by Various
“The Cranscoc don’t want people or vehicles on the strip of grassland between the plant and Foulahn City,” Binalie explained to Doriana as the landspeeder slid silently down the tunnel.
“They say it upsets them, though we don’t know how or why. Hence, this tunnel.”
“What about the other employees?” Doriana asked. “The non-Cranscoc ones. How do they get to work?”
“Most of them live on-site,” Binalie said. “There’s a group apartment cluster along the eastern edge of the plant, between the main building and Outlink One, for the unmarried workers. The Cranscoc have a cluster of homes north of the plant, between Outlinks One and Two, while the non-Cranscoc families live in their own cluster to the north-west, between Outlinks Two and Three.”
“And how do all of them get to work?” Doriana persisted. “More tunnels like this one?”
“There are tunnels leading between the main plant and the Outlinks,” Binalie said. “But those are mainly for cargo and equipment transfer. The workers usually just walk across the lawns to work.”
He smiled slightly at Doriana’s puzzled look. “I know. Apparently, it’s only this one strip of land the Cranscoc insist be left completely open. Again, no one knows why.”
The tunnel floor began to slope upward, and Torles found himself surreptitiously watching Doriana. The first time he’d taken this trip, he’d naturally expected the tunnel to deposit them into some sort of receiving area, and could still remember his shock when they’d arrived smack in the middle of one of the production areas. It might be instructive to see whether Doriana would also be taken by surprise.
He was. He kept his face impassive as a section of the ceiling lifted like a drawbridge above them and the landspeeder moved up a ramp into the center of the bustling factory, but Torles could sense the flicker of astonishment behind those expressionless eyes. “Interesting endpoint,” was all he said as Binalie let the landspeeder coast to a stop
“The Cranscoc like to know what’s going on around them,” Binalie said, climbing out of his seat as the floor swung shut behind them. “This is Production Area Four, where we’re currently making specialized harvesting equipment for the marshlands of Caamas. The ground there is too interlaced with vineroots for normal equipment to operate without breaking down every other day.”
“So you’re in the business of filling niche markets?” Doriana asked.
“Basically,” Binalie said, nodding. “There isn’t enough of that kind of cultivatable marshland in the Republic to justify setting up a permanent assembly line to make the equipment necessary to farm it. But with the Cranscoc system, we can spend a few days or weeks making everything the Caamasi will need for the next year or two, then retool and move on to other projects.”
“And where does all this magic retooling take place?” Doriana asked.
“It starts at the main control station,” Binalie said, pointing toward a round platform rising two meters off the floor between two of the assembly lines. “The one for this area is over there.”
They crossed to the platform, Binalie guiding his guests through the maze of conveyers, transport carts, and human and alien workers. Climbing up the steps, they found themselves beside a long console that had always reminded Torles of a cross between an elongated volcano and a very muddy hillside, with a segmented waterfall of pale green paste oozing ponderously and continually along various sections of the slope. In front of the collecting basin lounged five Cranscoc, their chitinous outer shells gleaming in the sunbeams streaming in through the skylight three floors directly above them. Their long, multi-jointed legs tapped out syncopated rhythms on the thick grass that covered the entire top of the platform, keeping time to music apparently only they could hear. “These are five of the Cranscoc twillers,” Binalie said, keeping his voice low. “Whatever they do to that fluid flow will affect most of those machines you can see.”
“They can do all the retooling from here?” Doriana asked.
“No, each machine needs its own adjustments,” Binalie told him. “There are roving twillers assigned to each area for that purpose. Depending on the complexity involved, a given production area can be retooled in anywhere from two to eight hours.”
“Your basic overnight alterations,” Doriana said, nodding.
“Very literally overnight,” Binalie agreed. “The Cranscoc will do minor adjustments during the daylight hours—that’s why this group is on duty, in case one of the machines drifts off true and needs to be recalibrated. But they’ll only do a major retooling after it’s completely dark outside.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“Frankly, we know next to nothing about the Cranscoc,” Binalie admitted. “They breathe oxygen, their diet is mostly local vegetables and grains, except that it all has to be enriched with extra magnesium and cobalt, and they like to farm and dig and create artistic objects.”
“Fortunately, marshland farm equipment falls into that last category?”
“Farm equipment and everything else,” Binalie said. “They seem to love using Spaarti to make things.” He led them back down to the main floor. “You say this is Production Area Four,” Doriana said. “How many others are there?”
“We currently have twenty-seven operating areas,” Binalie told him. “Eight of them are larger and more complex than this one, while the others are comparable or a bit smaller.”
“I’d like to see one of the larger ones.”
Binalie’s lips compressed briefly, but he merely nodded. “Of course. This way.”
They visited two other lines before Doriana decided he’d seen enough. “That will do,” he said as Binalie started to lead them on to the next area. “Is there an office where we can talk more privately?”
Binalie frowned sideways at him. “What is there to talk about?” he asked, his voice dark with suspicion. “Surely you see now that this technique can’t be duplicated elsewhere.”
“A private office, if you please?” Doriana repeated.
Binalie took a deep breath—“And it may be best if the boy leaves us now,” Doriana added.
