Legacy 4
Chapter 16
Torbb led the way, enormous boots padding soundlessly down the primordial corridors of the subterranean network, sometimes crouching, often enough squeezing through narrow segues or gaps on hands and knees, once or twice cursing beneath her breath as a particularly constricting passage proved a challenge to her generously-proportioned frame.
"Fierfek," she gasped, wriggling through the last needle's eye aperture between two echoing vaults. "I swear this'll cost me a busted rib."
Obi-Wan slipped through the claustrophobic opening with relative ease, smiling a little at his companion's frustration. "Size matters not," he issued the inevitable pert reminder.
Torbb made a rude hand gesture at him and forged onward.
The final gateway was a low arch. Ducking beneath this portal, they found themselves in the tabernacle of wonders: ageless stalactites hung poised above the black and glossy pool, a vague mineral phosphor glinting like buried starlight in the sacred water's shallows. The cave rose in a stately dome above this precious reservoir; stark line figures adorned the walls, white and red, ochre and gold, millennia old sentinels over the treasure hoard.
The newcomer gazed round in astonishment, eyes wide in the gloom. "By the Force…"
Torbb grunted in agreement. "The Jawas were irate when they discovered this place had been defiled. You can imagine why, seeing it."
Obi-Wan nodded. "I'm surprised tomb raiders haven't already found it… on a world like this, water is liquid aurodium."
"Nobody knows it exists… except apparently Uticus." She skirted round the pool's rime-hardened edge, and pointed into the adjacent cellar-chamber, where pirate booty remained stacked in neat rows, palettes and crates marked with shipping labels, some affixed with code-locks. "He or one of his associates may have stumbled upon it, or wrested its location from an unfortunate victim."
Obi-Wan crouched among the stockpiled goods, squinting at the manifests. "These hail from all over the Rims… many bear Republic shipping codes, though. He's playing a dangerous game, selling so much stolen merchandise. Even this far out."
Torbb joined him, taking inventory of the pirates' loot. "Hence the black market for select buyers. The Hutts must pre-qualify those invited. It's an elite market, and one guaranteed not to ask questions. They'll be coming soon to pick this up. Auction starts after that star-forsaken race."
They returned to the larger cave and sat upon a jutting rock shelf near the black water's edge. Not a breath stirred beneath the stony vault overhead; the Force itself resonated on a single, unwavering note of expectation.
"Everything is ready… with our back up?" the younger Knight inquired.
"Ready as we are," Torbb replied. She crossed both arms over her impressive bosom. "I must thank you once more for accompanying me on this mission. There was no need for you to risk the Council's displeasure on my account."
"I felt it was right," he shrugged. Mutual respect for the other's privacy had been the foundation of their unlikely friendship, and yet – here, now, as they waited to ambush a brigand and his cutthroat accomplices, a certain intimacy seemed to encircle them. He hesitated, then plunged ahead. "You said before that … it was complicated."
His reticent comrade merely grunted her acknowledgement, leaving him to make the next move.
"I met Uticus," he pressed, boldly. "There is… a striking resemblance."
Torbb's ebony topknot swished gently as she turned her face away. "We share a homeworld," she offered. "My people are… recognizable."
A faint ripple appeared upon the pool's obsidian surface, the last echo of a stirring created by their breath. Obi-Wan frowned. "You know him."
"I knew him when he was no more than a petty theif, a highwayman who tormented those more unjust than himself. The Trade Federation suffered at his hands, and the corrupt minions of our native government. I warned him then – not to trespass any further." The imposing Knight released a regretful sigh. "He did not heed the warning."
"Others could have hunted him down."
But Torbb shook her head, obstinately. "It must be me."
"You feel responsible."
"…It is complicated. As I told you."
Having come full circle, they lapsed into silence once more, attentive to the slightest stirring within the Force's quiet susurration. The cave held them clasped in granite-hewn hands, delicately contained within its dark bounds. The pool shimmered beneath its time-carved roof; minutes stretched into measureless spans of patience, waiting… waiting…
And then…
Torbb's chin lifted, as a hound scenting its quarry. "They are coming."
