Star Wars - Rogue Planet (Greg

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2024-12-02 1 0 575.63KB 128 页 5.9玖币
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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 carriage 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
摘要：

StarWarsRoguePlanetByGregBearChapter1AnakinSkywalkerstoodinalong,single-filelineinanabandonedmaintenancetunnelleadingtotheWickodistrictgarbagepit.Withanimpatientsigh,hehoistedhisflimsyandtightlyfoldedracewingsbytheirleatherharnessandproppedthebroadrudderonthestrapofhisflightsandal.Thenheleanedthewin...

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