by Various
He headed across the empty floor, his footsteps echoing from the high ceiling. Binalie would be waiting at the plant’s main entrance for the incoming Republic force. The honored representative of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine should be waiting with him.
“It’s not fair,” Corf groused, throwing a small stone at a group of flutteries darting among a cluster of flowers at the crest of the hill. “How can they just come in and take over like this?”
“We’re in the middle of a war,” Torles reminded him.
“Everyone has to make sacrifices.”
“I’ll bet you Palpatine isn’t making any sacrifices,” Corf said with a sniff, picking up another stone and heaving it after the first.
Torles reached out to the Force, and the stone stopped abruptly in midair. “I understand that you’re angry, Corf,” he reproved the boy, lowering the stone to the ground. “But that’s no reason to take it out on innocent flutteries.”
Corf hissed between his teeth. “I know,” he conceded reluctantly, looking up into the cloudless sky. “It’s just that—well, look; here comes another one.”
Torles peered upward. In the distance a black speck had appeared, dropping from space toward them. “Look on the bright side,” he suggested. “Maybe it’s a transport coming to take them all away.”
“Yeah. Right,” Corf grunted, stooping and picking up another stone. Torles watched him warily, but the boy merely began fiddling with it. “Dad would have said something if they were about to clear out. Or at least he’d have started smiling again. Besides, it’s only been a week, and that fancy-pants Doriana said they’d be here for four.”
“Master Doriana,” Torles corrected him automatically. “And you shouldn’t always look on the negative side of things. Considering the progress they’re making, they could very well decide to cut their time short.”
“Why would they?” Corf countered. “If they’re getting so much done, why quit?”
That was a good question, Torles had to admit. And if he could come up with a good answer, he might actually be able to argue Doriana onto precisely that path.
Think, Jedi, he admonished himself. After all, mediation had been his primary job for the past thirty years. Surely, he could come up with a way to hammer a compromise out of this situation. And then, suddenly, he had it. Maybe. “Where’s your father?” he asked.
“In the plant,” Corf said, frowning up at him. “What is it?”
“Maybe the right lever to use on Doriana,” Torles said, pulling out his comlink.
“Master Doriana.”
“I stand corrected,” Torles said dryly as he keyed in Lord Binalie’s frequency.
“So what’s the plan?” Corf asked. “Come on, tell me.”
“What’s the possibility that has to concern Master Doriana the most?” Torles asked rhetorically. “Answer: that the Separatists will find out about this and move in to stop it.”
“Okay,” Corf agreed, frowning. “So?”
“So all we have to do is convince him that four weeks will be pushing his luck,” Torles said, frowning in turn. The comlink seemed to be taking an unusually long time to connect. “Because if the Separatists do figure it out, Spaarti is lost to him forever. Dooku’s people will blockade Cartao, and that’ll be the end of it.”
Corf made a face. “Yuck.”
“Yuck, indeed,” Torles agreed. “If, on the other hand, Doriana takes this in small bites, sneaking his people in for just a few days at a time, he may be able to keep the whole process going indefinitely.”
“You mean he’d be taking over the plant once every month or so?” Corf asked doubtfully. “Boy. I don’t think Dad’ll go for that.”
“He will if it comes to a choice between Doriana’s annoyances and a Separatist blockade,” Torles said, turning the comlink off and then on again, the skin on the back of his neck starting to tingle. Something was very wrong here. . .
He caught his breath, twisting his head to look upward as he silently cursed his lack of attention. The black speck they’d seen earlier was much closer, dropping toward them like an impatient asteroid.
And at this distance, Torles could now see the ship’s ail—too distinctive double-winged silhouette.
“What is that?” Corf asked, his voice tight.
“A Trade Federation C-9979 landing ship,” Torles bit out, jabbing one last useless time at his comlink’s controls.
“Oh, no,” Corf breathed, fumbling at his belt for his own comlink. “We have to warn Dad!”
