The Awakening
Author's
Chapter Three: Friends from Necessity
Relatives are friends from necessity.
- Russian proverb
My mother was a formidable person. Ironically, she wasn't a woman of large stature or build. Barely 1.7 meters tall, Mama was as willowy and petite as they came. So while it was true that she was handy with a blaster when defending the farm from possible marauders, the way in which she conducted herself revealed her real strengths: aloof, industrious, pragmatic. Although such traits were necessary for a homestead like ours, they would hardly inspire in others tenderness toward her.
When I arrived home, Mama was in the subterranean courtyard, vigorously sweeping its stone floor. Even in the middle of the Dune Sea, she was the vision of orderliness. Her dark brown hair, which I'd inherited myself as my sole vanity, was neatly plaited down her back in a single thick braid. Her coarse brown tunic and skirt, an outfit very similar to mine, was expertly mended, thereby saving it from the usual allotment to the scrap pile. The only blemish marring the picture was the perpetual layer of dust that coated her hair, skin, and clothes, possibly her thoughts. No one, not even Mama, could escape that if on Tatooine long enough.
Hearing my plodding my footsteps of my scuffed boots on the stairs leading down to the courtyard, Mama whirled around to confront me. "Carithlee, you've finally decided to grace us with your presence."
Her usual impassiveness didn't surprise me a bit. What I was more concerned about was how she'd punish me for staying out all night. Nonetheless, my visit with Biggs was worth it.
Adopting an expression as blank as Mama's, I focused my eyes on the high wall surrounding the courtyard. "Mama, I completed my inspection of the vaporators. All are operational except for the one on the south ridge," I reported mechanically.
Mama nodded grimly. She knew as well as I did that vaporators are the lifeblood of any moisture farm. The more you have, the better, for the devices make all the difference in whether or not you're able to survive one more season. Nevertheless, vaporators are terribly expensive, and since Mama kept track of the household finances, she was also acutely aware of this catch-22 fact.
"Maybe we'll be able to afford a new vaporator once this season's harvest comes in. Until then, we'll just have to tighten up things around here to compensate for the loss," she decided firmly. Then Mama abruptly fixed her eyes on me steadfastly. All too familiar with that look, I inwardly cringed, waiting for the ax to drop. "But there's a more pressing matter we need to attend to first. Were you in Anchorhead last night? I doubt you could've survived if you hadn't been."
She was referring to Tatooine's many dangers that only increased after dark. Of course, it was equally true that this savage land could scrounge up two or three methods of picking you off before dusk.
"Yes, I was in Anchorhead," I answered curtly.
"What of your partner in crime?" she further scrutinized.
"I was at Tosche station." I wouldn't give her the pleasure of divulging whom I was with.
"I already assumed that if you were in Anchorhead, then you had to be there wasting time with your idle friends. Still…" A shrewd gleam entered her brown eyes. "I've noticed you've been avoiding that place for the most part ever since Biggs…" Understanding suddenly dawned on her face. "That Darklighter boy was here on a furlough, wasn't he"?
Chagrined, I flushed a bright scarlet from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. My mother knew all too well. She could peer into my innermost thoughts as clearly as through a pane of glass. I was far too asinine to believe I could fool her otherwise, so I'd fall into the same trap with every confrontation.
"Yes, Mama," I reluctantly admitted.
An unreadable expression crossed her face. For some reason, her smooth exterior had been ruffled. That startled me, for she rarely disturbed about anything.
Mama asked hesitantly, "Were you…intimate with Biggs"
I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. My own mother was actually worried about an issue as normal as sex. At the very least, it was an obvious question to progress to after my big night out on the town.
Yet that was not entirely all which was troubling her. Mama had that distant look in her eyes, almost as if she were in completely different dimension than the one she was currently occupying. I'd sensed it before in fleeting moments over the years. It made me wonder if there was more to Mama than what she allowed herself to show.
At any rate, my mother didn't have any cause to be anxious for me. Granted, things between us could get intense, but Biggs and I had always managed to cool it before anything turned serious. Whatever Mama suspected, it was better she knew as little as possible.
"He's gone, Mama, and he won't be back."
"I see." With my vague response, her indifferent mask returned. "Since you don't make a habit of traipsing off without notifying anyone, I'm willing to overlook your behavior this once. Just be sure to start working on that Treadwell after breakfast. It's acting up again, and we're going to need every available droid for the harvest."
I nodded mutely as I followed my mother inside to the dining area.
& & &
Normally, after a comparatively cooler morning outside doing chores, I escaped the afternoon heat by retreating to the inner sanctum of the garage. Here I felt more at home than anywhere else on the underground farm complex. Among the cluttered, heavily used tools and sections of farm machinery, I could labor in silence without interference.
