Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace Page 10

  They had not gotten far when a shout brought them around. Two figures were running toward them from the transport. As they neared, Qui-Gon was able to make out Captain Panaka and a girl dressed in rough peasant’s garb. He stopped and waited until they caught up, a frown creasing his leonine features.

  Panaka was sweating. “Her Highness commands you to take her handmaiden with you. She wishes for Padmé to give her own report of what you might—”

  “No more commands from Her Highness today, Captain,” Qui-Gon interrupted quickly, shaking his head in refusal. “Mos Espa is not going to be a pleasant place for—”

  “The Queen wishes it,” Panaka interrupted him right back, his face angry and set. “She is emphatic. She wishes to know more about this planet.”

  The girl took a step forward. Her dark eyes found Qui-Gon’s. “I’ve been trained in self-defense. I speak a number of languages. I am not afraid. I can take care of myself.”

  Captain Panaka sighed, looking over his shoulder toward the ship. “Don’t make me go back and tell her you refuse.”

  Qui-Gon hesitated, prepared to do exactly that. Then he looked at Padmé again, saw strength in her eyes, and changed his mind. She might be useful. Traveling with a girl, they might suggest a family in transit and present a less aggressive look.

  He nodded. “I don’t have time to argue the matter, Captain. I still think this is a bad idea, but she may come.” He gave Padmé a look of warning. “Stay close to me.”

  He started away again, the others trailing. Captain Panaka stood watching with undisguised relief as the strange little procession of Jedi Master, handmaiden, Gungan, and astromech droid moved off into the sweltering landscape toward Mos Espa.

  It was not yet midafternoon by the time the members of the little company under Qui-Gon Jinn’s command reached Mos Espa and made their way toward the spaceport’s center. Mos Espa was large and sprawling and had the look of a gnarled serpent hunkered down in the sand to escape the heat. The buildings were domed and thick-walled and curved to protect against the sun, and the stalls and shops were fronted by awnings and verandas that provided a measure of shade to their vendors. Streets were broad and packed with beings of every shape and size, most from off planet. Some rode the desert-seasoned eopies. Domesticated banthas, massive and horned, and lumbering dewbacks hauled carts, sleds, and wagons that ran on wheels and mechanical tracks by turn, a mishmash of commerce trafficking between Tatooine’s smaller ports and the planets of star systems beyond.

  Qui-Gon kept a close watch for trouble. There were Rodians and Dugs and others whose purpose was always suspect. Most of those they passed paid them no notice. One or two turned to glance at Jar Jar, but dismissed the Gungan almost out of hand once they got a good look at him. As a group, they blended in nicely. There were so many combinations of creatures of every species that the appearance of one more meant almost nothing.

  “Tatooine is home to Jabba the Hutt, who controls the bulk of the trafficking in illegal goods, piracy, and slavery that generates most of the planet’s wealth,” Qui-Gon was explaining to Padmé. He had been on Tatooine before, though it had been some years ago. “Jabba controls the spaceports and settlements, all of the populated areas. The desert belongs to the Jawas, who scavenge whatever they can find to sell or trade, and to the Tuskens, who live a nomadic life and feel free to steal from everyone.”

  The Jedi kept his voice low and conversational. The girl walked silently at his elbow, her sharp eyes taking in everything. Speeders nosed by them, and droids of every size toiled in the service of desert-garbed aliens.

  “There are a number of farms as well, outlying operations that take advantage of the climate—moisture farms for the most part, operated by off-worlders not a part of the indigenous tribes and scavengers, not connected directly to the Hutts.” His eyes swept the street ahead. “This is a rough and dangerous place. Most avoid it. Its few spaceports have become havens for those who do not wish to be found.”

  Padmé glanced up at him. “Like us,” she said.

  A pair of domesticated banthas rumbled down the broad avenue, hairy bulks clearing a path for a sled train of quarry blocks and metal struts, horned heads nodding sleepily, padded feet stirring sand and dust in thick clouds with each lumbering step. Their driver dozed atop the foremost sled in the train, small and insignificant in their shadow.

