Ben dashed forward from the garage where he’d left Bohmer. He slid to a grinding stop behind Orrin’s landspeeder. Between shots, Mullen looked at him and snarled, “Next time, bring a blaster. You ain’t getting mine!”
Ben ignored him. “Another wave!” he yelled, and pointed to a new group of Tuskens. Screened by their attacking companions, the newcomers charged across the Claim’s southern yard toward the giant vaporator.
Orrin looked through the chaos at them, momentarily confused. That was Old Number One, the first Pretormin tower in the oasis. The Tuskens were attacking it, clubbing its base with their gaffi sticks.
Annileen pointed at the tower’s tip. “It’s the Call! They’re after the Call!”
Of course. Orrin understood right away. The Settlers’ Call used a standard transmitter to connect the subscribing farms and the vigilantes. But there was also the siren—and here, as at the Bezzard farm, it sat at the highest point in the area: atop the vaporator.
Which also happened to be where the transmitter was located.
A daylight raid—and now this! It added up. “Plug-eye’s here!” The crafty Tusken had figured it out somehow, and was trying to gag the oasis before any cry for help could be raised.
Ben yanked at Orrin’s sleeve. “They’re not in the garage complex yet.”
Orrin looked back. Only one bay was open—the one Annileen’s landspeeder had exited earlier. What Ben said was true, but it didn’t make sense. “There’s a pass-through between the store and the garages,” Orrin yelled. “If they’re in the store, why haven’t they come through there yet?” Tuskens attacking from the garages would effectively envelop them.
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “Something’s stopping them. Let’s take advantage. Get people to safety!”
It made sense. Orrin gestured for the surviving Devaronians, both scared witless, to make a break for the open garage. They did, and the others followed, one by one. After Ben helped Zedd, in agony since his attack, stagger in, Mullen and Orrin followed. Now their cover became the Tuskens’ cover, as the warriors crouched behind the landspeeders and fired into the garage bay.
Orrin looked back at the work floor. If they could avoid the Tuskens’ blasterfire, they could reach the hallways leading to the rest of the bays, including those with the Settlers’ Call vehicles. There would be more weapons there, and a chance of escape—and he and Annileen both had the codes to open the doors. But Ben, crouching with poor Bohmer, kept looking at the doorway leading back to the store.
“There’s a reason they haven’t come through,” Ben said.
He seemed to be concentrating. How anyone could concentrate in this situation was beyond Orrin. “What difference does it make?”
“No,” Ben said. “Listen!”
Orrin stood as close to the doorway as he dared, fearing Plug-eye and friends would charge in at any second. But all he could hear was blasterfire and the horrific screams of Tuskens.
“What in—” Orrin looked back at the people in the garage, hiding behind equipment and firing out at the Tuskens. His kids and Zedd. Annileen and her kids.
Who were the Tuskens inside fighting?
“Was anyone else coming from Mos Espa?” Annileen asked from cover.
“We left early to beat the rush,” Orrin said, scratching the side of his head with the handle of his blaster. “Was anyone else in the store?”
Annileen’s eyes widened. “Ben!” she said. “The surveillance cams!”
Ben looked to his side. There was a flickering screen, a monitoring station for all the locations within the garage. Orrin watched as Ben quickly cycled through them. The man seemed to know his way around a security system, the farmer noticed. The garage bays all seemed empty of Tuskens. The only activity was in the store, which came up as the final image.
“That’s what I thought,” Ben said, turning. A determined look on his face, he left Orrin’s side and reached for one of Gloamer’s big fire extinguisher canisters. “Hold the fort,” he said as he disappeared around the corner into the pass-through.
Orrin’s jaw dropped. Is the man crazy?
“Ben!” Annileen yelled. Heedless of the incoming blasterfire, she dived across the garage floor to Orrin’s side. “Ben’s unarmed,” she yelled to Orrin. “We’ve got to follow him!”
“No,” Orrin said, clutching at her sleeve. “Wait. Look here!”
