Chapter 10: Dune
After about an hour of smelling Qui-Gon's sweaty ass-crack, Anakin finally persuaded the lunatic to let him walk on his own. He trudged cooperatively through the sand, but kept his eyes open for any means of escape. Since none presented itself in the form of some friendly Jawas, or perhaps another one of those convenient floating purple carpets, he decided to ask a few questions of his captor.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To the Jedi Temple, on Coruscant."
"What happens there?"
"Oh, typical Jedi stuff."
Well that was informative. "Are there women?"
"Oh yes."
For a moment, Anakin brightened; perhaps this wouldn't be so bad.
"They exist alongside us," Qui-Gon continued, "in a blissful state of genderless equality."
"Oh."
He made it about twenty feet before he heard Jar Jar scream, and then something struck his ankle. It dragged him backwards and he scrabbled futilely at the sand until he saw Qui-Gon's shadow over him. Jar Jar's tongue retracted from Anakin's leg, and the Gungan began rubbing the back of his head where Qui-Gon had hit him.
"I don't wanna be a Jedi," Anakin shouted. "It's just another kind of slavery!"
"Don't be silly," Qui-Gon admonished. "You're going to be the greatest Jedi ever."
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "How are we doing back there, Padmé?"
Padmé, dragging the hyperdrive across the dunes with a single rope, screamed back, "I HATE YOU!"
|—o—|
Darth Maul was beginning to regret not wearing sunglasses as he approached the Queen's star cruiser. The harsh desert light was bad enough, but add in the glare from several hundred square feet of reflective hull plating and you ended up with a punishing experience for a Sith who spent most of his time skulking around dark rooms.
His Master disapproved of the skulking. A Dark Lord of the Sith ought to grandstand, Sidious said. Maul tried, but he was proud of his skulk. It was a professional skulk, perfected by years of practice. He just couldn't manage to chew the scenery the way his Master could—which, he supposed, was why Sidious was the Master and he the apprentice.
He pondered this as he stepped off his speeder bike and approached the ship's hatch. Originally his plan had been: slice through the hull, skulk into the Queen's bedroom, and strangle her with her own bespread. Now he was rethinking that idea. Perhaps he ought to try more grandstanding. Give the dramatic entrance another try.
About an hour passed while he stood outside the entrance hatch, waiting for someone to open it so he could dramatically be there on the other side. Surely it would shock and discombobulate them! Sadly, nobody came. He sighed and knocked politely on the door.
An extremely dishevelled young man answered. He had a Padawan braid, which meant he must have been the notorious Obi-Wan Kenobi. Maul began to question his casual approach. Despite his disorganized appearance, the young Jedi reacted quickly. His eyes widened, and every muscle in his body appeared to go taut.
"Oh my gods," Kenobi shouted. Maul surreptitiously gripped his saber under his cloak, but the Jedi was looking over his shoulder. "Is that the Razalon FC-20 speeder bike?"
Puzzled, Maul nodded. "Custom," he added, truthfully.
"By the Force! Can I have a go?"
|—o—|
Maul could hardly believe his good fortune. The Force must be with me, he thought. Kenobi was out joyriding through the desert on his speeder, leaving him with the run of the ship. He tried not to skulk as he made his way down the corridors, but still caught himself sidling a time or two. He ghosted into a room and found a dark-skinned man in light battle garb crouched around a small card table with another unremarkable man. Both men had to hunch severely, owing to the rifles and pistols piled around them.
"Hey" said the dark man, "don't expect us to deal you in unless you're going to ante up! Minimum bid is three blasters."
Utterly confused by this statement, Maul quickly backed out of the room and headed in a different direction. These people were insane, he thought, and dangerously so. The sooner the Sith brought some order to the galaxy, the better. He heard voices echoing out of that room as he retreated.
"Hah! No stomach for the game, I guess."
"Ready to lose the rest of your stockpile?"
