Star Wars - Rogue Planet (by Greg Bear)
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Star Wars
Rogue Planet
By Greg Bear
Chapter 1
Anakin Skywalker stood in a long, single-file line in an abandoned maintenance tunnel leading to the
Wicko district garbage pit. With an impatient sigh, he hoisted his flimsy and tightly folded race wings by
their leather harness and propped the broad rudder on the strap of his flight sandal. Then he leaned the
wings against the wall of the tunnel and, tongue between his lips, applied the small glowing blade of a
pocket welder, like a tiny lightsaber, to a crack in the left lateral brace. Repairs finished, he waggled the
rotator experimentally. Smooth, though old.
Just the week before, he had bought the wings from a former champion with a broken back. Anakin had
worked his wonders in record time, so he could fly now in the very competition where the champion had
ended his career.
Anakin enjoyed the wrenching twist and bone-popping jerk of the race wings in flight. He savored the
speed and the extreme difficulty as some savor the beauty of the night sky, difficult enough to see on
Coruscant, with its eternal planet-spanning city-glow. He craved the competition and even felt a thrill at
the nervous stink of the contestants, scum and riffraff all.
But above all, he loved winning.
The garbage pit race was illegal, of course. The authorities on Coruscant tried to maintain the image of a
staid and respectable metropolitan planet, capital of the Republic, center of law and civilization for tens of
thousands of stellar systems. The truth was far otherwise, if one knew where to look, and Anakin
instinctively knew where to look.
He had, after all, been born and raised on Tatooine.
Though he loved the Jedi training, stuffing himself into such tight philosophical garments was not easy.
Anakin had suspected from the very beginning that on a world where a thousand species and races met
to palaver, there would be places of great fun.
The tunnel master in charge of the race was a Naplousean, little more than a tangle of stringlike tissues
with three legs and a knotted nubbin of glittering wet eyes. "First flight is away," it hissed as it walked in
quick, graceful twirls down the narrow, smooth-walled tunnel. The Naplousean spoke Basic, except
when it was angry, and then it simply smelled bad. "Wings! Up!" it ordered.
Anakin hefted his wings over one shoulder with a professionally timed series of grunts, one-two-three,
slipped his arms through the straps, and cinched the harness he had cut down to fit the frame of a
twelve-year-old human boy.
The Naplousean examined each of the contestants with many critical eyes. When it came to Anakin, it
slipped a thin, dry ribbon of tissue between his ribs and the straps and tugged with a strength that nearly
pulled the boy over.
"Who you?" the tunnel master coughed.
"Anakin Skywalker," the boy said. He never lied, and he never worried about being punished.
"You way bold," the tunnel master observed. "What mother and father say, we bring back dead boy?"
"They'll raise another," Anakin answered, hoping to sound tough and capable, but not really caring what
opinion the tunnel master held so long as it let him race.
"I know racers," the Naplousean said, its knot of eyes fighting each other for a better view. "You no
racer!"
Anakin kept a respectful silence and focused on the circle of murky blue light ahead, growing larger as
the line shortened.
"Ha!" the Naplousean barked, though it was impossible for its kind to actually laugh. It twirled back
down the line, poking, tugging, and issuing more pronouncements of doom, all the while followed by an
adoring little swarm of cam droids.
A small, tight voice spoke behind Anakin. "You've raced here before."
Anakin had been aware of the Blood Carver in line behind him for some time. There were only a few
hundred on all of Coruscant, and they had joined the Republic less than a century before. They were an
impressive-looking people slender, graceful, with long three-jointed limbs, small heads mounted on a
high, thick neck, and iridescent gold skin.
"Twice," Anakin said. "And you?"
"Twice," the Blood Carver said amiably, then blinked and looked up. Across the Blood Carver's narrow
face, his nose spread into two fleshy flaps like a split shield, half hiding his wide, lipless mouth. The
ornately tattooed nose flaps functioned both as a sensor of smell and a very sensitive ear, supplemented
by two small pits behind his small, onyx-black eyes. "The tunnel master is correct. You are too young."
He spoke perfect Basic, as if he had been brought up in the best schools on Coruscant.
Anakin smiled and tried to shrug. The weight of the race wings made this gesture moot.
"You will probably die down there," the Blood Carver added, eyes aloof.
"Thanks for the support," Anakin said, his face coloring. He did not mind a professional opinion, such as
that registered by the tunnel master, but he hated being ragged, and he especially hated an opponent
trying to psych him out.