“We can’t,” Torles told him, shoving his comlink back into its pouch. “They’ve knocked out the system.”
“Then we have to get over there,” Corf said, turning back toward the house. “Come on.”
“Wait a minute,” Torles said, catching the boy’s arm, his mind racing. By the time they made it back to the house and down the tunnel, the invasion would be well underway. What they needed was some way to send a message now to the people inside.
“What?” Corf demanded. “Come on.”
“Quiet,” Torles ordered him. “Let me think.” Above them, the C-9979 settled into a high hover position directly over the plant, and perhaps twenty tiny craft erupted from its leading wing. STAPs, he recognized them: nimble flying platforms carrying a single battle droid each. They swept outward from the landing ship in ever-increasing spirals, searching for defenses or other threats that might interfere with a landing or troop deployment. And three of them were at this very minute flying over the forbidden stretch of grassland between the Binalie estate and Spaarti Creations. . ..
It was a long shot, he knew, in every sense of the word. But it was all he had. Pulling out his lightsaber, he ignited it and locked the activation stud, picking out the STAP that seemed to be drifting the closest to where he and Corf were standing. Judging the droid’s speed and distance as best he could, he stretched out to the Force and hurled his lightsaber toward it. The droid, its attention on the ground around the plant, probably never even saw it coming. The spinning weapon shot across its STAP, the brilliant green blade slicing through the power cell housing just above the footlocks. With a flat electronic exclamation of surprise, the droid and machine dropped out of the sky and thudded to the ground.
The other droids reacted instantly, two of the STAPs swinging around toward their downed comrade, metallic heads swiveling back and forth as they searched for the source of the attack.
“Run,” Torles ordered Corf as he called the lightsaber back toward him. “Back to the house and the safe room. We’ve done everything we can here.”
“But what about Dad?” Corf asked anxiously, moving a couple of reluctant steps down the hill.
“I’ll take one of the landspeeders down the tunnel as soon as you’re safe,” Torles told him. The droids had spotted him now, and the STAPs’ twin blasters were starting to track. “Go on—I’ll be right behind you.”
A pair of blaster bolts shot past them, uncomfortably close.
“All right,” Corf said, finally turning and taking off. “But I’m going with you,” he shouted back over his shoulder. “The landspeeders won’t work without someone from the family in them.”
The lightsaber made it back to Torles’ hand about half a second before the droids finally found the range. But for a Jedi, half a second was more than enough. The lightsaber blurred in his grip, twisting like a hunting makthier as it intercepted the blaster bolts and sent them bouncing back again. A pair of volleys later, there were three ruined STAPs and droids lying crumpled in the forbidden zone.
Closing down his lightsaber, Torles turned and ran, following the boy now halfway to the mansion. He’d done all he could to warn those inside the plant. Now it was time to join them. He could only hope he would be there ahead of the droids.
“I hope you realize just how incredible this is,” Commander Roshton commented as he handed the datapad back to the tech.
“We’d projected that the raw materials we’d stockpiled would last the full four week
s. In actual fact, at current production rates we’re going to have to resupply after two.”
“I’m not surprised,” Doriana said. “Spaarti Creations already had something of a reputation for doing the impossible.”
“It’s an incredible resource, Lord Binalie,” Roshton agreed, turning toward Binalie. “You should be very proud.” Binalie didn’t answer. He’d been increasingly silent lately, Doriana had noted, as he watched his beloved manufacturing plant turning out rows and rows of cloning tanks.
Roshton either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. “I don’t know if Master Doriana mentioned it, but these are a more advanced model of cloning tank than the design they used on Kamino,” the commander went on, turning his head slowly as he surveyed the bustling assembly area. “That’s the main problem with keeping yourselves isolated; you don’t keep up with modern technological advances. These should to be able to turn out clones in a tenth of the time the Kaminoans needed to do the job. We get a few million of these on-line, and the Separatists can kiss their precious droid armies good-bye.”
