by Greg Bear
“Out of twenty million spacecraft, registered and unregistered, in the known galaxy. And how much do they cost their owners?”
“I’m not sure. Millions, or billions,” Sienar said.
“You have always thought yourself smarter than me, one step ahead of me,” Tarkin said tightly. “Always on top of things. But this time, I can save your career, and perhaps your life. We can pool our sources, and our resources—and both come out far ahead.”
“Of course, Tarkin,” Sienar said evenly. “Is now the time, and is this the place, for a good, firm handshake?”
Obi-Wan and Anakin donned their boots and joined Charza in the pilothouse in the starboard nacelle. Through the broad ports surrounding the pilot’s position, they could see Coruscant’s night side below them, the endless metropolis twinkling like a Gungan deep-sea menagerie. Anakin stood beside a line of small, hard-shelled, many-clawed creatures that fidgeted in the pool of water behind the pilot’s backless couch. Obi-Wan stooped to sit in a smaller, empty seat on the opposite side of the couch.
Charza Kwinn did not need to turn his body to look them over with a pair of silver-rimmed, deep purple eyes. “I’m told you possess a scale from a garbage worm,” Charza said to Anakin. “Won during a pit competition.”
“Not a formal competition,” Obi-Wan said.
“You wouldn’t let me hand it over to the Greeter and claim my rank,” Anakin said resentfully.
“I enjoy watching the pit races,” Charza Kwinn said. “My kind engages in so little competitive behavior. It is amusing to watch more aggressive species rush to their fates.” With this, he suddenly arched over backward, swept his spike fringe along the line of clawed creatures, and grabbed two. They were guided into a seam that opened between the thick bristles on his underside and quickly consumed.
The remaining members of the line kept their formation, but clacked tiny claws as if applauding.
“You are most welcome,” Charza said to the survivors.
Anakin shuddered. Obi-Wan shifted in his seat and said, “Charza, perhaps you should explain your relations to my Padawan.”
“These are friends, confidants, shipmates,” Charza told the boy. “They aspire to be consumed by the Big One.”
Anakin screwed up his face, then quickly blanked it as he realized Charza could still see him. He glanced at Obi-Wan, feeling at a loss.
“Never assume the obvious,” Obi-Wan cautioned in an undertone.
“We are all partners,” Charza said. “We help each other on this ship. The little ones provide food, and once they are consumed I carry their offspring inside me. I give birth to and take care of their babies. Their babies become shipmates and partners … and food.”
“Do you eat all of your partners?” Anakin asked.
“Stars, no!” Charza said with a scrubbing, shuffling imitation of human laughter. “Some would taste terrible, and besides, it’s simply not done. We have many different relationships on this ship. Some food, some not. All cooperate. You’ll see.”
Using controls mounted on struts that curved along his sides, Charza pulled the ship away from the orbital dock and engaged the sublight engines.
For its age, the YT-1150 accelerated with remarkable smoothness, and in minutes they were out of Coruscant orbit, moving for the point where they would make their jump into hyperspace.
“Good ship,” Charza said, and his bristles and spikes stroked the closest bulkhead. “Good friend.”
Raith, you’ve been angling for this kind of opportunity for years,” Tarkin said as he poured a glass of chimbak wine from Alderaan. Tarkin’s private apartment was small but choice, high on the residential level of Prime Senate Spire, two kilometers higher than most of the city. “Whether you knew it or not, you’ve always wanted to be there for the dawn of a new way of doing business.”
Sienar was not a drinking man, but for the time being, he was acting friendly and cooperative. He did not enjoy the presence of the Blood Carver. He took the glass and pretended to savor it. The merest comforting twinkle in his ring’s bright green stone told him the thick red fluid was neither drugged nor poisoned. Indeed, as wine went, it was mellow and delicious.
“But you must find it interesting that you have no friends you can trust,” Tarkin continued. “Friendship is a thing of the past. All now is alliance and advantage. Reliance on trust is a great weakness.”
It was possible Tarkin had lost this innocence long before Sienar. “You still haven’t introduced me,” Sienar said.
