by James Luceno
Obi-Wan watched him for a moment, then turned to Anakin. “I don’t think he wants to speak with us.”
Anakin kept his eyes on t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak. “Well, he has to.”
And with that, he leapt in pursuit.
“Anakin, wait!” Obi-Wan said, then added, more to himself, “Oh, what’s the use,” and sprang up toward the ceiling.
Hurling himself from truss to truss like some circus performer, Anakin arrived quickly at the intricate tracery surrounding the partially opened roof window through which t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak was desperately trying to squirm. The Xi Charrian’s insectile forelegs were already outside the window when Anakin leapt again, clutching on to him in an effort to return him to the floor. But the alien was stronger than he looked. Chittering madly, he leapt for a higher window, this time taking Anakin with him.
Ten meters away, Obi-Wan paralleled the Xi Charrian’s flight into the upper reaches of the vaulted ceiling, where the chase had now roused scores of roosting Xi Charrians, inciting more than a few to join in.
Anakin was still trying to drag his quarry down, but his weight was insufficient to the task. Fearing what might result should Anakin call too strongly on the Force—Obi-Wan had visions of the entire workshop crumbing to pieces!—he fairly flew after them, barely managing at the apex of his ascent to grab hold of t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak’s rear legs.
And down they came.
All three, entwined, and bringing with them more than thirty inverted Xi Charrians. Cascading onto the floor, Obi-Wan and Anakin lost their hold on t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak, and suddenly couldn’t tell one Xi Charrian from the next. Losing t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak had ceased to be an immediate concern, in any case, because Xi Charrians throughout the workshop were rushing to the aid of those the two Jedi had caused to plummet from the rafters. Some were already attempting to zap the Jedi into submission by brandishing assorted soldering and engraving tools, while others were busy constructing a plasteel hemisphere under which the violence might be contained.
“No mayhem!” Obi-Wan shouted.
Anakin showed him a wide-eyed glance from beneath a three-meter-tall heap of irate Xi Charrians.
“Who exactly are you talking to?”
Obi-Wan glanced around the workshop. “Topple something—quickly! Before they complete the mound!”
With a shoving motion of his free hand, Obi-Wan overturned a small table twenty meters away, spilling several stacks of freshly engraved comlinks and droid summoners. Chittering in panic, half the Xi Charrians who were holding him to the floor—and most of the ones rushing toward him—scampered off to repair the damaged devices.
“Quickly, Anakin!’
Even with his hands pinned under him, Anakin managed to upend a pallet of kitchen appliances, then knock over a carefully arranged collection of toys, then tear from the wall more than half a dozen sconces.
Chittering in dismay, more Xi Charrians raced off.
“Stop making it look like fun!” Obi-Wan cautioned.
Eyes riveted on a bin filled with musical instruments, he was about to rid himself of his remaining tormenters when blasterfire erupted in the workshop, and into the midst of the throng of infuriated Xi Char appeared the Prelate himself, seated on a litter carried by six bearers and grasping a weapon in each foot.
Twenty Xi Charrians flattened themselves to the floor as the Prelate brought the blasters to bear on Obi-Wan and Anakin. But before a bolt could be fired TC-16 emerged from a side gallery, his body realigned and polished to a dazzling luster, shouting: “Look what they’ve done to me!”
The droid’s tone of voice combined anguish and wonder, but the change in him was so unexpected and remarkable that the Prelate and his bearers could only gape, as if a miracle had occurred in their midst. A babble of chitterings was exchanged, before the Prelate swung back to Obi-Wan and Anakin, raising the blasters once more.
“But they meant no harm, Excellency!” the droid intervened. “t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak fled in response to their questions! Master Obi-Wan and Jedi Skywalker sought merely to ascertain the reason!”
The Prelate’s gaze singled out t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak.
TC-16 translated.
“Master Kenobi, the Prelate advises you to pose your questions, and to leave Charros Four before he has a change of heart.”