"No way! Double or quits, and deuces are wild…"
A few turns, and Maul found what he assumed were the queen's quarters. The carpet was incredibly plush, in the few places where it was not covered by empty bottles and cans. He walked as carefully as he could, and spied a lump under the voluminous covers. She lay asleep in her bed, in the middle of the day! How typical for an arrogant, spoiled monarch. Truly, he would be doing the galaxy a favour by throttling the life out of her delicate, privileged neck. Feeling that this was a good time for skulking, he began to move slowly, but had to step even more carefully as the frequency of discarded beverage containers increased more than he thought possible. Once his foot clinked against a manacle dangling from a leather strap on the bedpost, and he froze; the lump under the sheets moved slightly, but did not awaken. He continued his belaboured progress until he stood directly over the bed. Now he saw there were four of the shackles in all. Did the queen suffer from fits that required her to be restrained? And why use such flimsy restraints that he could burst out of with one tug? So strange, he thought, but back to the business at hand.
Seizing a corner of the bed sheet, he flung it aside with a flourish so the queen would see his fearsome appearance and quail in fright as he strangled her. Sidious would commend him for his theatricality, and hopefully not demand another "backrub". Instead of a frightened monarch, however, he discovered fifty pounds of pygmy Wookiee, enraged at having its nap disturbed. Its rattling growl filled the room, rising in volume.
"Shit."
|—o—|
Qui-Gon was in high spirits when they reached the ship, even for Qui-Gon. He had acquired not only several choice fireworks, but a Chosen One who, despite a flimsy grasp of what being Chosen entailed, had thus far not put rocks in his backside or attempted to eat the sun. Also that Pandean girl had stopped screaming.
His high spirits evaporated a little when he saw that Obi-Wan had left the door open. That would have to be addressed, he thought, perhaps with some disciplinary staring or a nice therapeutic clipping of Master Yoda's toenails once they reached Coruscant. Then a much more severe thought struck him: maybe Obi-Wan should be barred from participating in the upcoming negotiations. It was a little harsh, yes, but Padawans required a firm hand. He usually applied said firm hand to the offending Padawan's buttocks, but the Council seemed to frown on that sort of thing for some reason. He'd offered to use a paddle, but that made them even more upset. Some days he just did not comprehend the strange manner in which the Jedi Order operated. None of his former Padawans had ever complained, and in fact Cherutia Pashi had become quite enthusiastically accepting of his disciplinary process, frequently volunteering herself for spankings and even reminding Qui-Gon of minor transgressions he had overlooked. Sometimes he encountered her around the Temple, and she would ask for one for old times' sake, or to keep her mind on the here and now, or to help her stay centered in the Force. She seemed a little flushed afterwards, though, so he decided he might have to go a little softer on her from now on.
A horrid snarling interrupted his nostalgia, and he stopped walking just as a dishevelled Zabrak tumbled down the ship's gangplank. The man stood up and glared at Qui-Gon with red-rimmed yellow eyes that sharply contrasted with his red-and-black facial tattoos. His black cloak was in tatters, and several bite marks created different colours of red on his face.
"Good day to you, sir," Qui-Gon said, cheerfully. "Do you require first aid?"
The Zabrak lunged at him with an inarticulate snarl, producing a lightsaber. It sprung to life, a brilliant red blade that coordinated artfully with its bearer's stripes.
Qui-Gon said, "Oh, that's champion. I have one of those too." He ignited his own green saber in response. If this fellow wanted a friendly duel, well, he supposed he could oblige. The negotiations weren't going anywhere.
"Ho! Ha-ha! Guard, turn, parry, dodge, spin," he shouted. This was exhilarating. It was ages since he'd enjoyed a good duel. Obi-Wan always wimped out after the first three hours. This energetic fellow, whoever he was, seemed like he could go on for days.
"Ha! Thrust!"
|—o—|
Obi-Wan nearly fell off the bike. He'd meant to go just for a quick spin around the desert, and ended up taking much longer than anticipated. Someday, he decided, he would grab a couple of mates and make a proper circumnavigation of a planet, on bikes. Perhaps even film it, for the HoloNet.
Now, he returned to find his master engaged in a lightsaber duel with what appeared to be some kind of Dark Jedi, possibly even a Sith! Oh, he'd had several Bad Feelings this morning, but had put it down to the waffles. He never anticipated this…
While he wondered if the waffles would cause as much trouble going out as they had going in, he realized he had no idea where the brake was on an FC-20. Worse, Qui-Gon and the Sith who had so uncharacteristically loaned Obi-Wan his bike—Obi-Wan thought Sith went around shooting lightning at helpless orphans while eating helpless little furry creatures and cackling a lot, presumably with their mouths full—were slowly wandering into the bike's path.
Breathlessly he called out, "Master! DUCK!"