Tarkin turned to the Blood Carver. “This is Ke Daiv, from a famous political family on Batorine. Ke Daiv was formerly part of a select assassination corps loosely affiliated with the Trade Federation. Some last, inept attempt to exact a measure of revenge, against the Jedi, I believe.”
Sienar turned his lips down at this audacity. “Really?” he said with a small and false shiver of wonder. He knew more about this matter than Tarkin suspected, and knew that somehow Tarkin had been involved—but his sources could provide few details.
“An ill-considered attempt, at best,” Tarkin said, glancing at Sienar.
“Blood Carvers are not known to be involved in outside politics,” Sienar observed.
“I am an individual,” Ke Daiv observed. “Opportunity expands with freedom from the past.”
“Well-spoken,” Tarkin said. “I asked for him, actually. His skills are quite substantial, and he failed against a Jedi Knight. I’ll forgive him that, wouldn’t you?”
“I will try again, and succeed, given the opportunity,” Ke Daiv said.
“Blood Carvers are an artistic people,” Sienar said. “Refresh my memory, but the most famous product from Batorine is sculpture … carved from the bright red wood of the indigenous blood tree?”
“It has a double meaning,” Ke Daiv said. “Assassination, too, is a kind of sculpting, chipping away what is not needed.”
Sienar finished his glass and complimented Tarkin’s taste. Tarkin nodded to Ke Daiv, and the Blood Carver left them.
“Impressive,” Sienar observed after the narrow door had closed. Space was at a premium all over Coruscant, and even now, in the economic downturn, Tarkin’s quarters, while high over the city, were much less spacious and certainly less well appointed than Sienar’s own.
“It could take decades to make humans the supreme race in this galaxy,” Tarkin said with a sniff. “The tolerance and weakness of our predecessors have made it necessary to be magnanimous, for the time being.” He listened to a tiny beep on his comlink, held tightly in one hand. “Our quarry has departed from Coruscant orbit. The tracker is in place and is communicating with your unit.”
“What will the Neimoidians do—and all the other founding members of the Trade Federation—when they discover they are expendable? This new deal with the senate could easily cause trouble all by itself.”
“Let us just say that we have powerful forces behind us. Forces even I shudder to consider.” Tarkin lowered the comlink and rubbed his forearm with the other hand. “Let’s discuss more immediate matters, however. This is a high-stakes game we’re involved in. As you’ve noticed, I have some distance to cover in this new hierarchy. Eventually, I hope to be awarded a provincial governorship, and to control many star systems. You … will be selling equipment to whatever political force emerges from this turmoil. Together, we can find this mysterious planet and exploit it to our mutual advantage.”
“It is intriguing,” Sienar said. “Ships rated zero-point-four could be a remarkable discovery.” Indeed, he thought. Given such a technological advance, and ten years of steady development, Sienar himself might have been wealthy enough to personally choose the leadership of any new galactic government.
What might have been, however, was of little concern now.
“I won’t be able to go with you, unfortunately,” Tarkin said. “I have to keep my juggling act here on Coruscant for the time being. But you will be well equipped.” His comlink beeped again.
“Now comes a
few tense days,” Tarkin said. “Our ship of interest has entered hyperspace. We have positioned subspace transponders at several points within a few hundred light-years of where this planet is likely to be.”
“So … I’ll be dealing with an entire planet, as a commander of former Trade Federation forces?”
“Of droids, with a small contingent of ship’s crew and troops,” Tarkin said. “Your crew and adjutants will all be Trade Federation-trained, of course. The Republic has not yet taken charge of certain ships held in reserve. Ke Daiv will go with you. He has experience working with Trade Federation weaponry, and he will answer directly to me.”
“Fine,” Sienar said, but thought differently. He had never fancied droid armies. Droids, in his opinion, were poor replacements for living troops. They were limited in intelligence and flexibility.
Tarkin seemed to sense his distaste. “You’ll be using a new variety of battle droid,” he said. “These have enhanced intelligence and are no longer centrally controlled. The Trade Federation has learned from recent debacles.”
