Stealth

by Karen Miller

  The moment Bail and Obi-Wan were gone, Anakin pulled her to him. He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her like a starving man. She felt her body turn liquid with heat, tasted wine and danger and sweet, sweet safety.

  And then she pulled away.

  “Anakin, don’t,” she whispered, heart pounding. “Are you mad? We can’t—not with Obi-Wan here—he’ll know, he’ll sense—Anakin—”

  “I don’t care,” he said roughly, his hands roaming her body now, setting her on fire wherever he touched. “I’ve missed you so much, Padmé. Every night I dream of you. It’s been too long.”

  His scorching lips were a blessing and a torment. “I know, I know. But if you won’t care I’ll have to care for both of us,” she said, and raised her hands to fend him off. “Anakin. Stop it. We’ll be together again, just not here. Not tonight. Tomorrow. You’re on furlough and I’ve got a couple of days to myself, too. We’ll slip away somewhere. We’ll make up for lost time. Please, Anakin. Be sensible.”

  She could feel what it cost him to pull back from the brink, and knew he felt the price she paid for not surrendering. Shuddering, she stood on tiptoe and touched her lips to his once, lightly.

  “Come on. Let’s clear the table, shall we? Like good little guests.”

  Stepping back, he ran an unsteady hand over his face. “I’ll clear it,” he muttered. “You go ahead. You’re right. We can’t give Obi-Wan reason to suspect anything.”

  Chilled by the thought of discovery, she left Anakin to play busboy and joined Bail and Obi-Wan in the plush apartment’s study. A table had been pulled into the middle of the room, four chairs arranged around it. Bail and Obi-Wan were already seated, but not side by side, which meant she and Anakin wouldn’t be sitting together. Was that deliberate, or simply coincidence? She couldn’t read the answer in Obi-Wan’s expression. On top of the desk a sleek holoprojector pulsed gently in readiness.

  “Anakin’s finishing up,” she said, aware of Obi-Wan’s discreet scrutiny. Fervently hoping the blush had faded from her cheeks, she fished in her skirt pocket and pulled out a data crystal. “Here’s everything I could find on Lanteeb that I didn’t already know.”

  Bail took the crystal. “Excellent.”

  “I’m surprised you know anything,” said Obi-Wan. “I certainly don’t. It seems Bail is making a career out of revealing the depths of my galactic ignorance.”

  “How can you say that, Obi-Wan?” said Bail, mock-wounded. “I know I’m a politician and therefore beyond hope, but—”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, taking refuge in their nonsense. Her lips were tingling, and where Anakin’s desperate fingers had branded her, she burned. “Politics is an ancient and noble calling. Without politicians our societies would descend into anarchy and chaos.”

  “I thought they’d done that already,” said Obi-Wan. “It certainly looked that way the last time I was in the Senate.”

  “I’m not claiming the system is perfect,” she retorted. “Obviously there’s room for improvement, when—”

  “A great deal of room, yes. Enough room to house about a dozen Republic warships, I’d say,” said Obi-Wan. “Possibly two dozen. Maybe three.”

  “Oh well, now you’re just exaggerating,” she said, annoyed. “For every one failed political initiative, I can name you ten that have succeeded beyond all expectations and—”

  “What am I missing?” said Anakin, entering the study. “Anything exciting?”

  Obi-Wan sat back, hands clasped loosely in his lap, his gaze sharpened again. “Not really. Senator Amidala was just berating me for my civic ignorance. Between her and Senator Organa I’m feeling positively wilted.”

  “But don’t worry,” said Bail drily. “He’ll survive. And now that you’re here we can get down to business.” He patted the chair to his left. “Padmé?”

  She sat beside him, and Anakin took the remaining chair next to Obi-Wan. He had himself perfectly under control. Bail dimmed the lights with a word, then activated the holoprojector. A three-dimensional galactic map bloomed above the imager. Bright red and oversized for emphasis, one planet in particular drew the eye.

  “So that’s Lanteeb,” said Bail, in the brisk tone he used to brief the Senate and the Security Committee. “The only human-habitable planet in the Malor-Seventy-seven system. As you can see, it’s located more or less equidistant between Rattatak and Bespin, right on the edge of the Outer Rim Territories and far off all the major hyperspace lanes.”

