STAR WARS: TALES FROM THE CLONE WARS

by Various

  HERO OF CARTAO

  By Timothy Zahn

  PART ONE: HERO’S CALL

  ONE YEAR AFTER THE BATTLE OF GEONOSIS

  “Master Doriana?” Emil Kerseage’s deep voice called. “We’re here.”

  Kinman Doriana awoke with a start, blinking his eyes against the sunlight streaming in through the shuttle’s viewports. For a moment he gazed at the landscape rolling beneath him, trying to remember where exactly he was. There had been so many systems. . .

  The disorientation cleared. He was on Cartao, major trading center for Prackla Sector, carefully nonaligned in the war between the Republic and the Separatists. And home to. . .

  “There it is,” Kerseage said. He turned the control stick delicately, rolling the shuttle slightly to the left to give Doriana a better look. “Spaarti Creations.”

  Doriana gazed out the side viewport, impressed in spite of himself. Situated among a group of forested hills just north of the compact town of Foulahn City, perhaps three kilometers northwest of the equally compact Triv Spaceport, was the unique manufacturing plant known as Spaarti Creations. Over a kilometer across at its widest, it had the patchwork look of something that had repeatedly been added onto over the decades. The roofline echoed the frozen chaos, with towers, heat exchangers, antennas, and skylights poking out at apparently random spots along the building’s overall three-story height. There were no windows he could see, ventilation apparently being handled by a line of small, louvered air vents dotting the outer walls about midway up the sides. “Impressive,” he commented.

  “You think so?” Kerseage shrugged. “Personally, I’ve always considered it an architectural version of a weed patch. No order or organization anywhere.”

  “Ever been inside?”

  “No one but employees get to go in,” the other said, his lip twisting with disgust and resentment. “Them, and the high and mighty.”

  “Like me?” Doriana asked.

  Kerseage glanced at him, as if suddenly remembering just who his passenger was. “No, no, I was thinking about Lord Binalie’s chums,” he backtracked hastily. “The Prackla Trade Council-that sort of crowd.”

  “You don’t think much of them?”

  Kerseage shrugged again, uncomfortably this time. “It’s nothing to do with me,” he muttered. “I got a shuttle; I fly people places. That’s all.”

  “I see,” Doriana said, returning his attention to the manufacturing plant now passing directly beneath them. Clearly, Kerseage didn’t want to say any more.

  But then, he didn’t have to. Like everything else he ever did, Doriana had made sure to research Cartao before coming here and hiring this particular man to bring him across the sparsely settled planet to Spaarti Creations. The cargo transport company Kerseage had once owned had been inadvertently run out of business two years earlier by a poorly worded regulation the Prackla Trade Council had issued after the Battle of Geonosis. Kerseage’s appeal was still crawling its way through the system, but by now the issue was essentially moot. His company was gone, and he clearly blamed Lord Binalie for it.

  “What about the plant’s satellite facilities?” he asked, his eyes flicking around the forested areas north and west of the main facility. “The buildings where they store raw materials and finished product.”

  “You mean the three Outlinks?”

  “Right,” Doriana said. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” Kerseage said. “The closest one’s supposed to be about three kilometers northeast, just past that big gray-topped worker barracks thing.” He pointed.

  “Mm,” Doriana said, peering into the distance. There was nothing showing in that direction that he could see. Well camouflaged, either by accident or by design. That could be useful. “Where does Lord Binalie live?”

  “There.” Kerseage pointed to the left as he brought the shuttle around in a wide semicircle. “You see Foulahn City, just south of that kilometer-wide stretch of grassland?”

  “I see it,” Doriana said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a city come to a stop that abruptly before. Except where there’s a lake or cliff to limit it, of course.”

  “It might as well be a cliff,” Kerseage grunted. “That particular line of grassland marks the southern edge of Spaarti land, and no one travels or builds there. The Cranscoc insist on it. Anyway, you see that big open area on the northern edge of the city, butting up against the grass strip?”