Annileen glanced for an instant at the security monitor—and then looked again at it, gawking alongside Orrin. There, in the overhead view of the retail store, they saw what was occupying the Sand People. Old Ulbreck had wedged himself behind the collapsed rifle racks and the weapons counter and was using the full arsenal at hand to keep the Tuskens at bay!
“Well, I’ll be,” Orrin said, bringing the cam into focus on the old man. “I’ll be blasted!”
“So will he,” Annileen said. “He can’t hold out much longer!” More Tuskens were entering the store from the front entrance and the livery yard. She tugged at Orrin. “We’ve got to—”
At that moment the scene on the monitor began to cloud up. The blasterfire could still be seen—and then just light. Blue light, flashing around in a haze. Orrin shook his head, unbelieving. What’s happening in there?
Annileen broke loose from his hold and dashed into the hallway. Orrin looked back at the others in the garage. “Hold ’em off! I’ll be back!” he shouted.
Orrin ran through the short hallway. He skidded to a stop when he saw Annileen ahead, just standing there, her ankles lost in a lowering cloud of chemical retardant. The haze inside was still thick, but the flashing blue lights had stopped. And in place of the many combatants seen on the monitor earlier, only one figure stood now amid the smashed tables of the luncheonette: Ben. Standing over the bodies of a dozen or more Sand People, his hand slipped inside his tunic, as casually as if he were putting away his credit pouch.
A familiar old and now very weary voice came through the mist from Orrin and Annileen’s right. Wyle Ulbreck popped out from behind the gun counter, repeating blaster rifle in hand. “Die, you wretched—”
Ben stepped quickly between the old farmer and the newcomers. “It’s all right, Master Ulbreck. It’s just friends here.” He gestured to the fallen Sand People. “You got them all.”
Orrin looked at the bodies, stunned, and then up at Ben. The man had a canny look on his face. “Wyle did all this?”
Suddenly self-conscious, Ben stammered. “I, uh—saw what he was up against.” He gestured to the spent canister, nearby. “He just needed a little distraction so he could finish the job.”
Annileen looked dumbfounded. At Ben, then at Ulbreck, and finally at the mess of the store. “I’m speechless,” she said.
Orrin looked at the old man, coughing as he staggered out from behind his makeshift fortress. “I woke up and these characters were coming in,” Ulbreck said, eyes wandering in tired amazement. “I don’t rightly know how I got ’em all—”
“But you did,” Ben quickly offered. “Every one. All on your own.”
Orrin shook his head. Old Ulbreck would be telling this story for years. Orrin stepped over to try to help the frazzled man stand—only to have his effort rebuffed.
“Lemme go, Gault!” Ulbreck snarled at him, suddenly fully aware again. “And you wanted to provide security for me? You can’t even keep your own spread safe!”
Orrin’s breath caught in his throat. Yes, this surely looked bad. But the blasterfire was still going outside, and the other Tuskens might reenter at any minute. He prodded Ulbreck toward the center of the store, and the old man didn’t object.
Annileen was in motion now. Stepping over bodies, she reached her counter.
Ben saw her kneel and start to dig around. “What are you looking for?”
“The cashbox!”
Orrin raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think the Tuskens care much for credits.”
Annileen ignored him. Finding the box beneath a smashed shelf, she slipped Dannar’s old pistol
from its position in the lock. “Here,” she said, tossing the weapon to Ben.
Orrin darted from one shelf to another, trying to stay out of sight of the doorways. There were Tuskens everywhere outside, and with the screen of the chemical fog dissipating, every entrance was vulnerable. Reaching Ben, Orrin saw the man holding the pistol, contemplating it. “I hope you learned to use that, where you came from.”
Ben had started to respond when figures loomed in the doorways on every side of the store. Tuskens, all—carrying gaderffii and blaster rifles. Orrin began to raise his rifle, only to have Ben place his hand on his the farmer’s wrist. “Not now,” Ben said.
The Tuskens at the front of the store parted to allow another to enter. Orrin strained to see through the haze. Shorter than the others, this one wore looser-fitting robes, with no bandolier. And only a single eyepiece, on the left. A red gem glinted where the right eye should be.
