by James Luceno
Many of those present were researchers and scientists involved with various aspects of the battle station project—the drives, shield and tractor beam technology, hypermatter power plant—without a full understanding of what they were working on. As a way of implementing the need-to-know tactics adopted by the cell, research was scattered among thousands of facilities on hundreds of worlds, with all interdisciplinary communication monitored and controlled. An entire branch of Republic security had been created merely to run constant surveillance on key personnel, eavesdrop on off-hours conversations, and capture images for scrutiny and analysis.
Krennic found a vantage point in the room and looked around. With so much drinking going on, he thought, one could almost forget that the Republic was at war.
He wasn’t the only one in uniform, as the Futures Program had fed as many graduates into the military as it had academia, the arts, and government service. But few of the officers were risk takers like himself. They were analysts and tacticians, lost in their data banks of information and safe in their hardened headquarters on Coruscant. Most would have remembered him as the one who was always speaking out of turn and yet managed to graduate with high honors.
Abandoning his position he began to circulate among them, keeping a watchful eye on Galen while affording him ample space to interact with friends and colleagues he hadn’t seen in years, many of whom regarded Galen as something of a superstar in scientific circles. A master of the invisible connections between things.
Krennic had originally dismissed Galen as the kind of retiring kid who typically would have been bullied or harassed mercilessly. Little by little, however, he came to appreciate Galen not only for his intellectual superiority, but also for his unique spirit. When called on by a professor, Galen would provide an answer without lifting his eyes from his desk, as if he were busy solving some other problem at the same time or finishing one of his outlandish sketches—with either hand. He had no interest in sports, drinking, flirting, or conquests. He saw the world as if with extrasensory eyes and ears, and had an ability to grasp heady concepts almost instinctively—concepts Krennic sometimes struggled to comprehend. He became fascinated by the prodigy from Grange, and on a couple of occasions had been Galen’s protector in fights or brawls.
Adept at reading people, Krennic had made the most of being surrounded by geniuses, and had used his stint in the Futures Program to hone his skills. He devoted himself to learning how to work with academics and scientists; how to put them on the same path and organize them into productive teams. His leadership became as important to a project as their contributions, and he built a reputation as someone who could be the interface between the ones with power and financing and the ones who could calculate and construct and make dreams come true. When it had come time for choosing someone from the Corps of Engineers to head up the Special Weapons Group, the cell had had to look no further than Orson Krennic.
Continuing his perambulation, he saw Lyra Erso speaking with Galen’s close friend Reeva Demesne, whom Krennic had drafted into the shield generator program. Having left year-old Jyn with a nanny, Lyra was on her own for a change and a veritable cynosure in a room full of mostly frumpy researchers. When Krennic imagined her, he saw her in rugged boots and hiking shorts and carrying an unwieldy pack on her back; seeing her now in a fashionable skirt and high heels was something of a revelation.
Krennic recalled running into Galen shortly after his return from Espinar several years earlier and being entertained by the crystallographer’s bright-eyed confession that he had fallen in love. Galen, who would scarcely raise his eyes when a pretty woman entered a room, in love? It had to be a joke. The thought of Galen’s genius being undermined by some grasping creature drove him to distraction. But Krennic couldn’t wait to meet the mysterious Lyra—the woman whose mere touch enchanted Galen—and when he did he understood what Galen had found in her: his opposite. Each of them drawn to the other’s exotic qualities. Still, he hadn’t expected the love affair to last more than a couple of months, and was shocked when they wed.
All these years later Krennic still wasn’t used to the two of them.
Once he was instrumental in persuading Galen to accept his destiny by joining the project, was Lyra going to be a problem? Thank the stars, that child had come along to keep her occupied and out of his way.
