Tatooine Ghost

by Troy Denning

  I had to explain about the transmitter bomb—again. Besides, it would take a lot more than the price of a moisture farm to make a miser like Watto sell his only friend. Cliegg snorted when I called myself Watto’s friend, but I am. I’ve grown fond of him over the years… and he misses you, Annie. That gives him a warm place in my heart.

  But I think Cliegg is the one, Anakin. I’ve waited five years for someone I can trust, and now I know I’ve found him.

  I’m going to show him what Qui-Gon sent.

  Leia sat slumped in the seat beside Han, faintly aware of her tender shoulder and feeling distinctly inadequate in the presence of her grandmother’s memory. Watto had been Shmi’s master—and her son’s—for years, and still she had somehow found it inside herself to forgive him. Leia had been Jabba’s slave for one night, and she had strangled him with the chain that bound her.

  Of course, there was a world of difference between Watto and Jabba.

  Over the next few weeks, Shmi was consumed with mysterious “preparations,” though never so much so that she forgot her nightly affirmation of faith in Anakin’s well-being. She seemed at once contrite and elated, as though she felt guilty about how much she was going to enjoy what she was planning. As excited as she was, she never explained what she was preparing for—deliberately, Leia thought.

  Leia asked for the next entry, and her grandmother’s face appeared in the display looking as radiant as a moon. Shmi began by whispering into the journal.

  09:58:20

  Annie, we have completed our preparations, Owen is ready to play his part, and something special is about to happen. I know you will want to see it. And I’m so excited, I want a record of this, too.

  Shmi’s face was replaced by the cluttered counter area in Watto’s shop. The image was small and blurry, for the palm diary appeared to be sitting on a shelf some distance away. Several minutes passed, then a sandy-haired youth of about fifteen came striding into Watto’s shop. If this was Owen Lars, he could not have been dressed less like a moisture farmer’s son. He wore a fine tomuon wool cloak over an immaculately tailored shimmersilk tunic, with a new belt and boots of krayt hide—a disguise that the greedy Watto seemed unable to look past.

  The Toydarian was on the youth like a sketto on a dewback. “You are looking for something I can help you with.” It was not a question. “I have the finest merchandise in Mos Espa. Ask anyone.”

  “I have.” The youth—undoubtedly Owen Lars—glanced around the shop, then picked up a set of infrared sensor goggles and examined them thoughtfully. “I may have been misled.”

  Both voices sounded tinny and faint, for the journal recording device had not been designed to pick up such distant speech. Owen tossed the goggles aside, drawing a stifled chuckle from Shmi and—as the lenses broke—a strangled gasp from Watto.

  Owen reached for an expensive recording rod.

  Watto bit his tongue and allowed the young man to pick it up. “You are looking for personal recorders?”

  Owen turned and, casually flipping the rod back and forth by its base, said, “No.”

  Watto hovered in front of him and tried to snatch the instrument, missed, tried again, then gave up.

  “A droid? I have the finest reconditioned droids in the city.”

  “No.” Owen turned and started toward the back door, walking out of the display. “I was told on Nal Hutta that you actually have one of Renatta Racing’s old needle ships on your lot.”

  “I do!” Watto vanished out of the display after Owen, calling back, “Bring me a glass of nectarot, slave, and whatever my young friend here would like.”

  “A glass of yardle, if you please.”

  “Yardle?” Shmi’s voice was clearer—and clearly disapproving. “That is a little strong for someone your age. How about a nice glass of ruby bliel.”

  “Bliel!” Watto stormed. “Get the boy his—”

  “Ruby bliel will be fine,” Owen chuckled. “I shouldn’t forget that I’ll be flying for Pavo Prime this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Pavo Prime. I’ve always wanted to visit there.”

  Their voices vanished through the door. The display showed Shmi rushing past to fetch the drinks; then the image shifted wildly as she carried the journal into the exterior lot. The next image showed Owen and Watto descending the boarding ramp of a sleek silver-finished racer. Then the display went dark as Shmi slipped the journal into a pocket.