Binalie’s eyes hardened. Suddenly, it seemed, he’d had enough of being led around by the nose. “I have no secrets from my son, Doriana,” he bit out. “If you have anything to say to me, you can say it in his presence.”
Doriana let his lip twitch, as if he hadn’t finessed the other into precisely this result. “If you insist,” he said.
Binalie nodded shortly. “In here.”
He led the way to a room marked “Schematic Plotting,” ordered out the human and Duros who’d been working on a pair of large plotting boards inside, and keyed the door closed behind them. Swinging one of the two chairs around for his visitor, he hiked himself up into a half-sitting, half-leaning posture against one of the boards. “Let’s hear it,” he said gruffly.
“It’s quite simple,” Doriana said, sitting down and gazing calmly up at the man now towering over him. “As you say, Spaarti Creations is one of a kind. Since we can’t duplicate it, we’ll have to use it as is.”
Binalie’s expression didn’t even twitch. Clearly, he’d already guessed where this whole visit was going. “Impossible,” he said. “This is the single viable business of an entire sub-minority species - the Cranscoc - and as such comes under Senate Directive 422. Governmental interference with its operation is strictly and expressly forbidden.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Doriana countered, pulling a datacard from an inside pocket. “Senate Directive 3591, authorizing Supreme Chancellor Palpatine unlimited authority to commandeer any resource or group of resources he feels necessary for a swift conclusion of hostilities.”
He held the card out to Binalie. “Beginning this evening, Spaarti Creations will be turning its complete facilities over to the manufacture of a new design of cloning tanks.”
Slowly, Binalie took the datacard and slid it into his datapad. For a long minute, the only sound in the room was the muted din o
f the assembly line floor outside the office’s transparent canopy as he read and reread the directive. “You can’t do this,” he said when he finally tore his eyes away from the text.
“Weren’t you listening to what I said back in my office? You take over Spaarti, and it’ll just be a matter of time before the Separatists move in.”
“Point one: you have no choice in the matter,” Doriana said, letting his voice harden. “The Senate’s directive is clear, and the Supreme Chancellor’s decision has been made. Point two: there’s no reason for the Separatists to hear anything about this. If we do our job properly, no one will know that crates marked farm equipment or tunneling gear actually contain cloning cylinders. As for my presence on here, I’ve already established the cover story that I’m intervening on Emil Kerseage’s behalf.”
“What about my workers?” Binalie countered. “Not counting the twillers, we employ nearly thirteen thousand humans and aliens here. How are you going to guarantee that they all keep quiet?”
“They can’t talk about what they don’t know,” Doriana said. “And in approximately four hours you’ll be pulling every one of them off the floor and confining them to their homes.”
“Oh, I will, will I?” Binalie said sarcastically. “And how exactly do you expect me to justify that?”
“No justification needed,” Doriana said calmly. “Medical quarantine is required by law for an outbreak of plyridian fever.”
Binalie’s mouth dropped open a centimeter. “Plyridian fev. . .?” His eyes darted to the canopy. “What have you done?”
“Calm yourself, Lord Binalie,” Doriana soothed. “The three humans and two aliens I treated as we passed—”
“You did what!” Binalie snarled. “You deliberately infected them?”
“I said calm yourself,” Doriana repeated, putting an edge to his voice. “Of course I didn’t infect anyone. The incubation period for plyridian fever is four weeks. What I did do is give them something that will mimic the disease, creating a convincing set of symptoms. They’re not in any danger, and neither is anyone else. But no one will know that for at least those four weeks.” Binalie had the look of someone chewing on a sour mifka. “And while they’re all in quarantine, you’ll naturally be offering me a caretaker unit?” he growled.
“It’s that or close down the plant entirely,” Doriana pointed out. “The Cranscoc, being cold-blooded, are immune from plyridian fever, so they can continue to work as usual.”
“This is completely unconscionable,” Torles spoke up from the corner of the room.
Doriana had been wondering when the Jedi would say something. Irreverently, he wondered if perhaps the old man had dozed off and missed some of the conversation. “Excuse me?” he asked, swiveling to face the old man.
“This is a gross violation of every accepted standard of behavior,” Torles insisted. “I cannot and will not stand by and be a party to it.”
“This is war, Master Torles,” Doriana reminded him. “Not only war, but a war of survival. If we lose, the Republic is finished.”
“I don’t care,” Torles said flatly. “I can tell you right now the Jedi Council will not stand by and allow you to terrify the people of Cartao with fear of a nonexistent plague.”
“Perhaps the Jedi Council sees things differently than you do,” Doriana said, pulling a second datacard from his pocket. “Here are their instructions, ordering you to cooperate with me and my people.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “You do still acknowledge the authority of the Council, don’t you?”
Silently, with the same complete lack of enthusiasm with which Lord Binalie had taken the first datacard, Torles accepted the second. “Good,” Doriana said briskly, getting to his feet. “Then all that remains is for you to return home and prepare for five of your workers to suddenly slump over with dizziness and fever.”
“And you, I suppose, will do all the rest?” Binalie said bitterly.
“Of course,” Doriana said. “That’s why I’m here.”
