Star Wars: Rogue Planet (17 page)

“Why would anybody wish to kill you? You are commander.”

“Such insolence!” Sienar said with a
tsk-tsk
. “Almost admirable. Please, I’ll ask, and you’ll answer.”

“You show weakness in your phrases.”

“No, I show politeness, and that is
my
culture and my upbringing, and you show ignorance about me, and that is a
true
weakness, Ke Daiv.”

Ke Daiv fell silent again and faced the closed port.

“You have other weaknesses. Your contract with Tarkin is all you deserve, because you failed to kill a Jedi.”

“Two Jedi,” Ke Daiv corrected.

“An understandable lapse, but still, a disgrace to your
superiors and, I presume, your clan. Do you hope to make up for this disgrace by succeeding in this mission?”

“I always hope for success.”

Sienar nodded. “Killing Jedi is a mug’s game, Ke Daiv. They are strong and they have honor, and they respect all peoples and their ways. Why would you want to kill them?”

“I have no honor in my family, and that is all I may say,” Ke Daiv told him.

“I did some research before I left, and discovered, in the Blood Carver genealogical registry on Coruscant, that you are listed as ‘extended,’ which means, I believe, a kind of extreme probation. Is this true?”

“It is true.”

“Tell me how this happened. That is an order.”

“I am constrained,” Ke Daiv said.

“If you disobey my order, I can have you executed … under the Trade Federation rules these officers still believe in and follow. That would remove you from any chance of redeeming yourself and put you on the list of permanent exclusion from the Art Beyond Dying. That is the finale of life within the Blood Carver belief system, a glorious conception of the afterlife, with which I, personally, would hate to interfere.”

Ke Daiv’s head bowed slightly, as if under some weight.

“You have contacted my clan,” he said. “You bring me shame beyond my ability to erase.”

“No, I haven’t contacted your clan,” Sienar said. “And I intend you no shame. I respect the Blood Carvers and their ways, and you are in enough trouble already. But I ask you listen closely to what I have to tell you.”

Ke Daiv lifted his head and brought his nose flaps submissively back against his cheeks.

“You followed your quarry to the bottom of the
Wicko refuse pit, and remarkably, you survived the garbage worms there. You climbed back against all the odds and reported your failure. That is bravery befitting any clan warrior, and a commitment to duty beyond anything I’ve heard about on Coruscant for decades. Yet there is a rumor going around that …”

Sienar hesitated for effect and shook his head incredulously.

“There is a rumor going around that in the future of the Republic, there may be no room for your people. No room for any race but humans. I, personally, will not support such a scheme. Will you?”

Ke Daiv glared at Raith Sienar. “This is true?”

“It is what I have been told, by an old friend and classmate who seems to know.”

“Tarkin?”

Sienar nodded and, using his most persuasive voice, trained by years of speaking with armament and ship agents and fleet buyers, said, “Examine your memory of Tarkin and disagree with me if you must.”

Ke Daiv closed his eyes, opened them, said nothing.

“Let us talk some more,” Sienar said, “and see if there are plans on which we can agree.”

Sienar, of course, did most of the talking.

T
he great stone and lamina doors swung open again, as quietly as the little hush of current that crept down the open bowl of the room beyond. The celebratory crowd had pulled back to the periphery of the great room, leaving only Sheekla Farrs near the door. She was now joined by Gann.

They peered curiously into the big round chamber. The spikeballs once more covering the walls were as still as the stone to which they clung. At the bottom of the bowl, a slight descent from the big doors, a pile of debris rose two meters above the stone floor.

A sigh came from the crowd.

Farrs called out two names.

Obi-Wan Kenobi got to his feet first and touched himself with quick gestures. Three spikeballs clung to him, one on each arm and one on his chest. Their grip was tenacious, and he did not try to dislodge them, much as he wanted to. He looked around the piles of shed spikes and shells littering the bottom of the bowl, the detritus of the terrifying cascade, and saw an arm poking from the
thickest mound. He stepped over with a grunt and grabbed Anakin’s hand and pulled him up.

Anakin, from head to foot, was cluttered with spike-balls, twelve of them. His pulse was strong, but he had gone inward to conserve oxygen and avoid the shock that might come with physical injury, and his eyes were closed.

“Great skies!” Farrs cried. “Is he all right? We’ve never seen such a—”

Gann ran down the dip to the bottom of the chamber and helped Obi-Wan carry the encumbered and unwieldy boy through the doors. They laid him out on a cushion brought by two young female attendants. All were careful not to dislodge the seed-partners. Once again, seeing the clients, the crowd let out a breath, some muttering little strings of words as if in prayer.

“Great is the Potentium, great the life of Sekot.”

“All serve and are served, and all join the Potentium.”

Obi-Wan held his anger and concern in tight check, lest he reveal his lightsaber and ask more than a few tough questions. “Did you know this would happen?” he asked Sheekla Farrs through clenched teeth.

Her face was heavy with dismay. “No! Is he alive?”

“He’s alive. Do they take sustenance from us?” He reached down to touch the spikeball on his chest. It had pushed a spike through his tunic and coat to reach the skin beneath, but he felt no wound there, merely an uncomfortable adhesion.

“No,” Gann said, kneeling beside Anakin. “They don’t suck your blood. So many! The most partners we’ve ever seen on a client—”

“Three is normal,” Farrs interrupted and finished for him. “You have the normal number. Your student must be an extraordinary young man!”

