Star Wars Rogue Planet ( Greg Bear )

by Kenneth Stephens

  Star Wars

  Rogue Planet

  By Greg Bear

  Chapter 1

  Anakin Skywalker stood in a long, single-file line in an abandoned maintenance tunnel leading to the Wicko district garbage pit. With an impatient sigh, he hoisted his flimsy and tightly folded race wings by their leather harness and propped the broad rudder on the strap of his flight sandal. Then he leaned the wings against the wall of the tunnel and, tongue be­tween his lips, applied the small glowing blade of a pocket welder, like a tiny lightsaber, to a crack in the left lateral brace. Repairs finished, he waggled the rotator experimentally. Smooth, though old.

  Just the week before, he had bought the wings from a former champion with a broken back. Anakin had worked his wonders in record time, so he could fly now in the very competition where the champion had ended his career.

  Anakin enjoyed the wrenching twist and bone-popping jerk of the race wings in flight. He savored the speed and the extreme difficulty as some savor the beauty of the night sky, difficult enough to see on Coruscant, with its eternal planet-spanning city-glow. He craved the competition and even felt a thrill at the nervous stink of the contestants, scum and riffraff all.

  But above all, he loved winning.

  The garbage pit race was illegal, of course. The authorities on Coruscant tried to maintain the image of a staid and respectable metropolitan planet, capital of the Republic, center of law and civilization for tens of thousands of stellar systems. The truth was far otherwise, if one knew where to look, and Anakin instinc­tively knew where to look.

  He had, after all, been born and raised on Tatooine.

  Though he loved the Jedi training, stuffing himself into such tight philosophical garments was not easy. Anakin had sus­pected from the very beginning that on a world where a thousand species and races met to palaver, there would be places of great fun.

  The tunnel master in charge of the race was a Naplousean, little more than a tangle of stringlike tissues with three legs and a knotted nubbin of glittering wet eyes. "First flight is away," it hissed as it walked in quick, graceful twirls down the narrow, smooth-walled tunnel. The Naplousean spoke Basic, except when it was angry, and then it simply smelled bad. "Wings! Up!" it ordered.

  Anakin hefted his wings over one shoulder with a profession­ally timed series of grunts, one-two-three, slipped his arms through the straps, and cinched the harness he had cut down to fit the frame of a twelve-year-old human boy.

  The Naplousean examined each of the contestants with many critical eyes. When it came to Anakin, it slipped a thin, dry rib­bon of tissue between his ribs and the straps and tugged with a strength that nearly pulled the boy over.

  "Who you?" the tunnel master coughed.

  "Anakin Skywalker," the boy said. He never lied, and he never worried about being punished.

  "You way bold," the tunnel master observed. "What mother and father say, we bring back dead boy?"

  "They'll raise another," Anakin answered, hoping to sound tough and capable, but not really caring what opinion the tunnel master held so long as it let him race.

  "I know racers," the Naplousean said, its knot of eyes fight­ing each other for a better view. "You no racer!"

  Anakin kept a respectful silence and focused on the circle of murky blue light ahead, growing larger as the line shortened.

  "Ha!" the Naplousean barked, though it was impossible for its kind to actually laugh. It twirled back down the line, poking, tugging, and issuing more pronouncements of doom, all the while followed by an adoring little swarm of cam droids.

  A small, tight voice spoke behind Anakin. "You've raced here before."

  Anakin had been aware of the Blood Carver in line behind him for some time. There were only a few hundred on all of Cor­uscant, and they had joined the Republic less than a century before. They were an impressive-looking people: slender, grace­ful, with long three-jointed limbs, small heads mounted on a high, thick neck, and iridescent gold skin.

  "Twice," Anakin said. "And you?"

  "Twice," the Blood Carver said amiably, then blinked and looked up. Across the Blood Carver's narrow face, his nose spread into two fleshy flaps like a split shield, half hiding his wide, lipless mouth. The ornately tattooed nose flaps functioned both as a sensor of smell and a very sensitive ear, supplemented by two small pits behind his small, onyx-black eyes. "The tunnel master is correct. You are too young." He spoke perfect Basic, as if he had been brought up in the best schools on Coruscant.

