Later, the seeds would be combined and sent off to those mysterious Sekotan manufactories called Jentari, of which they were being told very little. Only one ship would be made by the Jentari, Gann informed them, but he thought it was likely to be a special ship, indeed, coming from fifteen seeds. “The normal complement is three or four,” he said with subtle disapproval. He was a man of strong convictions, a believer in traditions.
Anakin put up with the mewling, the shedding of spikes, the restless wandering of his uneasy companions, knowing that he was closer to his goal of flying the fastest ship in the galaxy.
Even if it had meant getting no sleep at all.
Obi-Wan emerged from his room, trailing his three seed-partners, looking just as rumpled and distracted as the boy felt. The master greeted his Padawan with a grunt as a special breakfast was served on the veranda outside.
They sat in comfortable lamina chairs and drank a sweet juice neither of them could identify, and soon, Obi-Wan sniffed the air and said, “We smell different.”
“They’re preparing us for the next step,” Anakin said. “If we’re going to guide the seed-partners, we have to smell right.”
Obi-Wan was not happy at having his internal chemistry altered, but Anakin’s reaction concerned him more. “I wish there were less mystery here,” he said.
Anakin grinned. Obi-Wan knew the boy was restraining himself from saying, “You would!” Instead, Anakin said, “I bet the smell is temporary.”
The seed-partners now found them irresistible and tried to stay even closer, if that was possible. Some of them had shed their old shells completely and emerged as pale, oblate balls with two thick, wide-spaced front legs, two black dots for eyes in between, and two smaller legs at the rear. All the legs were equipped with three-hook graspers that could give quite a pinch.
By the early afternoon, when Gann and Sheekla Farrs came for them, the situation was almost unmanageable. The seed-partners scrambled madly about the quarters and hung from the walls and ceiling and raced back to hook and hug Anakin or Obi-Wan, making tiny little shrieks of distress when another seed-partner blocked the way, which was often.
Farrs smiled at the commotion like a mother entering a nursery. Gann looked on the situation with some concern, for he was planning the next step of the process and wondering how to transport so many seed-partners in the ritually accepted fashion.
Farrs pish-poshed his stodginess. “The ritual must bend,” she said. “We’ll use a bigger airship.”
“But the colors—!” Gann protested.
“Everyone will know, and everyone will understand.”
Gann did not find this reassuring. In the end, he called ahead on a small comlink and arranged for a bigger gondola to be hung from the red-and-black airship balloon.
Anakin managed to hook and carry all of his partners, though a few fell off as they passed through the doorway. They trotted after him, mewling and whickering. Obi-Wan, with only three, had fewer problems, though they scrambled unceasingly around his clothes, climbing his pants and tunic, pausing on his shoulders or head, clamping their hooks painfully around his ears, to peer with their tiny eye-spots.
Obi-Wan had gained insight, watching Jedi youngsters play with their pets, into how the children would behave around others later in life. He had never seen his Padawan happier. Anakin, he thought, would be loving and patient, a real contrast to the often harum-scarum youth he was now.
The boy spoke soothingly to his seed-partners, and finally, following his example, Obi-Wan managed to calm his, as well. There would be one more separation, Sheekla told them, before they boarded the airship.
The ship’s architect, Sheekla’s husband, Shappa, had cleared an appointment for them this morning. “We’ll go there now,” she said. “He thinks his time is very valuable, and to keep the peace, I humor him.”
“Let me guess,” Anakin said, eyes sparkling. “He spends most of the day thinking about ships!”
“Not thinking,” Sheekla said with a sniff. “Dreaming. They’re his life. The Magister made him a happy man with this job.”
Obi-Wan and Anakin walked along a narrow walkway outside the broad windows of Shappa Farrs’s office. They pushed through a lamina and glass door and entered the small, cramped design room, perched on the edge of a terrace overlooking the canyon and flooded with light from the midmorning sun.
Shappa Farrs sat on a tall stool in the center of a half-circle drafting table, his head enveloped in a drafting helmet, ascribing broad arcs with a repliscribe clenched in his left hand—the only hand he had, since his right arm was missing. Anakin noted that the hand sported only two fingers and a thumb.
