Catalyst

by James Luceno

  Lyra made no effort to interrupt him, even though the research was beginning to sound more like alchemy or black magic than the science of the new age. She recognized what he was doing: in effect talking to himself in an attempt to reduce his insights to the simplest terms so they could be understood by others. His parents had never attempted to fix their compulsive son, and in some sense he had succeeded despite his imperfections. In his daily life he would sometimes go out of his way to introduce imperfection—in his drawings, his routines, his attempts at housecleaning—as a means of keeping himself from becoming overly occupied with results. When the habit leaked into his research notes, his theories could seem even more impenetrable.

  Frequently there were no words for what was in Galen’s mind, which made his formulas and equations intelligible only to a rare few. It wasn’t that he didn’t wish to see the world as others did; he was unable to. He saw more deeply into things, and was attuned to nature’s own musings and inner dialogues.

  She backed away from the console to watch him, then backed away a bit more so that she could take in the entire communications station, with its monitors and holoprojectors, and the screens displaying views of the giant kyber from every conceivable angle, and Jyn racing down a corridor. And it struck her that Galen was, in a way, back in prison.

  But this time willingly.

  Project Celestial Power was a kind of gilded cage.

  —

  Krennic listened intently to the surveillance recordings that had been uploaded from the Celestial Power facility on Coruscant to the command module in orbit above Geonosis, pausing the feed several times to replay fragments of Galen and Lyra’s conversations.

  “I only meant that the Jedi never would have wanted that energy to be turned to an evil purpose,” Lyra was saying.

  “Of course they wouldn’t,” Galen said. “And I was concerned about that very thing happening during the war, but not now. This is the Emperor’s dream.”

  “Can’t we just call him Palpatine—in private, I mean?”

  He paused the feed once more and sat back in his swivel chair, bouncing his steepled fingers against his lips in deep rumination.

  Just as he’d suspected, Lyra needed to be watched.

  THE WANTON WELLSPRING WASN’T THE sort of bar where patrons, regulars especially, were expected to make grand entrances, so Has—arriving for another meeting with Matese—was surprised when the two hulking, snuffling, snout-faced Gamorreans working the door allowed him to cut the line and all but ushered him inside. Maybe it had something to do with his new clothes or the way he was carrying himself that singled him out from the usual pikers looking for pickup work. For indeed everyone in the place, from the daunting Woana, who was coaxing drinks from customers at the bar, to a couple of Twi’lek musicians on break, turned to regard him as he stepped into the main room. Even his competitors took notice. But what should have been a kind of crowning moment was undermined by the looks they ultimately showed him, which were closer to circumspect than congratulatory. Whether stalked or skull-embedded or just spots on a carapace, optical organs followed him as he made his way to the corner table Matese had reserved. The atmosphere was charged with caution, and the few greetings he received were tentative.

  Matese had yet to show up, so Has collapsed into a chair, ordered a drink, and tried to make sense of the sidelong glances and the hushed conversations that were so obviously about him they nearly got his ears ringing.

  Before the drink arrived, a smuggler he knew only as Molo—a brawny old hand notoriously rumored to have sabotaged more than his share of rivals and currently as down on his luck as any of them—advanced on the table.

  “You don’t mind if I sit.”

  Since it wasn’t exactly a question, Has simply slid his chair to where he could sit directly opposite the dangerous human in case anything violent went down.

  “Happy for the company.”

  The logo etched into Molo’s new ear identified it as the product of a corporation that manufactured cheap replacement organs for war veterans who couldn’t afford bacta treatments or synthskin prostheses. Molo’s original ear had been given freely in a gesture of deference to a crime syndicate he had inadvertently crossed.

  “Spotted your ship at one of the Western Reaches choke points a couple of months back,” Molo said. “When you made the big run.”

  “The big run?”

  Molo glanced around. “The rest of your crew out celebrating?”

