Star Wars Rogue Planet ( Greg Bear )

by Kenneth Stephens

  "So he makes a great spy?"

  "A great spymaster. And an extraordinarily resourceful pilot," Obi-Wan said.

  Chapter 7

  Raith Sienar was a very wealthy man. His scrupulous attention to markets, his extraordinary skill in managing his workers—human and otherwise—and his strategy of always keeping operations relatively small and localized had brought him profits beyond his wildest dreams of youth.

  This new prospect—of joining with Tarkin in an enterprise both nebulous and risky—made him nervous, but something deep inside pushed him forward nonetheless.

  Instinct had moved him this far, and instinct said this was the pulse of the future. In truth, he might know a few more things about that future than Tarkin.

  Still, it was wise to be cautious, knowledgeable, prepared, in all times of change.

  Another contributor to his success had been his habit of hiding excesses. And he did indeed have excesses—that was the word he used, much better than foibles or eccentricities.

  Not even Tarkin knew about Sienar's collection of failed experiments.

  Sienar walked slowly down the long hall that lay over a kilometer beneath the central factory floor of Sienar Systems' main Coruscant plant. Holograms appeared just ahead of him, holo-projectors turning on as he passed, showing product rollouts for the Republic Defense Procurement plan ten years before, com­mendations from senators and provincial governors, prototype deliveries for the early contracts with the many branches of the Trade Federation, which had become more and more cloaked in secrecy as it tightened its central authority.

  He smiled at the most beautiful—and so far, the largest—of his products, a thousand-passenger ceremonial cruiser rated at Class Two, designed for triumphal receptions on worlds signing exclusive contracts with the Trade Federation.

  And then there was his fastest and most advanced design, most heavily armed, as well, made for a very secretive customer— someone of whom Sienar suspected Tarkin was completely ignorant. He should not underestimate my own contacts, my own political pull! he thought.

  But in fact, Sienar had never learned with certainty just who that customer was, only that he—or she, or it—favored Sienar designs. But he suspected the buyer was a person of great impor­tance. And he suspected much more, as well. A buyer whose name it is death to even whisper.

  So the Republic was changing, perhaps dying, perhaps being murdered around them day by day. Tarkin intimated as much, and Sienar could not disagree. But Sienar would survive.

  His ships had likely ferried between star systems the very personages that Tarkin could only hint at. That made him proud, but at the same time . . .

  Raith Sienar knew that extraordinary opportunity also meant extraordinary danger.

  Tarkin was sufficiently intelligent and very ambitious, and also as venal as they came. This amused Sienar, who fancied himself above most of the comforts of the flesh. The comforts of the intellect, however, he was perfectly willing to wallow in.

  Luxurious intellectual toys were his weakness, and the best of those toys were the failures of his competitors, which he bought cheap whenever he could, saving them from the scrap heaps of technological disgrace. Sometimes he had had to rescue these unhappy products from a kind of execution. Some were too dangerous to be kept operational, or even intact.

  He keyed in his entry code to the underground museum and sniffed at the cool air, then stood for a moment in the darkness of the small antechamber, savoring the peace. Sienar came here most often to think, to get away from all distractions, to make key decisions.

  Recognizing him, the chamber turned on its lights, and he keyed another code into the door to the museum's long underground nave. With an anticipatory sigh, Sienar entered this tem­ple of failures, smiled, and lifted his arms in greeting to the ranks of exhibits.

  Standing among these glorious examples of overreaching and bad planning helped clear his mind wonderfully. So much failure, so many technical and political missteps—bracing, tart, like a cold, astringent shower!

  A group of his favorites occupied a transparent cube near the museum entrance: a squad of four hulking universal combat droids equipped with so many weapons they could hardly lift themselves from the ground. They had been manufactured in the factory system of Kol Huro, seven planets totally devoted to turning out defense systems and starships for a petty and vicious tyrant vanquished by the Republic fifteen years ago. Each was over four meters tall and almost as broad, with very tiny intelligence units, slow, awkward, as stupid in conception as the tyrant who had ordered their design. Sienar had smuggled them past Republic customs ten years ago, and they had not been disarmed, nor were their weapons nonfunctional. Their core intelligence had been removed, however. Not that it had made that much difference. They were kept on minimum power, and their sensors tracked him slowly as he walked past, their tiny eyes glowing, their weapons pods jerking in disappointment.

