Free Star Wars: Rogue Planet by Greg Bear

capitulated to Chancellor Palpatine.
    The lights came on for the major rank of cubicles, stretching off five hundred meters to the end of the nave. Two thousand and twelve exhibits of failed weapons and ship design. So many minatory admonishments—
you are
fallible, Raith Sienar. Always think three times before acting, and then, always prepare three alternatives
.
    A small cubicle between two larger exhibits held a rather ugly assassin droid, with a long cylindrical head and rudimentary thorax. These assassins had failed on two accounts: they were depressingly obvious in appearance, and they were likely to go completely out of control and kill their makers. This one had had its verbobrain crisped by high-security droids. Sienar kept it here because a former classmate from Rigovian Technical University had been involved in the design, and this very unit had killed her. It was a cautionary reminder not to overstep one’s competence.
    Anticipating a change in political psychology, Sienar had recently begun to contemplate his own weaknesses, his own narrow focus. He had always preferred elegance, finesse, and pinpoint expression of power. And he had always dealt with leaders who more or less agreed—a widespread ruling class used to centuries of relative calm, used to dealing with isolated system wars through embargo and police action. Who would replace such a ruling class?
    Those who espoused elegance and finesse?
    He did not think so. Entering his museum of failures, he had begun to see himself mounted in the center of his own prize exhibits, rigid, inflexible, outdated, outmoded … and so young!
    Those who replace effete elites rule by brutality
. This was a law in the history of the galaxy. A kind of political balance, frightening but true.
    Months ago, coming at his craft from another angle—brutal and centralized strength—Sienar had begun work on the Expeditionary Battle Planetoid, whose design had so entranced Tarkin. Tarkin’s reaction suggested that Sienar’s guess—stab in the dark might be more accurate—had hit its mark. These new leaders might be far more impressed by high melodrama than style.
    Tarkin himself had always been easily impressed by size and brute force. That was why Sienar had kept up their friendship. Tarkin was astute politically and militarily, but in Sienar’s own expertise—the machines of transportation and war—he was decidedly inferior. Tarkin had admitted as much in their interview.
    Yet … Admitting a weakness, the need for a partner, was unlike Tarkin in so many ways.
    Who was playing with whom?
    “Most interesting,” a voice behind him said. Sienar nearly jumped out of his skin. Spinning about, he looked between two cubicles and saw the tall, thin form of Tarkin, half in shadow, his blue eyes gleaming like small beads. Standing tall behind him, a being with multi-jointed limbs, an incredibly broad nose, and iridescent gold skin watched Sienar closely.
    “Suddenly I find there’s very little time, and we need something from you,” Tarkin said. “You are either with us on this venture, or we move without you. But I must have a certain piece of information. If you decide against joining us, and give us that information, then out of respect for our friendship, and knowing you can keep a few secrets if there’s profit in it, my young acquaintance here will not kill you.”
    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