[Black Fleet Crisis(80)

“Luck is chance informed by applied knowledge, ” said Lobot. “You said so yourself. “

“I did? “

“You did. Stand by. “

It is said on Gaios that a seed does not know the flower that produced it. What is true of seeds and flowers is true of civilizations and worlds. In the long history of the galaxy, many a family tree has grown too tangled to be clearly remenbered by either ancestor or descendant.

On a thousand thousand worlds and more, life erupted from creation’s crucible of energy and time-and vanished into extinction in an eyeblink.

On a hundred thousand worlds and more, life erupted from the crucible and would not be dislodged, brandishing cleverness and fecundity as its weapons against entropy and change.

On ten thousand worlds and more, life erupted from the crucible and then transcended it, learning to bridge the unbridgeable distances, venturing forth as explorer, and settler, and conqueror to worlds far from that which gave it birth.

And some of those worlds touched with the gift of life in time passed it on to their own children, until the gift had been passed across the eons to a million worlds, flower begetting seed begetting flower until the galaxy itself sang of it. But in all the history of all that is, no species anywhere has ever known its whole heritage, for memories are shorter than forever, and the only witness to those hard first births is the Force itself.

The people who called themselves the Qella had no children of their own. No colony worlds owed them allegiance. No free worlds owed them honor. The Qella had possessed the tools to leave their homeworld, but they had lacked a sufficient reason.

But the Qella had parents, parents they scarcely remembered, but to whom much of what they were and knew could be traced. The parents of the Qella had called themselves the Qonet, and they had had many offspring, as had their parents, who called themselves the Ahra Naffi.

So although the Qella had no children, they had siblings in some number, and cousins close and distant in numbers beyond counting.

It was with the hope of finding such kin as the Qella might have that Lobot sifted the archives of the Institute for Sentient Studies. Lobot knew no more about the family history of the Qella than did the Qella themselves, but he knew the patterns and principles that applied. His hope depended not on luck but

on a well-chosen search algorithm,

the thoroughness of the archivists, and the fruitfulness and resilience of the Ahra Naffi line.

Or, at least, so Lobot would forever claim. Luck was Lando’s game, and Lobot preferred to distance himself from anything so ephemeral and unpredictable.

It was a silent rivalry, and Lobot took unvoiced pleasure from the times when Lando’s way failed him and Lobot’s own succeeded. He prided himself on playing a more precise and controlled line, where competence counted for more than chance and diligence was rewarded more often than daring.

This time the reward was the mind-prints of the Khotta, of Kho Nai.

The image Artoo was projecting covered only part of one wall, but incorporated the patterns of the entire chamber as they would have been perceived by a Khotta. Compressed, processed, and translated, they needed no explanation. The entire image had but one focal point and one possible meaning.

“There, ” said Lando. “In that corner. There’s your big red switch. “

“I don’t see anything, ” Threepio declared. “Artoo, you must be making a mistake. “

“You’re not supposed to see it, ” said Lando. “Not unless you have the right eyes. But it’s there. ” Pushing off from the equipment sled, he floated toward the corner.

“General Calrissian? Hammax here. Suggest you have your R2 unit make the initial contact with its claw arm. “

“Where’s the colonel? “

“Colonel Pakkpekatt is monitoring. “

“Tell him I wish he was here, ” said Lando. “Okay, Artoo. You have the spot zeroed in? “

Artoo chittered enthusiastically.

“Okay-let’s ring the bell. “

Artoo rose from the equipment sled where he had been clinging and jetted across the open space. The droid’s left equipment door snapped open, and the telescoping claw arm extended toward a spot along the curved corner where the two bulkheads merged.

The claw yawned open to its fullest and a moment later touched the bulkhead.

Nothing happened.

“More pressure, Artoo, ” said Lando.

The droid’s thrusters spat plumes of vapor into the chamber, until its silver body was visibly vibrating.

“That’s enough, Artoo, ” Lando said. “Let me in there. “

“What are you thinking, General? ” asked Hammax.

“That maybe this ship knows it wasn’t built by droids, ” said Lando, extending his gloved hand to touch the same spot Artoo had tried.