Then: Water sprays from the Gungan’s flappy ears. Fsssht! As his cheeks shrink, the water comes gushing from each side of Jar Jar’s head.
Mapo can’t help it. He laughs so hard his ribs hurt. Jar Jar doesn’t laugh, but he sits back down, looking as satisfied as anybody can get.
When the boy is finally done, he wipes the tears from his eyes.
Mapo grins. “That was gross.”
Jar Jar gives a thumbs-up.
“Nobody really talks to me,” the boy blurts out.
“Mesa talkin to you!”
“Yeah. I know. For now. And nobody else does. Nobody even wants to look at me.” Mapo doesn’t even feel real, sometimes. Like maybe he’s just a ghost. I don’t even want to look at me.
Jar Jar shrugs. “All-n nobodies talkin to mesa, too.”
“I noticed that. Why don’t they talk to you?”
“My no so sure.” The Gungan makes a hmm sound. “Mesa thinkin it cause-o Jar Jar makin some uh-oh mistakens. Big mistakens. Der Gunga bosses banished me longo ago. Mesa no been to home in for-ebbers. And desa hisen Naboo tink I help the uh-oh Empire.” For a moment, the Gungan looks sad. Staring off at an unfixed point. He shrugs. “My no know.” Though Mapo wonders if he knows more than he’s saying.
“I don’t think you helped the Empire.” Mapo says that without being sure of anything, but he doesn’t get the feeling this strange fellow would’ve done anything like that. Not on purpose. He’s just a sweet old clown. “Maybe you just don’t belong anywhere, like me.”
“Mabee dat okee-day.”
“Maybe it is, uhh, okee-day.” Mapo sighs. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere, Jar Jar.”
“My no go somewhere, either.”
“Maybe we can go nowhere together?”
“Dat bombad idea!”
“Oh.” Mapo dips his chin to his chest. “Sorry.”
But Jar Jar laughs. “No. Bombad. My smilin! Wesa be pallos, pallo.” The Gungan pats the boy on the head.
Mapo doesn’t know what’s going on, but bombad must mean “good,” somehow, so he goes with it. “Can you teach me to be a clown, too?”
“Bein clownin is bombad, too. My teachin yousa, pallo. Wesa maken the whole galaxy smilin, huh?”
“Sounds good to me, Jar Jar. And thanks.”
Jar Jar gives him a thumbs-up and a big grin. Pallos, indeed.
Night on Chandrila. Wind eases in through the windows, the curtains blowing, the breeze bringing the smell of sea brine and late-summer mist.
“Look,” Solo says, the holographic star map floating in the space amid him, Temmin, and Sinjir. “Jakku’s a dirtworld, so that’s good. You won’t need to find a spaceport. The trick is getting past the blockade and landing somewhere they can’t see you.” He swipes the air and the hologram goes away. “I don’t have any good maps of Jakku, but I can tell you most of that place is just dunes and rocks. But the buttes and plateaus lead into canyons, and canyons are a fine place to lose the Empire.” He smirks. “Trust me, I know. Any bolt-hole you can find: Take it.”
Sinjir watches the smuggler. A smuggler, or a hero of the Rebellion? Does it even matter anymore? He’s about to be a father. That’s his role, now.
And it’s driving him nuts, by the look of it. Sinjir’s seen something similar: Back in the Empire, you’d have officers stationed in faraway places, remote locations, distant bases. Some of them had that glint in their eyes, the wild stare of a tooka-cat someone tried to domesticate—it’s the spark of dissatisfaction with your own captivity. Like you’re trapped. Always imagining a different life.
It’s important to see that spark, and to know it can turn into a full-on steel-melting fire if you aren’t careful. Sinjir always knew to look for those around him with that flash in their eye. It was always they who would betray the Empire. Their wildness made them dangerous.
Solo’s like that. That wildness—some combination of foolhardiness and happy lawlessness—is there behind his stare. He longs for adventure. Craves it like some poor souls crave a smear of spice on the tongue. (Or a drink on the lips, he thinks.) And in this way, it makes sense suddenly that Solo fit so well inside the Rebellion. The Rebel Alliance was just a formalized coalition of criminals seeking to undermine their government, rebels angry at their captivity—caged, as they were, by a lack of choices. (Though maybe that’s Sinjir’s lingering Imperial side talking.) All this is why Sinjir could never be a father. Solo will eventually find comfort in his captivity, but Sinjir would never find such peace. Settling down just isn’t one of his skills. It’s why he had to be rid of Conder.
(Conder…)
His mind suddenly wanders, his heart flutters, and he curses himself.
Solo confirms what Sinjir already suspects when the pirate says: “Now, I told you, you can take the Falcon…but you’d be a good sight better if you let me captain it. You don’t know her like I do. She’s…finicky.”
“I flew it back from Kashyyyk, y’know,” Temmin says.
“Not it. Her. Give the Falcon some respect, kid.”