Star Wars: Rogue Planet (16 page)

The time was approaching—if time could be called any such thing on a ship hurtling above time—when he would have to meet with his appointed “assistant,” the Blood Carver, Ke Daiv. Ke Daiv gave him the creeps, but at least he seemed intelligent and, despite his failure against the Jedi, competent enough. Strangely, as Sienar got up from his chair and paced his spacious and well-appointed cabin, he was not disturbed by the possibility that Ke Daiv was the one assigned to execute him should he fail.

He needed more armor, and he needed an ally whose motives he understood and could at least partially trust.

He drew himself up. It was time to probe Ke Daiv’s armor. He would do it ahead of schedule, and while they were still incommunicado in hyperspace.

That would require some preparation.

He pulled a small box from his locked and coded luggage case and examined it in a bright light that descended from the ceiling at the touch of a button. A small table and set of tools rose from the floor before the closed forward-facing port that filled most of a wall in the commander’s sitting room.

The tools on the table he had requisitioned from ship’s
stores the day before. His fingers were less than steady, but the work of preparing the box was not exceptionally delicate.

One of the reasons he had little faith in droids was that he had long ago created ways to subvert them. For reasons of his own—and because he had always been convinced battle droids would fail on their own—he had never marketed these items.

Inside the box was a custom droid verbobrain of his own design, carrying his own programs.

He fingered a communications button, and an image of Captain Kett flickered to low-resolution “life” before him. He could see Kett, but Kett could not see him.

“Send me a Baktoid model E-5, fully operational and armed, to my quarters.” Baktoid Combat Automata had designed and manufactured these heavy, unwieldy droids as Trade Federation replacements after Naboo, before assimilation into the Republic. He would have preferred a lighter model, but the E-5s had more than enough power and their motivators were quite good. They were, in Sienar’s opinion, the best of a mediocre lot, their greatest weakness being their lack of intelligence. Their verbo-brains were as slow as any tank’s. But then, that is what Baktoid specialized in: transports and tanks.

Sienar knew the chief designer well. The dunderhead just
loved
tanks.

He opened the box, removed the verbobrain, and inserted a new programming cylinder into a vacant slot. Immediately, the spinner within the unit began to whir and seek data from its radiance of inputs.

With this, Sienar believed he could make an E-5 dance like a female Twi’lek.

And with the modified E-5 a fixture in his quarters, he would meet with Ke Daiv, and tell him a thing or two about the people—the
humans
—he was working for.

T
he crowd had parted in silence to let Obi-Wan and Anakin through. They walked across the courtyard alone. Sheekla Farrs held back and watched them approach the massive stone and lamina door. The door swung wide. Beyond lay a great, open spherical chamber, like the inside of a ball with its top cut away. Late-morning sun moved in a brilliant oblong across the rear of the chamber, which crawled with thousands of living things: spike-covered balls a little smaller than a human head.

Obi-Wan observed this motion with some concern. Anakin, however, looked upon the thousands of thorny spheroids with a smile.

“These will grow to become our ship,” he whispered to Obi-Wan.

“We don’t know that yet,” Obi-Wan said.

“A Jedi can feel his destiny, can’t he?” Anakin asked.

“A fully trained Jedi may rely on such feelings, but changes in the Force can deceive an apprentice.”

Anakin ran ahead, and Obi-Wan broke into a trot to keep up. The boy held out his arms as if in welcome.

Across the wide chamber, every thorn-covered organism stopped its rustling motion. Except for a morning breeze lazing down from the opening to the sky, silence filled the room.

“They’re seed-partners!” Anakin shouted.

The door behind them closed noiselessly. They were alone with the seed-partners, if that was what they were. Obi-Wan felt it best to keep an open mind, but it was obvious Anakin had no doubts whatsoever.

“What are you waiting for?” the boy shouted. His voice did not echo—the thick carpet of spikeballs absorbed all sound.

“We should let
them
take the initiative,” Obi-Wan advised softly.

Anakin scowled impatiently. Suddenly, he was a twelve-year-old boy, nothing more. He showed nothing of the three years of training in the Temple. Obi-Wan placed his hand on Anakin’s shoulders and felt the tension in the boy’s body and limbs, like a young animal, totally impenetrable to suggestion.

The dropping away from his Padawan of every aspect of Obi-Wan’s teaching dismayed him for a moment. It was as if he stood behind a totally different child than the one Qui-Gon had thought so special.

Anakin spoke, his words barely audible.

Then, louder, “I’m ready.”

Only now did Obi-Wan catch on, and the hair on his neck bristled in a way it had not for years, since he had encountered and defeated, though just barely, the strange red-and-black Sith with the double-bladed red lightsaber, Darth Maul, the Sith who had mortally wounded Qui-Gon.

The boy had totally damped all extraneous personal vibrations. He had become quiet in the Force in a way Obi-Wan still found exceptionally difficult, though not
impossible, and the boy had done this in fractions of a second.

With the swift and native genius of a child, Anakin had made himself into a quiet antenna listening to the creatures within the sphere.

And the spikeballs, in turn, equally quiet, listened to both of these potential new clients with all the openness of a different variety of childhood.

“They want something from us,” Obi-Wan suggested.

Anakin shook his head. The apprentice was disagreeing with the master, not for the first time and, Obi-Wan suspected, not by a long shot for the last.

“We’re not what they expected,” Obi-Wan said.

