Star Wars: Rogue Planet

by Greg Bear

  “The Jentari!” Vidge shouted. All the shapers waved their blades in unison. “The makers of Sekot!”

  “Hang on!” Obi-Wan shouted. It was their turn now. The limbs dropped, lifted them along with the frames, and passed them from one Jentari to the next, along with stacks of forged and painted seed-disks. Other limbs slapped the disks around the frames, almost jolting the passengers loose. Instantly, the seeds began to join and grow, to mold and shape.

  The two frames were jammed together. Engines were slipped into their fairings. Seed-disks slipped purple-edged tissues on the joints, and sparks flew as the points of lasers darted all around.

  Their journey began.

  They were passed limb to limb down the cleft, the frames groaning, the fluid tissues of the seeds and the treatment juices flopping and slopping around them, deeper into the realm of the Jentari. Their eyes could hardly follow the process.

  Every second, a thousand moves and assemblies were carried out on the joined frames. Around Obi-Wan and Anakin, the ship began to take shape as if by magic. The giants flung them even more quickly from limb to limb, hand to hand as it were, making sounds like hundreds of voices singing deep geological chants.

  “The Jentari are composites! Cybernetic organisms!” Obi-Wan shouted. “The Magisters must have bred them, made them, and put them here to work for them!”

  Anakin was lost to any rational explanation. His seed-disks, the former seed-partners, were asking him what he wanted. They offered him up Shappa’s catalog of designs, plans for past ships, dreams of what future ships might be like in a century of more development and learning. Shappa’s design was not final; Sekot would have its input, as well.

  Anakin Skywalker was in a very special heaven. After a while, in his own time and in his own way, Obi-Wan joined him, and together they listened to the seed-disks, to the Jentari.

  In the blur of speed and questions, they lost all sense of time.

  The frame and the new ship-owners sped down the cleft, surrounded by sparks and vapors and flying tissues and trimmed bits of metal and plastic.

  Within less than ten minutes, they were over twenty kilometers from the warehouse and the shapers, and the finishing was upon them.

  The passage through the Jentari slowed.

  Their numbness passed. Perception slowly returned.

  “Wow!” Anakin said when he could breathe again. “That was unbelievably rugged!”

  “Wow,” Obi-Wan agreed.

  Anakin was filled with an unadulterated, primal delight. He could think of nothing but the Sekotan ship. Obi-Wan could see it in the boy’s eyes as they roamed over the smooth, iridescent lines of the ship’s interior. Green and blue and red, gleaming like a coat of ruby and emerald mineral enamel, yet not just a dead brilliance, but a pulsing quality of light that signified youth and life.

  “Ferocious!” Anakin cried out in approval. “It’s here! I can’t believe it’s really here.”

  “It doesn’t look quite finished,” Obi-Wan observed.

  Anakin’s face wrinkled into a brief frown. “Some little stuff, that’s all,” he said. “Then it will fly. And did you see that hyperdrive core? I can’t wait to find out what they did to it—how they modified it!”

  Raith Sienar’s first foreboding came with a mechanical shiver of his E-5. The battle droid sentinel loomed large in one corner of the commander’s cabin, its senses tuned to all the cabin’s ports of entry.

  He entered the viewing area in a tight-cinched sleep gown, wondering what the subdued whirring and clinking was all about.

  “Stand down,” he commanded the droid when he saw it was having difficulty. The droid dropped to a position of rest, relieving some tension from its vibrating limbs. Still, the droid remained a sad, shivering hulk.

  He returned to his personal effects in their cases in the sleeping quarters and brought out a small holo-analyzer. The device could find nothing wrong with the droid’s external mechanisms. Still, whenever the E-5 tried to return to an active posture, it clanked like an old iron wind chime in a stiff breeze.

  “Self-analysis,” he commanded. “What’s wrong?”

  The droid returned a series of beeps and whines, too high-pitched and too fast for Sienar’s instrument to understand. “Again, reanalyze.”

