Star Wars: Rogue Planet

by Greg Bear

  Charza took them down a narrow tunnel toward the center of the fuselage, well away from the drives, and brushed against a large chrome button at the end of the tunnel. The hatch swung outward with a sigh, and warm dry air wafted over them like a draft out of the deep deserts of Tatooine.

  Obi-Wan entered their travel quarters and rubbed his hands with satisfaction. “Most excellent, Charza,” he said. Anakin stepped through and wiped his feet on the absorbent mat just below the hatch.

  Charza hung back, clearly uncomfortable with the dry air. The small but well-equipped room was bright and warm, furnished with two acceleration couches that doubled as beds. Looking up, Anakin saw they had a direct view of space through a broad circular port, radially ribbed for additional strength.

  “We depart in a tenth of a tide … one standard hour,” Charza announced. “There are waterproof shoes, boots, that will adjust to fit, should you decide to keep me company forward, in the pilothouse. That would bring me no end of delight.” Charza backed away, and the hatch closed.

  Anakin settled in and dropped his small bag in a closet. “Vergere must have stayed here,” he observed.

  “Unless she preferred swimming,” Obi-Wan said.

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “I wouldn’t dare hazard a guess. Her skills are exceptional. She is as resourceful as Thracia, and almost as adventurous as you.”

  Anakin smiled at this. “But more sensible?”

  Obi-Wan inclined his head. “You can be sensible,” he allowed.

  “But it’s a sometime thing,” Anakin said. “Now, can you tell me where we’re going?”

  Obi-Wan stowed his own travel kit and sat on the end of one couch. He folded his hands and looked steadily at Anakin. “I won’t know all the details until we match our data card with Charza’s. I do know this: The Jedi received knowledge of a world in the Gardaji Rift, within the Tingel Arm, far beyond the bounds of Republic rule. There had been intelligence from freelance traders about an outlying community that built exceptional starships, small personal craft, sleek and beautifully made, and rated easily at zero-point-four.”

  Anakin’s eyes goggled. He sat across from Obi-Wan, eager to hear more.

  “The rumors were associated with a mysterious planet, called Sekot by some, Zonama Sekot by others.”

  “Sea-coat?”

  “Zonama Sekot, sources told us, was the actual name of the planet, which circles a small dwarf star at the far spinward and galactic north side of the rift. But charts from expeditions in that region of two centuries past show only rocky rubble, protoplanets, nothing of interest but to future hardscrabble miners. Nothing alive, certainly. Still, other sources confirmed that a kind of diffuse trade route had been established, and that rich connoisseurs of star travel were coming by secret appointment to have ships made. While the ships have been observed in certain systems, no one in Republic security has ever examined one in detail.”

  “Sounds like a legend,” Anakin said. “Maybe a hoax.”

  “Perhaps. However, an intrusion was reported three years ago in the Gardaji region, from an unknown space-faring species. It was that which Vergere was sent to investigate, and incidentally, to see if she could locate Zonama Sekot. She found the planet … and sent to our farthest outlying station a brief message. But nothing has been heard of her since. The transmission was garbled. We have only interesting fragments.”

  “And what did she find?”

  “A world covered with dense jungle, of a kind never observed before. Huge treelike life-forms and hidden factories. Her report did little more than confirm that the legend is true.”

  Anakin shook his head in wonder. “Rugged,” he said admiringly. “Absolutely rugged!”

  “We’ll look over the full reports once we’re under way,” Obi-Wan said. “Now, we should join Charza.”

  “He’s rugged, too,” Anakin said. “I’d like to see him go up against a Hutt.”

  “Charza comes from a species devoted to peace,” Obi-Wan said. “He regards overt conflict as the grossest breach, and would rather die than fight. Still, he is intensely intelligent and extremely ambitious.”

  “So he makes a great spy?”

  “A great spymaster. And an extraordinarily resourceful pilot,” Obi-Wan said.