Obi-Wan looked at t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak, then at TC-16. “Ask him if he remembers the chair.”
The droid relayed the question.
“He remembers it now.”
“Was the engraving done here?”
“He answers, ‘yes,’ sir.”
“Was the chair brought to Charros Four by the Neimoidians or by another?”
“He says, sir: ‘By another.’ ”
Obi-Wan and Anakin traded eager looks.
“Was the hyperwave transceiver already affixed to it?” Anakin asked.
TC-16 listened. “Both the tranceiver and the holoprojector itself were already affixed to the chair. He says that he did little but inscribe the legs of the chair and tweak some of its motion systems.” Lowering his voice, the droid added: “May I say, sirs, that t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak’s voice is … quavering. I suspect that he is hiding something.”
“He’s afraid,” Anakin said. “And not of Nute Gunray.”
Obi-Wan looked at TC-16. “Ask him who made the transceiver. Ask him where it shipped from.”
t’laalak-s’lalak-t’th’ak’s chitterings sounded contrite.
TC-16 said: “The transceiver unit arrived from a facility known as Escarte. He believes that the device’s maker is still there.”
“Escarte?” Anakin said.
“An asteroid mining facility,” TC-16 explained, “belonging to the Commerce Guild.”
Ten years ago it would have had all the makings of a fullblown diplomatic incident,” Intelligence officer Dyne was explaining to Yoda and Mace Windu in the data room of the Jedi Temple.
Filled with computers, holoprojector tables, and communications apparatus, the windowless chamber also housed an emergency beacon that transmitted on a frequency known only to the Jedi, allowing the Temple to send and receive encrypted messages without having to rely on the more public HoloNet.
“Since when are the Xi Char so forgiving?” Mace asked. Dressed in a brown belted tunic and beige trousers, he was poised on the edge of a desk, one booted foot planted on the shiny floor.
“Since they’ve been forced to make do with subcontracting work,” Dyne said. “What they want is to get back in the game by landing a nice fat Republic contract for starfighters or combat droids. It has to be driving them mad, knowing that Sienar is getting even richer on techniques he basically stole from them.”
Mace glanced at Yoda, who was standing off to one side, both hands resting on the knob of his gimer stick. “Then the Xi Char Prelate isn’t likely to report the incident to the Senate.”
Dyne shook his head. “Not a chance. No real harm was done, anyway.”
“Reach the ears of the Supreme Chancellor, it won’t,” Yoda said. “But surprised I was by Obi-Wan’s report. Losing some of his better judgment, Obi-Wan is.”
“We both know why,” Mace said. “He’s become Anakin’s partisan.”
“If the Chosen One Skywalker is, then a hundred such diplomatic incidents we should suffer without concern.” Yoda shut his eyes for a moment, then looked at the Intelligence analyst. “But come to tell us of these things, Captain Dyne hasn’t.”
Dyne grinned. “We’ve succeeded in deciphering the code Dooku—and, we have to assume, Sidious—has been using to communicate with the Council of Separatists. Using the code, we were able to intercept a message sent to Viceroy Gunray, through the mechno-chair.”
Mace came to his feet. “Your people have been working on cracking that code for years.”
“The chair’s hyperwave transceiver provided us with our first solid lead. We saw right away that t
he code embedded in the transceiver’s memory was a variant on codes used by the InterGalactic Banking Clan. So we decided to offer a deal to one of the Muuns arrested after the Battle of Muunilinst. It took some convincing, but the Muun finally confirmed that the Confederacy code comes closest to a code used on Aargau, for transferring bank funds and such.” Dyne paused, then added: “Remember the missing credits that became the basis for accusations leveled against Chancellor Valorum back in the day?”
Yoda nodded. “Remember the incident well, we do.”
“The credits that allegedly disappeared into the pockets of Valorum’s family members on Eriadu were routed through Aargau.”
“Interesting, this is.”
