CHAPTER SEVEN: BOONTA EVE
ANAKIN
The racecourse had been set three miles outside of Mos Espa near the winter villa of the notorious gangster Jabba the Hutt, de facto overlord of Tatooine's criminal underbelly. The pods and their pilots were arrayed in three rows at the starting line, overlooked by teeming grandstands with seating for twenty thousand sentients. The massive turbines that pulled the tiny, fragile pods themselves hovered over the hardpan, nacelles pointing out into open desert and beyond to Mushroom Mesa, Ebe Crater, and finally the winding death trap that was Beggar's Canyon. Anakin stood beside his own pod, watching the other racers work while the suns came up. Pit droids scurried everywhere, checking power couplings and coolant levels.
The stands began to fill. Anakin saw his mother moving with Qui-Gon, Panaka and the Senator toward the topmost row of seats. He saw Watto arguing with a Gran and a Rodian as thousands streamed into the seating highrise. The wealthier spectators had cool, shaded repulsor boxes high above the racetrack itself, but the real money was in Jabba's private cliffside grotto. The Hutt himself reclined on a cushioned dais, surrounded by the hangers-on and sycophants who comprised his court. A Twi'Lek male dressed in long, heavy black robes was whispering into the Hutt's ear, or at least the side of his mountainous head, while Jabba sucked smoke from an ornate water pipe. The Hutt looked drugged and irritable.
Anakin squinted through his goggles to where Qui-Gon had taken a seat at the top of the stands. The Jedi was hunched forward in his seat, observant and intent, hands clasped between his knees. His long face was lined with concentration as he looked in turn at each of the racers and their pods. Qui-Gon was playing some game with this race. He needed the hyperdrive, yes, but there was more to it than that. Anakin was sure of it.
Stupid human. They'll be chipping you off of the canyon wall before noontime.
"Good luck to you too, Sebulba," said Anakin, turning to look down at the Dug. "Try not to choke on my dust."
Sebulba snarled and adjusted his goggles with his prehensile feet. You'll have enough dust to clog your fat mouth, human, he growled in the gutter argot that passed for a common language in Mos Espa. Watch yourself on the track. He grinned and loped off toward his sleek orange-and-black pod. Its two colossal engines, linked by a crackling rope of repulsor energy, formed a divided X-shape ahead of the slowly turning turbines that powered the famous pod's flight. Sebulba launched himself easily into his cockpit as the announcer, a spidery Duros with a deep, booming voice, started his pitch from his stand just above Jabba's grotto-box. Advertisements, accolades to Jabba for his generous sponsorship, a chuckling acknowledgment of the event's total illegality under Republic Law.
The other racers were priming their engines now, performing last-minute checks as their pit droid crews scattered for the sidelines. The spectators were cheering for their favorites as the announcer called out names. A fever-pitch of screams and applause went up for Sebulba. He raised his fists as the Dugs in the crowd inflated their throats and gave great barking calls of approval. Anakin swung himself up into his blue-and-silver pod as his own name was called to lukewarm applause. He knew his racer didn't look like much. His engines were unpainted cylinders, venting and machinery exposed, turbine nacelle surrounded by bright yellow airbrakes. He'd built it himself, and he didn't need a kriffing pit droid crew to tell him it worked.
"Racers!" boomed the Duros. "Start your engines!"
Anakin pulled back on the ignition primer, punched in the sequence to free the turbines for rotation and fastened his crash webbing. He looked at Sebulba as the other pods shuddered to life, engines coughing smoke and rising from the hardpan.
"Reeeeeaaaady!"
Sebulba spat at him and snarled. Anakin grinned. "Kiss my ass, beautiful!" he shouted across the starting field. Sebulba screaming something back at him, pounding the side of his pod. Anakin laughed out loud. This was real. This was easy.
"GOOOOOOO!"
He went.