“Plug-eye,” Orrin whispered, gravely. This was it. He hoped his kids had made it out.
But the lead Tusken wasn’t interested in Orrin. A wrapped hand thrust forward, pointing at Annileen. “Ena’grosh,” a low voice said, less guttural than other Tuskens whom Orrin had heard. And he heard many, now, as the others repeated the same word. “Ena’grosh.”
“They mean you,” Ben said, watching Annileen walk around from behind the counter, cashbox in hand.
Orrin moved to stop her, but Ben again held his arm. “I think she’s got this,” he said confidently.
Annileen stood bravely before the Tuskens, opened the cashbox, and pressed the button of the small device inside. A device Orrin recognized as the remote control activator for the Settlers’ Call—a call which now went out from the oasis, both over the airwaves, and as a roaring scream from a siren outside. A siren that still worked.
The recorded krayt dragon screeched, and behind Plug-eye, the Sand People responded as Sand People usually did.
“We’re closed,” Annileen said coldly. “Get the hell out of my store!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FOR THE SECOND TIME in a month, A’Yark stood before a human settlement, yelling after fleeing cowards.
“Prodorra! Prodorra!”
Hoax!
It was no use. Despite the war leader’s efforts to teach the others, it was the morning raid at the farm all over again. A’Yark had explained that the krayt dragon call was a deceit. They even knew how to silence it, by attacking the towering water-leech with the sound-maker atop it. Their minds understood, and their bodies had followed the initial plan. But their attacks had failed to squelch the siren, and now their spirits betrayed them. Even A’Deen had fled the Airshaper’s home, ignoring his “honored parent.”
A’Yark looked back over the rise at the structure. The Airshaper was still in there, as were the bodies of the first wave of Tusken attackers. So many slain! Had the Airshaper somehow struck them down? This was her sanctuary. It made sense she would call upon all her powers to defend it. But A’Yark still knew the numbers favored the Tuskens, if they could be compelled to fight.
Young A’Deen skittered up the dune. “We must go,” the youth said, rushed breaths whistling through his mouthpiece.
“No!”
A’Deen was A’Yark’s only surviving child—yet the warrior struggled to resist the urge to smash the youth’s face in. Such fear in A’Yark’s bloodline? Unthinkable!
So A’Yark chose not to think on it. “No. Recall the others. We get what we came for, or—”
The warrior’s head turned. The siren was still blaring, its scream having resolved into a long monotone. But there was another sound there, too.
“Landspeeders,” A’Yark spat. Responding to the alarm, or arriving by chance? It didn’t matter. A’Yark looked south. The retreat of the others had turned into a mad dash, all of them heedless of their leader and without any care for their camping gear, abandoned in the staging area.
A’Deen bowed his head, looking suddenly quite small. “Honored parent. We must go.”
“All my offspring were born under the cowardly sun,” A’Yark said, stomping past the child warrior. “We must catch up to the others.”
“It is right. They go to safety.”
“No.” A’Yark said, hardly believing what was happening. “We must catch them—because they’re heading the wrong way!”
The ground quaked beneath Orrin’s dress boots. A dozen meters above, the Settlers’ Call siren screamed its ear-piercing warning to the oasis and beyond. But neither sound waves nor retreating Tuskens could distract the farmer from the sorry sight in front of him.
The base of Old Number One sparked, the vaporator’s control panels bashed to bits. Dannar’s secret formula was gone. Orrin had recorded the settings many times over the years, with the Calwells’ permission, but the water from his Pretormins had never been as sweet. Old Number One was unique. Some flaw, some short circuit, perhaps even some rewiring Dannar had never told him about. Orrin had feared to pry further into the device, so as not to destroy its magic.
Now it was gone.
But the siren had done its job, safe on its mount. It had been Dannar’s notion to place it up there; Orrin would have preferred to see it located anywhere else, in case the thing upset the prized vaporator’s performance. Dannar had safeguarded against that by powering the alarm independently from the vaporator’s grid. That decision by a dead friend had saved them all. Short of climbing to the top or knocking the column over, the brutes had no chance of disabling the clarion.
