by Greg Bear
The settlers needed capital to buy things. Expensive things. They needed it quickly and quietly, and as soon as possible.
The pilot, a newly wealthy Gensang spice thief whose forebears had smuggled for over a thousand generations with no great success, had picked up a curious sort of compact protocol droid in a gambling palace on Serpine.
That droid had been lost to the Gensang by a reckless and exceedingly wealthy young Rodian in a life-or-death, total-forfeit game. Life had not been the young Rodian’s fate. Instead, he had rolled a fist-sized ruby joom-ball along the classic spiral chute, the joom-ball had fallen into the mouth of a cranky and venom-drooling old Passar, the Passar had blurted in its disgusting and bubbling voice a prophecy insulting to the extremely superstitious emperor-governor of Serpine, and the Rodian had been cut to pieces by outraged palace guards. Everything in his possession, including his spacecraft hold full of credit bonds, had been handed over to the Gensang, who had reveled in his run of luck.
The small droid that had come with this booty had told its new master a fantastic tale. The droid claimed it was fully qualified to take customers to a mysterious world that made the fastest starships etc. etc. etc., a journey that the Rodian had not lived long enough to make.
The Gensang had been intrigued. He had passed a puzzling social-psychological test conducted by the droid, showed the droid part of his cache of bonds, more than sufficient, and had been warned he would experience the adventure of a lifetime on an exotic world, some details of which he would soon after almost completely forget.
It had been the Gensang’s misfortune to buy his Sekotan ship and run afoul of thieves. They had taken the Gensang and the droid and the disintegrating remains of the ship and sold them to Sienar’s agents for a tidy sum. Sienar’s agents had then killed the thieves.
Such was the endless roil of greed and money. Perhaps the Blood Carver’s people were right to hold such disdain for wealth.
Sienar lay on his stomach by the long sitting room window, now open to the stars, with Zonama Sekot eternally in view. Before his communication with Kett, he had finished a light repast of biscuits and steamed Alderaan wine, one of the few tastes he shared with Tarkin.
Generally Sienar was unimpressed by food and drink, and almost never was he tempted by other fleshly pursuits. What got his blood going was power. The power to design and build extraordinary things. The power to make one’s old friends sorry they had ever tried a clumsy double cross.
I, who have built ships for the galaxy’s most powerful … I, of all people, manipulated by a second-rate military student, deceiving himself that he sees more clearly than his intellectual superior the shape of a new order!
The very thought made his lips curl and his eyes narrow to dark slashes.
Sienar had let the protocol droid perform its tests on the Blood Carver. As he had suspected, the Blood Carver had passed handily—elegance, education, good family, and the sight of so many credits piled on the floor of the commander’s cabin had tripped all the droid’s little circuits.
Foolish leaders on a lost world, trusting such judgments to a protocol droid!
Now the droid was flying with Ke Daiv in Sienar’s personal starcraft to Zonama Sekot. If Ke Daiv brought back one of the planet’s wondrous ships, Sienar was ready with all the surgical and mindwipe tools necessary to turn the Blood Carver into his own personal chauffeur. He would analyze the living Sekotan craft, learn its secrets, and reverse Tarkin’s game with such stunning speed that his old friend would never recover.
And that could give Sienar the power and influence necessary to cut his own deals with any emerging political power.
Delicious. Absolutely delicious. Much better than even the choicest of Alderaan wines, warmed in the finest gold-flecked crystal over a muskwood fire.
Sienar gave another great sigh. The game was truly interesting now. Dear Captain Kett, he thought, my honor is no purer than your own. But I at least am not a hypocrite.
Reaching the docking ramp, it turned out, was just the beginning of a new leg of their journey. Anakin, Obi-Wan, Jabitha, and Gann descended the carven steps of a steeply slanting volcanic tube to a low-ceilinged cavern set with dimly glowing lanterns.
They could hear the sound of rushing water.
“An underground river,” Anakin said. Jabitha nodded, reached up, and touched the top of his head. He flinched, and she smiled.