DOOKU
Senator Palpatine sat in a high-backed repulsor chair at his simple hardwood desk. Behind him, Coruscant's skyline was highlighted against a brilliant sunset. He watched the holo-recording before him play out with unblinking eyes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The Kaleesh cyborg moved with impossible speed, four arms wielding four flashing lightsabers with brutal precision. The sparring droids Grievous faced never stood a chance. "Impressive, my friend," he said to the Count. "He can be counted on?"
"Entirely," said Dooku. He waved a hand and the recording ended.
The lights in Palpatine's office flickered back to life, revealing a tasteful and sparsely furnished space. Naboo tapestries decorated the walls. A bloodwood sculpture of a hooded woman with long braids and a single hand stood beside the Senator's desk. Palpatine stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and admired the sculpture in much the same way he had admired Grievous's demonstration. "And his tactical abilities?" He did not turn.
Count Dooku moved to the window to look out at the brilliantly-lit skyline, at the lines of traffic moving through the air. "He is unparalleled," he said at last. "Even our droid strategists cannot equal him. It is a pity he has no affinity for the Force. He might make an excellent replacement for Lord Maul."
"Maul is adequate to my purposes for the moment," said Palpatine. His left hand drifted to the surface of his desk. The fingers drummed. Ring finger. Middle. Index. Ring again. "He is a necessary tool, unsubtle as he is." The Senator's mouth twisted, but his thoughts were invisible to Dooku. The Count felt a twinge of annoyance.
"He murdered the Queen of Naboo in her throne room. He allowed himself to be seen by the Jedi. He has failed, Senator."
Palpatine half-turned, one white eyebrow rising. "And your apprentice would be better suited to the task? Precious Asajj? The woman is insane."
"I employ her according to her temperament," snapped Dooku, gesturing in dismissal. "Maul should never have gone to Naboo. He is a killer, not a bodyguard."
"The matter will soon be concluded," said Palpatine, displeased. His mouth was a thin, uncompromising line. "He has tracked Qui-Gon to Tatooine. He will put an end to him, and return to Naboo with the Senator."
Dooku said nothing for a long while. When he did speak, his voice sounded flat and terse to his own ears. "I have a meeting with the Archduke," he said stiffly. My apprentice, I wish I could spare you a death at the hands of such an unworthy opponent.
"Good, good," said Palpatine, turning back to his examination of the sculpture. "Send Poggle my regards. Or Sidious's, rather." He smiled a thin, humorless smile. "I assume I'll see you at the preliminary vote."
Dooku left Palpatine's office in a foul temper. Aides, functionaries and his fellow Senators gave him a wide berth as he stormed out of the Senate Building's administrative wing and took a lift tube to the private Senatorial Docks. His solar sailer, a gift from the Archduke himself, was waiting on its landing pad. Dooku could not help but feel somewhat cheered by the sight of the exquisite vessel. A modified Punworcca 116-class model, the brass-colored oval body streamlined and decorated with subtle patterning in the Geonosian style, incised lines and slight differences in hull coloration. Two petal-shaped foils, one above the body and the other below, contained the apparatus of the sail itself. Dooku moved up the sloop's boarding ramp and pressed his palm to the locking plate on the seamless hull. A narrow rectangular door opened with a hiss and Dooku stepped into the ship's interior. He removed his cloak and flung it onto one of the empty seats before sinking into the pilot's chair. He could have summoned one of the chauffeur droids to convey him to Geonosis, but the thought of piloting the sailer himself was appealing. He ran quickly through the simple preflight checklist before leaving the docks and heading at once for high orbit.
The Count's clearance as a Senator let him bypass the queues of freighters, yachts, and other personal and commercial craft. He slipped through the orbital shields and left Coruscant behind, a great silver-black sphere crisscrossed ten thousand ways with lines of light and points of radiance. He pulled a lever and the sailer's petal-foils unfolded, releasing the silvery parachute-like sail. It billowed in the void for a moment before it caught, pulled along by traveling particles and the weight of light. Dooku pulled further and further away from Coruscant, and then he engaged his hyperdrive. The stars stretched, elongating from pinpricks into streams of light. The Count stood, stretched and flowed smoothly through the stances of Form II, Makashi. The familiar comfortable ache settled into his muscles as he sidestepped and lunged, eyes closed and body singing. He opened himself to the Force, let it roar through him in a wave eternally at the point of breaking. His feet flashed across the cramped deck. His arms flicked and twisted, parrying imaginary lightsaber strikes.