  Anakin smiled and tried to shrug. The weight of the race wings made this gesture moot.

  "You will probably die down there," the Blood Carver added, eyes aloof.

  "Thanks for the support," Anakin said, his face coloring. He did not mind a professional opinion, such as that registered by the tunnel master, but he hated being ragged, and he especially hated an opponent trying to psych him out.

  Fear, hatred, anger. . . The old trio Anakin fought every day of his life, though he revealed his deepest emotions to only one man: Obi-Wan Kenobi, his master in the Jedi Temple.

  The Blood Carver stooped slightly on his three-jointed legs. "You smell like a slave," he said softly, for Anakin's ears alone.

  It was all Anakin could do to keep from throwing off his wings and going for the Blood Carver's long throat. He swal­lowed his emotions down into a private cold place and stored them with the other dark things left over from Tatooine. The Blood Carver was on target with his insult, which stiffened Anakin's anger and made it harder to control himself. Both he and his mother, Shmi, had been slaves to the supercilious junk dealer, Watto. When the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn had won him from Watto, they had had to leave Shmi behind . . . something Anakin thought about every day of his life.

  "You four next!" the tunnel master hissed, breezing by with its midsection whirled out like ribbons on a child's spinner.

  Mace Windu strode down a narrow side hall in the main dor­mitory of the Jedi Temple, lost in thought, his arms tucked into his long sleeves, and was nearly bowled over by a trim young Jedi who dashed from a doorway. Mace stepped aside deftly, just in time, but stuck out an elbow and deliberately clipped the younger Jedi, who spun about.

  "Pardon me, Master," Obi-Wan Kenobi apologized, bowing quickly. "Clumsy of me."

  "No harm," Mace Windu said. "Though you should have known I was here."

  "Yes. The elbow. A correction. I'm appreciative." Obi-Wan was, in fact, embarrassed, but there was no time to explain things.

  "In a hurry?"

  "A great hurry," Obi-Wan said.

  "The chosen one is not in his quarters?" Mace's tone carried both respect and irony, a combination at which he was particu­larly adept.

  "I know where he's gone, Master Windu. I found his tools, his workbench."

  "Not just building droids we don't need?"

  "No, Master," Obi-Wan said.

  "About the boy—" Mace Windu began.

  "Master, when there is time."

  "Of course," Mace said. "Find him. Then we shall speak . . . and I want him there to listen."

  "Of course, Master!" Obi-Wan did not disguise his haste. Few could hide concern or intent from Mace Windu.

  Mace smiled. "He will bring you wisdom!" he called out as Obi-Wan ran down the hall toward the turbolift and the Tem­ple's sky transport exit.

  Obi-Wan was not in the least irritated by the jibe. He quite agreed. Wisdom, or insanity. It was ridiculous for a Jedi to always be chasing after a troublesome Padawan. But Anakin was no or­dinary Padawan. He had been bequeathed to Obi-Wan by Obi-Wan's own beloved Master, Qui-Gon Jinn.

  Yoda had put the situation to Obi-Wan with some style a few months back, as they squ
atted over a glowing charcoal fire and cooked shoo bread and wurr in his small, low-ceilinged quarters. Yoda had been about to leave Coruscant on business that did not concern Obi-Wan. He had ended a long, contemplative silence by saying, "A very interesting problem you face, and so we all face, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

  Obi-Wan, ever the polite one, had tilted his head as if he were not acquainted with any particular problem.

  "The chosen one Qui-Gon gave to us all, not proven, full of fear, and yours to save. And if you do not save him ..."

  Yoda had said nothing more to Obi-Wan about Anakin thereafter. His words echoed in Obi-Wan's thoughts as he took an express taxi to the outskirts of the Senate District. Travel time—mere minutes, with wrenching twists and turns through hundreds of slower, cheaper lanes and levels of traffic.

  Obi-Wan was concerned it would not be nearly fast enough.

  The pit spread before Anakin as he stepped out on the apron below the tunnel. The three other contestants in this flight jos­tled for a view. The Blood Carver was particularly rough with Anakin, who had hoped to save all his energy for the flight.