Fear, hatred, anger. . . The old trio Anakin fought every day of his life, though he revealed his deepest
emotions to only one man Obi-Wan Kenobi, his master in the Jedi Temple.
The Blood Carver stooped slightly on his three-jointed legs. "You smell like a slave," he said softly, for
Anakin's ears alone.
It was all Anakin could do to keep from throwing off his wings and going for the Blood Carver's long
throat. He swallowed his emotions down into a private cold place and stored them with the other dark
things left over from Tatooine. The Blood Carver was on target with his insult, which stiffened Anakin's
anger and made it harder to control himself. Both he and his mother, Shmi, had been slaves to the
supercilious junk dealer, Watto. When the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn had won him from Watto, they had
had to leave Shmi behind . . . something Anakin thought about every day of his life.
"You four next!" the tunnel master hissed, breezing by with its midsection whirled out like ribbons on a
child's spinner.
Mace Windu strode down a narrow side hall in the main dormitory of the Jedi Temple, lost in thought, his
arms tucked into his long sleeves, and was nearly bowled over by a trim young Jedi who dashed from a
doorway. Mace stepped aside deftly, just in time, but stuck out an elbow and deliberately clipped the
younger Jedi, who spun about.
"Pardon me, Master," Obi-Wan Kenobi apologized, bowing quickly. "Clumsy of me."
"No harm," Mace Windu said. "Though you should have known I was here."
"Yes. The elbow. A correction. I'm appreciative." Obi-Wan was, in fact, embarrassed, but there was no
time to explain things.
"In a hurry?"
"A great hurry," Obi-Wan said.
"The chosen one is not in his quarters?" Mace's tone carried both respect and irony, a combination at
which he was particularly adept.
"I know where he's gone, Master Windu. I found his tools, his workbench."
"Not just building droids we don't need?"
"No, Master," Obi-Wan said.
"About the boy-" Mace Windu began.
"Master, when there is time."
"Of course," Mace said. "Find him. Then we shall speak . . . and I want him there to listen."
"Of course, Master!" Obi-Wan did not disguise his haste. Few could hide concern or intent from Mace
Windu.
Mace smiled. "He will bring you wisdom!" he called out as Obi-Wan ran down the hall toward the
turbolift and the Temple's sky transport exit.
Obi-Wan was not in the least irritated by the jibe. He quite agreed. Wisdom, or insanity. It was ridiculous
for a Jedi to always be chasing after a troublesome Padawan. But Anakin was no ordinary Padawan. He
had been bequeathed to Obi-Wan by Obi-Wan's own beloved Master, Qui-Gon Jinn.
Yoda had put the situation to Obi-Wan with some style a few months back, as they squatted over a
glowing charcoal fire and cooked shoo bread and wurr in his small, low-ceilinged quarters. Yoda had
been about to leave Coruscant on business that did not concern Obi-Wan. He had ended a long,
contemplative silence by saying, "A very interesting problem you face, and so we all face, Obi-Wan
Kenobi."
Obi-Wan, ever the polite one, had tilted his head as if he were not acquainted with any particular
problem.
"The chosen one Qui-Gon gave to us all, not proven, full of fear, and yours to save. And if you do not
save him ..."
Yoda had said nothing more to Obi-Wan about Anakin thereafter. His words echoed in Obi-Wan's
thoughts as he took an express taxi to the outskirts of the Senate District. Travel time-mere minutes, with
wrenching twists and turns through hundreds of slower, cheaper lanes and levels of traffic.
Obi-Wan was concerned it would not be nearly fast enough.
The pit spread before Anakin as he stepped out on the apron below the tunnel. The three other
contestants in this flight jostled for a view. The Blood Carver was particularly rough with Anakin, who
had hoped to save all his energy for the flight.
What's eating him? the boy wondered.
The pit was two kilometers wide and three deep from the top of the last accelerator shield to the dark
bottom. This old maintenance tunnel overlooked the second accelerator shield. Squinting up, Anakin saw
the bottom of the first shield, a huge concave roof cut through with an orderly pattern of hundreds of
holes, like an overturned colander in Shmi's kitchen on Tatooine. Each hole in this colander, however,
was ten meters wide. Hundreds of shafts of sunlight dropped from the ports to pierce the gloom, acting
like sundials to tell the time in the open world, high above the tunnel. It was well past meridian.