I am a falling drop of rain. My passage is swift, my descent momentous. Ripples course outward and I am one with the Force, master of past and future.
The Count ended his regimen an hour later, perspiration glistening on his forehead. A memory surfaced as he made his way to the cockpit, a memory of Qui-Gon's finger tracing an old dueling scar on Dooku's back in the baths of the Jedi Temple. How tender he had been. He closed his eyes and banished the thought. Let Maul have his squalls of senseless violence, Sidious his cold-blooded schemes and manipulations. There was no higher calling than to live in tune with the Force, conscious of its movements. Even a Sith needed to respect and comprehend the Force, lest he lose himself in the raging sea of the Dark Side.
The sailer dropped out of hyperspace near Geonosis. Dooku stared down at the rough reddish skin of the planet, the birthing ground of the new shape of the Galaxy.
PADME
The second lap. Padmé watched on the colossal display screens hovering opposite the stands as the racers threaded a maze of stone monoliths. The pods flew at barely-controllable speeds, their engines howling in protest as they kicked up huge clouds of dust and grit. The pilots, faces blurred in the droid-transmitted holo transmission, leaned low over their controls. Anakin was the only human. Most didn't have the reflexes for it. He, though, was formidable. He seemed to see what his fellow racers planned a skinless moment before they themselves had time to act. His pod flashed across the screen, overtaking Clegg Holdfast and Ratts Tyerell. Tyerell, panicked, swerved and smashed into a mushroom-domed stone formation. The holo didn't linger on the crash.
Padmé felt electrified. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes from the brutal, hair-trigger reality of the race. Beside her, Shmi sat with her eyes closed at the holo screen. The older woman's hands were locked together in a death grip, her face lined with strain. On Shmi's other side sat Qui-Gon, his expression clouded and unreadable. He had spent most of the morning speaking in private with Watto, but Padmé couldn't bring herself to be curious. The race was still moving, still careering along its deadly course. Anakin was in fifth place with Sebulba in the lead, his massive pod somehow twisting through every maze and avoiding every obstacle. The Dug was a genius pilot. Anyone could see that. But Anakin was gaining.
The third lap. Endgame. Padmé's palms perspired. Panaka had joined the crowds on his feet and was shouting with the rest of them, fist in the air. Tatooine's merchant princes were cheering in their repulsor boxes above the tracks. Wild shouts drifted from Jabba's private balcony in the mountainside. The Hutt's basso roar joined the thunder of the crowd. The Duros announcer was shouting out the names and positions of the racers. Sebulba was still in the lead, tailed by Anakin now. The crowd was alive with feverish excitement, compelled to scream and stomp for every miniscule development. Sebulba nearly rammed Anakin as they pulled even and Padmé's heart jumped into her throat. Tears were running silently down Shmi's cheeks. Qui-Gon was sweating, his expression curiously slack.
Anakin and Sebulba pulled away from the ragged remnants of the pack. The roar of the crowd died down by slow degrees. Padmé found herself on her feet in the silence, Shmi's hand clutched in hers. She could see the pods in the distance now, streaking over the vast featureless field of the Hutt Flats with a cloud of dust at their backs. Sebulba was ahead again, pulling forward inch by inch as Anakin's pod's engines screamed loudly, straining for an extra burst of speed. They were close, less than half a minute away. Sebulba was laughing on the screen, a master at the peak of his career. And then his pod was rolling through the dust, one engine spiraling away into the open desert as the other exploded against a low rock outcropping. The pod flipped once. Twice. An explosion of oily flame splattered over the rocks.
Anakin streaked over the finish line and slewed his pod to a halt. He climbed out as the engines powered down and sank to the hardpan. The silence rang, huge and awful. Padmé couldn't believe it. Her heart was still pounding, her palms still slick with sweat. Qui-Gon was still seated, staring down at Anakin with weary eyes. Qui-Gon...