“Working with Jentari must be dangerous,” Anakin whispered to Obi-Wan. Shappa looked up and surveyed the room for a moment, though blinded by the helmet, as if searching for whoever had spoken. He grinned toothily and removed the helmet.
“Not the Jentari,” he said with a quick, melodic laugh. “It’s forging and shaping can knock a few limbs away. The forgers and shapers never did teach me how to handle their tools. So here I stay now. They won’t let me come near the pits, lest I lose a leg or my head.” He stood and bowed deeply. “Welcome to my domain. Shall we fashion something unique and beautiful today?”
Shappa Farrs was a small, slender man, immaculately dressed. His face was narrow and flat, his nose barely projecting from between prominent cheekbones, and his hair was almost black with age. He stood up from his stool, stepped from behind the desk, and looked the Jedi over with a wide-eyed, amused expression.
He saw Sheekla lurking beyond the door, talking with Gann, and bent forward suddenly, neck outthrust. He flapped his arm and made a sharp squawking noise. “Lurking, my dearest?”
“Stop that,” Sheekla said with a wry face, entering the room. “They’ll think you’re crazy. He is, you know. Completely crazy.”
Gann followed reluctantly, as if entering a shop full of feminine undergarments.
“She knows me, yet she loves me,” Shappa said smugly. “I’m twice any other man in brain and body, in her heart, even when mangled. As for Gann … my liaison with all that is practical on Zonama Sekot! So timid! So fearful of the dark secrets of Sekotan life! Like looking back into the womb, for him.”
Gann’s face grew longer, but he kept his silence.
“Come in, all,” Shappa crowed. “All are welcome.”
The desk was piled with broad stacks of flimsiplast and ancient information disks, not seen on Coruscant for centuries except in museums. Shappa turned to Anakin, then glanced at Obi-Wan.
“You pay, he flies, is that it?” he asked Obi-Wan.
“We’re buying the spacecraft together,” Obi-Wan said. “And he will fly.”
“I’ll bet your seed-partners are chewing up the upholstery in my waiting room right now,” Shappa said. “Can’t let them in here. They love to eat flimsi, throw disks. But we won’t keep you more than a couple of hours.” He focused on Anakin once more. “Would you like to see what’s possible?”
Anakin’s face glowed with enthusiasm. “It’s why I’m here,” he said quietly.
“Possible, I mean, in ships, young man, ships only,” Shappa added, drawing back a little at the boy’s response. “The boy has an appetite. Very well, let’s feed. Here!” He flung out his hand and grabbed a broad, crackling sheet of change flimsiplast. “Hold this,” he told Gann. Gann held one edge, and Shappa unrolled it with deft, fast fingers.
On the flimsi was precisely sketched in red and brown lines a lovely starship, all compound curves and gentle swellings, the engines nestled within graceful fairings, the surface shaded with marvelous artistry to look smooth and taut as the skin on a crisp shellava. Judging from the scale, the length was thirty meters, the beam or wingspan—the wings were indistinguishable from the fuselage—over three times that.
“I’ve wanted to make a ship like this for some time, but it was only a dream,” Shappa said. “No seed wants to get this complicated, and clients bring
me only three or four seeds. But for you …” He smiled and swept his fingers over the drawing. At his prompting, the flimsi produced different perspectives, each new sketch stored in the porous surface and emerging at the artist’s command.
Anakin whistled. “This is ferocious,” he commented.
“High praise indeed,” Obi-Wan translated for a puzzled Shappa.
“Yes. You bring me fifteen seeds, the largest complement ever for a ship.”
“Can you work with so many?” Gann asked.
“Can I?” Shappa said, and his body twitched with energy. “Just watch! The best Sekotan ship ever made. A marvel.”
“He says that to everyone,” Sheekla warned them.
“This time, I mean it.” Shappa handed Obi-Wan the edge of the change flimsi and tapped Anakin on the shoulder. “Can you draft?” he said. “I have a second helmet. And a third. Come, clients. I’m sure you have your own ideas.”