Cliegg Lars clasped Shmi against his chest, reveling in the soft solidity of her, the feel of her arms beneath his hands, the ridge of her spine beneath the coarse woven fiber. She was too bony for his taste; underfed and hammered thin by a life of worry, of continual labor. He would fix that for her, if he could . If his luck held. But at the moment there was no thought of the future in his mind: SHmi was weeping against his shoulder, pouring out the troubles of a heart too long dammed against such weakness.
"Oh, I die, I die even thinking about it. Oh Cliegg…. My Ani – out there on that desert, the race – how can he even think ? I can't bear it. Why would he do this?"
The moisture farmer petted and soothed and spoke meaningless promises into her ear, until the sobbing subsided and she merely clung to him, a kind of despair anchoring her in place against her last refuge.
"He's a remarkable boy, mii'ska, a wonderful boy. I don't know… but if any human can do it, surely it's your Anakin." Though, he privately admitted, the fatality rate for podracing was close to thirty percent, by the most accurate reckoning. He had not considered this before, in the flush of his first enthusiasm. When he'd placed the fateful bet, the wager on which all their happiness relied, he had not dared think of the risk, the alternative.
He was a fool. Love made men this way: it blinded them, goaded them to absurd undertakings, duped them with impossible promises, dreams and ambitions, the siren call of the miraculous, the heroic. Anakin was no different, with his reckless desire to race and win, to beat the odds, to save his mother and himself from their inexorable fate. He was a man, too, albeit a very small one – and love made him foolish. "I'm sorry," he muttered into Shmi's curling dark tresses. "So sorry."
Thankfully, he did not ask. He would confess all, later. When they were safely back…. His imagination placed the happy reunion in his own farm house, around a table groaning with good, hot food, the humble plenty he could provide, the security of home, of family, of permanence and partnership. Shaking his head, he dispelled the fond illusion. That way madness lay.
"Why, why would Watto do this?" Shmi lamented. "He doesn't care for Anakins' safety, only for his accursed money!"
Lars sighed. If only the dichotomy were so simple, if only one could be free or endangered, safe or enslaved. Life was full of cruel dilemmas, places where the unwitting could be caught between the bantha's horns. "It wil be all right," he asserted, with all the confidence he could muster.
It had to be.
Anakin checked over his routers, intakes, thruster boost array, magneto clamps, stabilizer, and repulsor platform for the fifth time. Everything checked out, no missing parts or clipped wires, no fused circuits or loose bits. He slammed the last access panel shut and patted his creation on its not-quite-gleaming, hastily welded flank. Seemed a pity that his racer had no name, like the Comet Chaser or the Nebula VI, or even the Togo-Typhoon over across the hangar. He didn't have proper corporate sponsorship either, or a fancy flag to go with his colors. It was merblatzu, but there was nothing he could do about it.
After the Boonta Eve Classic, everybody would know that this pod was the Fastest Ever Built, and that it was jockeyed by him, Anakin Skywalker, youngest podracing champion in the galaxy. And maybe then he would give his machine a proper moniker. Something fitting its lofty place in the hierarchy of existence, a title fit for a solar chariot. What was the fastest thing in the universe, he wondered?
"Daybreak," he murmured, stroking the pod's featherweight hull again. The Daybreaker. That had potential.
"Whatcha gonna name it?" Kitster demanded, as though reading his thought.
"I dunno… Daybreaker?"
His friend's face rumpled in dubiety. "That's kinda funny," he said. "I mean, it sounds like you're gonna crash or something."
Anakin's temper flared. "Yeah, well better'n naming it something slow… like the Kitster Coupe."
"Whatever. You should call it Ani's Fanny, 'cause you're gonna get your butt kicked today," his companion snapped.
"No I'm not!" the aspiring champion hollered.