  “Yes,” Doriana said. It looked like a park-grassland, quite a few clumps of trees, large sections of sculpted bushes—with a few small buildings and one very large one. Even from this distance, the place reeked of wealth and power. On one of the low hills facing the plant, he could see a pair of figures standing together. “The Binalie estate?”

  “You got it,” Kerseage said. “You seen enough?”

  Doriana took a last look around, fixing the geography in his mind. Foulahn and Navroc Cities lay to the south and southeast of the plant, with the craggy Red Hills pushing up against the southern ends of both cities. Triv Spaceport was to the east, with low, increasingly forested rolling hills to the north, and a small river winding its way between the two cities and then between Foulahn and the spaceport.

  “Yes,” he told the pilot, resettling himself in his seat. “Let’s go see Lord Binalie.”

  “They’re turning around some more,” Corf Binalie announced, shading his eyes with his hand as he peered upward into the sky.

  “I think they might be coming here.”

  “Who, the people in the shuttle?” Jafer Torles asked, his white hair blowing past his cheek as he gazed downward at the ground, trying to pick out the particular siviviv vine he and the boy had been following for the past half hour. “Yes, I know.”

  “You know who they are?” Corf asked, frowning up at him. “Did Dad say something to you about visitors?”

  “No, but he didn’t need to,” Torles assured the boy. “It’s been obvious for nearly a minute now.”

  “Oh, come on,” Corf objected in that tone of strained patience twelve-year-olds did so well. “How could you?”

  “Simple logical deduction,” Torles told him in that pedantic instructor’s tone seventy-three-year-olds did equally well. “There was no reason for them to pass directly over the plant unless that was what they were specifically looking at. After realizing how little that gained them, their natural next step is to want to take a look from the inside. For that, they need to come see your father.”

  Corf shook his head in amazement. “Boy,” he said. “I wish I were a Jedi.”

  “If you were, you’d probably have to go to war someday,” Torles warned.

  “You didn’t have to,” Corf pointed out.

  “Not yet,” Torles said with a grimace. “But I could be called up at any moment. The Council merely decided to leave a few Jedi where we are for the moment in case of unexpected Separatist moves in our areas. I could get to the scene of trouble anywhere in Prackla or Locris Sectors long before they could send someone from Coruscant or one of the major battle areas. Being a Jedi is never easy, and can be downright dangerous.”

  “Yeah, but you’re real smart,” Corf said. Clearly, distant rumblings of war didn’t faze him in the slightest. “You’re good at figuring out stuff.”

  “Logical thinking is hardly the exclusive preserve of Jedi,” Torles admonished him. “Anyone can learn to put facts together in their proper order.”

  “Maybe,” Corf said. “I still think it’s a Jedi thing.” Torles smiled, shading his eyes with his hand as he watched the shuttle approach. In point of fact, of course, he hadn’t really known the shuttle was coming to the Binalie Estate, but had merely concluded there was a hi
gh probability of it. If it turned out the pilot was merely showing off Spaarti Creations to some visiting friend, he was going to look pretty foolish.

  This might not be a bad thing. Torles had spent the past thirty years on Cartao, dispensing wisdom, mediating disputes, and handling the occasional pirate or overeager crime lord. Some of the locals had come to respect him, others had chosen to hate him, while most had never been more than vaguely aware that Prackla Sector even had a resident Jedi guardian.

  But never in those thirty years had he run into a case of hero-worship like Corf Binalie’s.

  In his earlier days, it would have been highly gratifying, not to mention flattering, to be held in such high esteem. From the perspective of his years, though, he could see the danger lurking beneath that kind of unthinking adulation. Even at twelve Corf should be able to recognize a person’s weaknesses as well as his strengths; should be learning how to accept people as they were, not creating a lens of perfection through which to gaze at them. Instead, the boy insisted on regarding him as the Ultimate Jedi: tall and strong, wise and kind, and never, ever wrong.