  What's eating him? the boy wondered.

  The pit was two kilometers wide and three deep from the top of the last accelerator shield to the dark bottom. This old mainte­nance tunnel overlooked the second accelerator shield. Squinting up, Anakin saw the bottom of the first shield, a huge concave roof cut through with an orderly pattern of hundreds of holes, like an overturned colander in Shmi's kitchen on Tatooine. Each hole in this colander, however, was ten meters wide. Hundreds of shafts of sunlight dropped from the ports to pierce the gloom, acting like sundials to tell the time in the open world, high above the tunnel. It was well past meridian.

  There were over five thousand such garbage pits on Corus­cant. The city-planet produced a trillion tons of garbage every hour. Waste that was too dangerous to recycle—fusion shields, worn-out hyperdrive cores, and a thousand other by-products of a rich and highly advanced world—was delivered to the district pit. Here, the waste was sealed into canisters, and the canisters were conveyed along magnetic rails to a huge circular gun car­riage below the lowest shield. Every five seconds, a volley of can­isters was propelled from the gun by chemical charges. The shields then guided the trajectory of the canisters through their holes, gave them an extra tractor-field boost, and sent them into tightly controlled orbits around Coruscant.

  Hour after hour, garbage ships in orbit collected the canisters and transported them to outlying moons for storage. Some of the most dangerous loads were actually shot off into the large, dim yellow sun, where they would vanish like dust motes cast into a volcano.

  It was a precise and necessary operation, carried out like clockwork day after day, year after year.

  Perhaps a century before, someone had thought of turning the pits into an illegal sport center, where aspiring young toughs from Coruscant's rougher neighborhoods, deep below the glit­tering upper city, could prove their mettle. The sport had be­come surprisingly popular in the pirate entertainment channels that fed into elite apartments, high in the star-scrubbing towers that rose everywhere on the capital world. Enough money was generated that some pit officials could be persuaded to turn a blind eye, so long as the contestants were the only ones at risk.

  A garbage canister, hurled through the accelerator shields, could easily swat a dozen racers aside without damage to itself. The last shield would supply it with the corrective boost neces­sary to compensate for a few small lives.

  Anakin watched the flickering jump light on the tunnel ceil­ing with focused concentration, lips tight, eyes wide, a little dew of sweat on his cheeks. The tunnel was hot. He could hear the roar of canisters, see their silver specks shoot through the shield ports to the next higher level, leaving behind blue streaks of ion­ized air.

  The pit atmosphere smelled like a bad shop generator, thick with ozone and the burnt-rubber odor of gun discharge.

  The tunnel master twirled up to the exit to encourage the next team.

  "Glory and destiny!" the Naplousean enthused, and slapped Anakin across the brace between his wings. Anakin stayed fo­cused, trying to sense where the currents would be at this level, where the little vortices of lift and plunge would accumulate as they formed and rotated between the shields. Ozone would al­ways be in highest concentration in the areas where the winds would be strongest and most dangerous. And for every volley of canisters, following a prearranged formation through the shields, another volley would soon follow, taking a precisely determined series of alternate routes.

  Easy. Like flying between a storm of steel raindrops.

  Anakin's fellow racers took their places in the tunnel's exit, jockeying for the best position on the apron. The Blood Carver gave Anakin a jab with his jet-tipped right wing. Anakin pushed it aside and kept his focus.

  The Naplousean tunnel master lifted its ribbon-limb, the tip curling and uncurling in anticipation.

  The Blood Carver stood to Anakin's left and closed his eyes to slits. His nostril flaps pulsed and flared, filled with tiny sensory cavities, sweeping the air for clues.

  The Naplousean made a thick whickering noise—its way of cursing—and ordered the contestants to hold. A flying mainte­nance droid was making a sweep of this level. From where they waited, the droid appeared as a flyspeck, a tiny dot buzzing its way around the wide gray circumference of the pit, issuing little musical tones between the roar and swoosh of canisters.

  Managers could be bribed, but droids could not. They would have to wait until this one dropped to the level below.

