitster followed on a second eopie, towing the other engine. The eopies were gangly, long-snouted pack animals with tough, leathery skin and short fur particularly well-suited to resisting the Tatooine desert heat. R2-D2 and C-3PO trailed the little procession with the Pod and Shmi. The Jedi Master deliberately turned to watch their approach, drawing Watto’s gaze after his own. The Toydarian’s eyes glittered at the sight of the boy and the racer.
He looked back at Qui-Gon and gave an anxious snort. “No Pod’s worth two slaves … not by a long shot! One slave or nothing!”
Qui-Gon folded his arms over his chest. “The boy, then.”
Watto huffed and shook his head. He jerked with the tension his deliberation was generating inside his pudgy blue body. “No, no …”
Then abruptly he reached inside his pocket and produced a small cube, which he tossed from one hand to the other as if it were too hot to hold. “We’ll let fate decide. Blue, it’s the boy. Red, it’s the mother.”
Watto cast the cube to the hangar floor. As he did, Qui-Gon made a small, surreptitious gesture with one hand, calling on his Jedi power to produce a small inflection in the Force.
The cube bounced, rolled, settled, blue side facing up. Watto threw up his hands angrily, his eyes turning narrow and sharp.
“You won the toss, outlander!” he sneered in dismissal. “But you won’t win the race, so it makes little difference, I think.”
“We’ll see,” Qui-Gon replied calmly.
Anakin and the others reached them, entering the hangar with the Pod and engines. Watto wheeled away from Qui-Gon in a huff, pausing long enough to snap irritably at the boy.
“Better stop your friend’s betting,” he declared with an angry snort, “or I’ll end up owning him, too!”
One of the eopies sniffed expectantly at him, and he swore at the beast in Huttese with such ferocity that it backed away. His wings beating madly, Watto gave Qui-Gon a withering glance and flew off into the hangar shadows.
“What did he mean by that?” Anakin asked as he slowed the eopie beside Qui-Gon, glancing after the retreating Toydarian.
Qui-Gon shrugged. “I’ll tell you later.”
Kitster pulled to a stop beside Anakin, his face alight with excitement as he looked around. “This is so wizard! I’m sure you’ll do it this time, Annie!”
Padmé’s gaze shifted from one to the other. “Do what?” she asked suspiciously.
Kitster beamed. “Finish the race, of course!”
The girl paled. Her eyes burned into Anakin. “You’ve never even finished a race?” she demanded incredulously.
The boy blushed. “Well … not exactly.” His mouth tightened with determination. “But Kitster’s right. I will this time.”
Qui-Gon took the eopie’s reins in his hand and patted the boy’s leg. “Of course, you will,” he agreed.
From atop the eopie, Padmé Naberrie just stared at him wordlessly.
In the center of Mos Espa the crowds were beginning to thin as the population gravitated in increasing numbers toward the Podracer arena at the edge of the spaceport. Most of the shops and stalls were already closed, and the rest were in the process of doing so. Owners and vendors were completing sales and glancing anxiously in the direction of the traffic’s steady flow.
Amid the confusion and bustle, a Sith probe droid slowly floated along, mechanical eye traveling from shop to shop, from face to face, searching.
Over a hundred thousand beings had filled the Podracer arena by midmorning, jamming into the grandstand seats, crowding onto the broad viewing platforms, filling the available space. The arena became a vast sea of color and movement and sound in the emptiness of the surrounding desert. Flags and banners bearing the insignia of the racers and their sponsors waved over the assemblage, signifying favorites and creating impromptu cheering sections. Bands played in support of some racers, and isolated horns and drums beat in wild appreciation for all. Vendors walked the aisles, carrying food and drink from canopied stands below to sell to the crowd. Everywhere, excitement and anticipation was building.
Then a roar erupted as the racers began to emerge from the main hangar on the far side of the start line. One by one the Podracers hove into view, some towed by eopies, some by hand, some by repulsorsled, all part of a long procession of pilots, pit crews, and hangers-on. Standard bearers, each carrying a flag that identified the pilot and sponsor, marched along, forming a colorful line in front of the assembly of Podracers. Overhead, the twin suns of Tatooine shone down with a bright, hungry glare.
As the racers moved onto the track in front of the arena stands, a flurry of movement in the royal box signaled the arrival of Jabba the Hutt and Gardulla, his female friend. Slithering into the cooled interior of the box, the two Hutts oozed their way along the flooring to their designated places amid the bright silks that draped the rough stone. Jabba came foremost, proceeding directly to the arched overlook where he could be seen by the people of Mos Espa. Lifting his pudgy arm in greeting, he basked in the crowd’s appreciative roar. Gardulla muttered her approval, nodding her neckless head on the end of a thick, shapeless body, slitted eyes glittering. A coterie of humans and aliens filed in behind the two Hutts, guests of Mos Espa’s rulers on race day, a coveted designation. A line of slave girls of varying species came last, chained together, there for the amusement of those who had chosen freely to attend.
Below, the Podracer pilots formed a line facing the royal box and on command bowed deeply in recognition of and to pay homage to their benefactor.
“Chowbaso!” Jabba rumbled, his deep voice echoing through the sound enhancers and out across the flats. “Tam ka chee Boonta rulee ya, kee madd ahdrudda du wundee! Welcome!”
The crowd roared some more, arms and flags waving madly. Horns sounded as Jabba began his introduction of the racers.
“Kubba tee. Sebulba tuta Pixelito!”
The Dug, standing immediately next to Anakin, rose on his back legs and waved to the stands. A band played wildly in support, and Sebulba’s fans and anxious bettors depending on the odds that favored the Dug cheered and shouted
in response.
One by one, Jabba recognized the Podracer pilots. Gasgano. Boles Roor. Ben Quadinaros. Aldar Beedo. Ody Mandrell. Xelbree. Mars Guo. Clegg Holdfast. Bozzie Baranta. Wan Sandage. Anakin listened to the names, shifting anxiously, eager to begin. A glance over his shoulder revealed Kitster at work attaching the Radon-Ulzers to his Pod with the Steelton cables, checking the fastenings with sharp tugs.
“… Mawhonic tuta Hok,” Jabba boomed. “Teemto Pagalies tuta Moonus Mandel. Anakin Skywalker tuta Tatooine …”
Applause burst from the crowd, though it was not as enthusiastic as it had been for Sebulba or Gasgano or several of the others. Anakin waved in response, eyes traveling over the thousands gathered, his mind already out in the flats.
When he turned to walk to his racer, his mother was standing in front of him. Her worn face was calm and determined as she bent down to give him a hug and a kiss. Her eyes were steady as she backed him off, her hands gripping his shoulders, and she could not quite mask the worry reflected there.
“Be safe, Annie,” she told him.
He nodded, swallowing. “I will, Mom. I promise.”
She smiled, warm and reassuring, and moved away. Anakin continued on, watching Kitster and Jar Jar unhitch the eopies so that Kitster could lead them away. R2-D2 rolled up to Anakin and beeped with approval and reassurance. C-3PO solemnly warned against the dangers of driving too fast and wished his master well. All was ready.
Jar Jar patted the boy on the back, his billed face a mask of worry and consternation. “Tis very loony, Annie. May da Guds be kind, me friend.”
Out of the corner of his eye Anakin saw Sebulba wander over from his own racer and begin examining the boy’s. Hitching along on his spindly legs, he worked his way around the Radon-Ulzers with undisguised interest. Stopping finally at the left engine, he reached up suddenly and banged hard on a stabilizer, glancing around quickly to see if anyone had noticed.