  “In other words,” said Anakin, “smack bang in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Colloquial, but true,” said Bail. “Topographically it’s got three landmasses, only one of which is inhabited. There’s a single spaceport facility in a small city that doubles as the planet’s capital. Otherwise the Lanteebans live in widely scattered villages. They’re farmers and miners. Nominally Lanteeb is part of the Republic but they have no Senate representation. Never asked for it. Until very recently, they were a self-governing independent settlement with no reason for anyone to give them a second look. Just another spinning rock in the unheeded wasteland of the Outer Rim.”

  Anakin leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “And now?”

  Bail frowned. “Now they’ve been invaded, and are an unwilling member of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.”

  “Do we know why Dooku’s taken over?”

  “No, we do not. And that’s what started my alarm bells ringing. There’s no obvious reason why he would.”

  “Given its obscurity and distance from anything or anywhere of galactic importance,” said Obi-Wan, stroking his beard, “how did we learn that the planet has fallen into Separatist hands?”

  Bail looked pleased. “By happy accident. A gas freighter on the way to Ryoone had to drop out of hyperspace to make repairs. A faulty seal in one of the cargo holds. When they went to jump back they got a proximity warning and were forced to change hyperlane routes.”

  “They detected the Sep invasion fleet?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But how did that lead to the gas freighter’s people working out Lanteeb was the fleet’s target?” said Anakin. “And why would its captain care, anyway?”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” said Obi-Wan, smiling appreciatively. “It wasn’t the captain. We had an agent on board.”

  “Bull’s-eye,” said Bail, with an answering smile. “Ever since Dooku’s minions started hijacking Tibanna gas shipments we’ve put undercover operatives on every freighter. It’s only a matter of time before the Seps strike again. And when they do—”

  “We’ll have them.” Obi-Wan nodded. “Good thinking.”

  Anakin was staring at Obi-Wan. “How come you know about this and I don’t?”

  Obi-Wan gave him the blandest of looks. “I expect you were late for the briefing, Anakin.”

  As Anakin made a face at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan indulged in a sly, teasing smile, Padmé cleared her throat loudly. “And this agent managed to ping a tracker after the Sep fleet?”

  “She surely did,” said Bail, briefly amused by the Jedi. And it picked up their comm chatter confirming the Lanteeb invasion.”

  “Which was when, exactly?” said Obi-Wan, sobering.

  “During Dooku’s last push through the Outer Rim. Which I’m guessing explains why no alarm bells rang any sooner. With four other systems falling at the same time, systems with actual strategic value, Lanteeb got lost in the excitement.”

  Anakin sat back, frowning. “It doesn’t make sense. If the Council is right and Dooku’s attempting to tighten a belt around the edge of the Republic to keep our forces hemmed in, then why take Lanteeb? The Seps having control of such an insignificant, out-of-the-way planet makes no difference to the galaxy’s balance of power.”

  “Exactly,” said Bail. “Which is why I asked you here. Between us we have to work out what his plan is—before he can implement it and make our already parlous situation worse.”

  “I concur,” said
Obi-Wan, staring at the holodisplay. “So. Lanteeb. Has it got anything worth stealing? What is its agricultural output?”

  “Irrelevant. Any crops and stock they raise are for domestic consumption only.”

  “Then what do they mine?”

  “Damotite. They’ve got the only known remaining, accessible supply.”

  “It’s a mineral with a few limited applications,” said Anakin, in answer to Obi-Wan’s blank look. “A couple of manufacturing processes. Some industrial solvents. That’s about it. It used to be a lot more widely used, but times change.”

  Obi-Wan gave him another look, one that plainly said: Trust you to know. “So it’s this damotite that makes Lanteeb valuable?”

  Padmé shook her head. “I don’t see how. A few years ago, maybe, but not these days. The applications Anakin mentioned all have damotite-free alternatives and mostly they’re preferred. Take Naboo, for instance. We still use damotite in our plasma-refining plants, but we’re in the minority. When it comes to the plasma industry, damotite’s been almost entirely superseded by trenomite. As soon as we finish upgrading our infrastructure we’ll change over, too.”

