Death on Naboo Page 3

  "I'm afraid you're right," Oryon said. "I saw Duro being given a speeder to escape in."

  Solace's mouth tightened as she stared down at the smoke and fire. She turned back to them, her face now expressionless. "So you see, it was my mis­take that killed them. I trusted him."

  "There is always a reason to have only two to share information," Oryon pointed out. "Any more and you greatly increase the risk of betrayal. It's a first rule of a resistance. Information isn't shared."

  "I know. I chose the wrong person to trust."

  "Traitors exist everywhere."

  Solace made an impatient move, reluctant to keep the discussion going.

  "Keets, are you conscious?"

  "Of course I'm conscious," he growled. "Would I miss all the fun?"

  "Can you make it a little farther? You all will have to swim on your own for about twenty meters. I have a duplicate ship hidden underwater, but I have to get there alone. My last resort. I guess we've reached it."

  Keets was able to smile wanly. "If ever there was a last resort, this is it."

  "I'll help Keets, too," Oryon said.

  Trever made a silent vow that if they made it to safety, somehow he would learn how to swim. He felt like a baby bird, flapping his arms and legs, des­perately trying to propel himself. He was making progress, but at every moment he was certain if he hadn't been tethered to Oryon, he would sink.

  Oryon moved more slowly, more cumbersomely through the water now, saddled with Keets and Trever. Solace had disappeared. Trever saw how Keets was straining to make himself light in the water, keep himself moving. The effort, Trever saw, was exhausting him. Keets' skin was so pale it shone like a pallid moon. His mouth was stretched over his teeth in a grimace. He was shaking uncontrollably. Still, he kept kicking his legs, swimming to safety, pushing his body past his own endurance.

  Just when Trever thought he would gladly give up and sink under the cold water, they saw the glint of durasteel and suddenly the starship was above them, hovering. They could see Solace in the pilot's seat. The ramp lowered, just above the surface of the water, and Oryon pushed Keets onto it. He man­aged to crawl forward until Solace slipped down and picked him up easily, gently, and brought him aboard.

  Trever felt Oryon's push and scrambled up onto the ramp awkwardly, as if he had hooves instead of feet. He tumbled into the cockpit. Oryon followed. He had abandoned his boots in the water and was barefoot, his furred feet bloodied. They fell more than sat in the cockpit seats. Solace had placed Keets on a bunk.

  Without a word, she pushed the engines and they shot out through the cavern. Trever didn't know where they were headed . . . and he was too exhausted to care.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Escape would feel good right about now. If only Ferus could figure out how to accomplish it. Without a lightsaber, he would have to be much more resourceful. And that, of course, was the problem. He was running out of resources, fast. Including his own strength.

  Ferus had been here for only two days, but already he was feeling the effects of too little sleep, not enough food, and crushing, repetitive work.

  Every day they were marched into a factory. Ferus could see that it had been recently built, per­haps shortly after Palpatine had declared himself Emperor. It had been thrown up hastily, so there were already cracks in the floor and ceiling, cracks that let in both a stinging rain and a barrage of fat, hungry insects with strong pincers that drew blood.

  If you flinched, you received a blow from the guards, so you learned never to flinch. You worked.

  Ferus couldn't tell what they were manufactur­ing, only that it was a piece of something larger. The inmates were switched day to day from one task to another. Were they working on weapons? Machinery? Droids? The parts were too small or too obscure to tell. There were murmurs about an "ulti­mate weapon," but Ferus couldn't figure out what it could be.

  Every so often prisoners were pulled off the line and taken away, and no one ever saw them again. Ferus knew his days were numbered. He would die at the whim of Malorum. Most likely the Inquisitor was delaying his execution just to make him suffer.

  Everyone avoided him now. His cellmate planned to fake an illness to get into the infirmary. Ferus spoke to him just before lights out.

  "But you said that nobody who gets transferred there ever gets out," Ferus reminded his cellmate in a whisper.