“It’s just a way of saying how smart you are! But we have to go some distance before we reach the river.”
Obi-Wan had never enjoyed being deep underground. He much preferred the openness of space to the depths of a planet, though he had never admitted this to anyone.
After another twenty minutes, they emerged from the end of the tube into a wide round chamber carved out of the basalt. A stone slab jutted into swift water that flowed around the slab with a guttural rumble. Regular and frequent splashes darkened the rough surface of the rock. A slender boat floated in a calm spot in the slab’s shadow. Ahead, they could dimly make out a mouth leading even deeper into the planet’s crust.
They boarded the slender boat, and two male attendants pushed them away from the dock. Gann then poled the boat out of the calm, into the swift water. The river rushed them down the broad, dark channel.
The seed-partners were still. Anakin was concerned that they might be sick or even dead. Jabitha reassured them this was not the case. “They know we’re going to see the forgers and shapers. It’s a serious moment for a seed.”
“How do they know?” Anakin asked.
“This river feeds the factory valley,” she said. “It’s carried seeds for millions of years. They just recognize it.”
“What are the Jentari?” Obi-Wan asked.
“Grandfather trained them first. Trained them, or made them, or both! They’re very large shapers that work for us and with us. You’ll see.” She sounded very proud.
As their eyes adjusted, they spotted long red lines glowing on the tunnel ceiling, well above the water. Gann played a torch beam on the rock, revealing unbroken, close-bundled tendrils of red and green. “Sekot sends these through the rivers and tunnels and caverns,” he said reverently. “All parts of the planet are connected.”
“Except for the south,” Jabitha said quietly.
“And why not there?” Obi-Wan asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Father said it was all finished down there.”
“That’s where his house is,” Anakin said.
Gann broke in. “The south died of a disease just a few months ago, the entire hemisphere,” he murmured. His face appeared ashen, features wavering in the moving lights from the boat lantern and his torch.
His hands are shaking, Obi-Wan observed.
“Was it a war?” Anakin asked.
Gann tightened his jaw muscles and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Just a disease.”
“You shouldn’t talk any more about that,” Jabitha said. “Even I don’t know what happened down there.”
“Does your father know?” Obi-Wan asked.
She gave him a veiled look that held no small amount of anger. Best not to pursue the matter.
The river journey lasted several hours. Anakin and Jabitha sat on the bench at the bow, talking. Obi-Wan allowed his eyes to linger on the tendrils that glowed like tracer shells frozen in flight.
Wherever their destination was, a Sekotan air transport could have easily carried them there in a few minutes. The settlers were hoping to keep a few secrets from their clients. Or perhaps they understood the value of ritual.
Personally Obi-Wan found ritual a bore. Jedi training was remarkably free from it—only the greatest moments were so marked.
When conversation with Anakin lagged, Jabitha worked intricate geometric puzzles from a small lamina box she carried in her cloak. When she placed the box on the bench of the boat, Anakin noticed that a corner of the box fastened to the lamina of the bench. And when she finished a puzzle, the pieces re-formed into new shapes. She would
never have to work the same puzzle twice.
Communication, coordination, constant touch—these people had harnessed a marvelous network of living creatures that seemed, all of them, intimately related, like a huge family.
How much more disturbing it must have been, then, for literally half the family to die of disease! Or to face the destruction caused by whatever energies had gouged the planet to bedrock along the equator.
Perhaps this journey was devious not because of a misplaced sense of ritual, but because of fear.
Your ship has arrived at the northern plateau,” Captain Kett told Sienar. “We’ve received a laser beacon signal from Ke Daiv himself. The protocol droid has established its credentials and presented him. He is awaiting transport to Middle Distance.”
Kett preceded the commander down the bright corridor leading to the Admiral Korvin’s shuttle bay.
Sienar nodded absently at the news. He was about to inspect the squadron. If Ke Daiv failed to buy a Sekotan ship, the next step would be all too Tarkinish: a show of power diplomacy at close quarters.