  This particular incident wasn’t going to do much to change that perception, either. The shuttle passed low over their heads, leaving no doubt that it was indeed making for the private landing pad beside the Binalie mansion.

  And as it did so, Torles got a clear look at the company name on the shuttle’s side.

  “Come on,” he said, taking Corf’s arm and turning him toward the house.

  “We’re going back?” Corf asked, frowning. “I thought you were going to help me track this siviviv vine back to its root.”

  “We can do that later,” Torles told him. “Right now, I think we ought to go see what these people want with your father.”

  “Okay,” Corf said, clearly not understanding but willing to accept Torles’ word for it. “You’re the boss.”

  “I’m not the boss,” Torles reminded him as they headed down the hill toward the distant house and the shuttle settling onto the pad. “I’m just the Jedi.”

  “Yeah,” Corf said off-handedly. “Same thing.”

  Torles sighed to himself. Hopefully, the boy would grow out of it on his own.

  One of Doriana’s more simple amusements these days was to I count off the minutes between the time a droid or servant disappeared into his master’s inner sanctum with Doriana’s credentials and the time Doriana himself was ushered in. In the case of Lord Pilester Binalie, that interval was less than a minute. Either Binalie was unusually respectful of Coruscant authority, or else he was too worried about this unexpected visitor to play power games.

  “Master Doriana,” Binalie said, rising from the massive chair behind the even more massive desk as the protocol droid escorted Doriana into the office. “It’s a great honor to receive a representative from Supreme Chancellor Palpatine himself.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, as well, Lord Binalie,” Doriana said in turn as he walked across the room. “I appreciate you giving me some of your time.”

  “My pleasure,” Binalie said, waving Doriana to a chair facing the desk and sitting back down himself. “I wish you’d given me notice of your visit. I could have sent a shuttle to meet you, or else directed you to Triv Spaceport where you could have come over by landspeeder.”

  “There were reasons for coming into Cartao where I did,” Doriana told him, watching the other’s face closely. “As there were for choosing the particular transport I did.”

  A muscle in Binalie’s cheek twitched. So he’d spotted the name on Kerseage’s shuttle, too. “Yes, Emil Kerseage,” he said. “I’m familiar with his case, Master Doriana, and I assure you the Trade Council is working to rectify it.”

  He waved a hand self-consciously. “It’s certainly nothing Palpatine needs to involve himself with.”

  “Supreme Chancellor Palpatine is the champion of the common citizen,” Doriana reminded him.

  “Of course,” Binalie said hastily, the first hints of perspiration beginning to sheen his face. “It’s just that—” He broke off.

  “Yes?” Doriana prompted.

  The cheek muscle twitched again. “Let me be honest with you,” Binalie said. “Cartao is trying to keep a low profile in this war against the Separatists. We don’t have nearly enough military power to send troops or ships halfway across the galaxy on expeditionary missions. So far we’ve mostly escaped official notice; but if Chancellor Palpatine begins taking an interest in some minor bureaucratic dispute, that official notice is likely to be drawn our direction.”

  He tapped the desk in front of him with his forefinger. “And not just from the officials on Coruscant,” he added pointedly. “The Separatists have so far ignored us, too.”

  “I understand your concerns,” Doriana said. “But you have to understand in turn that no one has the luxury of deciding how a war is going to affect them. Nor is anyone permitted to choose how he can best serve in that conflict.”

  Binalie’s eyes were very steady on Doriana’s. “You’re not here about Kerseage at all, are you?” he said quietly.

  Doriana shook his head. “It was, and is, a useful cover story. But no, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine sent me on far more important business.”

  Binalie’s stony face went even stonier. “Spaarti Creations.”

  “Exactly,” Doriana said. “The Supreme Chancellor is intrigued by the reports he’s heard about this factory whose production lines can be changed practically overnight. If the technique can be duplicated, it would mean a great deal for the Republic’s war effort.”

  “It can’t be,” Binalie said flatly. “It’s the Cranscoc and their fluid-tooling system that make it possible, and as far as we know the Cartao colony is the only place Cranscoc live.”

