I'm a Person and My Name is...

The boy woke, his dream interrupted.  He had been flying an X-wing, just like Luke Skywalker does.  Whizzing through space at speeds beyond what the boy had ever known he had taken down enemy ships.  But then he’d woken up.

The ground was dirty and cold.  He had slid off his small pillow.  The boy wiped his mouth.  Dust, sticky with saliva, clung to his bare, green wrist.  The faint orange sunlight coming through the windows told him it was almost time to begin.  If he got up early, he could avoid the humiliation of the alarms.

He stood, wobbly on his sleepy feet, and threw his blanket over his shoulder.  He picked up his pillow and brought it to his locker, bare feet tapping the metal floor.  He held it upside-down in the locker, watching his clothes fall out.  Picking them up, he stepped into the leggings and pulled the brown shirt over his body.  It was beginning to get tight.  If the boy took the time to stretch it out, it may last him another few months.  He knew he was nearing his growth period, but the Masters would be unwilling to buy him anything new.  The longer he could make his clothes last, the better.

Taking out his shoes, he closed his locker.  Well, the lockers never really closed.  But no one came into these rooms except other slaves.  And the alarms, he thought.

The boy sat by the door, cherishing the few moments he had before his work began.  He thought of the Story.  Luke Skywalker had destroyed Darth Vader and fought the Empire.  Now, Luke Skywalker went from planet to planet, spreading the news of the end of the Empire, slicing down bad guys with his lightsaber.  Bad guys like the Masters.

The door opened with a rphhyn.  The alarms came in, sound blaring from their bodies.  Modified mouse droids, they prodded the slaves awake, making any delay extremely uncomfortable.  The chaos of the noise and the rush to get up and go made the alarms a terrible way to begin the day.  The boy was grateful he had woken early.  With his bug-eyes, naturally strong at seeing movement, it was downright dizzying.  When the had door opened, he had quickly slid out and made his way to the mess hall.

After finding a seat, a Master walked up and put a bowl in front of him.  His face was a scowl, framed by long, grey sideburns.  “Eat up,” the Master said, not looking down.  “It’s a fine day for a race.  Do well.”  It was not an encouragement, but a command.

The boy had been a jockey all his miserable life.  Though often promised victory would lead to his freedom, he soon discovered this was untrue.  However, he had also developed a love of racing.  The boy enjoyed his imprisonment, and that hollowed him out.

The bowl had cold beans.  They were never good.  Sometimes the boy had been given food that tasted good, sometimes even hot.  That was rare.  But maybe if he won today…

He picked the bowl up and licked the edges.  As a Rodian, he found it easy to eat every morsel.  The other slaves had to wipe their bowls with their hands to get every last bit.  And they always had dirt on their hands.  All of them always had dirt everywhere.

After finishing, the boy got down from his bench.  The boy brought his bowl to the droid standing at the wall.  “Take it,” he commanded.  The droid did.  The boy enjoyed this brief glimpse of power.  He relished the moments when he could give commands.  He often thanked the Force he wasn’t a droid.

The boy walked quickly to the exit.  He had much work to do today before his race, and he liked spending time with his Fathier before the race.  He noticed a different Master standing by the door, glaring at the slaves as they went by.  The boy forced his snout into what he had learned the Masters accepted as a smile.  Once safely in the corridor, he let his snout relax.

The boy arrived at the service lift and took it down.  The residences were mostly on the lower levels.  The upper levels of Canto Bight were for the casino floors and audience chambers and cantinas.  Only the most wealthy lived with a view on the top levels.  They hand-picked their slaves, and it was said they were treated better, but who knew?  No one who got promoted ever returned.

The lift opened to the service corridor.  The walls were a sickly brown, and in places they were incomplete, with wiring visible.  The boy walked down the hall until he arrived at the first residence he was to clean that day.  He knocked on the door.  Silence.  He knocked again.  Silence.  He opened the door, which led to a dirty mud room.  He walked until he stood at a deep red curtain that separated the service entrance from the rest of the residence.  He took a deep breath, and politely called out “Hello?”  Silence.