  “Why?” said Obi-Wan. “Why reject damotite if it does the job?”

  “Checks and balances,” she explained. “While it’s true damotite’s a better product, trenomite’s much easier to get hold of, which makes it cheaper. And it’s more stable to work with. I’d say that within a year those of us who still aren’t using trenomite will have made the transition. Damotite’s about to become obsolete.”

  Obi-Wan stroked his beard again. “So there’s no advantage to controlling its supply.”

  “None,” said Bail.

  “And when the demand for damotite finally dries up, Lanteeb will be even less relevant than it is now?”

  “I’d say that’s a safe bet.”

  “Great,” said Anakin, disgruntled. “So we’re back where we started, with no idea why Dooku would be interested in the place.”

  “The Jedi don’t have any inside information?” said Bail, disappointed.

  “None,” said Obi-Wan.

  “Hey—” Anakin turned to him. “You don’t suppose—”

  “No,” said Obi-Wan. “It was the first thing I thought of. Alas, we’ve never found a potential Jedi on Lanteeb.”

  Anakin slumped. “Of course we’ve never. Because that would make this easy and why should anything ever be easy?”

  “So the Jedi and Lanteeb have no history?” Padmé said, looking from him to Obi-Wan. “You’ve never been called in to sort out a local dispute? Or any kind of dispute where they were involved?”

  “Not that I can find in the Archives,” said Obi-Wan, shaking his head. “Our records are spectacularly silent on the subject.”

  “Ah…” Anakin was frowning again. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that—”

  “No,” said Obi-Wan sharply. “Absolutely not. For one thing the Archives were thoroughly analyzed after what happened with Kamino, and for another I triple-checked. There’s been nothing to do with Lanteeb deleted from our databases.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” said Bail soberly. “One security breach of that magnitude is more than sufficient.”

  Lashes lowered, Padmé surreptitiously watched Anakin and Obi-Wan exchange discomfited looks. Aside from Dooku’s defection, the tampering with their Archives was the greatest blow the Jedi had received in living memory. Anakin had fretted about it for weeks.

  “Padmé…” Obi-Wan shifted in his chair. “What does Naboo’s business relationship with Lanteeb tell you about the planet?”

  “And your extra research?” Bail added. “She researches everything. She’s a one-woman galactic archive.”

  She could feel Anakin’s sudden leaping tension, hearing that casual reminder of how well Bail knew her. Be careful, Anakin. And don’t be silly. “Well, when I became Queen, it’s true that I did make a point of learning what I could about Lanteeban society. Plasma refining is crucial to Naboo’s economy—and it pays to know your friends as well as your enemies. But mainly what I turned up was a smattering of history, and I can’t think of anything in Lanteeb’s past that would prompt Dooku to invade it now.”

  Obi-Wan grimaced. “At this point I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated, sifting through her memory. “Then sit back, children, and let me tell you a story.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Lanteeb was colonized just over four hundred standard years ago, by humans from Rocantor,” Padmé began. “Some kind of religious or political falling-out, I’m not sure exactly. You know what the Rocantori are like, they never tell you anything unless they’re practically at blasterpoint. But I believe it’s that cultural inheritance that explains Lanteeb’s xenophobia.”

  Anakin looked at her. “Rocantor’s xenophobic? Why?”

  “About five hundred years ago the humans on Rocantor were infected by a plague that jumped the species barrier from the Rocanar—the planet’s original sentient inhabitants. There was massive loss of life. When the last of the funeral pyres stopped burning, the surviving Rocantor humans took over. Banned all sentient nonhumans from the planet.”

  Anakin thought about that for a moment. “And what happened to the Rocanar who didn’t die in the plague?”

  She winced. Oh dear. He’s not going to like this. “They were sold into slavery.”

  “Which is indeed tragic,” said Obi-Wan, quickly, “but hardly germane to the topic at hand.”

  Though Anakin flicked him a dark glance, he didn’t push the matter. “So you’re saying that because they originally came from Rocantor, the humans of Lanteeb won’t have anything to do with nonhumans?”