“Good,” Sienar said, still less than enthused.
“You’ll get your affairs in order, of course,” Tarkin said.
“That might take a couple of months.”
“I hope you’ll be ready in a couple of days.”
“Of course,” Sienar said. He tapped his chin in speculation. “Ke Daiv failed on a mission. Yet this looks like a promotion, to be moved from failed assassin to assistant commander of … what? A fleet?”
“A squadron, actually,” Tarkin said. He made a face. “Ke Daiv will have no position in your command structure. Agreed, however. In some respects this is awkward.”
“Let me guess. Dark forces are playing with us all, and Ke Daiv has connections? Nonhuman connections that are still useful?”
Tarkin made a sour face but did not answer this. “Just prepare, Raith,” he said. “And for all our sakes, don’t ask too many questions.”
Obi-Wan listened to the steady rhythm of the boy’s breath. Anakin had been exhausted by the day’s events and was sound asleep. His face, gently outlined by the soft luminance of the cabin’s blue emergency lights, was young and perfect and quite beautiful.
Obi-Wan lay back on his couch, both hearing and feeling the tingle and thrum of the hyperdrive. They were well away—yet Obi-Wan felt a distinct unease. There was something about this mission—a simple adventure, really, a journey to the far reaches of the galaxy to make contact with a planet that apparently was unknown to the Republic and to the enemies of the Republic. He had been to regions outside the reach of the law often enough. The mission was not, of course, without its dangers, but they would be far from the immediate dangers of Coruscant.
Perhaps what bothered Obi-Wan was that he would be entirely in charge of Anakin. In the Temple Anakin had been surrounded by many Jedi and Jedi auxiliaries, including the staff, who had taken some of the burden off Obi-Wan. They had played the role of family, and Anakin had eaten up their attention.
The truth was, Obi-Wan was not sure he was up to the task. Obi-Wan tended to arrange his thoughts and his life in orderly rows. Anakin Skywalker kicked those orderly rows asunder whenever he could.
There were the tricks. Anakin had once taken a battered protocol droid he had found abandoned somewhere, repaired its motivator, and dressed it up in Jedi robes. The droid’s intellectual capacity had long since been depleted in some accident or another, and Anakin had supplied it with the simple verbobrain from a kitchen droid, then set it loose in the hallway outside Obi-Wan’s quarters. Unable to see its droid face behind the hood, Obi-Wan had spoken with it for two minutes before realizing the form was not a Jedi, not even a living thing. His perceptions and his guard had been down, inside the Temple. Anakin had actually ragged him about that—the apprentice ragging the master!
Obi-Wan smiled. It was something Qui-Gon might have done. With Anakin, the boundaries between Master and apprentice were often erased. It was all too common for him to realize he could learn from the boy. In his weaker moments he felt that was not the proper way of things.
But there it was.
The danger—and it was a real danger—was that Anakin could not and did not exercise a proper control over his talents, his brilliance, his power. He was, most of the time, just a boy on the edge of manhood, and liable to all the mistakes one would normally expect.
It had not happened yet, but Obi-Wan was certain that someday soon the danger would come not from boyish energy and adventurous hijinks, but from a misapplication of the Force.
Perhaps that was what caused him unease.
Perhaps not.
He drew himself into an alert meditative state. For the last couple of years, Obi-Wan had tried to cut down on his need to sleep. While all of the Jedi he knew slept, he had heard that some did not. He was certain that meditative alertness performed all the functions of sleep, and would give him time to examine his own thoughts at their deepest levels, to maintain vigilance.
You do not trust yourself yet, Jedi. You do not trust your unconscious connection to the Force.
Obi-Wan turned his head and looked around the darkened cabin. That had sounded like Qui-Gon Jinn speaking, yet he had heard nothing. Nor had the boy made a sound.
Strange that this did not disturb Obi-Wan more.
“No, Master, I do not,” Obi-Wan said to the empty air. “That is my strength.”
Qui-Gon would have debated that point fiercely. But there was no reply.
Sienar tried to focus on his mount and ignore the seethe of concerns that had occupied him since his last encounter with Tarkin.