  He smiled, not at them, pitiful monstrosities, but at their makers.

  Next in his rank of prizes came a more insidious machine, one that actually revealed both ingenuity and some care in execution: a landing pod designed to invade the metal-bearing aster­oids of an unexploited star system and set up shop, making small invasion droids out of the raw ore. The mining equipment had been very well made. The unit had failed, however, in the finesse of its droid factories. Less than one out of a hundred of the droids had proven functional.

  Sienar had thought often about this approach, creating a machine to make more machines, all of them programmed to carry out offensive strategies. But the Republic had too many scruples to show much interest in such weapons, and the Neimoidian leaders in the Trade Federation had rejected them out of hand as impractical. Not much imagination there, at least as of a few years ago ...

  Perhaps that was why their leadership had capitulated to Chancellor Palpatine.

  The lights came on for the major rank of cubicles, stretching off five hundred meters to the end of the nave. Two thousand and twelve exhibits of failed weapons and ship design. So many minatory admonishments—you are fallible, Raith Sienar. Always think three times before acting, and then, always prepare three alternatives.

  A small cubicle between two larger exhibits held a rather ugly assassin droid, with a long cylindrical head and rudimentary thorax. These assassins had failed on two accounts: they were depressingly obvious in appearance, and they were likely to go completely out of control and kill their makers. This one had had its verbobrain crisped by high-security droids. Sienar kept it here because a former classmate from Rigovian Technical University had been involved in the design, and this very unit had killed her. It was a cautionary reminder not to overstep one's competence.

  Anticipating a change in political psychology, Sienar had recently begun to contemplate his own weaknesses, his own narrow focus. He had always preferred elegance, finesse, and pin­point expression of power. And he had always dealt with leaders who more or less agreed—a widespread ruling class used to cen­turies of relative calm, used to dealing with isolated system wars through embargo and police action. Who would replace such a ruling class?

  Those who espoused elegance and finesse?

  He did not think so. Entering his museum of failures, he had begun to see himself mounted in the center of his own prize exhibits, rigid, inflexible, outdated, outmoded . . . and so young!

  Those who replace effete elites rule by brutality. This was a law in the history of the galaxy. A kind of political balance, frighten­ing but true.

  Months ago, coming at his craft from another angle— brutal and centralized strength—Sienar had begun work on the Expeditionary Battle Planetoid, whose design had so entranced Tarkin. Tarkin's reaction suggested that Sienar's guess—stab in the dark might be more accurate—had hit its mark. These new leaders might be far more impressed by high melodrama than style.

  Tarkin himself had always been easily impressed by size and brute force. That was why Sienar had kept up their friendship. Tarkin
was astute politically and militarily, but in Sienar's own expertise—the machines of transportation and war—he was decidedly inferior. Tarkin had admitted as much in their interview.

  Yet. . . Admitting a weakness, the need for a partner, was unlike Tarkin in so many ways.

  Who was playing with whom?

  "Most interesting," a voice behind him said. Sienar nearly jumped out of his skin. Spinning about, he looked between two cubicles and saw the tall, thin form of Tarkin, half in shadow, his blue eyes gleaming like small beads. Standing tall behind him, a being with multijointed limbs, an incredibly broad nose, and iridescent gold skin watched Sienar closely.

  "Suddenly I find there's very little time, and we need something from you," Tarkin said. "You are either with us on this ven­ture, or we move without you. But I must have a certain piece of information. If you decide against joining us, and give us that in­formation, then out of respect for our friendship, and knowing you can keep a few secrets if there's profit in it, my young ac­quaintance here will not kill you."