Anakin nodded.

Two of the bristling spheres disengaged midway up the wall of the chamber and clambered over their companions until they came to the clearing on the bowl of the floor, the empty space surrounding the two humans. The spikeballs rolled slowly, in a wavering path, until they were just centimeters from the boy’s feet.

More spikeballs disengaged and followed. In a few moments, Anakin and Obi-Wan were surrounded by ten of the milling seed-partners, each making small clicking noises and producing a rich, flowery smell.

“They approve,” Anakin said, glancing at his master. “They sense we’re not afraid.” Within the boy’s eyes, enthusiasm had been tempered by a new caution. “But … if they approve, it means a real commitment, doesn’t it?”

“I presume,” Obi-Wan said.

“For them, it’s got to be
serious
.”

“Perhaps.”

The ten spikeballs drew back and stopped their restless motion. The air was rich with their scent, now tangy, like breeze from a salty sea.

“I wish Sheekla had told us more,” Anakin said, his eyes darting around the chamber.

The atmosphere was thick and damp, as if a storm were near.

The spikeballs began to vibrate on the floor. Obi-Wan looked up to the rim of the chamber wall and saw many more descending. The purposeful descent quickly turned into frenzied dropping. The carpet of seed-partners unraveled as dozens, then hundreds of the thorny spheres broke free and fell to collide with their companions in the bottom of the bowl. The spikeballs bounced, whistled, clicked, and released a nose-cloying cloud of electric-flowery scent.

“They’re
all
going to drop!” Anakin shouted, and turned, but there was nowhere to run. He stood straight, then crouched and reached for Obi-Wan. “This is going to be bad!
But whatever you do, don’t be afraid
!”

Obi-Wan instinctively reached for his lightsaber, but that would have been useless. All they could do was stand back-to-back and cover their faces as every spike-ball in the chamber poured down onto the floor in a thorny cascade. In seconds, Anakin and Obi-Wan were awash in the deluge, bumped and battered mercilessly. They pushed out with their hands to keep their faces clear. But the torrent pressed from all sides, rising over their heads and slamming the backs of their hands against their lips and noses. Fragments of spikeball shells flew into the air, and a cloud of dust rose from the churning heap.

They could not move.

In seconds, they could not even breathe.

I
have great respect for the culture of the Blood Carvers,” Raith Sienar told the tall, quiet, golden figure that stood in the anteroom to the commander’s quarters. He could hear Ke Daiv’s slow, soft breathing and the steady
click-click
of his long black nails on one hand, knocking together like wooden chimes in a breeze.

“Why did you bring me here?” Ke Daiv asked after a moment. “It is early in the mission.”

“So insolent!”

“It is my way. I serve and obey, also in my way.”

“I see. Please, make yourself comfortable.” Raith stood back and gestured toward the sitting room.

Ke Daiv moved half a step, then hesitated and bowed slightly. “I am not worthy.”

“If I say you are worthy, then you are worthy,” Sienar told the young Blood Carver, with just the right measure of sternness.

Ke Daiv bowed again and walked into the viewing room. The port hatches were still closed. The navigator
droid had predicted another four or five hours in hyperspace before they emerged into realspace.

“Please,
sit
,” Sienar urged again. He wished to hold his command voice in reserve. He sensed Ke Daiv would be more susceptible in due time, after he learned a few things about his situation—and about Raith Sienar.

Ke Daiv gently bent his triple joints and knelt by the crystal-top table, rather than sit on the divan.

“Have you been treated well aboard the
Admiral Korvin?
” Sienar asked.

Ke Daiv said nothing.

“I am concerned with your well-being,” Sienar said.

“I am fed and left alone in small quarters reserved for me. As I am not part of the crew, they stay away, and that is good.”

“I see. Something of a
wall
there, hm?”

“No more so than on Coruscant. My people are few in that part of the galaxy. We have yet to make our mark.”

“Of course. I, personally, admire your people, and I hope we can exchange information useful to both of us,” Sienar said.

Ke Daiv turned his head, and his face formed that disconcerting blade shape as his wide nose flaps came together. He turned slowly to look at the E-5 droid hulking in one corner. The droid rotated its wide, flat head in their direction, jewel-red eyes glowing like coals, and adjusted its stance to face the Blood Carver directly.

“Do you believe all that you’ve been told about this mission?” Sienar said.

Ke Daiv shifted one eye toward him, but kept the other on the E-5. “I have been told little. I know that you do not trust me.”

“We’re equal in that regard,” Sienar said. “And in no other. I am still commander. I am your leader.”

“Why remind me if you are so certain?” Ke Daiv asked bluntly.

Sienar smiled and held out his hands in admiration. “Perhaps we are equal in other ways. You have doubts, and I have doubts. You know little or nothing about me, or what I hold in reserve.”

Ke Daiv’s joints cracked softly, and he looked away from the E-5. The droid did not frighten him. “What do you wish to know?”

“I understand you have a contract with Tarkin.”

“You cannot understand what you do not know, and you cannot know this.”

“A little respect,” Sienar suggested in a soft rumble.

“
Commander,
” Ke Daiv added with another cracking of his arm joints.

“Tell me about your arrangement.”

“I do not mind dying. I am in disgrace with my family, and death is not feared.”

“I have no intention of killing you, or of letting you die,” Sienar said. “The droid is here in case you have instructions to kill
me
. It’s completely under my control.”