  Okay, Has thought, so word of the Samovar op had spread, which in itself wasn’t unusual. Still…“Everybody’s luck changes at some point.”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to go. But what a lot of us are wondering is how you managed to get in and out without a hitch. I mean, you talk about perfect timing. It’s almost like you were tipped off.”

  Has slid his chair a bit farther out of range of Molo’s big fist. “It was just a drop and departure.”

  “So you weren’t warned.”

  “Warned of what?”

  Molo sat back, appraising him openly. “You haven’t heard what went down at Samovar?”

  Has spread his hands in ignorance. “I’ve been out of touch.”

  It was true. Fearing Imperial reprisals following the run, he and the crew had decided to scatter and avoid contact with one another. For Has that had meant a jump to an area of the Outer Rim gaining notoriety as the Corporate Sector, where he could spend some of the credits he had earned. He had only returned to Jibuto at Matese’s insistence, relieved not to have found WANTED holos of him posted at every orbital station along the way.

  “Imperials discovered a huge cache of arms—munitions and stars know what else. What we hear, a dozen mining concerns have been appropriated and the place is off limits until further notice. That never happens on a Legacy world.”

  “Legacy world?”

  “Legally exempt from exploitation for whatever reasons. Mixed use, low-impact only.”

  Has didn’t bother trying to rein in his bewilderment. “When did all this happen?”

  “Almost directly after you left. Local couple of days.”

  Has shook his head. “It’s the first I’ve heard, Molo.”

  The human leaned into the table and lowered his voice. “But we know who did know. Your contact—the one you met with here—someone ID’d him as a former special op.”

  “He was, but he’s a civilian now. Besides, it was just a run. Is that why I’m getting the once-over from everyone in here? You all think I set this up?”

  “Once-over? Well, I’ll admit that half of us are envious and the other half would like a piece of you, but that’s got nothing to do with your being an Imperial sympathizer.”

  “An Imp—”

  Molo motioned him silent. “The half I belong to are hoping you’ll bring some of the rest of us in on the action, or at least put in a good word.”

  Matese entered while Has was still digesting the new information and telling himself to relax. Aware that Has was gazing over his shoulder at the door, Molo turned and smiled. “I’ll be giving you some privacy. But think about what I said.”

  Has nodded repeatedly.

  Monitoring Molo’s return to his own table, Matese pulled the same chair out and sat down. “What was that about?”

  Has glared at him. “When you contacted me you failed to mention anything about what happened at Samovar. A Legacy world, no less.”

  Matese flinched in amused surprise. “You have some special fondness for the place, you should have told me beforehand.”

  Has bit back what he had in mind to say. After all, what was Samovar to him? All he had done was make a delivery. Instead he said: “I like the eye implant.”

  Matese touched it gingerly. “Didn’t have to wait for Veterans Services, after all. Visible and infrared. Comes in very handy.”

  Has tried again to resist asking, but couldn’t help himself. “How did the Imperials learn about the torpedoes we delivered?”

  �
�We have no idea,” Matese said. “We ran checks on everyone involved, and no one in our organization gave up any information. Our best guess is that someone on Samovar—some environmental observer—brought it to Imperial attention, not wanting arms on the planet.”

  Has mulled it over, as if trying to make peace with it. “I guess I can buy that. But why would the Empire appropriate the mining concerns on a Legacy world?”

  Matese shrugged. “Beats me. But we’re in the clear, so it’s business as usual.”

  “You have another run for me?”

  “Why do you think I’m here, Has? I mean, I like you, but not enough that I’m willing to travel just to see you.”

  “Is there enough work to spread around?”

  Matese smiled in understanding. “So that’s why the big lug was talking to you. Well, not right now, but maybe down the road. Assuming you’re willing to vouch for them.”

  “I can vouch for some of them,” Has said. “So where am I off to this time?”

  “You’re going back to the Western Reaches. A world called Wadi Raffa.”

  “Never heard of it.