  Sienar knew he could not afford the time to be surprised. Times were changing. Friendships could be expected to change as well. To ask how Tarkin and his associate happened to gain access to his private sanctuary would be fruitless and, in the discourse of the moment, possibly even rude.

  "You want something from me," Sienar rephrased, with a wry smile. "Something you don't think I'll give willingly. But all you had to do was ask, Tarkin."

  Tarkin ignored this. There was now no humor in him at all and no tolerance. His face looked surprisingly old and malevolent. Evil.

  Sienar sensed desperation.

  "You were once a major subcontractor in a retrofit of the YT light trade class of vessels."

  "That's a matter of record. Most of them have long since been put out of service by their original owners. Later models are so much more efficient."

  Tarkin waved that away. "You placed a tracking unit in the integument of every vessel you retrofitted. One you could activate with a private code. And you did not reveal this fact to the owners, or for that matter, to any authorities."

  Sienar's expression did not change. He needs the codes necessary to switch on one of the trackers.

  "Hurry," the Blood Carver said, its voice thin but self-possessed. Sienar noticed the tall gold being was recovering from a number of wounds, some superficial, but at least two more serious.

  "Give me the ship's serial number, and I'll give you the code," Sienar said. "As a friend. Really, Tarkin."

  Tarkin gestured quickly to the Blood Carver. He held out a small datapad on which the number was displayed, blinking rapidly in red. Beneath the number, an orbital registry account was also blinking, indicating the docking slot would soon be open for another Senate-sponsored vessel.

  It took him no time at all to reconstruct the code string for that particular vessel. He had created the code based on an equation that utilized the serial number. He told them the code, and the Blood Carver entered it into his comlink and transmitted it.

  Sienar shifted in his clothes, hoping to find the small spy droid that had obviously been set upon him during Tarkin's last visit. "The tracker will be useless in hyperspace," he told Tarkin. "It's low-power and unreliable at extreme distances. I've since learned how to build better."

  "We'll have a newer tracker partner with yours before the ship leaves orbit. We need the code for them to communicate. Together, they'll serve our purposes."

  "A senatorial vessel?" Sienar asked.

  Tarkin shook his head. "Owned by an auxiliary of the Jedi. Stop fiddling with your pants, Raith. It's unseemly." Tarkin showed a small control unit fitted into his palm. He waved it ca­sually, and something rustled in Sienar's pants. He squirmed as it dropped down his leg and crawled away from his booted foot. It was a tidy little droid of a kind Sienar had not seen before, flat, flexible, able to change its texture to match that of clothing. Even an expert might have missed it.

  Sienar wondered how much this knowledge was going to cost him. "I was about to agree to your proposal, Tarkin," he said with petulance.

  "I say again, we are very pressed for time."

  "No time even for simple manners . . . between old friends?"

  "None at all," Tarkin said grimly. "The old ways are dying. We have to adapt. I have adapted."

  "I see. What more can I offer?"

  Tarkin finally saw fit to smile, but it did not make him seem any friendlier. Tarkin had always shown a little too much of the skull beneath the skin, even as a youth. "A great deal, Raith. It's been some time since you used your military training, but I have faith you haven't forgotten. Now that I'm sure you're with us—"

  "Wouldn't dream otherwise," Sienar said softly.

  "How would you like to command an expedition?"

  "To this exotic planet you spoke of earlier?"

  "Yes."

  "Why tell me of this world before now? If you couldn't trust me enough to give you such a thing as a tracker code."

  "Because I have recently been informed that to you, this world was no secret."

  Raith Sienar drew his head back like a serpent about to strike and sucked in his breath. "I am impressed, Tarkin. How many of my most trusted employees will I have to ... dismiss?"

  "You know the planet is real. You hold one of its ships."

  Sienar did not like being caught out in a ruse, however innocent. "A dead hulk," he said defensively, "acquired from a cor­rupt Trade Federation lieutenant who had killed its owner. The ships are useless unless their owners are alive."

  "Good to know. How many of these ships have been manu­factured, do you think?"

  "Perhaps a hundred."

  "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?"

  Chapter 8

  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."

  Chapter 9

  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."