“What made them do it?” Gann wondered.

Anakin’s eyes fluttered, then opened, and the boy stared up at Obi-Wan from the depths of an utter calm. Somehow, he had maintained that inner stillness even when confronted with extreme danger.

“You’re not injured,” Obi-Wan told him. “They cling but do not wound.”

“I know,” Anakin said. “They’re friendly. So many wanted to join us … all at once!”

Obi-Wan turned to Farrs. “You avoid a truth,” he said.

Gann looked suddenly guilty, but Farrs shook her head and told the attendants to carry the boy into the postpartnering room. The two females, little older than Anakin, helped him to his feet, avoiding the spikeballs, and the group walked toward a narrow door near a corner. Anakin gave the girls a shy grin.

The crowd’s heads turned as one until they were through the door.

The stone walls of the low-ceilinged and smaller room beyond had one opening, a narrow window that showed a scut of sky and the green and purple of the outside growth.

“I need to verify something …” Farrs murmured. She guided them toward a low table illuminated by a broad lamp.

Farrs and Gann took brass and steel instruments from a cupboard and measured Anakin’s spikeballs first, then pinched the clinging spikes until they released their grips with small sighs. Each spikeball was placed in a lamina box, and the attendants labeled the boxes with a circle. They then removed Obi-Wan’s seed-partners and placed them in boxes marked with a square.

“There
will
be a ship, a very dense and marvelous ship, I think,” Farrs murmured as she checked her measurements against a chart on a scroll mounted on one end of the table. She conferred in whispers with Gann for a moment.

“Three of these seed-partners have chosen a client before,” Farrs said when they stopped their whispering. “One of them chose you, Obi-Wan, this time. Two chose you, Anakin.”

“Who did they belong to before?” Obi-Wan asked.

“We do not reveal the names of our clients,” Gann said.

“That is right,” Farrs said. “We did not want to deceive, but …”

“This client did not stay with us long enough to grow a ship,” Gann said, and exchanged another look with Farrs. “The seed-partners returned to the Potentium.”

“Pardon us,” Sheekla Farrs said. “We need to confer again, in private. Please, rest, relax. The attendants will bring food and drink.”

“All right,” Anakin said. He lifted his arms and clasped his hands behind his head. The boy grinned once more, even more broadly, as Farrs and Gann left through the narrow door. The girls stepped back, their faces solemn.

“I see you’re amused,” Obi-Wan said.

“I’m glad to be alive,” Anakin explained. “And I got more than you,” he added. “More even than Vergere!”

Obi-Wan pressed his finger to Anakin’s lips—enough about Vergere. “We do not know the other was her.”

“It had to be!” Anakin said. “Who else?”

Obi-Wan let this pass. He suspected the boy was right. “At any rate, how do we know more is
better?
” he cautioned.

“It always is,” Anakin said.

They ate in the cool silence of the room: thin brown cakes served on carved stone platters, cool water in sweating ceramic pitchers. Their cups were made of green- and red-streaked lamina, and the water tasted pure and slightly sweet. Anakin seemed happy, even
ebullient. He looked at Obi-Wan as if he expected his master to burst this particular bubble at any moment.

Obi-Wan withheld his judgment for the time being as to how well they were doing, and whether they had made any progress.

After ten minutes, Gann returned alone. Anakin’s face fell on seeing the older Ferroan’s dour expression.

“There’s a difficulty,” Gann told them. “The Magister thinks we should not proceed to the designing and forging until he meets with you.”

“Is that good or bad?” Anakin asked. “Do we get to make the ship?”

“I don’t know,” Gann said. “He rarely meets with anybody.”

“When will he come?” Obi-Wan asked.

“You will go to
him
,” Gann said tersely, eyes rolling, as if that should be obvious. “And you will go at the Magister’s convenience.” He peered at them from under thick, merged brows. “We will keep your seed-partners ready, and when you return, if all is well, we will begin the design, and the conversion, and proceed to the annealing and the shaping.”

C
aptain Kett greeted the commander with civility as he mounted the navigation deck of the
Admiral Korvin
. “We are nearing emergence,” he told Sienar.

Sienar nodded abstractedly.

The port covers slid aside, and Sienar turned half away from the twisted, star-streaming view.

“Reversion at mark,” he muttered.

“So ordered, sir,” Kett acknowledged.

“How good are the ship’s duplication facilities, Captain Kett?” Sienar asked.

“Our astromech complement is adequate to conduct many major repairs in transit,” Kett reported.

The E-5 was doing quite well with its new capabilities. And the Blood Carver was reacting favorably to his new perspective. So far, so good, but there was so much farther to go.

Sienar held out a small box of data cards. “I would like to have these programs loaded into the ship’s manufactory and placed in all the battle droids. The programming will be duplicated from these data cards and
activated in each unit, to replace all previous programming.
All
, Captain Kett. And, of course, I will perform authentication tests.”

Kett’s polite expression froze. “That is not authorized, sir. It’s against Trade Federation policy.”

Sienar smiled at this slip into old ways. “When we return, all our weapons will be handed over to the Republic. This programming meets Republic standards and the droid will answer to Republic control.”

“It is still not in my brief,” Kett said.

“I have my own instructions, from Tarkin himself, and they are explicit,” Sienar said calmly. He knew that as commander, and with Tarkin’s backing, his command would be sufficient—now that he had at least some influence over Ke Daiv.