The first worker began complaining of dizziness at precisely five minutes after the predicted time. Nine minutes after that, as he was being examined by the plant medic, he suddenly collapsed, twitching and groaning. The second worker was more stoic, and was still at his station fifteen minutes later when he hit the floor. Three minutes after that, Lord Binalie ordered the plant evacuated.
“Ah- Doriana,” the stolid face hovering above Doriana’s holoprojector greeted him. “You have news?”
“The plant is ready, Commander Roshton,” Doriana said. “You may land at your convenience.”
“Excellent,” Roshton said approvingly. “And in less than one day. You do admirable work.”
“I do what the Supreme Chancellor commands,” Doriana said with just a hint of warning. In these days of turmoil and suspicion, it never hurt to remind people as to where his loyalties lay. “No more; no less.”
“Of course,” Roshton agreed calmly. “As do we all.”
“Yes,” Doriana agreed, glancing out the office canopy at the darkening skylight halfway across the room. “It’s nearly nightfall, which is when the Cranscoc do all their serious work. How soon can I expect your people?”
“The first transport’s on its way, with the chief techs and operational schematics aboard,” Roshton said. “They’ll be there in an hour.”
“Good,” Doriana said. “I’ll make sure the Cranscoc are ready. They’ve already been informed they’ll be doing a compete retooling tonight.”
“Are you sure a two-thousand-unit contingent will be enough?” Roshton asked, his forehead wrinkling slightly. “I’ve been doing some research myself, and it looks to me like the plant usually requires over six times that number.”
“We’re supposed to be a caretaker unit,” Doriana reminded him. “It wouldn’t look right if we completely repopulated the plant.”
“Yes, but—”
“Besides, the majority of those thirteen thousand workers are involved with maintenance, shipping, and raw material movement,” Doriana cut him off. “If the Supreme Chancellor decides to extend the operation, we can bring in personnel to handle those aspects. For now, let’s concentrate on our mission: to create and stockpile the cloning cylinders we need to create more troops.”
“Yes, sir,” Roshton muttered. “You’ll have your schematics in an hour, with the rest of the transports following at thirty-minute intervals.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing them, Commander,” Doriana said. “Doriana out.”
He broke the connection, lowering the holoprojector into his lap as he again looked out of the office. It was an eerie feeling, sitting alone in the middle of such a huge room. Rather like being the last living cell in a dead body, he thought.
Across by the area’s control platform, a small motion caught his eye. A group of Cranscoc were wandering around, their footsteps seeming to stutter as they walked. Still beating out their silent music, he decided, perhaps humming along on auditory wavelengths humans couldn’t hear.
Strange aliens. Strange technology. But apart from that, a very straightforward job. Lifting his holoprojector again, he punched in a new code.
The connection this time took considerably longer to make. Doriana forced himself to wait patiently, watching the panes of the distant skylight fading toward black.
And then, with a suddenness that somehow always startled him, the ghostly hologram image appeared. “Report,” the hooded figure ordered quietly.
“The Spaarti Creations plant has been cleared, Lord Sidious,” Doriana said. “The first Republic techs will be landing in an hour, with the rest of the techs, workers, and troops arriving during the night.”
“How many troops will there be?”
Doriana hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, bracing himself. Darth Sidious didn’t like it when his people didn’t have all the answers to his questions. “Palpatine gave that part of the planning to Commander Roshton, and he’s been very secretive about his conting
ent’s exact makeup. It can’t be more than a thousand clone troopers, possibly as low as five hundred, with Roshton and a few other officers in command.”
To his relief, Sidious merely nodded. “Roshton has ambitions of his own, and thinks he knows how to play the game,” he said contemptuously. “No matter. Even a thousand troops will not be a problem. What of the owner and the Jedi?”
“They’re not happy, but they’ve bowed to the inevitable,” Doriana said. “The only problem may come if Torles decides to check with the Jedi Council directly to confirm the order. They weren’t enthusiastic about the idea in the first place, as I told you, and if he catches Yoda or Windu at a bad moment, one of them might decide to unilaterally reverse the decision.”
“Even if they so dared, all Torles can do at this point is make noise,” Sidious assured him, a malicious edge to his voice. “No, all is going according to plan. You have done well.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Doriana said, feeling the warmth of relief and pride trickling through him. “Any new orders?”
“Not yet,” Sidious said. “Continue as you are, and allow the plan to work itself out.” He smiled sardonically. “Report again when things become interesting.”
“I will, my lord,” Doriana promised.
The hooded head nodded, and the image vanished.
Taking a deep breath, Doriana stood up, sliding the holoprojector back into its belt pouch. So the chance cube had been thrown, and the game was in motion. The next move would be the Republic’s.
He paused in the office doorway, listening to the heavy silence and thinking, as he always did at moments like this, about the incredibly thin tightrope he had chosen to walk. Palpatine had no idea that his trusted aide and advisor was in fact the agent of a Dark Lord of the Sith, working in the shadows to destroy everything the Supreme Chancellor stood for. If Palpatine ever discovered the truth . . .
He shook his head firmly. No, that would never happen. Sidious was too powerful, and Doriana himself too clever, to ever allow such a useful relationship to be ruined.