  "I'd rather be killed with a shot in the arm by a med droid than be caught in the crossfire with you," he answered.

  "Listen," Ferus said, "I can handle myself. And I don't intend to die here."

  His cellmate looked at him, his tired gaze rueful. "You're one of those who think they can escape. All the more reason for me to go. You're trouble because you don't get it. There's no way out."

  "There's always a way out."

  "Well." The cellmate stretched out his legs and laughed. "You have your way and I have mine."

  His laugh, to Ferus, was the loneliest sound in the galaxy, a winter wind on a world of high deserts. He could hear in that laugh the sound of someone ready to die.

  Four guards came and escorted him out roughly. Ferus watched him go with sorrow. He had a feeling that in another life, he would have liked his cell-mate's company. He had never known his name.

  Morning. Or, at least, he guessed it was morning. He hadn't seen the sun since he'd arrived. Or the moon or the sky. All this duracrete was starting to get to him. He was locked in a world of gray rock. He could see around him how the skin tones of the oth­ers, even the blue or green skin of other species, were all turning gray.

  He waited for the sound of the automatic lock that snapped simultaneously on all the cells. They were then expected to file out within three seconds or find the end of a force pike jabbed in their ribs.

  He pulled on his boots and stood by the door, waiting. Today, he decided. Today something had to change. He had to find something — a weak link in the chain, a sloppy guard, an unguarded door. Today would be the first day taken toward escape.

  The locks snapped; the start of another back­breaking day.

  Ferus stepped out into the corridor and they were on him immediately. He had felt no surge of danger.

  Prisoner 67 and five of his henchmen surrounded him in a bloc and pushed him forward into the lineup. Prisoner 67 slipped immediately behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Ferus saw that 67's enormous hands were poised to wrap around his throat. Meanwhile, unseen by the guards, the other four pressed close to Ferus, keeping his arms pinned to his sides. He could feel the surprising strength of their grip. Obviously stealing food from other inmates had its advantages.

  Ferus understood his problem immediately, in a flash that gave him every option, recalling his Jedi training. He had no weapon. He had no means of escape, for if he stepped out of line the guards would kill him as easily as a slug — he'd seen it happen.

  If he fought Prisoner 67 — which, of course, he meant to do — he was certain that 67's henchmen would simply step aside, break up the shield, and watch as Ferus was taken away by the guards.

  Attacking another prisoner could yield several differ­ent results, all of them bad. You could be hauled away to be tortured or just killed on the spot. It just depended on the mood of the guards. And they were always in bad moods.

  All of this ran through Ferus's mind in less time than it took for Prisoner 67 to step squarely behind him. 67's hands came up — big, meaty slabs capable of crushing Ferus's windpipe.

  Ferus decided to use a Jedi combat method, what one of his instructors had called "attacking backward." He would reverse an offensive move and fight his attacker without ever turning to engage him. Fun in a classroom fighting against other Padawans, but somehow in a brutal prison where anything goes . . . not so fun.

  Ferus gave a sudden twist and a hard jab, loos­ening the grip of the prisoners next to him. But 67 was just as quick. One thick forearm wrapped around his throat. Ferus felt his vision go gray.

  Suddenly out of the corner of
his eye he saw something — a flicker, a glimmer — that translated quickly into the sight of a plastoid datacard winging through the air with incredible velocity and spin. Its speed was so fast it was almost invisible. Ferus ducked and it hit Prisoner 67 in the center of the forehead. His eyes rolled up and he fell heavily.

  The guards heard the thump and rushed toward the sound, but by the time they reached it Ferus had already melted forward a few steps. Even the henchmen, though stunned, were able to merge with the crowd.

  The indifferent guards dragged the body away.

  Ferus searched the crowd without seeming to look, a Jedi technique. Whoever his rescuer was, he couldn't see him. He had rejoined the crowd. Ferus could see the other prisoners' eyes moving, also searching. No one had seen the source of the silent attack.

  Baffled, Ferus marched into the factory with the others. Another day of grueling work.