He frowned suddenly. “What’s going on with them?”
“Who?” Doriana asked, following the other’s line of sight to the area’s control platform. The five Cranscoc on duty were vibrating like a set of bad repulsorlifts, their hides flickering with rapid color changes beneath the translucent coatings.
“Something’s wrong,” Binalie declared, snapping out of his sulk. Brushing past Roshton, he sprinted to the platform, taking the stairs two at a time.
He was leaning over the nearest alien when Doriana and Roshton caught up with him, his eyes narrowed as he studied the alien’s changing color pattern. Up close, Doriana could see that the alterations were more varied and subtle than he’d realized.
“They’re upset about something,” Binalie muttered. “A violation of some taboo. . .”
“You can read that?” Roshton asked. “I didn’t realize they could. . .”
“Shut up,” Doriana cut him off. Roshton turned a glare toward him—“The grassland,” Binalie said abruptly. “Someone or something is on the south grassland strip.”
“Is that all?” Roshton said, sounding disgusted. “Probably some stupid kid from the city.”
“No,” Binalie insisted. “Everyone in this part of Cartao knows better. It’s either your people. . .”
He broke off, looking sharply at Doriana. “Or the Separatists,” Doriana finished for him, grabbing for his comlink. “Commander: full alert.”
“Ridiculous,” Roshton insisted. But he had his comlink out and was tapping at the key. “How could they have?. . .”
“I’m not getting anything,” Doriana said, trying another channel. “Commander?”
“They’ve been blocked,” Roshton said, the skepticism abruptly gone from his voice.
“What do we do?” Binalie asked nervously, looking around as if he expected to see a droid army clawing its way up out of the drainage grilles.
“We prepare to meet the enemy,” Roshton said, his voice icy calm. Drawing his blaster, he aimed it at the ceiling and squeezed the trigger.
Even amid the loud auditory mosaic of factory noises, the distinctive sizzle of a stun blast easily cut through the noise. Roshton fired three more times, paused, then fired twice. Doriana strained his ears. From the next chamber over, he heard the faint sound of an answering signal. “The alert’s being passed,” Roshton said, putting away his comlink but keeping his blaster in his hand. “Come on—my command center’s in the next assembly area.”
A clone trooper lieutenant and the senior master tech were waiting when the three of them arrived at the command center, the former standing stiffly to attention, and the latter looking almost comical as he nervously shuffled his weight back and forth between his feet. “Report,” Roshton ordered, glancing at the status schematic that showed troop disposition. “One Trade Federation C-9979 currently hovering over the plant,” the lieutenant replied. “Approximately twenty STAPs running air support; three have crashed to the south. One Trade Federation Lucrehulk-class control core ship has appeared over the horizon. No other vehicles currently in detection range.”
“How bad?” Binalie murmured.
“Bad enough,” Roshton told him. “A single C-9979 can carry eleven MTT large-transport vehicles, with a hundred twelve battle droids each, and a hundred fourteen AAT battle tanks. Plus, the core ship up there probably has another couple more C-9979s in reserve if they get impatient.”
Binalie had actually gone pale. “You’re saying there could be over three thousand battle droids out there? Plus all those tanks?”
“Actually, if you add in the AAT crews, we’re talking more like five thousand droids,” Doriana murmured.
“So five thousand droids,” Binalie bit out. “And you have, what, nine hundred men?”
Roshton smiled tightly. “I have nine hundred clone troopers,” he corrected. “There’s a big difference. Lieutenant, do we have spotters in position?”
“All doors are being watched,” the clone trooper confirmed.
“Whenever they put down, we’ll know it.”
“Fortunately, there aren’t many possibilities,” Roshton murmured, looking at his status board again. “The east and west doors are the only ones with the kind of clearance outside that a C-9979 needs.”
“Agreed,” the lieutenant said. “The troops are currently layering at both of them.”
“What does that mean, layering?” Binalie asked.