“I’m sure,” Obi-Wan said, with a nod to Anakin.
“Let’s knock heads and helmets and wield our scribers as if they were … lightsabers, no? Let’s dream in the air. It will all come out on the change flimsi. New designs will replace the old. It will be like magic, young Anakin Skywalker.”
“I don’t need magic,” Anakin said solemnly.
Shappa laughed a little nervously. “Neither do you, I bet,” he said to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan smiled.
“I forgot. You’re Jedi. No magic, then. But of mystery there will be plenty. I doubt the shapers and forgers will reveal all their secrets, even to you, dear Jedi.”
He handed Obi-Wan and Anakin drafting helmets pulled from a drawer, and pulled up stools around the periphery of the table. As they sat, he perched on his own, taller stool, clapped his hand on the table in front of him, and said, “Your turn!”
“A solid, sturdy design is what we’re after,” Obi-Wan reminded Anakin. Anakin wrinkled his nose.
Shappa held his own helmet above his head and regarded them each in turn for several seconds, face blank. Then he twitched his lips, said, “It’s all in the mind of the owners. Sometimes we just have to find out who we truly are, and the ships, the beautiful ships, will just be there, like visions of a lost love.”
“You have no lost love,” Sheekla said, amused. “Just me. We were married when we were very young,” she said to Obi-Wan.
“A figure of speech,” Shappa said. “Allow me my enthusiasms.”
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Obi-Wan found himself deeply absorbed in the design process, as absorbed as his Padawan, whose involvement was intense. He also found himself more and more impressed by the architect. Beneath Shappa’s blithe surface lurked a powerful personality. He had seen this several times in his life, strong artists who in some sense seemed to gather the Force around them, collaborating on a deep and instinctive level.
Yoda had said, once, in a training session with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, “An artist the Force is. Not to be happy about that—look what artists do! Unpredictable they are, like children.”
Under the skilled, though eccentric, guidance of Zonama Sekot’s master architect, Obi-Wan’s own sense of freedom and boyhood came back, and he found himself alternating between the inner structure of the beautiful craft coming together in the space accessed by their three helmets, and the space of his own memory.
A memory of a time before he was apprenticed to Qui-Gon. Youth: painful, awkward, brighter than a thousand suns. A youth filled with dreams of travel and fast ships and endless glory, an infinite futurity of challenge and mastery and, all in good time, knowledge, wisdom.
No different from Anakin Skywalker.
Not in anything that truly mattered.
If only I could believe that! Obi-Wan thought.
The Blood Carver made his report to Raith Sienar on a catwalk overlooking the bay that contained most of the squadron’s battle droids. They were still too far from Zonama Sekot to make detailed observations, so Sienar had sent Ke Daiv down in a fleet two-passenger spy ship with banked engine flares, part of Admiral Korvin’s complement of small craft. Ke Daiv had gone in with a pilot Sienar had picked from the most experienced of the Trade Federation personnel.
“We made our way in, and returned, without being scanned,” Ke Daiv said. “The planet is half covered with clouds.”
“You made no attempt to see below the clouds?”
“We looked at what was immediately visible, and nothing more,” Ke Daiv confirmed.
Sienar nodded. “Good. From what I’ve been told, the whole planet is sensitive.”
“There is little detail visible in the southern hemisphere,” the Blood Carver continued. “A single mountain pushes through the clouds, an ancient volcano—nothing more.”
“Yes,” Sienar said. He nodded as if this was familiar to him.
“The northern hemisphere is comparatively cloud-free, though storms migrate from south to north, dropping great quantities of rain and some snow.”
“Naturally,” Sienar said, lip curling.
Ke Daiv paused indignantly, as if concerned he might be boring the commander, but Sienar lifted his hand. “Go on.”
“There are signs of a recent struggle. At least fifteen deep slashes in the crust, over three kilometers wide, not natural. They are mostly hidden by the southern clouds, but I saw long, straight dips in the clouds along the equator, signifying clefts many kilometers deep. Perhaps these are the effects of large orbital weapons, though of a power and type unfamiliar to me.”