Dyne opened an alloy briefcase and removed a ribbed data cell. Moving to one of the holoprojector tables, he inserted the cell into a socket. A meter-high holoimage appeared in the table’s cone of blue light.
“General Grievous,” Yoda said, narrowing his eyes.
“You’ll be pleased to learn that I’ve chosen a world for us, Viceroy,” Grievous was saying. “Belderone will be our temporary home.” The cyborg fell silent for a moment. “Viceroy? Viceroy!” Whirling to someone off cam, he barked: “End transmission.”
Dyne paused the message before Grievous had faded from view.
“As high-resolution an image as I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Technology of a different order than we’re used to seeing—even from the Confederacy.”
“About his image, Sidious cares, ummm?”
Mace’s clean-shaven upper lip curled. “What was the source of the transmission?”
“Deep in the Outer Rim,” Dyne said. “Six clone pilots pursued a core ship that jumped to the sector following the Battle of Cato Neimoidia. None returned.”
“Rendezvous of the Confederacy fleet, it is,” Yoda said.
Mace nodded. “And Belderone next.” Again his gaze fell on Dyne. “Anything further on the source of the original Sidious transmission?”
Dyne shook his head. “Still working on it.”
Mace paced away from the table. “Belderone is not a highly populated world, but it is friendly to the Republic. Grievous will kill millions just to make a point.” He glanced at Yoda. “We can’t let that happen.”
Dyne looked from Mace to Yoda and back again. “If Republic forces are waiting when Grievous attacks, the Separatists will realize that we’ve managed to eavesdrop on their transmissions.”
Yoda pressed his fingers to his lips in thought. “Act, we must. Lying in wait, Republic forces will be.”
Dyne nodded. “You’re right, of course. If no actions are taken, and word of this intelligence were to leak …” He regarded Yoda. “Do we inform the Supreme Chancellor?”
Yoda’s ears twitched. “Difficult, this decision is.”
“The information stays here,” Mace said firmly.
Yoda sighed with purpose. “Agree I do. Use the beacon we will, to gather a force.”
“Obi-Wan and Anakin aren’t far from Belderone,” Mace said. “But they’re pursuing another lead to Sidious’s whereabouts.”
“Wait, the lead will. Needed Obi-Wan and Anakin will be.” Yoda turned to the still image of General Grievous. “Prepare carefully for this battle, we must.”
In dreams, Grievous remembered his life.
His mortal life.
On Kalee, and in the aftermath of the Huk War.
After all the close calls on battlefields on his home system worlds, on Huk worlds, sowing destruction, exterminating as many of them as he could … After all the times he had returned home wounded, bloodied to the bone, surrounded by his wives and offspring, basking in their support—relying on it to recall him to life.
After all the brushes with death … to be fatally injured in a shuttle crash.
The unfairness, the indignity had cost him more pain than the injuries themselves. To be denied a warrior’s death—as was his due!
Floating suspended in bacta, keenly aware that no healing fluid or gamma blade wielded by living being or droid could repair his body. In moments of consciousness: seeing his wives and offspring gazing on his ravaged body from the far side of the permaglass. Offering words of encouragement; prayers for his return to health.
He had asked himself: could he be content to be a mind in a body without feeling? More, could he abandon a life of combat for a life in which the only battles he fought were with himself? The struggle to endure, to live another day …
No. It was beyond him.
By then, the Huk War had ended—more accurately had been ended by the Jedi, and the Kaleesh were still reaping the whirlwind. Their world in ruins, their appeals for justice and fair play ignored by the Republic.
Ever on the alert for investment opportunities, members of the InterGalactic Banking Clan had offered Kalee a dubious sort of rescue. They would support the planet financially, assume its staggering debt, if Grievous would agree to serve the clan as an enforcer. Their hailfire weapons were proficient at delivering “payment reminders” to delinquent clients, and their IG-series assassin droids took care of the wet work. But the hailfires had to be programmed, the IGs were dangerously unpredictable, and assassination was bad for business.
