Star Wars: Rogue Planet (13 page)

Y
our ship is recognized,” the voice of orbital control from Zonama Sekot said—masculine and probably human, Obi-Wan judged. “You have registered as an authorized client transport vessel. Yet the account of your last delivered client is in doubt.”

Charza Kwinn seemed to be cleaning his bristles before he spoke. He drew himself up to the full height of the cabin bulkhead, and a shower of food-kin spilled off him. Anakin shielded his face as they clattered and leapt around the cabin.

Obi-Wan did not shield his face and received a fair-size pink shell square across the lips.

“Apologies,” Charza murmured. Then he switched on the return link. “This is Charza Kwinn, registered owner of
Star Sea Flower
. I do not recall personally guaranteeing client accounts.”

“No,” the controller admitted, “but we prefer our client transports to bring us reliable customers.”

“I will return my previous client to her homeworld, if
she so desires, for free, and at no cost to you,” Charza said innocently. “Where is she?”

There was a lengthy pause. “That will not be necessary,” the controller said. “Landing permission granted. Use the northern plateau. Coordinates have not changed.”

“Wastes fuel,” Charza huffed. He switched off the link. “An equatorial landing site would be much better.”

Obi-Wan watched the surface of Zonama Sekot roll by beneath. “Odd. I’ve never seen such a perfectly divided weather system.”

“It has not changed since we were last here,” Charza said.

The
Star Sea Flower
flashed its sublight drives for a few thousandths of a second and began the quick drop from orbit. Just as they entered the upper atmosphere, Obi-Wan thought he spotted an anomalous brown desert or rift in the wide, deep green, but it quickly passed out of view.

Atmospheric shields protected them from the buffet, and a beautiful plume of ionized air flared around the ship, blocking his view for a few seconds. When the glow cleared, the landscape below, a smooth carpet of green from orbit, quickly acquired mottled detail. Mountain ranges sparsely dotted with huge reddish boras, and valleys filled with thick green growth, stood out in shaded relief against the glancing light of a westering sun.

“Dextrorotation,” Anakin observed. “Very little axial tilt. It looks normal enough, except for the southern weather.”

Obi-Wan nodded. Vergere had provided them with so few details that all this was new information. “Temperature at the landing point?”

“Last time, it was above freshwater freezing,” Charza said. “But only a little. The landing point is near the pole, a slender flat plateau surrounded by ice-covered seas.”

“Are the seas salty?” Anakin asked.

“I do not know,” Charza said. “Anything I do up here, such as sending a laser beam down for spectrum analysis, becomes known to the planet’s managers. They do not appreciate prying.”

“Curious,” Obi-Wan said.

“They love their secrets,” Charza said.

The northern plateau where they had been cleared to land was easily a thousand kilometers long and narrow as a finger, covered with broken blocks of snow and ice. The top of the plateau showed little relief, and the square field, beside a small cluster of hemispherical buildings, was nothing more than smooth rock cleared of snow.

Charza swung the
Star Sea Flower
around in a graceful arc, relying on atmospheric propulsion jets, and brought it down gently in the middle of the field. Two other ships—atmospheric transports, not spacecraft—were parked in the open at the edge of the field, both lightly dusted with snow.

Snow was falling in large rainbow-hued flakes outside the craft as Charza dropped the ramp. Food-kin retreated from the draft of frigid air. Anakin drew up his robes, slipped out of his waterproof overboots at the top of the ramp, and walked to the bottom. Obi-Wan tossed him their kits and removed his own boots.

Charza watched them, bristles and spikes knocking together in the cold.

Anakin descended the ramp, with Obi-Wan a few steps behind. He saw a single figure, heavily bundled, standing away from the overhang of the ship: their lone reception.

Charza brought the ramp up behind them, and the ship lifted a meter or so and moved slowly to its berth beside the other two vessels.

“Welcome to Zonama Sekot,” a woman’s voice said through the red face filter of a snow mask. Her midnight blue eyes were barely visible above the thick heat trap. She held up her hand in brief greeting, turned before they were even close, and walked toward the nearest dome.

Anakin and Obi-Wan looked at each other, shrugged, and followed.

A
nakin was disappointed by both the reception and his first glimpse of life on Zonama Sekot. He had hoped for scale, spectacle, something to fit the vivid preconceptions of a twelve-year-old boy. What they saw, entering the first dome, was an empty shell, its interior so cold their breath clouded.

Obi-Wan, however, had carefully kept preconceptions from taking hold. He was open to anything, and thus found the reception and the spare quarters—if quarters they were—interesting. These people did not feel the need to impress.

The woman removed her helmet and mask and shook out a thick fall of gray-white hair. The hair quickly arranged itself into a neat spiral that hung with a springlike flex down the back of her suit. Despite the color of her hair, her face was free of wrinkles. Obi-Wan would have thought her younger than he, except for the cast of wary resentment in her deep blue eyes. She seemed very experienced, and tired.

“Rich, are we, and bored?” she asked curtly. “Is this your son?” She pointed to Anakin.

“This is my student,” Obi-Wan said. “I am a professional teacher.”

She shot off another question. “What do you hope to teach him here?”