There were over five thousand such garbage pits on Coruscant. The city-planet produced a trillion tons
of garbage every hour. Waste that was too dangerous to recycle-fusion shields, worn-out hyperdrive
cores, and a thousand other by-products of a rich and highly advanced world-was delivered to the
district pit. Here, the waste was sealed into canisters, and the canisters were conveyed along magnetic
rails to a huge circular gun carria ge below the lowest shield. Every five seconds, a volley of canisters was
propelled from the gun by chemical charges. The shields then guided the trajectory of the canisters
through their holes, gave them an extra tractor-field boost, and sent them into tightly controlled orbits
around Coruscant.
Hour after hour, garbage ships in orbit collected the canisters and transported them to outlying moons for
storage. Some of the most dangerous loads were actually shot off into the large, dim yellow sun, where
they would vanish like dust motes cast into a volcano.
It was a precise and necessary operation, carried out like clockwork day after day, year after year.
Perhaps a century before, someone had thought of turning the pits into an illegal sport center, where
aspiring young toughs from Coruscant's rougher neighborhoods, deep below the glittering upper city,
could prove their mettle. The sport had become surprisingly popular in the pirate entertainment channels
that fed into elite apartments, high in the star-scrubbing towers that rose everywhere on the capital world.
Enough money was generated that some pit officials could be persuaded to turn a blind eye, so long as
the contestants were the only ones at risk.
A garbage canister, hurled through the accelerator shields, could easily swat a dozen racers aside without
damage to itself. The last shield would supply it with the corrective boost necessary to compensate for a
few small lives.
Anakin watched the flickering jump light on the tunnel ceiling with focused concentration, lips tight, eyes
wide, a little dew of sweat on his cheeks. The tunnel was hot. He could hear the roar of canisters, see
their silver specks shoot through the shield ports to the next higher level, leaving behind blue streaks of
ionized air.
The pit atmosphere smelled like a bad shop generator, thick with ozone and the burnt-rubber odor of gun
discharge.
The tunnel master twirled up to the exit to encourage the next team.
"Glory and destiny!" the Naplousean enthused, and slapped Anakin across the brace between his wings.
Anakin stayed focused, trying to sense where the currents would be at this level, where the little vortices
of lift and plunge would accumulate as they formed and rotated between the shields. Ozone would
always be in highest concentration in the areas where the winds would be strongest and most dangerous.
And for every volley of canisters, following a prearranged formation through the shields, another volley
would soon follow, taking a precisely determined series of alternate routes.
Easy. Like flying between a storm of steel raindrops.
Anakin's fellow racers took their places in the tunnel's exit, jockeying for the best position on the apron.
The Blood Carver gave Anakin a jab with his jet-tipped right wing. Anakin pushed it aside and kept his
focus.
The Naplousean tunnel master lifted its ribbon-limb, the tip curling and uncurling in anticipation.
The Blood Carver stood to Anakin's left and closed his eyes to slits. His nostril flaps pulsed and flared,
filled with tiny sensory cavities, sweeping the air for clues.
The Naplousean made a thick whickering noise-its way of cursing-and ordered the contestants to hold.
A flying maintenance droid was making a sweep of this level. From where they waited, the droid
appeared as a flyspeck, a tiny dot buzzing its way around the wide gray circumference of the pit, issuing
little musical tones between the roar and swoosh of canisters.
Managers could be bribed, but droids could not. They would have to wait until this one dropped to the
level below.
Another volley of canisters shot through the shields with an ear-stunning bellow. Blue ion trails curled like
phantom serpents between the concave lower shield and the convex upper shield.
"Longer for you to live," the Blood Carver whispered to Anakin. "Little human boy who smells like a
slave."
Obi-Wan, against all his personal inclinations, had made it his duty to know the ins and outs of anything
having to do with illegal racing, anywhere within a hundred kilometers of the Jedi Temple. Anakin
Skywalker, his charge, his responsibility, was one of the best Padawans in the Temple-easily fulfilling the
promise sensed by Qui-Gon Jinn-but as if to compensate for this promise, to bring a kind of balance to
the boy's lopsided brace of abilities, Anakin had an equal brace of faults.
His quest for speed and victory was easily the most aggravating and dangerous. Qui-Gon Jinn had
perhaps encouraged this in the boy by allowing him to race for his own freedom, three years before, on
Tatooine.
But Qui-Gon could not justify his actions now.
How Obi-Wan missed the unpredictable liveliness of his Master! Qui-Gon had spurred him to great
effort by what appeared at first to be whimsical japes and always turned out to be profound readings of
their situation.