  “Thousands of them, I presume?”

  Binalie hesitated the barest fraction of a second, as if wondering whether he could get away with a lie. “About fifty thousand, yes,” he conceded, apparently deciding not to risk it. “But they breed very slowly, and only a small fraction of each generation has the talent that allows them to serve as twillers. Those are the ones who actually manipulate the fluid retooling that make Spaarti possible.”

  “I see,” Doriana said, as if he hadn’t already thoroughly researched the whole operation. “Still, the Supreme Chancellor will want me to be absolutely certain. Would it be possible for me to inspect the facilities themselves? Quietly and privately, of course.”

  Binalie knew a politely phrased order when he heard it. “Of course,” he said, getting to his feet. “I have a private way into the plant.”

  They were halfway down the corridor leading back toward the landing pad when a boy’s voice split the mansion’s elegant silence. “Hey! Dad!”

  The two men stopped and turned. Hurrying toward them was a young boy about twelve years old—Lord Binalie’s son Corf, Doriana tentatively identified him. Behind the boy, walking with a longer stride and a more measured pace, was the final player in the day’s scheduled drama: Jedi Knight Jafer Torles.

  “Corf,” Binalie said, sounding surprised and a little uncomfortable. “I thought you were on weed control this morning.”

  “We saw the shuttle,” Corf explained as he trotted up to his father’s side, giving Doriana a quick once-over as he arrived.

  “Are you going to the plant?”

  “For a few minutes, yes,” Binalie said.

  “Can I come along?”

  Binalie shook his head. “Not this time.”

  The boy blinked. Clearly, that wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “Why not?”

  “Business,” his father said firmly. “Only Master Doriana and I are going.”

  “But. . .”

  “No arguments,” Binalie said sternly, shifting his attention away from Corf as the Jedi reached the group. “I’d like you to meet Jafer Torles, our local Jedi guardian. This is Kinman Doriana, special advisor to Supreme Chancellor Palpatine.”

  The skin at the corners of the old Jedi’s e
yes crinkled slightly at Palpatine’s name. Small wonder—the Supreme Chancellor and the Jedi Council had been increasingly at odds with each other over the past few months. “Master Torles,” Doriana said, nodding.

  “I’m glad you’re here. As Lord Binalie said, we’re going to see the plant. Would you care to accompany us?” Corf looked at his father in surprise. “But you said—”

  “Be quiet, Corf,” Binalie cut him off, looking at Doriana with some surprise of his own. “I thought you said this was a private matter.”

  “That was before I knew Master Torles was in the area,” Doriana said, gazing into Binalie’s face. It would be worth the risk, he decided suddenly, to see just how far the man could be pushed.

  “For that matter,” he added, “I see no reason why your son shouldn’t come, too. You will begin moving him into a management position in a few years, won’t you?”

  The muscles in Binalie’s throat tightened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Lord Pilester Binalie, the biggest fish in this particular little pond, was unused to having people casually cut the ground out from under him this way.

  But Doriana understood power, too. He held Binalie’s glare steadily, without challenge or malice, wondering if the other could see far enough past his annoyance to remember whom he was dealing with.

  Apparently, he could. “As you wish,” he said stiffly. “Follow me.”

  Torles had been in the Binalies’ private tunnel to Spaarti Creations only a handful of times, and it never failed to evoke a sense of wonder. The Cranscoc themselves had burrowed out the long passageway, Lord Binalie had once told him, without the use of any machinery. The result had been a rough-hewn tunnel that perpetually held the rich tang of recently turned dirt.

  But despite the fresh aroma, he also knew that in the digging process those same dirt walls had somehow been converted into a material as tough and durable as permacrete. And the apparent roughness of the surface hid the more subtle swirls and delicate patterns the Cranscoc diggers had carved into it. Functional, artistic, and—by all generally accepted technology—impossible. This was, Torles reflected, a pretty fair description of Spaarti Creations itself.