  Raith Sienar was a very wealthy man. His scrupulous attention to markets, his extraordinary skill in managing his workers—human and otherwise—and his strategy of always keeping operations relatively small and localized had brought him profits beyond his wildest dreams of youth.

  This new prospect—of joining with Tarkin in an enterprise both nebulous and risky—made him nervous, but something deep inside pushed him forward nonetheless.

  Instinct had moved him this far, and instinct said this was the pulse of the future. In truth, he might know a few more things about that future than Tarkin.

  Still, it was wise to be cautious, knowledgeable, prepared, in all times of change.

  Another contributor to his success had been his habit of hiding excesses. And he did indeed have excesses—that was the word he used, much better than foibles or eccentricities.

  Not even Tarkin knew about Sienar’s collection of failed experiments.

  Sienar walked slowly down the long hall that lay over a kilometer beneath the central factory floor of Sienar Systems’ main Coruscant plant. Holograms appeared just ahead of him, holoprojectors turning on as he passed, showing product rollouts for the Republic Defense Procurement plan ten years before, commendations from senators and provincial governors, prototype deliveries for the early contracts with the many branches of the Trade Federation, which had become more and more cloaked in secrecy as it tightened its central authority.

  He smiled at the most beautiful—and so far, the largest—of his products, a thousand-passenger ceremonial cruiser rated at Class Two, designed for triumphal receptions on worlds signing exclusive contracts with the Trade Federation.

  And then there was his fastest and most advanced design, most heavily armed, as well, made for a very secretive customer—someone of whom Sienar suspected Tarkin was completely ignorant. He should not underestimate my own contacts, my own political pull! he thought.

  But in fact, Sienar had never learned with certainty just who that customer was, only that he—or she, or it—favored Sienar designs. But he suspected the buyer was a person of great importance. And he suspected much more, as well. A buyer whose name it is death to even whisper.

  So the Republic was changing, perhaps dying, perhaps being murdered around them day by day. Tarkin intimated as much, and Sienar could not disagree. But Sienar would survive.

  His ships had likely ferried between star systems the very personages that Tarkin could only hint at. That made him proud, but at the same time …

  Raith Sienar knew that extraordinary opportunity also meant extraordinary danger.

  Tarkin was sufficiently intelligent and very ambitious, and also as venal as they came. This amused Sienar, who fancied himself above most of the comforts of the flesh. The comforts of the intellect, however, he was perfectly willing to wallow in.

  Luxurious intellectual toys were his weakness, and the best of those toys were the failures of his competitors, which he bought cheap whenever he could, saving them from the scrap heaps of technological disgrace. Sometimes he had had to rescue these unhappy products from a kind of execution. Some were too dangerous to be kept operational, or even intact.

  He keyed in his entry code to the underground museum and sniffed at the cool air, then stood for a moment in the darkness of the small antechamber, savoring the peace. Sienar came here most often to think, to get away from all distractions, to make key decisions.

  Recognizing him, the chamber turned on its lights, and he keyed another code into the door to the museum’s long underground nave. With an anticipatory sigh, Sienar entered this temple of failures, smiled, and lifted his arms in greeting to the ranks of exhibits.

  Standing among these glori
ous examples of overreaching and bad planning helped clear his mind wonderfully. So much failure, so many technical and political missteps—bracing, tart, like a cold, astringent shower!

  A group of his favorites occupied a transparent cube near the museum entrance: a squad of four hulking universal combat droids equipped with so many weapons they could hardly lift themselves from the ground. They had been manufactured in the factory system of Kol Huro, seven planets totally devoted to turning out defense systems and starships for a petty and vicious tyrant vanquished by the Republic fifteen years ago. Each was over four meters tall and almost as broad, with very tiny intelligence units, slow, awkward, as stupid in conception as the tyrant who had ordered their design. Sienar had smuggled them past Republic customs ten years ago, and they had not been disarmed, nor were their weapons nonfunctional. Their core intelligence had been removed, however. Not that it had made that much difference. They were kept on minimum power, and their sensors tracked him slowly as he walked past, their tiny eyes glowing, their weapons pods jerking in disappointment.