Unless I was bothered on purpose, that is. A voice from behind me suddenly hollered, "Hey, Carithlee"
Whirling around, I spotted Jjerrol, my thirteen-year-old half-brother, dashing into the garage from the outside entrance. Due to a recent growth spurt, he already towered a good ten centimeters above me. Mama had a hard time keeping him in properly fitting clothes. As a result, the tan tunic and pants my brother was currently wearing appeared a little short for his tall, lanky frame. In spite of such setbacks, Jjerrol was a good-natured, funny kid. You might even say he took everything in stride, a refreshing and surprising attitude to adopt for the harsh environment we lived in.
"Jjerrol Banai, you don't just come barging in places unannounced. It's rude," I scolded in a mock snobby tone. "One might question your upbringing."
He rolled his dark eyes. "Who's going to do that? The Jawas?"
As my brother finished speaking, his attentions were diverted to the T-16 skyhopper that was sitting next to the two landspeeders in the adjoining hangar with behind me. Jjerrol was evidently biding his time until I left for the Academy so that he could claim it as his own. Not that I blamed him. It's a smart-looking, powerful suborbital craft worthy of its reputation as a skillful navigator in all types of terrain.
Originally, the tri-winged T-16 had belonged to my stepbrother, Garrick. It'd been a gift from our parents on his tenth birthday, the only year the farm had produced a particularly successful harvest to support a splurge like that. Although I was merely six then, Garrick would often take me out flying, even to the locally notorious Beggar's Canyon. The nexus of our subsequent friendship and my budding piloting skills simultaneously formed during those excursions.
Garrick, though, clutched at his first ticket out of here, which was in the form of a beginning mechanic's position in Mos Eisely. Treplar Darklighter, a cousin of Biggs', who owned and operated Docking Bay 86 at the Mos Eisely Spaceport, had offered it to him. Despite everyone's admission to its portentousness, there was a harsh dispute between our parents and him over whether or not he should accept the job. In the end, Garrick moved to Mos Eisely, leaving me to carry on the Beggar's Canyon tradition with Luke and Biggs.
All this had occurred nearly seven years ago. Nevertheless, the memory of his parting was as fresh as it'd been just yesterday when I last beheld my stepbrother. Despite the fact that I missed him terribly, I was happy for him and even admired his efforts. In fact, as of his last hologram, Garrick had been promoted to head assistant to the Spaceport's chief traffic controller. He could only be destined for greater advancement. Perhaps it'd be the chief traffic controller position itself.
"Are those Jawas making their rounds in this area again?" I inquired, setting down a pair of hydrospanners on the workbench.
Like the Sand People, the Jawas are another set of organisms native to Tatooine. Although a few scientists did hypothesize that both races might be somehow related, there is no conclusive evidence to support or reject this theory. Perhaps the only sure comparison between the two is that they adopt tight clothing to shelter themselves from the twin suns. However, most similarities ended here, for Jawas affect heavy woven cloaks over their small, rodentlike bodies, leaving just their glowing red eyes visible.
Generally, these creatures' lives consist of collecting and selling all kinds of mechanical equipment. This objective is reached by converting old, abandoned sandcrawlers, which are huge, multistoried land vehicles originally used for mining purposes, into a sort of mobile home. Their specialization in rebuilding droids makes Jawas particularly indispensable to the moisture farmers, and the Jawas' greedy, fearful nature facilitates their dealings with the farmers. As a result, an uneasy peace exists between both factions. Nonetheless, you have to be on a constant lookout for the occasional hunk of junk the Jawas might sneak into the mix.
"Yeah, Papa's with them now," Jjerrol confirmed, his dusky-skinned features crinkling up in distaste. "I was only too happy to get away. They smell even worse than usual." My brother glanced at the six-limbed wheeled droid sitting in a lifeless pose on the workbench. "Papa sent me down here to tell you he wants you to go topside, because he needs to know if you can fix that Treadwell."
Ever since Garrick's departure, my stepfather had slowly come to value my opinion in technological and mechanical matters for the farm. "I've been wondering all morning when someone else besides me would own up to this lost cause."
Jjerrol's eyes danced mischievously. "I guess Mom had to punish you somehow for running off to go smooch with Biggs, huh?"
Horror and shock spontaneously combusted in my mind. Except for Mama calmly informing my stepfather and brother at breakfast that I'd spent the evening in Anchorhead, no mention had been made of Biggs. In fact, now that I really thought about it, Papa and Jjerrol had taken that bit of news a little too well. At that time, though, I'd been preoccupied with not rocking the boat, namely Mama's, to actually pay much attention to their reactions. Basically, I'd eaten my meal in a rushed hurry and made a beeline directly to the garage. I'd been working on the Treadwell ever since then.
"Did you and Papa overhear our conversation?" I questioned gruffly, suddenly becoming acutely aware of the fact that the dining area opened onto the courtyard.