Under Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan had become one of the most capable and steady-tempered Jedi Knights
in the Temple. Obi-Wan, for all his talents, had been not just a little like Anakin as a boy rough-edged
and prone to anger. Obi-Wan had soon come to find the quiet center of his place in the Force. He now
preferred an orderly existence. He hated conflict within his personal relations. In time, he had become the
stable center and Qui-Gon had become the unpredictable goad. How often it had struck him that this
topsy-turvy relationship with Qui-Gon had once more been neatly reversed-with Anakin!
There were always two, Master and Padawan. And it was sometimes said in the Temple that the best
pairs were those who complemented each other.
He had once vowed, after a particularly trying moment, that he would reward himself with a year of
isolation on a desert planet, far from Coruscant and any Padawans he might be assigned, once he was
free of Anakin. But this did not stop him from carrying out his duties to the boy with an exacting passion.
There were two garbage pits inside Anakin's radius of potential mischief, and one was infamous for its
competition pit dives. Obi-Wan searched for guidance from the Force. It was never too difficult to sense
Anakin's presence. He chose the nearest pit and climbed a set of maintenance stairs to the upper
citizen-observation walkway at the top.
Obi-Wan ran along the balustrade, empty at this hour of the day-the middle of the afternoon bureaucrat
work period. He paid little attention to the roaring whine of the canisters as they soared through the air
into space. Sonic booms rang out every few seconds, quite loud on the balustrade, but damped by
sloping barriers before they reached the outlying buildings. He was looking for the right turbolift to take
him to the lower levels, to the abandoned feed chambers and maintenance tunnels where the races would
be staged.
Air traffic was forbidden over the pit. The lanes of craft that constantly hummed over Coruscant like
many layers of fishnet were diverted around the launch corridor, leaving an obvious pathway to the upper
atmosphere, and to space above that. But within this vacant cylinder of air, occupied only by swiftly rising
canisters of toxic garbage, Obi-Wan's keen eyes spotted a hovering observation droid.
Not a city droid, but a 'caster model, not more than ten or twenty centimeters in diameter, of the kind
used by entertainment crews. The droid was flying in high circles around the perimeter, vigilant for
enforcement droids or officers. Obi-Wan looked for, and found, six more small droids, standing watch
over the upper shield.
Three flew in formation above a cupola less than a hundred meters from where Obi-Wan stood.
These droids were guarding a likely exit point for the crews should metropolitan officials decide, for
whatever reason, to ignore their bribes and shut down the races.
And no doubt they were marking the turbolift Obi-Wan would have to take to find Anakin.
The next dive had been postponed until the observers were certain that the pit watch droid had passed to
the next lower level. The tunnel master was very upset by the delay. The air was thick with its nauseating
odor.
Anakin drew on his Padawan discipline and tried to ignore the stench and keep his focus on the space
between the shields. They could dive at any moment, and he had to know the air currents and sense the
pattern of the canisters, still flying through the accelerator ports in endless procession, up and out into
space.
The Blood Carver was not helping. His irritation at the delay was apparently being channeled into ragging
the human boy at his side, and Anakin was soon going to have to put up some sort of defense to show he
was not just a stage prop.
"I hate the smell of a slave," the Blood Carver said.
"I wish you'd stop saying that," Anakin said. The closest thing he had to a weapon was his small welder,
pitiful under the circumstances. The Blood Carver outmassed him by many tens of kilos.
"I refuse to compete with a lower order of being, a slave. It brings disgrace upon my people, and upon
we."
"What makes you think I'm a slave?" Anakin asked as mildly as he could manage and not appear even
more vulnerable.
The Blood Carver's nose flaps drew together to make an impressive fleshy blade in front of his face.
"You bought your wings from an injured Lemmer. I recognize them. Or someone bought them for you ...
a tout, I would guess, slipping you into the race to make someone else look good."
"You, maybe?" Anakin said, and then regretted the flippancy.
The Blood Carver swung a folded wing around, and Anakin ducked just in time. The breeze lifted his
hair. Even with the wings on his own back, he quickly assumed a defensive posture, as Obi-Wan had
taught him, prepared for another move.
The bad smell abruptly grew more intense. Anakin sensed the Naplousean right behind him. "A duel
before a race? Maybe a holocam is needed here, to amuse our loyal fans?"
The Blood Carver suddenly appeared entirely innocent, his nostril wings folded back, his expressio n one
of faint surprise.
The long curved corridor circumnavigating the pit was filled with old machinery, rusting and filthy hulks
stored centuries ago by long-dead pit maintenance crews old launch sleds, empty canisters big enough to
stand up in, and the tarnished plasteel tracks that had once guided them down to the loading tunnels.