Sienar briefly gave in to a vision where he traded one Republic Dreadnought for all the ships in his squadron. Not like you to prefer the large and impressive. Tarkin’s thinking getting to you? Not sure Ke Daiv will succeed? Subtlety will win this day. You have what you need.
He was confident he could make what he had seem a very tangible threat, under the circumstances. Something has burned them already. Once burned, perhaps twice cowed.
Unless they’ve faced an even greater threat … and prevailed.
But he could not see how that was possible. The planet was only very lightly developed and sparsely settled. It was practically virgin territory. Who would bother to mount a planet-scarring invasion?
They walked up the short ramp into the diminutive shuttle.
Kett absorbed the long pause philosophically. He was growing accustomed to this commander’s style, though he did not like it. Sienar pulled back his long coat and sat in the central chair, with a good view of the slowly precessing star field beyond the shuttle’s long, sloping nose. “Anything more on those gouges?”
“No, sir.”
“Battle scars?” he mused. They had reminded him of snips made along puckered flesh by an expert surgeon.
“I believe they will prove to be geological anomalies,” Kett said.
“Maintain squadron distance and keep all intership communication to a minimum,” Sienar said. “I want no one scanning that planet. We are not here. Send a specific directive to all ships reminding them of that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re very close,” Sienar said, rubbing his hands on his elbows. They were unaccountably damp with sweat. “I will not tolerate any mistakes.”
A dim green light dropped like thick syrup from the end of the tunnel. The river had settled into a smooth, gently roiling flow as the cavern widened. Gann guided the boat with a few sure, deft stabs of the pole. They glided behind a natural ledge festooned with green and red tendrils. An open space atop the ledge had been kept clear, and Gann and the two attendants slipped ropes to two older Ferroans in black and gray.
The boat was snugged in and bobbed against the dock’s buffers like an animal nuzzling up an old friendship.
Obi-Wan walked forward and saw that his Padawan had fallen asleep. The long, restless night had finally taken its toll on him. Anakin lay in deep slumber, surrounded by his seed-partners, all still. His face was beautifully blank, brows straight, lips parted in slow and shallow breath, a simple and profound work of living art. Jabitha sat near his head, her hand brushing at the boy’s silky hair, and looked up at Obi-Wan, with her lower lip between her teeth.
“He’s very pretty,” she said. “Should we just let him sleep? There’s time.”
Anakin slept like a baby in the girl’s presence. That was significant. Obi-Wan was well aware of the boy’s frequent nightmares. He seemed much younger, asleep. Obi-Wan could easily bring back in memory the nine-year-old who had become his apprentice, now grown two hand spans taller—the same pleasant broad features, the nose a little larger.
He misses the female. Thracia Cho Leem knew that.
Obi-Wan reached out, then hesitated. He felt a strong urge not to wake the boy, to let him sleep like this forever, to forever anticipate a great adventure, forever dream of personal triumph and joy. This feeling held too much sentiment and weakness to be allowed, but he allowed it nevertheless. This must be how a father feels, looking down on his son, worried about an uncertain future, Obi-Wan thought. I would hate to see him fail. But I would hate far more to lose this boy. I would almost rather freeze time here, and freeze myself with it, than face that.
Someone familiar seemed to stand at his shoulder, and lost in this un-Jedi emotion, self-critically, wonderingly, Obi-Wan murmured, “He is no more special than any other child, is he?”
Like a whisper, in reply, “To you, he is. And now you know.”
Obi-Wan swung about and saw Gann approaching. The voice had not been Gann’s.
“Time to move on,” Gann said, searching Obi-Wan’s drawn and startled face. “Something wrong?”
“No.” With a small shiver, Obi-Wan gripped Anakin’s shoulder and gave him a single gentle shake. Anakin, as always, came from deep sleep to instant alertness. His seed-partners stirred and reattached themselves to his tunic and pants.
Obi-Wan’s seeds crawled up to his shoulders and chest, and together, master and apprentice climbed out of the long boat. Gann and Jabitha followed.
