Star Wars: Rogue Planet (9 page)

Sienar knew he could not afford the time to be surprised. Times were changing. Friendships could be expected to change as well. To ask how Tarkin and his associate happened to gain access to his private sanctuary would be fruitless and, in the discourse of the moment, possibly even rude.

“You want something from me,” Sienar rephrased, with a wry smile. “Something you don’t think I’ll give willingly. But all you had to do was ask, Tarkin.”

Tarkin ignored this. There was now no humor in him at all and no tolerance. His face looked surprisingly old and malevolent. Evil.

Sienar sensed desperation.

“You were once a major subcontractor in a retrofit of the YT light trade class of vessels.”

“That’s a matter of record. Most of them have long since been put out of service by their original owners. Later models are so much more efficient.”

Tarkin waved that away. “You placed a tracking unit in the integument of every vessel you retrofitted. One you could activate with a private code. And you did not reveal this fact to the owners, or for that matter, to any authorities.”

Sienar’s expression did not change.
He needs the codes necessary to switch on one of the trackers
.

“Hurry,” the Blood Carver said, its voice thin but self-possessed. Sienar noticed the tall gold being was recovering from a number of wounds, some superficial, but at least two more serious.

“Give me the ship’s serial number, and I’ll give you the code,” Sienar said. “As a friend.
Really
, Tarkin.”

Tarkin gestured quickly to the Blood Carver. He held out a small datapad on which the number was displayed, blinking rapidly in red. Beneath the number, an orbital registry account was also blinking, indicating the docking slot would soon be open for another Senate-sponsored vessel.

It took him no time at all to reconstruct the code string for that particular vessel. He had created the code based on an equation that utilized the serial number. He told them the code, and the Blood Carver entered it into his comlink and transmitted it.

Sienar shifted in his clothes, hoping to find the small spy droid that had obviously been set upon him during
Tarkin’s last visit. “The tracker will be useless in hyperspace,” he told Tarkin. “It’s low-power and unreliable at extreme distances. I’ve since learned how to build better.”

“We’ll have a newer tracker partner with yours before the ship leaves orbit. We need the code for them to communicate. Together, they’ll serve our purposes.”

“A senatorial vessel?” Sienar asked.

Tarkin shook his head. “Owned by an auxiliary of the Jedi. Stop fiddling with your pants, Raith. It’s unseemly.” Tarkin showed a small control unit fitted into his palm. He waved it casually, and something rustled in Sienar’s pants. He squirmed as it dropped down his leg and crawled away from his booted foot. It was a tidy little droid of a kind Sienar had not seen before, flat, flexible, able to change its texture to match that of clothing. Even an expert might have missed it.

Sienar wondered how much this knowledge was going to cost him. “I was about to agree to your proposal, Tarkin,” he said with petulance.

“I say again, we are very pressed for time.”

“No time even for simple manners … between old friends?”

“None at all,” Tarkin said grimly. “The old ways are dying. We have to adapt. I have adapted.”

“I see. What more can I offer?”

Tarkin finally saw fit to smile, but it did not make him seem any friendlier. Tarkin had always shown a little too much of the skull beneath the skin, even as a youth. “A great deal, Raith. It’s been some time since you used your military training, but I have faith you haven’t forgotten. Now that I’m sure you’re with us—”

“Wouldn’t dream otherwise,” Sienar said softly.

“How would you like to command an expedition?”

“To this exotic planet you spoke of earlier?”

“Yes.”

“Why tell me of this world before now? If you couldn’t trust me enough to give you such a thing as a tracker code.”

“Because I have recently been informed that to you, this world was no secret.”

Raith Sienar drew his head back like a serpent about to strike and sucked in his breath. “I
am
impressed, Tarkin. How many of my most trusted employees will I have to … dismiss?”

“You know the planet is real. You hold one of its ships.”

Sienar did not like being caught out in a ruse, however innocent. “A dead hulk,” he said defensively, “acquired from a corrupt Trade Federation lieutenant who had killed its owner. The ships are useless unless their owners are alive.”

“Good to know. How many of these ships have been manufactured, do you think?”

“Perhaps a hundred.”

“Out of twenty million spacecraft, registered and unregistered, in the known galaxy. And how much do they cost their owners?”

“I’m not sure. Millions, or billions,” Sienar said.

“You have always thought yourself smarter than me, one step ahead of me,” Tarkin said tightly. “Always on top of things. But this time, I can save your career, and perhaps your life. We can pool our sources, and our resources—and both come out far ahead.”

“Of course, Tarkin,” Sienar said evenly. “Is now the time, and is this the place, for a good, firm handshake?”

O
bi-Wan and Anakin donned their boots and joined Charza in the pilothouse in the starboard nacelle. Through the broad ports surrounding the pilot’s position, they could see Coruscant’s night side below them, the endless metropolis twinkling like a Gungan deep-sea menagerie. Anakin stood beside a line of small, hard-shelled, many-clawed creatures that fidgeted in the pool of water behind the pilot’s backless couch. Obi-Wan stooped to sit in a smaller, empty seat on the opposite side of the couch.

Charza Kwinn did not need to turn his body to look them over with a pair of silver-rimmed, deep purple eyes. “I’m told you possess a scale from a garbage worm,” Charza said to Anakin. “Won during a pit competition.”

“Not a formal competition,” Obi-Wan said.

“You wouldn’t let me hand it over to the Greeter and claim my rank,” Anakin said resentfully.

