Star Wars: Rogue Planet (26 page)

Vagno put on heavier boots and fireproof waders and jumped into the pit. He flung up clouds of hot ash and laughed as he poked forth something large, maybe twenty times bigger than a seed. He exchanged his tool for a flat-bladed shovel and scooped into the ash, then flipped out a broad, flat, fringed disk, immobile, sooty, and gray. He wiped off some of the ash and revealed a palm-swipe of pearly white. His crew grabbed the disk by its fringe and flung it callously onto the back of a carapod. Vagno probed, discovered, and laughed once more, flipped out another disk, and again the crew grabbed and stacked.

Anakin looked to Obi-Wan, his eyes dancing with joy. The seeds had been forged. All fifteen seeds had survived. Each had exploded in the heat, puffed out into the fringed disks now loaded on the carapod behind them.

Then the boy’s face fell. “I don’t feel them,” Anakin said. “Are they still alive?”

Obi-Wan had no answer. He was almost punch-drunk with what he had experienced. He felt like a boy himself now, lost in shock and wonder and an irritating tickle of fear.

At last you know the spirit of adventure
!

Obi-Wan closed his eyes tightly, as if to ward off the voice. He missed his Master intensely, but he would not let a vagrant fantasy besmirch Qui-Gon’s memory.

“Adventure,” Anakin said. The boy rode beside Obi-Wan on the carapod. Vagno was taking them across the valley, around several of the tall, river-carved pillars, toward a narrower and darker cleft on the southern side. “Is adventure the same as danger?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, a little too sharply. “Adventure is lack of planning, failure of training.”

“Qui-Gon didn’t think so. He said adventure is growth, surprise is the gift of awareness of limits.”

For an instant, Obi-Wan wanted to lash out at the boy, strike him across the face for his blasphemy. That would have been the end of their relationship as Master and apprentice. He
wanted
it to end. He did not want the responsibility, or in truth to be near one so sensitive, so capable of blithely echoing what lay deepest inside him.

Qui-Gon had once told Obi-Wan these very things, and he had since forgotten them.

Anakin stared at his master intently. “Do you hear him?” he asked.

Obi-Wan shook his head. “It is not Qui-Gon,” he said stiffly.

“Yes, it is,” Anakin said.

“Masters do not return from death.”

“Are you sure?” Anakin asked.

Obi-Wan looked south into the dark maw of the cleft. There were no fires there, no forges. Instead, a cold blue light flickered across the wet stone walls, and long tendrils
crawled like snakes over the walls and the sandy, rock-strewn floor.

“Clients never return!” Vagno shouted at them as he marched alongside the carapod, his stumpy legs pounding the ground. He capered and poked his blade into the air. “They don’t remember, and if they did remember, they’d be too afraid! But me and my crew, we
live
here! We’re the bravest in all the universe!”

Obi-Wan, at this moment, could not have agreed more.

V
agno gruffly introduced them to the chief of the shaping team, a tall, wiry man named Vidge. Where Vagno was squat and red, Vidge seemed more like a tall wisp of night fog—pale, with large, wet eyes. Even his clothes were wet and sprinkled with bits of glowing slime that made him look like a creature hauled forth from the depths of an ocean.

“You’ve brought so many,” he complained in a sepulchral tone as he counted the disks stacked on the three carapods. “What are we to do with fifteen?”

Vagno shrugged expressively. Vidge turned to gloomily survey Anakin, then glanced over at Obi-Wan. “Did you pay more to the uplanders, to get so many seeds?”

“No questions!” Vagno cried out. “It’s time to paint and shape!”

Vidge raised his hands in mock surrender and turned to his own team, all tall and damp and insubstantial. They wielded different tools, long heavy brushes and rough-edged paddles. Behind them rose a tall warehouse made of roughly assembled sheets of lamina, sagging and
corroded from years of rough use. Vidge grabbed the carapod closest to him by its center leg and pulled it toward the warehouse. It hung back reluctantly, as did the other two, who were urged forward by Vidge’s crew.

Vagno stood back. “Not my place,” he said, suddenly humble. “Here’s a different art.” He waved them to follow Vidge.

The warehouse echoed with hollow bubbling and sighing. Tendrils crept in from around the edges and spread wide and flat, and at their tips grew broad fruits unlike any they had seen elsewhere: swollen, translucent, and filled with a sparkling, thick fluid that swirled slowly within, churned by screw-shaped organs at the core of each fruit.

Anakin and Obi-Wan helped Vidge’s crew unload the seed-disks and arrange them upright in racks near the shaping platform. Here, on a riser about ten meters wide, Vidge and two assistants lifted a long knife and harvested one of the fruits, slicing it along a lateral line with three swift whacks. The glowing clear fluid within oozed forth and writhed slowly along the platform, filled with a haze of flexible white needles.

From a door at the back of the warehouse, a large carapod crawled out of the shadows. On its back it balanced a metal and plastic frame, apparently a form for their spacecraft.

“A ready-made frame, sent here by Shappa Farrs,” Vidge said sorrowfully, as if announcing the death of a dear friend. “The shaping brings it alive.”

Another carapod, protected by thick metal plates woven into a fabric shield, carried objects Anakin recognized immediately: two Haor Chall type-seven
Silver-
class light starship engines, as well as a very expensive hyperdrive core unit. Anakin saw that on both the engines and
on the core unit, some parts were oddly missing, and other parts had been modified.