It was in this jumble that Obi-Wan found a thriving trade in race paraphernalia.
"Flight starting soon!" cried a little lump of a boy even younger than Anakin. The boy had obviously come
from off-world, born on a high-gravity planet, strong, stout, fearless, and almost unbelievably grimy.
"Wagers here for the Greeter? Fifty-to-one max, go home rich!"
"I'm looking for a young human racer," Obi-Wan said, bending down before the boy. "Sandy brown hair
cut short, slender, older than you."
"You bet on him?" the stout boy asked, face wrinkled in speculation. This child's life was guided by
money and nothing more.
So much distortion, Obi-Wan thought. Not even Qui-Gon could save all the children.
"I'll wager, but first I want to have a look at him," Obi-Wan said. He waved his hand slightly, like a
magician. "To observe his racing points."
The stout boy watched the hand, but no scarf appeared. He smirked. "Come to the Greeter," the boy
said. "He'll tell you what you want to know. Hurry! The race starts in seconds!"
Obi-Wan was sure he could sense Anakin somewhere near, on this level. And he could also sense that
the boy was preparing for something strenuous, but whether for a fight or the competition he could not
tell.
"And where will I buy a set of race wings?" Obi-Wan asked, aware there was no time for niceties.
"You, a racer?" The stout boy broke into howls of laughter. "The Greeter! He sells wings, too!"
Something was wrong. Anakin should have been aware of any anomalies earlier, but he had been
focused on preparing for the race, and what confronted him now was another matter entirely.
The Naplousean tunnel master had been alerted by an accomplice that the maintenance droid had
dropped to the next level, and that had distracted it from Anakin. In that instant, the Blood Carver
withdrew one arm from a wing and reached into his tunic.
That made no sense. Anakin suddenly realized the Blood Carver's primary mission was not to race.
He knows I was a slave. He knows who I am, and that means he knows where I am from.
The Blood Carver swung out a twister knife. His arm seemed to telescope, all the joints going straight at
once, then doubling back into a neat U.
"Padawan!" he hissed, and the spinning tips of the three blades glittered like a pretty gem.
Anakin, hampered by the bulk of the wings, could not move fast enough to completely avoid the thrust.
He bent sideways, and the knife missed his face, but one blade gouged his wrist and the other two blades
jammed against the left main strut. Pain shot up Anakin's arm. Quick as a snake, the Blood Carver drew
his arm back and aimed another thrust.
Anakin had no choice.
He kicked away from the tunnel, skidded down the sloping apron, and spread the race wings to their full
width.
Without hesitating, the Blood Carver followed.
"Race not yet!" the tunnel master husked, and a dense plume of stink shot from the tunnel, leaving the
other contestants gagging.
Obi-Wan had only seconds to grasp the main points of this new piece of equipment he had purchased.
He hefted the wings onto one shoulder and ran down the long tunnel, the loose and rattling struts scraping
the ceiling. He hoped this was the tunnel from which the racers were flying, but found himself at the end,
standing alone on the apron, staring across the vast lens-shaped space of the pit between two
acceleration shields.
His newly purchased wings did not fit. Fortunately they were larger, not smaller, and the Greeter had not
cheated him too badly, selling him wings intended for a biped with two arms. He cinched the thorax
straps as tight as the buckles would allow, then ratcheted the arm clamps until the struts threatened to
bend. Whether the wings were charged and fueled, he did not know until he swung up a little transparent
optical cup and attached it over his eye.
The red and blue lines in his field of vision showed one-quarter charge in the small fuel tank. Hardly
enough for a controlled fall.
Dying in a stupid garbage pit race, tangled in antique race wings, was not what Obi-Wan had hoped for
as a Jedi.
He looked to his left, saw a blank space of wall, then turned right, grabbing a broken metal bar to lean
out. The wings nearly pulled him out of balance, and he hung precariously for a moment. Recovering his
footing, his race wings rattling ominously, Obi-Wan saw Anakin standing on the apron of the tunnel to his
immediate right, about fifty meters away. He was just in time to witness the confused tangle of limbs and
the flash of a weapon.
Obi-Wan leapt just as Anakin fell or jumped, and barely had time to observe a Blood Carver, Anakin's
assailant, leap after.
His wings spread wide with almost no effort, and the tiny motors at their tips coughed and whined to life.
Sensors on the struts searched for the intense tractor fields that permeated the space between the huge,
curved shields. By themselves, the wings could not have supported a boy, much less a man, but by using
the stray fields from the accelerator ports, a flyer could perform all sorts of aerobatics.