My brother simply shrugged. "How could we not? You and Mama were pretty loud about everything. I don't believe I've ever seen her this mad."
I wanted to kick myself for yet again being so damn stupid. Unlike me, Papa and Jjerrol were no fools. Mama was the real driving force in our family, thereby making her word law. They'd wisely stayed out of her line of fire by not letting on they'd figured out what had happened.
"That's probably because I've never pulled such a stunt before," I snapped petulantly.
"Hormones can do strange things to people, sis," Jjerrol shot back.
Recalling the heated kisses I'd shared with Biggs last night, I felt my face grow hot. "Thank you for that astute observation, bro. You really ought to start a think tank for all of your wonderful words of wisdom," I sarcastically recommended.
Spinning on my heel, I began to storm through the tunnel that led up to the surface. I hated it when my brother made me stoop down to his level of immaturity.
"Well, while I'm on a roll, maybe I should mention one more thing."
The conspicuous absence of humor in Jjerrol's voice caused me to halt dead in my tracks. "What is it?" I asked warily, facing him again.
Jjerrol's face had knitted itself into a thoughtful frown. "Isn't it weird Mama didn't ground you? She's always been big on that disciplinary stuff, Carithlee."
He brought up a good point, of course. Any act of indiscretion customarily warranted a punishment of equal severity. Why Mama didn't follow through on this occasion naturally puzzled us all, but I wasn't about to question it. I wasn't certain I even desired to. Some things simply weren't examined closely, for they might foray into other matters that were best left undisturbed.
Unfortunately, Jjerrol still had much to learn about both this farm and our mother. Just as Garrick had passed on the secrets of the trade to me, I was also determined to teach my brother whatever I'd garnered over the years. Considering the breakaway I was eventually going to implement, it was the least I owed to Jjerrol, who would come after me to shoulder the majority of the chores. I fervently hoped the burden wouldn't drain him of his optimistic spark.
"There's a first time for everything, Jjerrol," I replied, lifting my shoulders in a casual gesture, "although I doubt Mama's lost her touch by any means. To be on the safe side, you'd better watch yourself for a while."
A hint of a smirk tugged at the corners of my brother's mouth. "Carithlee, unlike you, I don't have a death wish." With that, he pushed past me and bounded out of the garage.
"Damn annoying brother" I muttered under my breath as I followed his retreating form.
As much as I didn't want to admit it, Jjerrol could have his moments, and when he did, I liked my kid brother that much more.
& & &
Outside, the windy day kicked up sand all around me in some kind of grotesque swirling dance. Despite the precaution pains Tatooine inhabitants underwent to prevent the disgusting granules from seeping into every orifice of the body, where there was a will, there was a way, and sand on this planet seemed to have learned this lesson somewhere along the line.
An uneven row of droids was positioned in front of a sandcrawler. The sandcrawler itself was parked next to the small domes and vaporators that indicated the presence of our underground farm settlement. My stepfather, who was a perfect older replica of Jjerrol and a giant of a man, dwarfed the several Jawas trailing after him as he critically examined the mechanical line-up.
The scene was a familiar one. When they wished it, the Jawas could be understood. Therefore, moisture farmers would enter into discussions with the Jawa in charge by using the desert scavengers' odd, squeaky language. Both sides would espouse a blustery show of haggling. Upon finally striking the sale, the two parties would heave a collective mental sigh of relief that hostilities had been avoided once more.
"Papa, Carithlee's coming," Jjerrol announced in a low voice as he rejoined his father's side.
Turning to me while I was still approaching the group, my stepfather demanded tersely, "So, is it safe to assume the Treadwell has to be replaced?"
Papa bore the same dry outlook on life as my mother. After all, great minds think and marry alike. However, the inherent sense of humor that Jjerrol possessed also happened to have been handed down to him from his father. Like the Jawas, when Papa wished it, he could be amused sometimes. Mama, on the other hand, had never smiled or even cried on any occasion that I could ever recall in all of my nineteen years.
"Yes, we'll need another droid to do the Treadwell's share of the duties," I affirmed.
"You're just in time, Carithlee." My stepfather glanced down at one Jawa whose leadership rank was denoted by the special clan design embroidered on its cloak. "I'll take that R5 unit."
At a guttural command from the head Jawa, a small, barrel-shaped robot hobbled out of the droid formation to join the human and Jawa cluster. From prior experience, I knew R5 units are skilled mechanics due to their specialization in maintenance and repair. The type of droid I'd always preferred working with, though, is the far more popular and versatile R2 series.
Even though I knew it was probably a long shot, I let my eyes rove out of sheer curiosity over the rest of the tired selection the Jawas had drug out. Near the end of the line stood one tall, humanoid robot of interest, its flashy bronze finish thickly coated in grime.
"Hey, isn't that a protocol droid?" I whispered to Jjerrol.