  Jar Jar Binks stayed as close as he could manage to the Jedi and the girl, his eyes darting left and right, head swiveling as if it might twist right off his shoulders. Nothing he saw was familiar or welcome. Hard looks followed after him. Sharp eyes measured him for things he would just as soon not think about. Stares were at best challenging and at worst unfriendly. He did not like this place. He wished he were almost anywhere else.

  “Tis very bad, dis.” He swallowed against a dryness in his throat that was caused by more than the heat. “Nutten good ‘bout dis place!” He took a careless step and found himself ankle deep in a foul-smelling ooze. “Oh, oh. Tis icky!”

  R2-D2 rolled cheerfully along at his side, beeping and chirping in a futile effort at reassuring the Gungan that all was well.

  They traveled the main street of the spaceport to its far end and turned down a side street that led to a small plaza ringed with salvage dealers and junk shops. Qui-Gon glanced at the mounds of engine parts, control panels, and communication chips recovered from starships and speeders.

  “We’ll try one of these smaller dealers first,” he advised, nodding toward one in which a vast pile of old transports and parts was heaped within an attached compound.

  They walked through the shop’s low entry and were greeted by a pudgy blue creature who flew into their faces like a crazed probe, tiny wings buzzing so fast they could barely be seen. “Hi chubba da nago?” it snapped in a frizzy, guttural voice, demanding to know their business.

  A Toydarian, Qui-Gon thought. He knew enough to recognize one, but not much else. “I need parts for a J-type 327 Nubian,” he advised the other.

  The Toydarian fairly beamed with delight, his reticular snout curling over his toothy mouth and making odd smacking noises. “Ah, yes! Nubian! We have lots of that.” The sharp, bulbous eyes flicked from one face to the other, ending with the Gungan. “What’s this?”

  Jar Jar shrank behind Qui-Gon fearfully. “Never mind that.” The Jedi brushed the Toydarian’s question aside. “Can you help us or not?”

  “Can you pay me or not—that’s the question!” The skinny blue arms crossed defiantly over the rounded torso as the Toydarian regarded them with disdain. “What kinda junk you after, farmer?”

  “My droid has a readout of what I need,” Qui-Gon advised the other with a glance down at the R2 unit.

  Still hanging midair in front of Qui-Gon’s nose, the Toydarian glanced over one shoulder. “Peedunkel! Naba dee unko!”

  A small, disheveled boy raced in from the salvage yard, coming to an uncertain stop in front of them. His clothes were ragged and thick with grime, and he had the look of someone about to be given a beating. He flinched as the Toydarian wheeled back and lifted a hand in admonishment.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Mel tass cho-pas kee,” the boy responded quickly, blue eyes taking in the newcomers with a quick glance. “I was cleaning out the bin like you—”

  “Chut-chut!” The Toydarian threw up his hands angrily. “Never mind the bin! Watch the store! I’ve got some selling to do!”

  He flitted back around to face his customers. “So, let me take you out back. You’ll soon find what you need.”

  He darted toward the salvage yard, beckoning Qui-Gon eagerly. The Jedi followed, with R2-D2 trundling after. Jar Jar moved to a shelf and picked up an odd-looking bit of metal, intrigued by its shape, wondering what it was.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Qui-Gon called over his shoulder, his tone of voice sharp.

  Jar Jar put the item down and made a face at Qui-Gon’s departing back, sticking out his long tongue in defiance. When the
Jedi was out of sight, he picked up the part again.

  Anakin Skywalker could not take his eyes off the girl. He noticed her the moment he entered Watto’s shop, even before Watto said anything, and he hadn’t been able to stop looking at her since. He barely heard what Watto said to him about watching the shop. He barely noticed the strange-looking creature that had come in with her and was poking around in the shelves and bins. Even after she noticed he was staring at her, he could not help himself.

  He moved now to an open space on the counter, hoisted himself up, and sat watching her while pretending to clean a transmitter cell. She was looking back at him now, embarrassment turning to curiosity. She was small and slender with long, braided brown hair, brown eyes, and a face he found so beautiful that he had nothing to which he could compare it. She was dressed in rough peasant’s clothing, but she seemed very self-possessed.

  She gave him an amused smile, and he felt himself melting in confusion and wonder. He took a deep breath. “Are you an angel?” he asked quietly.