No. No, that was impossible. Horror tugged at Padmé's guts. It was impossible.
Slowly, as though the audience were waking from a dream, the applause began and built to a thunderous roar. Sky-walk-er, Sky-walk-er. Anakin was grinning, goggles pushed up onto his wild brown hair. He raised a fist, magnified to fifty times his size on the giant holo-screen.
ANAKIN
"You're free," Qui-Gon had said to him after the race. It didn't seem real now. Anakin sat in his cramped room, surrounded by all the unfinished experiments he'd started over his years as Watto's slave. A maintenance droid built from spare parts. A thumper for repelling kreetles. The model spacecraft he'd scavenged and built. He sat and thought about Qui-Gon's offer. Coruscant. The Jedi Temple. Could he really be free after so long? He had won the Boonta Classic, and now he had a chance to put Tatooine behind him. To leave his mother. He grimaced. Her memory was fading, and her temperament. He'd had to stop talking about the place they had lived before, the rich house in the mossy forest. Mention of it had upset her, made her confused.
Coruscant. The Jedi Temple. Anakin's pack sat beside him on his bed, already half filled with his meager belongings. He shook in the adrenaline-drained aftermath of the race, his first victory and Sebulba's last appearance on the track. That sobered his thoughts. The Dug had been a coward and a bully, but there weren't many pilots better than Sebulba.
"Ani?"
Anakin looked up. His mother stood in the doorway. "Mom," he said.
An understanding passed between them. It had always been like that. He was leaving, as she had known he would. He rose and hugged her, the familiar earth-and-spice smell of her filling his nostrils. She held him for a long time, crying silently, and then she stepped back and dried her eyes. "I know you're meant for great things, Anakin," she said. Her voice was tired, but clear. "Leave this planet behind. Go, and learn from Qui-Gon. He's a good man; I can feel it." She was crying again, but a smile deepened the lines at the corners of her eyes.
"I love you, mom," he said.
She nodded, looking tired and sad and proud all at once.
They left the house together, hand in hand, the house that had been their prison and their home for fourteen years. Qui-Gon was talking to Watto, who looked furious, while Panaka, the Senator, and their R2 droid waited in the street with the repulsor sled carrying their hyperdrive. A huge Dewback stood placidly in a harness attached to the sled, its dull green-grey scales glistening in the sunlight. "You swindled me, Jedi," Watto snarled, jabbing a dirty forefinger at Qui-Gon, who appeared nonplussed. Watto's wings were beating furiously and he looked even more disheveled than usual. "You helped the boy win, eh, with your tricks? Nobody beats Sebulba! Nobody!"
"Our business is done," said Qui-Gon to the bristling Toydarian. "The Hutts back all betting on the races, I believe. Perhaps you wish to bring your complaint to Lord Jabba?"
Watto scowled. "Take the hyperdrive," he snarled. "Take the boy. You've ruined me." He glanced at Anakin. "Too old for the Temple. Enjoy Coruscant, eh?" Watto's words of parting were equal parts gruff fondness and irritated dismissal. Anakin felt a strange sense of loss as the Toydarian threw one last withering look at Qui-Gon before flapping away in the direction of his shop.
"Come, Anakin," said Qui-Gon. "The ship is waiting."
Anakin looked back at his mother, standing in the doorway of their home. She looked small. She smiled at him, and he tried to smile back. His face felt frozen. He turned, guts churning, and followed Qui-Gon as the Jedi strode away from the slave quarter and into the streets of Mos Espa. Too old for the Temple... Anakin scowled down at the street, the site of so many of his adventures. They all seemed small now, petty and inconsequential. He hadn't even bothered to say goodbye to Kitster or Wald. What would they think when they heard where he'd gone? Coruscant. The Jedi Temple.
"You flew beautifully."
The Senator's voice startled Anakin out of his reverie. He forced a grin. "Thanks," he said. "It was more Sebulba crashing than my flying, though."