He got to work.

He took off his shoes and rolled up his sleeves.  He checked his leggings to ensure they weren’t dragging on the floor.  Turning around, he retrieved a broom, a pale pink bucket, an aging sponge, and a small bottle of cleaner.  He pulled the curtain to the right and walked into the living room.

He’d seen it too much to be dazzled by it.  The bright colors, soft couches, and the trickling of the fountain only reminded him of work.  He walked toward the main door, unfazed by the table made from a boulder found on one of Naboo's beaches.  He pressed a green button that said “Service.”  A counter began on the door, and he knew it displayed also into the ornate hallway on the other side.  The counter prevented the Masters from walking in while he worked.  Slaves should be neither seen nor heard.

The boy began whistling.  He found it made the time more bearable, even if the work remained tedious.  Rodians are able to whistle three notes at once, if they practice.  The boy had practiced a lot.  He often whistled for the other slaves during the Tellings.

The boy began in the washing room.  It was his least favorite work, so he had trained himself to do it first, when he had the most energy.  He picked up the cleaner and opened the bottle.  He poured a bit of the yellow goo into the bucket, and set the bucket under the faucet.  He turned the faucet on and let it go until the bucket was about half full.

He plunged his sponge into the bucket.  The warm water felt good on his green hands.  He took the sponge out and began to wash the basin of the tub.  The material to make it had been extracted from Dantooine – a faraway place the boy had no need for.  The rock of those rainforests makes them exquisite for bathing tubs; They shimmer as water slips down them.  For the material his Master had paid a fortune.

The boy whistled a song he had come to associate with Luke Skywalker.  A jolly tune that occasionally turned harsh.  The boy pictured Luke Skywalker wandering the galaxy with a smile, turning grim only when he found evil.  The harsher tune required all of the boy’s skill, and it had taken him much time to conquer it.  It brought his friends great joy during their time together, and uplifted the Tellings of the Story.

He thought of Luke Skywalker, who had been a slave like him, rising up and slaughtering his own Master, Darth Vader, the violence a righteous turn of fate.  His heart lightened at the thought, but then he buried down his joy.  Luke took no pleasure in victory.  Born a a Jedi, he knew no emotions, only duty.  The boy wished he had been born a Jedi, too.

The tub was scrubbed.  The boy tipped the bucket over and watched the water circle down the drain.  He enjoyed watching the rock shimmer, and he wondered if Dantooine’s slaves had been freed yet.

The boy took the bucket from the tub and, turning it over, placed it in front of the sink.  It was out of his reach, but it required cleaning all the same.  The Masters had beaten him badly the first time he came, when he hadn’t cleaned it.  He hadn’t meant to skip it.  But he was so short back then it hardly looked like a sink at all, just a purple column in the washroom.  He certainly didn’t know it was made of Rhyfuian metal, a rare material even in the core systems.  But he’d never forget it now.

He stepped up onto the bucket.  It shivered, and he stopped whistling to steady himself.  His growth period was supposed to make him taller, but so far he had only become heavier.  At some point he feared he’d become too heavy for the bucket but still too short for the sink.  But there was nothing he could do, so why worry?

After washing the sink, the boy placed the bucket back in the tub and filled it again with cleaner and water.  Then he wet the sponge and knelt to begin washing the floor.  Back and forth he went, scrubbing each tile.  That each tile had been carefully mined from the Graveyard of Alderaan mattered little to him.  He only knew their porous nature made them very susceptible to grime.

By the time he was done his knees hurt and his shoulders ached.  He walked carefully out of the washroom, not wishing to undo his hard work with his bare feet.  The rest of the residence lay before him, but at least he could be dry.

When the boy was finished, he pressed the service button again, brought his supplies back into the mudroom, pulled the curtain back, put his shoes back on, and left.  On to the next one.