“I dreamed I was with Qui-Gon,” Anakin said. “He was teaching me something … I forget what.” The boy smiled and stretched his arms. “He said to tell you hello. He said you’re so hard to talk to.” Anakin ran for the ramp and stepped up onto the ledge of stone.
Obi-Wan stood as if stunned by a blow, then set his jaw and followed his Padawan.
Drums and the music of plucked strings drifted down the shaft. Behind this music came a number of deep male voices engaged in a strong, grunting chant.
“They’re waiting,” Gann said anxiously. “The forging is about to begin!”
Jabitha walked in step beside Anakin. “Are you excited?” she said.
“Why should I be?” he asked with bravado.
“Because you’re the youngest client ever,” she said. “And because if you succeed, your ship may be the best ever made.”
“All right,” Anakin said, taking a deep breath. “That’s pretty exciting.”
Jabitha gave him a broad smile and put her arm around his shoulders. Anakin’s face stiffened in youthful dignity, and Obi-Wan detected a flush on his cheeks, even in the dim light. As they climbed, they passed two choruses of Ferroan men, all holding small drums and stringed allutas. Lit by electric torches, they chanted, their voices following the party of four all the way to the top of the shaft.
“Aren’t they grand?” Jabitha said.
“If you think so,” Anakin said.
This is the head of the factory valley,” Gann said as they reached the top of the last long flight of steps.
Anakin’s extra brace of seed-partners felt particularly heavy after the climb. Jabitha had run ahead, reaching the top before they did, and now rejoined them, her face wreathed in a smile.
Anakin looked up at the high, arching branches of boras densely interlaced over a hundred meters overhead, forming the roof of an immense hall. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, casting a dreamlike, green-tinted light over a causeway of stones. The causeway extended for several kilometers between straight walls comprised of long, close-packed, octagonal columns of lava.
Tumbled brown boulders had been caught in these walls before they solidified, interrupting the regular fence-post arrangements. Some of the boulders, as big as Anakin’s room in the Temple, had cracked open, revealing hollows in which brilliant orange and green crystals were packed as tight as needles in Shmi’s knitting cushion. All along the walls, thick black tendrils striped with red thru
st up between the regular, octagonal basalt paving stones of the causeway, pushing them aside, and reaching for dozens of meters to join with the trunks of the boras. Smaller green-striped tendrils forked from the big ones and curled within the hollow boulders, as if resting before some final effort.
The air beneath the canopy was dense and moist, blood-temperature, not easy to breathe. It was filled with thick, sweet smells—flowers and cakes, wine and ale, and an intense undertone of soil.
“The stones were here before we arrived,” Jabitha said, face solemn in the green-cast gloom. “And the boras were here, as well. Just last year, Father made a new rule: When the factory begins its work, the boras hide what we’re making, in case anyone should catch us by surprise.”
“Your father is a brilliant man,” Gann said solemnly. Obi-Wan again noted Gann’s pallor when they talked about the recent past.
A sound like giant horns blew down between the stone walls, followed by great warm blasts of thicker, moister air. Above, the massive trunks of the boras twisted and shivered, and the arching branches stirred and rustled with a sound like many hissing voices. Fragments of cast-off boras skin showered down upon the causeway.
Their seed-partners shivered violently.
“They can’t wait much longer,” Gann said.
Anakin could not believe he was actually here. Had he dreamed this place, that it seemed so familiar? With every step, he felt as if he were two people, one who had been here before, who knew all this so well, and a young boy born on another world far, far away. He was not sure from moment to moment who was foremost, who did his walking and thinking. He looked at Obi-Wan and for a moment could not remember who the man was, walking beside Gann, wearing a Sekotan ritual robe.
But Anakin bore down and drew these selves together, using Jedi discipline to sharpen and unify his consciousness, and to unify and bring to order all those ranks of thought below consciousness.
All but the lowest and most private layer, on the edge of nonself. It was here that this other lurked with its vague, dark, and separate memories.