  “… her get a bit ragged,” Owen’s voice said. “But I could always turn Father’s maintenance crew loose on it.”

  “Indeed, you could.” Watto’s voice grew louder as he fluttered closer to Shmi. “Who is your father?”

  Owen ignored the question. “Very well, we can take it for a test flight.”

  Watto’s voice dropped. “I’m afraid we can’t do that. It doesn’t have the Tobal lens.”

  “It doesn’t have the Tobal lens?” Owen’s astonishment sounded very convincing. “Then why are you trying to sell it to me?”

  “I thought maybe you could get one yourself. They are not very expensive, but they are hard to come by out here.”

  “They’re hard to come by everywhere,” Owen said. “That’s why Renatta Racing Systems went broke.”

  The sound of Watto’s wings slowed to barely a flutter. “I could let you have it cheap—a hundred thousand.”

  “Without the lens, it isn’t worth a credit.” Owen’s voice faded as he walked away.

  Shmi let him move out of earshot, then asked Watto, “A Tobal lens… would that be an oval crystal about the size of my head, full of sparkling colors?”

  “It might be.”

  “Would it leave you blind for a time after you look at it?” Shmi asked. “And perhaps even scatter optical data, if you bring it too close?”

  “You’ve seen one!” Watto cried. “Where? Tell me before he gets away!”

  “Cliegg,” Shmi said.

  “Cliegg? Your boyfriend Cliegg?” Watto’s voice grew disappointed again. “What would a moisture farmer be doing with a Tobal lens? He never owned a Renatta needle ship, I think.”

  “And where else would I have seen it?” Shmi asked.

  Watto was silent for a moment, then droned off yelling, “You, boy, wait!”

  Shmi laughed, then said quietly, “Thank you, Qui-Gon.”

  The entry ended, and Chewbacca groaned a query.

  “It doesn’t matter if Watto figures out where the lens came from,” Han said. “He’s already bitten on the kid. There’s no way he’s gonna let that deal slip through his fingers. Do you know what a Renatta needle ship is worth—if you can find someone who wants it?”

  Leia looked up to see that Second Twilight had come and gone. Two of Tatooine’s moons were already rising on the opposite horizon, throwing soft stripes of silver and amber over the dark desert, and the ground ahead was nothing but shadows and shapes.

  Han continued across the plateau at top speed, clearly enjoying piloting an Imperial hoverscout.

  “Han, can you see all right?” Leia asked. “I’m having a little trouble.”

  “Who needs to see?”

  This brought an alarmed jabber from Herat in the back.

  Chewbacca chuffed in amusement. Han tapped the window in front of him, upon which, Leia now saw, glowed the faint color lines of a heads-up display.

  “Terrain scanners,” Han said. “This baby’s got every—”

  A static crackle sounded from the speaker in the equipment console, then a cloud of light began to take shape over the holographic pad between the seats.

  Han frowned over at Leia. “Did you activate—”

  “It’s not my fault,” Leia said.

  “The communicator!” Han pulled the throttle back and released the steering wheel, sending the hoverscout into a deceleration skid. “Smear the holocams!”

  Han spat onto his fingers and smeared the saliva over a pair of small lenses on his side of the vehicle. Leia did the same for hers, and Chewbacca growled an alarmed que
stion from the back.

  “I don’t know where they are,” Han said. “I’m not the one sitting—”

  “Maybe there aren’t any in back,” Leia said.

  The cloud of light began to take the shape of a head, and Han’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I guess we’re about to find out.” He glanced over his shoulder and motioned C-3PO closer. “You’re on.”

  “Me?” C-3PO complained. “I didn’t do very well the last—”

  “You!” Leia ordered. Han could not answer without risking a voiceprint identification, and the rest of them were out of the question. There weren’t many woman, Wookiee, or Jawa stormtroopers.

  The holographic head resolved itself into the squinting face of an Imperial officer. “SSC-Seventeen, is that you? Report.”

  C-3PO stared blankly at the holograph.