“They’re forming successive defensive lines from those doors inward,” Roshton told him. “What about the north and northwest entrances? We’re not leaving them unprotected, are we?”
“Wait a minute,” Binalie interrupted again. “Defensive lines inside the plant? You can’t fight in here.”
“Well, we sure can’t fight outside,” Roshton pointed out. “Not without air support.”
“Then you’re not fighting at all,” Binalie said flatly. “The equipment in here is delicate and irreplaceable.” Roshton snorted. “You’d rather just turn your plant over to the Separatists?”
“If those are my only two options, yes,” Binalie said, his voice icy. “Maybe you don’t understand what this plant means to Cartao and the rest of the sector. . .”
“Just a minute,” the lieutenant cut him off, his helmet cocking slightly to the side. “They’ve lifted the comlink blocking. Broadcasting a message on all public channels.”
Roshton already had his comlink out. “. . .ublic forces,” a typically oily Neimoidian voice came from the speaker. “You are surrounded and outnumbered. Surrender, or we will be forced to destroy you.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Roshton countered, giving a set of hand signals to the lieutenant. The other nodded and turned away, and Doriana could hear the faint sound of his voice through his helmet as he gave rapid orders. “But I’ll humor you.What do you want?”
“We want Spaarti Creations,” the Neimoidian said. “You will all step outside the west door and lay down your weapons. . .”
Roshton switched off the comlink. “West door,” he told the lieutenant.
“Confirmed,” the other replied. “The C-9979 is setting down in the cleared area between the forest and the plant. We’re shifting troops to respond.”
Roshton nodded. “Let’s go.”
Binalie caught his arm as he started to leave. “Commander, I won’t let you fight in my plant,” he warned. “If necessary, I’ll open the doors to them myself.”
“You do and you’ll be executed for treason,” Roshton growled, shaking off his hand.
Binalie turned to Doriana, his face twisted with frustration.
“Doriana?”
“Lord Binalie is right, Commander,” Doriana said. “Spaarti Creations is too valuable to risk damaging it.”
Roshton turned furious eyes on him—“But at the same time, Lord Binalie, Commander Roshton cannot simply let his civilians fall into enemy hands,” Doriana went on. “I’m afraid I don�
�t see a clear answer here.”
Binalie’s lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line. “What if I take the techs through the tunnel to my house?” he suggested. “Can you hold the droids off—outside—long enough for me to get them all clear?”
“We can try,” Roshton said, studying his face a moment and then turning to the senior tech. “Get your people to Assembly Area Four for evacuation. Lieutenant, let’s go.”
The two of them headed across the floor toward the west door at a fast run. Doriana waited long enough to make sure Binalie and the senior tech were indeed making for Area Four, then set off after the soldiers.
It was, after all, only proper that he should at least stay long enough to watch such brave soldiers begin their last battle. The “west door” was in fact more like a major vehicle hangar than a simple doorway, consisting of a large transfer room behind a pair of sliding doors big enough to handle anything a modern manufacturing plant could ever need. Doriana reached the transfer room to find that the huge doors had been opened a crack, with Roshton and the lieutenant peering through the gap. Throughout the transfer room hundreds of white-armored clone troopers were moving purposefully around, settling into positions near the doors and behind some of the heavy crate-moving vehicles parked along the walls, or setting up a semicircle of tripod-mounted laser cannon on the floor a dozen meters back from the doors. “What’s happening?” he asked as he crossed to Roshton.
“They’ve landed,” Roshton said, sounding distracted as he peered out the crack. He had donned a clone trooper comlink headset, Doriana noted; probably listening to a running status commentary from the rest of his officers. “Doing their little sensor scans to make sure the ground is clear of mines.”
“What’s the plan?” Doriana asked, taking a cautious peek between the doors. Even set firmly on the ground, the landing ship loomed over them like an angry metal storm cloud.
“We stop them, of course,” Roshton said shortly. “At the very least, we make them pay dearly for every square centimeter.”