He stopped to listen in on a huddle of people speaking about Galen, and every so often glancing at him. He edged closer to hear a computer engineer named Dagio Belcoze inaccurately recounting the details of Galen’s imprisonment on Vallt. An Iktotchi of medium height with a battering-ram forehead and a pair of polished downturned horns, Belcoze was a member of Dr. Gubacher’s artificial intelligence team, designing enhanced overseer droids to supervise the battle station labor force. The near-human’s big right hand held a drink, and he was ranting that the Republic should simply bomb the Separatist capital world of Raxus out of existence—and that people like Galen Erso were an insult to the goal of victory.
Pushing his way through the huddle, Belcoze staggered up to Galen, who was a centimeter or so taller than Dagio, but lighter by several kilos.
“Here he is,” the Iktotchi began in a loud slur. “The prodigal kyber specialist who refuses to join the cause.” He spread his fleshy hands. “Perhaps he thinks he’s too intelligent to work with the rest of us. He’d rather work on a Separatist world than serve the Republic.”
Even caught by surprise, Galen appeared unperturbed by the allegation. “You’re drunk, Dagio,” he said. “Which comes as no surprise. What does, is the fact that you’re so obviously deluded.”
Galen’s calm only made Dagio angrier. “The always elusive Erso. I’d like to hear you deny the charges of treason publicly.”
Galen shut his eyes for a moment. “I’ve nothing to deny, and nothing more to say to you.”
Krennic spotted Lyra winding through the onlookers to reach Galen as he turned to leave. At the same time, Reeva Demesne saw the situation beginning to escalate and attempted to mediate by stepping between Galen and Dagio and stretching out her arms.
“Gentlemen, please,” she said, “this is not an occasion for recriminations.”
With a deft sidestep, Dagio outmaneuvered her, took Galen by the shoulder, and spun him around.
“Just what intelligence did you share with them while you were allegedly in custody?”
Galen’s face took on sudden color. “I told them what everyone here already knows: that Dagio Belcoze is a second-rate slicer who for years has taken credit for coding written by far more gifted beings.”
Krennic moved quickly, placing himself just behind the Iktotchi’s left shoulder as Dagio hurled the icy drink directly into Galen’s face. Krennic had already discerned that the drink was a diversion, and that Dagio’s free hand was cocked and ready to launch. When Galen fell back a step, the Iktotchi fired off a powerful jab aimed at the side of Galen’s jaw. Galen, though, was a step ahead of him. Slipping to one side, he raised his arm, assuring that Dagio’s punch would deflect off his forearm, then, in a move that caught even Krennic off guard, Galen came in under Dagio’s extended arm with a powerful cross that connected solidly with the Iktotchi’s cheekbone and sent him stumbling back, confused and bleeding.
A few of Dagio’s friends had the wisdom to hold him back, as Lyra was suddenly at her husband’s side ready to plant a heel directly into the Iktotchi’s forehead.
“Just like old times,” Krennic said, stepping carefully to Galen’s other side, “except it seems I no longer have to fight your battles.”
Galen wiped the drink from his face and nursed his fist. “You never did.”
In the ensuing confusion, the room divided into two camps. Adjusting her stance, Lyra slipped her arm through Galen’s and began leading him toward the door.
Krennic watched them go.
Galen had been publicly accused of being a traitor, and now humiliated because of his reluctance to serve the Republic. Krennic couldn’t hav
e orchestrated it any better had he tried.
IT WAS THE RAINY SEASON on that part of Geonosis. The vast, normally red desert plain had been transformed into a foul-smelling acidic lake that had attracted migratory beasts from throughout the region, and the cluster of dripstone spires that made up the Stalgasin hive rose like islands in the mist. The vaguely circular petranaki arena—a natural butte that had been decapitated and hollowed—hosted a shallow lake of its own, composed of the spilled blood of several thousand drones who had died after three days of gladiatorial games and had yet to soak fully into the gritty sand.
Seated among Geonosian aristocrats who had paid fortunes to revel in being spattered by airborne gore, Krennic shuddered at the thought of having to spend what might be a decade on and above the irradiated world. An astringent smell assaulted his nostrils, possibly the loosed pheromones that were whipping the assembled crowd of a hundred thousand flightless drones and winged soldiers to a near frenzy.