  The droid responded and the analyzer once again failed. It was as if the droid were speaking another set of languages entirely—a near impossibility. No one else had tampered with it—and he had programmed this droid himself. Sienar was very knowledgeable about such things and adept at small engineering tasks.

  He also had a sixth sense about ships, and the sudden small series of vibrations he felt through the soles of his slippers felt distinctive and wrong. Before he could demand a report from the bridge, Captain Kett’s image appeared in the middle of the viewing room, full-sized and tinted alarm red.

  “Commander, five battle droids have unexpectedly departed from the weapons bay. Did you order a drill … without my knowledge?”

  “I’ve ordered no such thing.”

  Kett seemed to listen to someone. He turned to Sienar—whom he could still not see—Sienar had his room projectors covered for the evening—and said, his voice shaking with anger, “Sir, passive detection reports—we have a visual sighting, actually—that five starfighter droids have exited through the Admiral Korvin’s starboard loading hatch and are flying directly toward Zonama Sekot. I have already locked down all other droids and sent my personal ship’s engineers into the weapons bay. No more will escape.”

  Sienar absorbed this as if Kett had just announced there would be a change in tomorrow’s meal plan. Without replying, leaving Kett’s image to hang and flicker above the floor of the cabin, he slowly turned back to the E-5.

  “Did you install my program in all of the starfighters?” Sienar asked the captain.

  “I followed your orders to the letter, Commander.”

  Sienar’s lips curled in a brief and silent curse. He had underestimated Tarkin. No doubt Tarkin had customized the droids—all the droids—with hidden subcode blocks containing contingency programs. Sienar had not bothered to look. He had taken some things at face value.

  So who was the fool now?

  “Destroy the starfighters,” he said, trying to keep calm.

  “That will reveal our presence, Commander.”

  “If we do not destroy them, they will reveal our presence for us. I do not want rogue units in action out there.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kett made a slashing motion with one hand. Another vibration came through the ship’s hull—turbolasers reaching out with short-range settings.

  “We have intercepted one of the five,” Kett said. “The others are out of range. I will dispatch—”

  “No. Hold. Sweep this entire system with active sensors, Captain Kett. Let me know the results immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sienar took out his laser pistol and approached the shivering E-5 with some trepidation. He wondered if Tarkin’s subcodes included orders to assassinate. In truth, however, he could not be sure such subcodes even existed—and he needed to learn quickly.

  “Drop your armor integrity. Deactivate and shut down all energy sources, damp them completely,” he ordered, and flashed an authorization code from his analyzer. The droid complied with his instructions—which meant that any subcode programs did not completely wrest control from the main intelligence.

  As the E-5 slumped with a weary little howl, Sienar slipped on a breather mask and applied his laser to the droid’s outer shell. In minutes, he had filled the commander’s cabin with dense smoke, setting off alarms which he grimly ignored.

  Workers at the end of the factory valley helped Anakin and Obi-Wan out of the new-made Sekotan starship and guided them to a platform that surrounded the finishing station. It was early morning, and darkness still covered the valley, though they were now above the canopy. The blaze of stars and glowing gases, and the ubiquitous red and purple pinwheel, cast vague colored
shadows on the dimly lit platform.

  Their new ship lay in a cradle of Jentari tendrils, rocking gently from its brisk creation, or—Anakin could not help thinking—quivering with its own youthful energy.

  Anakin had never seen a prettier ship. The hull of the little starship glowed faintly from within, and pools of deep-sea luminosity seemed to come and go under its shiny green skin. He walked around it on the platform, with Obi-Wan at his side, and together, they surveyed the ship in whose creation they had played such a substantial role.

  “I wonder if it’s lonely,” Anakin said.

  “It can stand to be apart from us for a few minutes,” Obi-Wan said. “Besides, they need to put in the last—”

  “I know,” Anakin said. “I was just wondering.” His Master’s inability to understand what he meant irritated him. The ship filled his eyes and it filled his heart, it seemed so much a part of him.