  “Seventeen? Your transponder is off and you’re completely out of the operations area. Explain,” the voice demanded. “What’s wrong with your projector? All I’m getting is glowcloud.”

  Leia held her fists in the air. To C-3PO, she mouthed a single word.

  “Oh dear,” C-3PO began. Chewbacca groaned and Han shook his head, then the droid’s vocabulator assumed the raspy, weak voice of an injured man. “Blood… it’s everywhere.”

  It was not the word Leia had mouthed—that had been Tusken—but it would work.

  “We’re doomed!” C-3PO continued in his dying-man voice.

  “Doomed?” the officer demanded. “Give me a sitrep, trooper.”

  Han motioned Chewie toward the blaster turret, then drew his own blaster and began firing out the driver’s-side weapons port.

  “What’s that?” the officer demanded. “Who’s attacking you?”

  “Reb—”

  Leia waved furiously, then angled her fingers in front of her lips.

  The droid slipped into his own voice. “Tusks?”

  Leia made a circling motion with her fingers, trying to get him to say the second syllable.

  “Oh, Tuskens!” C-3PO’s voice resumed the raspy quality. “They’re everywhere! We’ll be destroyed!”

  “Negative, trooper.” The holographic head turned to talk to someone out of cam view. “We’d better get some help over there right away.”

  The officer remained silent for a moment. Han and Chewbacca continued to fire, the Wookiee occasionally letting go with what sounded very much like an anguished human death scream.

  Then a series of plinks began to sound against the exterior armor on Leia’s side of the speeder. She looked over and, as a slugthrower projectile splatted itself against her transparisteel window, let out an involuntary scream.

  “They’re being massacred,” the holographic head said. “Just listen to that trooper!”

  Bringing her voice under control—and cringing every time a new slug struck her side of the vehicle—Leia leaned back and peered around the web of frosted transparisteel where the projectile had struck. In the distance, two lanky, rag-swaddled Tusken Raiders were standing silhouetted in the moons’ silver light, taking turns firing at the hoverscout and shaking their weapons in the air.

  “Oh my!” C-3PO’s voice slipped again. “There are Tuskens!” Then, catching himself, he added, “More Tuskens!”

  Another slug struck the window, completely frosting the transparisteel. Leia reached for Han’s arm, but Chewbacca was already bringing the heavy blaster around to drive off the warriors.

  The officer began to speak to them again. “Seventeen, we need to know your exact position. Activate your holomap.”

  Leia looked back and found Han shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry,” C-3PO said in the wounded-man voice. “But the holomap seems to be malfunctioning.”

  “Malfunctioning?” There was a pause while the officer absorbed this, then he continued, “Just hold yourselves together, Seventeen. There’s a TIE following a sandcrawler not too far from the plateau where your transmissions are originating. Keep firing your blaster. He’ll find you.”

  “Find us?” C-3PO screeched. “That won’t be necessary.”

  More projectiles began to plink the armor behind Leia. She ignored them and joined Han in frantically nodding to C-3PO and mouthing that it was necessary.

  “Oh dear me! What am I saying?” the droid cried. “We need help. All we can get. Come as quickly as you can!”

  Han sighed in relief, and Leia motioned for the droid to continue.

  “We’re in terrible trouble!”

  Leia pulled her blaster and turned to shoot the comm unit, and found Han already preparing to do the same thing.

  “Oh my… we’re doomed!”

  They pulled the triggers together.

  “Okay, Flyboy,” Leia said. “Get us—”

  A loud pop sounded from the window behind Leia’s head, then something hot buzzed past her ear to splat against the interior of Han’s window. A circle of transparisteel frosted into the web pattern of a slugthrower hit.

  “Out of here?” Han finished.

  He opened the throttles, and they shot into the night.

  Chapter Twenty

  Eyes glued to the blue lines of the terrain scanner’s heads-up display, Han angled the hoverscout across the desert floor on a new vector, automatically memorizing bearing, speed, and time so he could calculate a new route to the oasis without activating the holomap. With the Imperials mounting a rescue operation and the Tuskens watching them already, this could be harder than he had thought.