"You're stupid, Ani! You're bugsquat! Why'd'ya want to go out there anyway?" Kitster demanded, passion overriding his prudence."You're gonnna get creamed, and then I won't have anybody!"
"Ya chooto, booki," an oily voice reprimanded them. They whirled on the spot, to see Sebulba the Dug ambling past on his splayed hands. The Dug's double articulated feet dangled at shoulder height, digits wriggling mishceivously.
"Yeah? You keep it down, sleemo!" Anakin retorted, annoyance readily transferring to this new object.
One foot waggled in his face as the Dug's eyes slatted into malicious crescents. "Cooma wah shugawa yolo," he sneered, twirling a drooping mustachio between two toes. "Gleeba, scug."
Anakin launched himself bodily at his detractor, but was caught in mid-lunge by a pair of very strong arms.
"Hey! Lemme….. arrrrghrhrhhh! Oh. Uh… Mister Qui-Gon, sir."
Kitster turned tail and fled; Sebulba snickered heartily and went on his way, followed by his sycophantic retinue. Anakin deflated, staring up into the Jedi master's craggy face with anger still smoldering truculently in arctic blue eyes. "He called me a scug."
Qui-Gon was unimpressed. "I have endured far worse insults, " he replied. "On less provocation. Because another being says a thing, it is not thereby rendered true."
"Yeah, but –"
The tall man crouched down, resting on his haunches. From this position, he could look the child directly in the face. "Anakin. This race poses great risk to your life. I want you to promise me something."
"I'm gonna win!" the boy insisted.
He held up a hand. "You do not owe Watto any such loyalty. Complete the course, but stay well back from the main competitors. No life is worth throwing away upon such a trivial undertaking. Promise me you will stay out of the pack and complete the circuits safely. That is all that is required."
If he had hoped for a show of deference, or an obedient "yes, master", he had much still to learn. Anakin's peculiar aura in the Force sparked with infant starfire.
"I need to win," he objected. "I've gotta win, Mister Qui-Gon. I'm gonna free Mom."
Qui-Gon touched the boy's shoulder. "Listen to me. There are other ways to achieve this end. I will help you ; do you trust me?"
"Yes." A frown. "Well, mostly. No offense."
The tall man sighed. "Anakin. You must listen to me. There are other ways to secure your freedom, and that of your mother."
"No!" his small companion roared. "It has to be me! I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna save her and free us! I'm gonna win the race!"
The Jedi master stood, towering over the recalcitrant boy. The Force was turgid, fraught with danger and disturbance far in excess of what this savage race merited. He scowled, reaching out with his senses, searching for… clarity.
But none came. "Promise me," he repeated.
"Okay," Anakin capitulated, with a sullen shrug. "I'll keep away from the pack."
"Better... And Dayrunner would make a fine name for your pod. I once won five thousand credits wagering on a Malastarian pod by that name."
When the imposing Jedi had disappeared into the eager crowds, his head and shoulders visible above most the milling spectators, Anakin signaled his crew of refurbished pit droids and tucked his battered crash helmet under one arm. He would keep his word, and stay well away from the dangerous crowd of main contenders in the race, especially Sebulba. He would do as the Jedi wished, and stay safe.
… way out in front, where nobody could touch him.
He was gonna win this race. He would win the championship, the fame, the glory, his freedom and his mother's happiness.
Today, he was going to win everything.
Author's Note: thus far, astoundingly, the vote stands equally divided among those who wish to Chop the Mop and those who wish to preserve its glorious integrity. Dooku, Mace, Feld, Qui-Gon, Bant, Torbb and eleven vocal readers desire to see a trim; while Siri(x3), Ben To, Garen, Zhoa, and another eleven readers stand in favor of a status quo. Two remain undecided, or open to either possibility. And so, we find ourselves in need of a swing vote. Jar Jar Binks, where are you? The fate of the galaxy rests in your fumbling hands... or those of the next intrepid reviewer to pronounce upon this gravest of aesthetical dilemmas.