Star Wars_ The Dark Lord Trilogy - James Luceno [192]
Utapau had no interest in the Clone Wars; it had never been a member of the Republic, and had carefully maintained a stance of quiet neutrality.
Right up until Grievous had conquered it.
Neutrality, in these times, was a joke; a planet was neutral only so long as neither the Republic nor the Confederacy wanted it. If Grievous could laugh, he would have.
The members of the Separatist leadership scurried across the permacrete landing platform like the alley rats they were—scampering for the ship that would take them to the safety of the newly constructed base on Mustafar.
But one alley rat was missing from the scuttle.
Grievous shifted his gaze fractionally and found the reflection of Nute Gunray in the transparisteel. The Neimoidian viceroy stood dithering in the control center’s doorway. Grievous regarded the reflection of the bulbous, cold-blooded eyes below the tall peaked miter.
“Gunray.” He made no other motion. “Why are you still here?”
“Some things should be said privately, General.” The viceroy’s reflection cast glances either way along the hallway beyond the door. “I am disturbed by this new move. You told us that Utapau would be safe for us. Why is the Leadership Council being moved now to Mustafar?”
Grievous sighed. He had no time for lengthy explanations; he was expecting a secret transmission from Sidious himself. He could not take the transmission with Gunray in the room, nor could he follow his natural inclinations and boot the Neimoidian viceroy so high he’d burn up on reentry. Grievous still hoped, every day, that Lord Sidious would give him leave to smash the skulls of Gunray and his toady, Rune Haako. Repulsive sniveling grub-greedy scum, both of them. And the rest of the Separatist leadership was every bit as vile.
But for now, a pretense of cordiality had to be maintained.
“Utapau,” Grievous said slowly, as though explaining to a child, “is a hostile planet under military occupation. It was never intended to be more than a stopgap, while the defenses of the base on Mustafar were completed. Now that they are, Mustafar is the most secure planet in the galaxy. The stronghold prepared for you can withstand the entire Republic Navy.”
“It should,” Gunray muttered. “Construction nearly bankrupted the Trade Federation!”
“Don’t whine to me about money, Viceroy. I have no interest in it.”
“You had better, General. It’s my money that finances this entire war! It’s my money that pays for that body you wear, and for those insanely expensive MagnaGuards of yours! It’s my money—”
Grievous moved so swiftly that he seemed to teleport from the window to half a meter in front of Gunray. “How much use is your money,” he said, flexing his hand of jointed duranium in the Neimoidian’s face, “against this?”
Gunray flinched and backed away. “I was only—I have some concerns about your ability to keep us safe, General, that’s all. I—we—the Trade Federation cannot work in a climate of fear. What about the Jedi?”
“Forget the Jedi. They do not enter into this equation.”
“They will be entering into that base soon enough!”
“The base is secure. It can stand against a thousand Jedi. Ten thousand.”
“Do you hear yourself? Are you mad?”
“What I am,” Grievous replied evenly, “is unaccustomed to having my orders challenged.”
“We are the Leadership Council! You cannot give us orders! We give the orders here!”
“Are you certain of that? Would you care to wager?” Grievous leaned close enough that he could see the reflection of his mask in Gunray’s rose-colored eyes. “Shall we, say, bet your life on it?”
Gunray kept on backing away. “You tell us we’ll be safe on Mustafar—but you also told us you would deliver Palpatine as a hostage, and he managed to escape your grip!”
“Be thankful, Viceroy,” Grievous