  He smiled, not at them, pitiful monstrosities, but at their makers.

  Next in his rank of prizes came a more insidious machine, one that actually revealed both ingenuity and some care in execution: a landing pod designed to invade the metal-bearing asteroids of an unexploited star system and set up shop, making small invasion droids out of the raw ore. The mining equipment had been very well made. The unit had failed, however, in the finesse of its droid factories. Less than one out of a hundred of the droids had proven functional.

  Sienar had thought often about this approach, creating a machine to make more machines, all of them programmed to carry out offensive strategies. But the Republic had too many scruples to show much interest in such weapons, and the Neimoidian leaders in the Trade Federation had rejected them out of hand as impractical. Not much imagination there, at least as of a few years ago …

  Perhaps that was why their leadership had capitulated to Chancellor Palpatine.

  The lights came on for the major rank of cubicles, stretching off five hundred meters to the end of the nave. Two thousand and twelve exhibits of failed weapons and ship design. So many minatory admonishments—you are fallible, Raith Sienar. Always think three times before acting, and then, always prepare three alternatives.

  A small cubicle between two larger exhibits held a rather ugly assassin droid, with a long cylindrical head and rudimentary thorax. These assassins had failed on two accounts: they were depressingly obvious in appearance, and they were likely to go completely out of control and kill their makers. This one had had its verbobrain crisped by high-security droids. Sienar kept it here because a former classmate from Rigovian Technical University had been involved in the design, and this very unit had killed her. It was a cautionary reminder not to overstep one’s competence.

  Anticipating a change in political psychology, Sienar had recently begun to contemplate his own weaknesses, his own narrow focus. He had always preferred elegance, finesse, and pinpoint expression of power. And he had always dealt with leaders who more or less agreed—a widespread ruling class used to centuries of relative calm, used to dealing with isolated system wars through embargo and police action. Who would replace such a ruling class?

  Those who espoused elegance and finesse?

  He did not think so. Entering his museum of failures, he had begun to see himself mounted in the center of his own prize exhibits, rigid, inflexible, outdated, outmoded … and so young!

  Those who replace effete elites rule by brutality. This was a law in the history of the galaxy. A kind of political balance, frightening but true.

  Months ago, coming at his craft from another angle—brutal and centralized strength—Sienar had begun work on the Expeditionary Battle Planetoid, whose design had so entranced Tarkin. Tarkin’s reaction suggested that Sienar’s guess—stab in the dark might be more accurate—had hit its mark. These new leaders might be far more impressed by high melodrama than style.

  Tarkin himself had always been easily impressed by size and brute force. That was why Sienar had kept up their friendship. Tarkin was astute politically and militarily, but in Sienar’s own expertise—the machines of transportation and war—he was decidedly inferior. Tarkin had admitted as much in their interview.

  Yet … Admitting a weakness, the need for a partner, was unlike Tarkin in so many ways.

  Who was playing with whom?

  “Most interesting,” a voice behind him said. Sienar nearly jumped out of his skin. Spinning about, he looked between two cubicles and saw the tall, thin form of Tarkin, half in shadow, his blue eyes gleaming like small beads. Standing tall behind him, a being with multi-jointed limbs, an incredibly broad nose, and iridescent gold skin watched Sienar closely.

  “Suddenly I find there’s very little time, and we need something from you,” Tarkin said. “You are either with us on this venture, or we move without you. But I must have a certain piece of information. If you decide against joining us, and give us that information, then out of respect for our friendship, and knowing you can keep a few secrets if there’s profit in it, my young acquaintance here will not kill you.”

  Sienar knew he could not afford the time to be surprised. Times were changing. Friendships could be expected to change as well. To ask how Tarkin and his associate happened to gain access to his private sanctuary would be fruitless and, in the discourse of the moment, possibly even rude.