Padmé shrugged. She was a beautiful woman, her fine-featured oval face framed by elaborate braids. "I thought you did well," she said. "I could
Anakin blushed. "Thanks."
QUI-GON
It took the better part of the afternoon to install the hyperdrive. While Anakin, Olie, Obi-Wan and the R2 unit worked to remove and replace the damaged unit, Qui-Gon returned the dewback, cranky and uncooperative after its slog out of the city, to its owner. He paid the merchant, a scruffy Aqualish, and walked to the edge of the city where Mos Espa's domes and arches became a sea of flat, endless sand. The city was subdued after the events of the Classic. He closed his eyes and said a silent litany of remorse, immersing himself in the Force as he did.
Guilt ate at him. He saw the Dug screaming, wrenching at his pod's controls as the left engine simply detached itself and flew away, ripped free when Qui-Gon misjudged what it would take to stop the careering vehicle. He saw the crash, the explosion, and the wrenching cartwheel the pod itself had performed. Murder. Accidental, but no less final for that.
Qui-Gon turned his mind from the price of his gamble. He had, at least, secured some good from the dark situation. Anakin was free, and soon they would be en route to Coruscant. Obi-Wan and the younger man had taken to each other at once, examining the hyperdrive and discussing the various faults and virtues of the J-type line with the pilot, Olie. A smile curved Qui-Gon's lips, but a bitter one. Some prices were too high.
Qui-Gon left the city behind. He walked back toward the ship as the suns sank toward the horizon. The ship's engines were powered, sending out a low and rhythmic thrum, when he reached the shallow canyon it occupied. The sound of another engine joined the first. There was a ripple in the Force, sudden and violent Qui-Gon spun, drawing and igniting his lightsaber in one smooth, well-practiced motion. A stripped-down speeder veered past him, banking hard and affording a momentary glimpse of a tattooed face beneath the cowl of a heavy black robe. The Sith leapt free of his conveyance and the speeder crashed, bouncing three times before the tattooed Sith hit the sand in a crouch. "Jedi." His voice was raw and harsh. A red lightsaber blade flared from the long gunmetal-grey hilt in his gloved left hand.
Panaka appeared at the ship's boarding ramp. His hand flew to his blaster rifle. "No!" shouted Qui-Gon. "Take off! Go. GO!"
The Sith moved and there was no time to spare for any thought at all. He flew across the sand like a wraith and slashed at Qui-Gon's head with a roar of fury. Their blades crossed, hammering and flashing. Qui-Gon gave ground and the Sith advanced, his face a rictus mask of hatred, rotten teeth bared. The tattoos on his face shifted in the glare of their weapons. Qui-Gon gave himself to the fight, flowing through Ataru's quick and aggressive motions as the Sith's saber snaked and darted around him. There was no conflict. There was no separation.
There was only the Force.
The Sith lunged and Qui-Gon sidestepped, parried a vicious backswing and launched himself into the air. He twisted mid-flight, opening himself to the world of sensation. He saw the ship tilting toward him, sliding sideways through the air with its landing ramp extended. He landed on the thin metal gangway, staggering, and Panaka seized him by the front of his poncho and dragged him into the ship. They rose at a dizzying rate and the Sith faded until he was nothing but a black spot in the sand. Qui-Gon slumped against the wall and slid to the corridor floor as the airlock hissed shut. He was tired, impossibly tired.
Obi-Wan came running down the hall and skidded to a halt before Qui-Gon, his face ashen. "Master," he said. There was a long pause. Obi-Wan swallowed. "Are you hurt?"
"No, Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon, and it took all the strength he had to keep his head from lolling to the side. He could feel Tatooine receding, could feel the Sith's corrosive presence in the Force as it dwindled to nothing. "I'm just tired. I'm not as young as I once was."
"I'm sorry I wasn't faster," said Obi-Wan, still somewhat grey. "I thought you would sense us, if we got close enough and so I had the pilot-"
"You did very well," said Qui-Gon. "I'm proud of you, Obi-Wan." He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. He heard Panaka and Obi-Wan speaking, but their voices came from a thousand kilometers away. Blackness took him.