"This is no time for identifying waterfowl," Qui-Gon called back, never removing his eyes from his opponent. It looked like Obi-Wan would ascend to the rank of Jedi Knight forcibly by pasting his master across the front of a speeder bike, but something metal glinted on the ground and caught Qui-Gon's attention like a Felucian magpie.
"Ooooh, a penny!" He bent down to pick it up, and the already high-riding bike skimmed over him and slammed into the fierce Zabrak about to chop his head off. When the machine finally coasted to a stop, its owner was out cold.
"Oh, no, it's just a washer," Qui-Gon sighed.
"Master," Obi-Wan said, scrambling off the bike, "are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
"We have to get out of here!"
"I suppose. It pays to be punctual in negotiations, after all." Qui-Gon hung his deactivated lightsaber from his belt and began casually strolling up the gangplank like a tourist boarding a sightseeing cruise.
"Master, aren't you going to arrest him?"
"Arrest whom? This poor transient?" He gestured to the unconscious Sith. "No, I don't think so. Poor fellow. He was probably just after some spare change." He tossed the washer onto the Zabrak's chest.
"But Master—"
Qui-Gon wheeled on his apprentice with the determined look of a man who has a six-hour lecture prepared on the detriments of using a certain word in conjunction with a certain other word, and Obi-Wan quailed.
"Sorry."
Qui-Gon nodded sharply and turned to shout at Padmé. "Come on then, let's not dawdle, Payday!"
Padmé, who had resorted to shoving her burden across the sand towards the ship, gave him a glare that could have melted phrik. A little boy with the dumbest haircut Obi-Wan had ever seen ran up behind her and shrilly offered his help. She grunted assent, and he moved forward to help push.
"Obi-Wan, are you absolutely certain about the midi-chlorian count of that sample I sent you?"
"Yes, master. I ran it through the MALDI-TOF and everything. Who is that boy?"
"The Chosen One, if I'm correct. Which I always am," Qui-Gon replied.
Obi-Wan's heart sank, although his more sarcastic side pointed out he anticipated this eventuality. Another Chosen One, although this one at least seemed to have some talent. Of Course, midi-chlorian count wasn't always a good indicator of Force potential. Assuming that was like measuring how healthy someone was by how many antibodies they had. Still, this one wasn't wearing his underpants on the outside or, worse, mistaking his underpants for a parasitic monster. Perhaps there was hope for this one.
As he thought this, the boy attempted to help push by placing both hands firmly on Padmé's bottom. She kicked him like a horse.
Obi-Wan sighed, "I have a bad feeling about this…"
|—o—|
He should have had a bad feeling abouteverything. Qui-Gon began unwrapping the hyperdrive as soon as Padmé lugged it into the engine room; when Obi-Wan, Panaka, and the Queen and her retinue joined him an hour later, he was still unwrapping it. Packing materials were piled high beside the device, and Obi-Wan noted they were larger than the actual package by this point.
"Err, how small is this thing, master?"
He noticed the queen looked much more haggard than she had this morning, and was smoking multiple death sticks while fending off Artoo and his little fire extinguisher with one hand. He soon forgot about her changed demeanour, because Qui-Gon had finished unwrapping his delivery.
"It's a blender," the queen said in a flat monotone.
"Ah," Qui-Gon chirruped, "we can make smoothies!"
"It's a blender."
"Look at the lovely chrome finish, your highness!"
"It's a blender."
"Seventeen settings and a special juicer attachment."
"It's a blender."
Obi-Wan could feel the tension in the room; he could sense it in the Force, too, like a spider web made of high-tension electrical wire. One snapped cable in the right location and it would fly in all directions, shredding anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path.
The queen looked like she was considering which imaginative method of killing Qui-Gon would be the least painless, possibly after shoving her death sticks where Artoo's fire extinguisher would never, ever reach them. Obi-Wan had seen people lose their patience with Qui-Gon before, and it was never pretty. Someone would wind up dead… and it wouldn't be Qui-Gon. The man wore obliviousness like a shield, and attempts on his life seemed to fail by dint of him simply choosing to ignore them.
Obi-Wan cleared his throat loudly. Qui-Gon turned, but Queen Amidala seemed reluctant to tear her gaze from him, in case she spontaneously developed the ability to kill people with a hard stare.
"Actually," Kenobi explained, "we've mostly managed to reassemble the original."