  “Good. Then I don’t have to worry about you forming any attachments to it.”

  —

  Wilhuff Tarkin’s Imperial Star Destroyer, Executrix, was still holding at Samovar when he received a comm from Coruscant and had it routed to the holoprojector in his cabin. The lawyer representing Samovar’s mining conglomerate was a woman named Arsha Lome, who was as strikingly beautiful as a holopresence as she was in real life, and whom Tarkin knew from his days as adjutant general to have as sharp a legal mind as he had ever encountered.

  “My clients are steadfast in assuring me that they had nothing to do with the arms shipment your forces discovered,” Lome was saying.

  Tarkin was standing for the cam, his right hand cupping his left elbow and that hand at his jaw. “That may very well be the case, counselor. We’re conducting an investigation into the origin of the arms, who on Samovar procured them, and for what ultimate purpose. I’m confident that the truth will eventually emerge, and that your clients will have their day in court.”

  “And just when might that be, Governor? A year from now? Two years? My every effort to schedule a preliminary hearing is being frustrated.”

  “That’s something I can’t help you with—even for old times’ sake.”

  Red-haired Arsha narrowed her blue eyes. “This has nothing to do with the fact that my clients supplied the Separatists during the war?”

  Tarkin adopted a stern look. “The Empire has no need to engage in reprisals of that sort.”

  “Really. And in the meantime the Empire has run of all mining operations.”

  “Your clients should be grateful to be free on bail and still employed.”

  “Still employed but now working for the Empire.” Arsha paused for a moment. “I do find it interesting that no sooner does the Empire appropriate operations than all former environment restrictions vanish into thin air.” She snapped her long fingers. “As you may or may not know, my clients tried for years to get those Legacy regulations lifted.”

  “Odd timing, to be sure.”

  Arsha nodded slightly. “And the seizure has nothing to do with the Empire’s unexpected hunger for doonium and dolovite—two of the most important ores mined on Samovar.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  She laughed. “Well, if you wouldn’t, I can’t imagine who would.” She fell silent once more, then said: “What sort of game are you playing, Wilhuff?”

  Tarkin smiled tightly. “Very nice chatting with you, Arsha. We should catch up the next time I’m on Coruscant.”

  She sniffed. “Only if we can return to The Cupola—in exchange for your sudden obtuseness.”

  “I look forward to a wonderful evening.”

  When the holovid had disappeared, Tarkin went to the viewport to gaze out on previously unspoiled Samovar. Downside, heavy machinery was being off-loaded—augurs, pushbeam transfer equipment, detection sensors, crushers, conveyors and mills. Droids as large as buildings were decapitating mountains, defoliating entire hillsides, stripping soils, and mining operations were already being ramped up. The exploitation of Samovar wouldn’t end until every lode deposit had been emptied and every bit of ore extracted down to bedrock. By then the planet’s oceans and rivers would be turned to acid by tailings and slurry, its slopes eroded, evergreen forests and clear skies a memory. Some wildlife would survive in remote areas, but not for long. And all for the doonium and dolovite, essential for shielding the battle station’s hypermatter reactor core and focusing dish, and eventually its superlaser. Arsha’s intuitions were as sound as ever, and she wouldn’t be alone in putting two and two together. The media could be controlled, but not entirely. Anyone who was watching closely would surmise that an immense secret project was in the works. At some point, steps would have to be taken.

  Necessary evils, some would have it.

  And he now counted himself among them.

  Mop-up campaigns in the Western Reaches had fully convinced him of the value of the superweapon. The Emperor, the moffs, the Imperial Army of officers and stormtroopers would never be enough to subjugate the entire galaxy. Only fear would bring lasting order, and the battle station would come to embody that.

  Unfortunately, Orson Krennic wasn’t the person to command it.