Protocol droids specialize in languages, interpretation, cultures, and diplomacy. All of these primary functions are geared toward its usual capacities as an administrative assistant, diplomatic aide, and companion for high-level organisms. On the other hand, for individuals like us moisture farmers who are on the last leg of their savings until the harvest, I knew my stepfather would never consider purchasing such a "wasteful luxury."
My brother nodded. "It's been a while since we've last seen one, huh?"
"I wonder how those Jawas were able to make off with something that probably belonged to a highbrow racketeer." I shook my head knowingly.
Property of a mechanical nature tends to "disappear" whenever a sandcrawler rolled into a town. Unfortunately, no one could ever pin anything on the Jawas except the "official" selling and trading they conduct.
"Oh, I'm sure that protocol droid would be more than willing to answer your question," Jjerrol remarked. "In fact, it'd probably tell you its whole life story if it had the chance." His lips curled back into a wry smirk. "The thing's a terrible chatterbox."
"A droid with a personality?" I echoed in surprise. "Sounds like its previous master was negligent in providing it with the occasional memory flush."
"I guess," my brother responded, shrugging indifferently at my useless bit of technical speculation. "Anyway, you should've heard that droid just now. As soon as Papa came near it, it introduced itself as C-3P0, then started rattling off his 'qualifications.' Well, Papa looked at C-3P0 funny and let the droid know he wasn't interested in its 'qualifications,' much less a protocol droid." His eyes twinkled in merriment. "I think C-3P0 was determined to outdo the Jawas in the sales pitch area."
"I'll bet," I agreed, suppressing the urge to chuckle.
Well, I had to admit my stepfather's reasoning in this instance was completely justified. Who the hell needed a protocol droid out in the middle of nowhere?
In the meantime, before my stepfather could finish up the bargaining negotiations with the Jawas over the R5 prototype, I decided to complete my survey on the Jawas' droid medley. Amazingly, I spotted a R2 unit just beyond the protocol druid Jjerrol and I'd just talked about. Its squat, three-legged body, a typical feature of the astromech family that both R2 and R5 models belonged to, appeared to be battered and heavily scoured in sand and dust. However, I could recognize a good deal when it hit me, which was what my stepfather should've done. Why didn't he pick the R2 robot? Was the Jawas' price too rich for his blood? Or had the real jewel amongst the dregs simply been overlooked because of the unadvantageous slot it'd been shoved into? Whatever the case, I decided it was worth a try to make a grab for the machine.
"How about this droid, Papa?"
He didn't glance either at my expectant face nor the robot I was gesturing to. "Carithlee, I've already made my decision."
Disappointed at his initial reaction, I nonetheless chose to plunge on further ahead before I lost my nerve. "Don't you want to at least give it an once-over?"
Jjerrol flashed me a confused expression. After all, I should've known better than to argue with Papa, especially in the wake of the recent upset I'd caused.
Papa swiveled his eyes on me impatiently. "All right, which of these remarkable droids should I inspect again?"
"This R2 unit looks like it's in better shape despite all the sand encrusted on it."
The Jawas exchanged a look with each other. It was then I realized that I'd inadvertently given them an advantage. Those grasping creatures would certainly demand more for the R2 robot now that they knew I thought the R2 unit was in good shape. Because of my idiotic slip-up, Papa would never consider buying R2 instead of R5.
Meanwhile, the droid called C-3P0 spoke for the first time. It turned stiffly to its R2 companion and extolled, "Did you hear that, R2? You might be selected." I rolled my eyes at its childlike enthusiasm and my equally childlike stupidity.
Oddly, R2 let out a shrill beep and backed away a little. A Jawa had to halt its movements with a control device that activated the restraining disk sealed on the droid's front plate.
"R2, that's no way to get a master," C-3P0 admonished. It quickly shut off any further tirade when it was threatened with the same control device.
"I'm going to stay with my original choice" my stepfather instructed the nervous Jawas, who were already beginning to herd the droids back into the sandcrawler. Strangely, Papa regarded the unusual R2 and C-3P0 machines with an almost thoughtful concern before hardening his eyes and facing me again. "Carithlee, take that R5 unit down to the garage and clean it up by dinnertime." My stepfather reached into a compartment on his utility belt in order to supply the proper credits to pay off the Jawas with. "Jjerrol, you stay here for a moment. I have some other work for you to do shortly."
"But, Papa, I was going to-" my brother began to protest.
"You will not be following your sister's example by avoiding your chores," Papa warned him sternly.
My brother glared at me darkly. In this moment, I didn't like my stepfather very much for citing my night in Anchorhead as an "example" of how not to behave. If you asked me, I thought the ploy hit a little too low below the belt. Nevertheless, dragging Jjerrol down with me was no way to solve anything that was my problem alone.
Rather, I directed my downcast mood toward R5. "Come on," I ordered it sullenly, heading back toward the underground garage.