  The girl stared. “What?”

  “An angel.” Anakin straightened a bit. “They live on the moons of Iego, I think. They are the most beautiful creatures in the universe. They are good and kind, and so pretty they make even the most hardened space pirates cry like small children.”

  She gave him a confused look. “I’ve never heard of angels,” she said.

  “You must be one of them,” Anakin insisted. “Maybe you just don’t know it.”

  “You’re a funny little boy.” The amused smile returned. “How do you know so much?”

  Anakin smiled back and shrugged. “I listen to all the traders and pilots who come through here.” He glanced toward the salvage yard. “I’m a pilot, you know. Someday, I’m going to fly away from this place.”

  The girl wandered to one end of the counter, looked away, then back again. “Have you been here long?”

  “Since I was very little—three, I think. My mom and I were sold to Gardulla the Hutt, but she lost us to Watto, betting on the Podraces. Watto’s a lot better master, I think.”

  She stared at him in shock. “You’re a slave?”

  The way she said it made Anakin feel ashamed and angry. He glared at her defiantly. “I am a person!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, looking upset and embarrassed. “I don’t fully understand, I guess. This is a strange world to me.”

  He studied her intently for a moment, thinking of other things, wanting to tell her of them. “You are a strange girl to me,” he said instead. He swung his legs out from the counter. “My name is Anakin Skywalker.”

  She brushed at her hair. “Padmé Naberrie.”

  The strange creature she had come in with wandered back to the front of the shop and bent over a stout little droid body with a bulbous nose. Reaching up curiously, it pushed at the nose with one finger. Instantly armatures popped out from every direction, metal limbs swinging into place. The droid’s motors whizzed and whirred, and it jerked to life and began moving forward. Padmé’s odd companion went after it with a moan of dismay, grabbing on in an effort to slow it down, but the droid continued marching through the shop, knocking over everything it came in contact with.

  “Hit the nose!” Anakin called out, unable to keep himself from laughing.

  The creature did as it was told, pounding the droid’s nose wildly. The droid stopped at once, the arms and legs retracted, the motors shut down, and the droid went still. Both Anakin and Padmé were laughing now, and their laughter increased as they saw the look on the unfortunate creature’s long-billed face.

  Anakin looked at Padmé and the girl at him. Their laughter died away. The girl reached up to touch her hair self-consciously, but she did not divert her gaze.

  “I’m going to marry you,” the boy said suddenly.

  There was a moment of silence, and she began laughing again, a sweet musical sound he didn’t mind at all. The creature who accompanied her rolled his eyes.

  “I mean it,” he insisted.

  “You are an odd one,” she said, her laughter dying away. “Why do you say that?”

  He hesitated. “I guess because it’s what I believe …”

  Her smile was dazzling. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t marry you …” She paused, searching her memory for his name.

  “Anakin,” he said.

  “Anakin.” She cocked her head. “You’re just a little boy.”

  His gaze was intense as he faced her. “I won’t always be,” he said quietly.

  In the salvage yard, Watto was studying the screen of a portable memory bank he held in one hand, tracing through his inventory record. Qui-Gon, arms folded into his farmer’s poncho, stood waiting patiently, the R2 unit at his side.

  “Ah, here it is. A T-14 hyperdrive generator!” The Toydarian’s wings beat wildly as he hovered before the Jedi, his gnarled finger jabbing at the viewscreen. “You’re in luck. I’m the only one hereabouts who has one. But you might as well buy a new ship. It would be cheaper. Speaking of which, how’re you going to pay for all this, farmer?”

  Qui-Gon considered. “I have twenty thousand Republic dataries to put toward—”

  “Republic credits?” Watto exploded in disgust. “Republic credits are no good out here! I need something better than that, something of value …”

  The Jedi Master shook his head. “I don’t have anything else.” One hand came up, passing casually in front of the Toydarian’s face. “But credits will do fine.”

  “No, they won’t!” Watto snapped, buzzing angrily.

  Qui-Gon frowned, then passed his hand in front of the pudgy blue alien again, bringing the full force of his Jedi suggestive power to bear. “Credits will do fine,” he repeated.