Sienar’s face went blank. He was thinking. “Are you sure they’re not an excavation? Some massive construction project?”
“No,” Ke Daiv said. “In the slash visible above the equator, there are jagged edges, scorch marks, jumbled terrain. But there were many large elevations in the northern hemisphere, rectangular in shape, and far from the inhabited regions. All these elevations are uniform in size, four hundred kilometers by two hundred, and densely covered with growth.”
Sienar cocked his head to one side and poked his thumb into his chin. He waggled hand and thumb, as if trying to find something behind his jawbone. “Did you see the factory valley?”
“Yes,” Ke Daiv said. “Although at this point, we thought it best to return, to avoid being observed.”
“Good. Tell me about the valley.”
“It is a thousand kilometers long, three kilometers deep, and lined on both sides by huge growths, much larger than anything else we could see.”
“Jentari,” Sienar breathed. “What I would not give to have that valley installed on another world, some more practical location,” he said wistfully. “Did you see any ships?”
“No. The valley was engaged in some manufacture of large objects, not ships, but like pieces of ships, or equipment. Some were being carried to the southern end of the valley, where it debouches on a wide river. Transports were waiting there, some already laden. And then—without warning—the valley was covered by huge limbs, growths, hiding it from view. I believe we were not observed, but this concerned me enough that I decided we should return.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Sienar said.
Ke Daiv did not react. Among Blood Carvers, compliments and insults were very little different—either one could lead to a duel. He had placed Sienar in a special category, however, outside normal Blood Carver etiquette.
“Now for the next step, and this one is crucial. We must move quickly. Tarkin informed you we would attempt to capture a ship, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t have the slightest notion how difficult that might be—his kind believes might is quicker than reason. He’s far too used to money to realize how useful it can be.”
“Might,” Ke Daiv repeated.
“Forget might for now. I will reveal another part of my not-so-little secret to you, because you are such an excellent and efficient fellow.”
Ke Daiv stood like a piece of stone on the catwalk. Below, droids were being activated and preprogrammed. The noise of thousands
of tiny motors whirring and clanking made it difficult to hear, even on the catwalk, but the Blood Carver’s nose flaps functioned as gatherers of sound, as well. He leaned forward to catch Sienar’s words.
“We have with us a very elegant little starship, in its own bay on this flagship. Not part of the normal complement. One of my private vessels, obviously the craft of a well-to-do individual. Scrubbed of identity but waiting for a new owner.” He smiled at the thought of getting Tarkin to approve this addition. He had tried to suggest, with a semblance of childish pique, that being without any of his toys would make him less effective as a leader. Tarkin had agreed with a barely concealed new freshet of contempt for his former classmate. “A rich and well-bred owner,” Sienar continued, “who has stumbled across one of the approved pilots and sales representatives of Zonama Sekot, and convinced him—or it—of his wealth and legitimate interest in the art of spacecraft design. A connoisseur. That would be you. I did my research well on Coruscant—you come from an influential family.”
“Powerful, not wealthy,” Ke Daiv corrected with a slight hiss. Even when placed in a protected category, this human could push him near the edge.
“Yes, indeed, the concentration of resources being a sin of sorts among your kind. Well, now you have ample sin to work with—over six billion credits at your disposal, in untraceable Republic bonds. Quite sufficient to buy a Sekotan ship.”
Ke Daiv’s eyes grew smaller and sank deeper into his skull. Though he was constitutionally incapable of being impressed by money, he knew how much six billion credits was, and how much it would impress others. “How do you know all this about Zonama Sekot?”
“Not your concern,” Sienar said lightly. He really did enjoy Ke Daiv’s reactions—the constant sense of treading in dangerous territory was stimulating.
Without showing the least anxiety, as if working with a spooked animal and knowing when to turn his back and when not to, Sienar looked down over the railing toward the Xi Char weapons. The elegant and powerful droid starfighters were stored on long rolling racks, their claw nacelles collapsed and pulled inboard. The racks were being pushed by astromechs from one side of the bay to their streamlined, dull gray, stealth-cloaked landing ships.