With dramatic flair, he Force-lifted an unassuming cloth off the piecemeal hyperdrive, which was standing in the corner. The queen had ordered her handmaidens to reassemble it, seemingly for no other reason than to assert her authority over them. In fact, she had become something of a tyrant in Qui-Gon's absence. Obi-Wan had joined the handmaidens because puzzles were fun, it gave him an excuse to get away from the queen's voracious sexual appetites, and he had no blasters to ante for Panaka and his college buddy's obsessive card-playing.
"In fact," he went on, "all we are missing… is an L-shaped piece." He took the blender from his master's unresisting hands, turned it sideways, and fitted it neatly into the hole in the hyperdrive. It was a perfect match. He had no idea what he expected would happen when the puzzle was completed; maybe it would light up or start humming or something. Nothing of the sort happened.
"That's all well and good," sighed the queen, "but—"
An obnoxious chime sounded throughout the ship. Everyone raised their heads and looked around.
"Shit," exclaimed her majesty, "the doorbell!"
"The ship has a doorbell? Then," Obi-Wan wondered aloud, "why did that assassin with the red lightsaber knock?"
Lightsaber drawn, he cautiously approached the main door, half expecting a red plasma blade to come through it at any moment. The doorbell rang again, that same eight notes that every pretentious doorbell seemed to use. He popped the hatch and lofted his blade, ready to decapitate anything that came through.
A bored-looking deliveryman stood there, holding a clipboard and looking unperturbed by the lightsaber pointed at his face. "Package for Mr. D2."
"What?"
Artoo whistled and nudged its way past Obi-Wan, producing a pen from one of its many compartments and signing the delivery invoice. The deliveryman clipped it to his waist and held out an open palm.
"That'll be thirty-five hundred."
Artoo booped and opened another little door, which began dispensing local currency, all in small bills (many of which seemed to be marked with hearts and other symbols of love) at the deliveryman's feet. Thirty-five hundred proved a sizeable pile. Artoo snatched the package from under his arm and trundled back inside.
Obi-Wan awkwardly muttered, "Keep the change," and shut the hatch in his face. He jogged to keep up with the little droid, and saw the package was labeled "HYPERDRIVE" but did not appear to be a blender.
"Where did you get all this money?"
Artoo toodled and trilled a response.
"An ATM? Really?"
|—o—|
While Kenobi helped Panaka install the hyperdrive and the Moron went off to meditate, Queen Amidala took the opportunity to check her messages. There was only one, from that Sio Bibble guy. She gave it a play.
"Ah, yes… is this thing on? Right. Hello, your highness; Bibble here, just calling you to let you know that the situation is pretty dire here. The vile conquerors have taken away our Wi-Fi. All of our data plans are going to incur extra charges by the end of this month, and thousands of our less-privileged citizens have gone days without streaming video or social networking. I don't know how much longer we can hold out! You must contact me!"
A suspiciously rubbery voice from somewhere outside the camera's range hissed, "And tell her this isn't a ruse to find out her location!"
"Ah, yes. Your highness, this is not a ruse to find out your location. Please contact me as urgently as possible. On the upside, the floors are extremely clean!"
The message ended. Bibble was always the opportunist, she thought. Probably he thought he could convince her to give him his old job back. She supposed the capital could use a man who could run a floor buffer in the midst of military occupation, especially with battle droids probably leaving unspeakable scuff marks on her premium-grade linoleum. Such unimaginable atrocities, she thought, taking a swig of absinthe from the bottle in her other hand. Strange; how had that gotten there?
Fucking hell, here was that annoying Annie kid again. He entered the comm room and crouched in a corner, hugging his sides and shivering in a comically exaggerated fashion.
"B-r-r-r-r-r," he stuttered. "It's s-so c-c-cold in h-here. And I'm f-from a d-d-d-desert p-planet. Oh-h-h-h-h."
She almost rolled her eyes. "Doesn't it get very cold in the desert at night?"
He shrugged and shivered extra hard. She decided to take some measure of pity on him; after all, she knew what it was like to be shanghaied by Qui-Gon the Oblivious. Poor kid had just lost his home and his mother in one fell swoop of brown robes. There were blankets in one of the drawers. It took her only a few moments to find them, and she unfolded one and draped it over the boy's shoulders.