***

The boy was grateful for lunch that day.  Still cold beans, but at least he was able to sit.  He had cleaned half a dozen residences.  Sitting with the other slaves, all he wanted to do was talk about Luke Skywalker and guess how close he was to Canto Bight.  But the Masters watched over them, so he said nothing.  They kept the Tellings to the nighttime, in the brief time they had between being herded into the sleeping room and the patrol coming to check on them.

Though he ate in silence – some of the others talked, but all that conversation was meaningless; Just a way to pass the time – the boy remained observant, waiting.  Whenever he saw movement at the entrance he turned his head to get a better look.  It took a long time until she came.

When that girl walked in he sat up a bit straighter, though he couldn’t have explained why.  That girl had had an effect on him for a few months, now.  Her fur had become grimy, but every now and then she had been able to wash it, and it shone white like the clouds.

They talked sometimes, and when he could he liked to sleep near her.  She told him, through stuttering Basic, that she admired his whistling.  Though she could whistle, too, her Talzian tongue strongly limited the types of notes she could handle.  They would giggle at her failed attempts.

A finely dressed Master walked up to him.  He had a broad head and his ears protruded from each side like a Bith horn.  “You should be finished now.”  He took the bowl of beans and handed it to the droid standing next to them.  “It is time to race.  I hope you are quicker at that than at eating today.”  The Master took his hand roughly and would have dragged the boy if he had not gotten his legs under him.  Still, the tall Master held his hand high and the boy found he needed to walk on his toes walk at all.

The boy was brought to the stable.  He heard the door (made from carved wood from the Yavin system) behind him latch shut.  The boy went into the closet and retrieved the broom.  He then walked to the far end of the stable, and began sweeping the stray green and yellow grain stalks back into the fathier stalls.

The stalls were large enough for the fathiers to walk around in, and each fathier got their own stall.  They had walls held up off the ground in order to keep the smell of manure from rising.

As he passed the door to each stall, he entered to check for any droppings.  When he saw some, the boy took some stalks and covered it as best he could, then he picked it up and threw it out the window.  This was the worst part of the stables.  When he bent down to pick it up, his snout filled up with the smell, and it sometimes made him sick.  He had learned long ago the stalks didn’t pick up his sick nearly as well as the manure.

He entered a stall near the entrance.  My fathier.  The boy liked owning, or at least pretending to own, something else.  But he never treated it as the Masters treated him.  The boy had a relationship with it.  They knew each other.  If ever he was seated on a different fathier for a race, he knew for sure that he’d know the difference.  He hoped his fathier would know, too.

His fathier was taller than other fathiers.  Most fathiers had legs as tall as him, but his fathier’s were so long he could walk under the body and his antennae would only brush the underside.  His fathier also had a wider neck, and droopier ears.  The flat snout, however, was the same, as was the row of teeth that showed as its brown lips of the flapped in the wind during a race.

The boy patted his fathier., which bent down to nuzzle him.  Then his fathier sat on the ground, legs curled under.  “Oh, alright,” the boy said, amused to act put out.  He went to a corner of the stall and found his secret brush.  No one knew about this brush.  The boy was convinced the brush helped his fathier run faster.  While most fathier jockeys beat their mounts, the boy would never.

The boy began to brush his fathier, whistling softly.  His fathier’s ears perked up to catch every note.  The fathier let out a whistle of its own, a low hum that vibrated its whole hide.  The boy continued to brush.

When the boy was finished, he wrapped his arms around his fathier’s neck, and whispered “Let’s win together!”  He had said that once and his fathier had won the race that day by several lengths.  Since then, the boy always said it before a race - when he remembered.

Putting the comb back, the boy spotted a dropping.  He bent down to get it.  Somehow, his fathier’s droppings didn’t smell as bad.  The boy went to the window to toss it.  Then the boy picked up his broom and went back to sweeping the stable floor.

