Star Wars: Rogue Planet (12 page)

“But Vergere—maybe she’s already bought a ship,” Anakin said.

“It may be necessary for us to be completely ignorant of Vergere,” Obi-Wan said.

“Oh … right.”

Obi-Wan rolled up the ingots and tied the cord, then handed it to Anakin. “Keep it with you at all times.”

“Wizard!” Anakin enthused. “No one’d suspect a boy would carry this much cash. I could buy a YZ-1000 with this—a
hundred
YZ-1000s!”

“What would you do with a hundred old star scows?” Obi-Wan asked with innocent curiosity.

“I’d rebuild them. I know how to make them go twice as fast as they do now—and they’re plenty fast!”

“And then?”

“I’d race them!”

“How much time would that leave for your training?”

“Not much,” Anakin admitted blithely. His eyes danced.

Obi-Wan pursed his lips in disapproval.

“Got you!” Anakin cried, grinning, and grabbed the packet. He stuffed it into his tunic and strapped it close to his body with the long remainder of cord. “I’ll guard your old money,” he said. “Who wants to be rich, anyway?”

Obi-Wan lifted an eyebrow. “To lose it would be unfortunate,” he cautioned.

* * *

Even from thirty thousand kilometers, Zonama Sekot was an odd-looking planet.

A spot of pearl white at the northern polar region was surrounded by an entire hemisphere of rich mottled green. Below the equator, the southern hemisphere was covered with impenetrable silvery cloud. Along the equator, a thin patch of darker gray and brown was broken by what looked like lengths of river and narrow lakes or seas. The edge of the southern overcast curled in elegant wisps, and the wisps broke free to form spinning storms.

While they waited for the planet’s answer to their landing request, Charza was involved in a birthing in another part of the ship.

Anakin sat in the small side seat on the bridge with his elbows propped on his knees, watching Zonama Sekot. He had performed his first set of exercises for the day, and his thoughts were particularly clear. It seemed sometimes, when his mind was settled, when he had tamed his turbulence for the moment, that he was no longer a boy or even a human. His perspective seemed crystalline and universal, and he felt as if he could see all his life laid out before him, filled with accomplishment and heroism—selfless heroism, of course, as befitted a Jedi. Somewhere in that life would be a woman, though Jedi did not often marry. He imagined the woman to be like Queen Amidala of Naboo, a powerful personality in her own right, lovely and dignified, yet sad and shouldered with great burdens—which Anakin would help lift.

He had not spoken with Amidala in years, nor of course with his mother, Shmi, but in his present frame of disciplined consciousness, their memory acted on him like a distant and ineffable music.

He shook his head and drew his eyes up, turning his feelings outward, focusing them until they seemed to
make a bright point between his eyes, and concentrated on Zonama Sekot, to see what he could
see
 …

Many paths to many futures flowed from any single moment, and yet, by being in tune with the Force, an adept could chart the most likely path for his awareness to follow. It seemed contradictory that one could prepare a path into a future, without knowing what that future would hold—yet that is what ultimately happened, and that is what a Jedi Master could do.

Obi-Wan was not yet so lofty in his accomplishments, he had told Anakin, but there had been hints that before any mission, any disciplined Jedi—even a mere Padawan—could also do a kind of looking forward.

Anakin was sure he was doing something like that now. It felt as if the cells in his body were tuned to a severely faded signal from the future, a voice, large and heavy, as if weighed down, unlike any voice he had ever heard …

His eyes slowly grew wide as he stared at the planet.

The boy, Anakin Skywalker of Tatooine, son of Shmi, Jedi Padawan, only twelve standard years of age, refocused all of his attention on Zonama Sekot. His body shuddered. One eye closed slightly, and his head tilted to one side. Then he quickly closed both eyes and shuddered again. The spell was broken. The moment had lasted perhaps three seconds.

Anakin tried to remember something large and beautiful, an emotion or a state of mind he had just touched upon, but all he could conjure was the face of Shmi, smiling at him sadly and proudly, like a protective scrim over any other memory.

His mother, still so important and so far away.

He could never see the face of a father.

Obi-Wan sloshed past the fall into the pilothouse. “Charza is done with his younglings,” he said. “They’re in training now to tend the ship.”

“So fast?” Anakin said.

“Life is short for some of Charza’s kin,” Obi-Wan said. “You look thoughtful.”

“I’m allowed, aren’t I?” Anakin asked.

“As long as you don’t brood,” Obi-Wan said. The look on his master’s face was both irritated and concerned. Anakin suddenly jumped out of his chair and hugged his master with a fierceness that took Obi-Wan by surprise.

Obi-Wan held the boy gently and let the moment flow into its own shape. Some Padawans were like quiet pools, their minds like simple texts. Only in training did they acquire the depth and complexity that showed maturity. Anakin had been a deep and complex mystery from the first day they met, and yet Obi-Wan had never felt such a strength of connection with any other being—not even Qui-Gon Jinn.

Anakin drew back and looked up at his master. “I think we’re going to face real trouble down there,” he said.

“Think?” Obi-Wan asked.

Anakin made a face. “I can
feel
it. I don’t know what it is, but … I did some forwarding. Feeling ahead. It’s trouble, all right.”

“I’ve suspected as much,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Even when Thracia Cho Leem was—”

The bridge was suddenly filled with a crowd of fresh, young, bright pink food-kin, all clattering and clacking with enthusiasm as they took their stations. Charza pushed through the shallow water onto the bridge with great dignity and weariness, as if he had accomplished something both satisfying and exhausting.

“Life goes on,” he chuffed to Anakin as he took his seat. “Now … let us see if there has been an answer from the planet.”