  Another meal of slop.

  But he had something now he didn't have before. There were only a few in the galaxy who had the skill and the knowledge to turn a datacard into a lethal weapon, who could throw it from that distance without being seen.

  One of them was his friend.

  It was near the end of the day, as he was stand­ing by a noisy machine, feeding bits of durasteel into it to create continuous sheets and trying not to get his fingers cut off in the process, when he heard a familiar voice directly behind him.

  "Fancy meeting you here, Olin. Thought you preferred classier joints."

  Ferus grinned without turning. "Your kind of place, Flax," he murmured under his breath.

  His rescuer had been exactly who he'd hoped he was. Clive Flax — lowlife musician. Industrial spy. Double agent.

  Things were looking up.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The passageways were so narrow they had to abandon the speeder, hiding it behind some trash-compacting machines. They didn't think they could take another step, but Oryon, Solace, Keets, and Trever kept walking. Trever couldn't remember the last time he'd slept or eaten. Time was a blur, and fatigue was lead in his bones.

  Solace had meandered around the levels of Coruscant, hoping to stir up any possible surveil­lance so that she could identify it. Only when she was sure they weren't being trailed did she fol­low Oryon's directions to Dexter Jettster's secret hideout.

  It was in the very outskirts of the Orange District. The district had received its nickname when its inhabitants had continually changed the glowlights to orange, despite the efforts of Coruscant Utilities to keep the clear white glow intended to discourage crime. Those in the Orange District didn't care much about crime. They preferred the dim glow of privacy.

  It had been only a few days since Trever had first been here with Ferus, searching for Dexter Jettster and hoping he could give them information on a missing Jedi. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

  Oryon led them down a narrow alleyway under the eerie orange light. The buildings here were smoothly rounded at the corners and no higher than ten or twelve stories, unusual on Coruscant. They gave the impression of gentle hills if you squinted hard, but if you really looked you realized that the lack of windows made them creepy. Trever could see the slits in the walls that served as lookouts. He felt the strong sensation of being watched.

  Every time he thought they had come to the end of the alley, it turned another way or doubled back on itself. The buildings seemed to hang over them closer and closer as they walked.

  On Coruscant you grew used to the constant noise, the hum of speeders and conversations and the whirr of airbuses. The quiet here was unnerving. They could hear their footsteps and their breathing. Oryon stopped in front of a dwelling identical to all the others they had passed. He hesitated outside the door. Trever was about to ask why when he realized that Oryon was allowing whoever was inside to see him clearly, as well as his companions. Then he walked forward and punched in a code at the door. It slid open almost immediately.

  They entered a hallway lit dimly by powered-down glowlights. A ramp led to an upper level; Oryon climbed it, motioning them to follow. He walked down another hallway, this one wider, but with an odd combination of clinical and military objects. A durasteel cart rested against one wall and a pile of weapons was neatly arranged in a rack. A shelf of medicines rested on a tray. Trever didn't know if he was in a hospital or a barracks.

  Oryon accessed a door midway down the hall. Dexter Jettster sat on a chair that was reinforced to accommodate his bulk. Against one wall was a sole bare table. The far, opposite wall was entirely filled up with security screens. In a glance Trever could see that they effectively covered the entire alley­way, the roof, the houses next door, the sky above, and the entrance to the alley, at least two kilome­ters away.

  Dexter raised himself from the chair and low­ered his head, tilting it toward them in a way that Trever remembered from his last meeting. It sig­naled Dex's surrender to deep emotion.

  "Glad to see you." He nodded at Solace. "Happy to see you survived." He scanned them. "But not all of you made it back."

  Oryon spoke first. "We know Rhya and Hume are dead. Gully and Spence — we believe so. And Curran as well."

  Dex shook his head. "No, no, not the wily Curran. He's not dead."