When the boy was finished he knocked on the door.  A tall Master opened the door, but blocked the way out.  Her eyes were sunk into her blue face, and her fingers were long.  She stared intently inside the stable.  The boy smiled the best he could as he awaited her judgement.  Satisfied by what she saw, she moved out of the way.  The boy walked down the hall, to the lower level, where he would prepare for the race.

***

His helmet was too loose.  The saddle was too tight.  Everything was normal as the boy waited for the race to begin.

Cerulean arena was full.  Though created for the podracing circuit, the population of Canto Bight was impatient and wanted more races.  They had ordered the capture of the native fathiers, who were then broken and bred for speed.

Atop the starting line were three lights, all off.  The boy held his reins loosely, and whistled to his fathier.  He whistled the same tune he did when he was brushing him.  He felt his fathier crouch, ready for the call to spring.  Around him, the other jockeys held glowing batons.

A metallic sound echoed in the distance.  The first light went on.

The boy gave a sharp whistle and they were off.  Around him he heard batons striking hides, and beastly braying in response.  After their initial burst the other fathiers sped ahead of him.  The boy held himself closely to his fathier, whistling and petting him, and his fathier found a steady pace.  They had raced this track many times before, and knew it well.  He went to the left lane, where the ground was flat.

The brown dirt path eventually curved to the left.  The boy leaned gently on his fathier’s neck to guide it.  Here the ground was flattest in the center, but that’s where everyone else was, and the dust was flying.  The boy instead guided his fathier to a boulder that stuck from the ground.  His fathier ran up the incline, and as it reached the top he whistled shrilly, and the fathier leaped off.

The boy heard a cheer from the crowd and that excited him greatly.  But he knew the only thing he’d be rewarded for was winning.

The fathier landed on the sloping ground.  The boy whistled quick, sharp notes again and again, urging it onward.  This was where the most ground could be gained.  Below him, his fathier’s legs pounded the dirt, generating more and more speed.  To the boy, the world had become a blur of motion.  Fortunately, he had the track memorized.  He closed his eyes.

This was his favorite part.  It was said Luke Skywalker had done something similar when he destroyed the Death Star.  They said the Death Star was an invincible battle station where the Masters had lived, enslaving entire planets at once.  But Luke Skywalker had used his Jedi powers to find its weakness, and he destroyed it with a single blast of his starfighter - and with his eyes closed!  The boy relished the opportunity to mirror him.

The boy’s whistling changed as the hill leveled off, and the fathier slowed down.  Opening his eyes, the boy guided his fathier past a few stumbling rivals.  Adjusting to the flat track was difficult without a change of speed.  While others tried to get their fathiers to win by going the fastest at all times, the boy had learned pacing.

The track entered a tunnel, full of wide turns.  The boy maneuvered his fathier through them, and prepared for the obstacles.  In podracing the sport’s great speed suddenly became a liability.  The turns here would challenge any pilot.  But on a fathier they were less demanding.  To compensate, rocks were strewn about, and pipes dangled from the ceiling.  Memorization was impossible.  The obstacles were reset between laps.

The boy noticed ahead of him a large press of competitors, all jostling together.  He slowed down his fathier, letting them get a lead on him.  As he and his fathier went around the obstacles, he heard cries and crashes ahead of him.  At the fourth turn he saw three fathiers by the wall, their jockeys shouting and cursing from the floor, disqualified.

Leaving the tunnel, the boy turned left.  The podrace track extended straight, but of course a fathier would collapse after running three laps of a podrace, and take almost all day.  The fathier track had thus been altered, in order to be more manageable (and watchable).  The Masters had invested a lot into their fathiers and had no profit in seeing them die.

Instead, the boy went up a ferrocrete slope into a very tight space.  His fathier needed to keep its head low to avoiding hitting the ceiling.  After a brief spurt the ceiling opened, and they were running a path cut alongside the podracer pit road.  Though straight, this path widened and narrowed regularly.