The clan wanted someone with a talent for intimidation.
Both to save his world and to provide himself with a touch of the life he had known as a warrior, a strategist, a leader of armies, Grievous had accepted the offer. IBC chairman San Hill himself had overseen the details of the arrangement. Still, Grievous wasn’t entirely proud of his decision. Debt collection was a far cry from warcraft. An arena for beings without principles; for beings so attached to their possessions that they feared death. But Kalee had profited from his work for IBC. And Grievous’s previous notoriety was such that it could not be eclipsed.
Then: the shuttle crash. The accident. The misfortune …
He told his would-be healers to fish him from the bacta tank. He could bear to die in atmosphere or the vacuum of deep space, but not in liquid. In the shadow of felled trees that would fuel his funeral pyre, he lapsed in and out of consciousness. That was when San Hill had paid him a second visit. Something consequential in mind. Obvious even to someone who could barely see straight.
“We can keep you alive,” rail-thin Hill had whispered into Grievous’s unimpaired ear.
Others had promised as much. He pictured breathing devices, a hover platform, a surround of life-sustaining machines.
But Hill had said: “None of that. You will walk, you will speak, you will retain your memories—your mind.”
“I have my mind,” Grievous had said. “What I lack is a body.”
“Most of your internal organs are damaged beyond the repair of the finest surgeons,” Hill had continued. “And you will have to surrender even more than you already have. You will no longer know the pleasures of the flesh.”
“Flesh is weak. You need only gaze on me to see that.”
Encouraged by the remark, Hill had talked in glowing terms of the Geonosians: how they had raised cyborg technology to an art form, and how the blending of living and machine technology was the future.
“Consider the battle droids of the Trade Federation,” Hill had said. “They answer to a brain that is also nothing more than a droid. Protocol droids, astromechs, even assassin droids—all require programming and frequent maintenance.”
Two words had caught Grievous’s attention: battle droids.
“A war is brewing that will call many droids to the front,” Hill had said just loudly enough to be heard. “I am not privy to when it will begin, but when that day comes, the entire galaxy will be involved.”
His interest piqued, Grievous had said: “A war begun by whom? The Banking Clan? The Trade Federation?”
“Someone more powerful.”
“Who?”
“In time, you will meet him. And you will be impressed.”
“Then why does he need me?”
“In every war, there are leaders and th
ere are commanders.”
“A commander of droids.”
“More precisely, a living commander of droids.”
So he had allowed the Geonosians to go to work on him, constructing a duranium and ceramic shell for what little of him remained. His recuperation had been long and difficult. Coming to terms with his new and in many ways improved self, even longer and more difficult. Only then had he been presented to Count Dooku, and only then had his real training begun. From the Geonosians and members of the Techno Union he had already come to understand the inner workings of droids. But from Dooku—Lord Tyranus—he came to understand the inner workings of the Sith.
Tyranus himself had trained him in lightsaber technique. In mere weeks he had surpassed any of Tyranus’s previous students. It helped, of course, to have an indestructible body reminiscent of a Krath wardroid. The ability to tower over most sentient beings. Crystal circuitry. Four grasping appendages …
In dreams he remembered his past life.
But in fact, he was not dreaming, for dreams were a product of sleep, and General Grievous did not sleep. He endured instead brief periods of stasis in a pod-like chamber that had been created for him by his body’s builders. While inside that chamber he could sometimes recall what it had felt like to live. And while inside, he was not to be disturbed—unless in the event of inimical circumstances.
The chamber was equipped with displays linked to devices that monitored the status of the Invisible Hand. But Grievous was aware of a problem even before the displays told him as much.
As he exited the chamber and hurried for the cruiser’s bridge, a droid joined him, supplying updates.
No sooner had the Separatist fleet emerged from hyperspace at Belderone than it had come under attack—not by Belderone’s meager planetary defense force, but by a Republic battle group.