  "I'm sorry," Oryon said. "It's impossible that he could have survived —"

  "Impossible? No. Improbable, yes. He's here — a little the worse for wear, mind you. He stole an Imperial speeder and met a wall with some force, but he'll do just fine. Looked a bit like Keets there when he arrived. Come on then. I have a med cen­ter, if you can call it that. A med droid to take care Keets, and food for everyone."

  Dex led them to a blank wall and waved his hand over a portion of it. The wall slid back.

  Curran sat up in a med pod while a droid checked his vitals. His furred face lit up when he saw them. "Keets! I saw you hit."

  "They can hit me, but they can't kill me," Keets replied.

  The med droid rolled closer, its sensors blinking. "Weak vitals. Sit on pod."

  Keets moved to a pod next to Curran and sat. "Gladly."

  "We'll leave you to it," Dex said. "If you're cleared to join us, we'll be in the galley."

  "I'll be cleared," Keets promised.

  "Negative, vitals too weak," the droid said.

  "I'll be cleared, you clanking heartless hunk of sensors," Keets said. "Now fix me up, quick." He lay back and closed his eyes, finally giving in to the exhaustion and the pain.

  After they got to the hallway, Dex chuckled. "He looks half-dead, that Keets, but I wager he'll be up and about in no time. Now come this way. I've been cooking up my special relish, and I can still dish up some sliders."

  Trever pushed away his third helping. Dex had insisted that they not discuss what was happening while they ate, and although it had been hard for all of them, they'd managed to eat something without their stomachs churning. Trever was still worried about Ferus, furious and scared, but at least he'd managed to eat. Dex had regaled them with stories during their meal, stories about the street they were living on. It was called Thugger's Alley, using sub­level Coruscant slang for lowlifes and thieves. Nobody on the outside was quite sure who lived there; mostly they kept their distance.

  Dex, however, knew who lived here. Some low­lifes, surely, he said with a chuckle, but more of those like the Erased, those who despised what the Emperor represented and declined to live under his rules. So they set up elaborate security and so far the Empire had left them alone.

  "Of course we can't fight them," Dex said. "But we'll see them corning."

  "I wish I could say the same," Solace said.

  "Now, enough of that," Dex said kindly. "No look­ing back, isn't that the Jedi way?"

  "Something like that," she replied. Her gaze was remote.

  "Hrrun . what's next to do, then? You don't know where they took Ferus?"

  "Just that he was arrested." Trever felt his stom­ach lurch. He shouldn't have eaten all those sliders after all. They felt sour in his
stomach now.

  One of Dex's four hands came down on his shoul­der with surprising gentleness. "There isn't a place in the galaxy we can't find him, so don't you worry."

  "That's right," Solace said. "We'll start with likely prisons and move out from there. We'll need trans­ports; I don't have a hyperdrive on my ship."

  "Transports we can get for you," Dex said.

  "That's a random plan," Trever pointed out. "By the time you find him, he could be executed a dozen times. What we need is information."

  Solace looked at him, startled. She wasn't used to being questioned, he guessed. But if a plan was stupid, somebody had to say so, in his opinion.

  "Do you have a better idea?" she asked, looking down her nose at him.

  Trever felt his irritation flare. "Just give me a minute — it won't be hard."

  "Now hold on here," Dex said. "Solace, with due respect, Trever is right. If you go from prison to prison, it could take years. The Empire has more prisons than banthas have ticks. What we need is infiltration."

  Trever noticed that Curran and Keets had qui­etly entered the room. Curran looked stronger, his glossy hair now smoothed and pulled back into the thick metal ring. His small, furred face was alert. Keets had a bacta bandage on his side and winced as he sat down in a chair.

  "It's time for exposure," Dex said.

  He looked at Oryon, Keets, and Curran. "We've lost good friends on this day," he continued. "The other Erased have gone underground again. I have a sweet spot here, and you're welcome to share it. It'd be safe, I guarantee that, at least until the Empire feels like looking for us. Then we'll find another. But . . ." Dex paused. "It's time to join the fight, my friends. To fight means you have to risk exposure. We need to resurface."