Soon the path opened again to the main track, though the turn was exceedingly sharp.  The boy had long ago learned to anticipate it.  He guided his fathier to the right, and they followed the wall.  The path narrowed before it rejoined the main track.  Following the wall allowed him to make the turn more manageable, though he cut across the main thoroughfare to do it.  As they reached the merge, the boy saw two racers coming up through the middle.  He whistled shrilly, and his fathier leapt into the air.  Another cheer from the crowd.  The fathier landed gracefully, and the boy took a lane close to the inside track which he knew was flat.  He followed the turn.

They were back where they had started.  Ahead of him he still saw a dozen racers.  The crowd roared.  The second light above the track flashed on.  The second lap had begun.  Plenty of time, he thought.

Far above, the Masters watched intently.  Not the race – they had long ago bored of the event - but the faces of visiting investors.  Developing new weapons was not cheap, and as long as the First Order challenged the Republic, there were revenue streams to cash in on and markets to corner.

Most of the galaxy had become enamored with podracing, which made fathier racing an oddity only to be found on Canto Bight.  It made the planet seem quaint.  A show of natural speed.  A true gentlebeing’s sport.  Not like the old gladiator battles.  Here, any death was incidental.

Funding war was like that, thought the Master with the big head and protruding ears.  If there was no conflict, the market would dry up, and he’d be in a different business.  But there had been conflict for as long as anyone could recall, and the desire to obliterate one’s enemies was seemingly insatiable.  If they didn’t profit from it, someone else would.

The Clone Wars, of course, had significantly ramped up profit potential, and buyers from all sides came pouring in.  It had been a golden age of war machines.  Endless droid starfighter production provided a steady base income with which to fund new development.  The Republic needed armor for their clone army, gunships for quick insertion, and huge warships capable of carrying those gunships from system to system.  After the Battle of Geonosis, purchasing ramped up again, as each side struggled to recover from their losses.  Profits increased further.  What had been a steady business had turned into an investor’s paradise.  More begat more.

Canto Bight benefitted especially from the influx of cash, and those looking for a safe place for their nest egg came to the Masters, who overawed them with fathier races, miles of shoreline, and gambling.

When the separatists were defeated, many worried the market would collapse.  But the Empire bought weapons in spite of the peace.  TIE fighters replaced droid starfighters as the income base, and they funded the development of X-wings and Y-wings for the rising Rebellion.  Those sales allowed the development of TIE bombers and TIE Interceptors, which in turn enabled the funding of A-wings and B-wings.  Two Death Stars in a single generation spiked profits beyond belief.  While the galaxy suffered, Canto Bight prospered.

After the destruction of the second Death Star, the market again faced a collapse.  Unlike the Empire the new Republic was not interested in continuing to buy weapons.  But Canto Bight had grown fat off the conflict and was loathe to see it end.

A plan was hatched to assist the scattered remnants of the Empire.  Warlords were located and funded.  Misinformation twisted the Republic’s promise of amnesty.  Soon the old Empire coalesced into the First Order.   The civil war began anew, and the profits were saved.

Far below, the race entered the third and final lap.  The boy was in fourth, and his stomach rumbled.  He saw his three remaining opponents in front of him, all scattered on the track.  He was determined to get that hot food today.  He whistled quick, fast notes to his fathier, and it increased its pace.  Through the straightaway, turning left, onto the boulder and then with shrill whistle it bounded downward.  The boy whistled again and his fathier began to slow down as the slope ended.  The tunnel would be his best opportunity at passing them.  He would need to maintain close control of his fathier.

The ground levelled off as he entered the tunnel on the heels, but to the left, of one racer.  The boy saw a pipe dangling from above, in front of the other racer.  He shouted and the other jockey turned.  The boy tried to point with one hand, but it all happened too fast.  He heard a cry and a clunk as the jockey hit the pipe with sickening speed.  Stay focused.  Be sad later.  The boy had seen worse accidents.

The tunnel began to turn, and the debris had increased dramatically.  The boy might have run into trouble, but his fathier was able to leap over debris when the way was blocked.  Suddenly the road opened and the boy saw his next opponent going up the detour route.  He turned his fathier quickly and found a steady pace for the incline.