  And he had come close to losing Leia back there. A little farther back, and the slug would never have reached his side of the compartment. He glanced over and found Leia watching him, her face pale and her lips still trembling from the close call.

  “Careful, Han,” she said.

  Han returned his gaze to the schematic on the windscreen. “Close, huh?”

  “Too close.” Leia’s tone was brittle. “They almost got you.”

  “Me? I’m not the one they were shooting at.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Strangely, this seemed to strengthen Leia’s voice. “But we need to find some cover. That TIE will be coming soon, and I’m beginning to have a bad feeling about our conversation with the Chimaera back there.”

  “Beginning to?” Han said. “It gave me the chills.”

  Chewbacca growled a comment from the backseat.

  “You’re right,” Leia said. She reached over and touched one of the environmental controls on the abdomen of Han’s stormtrooper armor. “He hasn’t turned down his cooling unit.”

  Han finally found a deep ravine and slowed to a crawl, then ran back and forth along the rim several times to scare out any lurking creatures—and to draw the fire of any Tusken sentries camped nearby. When neither happened, he dropped into the ravine, parked them on the dark side of a huge boulder, and, after a last glance around the moonlit crags, powered down all systems except the blaster turret.

  “Oh, this looks safe,” Leia said. “The Tuskens will never think to look down here.”

  “Safe as our own bed back in Coruscant,” Han replied. “Why don’t you play your grandmother’s journal? I’m dying to know whether Watto fell for it.”

  “Sure you are,” Leia said. “You’re just trying to keep my mind off the Sand People.”

  “No, really.” Han waited until she bent over to retrieve the dropped journal off the floor, then glanced over his shoulder at Chewbacca, pointing two fingers at his eyes and motioning him into the blaster turret. “I see where you get your nerve.”

  “You do?” Leia came up beaming, journal in hand, just as Han turned forward again. She glanced back at Chewbacca, who was trying hard to look innocent as he rose into the blaster turret. “I saw that—and thanks.”

  Leia activated the journal and held the display out. Han saw the desert-hardened—though still attractive—face of a chestnut-eyed woman who looked every bit as beautiful and dignified as he imagined Leia in twenty years. She spoke in a whisper.

  16:04:21


  Now the bite, Annie. I feel… well, I don’t really know how I feel. My heart is pounding so hard, and my hands are trembling. I shouldn’t feel guilty about cheating Watto—but I do. Or maybe I just feel sorry for him.

  Shmi’s face was replaced by the hazy image of a cluttered counter area. A few minutes later, a burly human farmer entered the frame carrying an energy-shielded cargo box. Shmi appeared in the display again and kissed him on the cheek, then he set the box on the counter. A potbellied Toydarian fluttered out of the office behind the counter and went to the box.

  “This is it?” Watto’s voice was barely audible. “Let me see.”

  He reached for the clasps, but the farmer—it had to be Cliegg Lars—put his hand on the box.

  “Price first.” His voice was deep and easier to hear. “Then the lens.”

  “I only want to see the merchandise. You think I’m going to pay you a fortune for a closed box?”

  “Terms first.”

  “Terms? That lens was mine anyway. I know it was.” Watto turned to face Shmi. “That Jedi sent it to you. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “It belongs to Cliegg now,” Shmi said. “If you want it, you must deal with him.”

  Watto turned back to Cliegg. “All right, then. If the lens is real—and it fits my ship—I’ll give you a quarter of what I sell it for.”

  Cliegg remained silent, his hand on the box.

  “Say something! My buyer is leaving in an hour. If I don’t have the lens installed by then, it’s worth nothing to me.”

  “You know what I want. It’s not money.”

  “Shmi? You’d be better off taking the money. With that much, you could buy a dozen like her.”

  “I want Shmi.”

  Watto considered this a minute, then said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a quarter interest in the ship and Shmi both. You can take her one week a month.”

  Cliegg picked up the box and turned to leave.

  “Done! She hasn’t been such a good slave since she met you anyway.” Watto turned to Shmi. “You’ve wanted to go with him all along, haven’t you?”