  The workers and artisans at this end of the valley were once again Ferroans, dressed in long black robes with edges of nebular blue. They walked over the lamina platform in the near dark, their slippered feet making tiny padding noises, and younger assistants—most no older than Anakin—directed the spots of tiny electric torches on the parts of the new ship they wished to examine.

  This end of the valley was crowded with stone pillars. Houses, administration buildings, engineering sheds, and warehouses occupied other pillars nearby, and a dense network of bridges made of living tendrils and lamina connected them.

  A transport flew over the platform and came to rest on a rock pillar some fifty meters away.

  Obi-Wan patted Anakin’s shoulder in reassurance that he was not without feeling, that he did understand, and looked west to see if he could make sense of all the other activity they had seen in the factory valley.

  Some hidden and massive project was under way, of that he was sure—something that probably involved all of Zonama Sekot. The Magisters had long ago harnessed the peculiarly ordered and interconnected organisms of the planet to do their bidding. Was it possible that now, Sekot and the settlers of Zonama had some mutual interest that demanded even more extensive cooperation, even more construction?

  Anakin was dead on his feet. He had never felt so tired, even after racing, and so it was with relief that he joined Obi-Wan on a long couch as the chief of artisans at this end of the factory valley brought them a tray of cold drinks and a sheaf of plans.

  “My name is Fitch,” the Ferroan introduced himself. He was shorter than the others, and stouter, and his hair was dense black. His face shone with ghostly pallor in the starlight. “You’ve got an extraordinary vessel,” Fitch added with his own share of pride. “My people will finish her in the next couple of hours. The Jentari’s work was well done—no seams, no filling, very little patching inside. Just the usual non-Sekotan instrumentation to bring the ship up to Republic standards.”

  “Where did you get the hyperdrive core?” Anakin asked after he had drained his glass of sweet water. “Did you make it here? I’ve never seen another like it.”

  “We have our sources,” Fitch said with a smile. “The ship’s speed lies in part in those cores, but also in how we connect them with the ship’s heart—and with you. The next couple of days will be spent learning the ship. You’ll be quartered here. You won’t go far from the ship—not for the next forty-eight hours. If you did, the ship would die—she would rot from the inside out, just as if I would pluck your own brain from its pan.”

  “But I’m not the ship’s brain,” Anakin said. “I can feel it—her thinking for herself. All the seed-partners have joined together and are thinking for themselves, aren’t they?”

  Fitch looked at Obi-Wan. “Smart lad. He’s going to be the pilot?”

  “He’ll be the pilot,” Obi-Wan confirmed.

  “No,” Fitch said. “You’re not the brain, young owner, not in literal truth. The ship does think for herself, after a fashion, but she needs you while she’s still young, and while she’s being finished, or she gets, let’s say, confused. Like a baby. You’re her guardians now.” Fitch stood and walked back across the platform to the cradle, which had now lifted the new ship higher for inspection of her underside. Artisans scrambled in through the hatch, carrying bits of equipment familiar to both of the Jedi: subspace communications, compact instruction boxes for coordinating with non-Sekotan repair droids, remote slaving and control systems required for arrival in orbit around the more crowded planets, transponders and emergency signaling, hyperdrive governors, control panels, two more acceleration couches for passengers, dozens of little bits and pieces apparently not relegated to the seed-partners and the Jentari.

  With the ship lifted so high, they could now see all of her at once—and Obi-Wan was as lost in admiration as his Padawan was.

  In his youth, Obi-Wan had been almost as fascinated with machinery as Anakin was. He, too, had built flying models of ships and dreamed of becoming a pilot, but with time and age, and under the guidance of Qui-Gon, he had integrated these impulses into a larger vision of duty and self.

  But he had never truly lost the dream. His own twelve-year-old self, so long restrained by the rigors of being a Jedi Knight, joined Anakin on that platform, and together, master and Padawan walked around the Sekotan ship—their ship—and spoke in low, admiring tones.

  “Isn’t she the most beautiful thing ever?” Anakin murmured, his eyes wide.

  “She’s beyond any doubt the sleekest,” Obi-Wan said.