Through the low-ceilinged hallway they went until at last they emerged parallel to the pit route.  He saw his final two opponents running along the right wall.  He was not the only one who knew that trick. Still, his fathier hadn’t yet reached peak speed.  He urged his fathier on, faster and faster.  He passed one opponent, then another, and then he was in first!  The crowd roared in excitement as the final turn was fast approaching.

Too fast.  He knew his worth.  The Masters had killed for less.  He couldn’t risk injury to his fathier by taking such a sharp turn at such a speed.  As he approached the opening, he whistled to his fathier to slow down.  He’d lose the race, but keep his life.  He didn’t have to win them all.

The boy heard a cacophony behind him.  The one in back had been attempting to slingshot around the one in front, their movement limited by the curving wall.  In response, the one in front hit his fathier again to speed it up.  They were both exiting the path at top speed.  When the boy’s fathier slowed down, they found themselves suddenly trapped.  In a panic, both urged their fathiers to leap.  But the fathiers were nearing exhaustion, and didn’t listen.

Meanwhile the boy, having achieved a safe pace, turned his fathier toward the finish line.  He was astonished to see neither other racer ahead of him.  Seeing the opportunity, the boy whistled for his fathier to speed up.  He looked behind him and saw the fathiers clearly shrinking in the distance, batons waving wildly.  He had won.  He had won.  He had won.

***

There was no victory ceremony.  The boy was racing for the Masters.  The boy brought his fathier back to its post on the racing level.  Another slave would bring it back to the stable.  The boy petted it gratefully, thinking of the hot food he might get for his win.  “When I see you again, I’ll give you such a good brushing!”  His fathier wheezed a bit, nuzzling him in return.  The boy hoped with all the Force they’d have a week off before the next race.  His fathier needed to recover.  Or, maybe Luke Skywalker would have come by then, and he could race his fathier only when he wanted to.

As the boy turned to leave, he saw the finely-dressed Master with the big ears standing nearby.  “You have won me a great patron.  You deserve something, too, for your efforts.  Come.”

The boy followed the Master into a turbolift, and from there into a room full of celebration.  The ceiling reached high, and was colored red, purple, and blue from  the lights on the walls.  The people parted as they entered, and they walked up to a stage.  The boy’s stomach growled.  This was different.  He just wanted to eat.

“You have all seen this Rodian race one of the fastest times ever recorded at Cerulean track.  What a wonder he and my beast are.”  There was cheering.  The Master raised his hands for quiet.

“Would you believe that just this afternoon I was in doubt of this little investment of mine?  I am incredulous, too.  But so I was.  For, you see, this Rodian hadn’t eaten all of his lunch before he had to prepare for the race.”  The crowd laughed.  “And they are given enough time, I tell you that.”

“So, we shall have another competition.  You,” he turned to the boy, “You have won and deserve to be rewarded.  I will allow you to win again.  How would you like that?”  The boy nodded slowly.  Winning again would be nice, but he had not been rewarded for winning the first time.  Still, he knew not to refuse.

“Then let the game begin!  You shall be given food, and if you are able to eat it in time, you shall be given more food, and we shall give you less time, and on and on until you cannot eat any more.”  The Master turned to the audience, “The boy will have one minute for the first bowl, and we will take off five seconds after each success.  If he manages to eat the twelfth bowl in under five seconds, he shall win, otherwise, he shall lose.  Placing bets on how many bowls he will finish.”

Cries of four and five and eight came from all over.  The boy was overjoyed.  He was being given as much food as he wanted, and all he had to do was eat it?  In the back of his mind he suspected a trick, but his stomach was too excited to allow him to worry.

