Legacy 4
Chapter 9
The Jawas' sacred place was a network of caves hewn into the living bedrock of the desert, a series of vestibules and echoing cathedral caverns winding deep into the foundations of the endless sand basin. Crude petroglyphs adorned the rough walls: ochre, blood-red, pallid chalk figures depicting creatures no longer seen upon the wastes, perhaps memories of some ancient time, perhaps mere figments of the forgotten artist's mind. The solemn procession of hooded pilgrims burrowed further and further into the catacombs, Torbb Bakk'ile bringing up the rear at a cramping stoop. Most the passages' ceilings would not admit an average man to walk upright, much less a giantess. Black topknot swishing over one bent shoulder, sable-clad shoulders brushing the walls to either side, she made her painstaking way to the site of her putative godchild's naming ceremony.
And when she arrived, she gasped.
For here, at the bottommost cellar of the planet, unknown to any but these intrepid gnomes and their ancestors, lay a shallow pool of…. Water. Admittedly, a grimy, mineral-laden puddle, so briny that the air held a peculiar ocean tang, so opaque in the dim light of their glowrods that it appeared an oil slick – but on Tatooine even this pathetic drizzle of moisture was a living treasure trove, a wealth beyond reckoning. Phosphorescent reflections shimmered upon the pool's unruffled surface. Stalactites yearned downward from the cave roof, lolling tongues seeking to slake the world's eternal thirst at this holy fountain.
The Jawas broke into animated chatter, bustled about, prodded and chivvied her to the very edge of this impossibility, where she knelt down, trailing the fingers of one hand through the priceless elixir, the cool edge of this miniature sea. To this underworld, to this final resting place, must every drop of unevaporated water eventually run – or perhaps this was the dregs of a world-wide ocean, the last drops of Tatooine's primordial inheritance of life. The Jawas clearly held the place sacrosanct, for all of them dipped fingers in the pool and made a ritual gesture over face and heart. Their chanting lulled into a drone, and then into a comfortable recitation; soon enough, the miniscule babe in its swaddling was thrust back into the tall Jedi's arms.
"Cho nama wah dunki obasa," the eldest crone commanded, folding both petite hands in expectation.
The Force pooled here, swirling lazily above the water, between the symbolic oceans and sky-dome of the painted roof. A name, a name for this kitling-sized infant, latest scion of the universal Life, tiny act of rebellion against the desert's annihilating emptiness, delicate and precious. To give a name was to give a destiny; the girl's fate hung in her hands, upon her whim.
Torbb's broad features relaxed into certitude as the answer was borne to her, upon an invisible current. Delicate, yet to be cherished. "She is called Drosia." The crones murmured, rustled and shifted about. "…Morning dew."
Another murmuring, this one of comprehension, of approval; the child was lifted from her arms and presented back to her mother, now surrounded by the village matrons; the convocation began to disperse, make preparations to leave.
Until one of the younger members emerged from a wide side passage in high dudgeon, a long and expressive squeal of indignation drowning out her sisters' congratulatory gossip. Black robes askew, gloved hands pointing frantically at the chamber just beyond, the young Jawa quickly had the tribe crowding into the second cave, exclamations of astonishment and dismay resounding off the low roof.
For here, stowed in neat piles against three uneven walls, were the crates and palettes of a considerable, and wholly alien, trove – an improvised bank vault's contents safely tucked away, far from prying eyes and the unforgiving elements.
Torbb squeezed through the crowd and touched the nearest plastoid packing box, dark brows contracting and mouth tightening into a grim smile. "Well, well, well, Uticus," she muttered.
They had stumbled upon a pirate's booty.
The protocol droid practically stumbled over its own words in an attempt to maintain a façade of normalcy. "May I present to His Divine Magnitude, the Revered Jabba, his first visitor: Uticus of the –"
"Bocheega noto!" the massive Hutt bellowed, impatiently summoning his guest forward.
From the shadows obscuring the throne room's periphery stepped a figure taller and broader than any other present: a human man in his middle years, easily a full two meters in height, with boldly tattooed skin, a shining pate topped by a luxuriant knot of silken black and silver, and two extravagant mustaches which fell to mid-chest. He was clad in tall boots, close fitting trousers, an open vest of some exotic leather, and a bristling array of weapons which clearly served as both ornament and marks of rank. When he spoke, his voice threatened to knock dust from the rotting B'Omarri rafters overhead.
"jabba," this individual boomed, spreading both hands wide in a gesture of brotherhood but omitting any obsequious groveling or bow. "A pleasure to once again enjoy your hospitality."
The Hutt's eyes narrowed slightly, while the translator stuttered out a polite and meaningless reply.
The infamous pirate tilted his head back and surveyed the company, piercing gaze flitting over – then swiftly returning- to the cloaked stranger in one corner. "I see we have… ambassadorial … colleagues present this morning," he remarked, the hint of a growl in his tone.
Jabba squelched where he sat, rearranging his weight to better personal satisfaction. "Da to maka Jeedai nowasa," he grunted, waving a dismissive hand.
But Uticus was not so easily assured. He swiveled, singling out the unwanted witness with a pointing finger. "You, sir… I presume you have words to exchange with me. Out with it, then. I'm a busy man, and eager to get on with my important trade arrangements."
Obi-Wan lowered his cowl and shouldered past the nearest gaping spectators . "Far be it from me to stand between a man and his ill-gotten gain…. However, I'm afraid the Republic has business with you which supercedes your participation in the black market auction here."
His interlocutor raised two bushy black brows, and snorted audibly. "Last I checked, Republic jurisdiction does not extend into the Rims." He cast a sympathetic glance round at Jabba's minions and sycophants, garnering a smatter of smirks and winks.
