The Phantom Menace Read Free

his head and body, giving him a comical appearance. He was angry, but Anakin had seen him angry before and knew what to expect. He did not cringe or bow his head in submission; he stood his ground and took his scolding unflinchingly. He was a slave and Watto was his master. Scoldings were part of life. Besides, Watto would wind down shortly now, his anger released in a manner that would satisfy his need to cast blame in a direction other than his own, and things would go back to normal.
    All three fingers of Watto’s right hand pointed at the boy. “I shouldn’t let you drive for me anymore! That’s what I should do! I should find another driver!”
    “I think that is a very good idea,” Shmi agreed.
    Anakin’s mother had been standing to one side, not saying anything during the whole of Watto’s diatribe, but now she was quick to take advantage of a suggestion she would have made herself, if asked.
    Watto wheeled on her, spinning violently, wings whirring, and flew to confront her. But her calm, steady gaze brought him up short, pinning him in the air midway between mother and son.
    “It’s too dangerous in any case,” she continued reasonably. “He’s only a boy.”
    Watto was immediately defensive. “He’s my boy, my property, and he’ll do what I want him to do!”
    “Exactly.” Shmi’s dark eyes stared out of her worn, lined face with resolution. “Which is why he won’t race anymore if you don’t want him to. Isn’t that what you just said?”
    Watto seemed confused by this. He worked his mouth and trunklike nose in a rooting manner, but no words would come out. Anakin watched his mother appreciatively. Her lank, dark hair was beginning to gray, and her once graceful movements had slowed. But he thought she was beautiful and brave. He thought she was perfect.
    Watto advanced on her another few centimeters, then stopped once more. Shmi held herself erect in the same way that Anakin did, refusing to concede anything to her condition. Watto regarded her sourly for a moment more, then spun around and flew at the boy.
    “You will fix everything you ruined, boy!” he snapped, shaking his finger at Anakin. “You will repair the engines and the Pod and make them as good as new! Better than new, in fact! And you’ll start right now! Right this instant. Get out there and get to work!”
    He spun back toward Shmi defiantly. “Still plenty of daylight for a boy to work! Time is money!” He gesturedat first mother and then son. “Get on with it, the both of you! Back to work, back to work!”
    Shmi gave Anakin a warm smile. “Go on, Anakin,” she said softly. “Dinner will be waiting.”
    She turned and went out the door. Watto, after giving Anakin a final withering glance, followed after her. Anakin stood in the shadowed room for a moment, staring at nothing. He was thinking that he shouldn’t have lost the race. Next time—and there would be a next time, if he knew Watto—he wouldn’t.
    Sighing in frustration, he turned and went out the back of the shop into the yard. He was a small boy, even at nine years of age, rather compactly built, with a mop of sandy hair, blue eyes, a pug nose, and an inquisitive stare. He was quick and strong for his age, and he was gifted in ways that constantly surprised those around him. He was already an accomplished driver in the Podraces, something no human of any age had ever been before. He was gifted with building skills that allowed him to put together almost anything. He was useful to Watto in both areas, and Watto was not one to waste a slave’s talent.
    But what no one knew about him except his mother was the way he sensed things. Frequently he sensed them before anyone even knew they would happen. It was like a stirring in the air, a whisper of warning or suggestion that no one else could feel. It had served him well in the Podraces, but it was also there at other times. He had an affinity for recognizing how things were or how they ought to be. He was