  The hull was broad and low in the cradle, with three major lobes, like three smooth oval skipping stones joined and molded together. The leading edge of the hull was sharp as a knife, and the ship’s internal glow still concentrated here, making the edge fluoresce in the evening air. The trailing edges were less sharp, and were divided along the two rear lobes by engine ports, heat exchangers, and shield ducts. There were no weapons. She measured about thirty meters across the beam and twenty-five from stem to stern, and seen from the front, her two rear lobes made a dihedral of about fifteen degrees.

  As they completed their circuit, two wide viewing ports dilated, like slit eyes set in the forward lobe. A technician peered at them through one port and smiled at the new owners, lifting a thumb in approval.

  “Think where we can go in this!” Anakin said.

  “If the Temple lets us go anywhere,” Obi-Wan said.

  “They will. They’ll want us to let her out and see what she does. I know they will.”

  Obi-Wan was less sure, but now was not the time. He had finished his inspection—the wondering part, at any rate—and stood directly before the Sekotan ship with arms folded. He tuned all his senses and let the Force resume its ascendancy.

  “Anakin,” he said quietly.

  His Padawan turned to face him, expression suddenly serious. “I know,” he said. “I feel it.”

  “The middle of the wave,” Obi-Wan said. “Your trial, I believe.”

  The color drained from the Padawan’s face. “Couldn’t it wait … until we fly the ship?”

  Obi-Wan did not answer. Anakin looked down at his hands, folding into fists, and relaxed them. “All right,” he said. “It is the way, and I accept it.”

  “Do you, Padawan?” Obi-Wan asked gently.

  “It is what we’ve prepared for.”

  “Do you feel that as truth or … say it just to placate me?”

  “I never lie,” Anakin said, looking him straight in the eye, color returning to his face.

  “You have never lied to others. But even worse is to lie to oneself.”

  “But the ship … we’re responsible for her! She’s alive, Obi-Wan. She will die without us!”

  A second transport passed low overhead and landed on a pillar nearby. As Fitch fussed about the new ship and conferred with his technicians, Obi-Wan saw Sheekla and Shappa Farrs, Gann, and Jabitha marching along a bridge to the platform.

  Jabitha stood by Anakin and smiled at him, patting his shoulder proudly. “She’s beautiful!”


  Anakin tilted his head to one side, nodding, then glanced anxiously at Gann.

  “We’ve had difficulties,” Gann said, his expression dark and tired. “A client has caused substantial damage at Middle Distance. He injured some of our people, and he escaped. But that’s not the worst—there’s an invasion squadron within our system. Four small craft are approaching Zonama. We fear they are fighters. Someone has followed you here. Or—you led them here deliberately.”

  Sheekla and Shappa had stayed a few paces back until now. Sheekla stepped forward. “We have sent a message to the Magister,” she said. “The ship cannot be delivered until we hear his response.”

  “We had nothing to do with bringing ships here,” Obi-Wan said. “But if there is a hostile force nearby … How will you defend yourself? Perhaps we can help.”

  “We trust no one, not even Jedi,” Sheekla Farrs said, her expression stony. “We’ve learned this the hard way.”

  “We have to stay with the ship!” Anakin cried out.

  “You will be near the ship,” Gann said. “You will remain here, in fact. But the ship will stay on Zonama. We have no clear picture of the threat. It may be small—petty traders, a troupe of pirates.”

  “I suspect they are not pirates,” Obi-Wan said. Anakin agreed.

  “Then why so few?” Gann asked, turning to Obi-Wan. “It doesn’t make sense. A Trade Federation invasion force would encircle us with a fleet. They may have made a mistake, or there may be a malfunction.”

  Obi-Wan shook his head. “We can only help you if you tell us certain things.”

  Jabitha stood back, eyes wide, frightened by the talk. Shappa pushed between Gann and Sheekla Farrs. “I believe we can trust these Jedi,” he said. “Perhaps it is time to tell the story of Vergere—”

  Obi-Wan thought of the brief message carried by the seeds. That Vergere had had to leave Zonama Sekot, to follow an even greater mystery.