  Tarkin wondered what and how much Krennic wasn’t telling him. Keeping from the Emperor his plans to appropriate construction materials for the project was only one sign of his overarching ambition, his impulsiveness, his disdain for authority and the chain of command. No, he simply wasn’t the man for the job—but incendiary Krennic was perfectly suited to be the one held accountable for all the setbacks and delays that were bound to plague the project. Exposing him, undermining him, would take very little effort, and yet doing so would pose a great risk to Tarkin, for he knew full well that the Emperor was also eyeing him to assume command and control of the battle station. To avoid having to accept the privilege prematurely, he would have to continue to defer to Krennic until the proper time. Perhaps he would ask Darth Vader to keep an eye on him; he and Vader had partnered successfully on a couple of Imperial missions, and the Dark Lord might just be intrigued enough to get involved.

  —

  A short jump away, the bleak future Tarkin envisioned for Samovar was already playing out on Malpaz. It was on Malpaz, under the Project Celestial Power umbrella, that Krennic had constructed a facility intended to make practical application of the research being conducted on distant Coruscant; that was, to weaponize Galen Erso’s energy research in order to arm the battle station. It even housed a twin of the massive kyber crystal that was the subject of Galen’s current experiments.

  Except that things hadn’t gone according to plan.

  From the safety of his shuttle, Krennic watched a series of powerful, mushrooming explosions reduce what little remained of the duplicate facility to debris and ash. The metropolis that sprawled at the base of the hill on which the installation had been constructed was likewise engulfed in rapidly spreading flames. Worse, a primitive nuclear power plant had melted down during the initial detonations and firestorms, and now a mass exodus was in progress, with hundreds of thousands of mixed-species indigenes fleeing for the far side of the broad river everyone hoped might contain the conflagration. The devastation couldn’t have been more crippling had a volcano blown its top in the heart of the city.

  “Did we lose anyone?” Krennic asked his aide.

  “It’s incredible,” Oyanta said from the shuttle’s comm board, “but the fail-safes allowed everyone to evacuate in time. The locals weren’t as lucky.”

  “Estimate of fatalities?”

  “In excess of ten thousand. Radiation from the reactor will likely kill more than the explosions and fires combined.”

  Krennic worked his jaw. “Who do I blame?”

  Oyanta gestured toward the main cabinspace. “The team’s as
sembled.”

  Krennic squared his shoulders and stormed away. The ten-member team of scientists, which now included a couple of former Separatists, was crammed into the aft cabin, looking nervous and hangdog. A few of them were gauze-bandaged or slathered in balms.

  “First, tell me that we haven’t lost the kyber,” Krennic said.

  “It’s all but indestructible,” a human member of the team said. “Once the fire burns out, we can retrieve it.”

  Krennic nodded. “That will get some of you off the hook, but one of you needs to explain to me how a simple experiment could total everything I built, not to mention an entire city. You had all the research notes. Was there anything in them you might have missed or overlooked?”

  “The energy output was uncontainable,” Professor Sahali said, obviously speaking for everyone. “The crystal diffracted the laser instead of supplying the expected pulse of power. It might as well have been an out-of-control turbolaser battery.”

  “Then why didn’t the same thing happen at our sister facility? You had to have misinterpreted the data or failed to follow procedure.”

  The Iktotchi specialist, Dagio Belcoze, responded. “The data are very difficult to construe. If we are in fact only replicating previous experiments, then our sister team has to be employing some other method of harvest and control. Perhaps they used a different laser or found a way to channel excess output into storage capacitors. They may be using a different inhibition alloy.” His downward-facing horns shook as he spoke. “The data simply aren’t specific enough in many instances, and even where they are specific, the equations are in a kind of shorthand difficult to decipher.”

  Squat Sahali agreed. “Someone understands the properties of the kyber much better than we do. We’ll never be fully successful at weaponization without the original researcher to supervise these experiments.”

  Krennic growled in exasperation and was headed back to the communications cabin when he realized that Dagio Belcoze was following him.