The young Knight folded hands into opposite sleeves. "Yes, well," he blandly retorted, "Sadly, you are wanted on six Republic controlled systems for murder, extortion, and theft – not to mention various and sundry violations of the Interstellar Trade and Transit regulations. "
Uticus bristled slightly, and emitted a dry laugh. "Glib little bureaucrat, aren't you? There's a reason I prefer straight-dealing business partners."
This earned him a tight smile. "Let me put it to you straight, then," the Jedi replied. "I am here to demand your unconditional surrender. You are hereby under arrest for numerous and heinous crimes committed within Republic borders. Cooperate or I will be compelled to take extreme measures."
Both Jabba's retinue and the accused pirate burst into contemptuous laughter.
"Really," the enormous bandit wheezed, still chuckling, "You and whose army?"
The Hutt overlord himself found this highly amusing. He slapped pudgy hands against his mountainous girth and guffawed in delight. "Choowaga bunkee," he grunted.
His protocol unit hastened to clarify. "The Surpassingly Forbearing Jabba bids you a pleasant afternoon and hopes your journey back to the Core is speedy and comfortable."
Obi-Wan executed a sweeping and facetious bow, and took his leave without further comment.
"Perhaps another time and place, eh?" Uticus called after him. "When you aren't hopelessly outnumbered? I'd like to see what passes for 'extreme measures' by Jedi standards."
Obi-Wan halted upon the arched threshold, turning one last time to address the towering pirate directly. "Consider yourself duly warned," he said, quietly.
The jeers and mockery of Jabba's retainers echoed after him all the way to the front gate.
The door chime rang – a little off key, like it always did, even though Anakin had tried to fix it like a bazillion times – and then more or less rattled off its fixture as the door itself was thrust unceremoniously open.
"Hey!" the underage shopkeeper hollered at the newcomer. "Watch it!" he hurried round from a pile of fan blades he was cleaning – you had to keep your filters clear or sand got everywhere in no time flat – only to come up short at the sight of a hulking Gamorrean and his two Klatooinian comrades standing in the cluttered entryway. "Uh…. Can I help you?"
The snout-faced leader of this threatening trio wrinkled his prodigious nose and demanded Watto's whereabouts.
"Uh…." Anakin wasn't stupid, and he knew an enforcer when he saw one. He scuttled round to the other side of the counter, even though it wasn't much protection, and licked his lips. Watto was almost certainly out at the cantina getting choobazzi plastered, like he did nowadays quite a lot, but he wasn't about to tell these guys that. "He went on an errand."
"When's he coming back?" one of the scar-faced Klatooinians rumbled.
"I dunno."
A pile of spare parts went crashing to the floor, bits and pieces rolling beneath shelves and storage units. The Gamorrean snickered. "Try to remember."
There was only one group of people in Mos Espa for whom Jabba's enforcers might feel a modicum of respect – and that would be the loan sharks and bookies who would be in town for the big event day after tomorrow. Shmi always said that there was a kind of honor among thieves, or at least professional courtesy, enough to ensure that one set of crooks wouldn't directly step on the toes of another. "Um… I guess he went to make a bet on the races," he improvised, with a regretful shrug.
The henchmen exchanged an aggrieved look. The other Klatooinian – this one heavyset, dour-faced, with jagged protrusions decorating his skull – leaned far over the counter, yellow eyes glinting. "Pass on a message to your boss," he rasped, displaying ill-kempt teeth . "He owes Jabba a lot of moolasa. We're gonna give him a break, on account of it's almost Boonta… but if he don't; pay up right after the races, we'll be back. And we'll liquidate all his stock."
Anakin thrust his lower lip out and held the scoundrel's stare without blinking . Stupid wermo, he wasn't scared.
"All his stock," the Klatooinian repeated, licking his lips. His eyes widened, meaningfully. "Make sure you tell him."
Yeah, right, sleemo. Anakin squinted and held his ground, but the threesome merely laughed at him and bumbled their way out the door, making sure to knock over a few more displays on the way out.
Only when they had departed did he allow the implications of the threat to sink in. Slaves were stock. He was stock. Shmi was stock. And he had a fairly good idea what liquidate meant. His pulse ratcheted up a notch, a burning river starting to run molten in his veins. Nobody was gonna hurt his mom, not because of some stupid debt that Watto owed because of his stupid gambling and stupid business deals. Nobody was going to kill Shmi to teach Watto a badly deserved lesson. Anakin would kill them first. He clenched his fists, wishing he had…. Something. A weapon. Skills. Bigger fists, even.
And then he remembered.
He had something better than all those – he had a Jedi for a friend.
He closed the shop early, even though Watto would skin him alive if he found out, and rushed into the dusty byways to find Mister Qui-Gon. He would know what to do.
The slaughtered eopie carcasses roasted in the late-day sun, sending up incense trails of smoldering flesh, dried blood and spilled entrails. Carrion circled on high, mourning the dead, heralding the supremacy of destruction. The twin suns sank in obeisance upon the far hills, bowing before their lord, the rising night.
The Watcher looked impassively upon his handiwork, the sprawled limbs and severed heads, the artistic grotesquerie of his making. It was nothing but a child's bauble, a petty scrawl upon the blank tablet of this desert world… but it would stand as enticement and summons to other, greater, victims. The altar, strewn with firstblood, now called for greater and greater sacrifice, and the laws of the Dark dictated that such would come, in due measure and time.
He did not have to wait long. Even as the suns dipped below the distant sculptured horizon, the winged things on high fled, and the purpling dusk was cloven by a curdling cry – the krayt lizard's hunting call. Before the monster's sinuous form appeared above the last ridge, he felt it: hungry, malicious, powerful. Legendary. And drawn inexorably into this, the embrace of oblivion.
It would not be the first to die. Nor the last.
He smiled, and Waited.