  Another volley of canisters shot through the shields with an ear-stunning bellow. Blue ion trails curled like phantom serpents between the concave lower shield and the convex upper shield.

  "Longer for you to live," the Blood Carver whispered to Anakin. "Little human boy who smells like a slave."

  Obi-Wan, against all his personal inclinations, had made it his duty to know the ins and outs of anything having to do with illegal racing, anywhere within a hundred kilometers of the Jedi Temple. Anakin Skywalker, his charge, his responsibility, was one of the best Padawans in the Temple—easily fulfilling the promise sensed by Qui-Gon Jinn—but as if to compensate for this promise, to bring a kind of balance to the boy's lopsided brace of abilities, Anakin had an equal brace of faults.

  His quest for speed and victory was easily the most aggravat­ing and dangerous. Qui-Gon Jinn had perhaps encouraged this in the boy by allowing him to race for his own freedom, three years before, on Tatooine.

  But Qui-Gon could not justify his actions now.

  How Obi-Wan missed the unpredictable liveliness of his Master! Qui-Gon had spurred him to great effort by what ap­peared at first to be whimsical japes and always turned out to be profound readings of their situation.

  Under Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan had become one of the most capable and steady-tempered Jedi Knights in the Temple. Obi-Wan, for all his talents, had been not just a little like Anakin as a boy: rough-edged and prone to anger. Obi-Wan had soon come to find the quiet center of his place in the Force. He now pre­ferred an orderly existence. He hated conflict within his personal relations. In time, he had become the stable center and Qui-Gon had become the unpredictable goad. How often it had struck him that this topsy-turvy relationship with Qui-Gon had once more been neatly reversed—with Anakin!

  There were always two, Master and Padawan. And it was sometimes said in the Temple that the best pairs were those who complemented each other.

  He had once vowed, after a particularly trying moment, that he would reward himself with a year of isolation on a desert planet, far from Coruscant and any Padawans he might be assigned, once he was free of Anakin. But this did not stop him from carrying out his duties to the boy with an exacting passion.

  There were two garbage pits inside Anakin's radius of poten­tial mischief, and one was infamous for its competition pit dives. Obi-Wan searched for guidance from the Force. It was never too difficult to sense Anakin's prese
nce. He chose the nearest pit and climbed a set of maintenance stairs to the upper citizen-observation walkway at the top.

  Obi-Wan ran along the balustrade, empty at this hour of the day—the middle of the afternoon bureaucrat work period. He paid little attention to the roaring whine of the canisters as they soared through the air into space. Sonic booms rang out every few seconds, quite loud on the balustrade, but damped by slop­ing barriers before they reached the outlying buildings. He was looking for the right turbolift to take him to the lower levels, to the abandoned feed chambers and maintenance tunnels where the races would be staged.

  Air traffic was forbidden over the pit. The lanes of craft that constantly hummed over Coruscant like many layers of fishnet were diverted around the launch corridor, leaving an obvious pathway to the upper atmosphere, and to space above that. But within this vacant cylinder of air, occupied only by swiftly rising canisters of toxic garbage, Obi-Wan's keen eyes spotted a hover­ing observation droid.

  Not a city droid, but a 'caster model, not more than ten or twenty centimeters in diameter, of the kind used by entertain­ment crews. The droid was flying in high circles around the perimeter, vigilant for enforcement droids or officers. Obi-Wan looked for, and found, six more small droids, standing watch over the upper shield.

  Three flew in formation above a cupola less than a hundred meters from where Obi-Wan stood.

  These droids were guarding a likely exit point for the crews should metropolitan officials decide, for whatever reason, to ig­nore their bribes and shut down the races.

  And no doubt they were marking the turbolift Obi-Wan would have to take to find Anakin.

  The next dive had been postponed until the observers were certain that the pit watch droid had passed to the next lower level. The tunnel master was very upset by the delay. The air was thick with its nauseating odor.

  Anakin drew on his Padawan discipline and tried to ignore the stench and keep his focus on the space between the shields. They could dive at any moment, and he had to know the air cur­rents and sense the pattern of the canisters, still flying through the accelerator ports in endless procession, up and out into space.