The first maneuver that Obi-Wan mastered, however, was to fall straight down.
Almost three hundred meters.
Anakin's confusion and pain quickly re-formed into a clarity he had not experienced in many years-three
years, to be precise, since his final Podrace on Tatooine, when he had last been so close to death.
It took him almost three seconds to roll to a proper position, feet angled slightly down, wings folded by
his side, head tilted back against the brace. Like diving into an immense pool. Then, slowly, the wings
seemed to spread without his conscious volition. The motors coughed and sputtered to a sharp,
well-tuned whine, like the skirling of two large insects. He felt the sensors twirling just beyond his
fingertips, perceived the faint vibrating signal in the palms of both hands that a gradient field was available.
He had fallen less than a hundred meters. The wings, spread to their full width of five arm spans, quivered
and shuddered like living things as they caught the air and the fields, and as the motors responded to
subtle jerks of his arms, he gained complete control-and soared!
The optical cup that gave him fuel and other readings flopped uselessly below his chin, but he could get
along without it.
Not bad, he thought, for someone so close to dying! The clarity became a rush of energy throughout his
small frame. For an instant he forgot the race, the pain in his arm, the fear, and felt a thrill of complete
victory over matter, over the awkward bundle of metal and fiber on his back, over the space between the
huge curving shields.
And, of course, over the Blood Carver who had wanted to kill him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what he thought might be the Blood Carver, twirling like a falling leaf
below and to his left. He saw the figure scrape the wall of the pit and tumble, catch a gust and go right
again.
But this hapless flier was not the Blood Carver. With another spin of sharp emotion, he realized his
assailant had leapt from the apron after him and was now soaring on a parallel, about twenty meters to
his right.
No doubt their status as contestants had been canceled by the tunnel master. Very well, Anakin thought.
He never cared much for the formalities of victory. If this was a contest solely between him and the
murderous Blood Carver, so be it.
The prize would be survival.
No worse than Podracing against a Dug.
* * *
Obi-Wan did not fear dying, but he resented what this kind of death implied a failure of technique, a lack
of elegance, a certain foolhardy recklessness that he had always tried to eliminate from his character.
The first step to avoiding this unhappy result was relaxation. After the first glancing contact with the wall,
he went completely limp and tuned all his senses to how the air, the tractor fields, and the wings
interacted. As Qui-Gon had once advised him when training with a lightsaber, he let the equipment teach
him.
But such a process could take hours, and he had only a few seconds before he smacked himself flat on
the lower shield. Best to make do with what he had learned so far.
And follow the apprentice's example.
Obi-Wan looked right and saw Anakin assume his flight position. Obi-Wan spread the wings and let his
feet drop below the level of his head. He knew enough about lift-wing racing to catch the vibrations in his
palms, to understand what they implied, to grab the strongest gradient field available to him, and to soar
out across the shield like a leveret pulling out of a stoop.
The sensation was exhilarating, but Obi-Wan ignored that and focused instead on the tiniest indications
from the wings, from the excruciating bind of the straps around his chest where he hung in their loose
embrace. He had gained just a little more time.
The buzz in his palms ceased. The sensors rotated noisily, and again he started to drop. The increased
thrust of the wingtip engines at this point in the race was more for control than for lift, but with the wings
spread to maximum-nearly pulling his arms from their sockets-the toes of his boots came within scant
centimeters of grazing the shield.
Then the buzz in his palms became frantic. He saw a ten-meter-wide hole, passed over it, felt the tractor
field strengthen near the next port, and swerved to one side just in time to avoid the ear-stunning bellow
of a garbage canister.
The updraft and roil of air in the canister's wake pulled him up like a fly caught in a dust devil. Deafened
by the noise, wings shuddering uncontrollably, his palms hot with the frantic buzz of the sensors, he
wrapped the wings tightly to his sides to break loose from the strongest part of the field, fell for some
distance, caught the field gradient at a usable intensity, and spread the wings once again. The result at
least an illusion of control.
Across the pit, another canister roared through a port in the lower shield and was shunted by the tractor
fields to its next port. And another. A volley was under way.
Obi-Wan had no idea where Anakin was, or whether he was still alive. And until he gained more than
just rudimentary control of the wings, with less reliance on luck, his Padawan's circumstance mattered
little.
The goal of the garbage pit race was to fly across the convex surface of the lower shield, drop through a
port not currently fully charged with an acceleration field or filled with a rising canister, and then do it all
again for the next two shields below that, until one arrived at the bottom of the pit.