Dannar had saved them. And now, the siren would avenge him and his home. Settlers arrived by landspeeder and dewback, eopie and speeder bike. All had been returning from Mos Espa, already bound for the Claim; the siren and digital signal had sped them along.
Orrin turned to the gathering group. Settlers thronged outside the garages and store. The Tuskens hadn’t caused the initial landspeeder wreck, but the vehicles, scorched by blaster bolts, gave the impression that they were in a war zone. Jabe and Veeka were inside the store, relaying rifles uncovered from the collapsed racks out to the would-be vigilantes.
Outside, Mullen held up his hands, directing the settlers to form a perimeter. The Tuskens had withdrawn, but they could return at any time. Anyone as crazy as Plug-eye could do anything. Orrin shook his head at his recollection of the vaunted warrior. No vengeful demon, just a Tusken, short and a bit stocky; unafraid of the siren, but unable to calm the others. Well, maybe that would protect the Claim now.
He looked to where Ben was kneeling with the Rodian. Doc Mell, who had returned from the races with his youngling, approached Orrin. “Bohmer’s alive,” the Mon Calamari said.
“Alive!”
“I can’t figure out how. You said that human was tending to him?”
“As soon as the Tuskens left. I saw … no, I didn’t see what Ben was doing. But he must have dressed the wound.” Orrin breathed a sigh of relief, his first real one in an hour. “Rodian skin must be tough.”
Doc Mell looked back in wonder. “We’ll still need to get him to Bestine in my speeder right away.”
Orrin nodded. “We’ll clear a path.” The place had become a traffic jam. Drills prepared farmers to arrive in an orderly manner to arm themselves, departing in the Call Fund’s war-ready vehicles. But everyone had come from one direction this time, and the parking area was a mess.
“Sir!”
It was an alien voice, one Orrin had momentarily forgotten all about. The two Devaronian executives appeared next to him, carrying their colleague on a litter. He was dead.
“We’ve paid someone to return us to Mos Eisley,” the older of the pair said, his voice somber. “There is a funeral to prepare.”
Orrin lowered his head. “If you’ll wait, I’ll—”
“No waiting.” The Devaronians moved the corpse toward one of the newly arrived landspeeders.
“I recognize your loss,” Orrin said, struggling to sound respectful while making himself heard amid the growing commotion. “But af
ter a while, we can discuss things again? You still have a hotel, and I still have—”
“No,” the younger Devaronian replied gravely. “You brought us to see the Gault farms. We saw a barbaric place. One you can’t defend, even for a day.” He looked down sadly at his dead companion. “Poor Jervett feared this trip was a fool’s errand. It seems, in death, he was right.”
Orrin raised his hands. “Please, understand—”
“Excuse us!”
Orrin watched, plaintively, as his would-be business partners proceeded with their unhappy chore. His mind raced. There still might be some way to salvage the deal. But so much was happening, and now he was aware of a grating voice nearby. Ulbreck was outside, recovered and telling his tale of heroism to anyone who’d listen.
And people were listening, amazed. There were a dozen dead Tuskens in the shop; everyone near an entrance was taking a look as Annileen and others tried to move the bodies. Blaster bolts had killed some, but others looked seared and scarred. What had Ulbreck found beneath the counter to shoot them with? The old man hadn’t seemed to know himself, earlier. But now he was filling in blanks as quickly as he could imagine them. Ben, the drifter, remained in the story, but he’d arrived after it was all over, the crazy fool bringing a can of fire retardant to a gunfight.
There was something else in Ulbreck’s tale, which he repeated every third sentence. “Sure I did it myself—you can’t depend on Gault and his little club for nothing. Settlers’ Call?” He spat through brown teeth. “Settlers’ Fall is more like it!”
“That’s not fair, Wyle!” Orrin pushed through the crowd toward the old man. “This was a fluke. A festival day—”
“I wouldn’t pay another credit to that fund if I were you,” Ulbreck shouted. “I’d want a refund!” Around him, several of the listeners nodded and began chattering to one another.
Kenobi Page 14