“I enjoy watching the pit races,” Charza Kwinn said. “My kind engages in so little competitive behavior. It is
amusing to watch more aggressive species rush to their fates.” With this, he suddenly arched over backward, swept his spike fringe along the line of clawed creatures, and grabbed two. They were guided into a seam that opened between the thick bristles on his underside and quickly consumed.

The remaining members of the line kept their formation, but clacked tiny claws as if applauding.

“You are most welcome,” Charza said to the survivors.

Anakin shuddered. Obi-Wan shifted in his seat and said, “Charza, perhaps you should explain your relations to my Padawan.”

“These are friends, confidants, shipmates,” Charza told the boy. “They aspire to be consumed by the Big One.”

Anakin screwed up his face, then quickly blanked it as he realized Charza could still see him. He glanced at Obi-Wan, feeling at a loss.

“Never assume the obvious,” Obi-Wan cautioned in an undertone.

“We are all partners,” Charza said. “We help each other on this ship. The little ones provide food, and once they are consumed I carry their offspring inside me. I give birth to and take care of their babies. Their babies become shipmates and partners … and food.”

“Do you eat all of your partners?” Anakin asked.

“Stars, no!” Charza said with a scrubbing, shuffling imitation of human laughter. “Some would taste terrible, and besides, it’s simply not done. We have many different relationships on this ship. Some food, some not. All cooperate. You’ll see.”

Using controls mounted on struts that curved along his sides, Charza pulled the ship away from the orbital dock and engaged the sublight engines.

For its age, the YT-1150 accelerated with remarkable smoothness, and in minutes they were out of Coruscant orbit, moving for the point where they would make their jump into hyperspace.

“Good ship,” Charza said, and his bristles and spikes stroked the closest bulkhead. “Good friend.”

R
aith, you’ve been angling for this kind of opportunity for years,” Tarkin said as he poured a glass of chimbak wine from Alderaan. Tarkin’s private apartment was small but choice, high on the residential level of Prime Senate Spire, two kilometers higher than most of the city. “Whether you knew it or not, you’ve always wanted to be there for the dawn of a new way of doing business.”

Sienar was not a drinking man, but for the time being, he was acting friendly and cooperative. He did not enjoy the presence of the Blood Carver. He took the glass and pretended to savor it. The merest comforting twinkle in his ring’s bright green stone told him the thick red fluid was neither drugged nor poisoned. Indeed, as wine went, it was mellow and delicious.

“But you must find it interesting that you have no friends you can trust,” Tarkin continued. “Friendship is a thing of the past. All now is alliance and advantage. Reliance on trust is a great weakness.”

It was possible Tarkin had lost this innocence long before Sienar. “You still haven’t introduced me,” Sienar said.

Tarkin turned to the Blood Carver. “This is Ke Daiv, from a famous political family on Batorine. Ke Daiv was formerly part of a select assassination corps loosely affiliated with the Trade Federation. Some last, inept attempt to exact a measure of revenge, against the Jedi, I believe.”

Sienar turned his lips down at this audacity. “Really?” he said with a small and false shiver of wonder. He knew more about this matter than Tarkin suspected, and knew that somehow Tarkin had been involved—but his sources could provide few details.

“An ill-considered attempt, at best,” Tarkin said, glancing at Sienar.

“Blood Carvers are not known to be involved in outside politics,” Sienar observed.

“I am an individual,” Ke Daiv observed. “Opportunity expands with freedom from the past.”

“Well-spoken,” Tarkin said. “I asked for him, actually. His skills are quite substantial, and he failed against a Jedi Knight. I’ll forgive him that, wouldn’t you?”

“I will try again, and succeed, given the opportunity,” Ke Daiv said.

“Blood Carvers are an artistic people,” Sienar said. “Refresh my memory, but the most famous product from Batorine is sculpture … carved from the bright red wood of the indigenous blood tree?”

“It has a double meaning,” Ke Daiv said. “Assassination, too, is a kind of sculpting, chipping away what is not needed.”

Sienar finished his glass and complimented Tarkin’s taste. Tarkin nodded to Ke Daiv, and the Blood Carver left them.

“Impressive,” Sienar observed after the narrow door had closed. Space was at a premium all over Coruscant, and even now, in the economic downturn, Tarkin’s quarters,
while high over the city, were much less spacious and certainly less well appointed than Sienar’s own.

“It could take decades to make humans the supreme race in this galaxy,” Tarkin said with a sniff. “The tolerance and weakness of our predecessors have made it necessary to be magnanimous, for the time being.” He listened to a tiny beep on his comlink, held tightly in one hand. “Our quarry has departed from Coruscant orbit. The tracker is in place and is communicating with your unit.”

“What will the Neimoidians do—and all the other founding members of the Trade Federation—when they discover they are expendable? This new deal with the senate could easily cause trouble all by itself.”

“Let us just say that we have powerful forces behind us. Forces even I shudder to consider.” Tarkin lowered the comlink and rubbed his forearm with the other hand. “Let’s discuss more immediate matters, however. This is a high-stakes game we’re involved in. As you’ve noticed, I have some distance to cover in this new hierarchy. Eventually, I hope to be awarded a provincial governorship, and to control many star systems. You … will be selling equipment to whatever political force emerges from this turmoil. Together, we can find this mysterious planet and exploit it to our mutual advantage.”

“It is intriguing,” Sienar said. “Ships rated zero-point-four could be a remarkable discovery.”
Indeed
, he thought. Given such a technological advance, and ten years of steady development, Sienar himself might have been wealthy enough to personally choose the leadership of any new galactic government.