Once at the bottom, all a contestant had to do was grab a scale from a garbage worm, while still
airborne, stuff the prize into a pouch, and then ascend through the shields and fly into another tunnel to
present the scale to the judge-that is, to the Greeter, who controlled nearly all the action in these affairs.
Garbage not packaged for export into space was gathered from the pit's municipal territory, mixed into a
slurry of silicone oils, spewed from the lowest ring of outfall tunnels, and processed by the worms. The
worms took this less-toxic garbage and chewed it down to tiny pellets, removing any last bits of organics,
plastic, or recoverable metal.
Garbage worms were huge, unfriendly, and essential to the efficient operation of the pit. The garbage
worms had natural ancestors on other worlds, but Coruscant technicians, masters of the vital arts, had
long since bred these monsters away from the limits of their origins. Arrayed in the silicone slurry like
jumbled nests of thick cable, the slowly writhing worms reduced millions of tons of preprocessed pellets
to carbon dioxide, methane, and other organics that floated in thick islands of pale yellow froth on the
roiled surface of the silicone lake. Discarded metals and minerals and glasses sank and were scraped
from the bottom of the basin by ponderous submerged droids.
It was said a garbage worm could actually eat a defunct hyperdrive core and survive . . . for a few
seconds. But that was seldom expected of them.
There were a great many worms in the lake of silicone at the bottom of the pit. Their scales were large
and loose, glittered like diamonds, and were prized by the Greeter, who sold them to a small but select
market of collectors as sports memorabilia.
Anakin performed a roll and looked up. The Blood Carver was on his left now. The other contestants
had leapt after them, so the race was on after all. The tunnel master must have decided that the disruption
only added to the sport.
Anakin could think of no better plan than to win the race by staying far from the reach of the Blood
Carver, present a worm scale to the Greeter, and return to the Temple before anyone noticed he was
missing. He could be back in training with Obi-Wan inside of an hour, and he would sleep well tonight,
with no bad dreams, exhausted and justified on a deep level not yet penetrated by Jedi discipline.
He would have to disguise his wrist wound, of course. It did not appear too bad, on cursory inspection,
all he could manage in flight.
Time to pick his port, tuck, and drop like a stone once again-a stone in complete control.
Which is where Anakin always wanted to be.
Obi-Wan picked himself up from the broad curved surface of the shield and quickly, with Jedi expertise,
assessed his physical condition. He was bruised, frustrated-he quickly damped that, for frustration could
easily lead to self-defeating anger-but he had avoided breaking any bones. He was also winded, but he
recovered even as he looked for the other racers.
Anakin circled in a slowly ascending spiral over the center of the shield and about a hundred meters
above it. A second golden figure performed a quick, leaflike downward spiral about a hundred meters
above Anakin. A third and fourth were ascribing broad arcs around the perimeter.
Obi-Wan focused on Anakin. He prepared his wings for another liftoff, just as he saw his Padawan tuck
like a diver and drop out of sight through the shield's central hole.
Obi-Wan ran to the lip of the nearest port, about twenty meters distant. He made sure his wings were
properly folded and could be easily swept out and expanded. His feet broke through gluey tractor fields
on the shield's curved surface. The air sizzled around him. His insides felt as if he were marching through
the worst thunderstorm on the most violent gas-giant planet.
Drifts of frozen moisture flurried around him in the wake of a canister as it screamed through a port less
than fifty meters to his right. The cyclonic updraft nearly lifted him from his feet, and he did not know if he
could muster the strength to stand upright once more against the local field lines.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, like Qui-Gon Jinn, was no supporter of training by punishment. Recognition of
mistakes by the apprentice was almost always sufficient. Still, with shame, he saw in a dark part of his
thoughts that he was planning harsh words, extreme trials, and many, many extra chores for Anakin
Skywalker, and not just to improve his Padawan's perspective on life.
Anakin felt a pure kind of joy as he spread his wings and caught a field on the next lower level. The
beauty of the ion trails, the lightning that played continuously between plumes of discharge smoke and
brightened the distant walls of the pit, the drumbeat roar every five seconds of ascending canisters was
beautiful, but more important, they all, with one almost-living voice, called out a challenge greater than
anything he had experienced on Tatooine, including the Boonta Eve Podrace.
This was a place most would find terrifying, where most beings would certainly die, yet he was only a
boy, a mere child, a former slave, relying not on Jedi training so much as raw native courage. He was
alone, happy to be alone! He would gladly live out the rest of his life in this kind of immediate peril if he
could simply forget the past failures that haunted him at night, whenever he tried to sleep. The failures-and
the terrifying sense of carrying something beyond his power to control.