"Thanks," he said. "C-Care to j-j-join me? The b-body heat would h-help."
"Uh, no."
"Hey," shouted Panaka from somewhere in the hallway, "who turned down the environmental controls?"
Anakin suddenly looked nervous. "I, uh, I have to go… I have to be somewhere else." He left the room in a hurry, not even bothering to shiver anymore. On his way out he nearly collided with Obi-Wan, who looked like he had come here on a mission.
The queen fought the urge to smooth her hair, and put on what she thought was an inviting smile that stayed regal and unapproachable, but not too unapproachable or too inviting. It was a difficult balance indeed.
"May I speak with you, your highness?"
"Of course, master Jedi," she answered. "My robe—door is always open to you."
If he noticed the gaffe, he didn't show it. "I'd like to have a chat about setting some… boundaries."
"Boundaries?" What was he talking about?
"Yes. See… it's not that I feel unappreciated. Maybe just a little bit too appreciated? So appreciated, in fact, that I have developed a troublesome rash."
What? Her brain was spinning in circles now. The only rash she had was heat rash, and hopefully it would go away before she got the chance to show Obi-Wan her royal prerogative, as it were.
"Not that I'm not a fan of cake toppings, in the proper context," he went on, "but it seems a waste to use the entire can if you're going to mix it with axle grease and make it inconsumable. And the bit with the crocodile was going a little too far, I feel."
Now she was tumbling through deep space, conversationally speaking. She managed to weakly ask, "Crocodile?"
"Isn't that what it's called when a group of people line up like that? Don't misunderstand me, your highness, I was more than in favour of getting your handmaidens involved, but did it really have to be all of them? At once?"
"Well, I like to remind them who their mistress is," she responded, brain flailing about in an attempt to connect with what he was really saying.
"Oh, you reminded them several times. With a riding crop. You reminded me, as well, I seem to recall. Told me to scream your name 'like a man on the execution block', to be precise."
Oh, gods… now it was dawning on her…
"And in fact," he plunged ahead, "that is not the proper use of a lightsaber! It's quite dangerous to use one in that manner! You certainly seem to have no shortage of…useful devices, so I felt that was rather rude. And I still find bits of dried syrup in the strangest places.
"So," he concluded, "in keeping with the Order's policies against attachments, I feel it is for the best that we discontinue our activities. For the greater good, of course. Nothing personal."
Queen Amidala stared, open-mouthed. There were no words. Obi-Wan nodded and said he would take his leave. He left her alone in the room, as the litany of offenses unspooled inside her head and then rolled itself up again, retroactively filtering their conversation through the harsh lens of hindsight. Her mouth clamped shut, teeth grinding so hard they squeaked. One clenched and turned her knuckles white while the fingers of the other turned into claws. The queen screamed a single word.
"DORMÉ!"
|—o—|
The holoprojector sprang to life rather loudly, interrupting Gunray and Haako in a rousing game of tiddlywinks. A flickering image of Sio Bibble, the janitor elevated to leader of Naboo, presented itself.
"Am I disturbing you gentlemen?"
"No, not at awl, Bibber; we were just praying tiddrywinks," the Viceroy explained, while Haako smirked behind his hand. The words "Bibble" and "tiddlywinks" were never meant to occupy the same sentence, especially when mangled by Gunray's adopted accent.
"I was wondering if I might persuade you to let us have our internet back. The people are getting restless. They cannot tweet!"
"You should have thought of that before you let yourselves get occupied," the Viceroy replied breezily. "In the meantime, I'm sending our droids to root out these underwater cities I keep hearing about."
"The Gungans? But they're just a bunch of pot-smoking slackers. No threat to anyone."
"Nevertheless." No explanation was forthcoming; Gunray had a habit of ending discussions by just saying "nevertheless" and sitting tight-lipped until his opponent gave up out of frustration.
"Well, your silly ruse failed. Her highness is probably well on her way to Coruscant by now."
"And so what? We own the Senate! It will make no difference." Gunray was blustering, but Rune knew he was nervous when he forgot his accent.
After Bibble signed off, he asked, "What are we going to do if she does reach the Senate?"
"Nothing," Nute said. "Nothing at all. Sidious will take care of it."
"So nothing to worry about?"
"Absolutely not!"
"You're not worried?"
"Not one iota! Why should I be? What makes you think I'm worried?"
"Because you've just swallowed your squidger."