The reason for the celebration was twofold: It was both the Eve of Meckgin and the long-overdue homecoming of the hive’s leader, Archduke Poggle the Lesser, whom Krennic had escorted home, traveling by Star Destroyer to the newly established Sentinel Base that safeguarded Geonosis space before transferring to a smaller ship that had carried them the rest of the way. Now the archduke occupied a shell-like podium that had risen from the bowels of the arena and was waiting for the place to settle down so that he could address the multitudes.
Alongside and behind Krennic in the membrane-shaded visitors’ boxes were a handful of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s emissaries and cronies, including Sate Pestage, Ars Dangor, and Janus Greejatus. All, like Krennic, were attired in antirad hydration suits and transpirators, except for the chancellor’s bald-headed and ethereal administrative aide, Sly Moore, who wore an invaluable Umbaran shadowcloak that looked as if it had been spun from feathers. Krennic was grateful to see Poggle on the podium at last, certain that another hour of the phantasmagoria would drive him mad.
“How blessed I am by the Creator in being able to join you on an occasion of such spectacle and bravery,” the archduke began. “How wonderful it feels to be returned to ever-dramatic Geonosis, harsh but ever welcoming, scoured by the rays of our crimson sun and emboldened by them, blessed to have this corner of space to ourselves so that the Geonosian society has been able take charge of its own evolution and fulfill its destiny.”
Poggle had a new staff of office—a kind of crooked walking stick carved from the tusk of an indigenous carnivorous behemoth—which he lifted into the air to a deafening chorus of clicks and whistles from the crowd.
“It is, in fact, by the good graces of the Republic, whose representatives are today our guests, that I am able to participate.”
An angry buzzing rose from the cheap seats. Orray-mounted Geonosian picadors armed with stun poles zapped a few audience members into silence before things could get out of control, but Ars Dangor had his doubts. “I fear we could become appetizers at the drop of a hat,” he said to Krennic through speakers built into the transpirators.
As a show of faith, Krennic had ordered the ship’s complement of clone troopers to remain aboard, but he was beginning to question his decision. He tried to imagine what it had been like when a couple of Jedi had nearly been butchered in the arena and certainly would have died had other Jedi and a regiment of Grand Army soldiers not arrived in the nick of time, seemingly out of nowhere and taking the galaxy by surprise. Might he be sitting in Count Dooku’s seat just now?
Poggle’s knobby hands were making calming gestures.
“Yes, yes, it cannot be denied that we have had our differences with the Republic; that two great battles have been fought on our hallowed grounds against the forces of the Republic. But let us pause for a moment to consider the circumstances that led to those conflicts.
“Some of you gathered here today are old enough to remember when Baktoid Armor Workshop came to Geonosis and struck a deal with us to build foundries and produce battle droids and other automata for which we were handsomely rewarded. Then, as ever, we were able to overcome our natural contempt for outsiders in order to fulfill what seemed a noble task.
“Sheltered in remote space, how could we have known that in fully devoting ourselves to that enterprise—for we would never do less—we were serving the interests of a trade cartel that would bring strife to the Outer Rim. Later, too, when Count Dooku came to renew our contract with Baktoid, how could we have known that this human, a former Jedi Knight, had aligned himself with a confederacy of Separatists—a confederacy determined not only to secede from the Republic, but also to cripple the economy of the galaxy by engaging in an all-out war.
“The Republic is not our enemy!”
Wing flapping and whistling erupted from the upper-caste galleries, and the suddenly stirred air wafted the odor of grilled arch grubs into Krennic’s breath mask.
“How fitting that on this day celebrating the virtues of industry I should be able to announce the next great undertaking of the Stalgasin hive—and perhaps the greatest it has ever undertaken.”
The arena fell eerily silent, tangibly expectant. Even the beasts—the chained reeks and acklays—quieted.