  “You want something from me,” Sienar rephrased, with a wry smile. “Something you don’t think I’ll give willingly. But all you had to do was ask, Tarkin.”

  Tarkin ignored this. There was now no humor in him at all and no tolerance. His face looked surprisingly old and malevolent. Evil.

  Sienar sensed desperation.

  “You were once a major subcontractor in a retrofit of the YT light trade class of vessels.”

  “That’s a matter of record. Most of them have long since been put out of service by their original owners. Later models are so much more efficient.”

  Tarkin waved that away. “You placed a tracking unit in the integument of every vessel you retrofitted. One you could activate with a private code. And you did not reveal this fact to the owners, or for that matter, to any authorities.”

  Sienar’s expression did not change. He needs the codes necessary to switch on one of the trackers.

  “Hurry,” the Blood Carver said, its voice thin but self-possessed. Sienar noticed the tall gold being was recovering from a number of wounds, some superficial, but at least two more serious.

  “Give me the ship’s serial number, and I’ll give you the code,” Sienar said. “As a friend. Really, Tarkin.”

  Tarkin gestured quickly to the Blood Carver. He held out a small datapad on which the number was displayed, blinking rapidly in red. Beneath the number, an orbital registry account was also blinking, indicating the docking slot would soon be open for another Senate-sponsored vessel.

  It took him no time at all to reconstruct the code string for that particular vessel. He had created the code based on an equation that utilized the serial number. He told them the code, and the Blood Carver entered it into his comlink and transmitted it.

  Sienar shifted in his clothes, hoping to find the small spy droid that had obviously been set upon him during Tarkin’s last visit. “The tracker will be useless in hyperspace,” he told Tarkin. “It’s low-power and unreliable at extreme distances. I’ve since learned how to build better.”

  “We’ll have a newer tracker partner with yours before the ship leaves orbit. We need the code for them to communicate. Together, they’ll serve our purposes.”

  “A senatorial vessel?” Sienar asked.

  Tarkin shook his head. “Owned by an auxiliary of the Jedi. Stop fiddling with your pants, Raith. It’s unseemly.” Tarkin showed a small control unit fitted into his palm. He waved it casually, and something rustled in Sienar’s pants. He squirmed as it dropped down his leg and crawled away from his b
ooted foot. It was a tidy little droid of a kind Sienar had not seen before, flat, flexible, able to change its texture to match that of clothing. Even an expert might have missed it.

  Sienar wondered how much this knowledge was going to cost him. “I was about to agree to your proposal, Tarkin,” he said with petulance.

  “I say again, we are very pressed for time.”

  “No time even for simple manners … between old friends?”

  “None at all,” Tarkin said grimly. “The old ways are dying. We have to adapt. I have adapted.”

  “I see. What more can I offer?”

  Tarkin finally saw fit to smile, but it did not make him seem any friendlier. Tarkin had always shown a little too much of the skull beneath the skin, even as a youth. “A great deal, Raith. It’s been some time since you used your military training, but I have faith you haven’t forgotten. Now that I’m sure you’re with us—”

  “Wouldn’t dream otherwise,” Sienar said softly.

  “How would you like to command an expedition?”

  “To this exotic planet you spoke of earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why tell me of this world before now? If you couldn’t trust me enough to give you such a thing as a tracker code.”

  “Because I have recently been informed that to you, this world was no secret.”

  Raith Sienar drew his head back like a serpent about to strike and sucked in his breath. “I am impressed, Tarkin. How many of my most trusted employees will I have to … dismiss?”

  “You know the planet is real. You hold one of its ships.”

  Sienar did not like being caught out in a ruse, however innocent. “A dead hulk,” he said defensively, “acquired from a corrupt Trade Federation lieutenant who had killed its owner. The ships are useless unless their owners are alive.”

  “Good to know. How many of these ships have been manufactured, do you think?”

  “Perhaps a hundred.”