“Okay!”  The Master said.  Several serving droids had come up on stage when the boy wasn’t looking.  They were carrying bowls that steamed.  That meant they were hot!  The boy’s snout dried up and widened in anticipation.  The Master took one bowl from one of the droids, and beckoned the boy closer to him.  The smell was intoxicating.  “Annnnnnnnnnd, begin!”  The Master turned the bowl upside down.  The food hit the ground with a slop.  While this was unexpected, the boy did not hesitate.  He fell to his hands and knees, slurping it up.

It was some kind of cooked meat mixed with vegetables.  It was the best thing the boy had ever tasted.  His stomach felt warm as it had not in ages.  When he was finished, he looked up.  The man, laughing, let spill another bowl.

There was chanting and laughter all around him, but he was too busy to listen.  He knew they were taunting him, but they were also giving him food.  He’d grown immune to taunts long ago.  Hunger was ever-present.

Another bowl came down.  Warm grain wrapped in soft bread.  Without any teeth to chew, he tore the wrapping over his mouth and let the contents falls in, then he dropped the bread in, too.  He looked up, but the Master shook his head and motioned to the floor.

He had missed quite a bit, and it had scattered.  The boy went forward on his hands and knees to suck up the rest.

Another bowl came, and after that another and another.  The boy was warm like never before, and he wondered if perhaps he was being mocked after all.  Maybe he shouldn’t be too hard on the Masters.  This food wasn’t cheap, he knew.  The Master had called him an investment.  Is it possible they saw value in him, like his fathier?  Was he not just a boy, but their boy?  Another bowl, this one candied berries.  He had never imagined such wonderful tastes.

Nobody else can have this food, their boy thought.  He must tell no one of this kindness.  He had earned this food, and he deserved it.

Something hard hit the stage and bounced slightly.  Their boy ravenously picked it up.  It was softer than it looked – it was melting in his green hands!  He quickly brought it to his snout and slurped it up.  It lacked texture, and his mouth filled not with taste but with scent.  He hoped to dream of this food every night – forever!

Clapping had started around him, and he heard the Master above him, such a kind Master, say “twenty seconds” as he dropped a few small fruits onto the ground.  The crowd was counting in time with their claps.  They’re cheering me on, their boy thought.  He ate the fruits, which were cold, but still flavorful.  When he was finished, a pile of noodles appeared in front of him.  He slurped them up, vaguely aware of the sauce they had been cooked in.

Their boy wished this would last forever.  He’d give up everything for this kind of food and adoration.  He would never share it.  Not even if that girl came and asked.

The crowd shouted “Ten!” as purple chunks fell to the ground and stuck to the stage.  Their boy had to slurp hard to get them into his stomach.  When they were gone, the crowd went silent.  Their boy looked up.  The Master had once again held his hands up for quiet.  Had he won?  For the first time the boy felt the weight of his full stomach.  Maybe he would burst.  He hoped not.  Such a waste of food!

“You have eaten eleven courses in not even seven minutes.  That is quite a show.  But now, for the final round, you will need to eat something worthy of the challenge.”  He lifted a platter, and the boy moved to get his head under it.  “No, no” he tsked.  This is Gelatinous Snail, from the depths of the Naboo core.  Better eaten raw.  Best eaten,” he chuckled, “still wriggling.”  Their boy was enamored. I’m getting the best food?  “You have five seconds to catch it.”

He placed the plate on the ground, and held the lid down.  Their boy squirmed into position, getting his head above the platter.  Suddenly, the Master removed the lid, and the snail was revealed.  It was a delightful red.

“Five!” The crowd shouted.

Their boy pitched his head forward, but only knocked himself on the ground.  The snail had fled.

“Four!”

Their boy lifted his head and felt dizzy.  His vision was a blur.  Then the snail moved and he focused on it.  He dove forward.  The snail escaped his clutching hands.

“Three!”

Their boy pulled himself forward, getting his palm on the other side of the snail.

“Two!”

Cupping it in his hands, he brought it to his snout.  It gave no scent.

“One!”