And yet a third carapod, much smaller—barely as large as Anakin himself—walked with jaunty steps forward into the greenish light emanating from the warehouse walls. This one carried a delicate crystalline structure Anakin did not recognize.

Obi-Wan, however, did. Organoform circuits had been rumored for hundreds of years, and supposedly had been developed on the more advanced Rim world that had continued to resist involvement with both the Republic and the Trade Federation. Rumors only … until now.

“What’s that?” Anakin asked, fascinated by the glittering curves and continually active circuitry.

“I think it’s the device that will integrate our ship,” Obi-Wan said. “The interface between the living and the machine.”

The first thing Vidge did was cut away and scoop up a thick glob of fluid from the fruit. He spun the glob about, tossed it in the air, and caught it with his long spade, forming it into a ball. He then dropped it deftly onto the back of the smallest carapod, where, with a hiss, it settled over the organoform circuit. Cutting loose more globs, he spread them on the edges of each of the white seed-disks as his assistants carried them past. Where the gel touched, the disks turned a dark purple, and the edges began to curl and stretch forth sinuous, questing pseudopods.

Next, the shaper critically analyzed the frame atop the largest carapod. “Not enough,” he grumbled. “Shappa never tells us what we need to know.” To his crew, he said, “Get a second frame.”

His crew conferred doubtfully among themselves. Vidge shouted out, “Fifteen forged plates, too many for one frame! We need two frames!”

“Are they going to make two ships?” Anakin asked Obi-Wan.

“I don’t think so,” Obi-Wan said. But he was in no position to be certain.

“Now, we move fast,” Vidge called out, his tone as slow and tomb-haunted as before. “To the Jentari!”

Anakin and Obi-Wan climbed up beside the large carapod just as a second frame was loaded beside the first.

Vidge gave them their instructions. From this point on, they would ride inside the frames, sitting on thick flat beams between the oval-shaped main members, surrounded by a flexible weave of struts and cross braces. “It’s the way it’s done.”

Anakin took his position within one frame. Obi-Wan sat in the other. The frames creaked and rattled on the back of the carapod.

The entire warehouse smelled of flowers and baking bread, and of other things less pleasant, odors that made Anakin dizzy. He felt as if the dream had become too much for him, too strong. His stomach was doing flip-flops.

Obi-Wan felt the same incipient nausea, but kept his attention on the slow, deliberate walk of Vidge beside the three carapods conveying the components of the Sekotan ship. The carapods exited through the back of the warehouse, back into the sea-gleam shadows of the cleft. Darker shadows like giants rose on each side, backs pressed against the walls of the cleft, with more giants on their broad shoulders, climbing hundreds of meters to a canopied ribbon of night, a few lonely stars gleaming through the interlaced branches.

Anakin felt like an insect about to be squashed. Even with the shapers running and walking alongside, he had lost his confidence. Not even the memory of Qui-Gon’s words—if they had come from Qui-Gon and not from
his fertile imagination—could reassure him now. This was unsettling, disturbing—were there actually giants on either side? Maybe the air was drugged. Maybe it was all an illusion and something dreadful was about to happen to him and to his master. He felt his throat closing down and tucked his chin into his chest, drawing from the exercises he had learned two years ago: control of the body’s fear, control of animal chemistry and hormonal rhythms.

The mind’s fear—his worst enemy, the deepest and darkest failing of Anakin Skywalker—was another problem, one he was not sure he would ever overcome.

Obi-Wan could feel the faltering of his Padawan’s heretofore almost boundless confidence. Strangely, he, himself, was now calm. The smells bothered him, but were no worse than some very unsavory places where he had stood beside Qui-Gon and calmly carried out his duties.

Anakin felt the frame lurch forward as the carapod was brought to a halt by Vidge’s crew. Vidge climbed up slowly and gracefully beside them and waved his flat-bladed instrument over his head, letting the fumes of the gelatinous interior of the swollen fruit drift away in dim purple sweeps.

Vidge’s assistants played bright torch beams along the shadows of the giants, and Anakin saw not arms and legs, but thick green and purple trunks, gleams of metal, glints of other artificial substances, supplements, add-ons to the natural makers of the boras and the tampasi.

The purple vapors rose between the giants. Limbs stirred, joints creaked.

“Stay here inside the frame, no matter what,” Vidge said, and handed Anakin and Obi-Wan breather masks similar to the Jedi issue they carried concealed in their robes. “We’re loading up the engines and core and organo-form
circuitry now. They will be conveyed alongside the frames, until the time comes for their placement. The ships will be made around you. The seeds will make you part of their dreams of growth. They will ask you
questions
.” Vidge leaned forward to examine Anakin closely. “They will make demands. This is crucial. The ship will not be made if you fail to give the necessary guidance.”

“I won’t fail,” Anakin said.

Vidge’s crew transferred the engines and core and circuitry to smaller Jentari. Large limbs lifted them high, like giant cranes in a starship maintenance yard.

“And you?” Vidge queried Obi-Wan. “You, too?”

“We will not fail,” Obi-Wan said.

“There will only be one ship, unless I’ve guessed wrong,” Vidge said softly. “And I’ve never guessed wrong before.” He drew back. Great grasping limbs dropped from the sides of the cleft and lifted the frames high above the ground, above the carapods and shapers.

“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.