The dark empty boots that trod the worst of his nightmares.
Again, he picked out his port, near the shield center, where few canisters were launched. He could feel
the pulse of the huge gun carriage beneath this lowest shield. His senses were tuned to the rhythm of that
rotating launcher, bigger than the entire Jedi Temple. Anakin listened for the hesitation, the brief silence
followed by a bass grind and chuff before a ring of canisters was chambered and fired. Best, of course,
to drop through a port during a lull between discharges, and away from a port where a canister had
recently passed, with its flux of gases, updrafts, lightning, and blue ion trails.
Before he made his decision, Anakin marveled at a phenomenon he had only heard about from other
racers in tones of awe rising circles of plasma spheres, drifting as if imbued with purpose in the void
above the first shield. They glowed orange and greenish blue, and he could even hear their fierce sizzle.
To touch them was to be instantly fried. He watched a circle of these spheres explode with tinny pops,
and through the space where they had been, a particularly fierce bolt of lightning flew like a javelin
through a hoop.
This raised his neck hair in a way no static discharge could explain. It was as if he faced the primitive
gods of the garbage pit, the real masters of this place, yet to think this even for a moment went against all
of his training. The Force is everywhere and demands nothing, neither obeisance nor awe.
But this, of course, was what he needed to experience in order to forget. He needed to strip down to
pure savagery, to that place below his name, his memory, his self, where ominous shadows dwelled, and
where one could turn in an instant from the light side of the Force to the dark and hardly know they were
different.
Anakin, pure instinct, a mote of dust in the game, tucked his wings once more and dropped through the
central port in the shield.
He did not notice, fifty meters above him, that the Blood Carver did the same.
The gun carriage sat on its elevated mount two hundred meters below the shield, going through its
automated motions. From tracks on all sides it received loaded and charged canisters, each falling into a
firing chamber with only a bulbous tip protruding. Each canister bore a specific designation in the carriage
program, a specified route through the four shields, with four chances to be accelerated into a specific
orbit. The charge beneath the canister would carry it only the first three hundred meters, to the first shield.
Thereafter the tractor fields and magnetic-pulse engines took over. It was a sophisticated yet
centuries-old design, rugged, durable, duplicated all over Coruscant.
The air above the rotating carriage was almost unbreathable. Fumes from the exploding charges-simple
chemical explosives- could not be vented and processed fast enough to prevent a toxic pall forming
below the first shield. Added to this perpetual burnt-rubber haze were the miasmic vapors from the
silicone-filled basin below the gun carriage.
It was here that the most primitive-not to mention the largest-creatures on Coruscant lived and performed
their functions in a perpetual twilight, illuminated only by the fitful glows of work lights hung from the
undersides of the gun carriage supports. The largest worms were hundreds of meters long and three or
four meters wide.
Anakin glided to one side of the lowest level and alighted on a carriage support. He could feel through his
feet the rotation and launching of the chambered canisters. The immense mass of the ferrocarbon
structure shuddered under his flight slippers.
He had conserved most of his fuel for this moment. The tractor fields below the carriage were weak,
sufficient only to discourage the worms from rising to suck at the supports. Once he had plucked loose a
glassy worm scale, he would have to jet upward to the first shield and catch a canister updraft, then be
pulled through a port to the void above the first shield.
This would be insanely difficult.
All the better. Anakin, eyes wide open, surveyed the dim, chaotic brew of worms below. He locked one
wing briefly, pulled loose an arm, and wrapped a breather mask over his mouth and nose. He then took
this opportunity to attach his optical cup and pulled down bubble goggles to protect his eyes from the
silicone spray. Then he tensed to leap.
But he had made a Jedi apprentice's first mistake-to direct all one's attention to a single goal or object.
Focus was one thing, narrow perception another, and Anakin had ignored everything above him.
He felt a prickle in his senses and looked to one side just in time to catch, with the top of his head, a
blow aimed at his temple. The Blood Carver glided past and landed on the next stanchion, watching with
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StarWarsRoguePlanetByGregBearChapter1AnakinSkywalkerstoodinalong,single-filelineinanabandonedmaintenancetunnelleadingtotheWickodistrictgarbagepit.Withanimpatientsigh,hehoistedhisflimsyandtightlyfoldedracewingsbytheirleatherharnessandproppedthebroadrudderonthestrapofhisflightsandal.Thenheleanedthewin...
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