He slurped loudly, and the snail went inside him.  A burst of heat seemed to envelop him from the inside.  Around him, the crowd cheered and laughed.  Their boy sat up, never feeling prouder.  He had impressed them all.  The Master on the stage pumped his fist.  He had won much.  He shouted something to the crowd, which quickly turned and left the room.  The master went to leave.  Their boy stood up, “Should I come?”  The Master only laughed, before saying “Your curfew is soon.  Better not be late.”  Then he bounded off the stage and ran after the crowd.  The doors closed after him.

***

Their boy was in turmoil as he returned to the slave quarters.  The food filled him beyond what he considered possible, and he felt heavier than ever before.  But that was not the turmoil that truly churned him.

How could he return to his life before, a life of cold beans and lonely stables?  He had earned a place among the Masters.  How could he return?  Their boy knew now he needed to serve the Masters better than ever.  His Masters.  If he was their boy, they were his Masters.  And he would make them proud

Their boy walked by one of his Masters on his way.  He turned his snout into a smile and looked up.  This Master did not even glance at him, and his disdain hurt their boy in a way he had not been hurt before.  This Master, at least, did not see him as their boy.  Their boy would need to do more.

Turning the corner, the boy saw that girl in the hallway.  She was on the ground, looking intently at the wall.  His gut froze.  Suddenly, a tile from the wall came loose.  That girl disappeared into the wall.  The tile was pulled back into place.

Their boy ran to the tile and sat down.  He heard voices.  Words of escape, and of freedom.  Their boy knocked lightly on the tile.  He heard the sharp intake of breath, and the quick patter of feet running away.  The tile shook and fell, clanging onto the metal ground.  He heard voices of panic bouncing through the revealed vent.  Down the hall he heard this Master call out, and the sound of his feet purposefully walking towards him.

Their boy realized his opportunity.  He could tell this Master.  It would be so easy.  He would stand up and point to the hole in the wall.  They would be caught, and he would be rewarded again.  And at night he could continue to sleep near that girl.  Everything would be perfect.

But suddenly it came to their boy, like a bolt of lightning, that Luke Skywalker would never do this.  It was wrong.  Their boy's emotions were pulling him to betray his friends.  He needed to bury his emotions, like a Jedi.

Their boy thought of following them, of joining the escape.  Whatever food he had gotten today he could get again in freedom.  He didn’t need slavery for such comforts.  But he knew it was futile.  If he went through the vent, the tile would still be down, and they would be caught.  But if he couldn’t escape, he could still help.  He could play the role of Luke Skywalker.  Yes, the boy grew bold at this thought.  His mind cleared.

Quickly, the boy picked up the tile and forced it back into place.  It wouldn’t stay.  He turned around and leaned against the wall.  This Master turned the corner and saw him.  The boy pointed further down the hall.  This Master picked up his pace.

When he’d turned, the boy went back to fixing the tile.  Eventually, he managed to force it to stay, at which point he turned around and walked quickly back to the slave quarters.  He knew he could tell no one what he’d done.  Not until the Luke Skywalker came and freed them all.  He hoped the Jedi would be proud of him, but he wasn't sure if that was an emotion.

When the boy entered the sleeping room, the others were already deep into the Telling.  When they noticed him, they waved him over, and encouraged him to whistle as the story reached its climax.  Ambushed on the ice planet of Hoth, Luke Skywalker evacuated all the creatures of that planet away from the Masters.  How they fit in his X-wing, only the Force knows.  But Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight, had found a way.

A Master came to the sleeping quarters and shouted through the door for them to be quiet.  Their story circle broke, and they each found their own sleeping area.  The boy went to his locker to retrieve his blanket and pillow case.  He put his clothes into his pillowcase.  Then he found an empty space - the room was indeed emptier - and laid down to sleep.  The boy hopes to dream of exploding Death Stars tonight.

Copyright ©️ 2020 Maslow Stories

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I consider this story still a draft. I edit it occasionally. If you have any feedback for me, I'd love to hear it! Email me at armaslow@gmail.com. Please put "Star Wars Stories" in the subject line. Thank you!