R
aith Sienar entered the observation deck of his flagship, the
Admiral Korvin
, and stepped up on the commander’s platform. He looked over the weapons arrayed within the circular assembly bay of the former Trade Federation heavy munitions cruiser, an antiquated hulk. He was both critical at the selection and dismayed that he was expected to coordinate this ragtag force.

To make matters worse, there was not a single craft of his own manufacture on board, a serious oversight, he believed, and perhaps a treacherous one.

Tarkin had either not described the force accurately, or he had remembered it with blind optimism.

Sienar flipped up the weapons list. E-5 droids … His lips curled.

The cruiser carried three landing craft, one hundred Trade Federation troops, and over three thousand droids. Three smaller and decidedly less useful vessels completed the squadron that Tarkin was now handing over to him.

It was not inconceivable that one could conquer a
planet with these ships: a backwater planet, in the dark ages of technology …

But nothing more advanced than that. And conquer, but not then control.

“You are not impressed,” Tarkin said dryly, joining him on the platform.

“I have never believed in droids as frontline fighters,” Sienar told him. “Not even these new ones. Naboo was lost even though the forces deployed by the Trade Federation were hundreds of times larger than this.”

“As I told you, these droids have been altered to be capable of independence, and they are considerably more rugged than earlier models,” Tarkin said with some irritation.

“Would you trust them to carry out a complicated battle plan on their own?”

“I might,” Tarkin said, sucking in his cheeks as he stared down the ranks of weapons and delivery vehicles. “I must say, Raith, I don’t prize complete independence as much as you seem to. The Neimoidians gave central control a bad name. The controllers on this ship are quite competent and flexible. Zonama Sekot is only lightly populated, as you well know. It is mostly forest. These should be more than sufficient.”

“Be honest with me,” Sienar said, stepping closer to his old classmate. “For both our sakes. If Zonama Sekot were a pushover, as planets go, we could make do with a small expeditionary force. This squadron seems at once too much and perhaps too little, and that worries me.”

“It is the best I can put together. The Trade Federation squadrons are being handed over to Republic control day by day, and this is all that they could hold aside.”

“Perhaps it is the best
you
can persuade them to send, with your rank and the quality of your contacts,” Sienar said.

Tarkin gave him a surprised, mock-hurt look, and then chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “When did a military man ever have everything his way? It’s what you do with what you have that wins wars. We would both have preferred to design and build our own force, using more imaginative strategic thinking. But the Trade Federation has suffered from this economic downturn as much as the Republic has. A veritable swarm of petty villains have moved in with their old freighters to run the most lucrative goods illegally between systems. Fighting them and reclaiming trade routes and privileges was a matter of life and death for the Trade Federation. Now the Republic will have to police the trade lanes. And the Republic’s armaments are, if anything, even sorrier. Frankly, I was lucky to procure even this.”

“Spare me the weepy details,” Sienar said coldly. “You have put me in charge rather than go yourself, though you are the more experienced in battle tactics. Failure of this mission will taint the commander—will taint
me
—irrevocably.”

“Now who is engaging in weepy details?” Tarkin asked, even more coldly. “Raith, for a decade you have sequestered yourself with your collections, executing small contracts, trying to promote a strategy of small, elegant weapon design long out of fashion, complaining bitterly about lost opportunities and unimaginative buyers. During that time, I have been working my way up a very long ladder. We must make do with what we have. I chose you … because you are nearly my equal in tactics, and you will understand Zonama Sekot’s factories better than I ever could.”

Sienar regarded Tarkin narrowly. The two were breathing slightly faster, as if they might go after each other with fingernails and fists at any moment.

But that was not likely. They were gentlemen of military
bearing and training, of the old school. Their dignity, at least, would not crumble under this pressure, even if other dustings of honor had long since been swept away.

“I swear, you’ve pushed me into this deliberately,” Sienar said quietly, breaking their gaze in a way that showed such a contest was beneath him. “Looking at this equipment, I’m not at all sure of your motives.”

“There you go again,” Tarkin said, trying for a tone of amusement. “You have a large-capacity and heavily armored flagship with three landers, and three utility vessels—a
Taxon
-class probe ship, a fleet diplomatic boat that can double as a decoy, and a mobile astromech repair station. Battle droids, sky mines … Your squadron is more than sufficient to accomplish our mission.”

“And you’ll be in just the right place to repair any damage my failure might cause?” Sienar asked.

“I am staying on Coruscant to support the effort politically. That is likely to be far more difficult than conquering a jungle planet.” Tarkin shook his head. “We both of us have far to go up the ladders of this new way of life that is coming. You, my friend, need opportunities to shine. So I give this job to you, not without ulterior motives, to be sure. I am certain you will not fail. Now.” He drew himself up. “I must return to Coruscant. Ah, here is Captain Kett.”

The captain of the
Admiral Korvin
approached Sienar and bowed his head quickly before speaking. “We are to leave orbit in twenty minutes, Commander. There is one last load of weapons to take aboard. Droid starfighters, I believe. They will be stowed in ten minutes.” The adjutant glanced at Tarkin with a flicker of recognition.

“There, Raith,” Tarkin said. “More than I hoped for. If you can’t win this planet with droid starfighters … Well.”

Sienar acknowledged Kett’s message with a curt twist
of his head. “Allow me to escort you to the transport deck,” he said to Tarkin.

“No need,” Tarkin said.

“I insist,” Sienar told him. “It is the way things are done … on my ship.”

And it would also insure that Tarkin had no time to make last personal arrangements with any secret cadre inside the cruiser. Suspecting as much was churlish, to be sure, but this was rapidly becoming an age of churls.

Sienar felt very much out of place in this age, and on his own flagship.

He would have to do something about that, and quickly.