The animal, a gray-blue trith prancer, trotted on six graceful legs around Sienar’s private arena, responding to his faintest ankle tap or tug on upward-jutting shoulder bones. A trith prancer’s back formed a natural saddle—if the genetic manipulation of a thousand generations could be considered natural. Sienar’s animals—he owned three prancers—were the finest money could buy, another luxury he was reluctant to put at risk. Too soft, too attached, too inflexible!
Nevertheless, Sienar rode and tried to enjoy himself.
He pulled back gently, and the trith rose up on its two rear pairs of legs, pawing the air elegantly. It emitted musical fluting noises that thrilled Sienar to his core. Once, he could have ridden a trith across open prairie for days and been perfectly happy—happy, that is, until another spacecraft design occurred to him.
Now it was likely he would be neither riding nor designing for some months. Tarkin seemed to think he could alter Sienar’s life, intrude into his business affairs, threaten him, and dine opulently from his table of secrets.
The difficulty was, Tarkin was probably correct: buried in this morass of obligation and coercion was a real opportunity. Still, Tarkin himself was likely to benefit the most from Sienar’s participation.
He spun his animal around and pushed with his ankles to get it to gallop on two rear sets of legs. This was a difficult behavior, and Sienar was proud of how well his animals performed. They had won many prizes at competitions on several planets.
A commotion broke out near the wide double door to the arena. Security droids backed into the arena, gesturing frantically. Sienar quickly dismounted and hid behind the trith, staring over the smooth fur of its back.
Tarkin walked between the droids, ignoring their warnings. Astonishingly, he carried a Senate-grade ionic disruptor, which rendered security droids harmless.
Sienar smiled grimly and walked around the trith, which blew out its breath in some alarm at the stranger. Fortunately, Tarkin had come this time without his Blood Carver.
“Good morning, Raith,” Tarkin called out cheerfully. “I need to view this Sekotan ship of yours. Now.”
“By all means,” Sienar said pleasantly. “Next time, you should give me some warning. Not all of my security droids are vulnerable to disruptors, you know. It’s good I anticipated your rudeness … and programmed them to recognize you. Otherwise they would have sh
ot you as soon as you passed through that door.”
Tarkin looked over his shoulder and paled slightly. “I see,” he said, putting away the disruptor. “No harm done.”
“Not this time,” Sienar muttered.
* * *
Sienar had kept two of his old factory sites in the ancient depths of the capital city, long after he had moved all operations to fancier locations. The rent was cheap, and any curious intruders could be disposed of with little legal difficulty. In fact, this was where he posted most of his off-world and noncompliant security droids, the finest money could smuggle. They took orders only from Sienar.
As guards, droids were fine. Their wits could not be dulled by boredom.
Tarkin followed, for the first time visibly nervous. His own security droids seemed small and inconsequential beside the large, heavily armored silver machines that guarded the remains of the Sekotan ship in its dark, dry, cavernous hangar.
“Just this hulk cost me a hundred million credits,” Sienar said, switching on a few key lights around the echoing hangar. “As you can see, it’s not in very good shape.”
Tarkin walked around the scabrous hulk in its shimmering refrigeration field. The once-graceful curves had subsided into a wrinkled, deflated mass, despite deepfreezing and less obvious efforts at preservation.
“It’s biological,” Tarkin observed, nose wrinkling.
“I thought you would have known that already.”
“I didn’t think it was … this organic,” he said. “I had been told the ships were in some sense alive, but … Not much use when dead, are they?”
“A curiosity, like some preserved deep-sea monstrosity, rarely seen,” Sienar said. “As for understanding its capabilities, well, there’s not much left to analyze.”
“I have some images,” Tarkin said. “Ships in outlying ports, taking on fuel.”
“And nutrients, no doubt,” Sienar said. He probably had seen the same images.
“Is it plant, or animal?”
“Neither. It cannot reproduce by itself. No cellular structure, dense and varied tissues that can incorporate both metals and a variety of high-strength, heat-resistant polymers … A marvel. But without its owner, it quickly dies, and quickly decays.”