Obi-Wan smiled. “Whether or not we are rich, we have money to buy a ship. What the boy learns here will begin with your gentle answers to
our
questions.”

Anakin tipped his head in her direction, showing respect, but unable to hide his disappointment.

The woman looked them over with no change in expression. “Bankrolled by somebody else, or a consortium, too locked in luxury to come by themselves?”

“We are given funds by an organization to which we owe our education and our philosophical stance,” Obi-Wan told her.

The woman snorted in derision. “We do not provide ships for delivery to research groups. Go home,
academics
.”

Obi-Wan decided against any mind tricks. The woman’s attitude interested him. Contempt often veiled bruised ideals.

“We’ve come quite a long way,” Obi-Wan said, undaunted.

“From the center of the galaxy, I know,” the woman said. “That’s where the money is. Did they tell you—the traitors who do most of our
essential
advertising—that you must prove yourself before you come away with whatever prize Zonama Sekot will offer? No visitors are allowed to stay more than sixty days. And we have only resumed accepting customers in the last month.” She flung her hand out at them. “We’ve seen all the tactics here!
Customers
 … a necessary evil. I do not have to like it!”

“Whatever our origins, we would hope to be treated with hospitality,” Obi-Wan said calmly. He was about to try a subtle bit of Jedi persuasion when the woman’s whole aspect changed. Her features softened, and she looked as if she might have suddenly seen the face of a long-lost friend.

She stared over their shoulders.

Anakin turned his head to look. The three of them were alone in the shelter.

“What did you do?” he whispered to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Pardon me,” he said to the woman.

She looked down from a vague distance and focused on Obi-Wan again. “The Magister tells me you are to go south,” she said. “Your ship can remain for four more days.”

The abrupt turnaround caught even Obi-Wan by surprise. She did not seem to be equipped with an ear-receiver. Some other comlink was concealed in her clothing, he surmised.

“This way, please,” she said, and gestured for them to go through a small hatch on the opposite side of the empty dome. There, they found themselves again outside, in the middle of a biting, almost horizontal blast of snow.

Obi-Wan looked up at a ghostly shadow descending through the storm. Though the woman showed no concern, his hand slipped automatically through his jacket to his lightsaber.

What had alerted him? What stray bit of clue from the future had made him feel threatened by the expected arrival of a transport, of all things?

Not for the first time, he regretted this mission and its possible impact on his Padawan. The danger he felt came from no specific source but from all around—not threat
of physical harm, but of a possible imbalance in the Force so drastic it overshadowed anything he had ever imagined.

Anakin Skywalker was not so much at risk as he was a possible cause of this imbalance.

For the first time since the death of Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan felt fear, and he quickly drew up the discipline instilled by long Jedi training to control and then quash it.

He reached out to grip Anakin’s shoulder. The boy looked up at him with a brave grin.

“Your ride south,” the woman announced over the wind as a broad, flat, disk-shaped transport landed in the blowing drifts of snow.

Obi-Wan lifted his own small comlink and opened a channel with the
Star Sea Flower
. “We are leaving the plateau,” he told Charza Kwinn. “Stay here as long as they allow, and after that … maintain a position nearby.”

Given that Obi-Wan felt he could trust no one, flexibility was essential.

I
t should have been among the proudest moments of Raith Sienar’s life. He had been given the rank of commander, in charge of a squadron, putting to use training he had once thought forgotten. The squadron of four ships was preparing to enter that most entrancing of places, hyperspace—entrancing for an engineer, if not a tactician—and yet he felt nothing but a cold, seedy dread in his viscera.

This was not what he wanted, and it was certainly not what he had imagined when he had purchased the Sekotan ship two years before.

Even learning the probable location of Zonama Sekot seemed a hollow triumph, since he had to share the knowledge. Sienar rarely liked sharing anything, especially with old friends. Most especially, now, with Tarkin.

Sienar was a competitive fellow, had recognized this since boyhood, but it had been a fragile knowledge, as he had realized over and over again, that his competitive nature had its limits. He had had to focus his efforts to win, and after a while, he had never failed to choose
arenas in which his talents were most suited, and avoid those where they were not.

It was disheartening to be shown how much he had come to overestimate his greed, and to underestimate the infinite ambition of others. Of Tarkin.

But there was little time for ruing his precarious position. The adjutants, impatient and less than obsequious toward their new commander, had arrayed themselves on the command deck of the
Admiral Korvin
, and they expected dispatch.

He had to give the order for coordinated entry into hyperspace.

It was the final commitment he dreaded, leaving the system, in which he had pooled most of his armor, most of his political cronies and contacts, and all of his wealth.

Leaving home.

There had not been five seconds strung together in the last six hours since he had seen Tarkin off the ship in which he had been free enough to
think things through
. No time for arranging backup plans, escape plans. Instead, he had been involved in the minutiae of command: system checks, drills, and the inevitable, infuriating delays of old equipment breaking down.

Tarkin had from the very beginning herded him down a narrow chute like an animal in a slaughterhouse.

No time for self-pity, either. Sienar was not without resources. But getting his reflexes back into shape was going to take some time. He had built up considerable mental flab on Coruscant in the last decade, giving in to discouragement at the decline of the economy, embittered by the increasing corruption of the aristocracy that had been his mother even more than his real mother had.