The tight-knit band of humans and Rodians didn’t always succeed at remaining at the top of the food chain. Jova’s cousin Zellit was killed during a nighttime raid by a gang of reptiles whose saliva contained a powerful poison. By midseason Wilhuff knew real hunger for the first time, and came close to dying of an illness that caused him to shake so violently he thought his bones would break.
Sometimes even the smallest of the plateau’s creatures would catch them unprepared and get the better of them. One night, when they had been too exhausted to set up a perimeter of motion detectors, he dreamed that something was feasting on his lower lip, and what his numb fingers found there was a venomous septoid, its pincers anchored in his soft flesh. Waking with a start, he hurried through the open flap of the self-deploying tent only to land in a stream of the segmented critters, which were all over him in a moment, hungry to find purchase wherever they could. By then his pained cries had woken the others, who themselves became targets, and shortly all of them were all hopping around in the dark, yanking septoids from themselves or plucking them off one another. When at last they had retreated to safety, it became clear that the assailants comprised only a narrow tributary of the insect river; the principal torrent had gone up and over the tent to where the Rodians had stored pieces of the beasts the group had slaughtered and dressed earlier in the day — all of it now devoured to the bone.
But regardless of whether they had won or lost the day, Wilhuff would be treated to tales of his ancestors’ exploits: the lore of the early Tarkins.
“All of Eriadu was similar to the Carrion before humans arrived from the Core to tame it,” Jova told him. “Every day, on their own, as pioneers and settlers, they waged battles with the beasts that ruled the planet. But our ancestors’ eventual triumph only altered the balance, not the reality. For all that sentients have achieved with weapons and machines, life remains an ongoing battle for survival, with the strong or the smart at the top of the heap, and the rest kept in check by firepower and laws.”
Jova explained that the Tarkin family had produced a succession of mentors and guides through the many generations. What made him unique was his decision to make the Carrion his home following his initiation in young adulthood. That was how he came to have tutored Wilhuff’s father, and why he might even live long enough to tutor Wilhuff’s son, should he have one.
They spent the remainder of the dry season on the plateau, leaving only when the rains came to that part of Eriadu. Wilhuff was a different person when the speeder carried them down from the mesa and back into civilization. Jova had no need to lecture him on what technology had allowed his ancestors to achieve in the planet’s handful of cities, since it was evident everywhere Wilhuff looked.
But Jova had something to add.
“Triumphing over nature means better lives for sentients, but dominance is sustained only by bringing order to chaos and establishing law where none exists. On Eriadu, the goal was always to rid the planet of any creature that hadn’t grown to fear us, so that we could rule supreme. Up the well, outside Eriadu’s envelope, the goal is the same, but with a different caliber of predators. When you’re old enough to be taken there, you’re going to find yourself faced with prey who are every bit as quick thinking, well armed, and determined to succeed as you are. And unless you’ve taken the lessons of the Carrion to heart, only the stars themselves will bear witness to your cold airless death, and they will remain unmoved.”
Returned to his comfortable bedroom, Wilhuff wrestled with what he had been put through, the experiences on the plateau infiltrating his sleep as vivid dreams and night terrors. But only for a short time. Little by little, the experiences began to shape him, and would become the stuff of his true education. Each of the next five summers would find him on the Carrion, and each season his education would widen, right up until the day he had to endure his final test at the Spike.
But that was a different story altogether.
Predacity
TARKIN WAITED UNTIL the Carrion Spike was in hyperspace to announce an impromptu inspection of the officers and enlisted ratings who were accompanying him to Coruscant. In the starship’s austere main cabin, furnished only with a round conference table and chairs for half a dozen, eighteen of his crew were standing smartly in two rows, arms at their sides, shoulders squared, chins held high. Each wore a uniform similar to his, though the tunics were slightly longer and the trousers slimmer and more threadbare than those the fabricator had produced for him. The officers wore brimmed caps studded with identity disks, and displayed code cylinders in their appropriate pockets.
Hands clasped behind his back and looking stylish in his new garments, Tarkin had reached the last crewmember in the second row — a midshipman — when he stopped to peer down at the instep of the junior officer’s left boot, where a smudge of what looked like grease or some other viscous substance had left a large circular stain.
“Ensign, what is that?” he asked, pointing.
The young man lowered bloodshot eyes to follow Tarkin’s forefinger to the spot. “That, sir? Must have spilled some hair product I was applying in preparation for the inspection.” His gaze was unsteady when he looked up at Tarkin. “Permission to wipe it off, sir?”
“Denied,” Tarkin said. “To begin with, it’s obviously a stain, Ensign, not some blemish you can simply rub out.” He paused to scan the midshipman from head to toe. “Remove your cap.” The youth’s brown hair was regulation length, but it did indeed have the stiff look that hair gel might have imparted.
“Attempting to train it, are you?”
The midshipmen stood stiffly, eyes front. “Exactly, sir. It can be unruly.”
“No doubt. But that blot on your boot is not hair product.”
“Sir?”
“One can tell simply by the way it congealed that it is lubricant — lubricant of a type used almost exclusively in the repulsor generator of our T-Forty-Four landspeeders.” Tarkin’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the stain. “I see, too, that the lubricant is impregnated with grit, which I suspect came from outside Sentinel’s auxiliary dome, almost certainly from where the landing platform is undergoing renovation.”
The youth swallowed. “I don’t know what to say, sir, I could have sworn—”
“One of our landspeeders was recently sent to the repair bay of the vehicle pool after having become fouled by construction dust,” Tarkin said, as if to himself. “There are areas in the bay that are not entirely accessible to our security holocams. However, I often tour the vehicle pool to review repairs, and recently have chanced upon envelopes of a sort that have become fashionable for the storage of a particular class of stimulant spice.” His gaze bored into the youth’s face. “You’re sweating, Ensign. Are you certain you’re fit for duty?”
“A touch of hyperspace nausea, sir.”
“Perhaps. But nausea doesn’t account for the fact that the thumb and index finger of your right hand bear yellow-ocher stains, which are often the result of pinching plugs of spice that hasn’t been sufficiently processed. I observe, too, that your left eyetooth reveals what appears to be a nascent cavity, such as might be caused by dipping spice. Finally, your record indicates that you have recently been late in reporting for duty, as well as inattentive when you deign to report.” Tarkin paused for a moment. “Have I forgotten anything?”