  Watto sneered. “No, they won’t!” he repeated. “What do you think you’re doing, waving your hand around like that? You think you’re some kinda Jedi? Hah! I’m a Toydarian! Mind tricks don’t work on me—only money! No money, no parts, no deal! And no one else has a T-14 hyperdrive generator, I can promise you that!”

  Chagrined, Qui-Gon wheeled back for the shop, the R2 unit following at his heels. The Toydarian shouted after them to come back when they had something worthwhile to trade, still scolding the Jedi Master for trying to foist Republic credits on him. Qui-Gon reentered the shop just as Jar Jar pulled a part from a large stack and sent the entire arrangement tumbling to the floor. His efforts at correcting the problem brought a second display crashing down as well.

  The boy and the Queen’s handmaiden were deep in discussion, paying no attention to the Gungan.

  “We’re leaving,” Qui-Gon announced to the girl, moving toward the shop’s entry, the R2 unit trundling along behind.

  Jar Jar was quick to follow, anxious to escape his latest mess. Padmé gave the boy a warm smile. “I’m glad I met you, Anakin,” she said, turning after them.

  “I’m glad I met you, too,” he called after, a reluctance evident in his voice.

  Watto flew in from the salvage yard, shaking his head in disgust. “Outlanders! They think because we live so far from everything, we know nothing!”

  Anakin was still staring longingly after Padmé, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. “They seemed nice enough to me.”

  Watto snorted and flew into his face. “Clean up this mess, then you can go home!”

  Anakin brightened, gave a small cheer, and went quickly to work.

  Qui-Gon led his companions back through the little plaza of salvage shops toward the main avenue. At a place where two buildings divided to form a shadowed niche, the Jedi Master moved everyone from view and brought out his comlink from beneath his poncho. Padmé and the R2 unit stood waiting patiently, but Jar Jar prowled the space as if trapped, eyes fixed nervously on the busy street.

  When Obi-Wan responded to the comlink’s pulse, Qui-Gon quickly filled him in on the situation. “Are you sure there isn’t anything of value left on board?” he concluded.

  There was a pause at the other end.
“A few containers of supplies, the Queen’s wardrobe, some jewelry maybe. Not enough for you to barter with. Not in the amounts you’re talking about.”

  “All right,” Qui-Gon responded with a frown. “Another solution will present itself. I’ll check back.”

  He tucked the comlink beneath his poncho and signaled to the others. He was moving toward the street again when Jar Jar grabbed his arm.

  “Noah gain, sire,” the Gungan pleaded. “Da beings hereabouts crazy nuts. We goen be robbed and crunched!”

  “Not likely,” Qui-Gon replied with a sigh, freeing himself. “We have nothing of value. That’s our problem.”

  They started back down the street, Qui-Gon trying to think what to do next. Padmé and R2-D2 stayed close as they made their way through the crowds, but Jar Jar began to lag behind, distracted by all the strange sights and smells. They were passing an outdoor café, its tables occupied by a rough-looking bunch of aliens, among them a Dug who was holding forth on the merits of Podracing. Jar Jar hurried to catch up to his companions, but then caught sight of a string of frogs hanging from a wire in front of a nearby stall. The Gungan slowed, his mouth watering. He had not eaten in some time. He glanced around to see if anyone was looking, then unfurled his long tongue and snapped up one of the frogs. The frog disappeared into Jar Jar’s mouth in the blink of an eye.

  Unfortunately, the frog was still securely tied to the wire. Jar Jar stood there, the wire hanging out of his mouth, unable to move.

  The vendor in charge of the stall rushed out. “Hey, that will be seven truguts!”

  Jar Jar glanced frantically down the street for his companions, but they were already out of sight. In desperation, he let go of the frog. The frog popped out of his mouth as if catapulted, winging away at the end of the taut wire. It ricocheted this way and that, breaking free at last to land directly in the Dug’s soup, splashing gooey liquid all over him.

  The gangly Dug leapt to his feet in fury, catching sight of the hapless Jar Jar as he tried to move away from the frog vendor. Springing across the table on all fours, he was on top of the Gungan in an instant, grabbing him by the throat.