Zam
Baby Boba - He Calls Me - Training - Zam
Jango glanced out the viewport, and saw Boba standing at the door to the building. The ten-year-old's face searched the drenched landing platform for Jango and Zam's emerging forms. But he'll only see me, Jango thought.
Jango knew he was late. The Jedi would be confounded by the absence of Kaminoan records, and Jango had taken advantage of that freedom to stop at his favorite space stop on the outer rim, The Last Chance. In a favorite cantina there, he had downed a glass of Dekenbrian Ale, and, on miserable impulse, some Tatooine Whiskey. "To her spirit," he'd murmured, "to Zam."
As he had waited for the alcohol to wear off, he had retreated to one of the few filthy hotel rooms, where he could think in peace. Sitting on the bed, his back to the wall, he had gone over and over what had happened in lower level Coruscant in his head. Was there any way he could have prevented it? The Jedi, after drawing the information out of her, would have killed her for sure. She had already been wounded, perhaps mortally. Jedi are not to be trusted, Jango had resolved, they are to be eliminated. Oh, how he wished he could do a Jedi capture assassination soon. It would be a joy.
It hadn't been his fault, then. Zam had known that her life came second to the hunt. It was her way. Jango knew she would never have told anyone about him, but Jedi, tricky beings as they were, would have pulled the information from her unwilling Clawdite lips. Zam would have rather died that betray him. Jango had fulfilled her wish.
But how to explain to Boba? Jango looked again at the door, then unfastened his safety harness. He was just a simple man, trying to eke out a living among the stars. He would tell the boy one way or another.
Boba’s nose felt cold. He knew why, but he didn’t care. It was pressed firmly to the transparasteel door that lead to the landing pad that had been designated theirs by the Kaminoans. Slave I had alighted there just a few minutes ago, but Jango and Zam had yet to make an appearance.
Boba’s eager smile faded a little as he waited for Jango and Zam to emerge from the rain. What was going on? Was one of them hurt? His small hands went to the door controls, and he was about to go looking for the pair of them when Jango came into view. Boba waited a little longer, straining his eyes for Zam. As Jango neared, it became obvious she wasn’t there.
As soon as Jango stepped inside, Boba sensed his unease. After yanking off his helmet, Jango knelt and roughly hugged his son, but didn’t meet Boba’s eyes. “Dad? Where’s Zam? Is she okay?” Boba grabbed his father’s hand to get his attention.
Jango didn’t want to say it. Knowing she was dead, at his hands, was bad enough. How much should he tell Boba? All of it. The boy was too soft; this would toughen him. Jango began walking to the apartment. “Zam’s dead, Boba. Some Jedi were torturing her, and I shot her with a saberdart.” He felt Boba rip his small hand out of Jango’s large one. He didn’t look back to see the horror on the ten-year-old’s face. Jango kept on going as he heard the hiss of the doors opening; he allowed the sound of the rain to drown out the sound of Boba’s ragged gasps.
Boba didn’t even notice the rain as it fell heavily against his skin and clothing. Before he had taken five steps he was drenched. He didn’t care. “No she’s not, Dad,” he kept whispering, “and you didn’t shoot her. It was someone else. Please, let it have been someone else!” He dashed up the boarding ramp to Slave I and activated the door. As he stepped inside the dry ship, he suddenly became aware of how wet he was. Pushing soggy hair out of his eyes, he called out, “Zam? It’s Boba. Zam?” But there was no reply. He ran to the cockpit, and then peered in the cargo hold and the sleeping quarters. No one. Boba found himself standing alone at the door again, the horrible truth revealed. “Not Zam. Dad, why?”
He opened the door and fled down the boarding ramp. His foot caught on something and he fell headlong on the open deck. Boba didn’t get up. Instead, he curled into a ball, the rain pummeling his body, and the cold outside cruelly mimicking the cold inside himself. Visions of Zam, in the different faces that he knew so well, bombarded his mind, and he cradled his head in his arms, covering his ears against unspoken words and his eyes against things that he could not see.
Zam had been like a mother to him. She’d taught him to read, picked him up when Jango’s training left him lifeless, and hugged him when Jango reprimanded him. It had been Zam’s voice that had sung him to sleep years ago, when Boba had needed such things, and Jango had found them unnecessary. Her quick wit and cocky smile had always brought a welcome change to his monotonous days. But she never would again. His father had killed his mother.
Boba’s shoulders shook—with cold, he insisted—and the water running down his face was only rain—really, but all the same, he was glad Jango wasn’t there.
Baby Boba - He Calls Me - Training - Zam