  “Oh, they’ll take their credits,” she said, not bothering to sweeten her cynicism. “But only from a distance. Nonhumans aren’t permitted to set foot on Lanteeban soil or have any kind of financial or business interests there. Back when damotite was highly sought after and valuable, some offworld companies did have close industry ties to Lanteeb’s government—if they met the species restrictions.”

  “That goes a long way in explaining why they weren’t interested in seeking official Senate standing,” said Bail. “All those pesky nonhumans to deal with.”

  “The Lanteebans’ prejudices are culturally intriguing, if unfortunate,” said Obi-Wan. “But they don’t shed any light on why Dooku wanted to invade.”

  “True,” Bail admitted. “But at least they tell us this much—if we want to solve the puzzle of his annexation of the planet, we’ll need to rely on human investigators. Even if a nonhuman made it out of the spaceport they’d attract too much attention.”

  Obi-Wan drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You’re thinking of infiltration? An undercover mission?”

  “Risky, I know,” said Bail, his eyes grim. “But it’s looking more and more likely that we won’t have a choice.” His gaze shifted. “Can you think of anything else useful, Padmé?”

  No. She was too busy being horrified by wild speculation that maybe it would be Anakin who—“Well,” she said, throttling fear, “with the reduced demand for damotite, Lanteeb’s been suffering economically for a few years now. Despite their ingrained xenophobia some Lanteebans have grown desperate enough to go looking for work elsewhere in the Republic. From what I can tell, they mainly hire themselves out as unskilled labor, although we did have a Lanteeban engineer, briefly. His permit was revoked when he couldn’t take orders from the deputy chief engineer. She was Mon Cal.”

  Bail was frowning. “So the planet’s impoverished, and its population is panicking. I can’t imagine why Dooku didn’t snap it up sooner. Obi-Wan, are you sure you didn’t miss anything in the Jedi Archives?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Muttering under his breath, Bail switched off the holoprojector then ordered the study lights up again. “Okay. Let’s get a little crazy, shall we? Let’s just—start tossing ideas into the ring. Doesn’t matter how ridiculous th
ey sound. I don’t care. There’s something we’re not seeing. Some connection we’ve missed. There has to be a reason Dooku would expend time, energy, and resources on taking over this pointless planet.”

  But they couldn’t come up with a single reasonable explanation. Couldn’t even cobble together an unreasonable hypothesis, despite more than half an hour’s intensive brainstorming.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Bail, returning from the kitchen with four mugs of hot caf on a tray. “Among us we have more knowledge, more experience, more—”

  “That’s me,” said Anakin, clapping his hand to his tunic pocket as the buzz of a comlink interrupted. “Sorry. It’s probably Ahsoka with news about our wounded clones. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” said Bail, with perfect courtesy. “Answer it. I hope the news is good.”

  Hiding anxiety, not risking a glance at Obi-Wan, Padmé watched Anakin as he slid out of the chair and wandered toward the study window, thumbing the comlink to active. His face was tight again, as though he was bracing himself for the worst.

  “Skywalker.”

  “Master? It’s me.” Ahsoka’s thin, distant voice was slightly distorted. “I can hardly hear you. And how come I can’t see you?”

  Finished handing around the steaming mugs, Bail put aside the emptied tray. “Anakin. If it’s not a private conversation you can plug your comlink in to the holoprojector. It’s got a secure comm panel with a boosted signal capacity.”

  “Thanks,” said Anakin. “I’ll do that.”

  After a bit of fiddling, Ahsoka’s slight figure wavered on the holopad. “Sorry, Master. Am I interrupting something?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Anakin, seated again and ignoring the mug Bail had left on the arm of his chair. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve seen Rex and Sergeant Coric. They’re not awake yet, but they look okay.” The Padawan winced. “Sort of. And I got to visit with some of the other troops, too. Nala Shan says everyone who’s going to die has died, so—that’s good news.”

  Heedless of his audience, Anakin covered his face with his left hand—his organic hand—just for a moment. Then he let it drop. His eyes were bright. “That’s great news, Ahsoka.”