Poggle played to the moment, posing a question.
“How many of you have gazed into the heavens at night and seen something new taking shape above our world? A crescent, a circle, a gleaming ring that is like the portal to another dimension? Many of you have grasped that our asteroids have been supplying the raw materials for the ring, as our dismantled and reassembled foundries have been furnishing the finished products. But how many of you are aware that the ring is an artifact of our hive? That the ring is, in fact, a Geonosian creation?”
Krennic smiled to himself: Poggle was finally taking credit for it.
“We have now been tasked to realize the dream that originated with our designers, in constructing a mobile orb of such size that it will seem to some nothing less than a small moon. This will be the greatest enterprise in which the hive has ever participated, not merely because of the scale but also because the work will necessitate that many of you execute it from inside the orb itself—in space, from where you will be able to gaze down in wonder on our homeworld while you go happily about your assignments.
“Is this not reason for celebration of unprecedented magnitude?”
He gave the crowd ample time to whoop it up, then simmer down.
“I have saved the most important announcement for last,” he added in a serious tone. “We have a viable queen—which will shortly mean a doubling of our workforce and the subsequent doubling of our efforts! So let the games continue for another three days. Let blood be spilled and drones prove themselves worthy of escalation. And let us give good cheer to those representatives of the Republic who have helped bring about this miracle of service!”
Krennic’s stomach turned at the thought of having to sit through another three days of bloodletting, but a rush of smugness galvanized him.
—
“Nicer surroundings than for my last interrogation,” Galen said after he had taken a seat in the adjutant general’s office.
“I was assured that Republic Intelligence treated you very civilly,” Wilhuff Tarkin said from his chair.
There was a desk in the room, but Tarkin had motioned Galen to an armchair in a sitting area with a low table centered on an expensive carpet adorned with the Republic symbol. Artwork and datacrons filled the hardwood shelves, and a large window looked out on the Senate Dome.
“I’m referring to my interrogation on Vallt,” Galen clarified. “It was bitter cold and the roof leaked. You obviously enjoy a loftier administrative position than Chieftain Gruppe does. Or did, depending on whether she survived the Republic attack.”
Tarkin smiled thinly. “I’m told that she did indeed survive. Perhaps she now occupies the very cell you did.”
Galen eyebrows went up in surprise. “I’m glad to hear she’s alive.”
&nbs
p; “You two became friendly?”
“You mean as interrogators and their captives sometimes do?”
“I’m simply curious.”
Galen snorted. “Simple curiosity doesn’t go especially well with this room or your uniform, Commander.”
Galen didn’t know anything about Tarkin, other than that he had served in the Republic Navy before being appointed adjutant general. A tall man some ten or fifteen years older than Galen, he had sunken cheeks, a high brow, and a look of penetrating intelligence.
“Let’s not get off on the wrong foot, Dr. Erso. This is an informal interview, not a cross-examination.”
“Formal, informal, what’s the difference anymore? Is there a particular cam you wish me to face?”
“You are under no obligation to answer my questions. As I told you, you’re entitled to a lawyer—”
“Perhaps we could begin by your answering one of mine.”
Tarkin relaxed in his chair and crossed one knee over the over. “I’m at your disposal.”
“Why am I being prevented from leaving Coruscant? Zerpen’s facility on Vallt is now back in operation and I fully expect the company to rehire me.”
Tarkin made his thin lips even thinner. “The problem as I understand it is that Zerpen is still doing business with worlds in danger of falling to the Separatists, and we can’t risk your being involved in another incident.”
“But Vallt has returned to the Republic.”
“For the moment. Vallt lies in a very contested sector. It could change hands several times before this conflict ends, as has happened to many worlds. There is also, I’m afraid, the ongoing investigation into your loyalty to the Republic.”
Galen made a fatigued sound. “I’m certain you have access to my debriefings by Republic Intelligence and COMPOR.”