Lando started to follow and kept up his rapid, shallow breathing until he started to feel just this side of light-headed. He only hoped he was remembering all the procedures properly. “All right,” he said. “Artoo, you time it. Come after us in three minutes. Let’s do it.”
Sonsen tied her own cloth over her mouth and nose, looked around to make sure everyone else had done the same, and then hit the DOOR OPEN button.
The air blew out of the turbovator car with terrifying speed, and then a blast-furnace wall of air rushed in, pulling a stream of noxious dust and smoke and soot with it. Sonsen dove through the door, and Lando followed after her, already half blinded by the stinging, burning fumes that were everywhere. There had been nothing they could do about eye protection. Where the devil was Sonsen? Had he lost her already?
The air—if you could call it air—screamed past in the howling wind and cleared the view for just a moment. He spotted her, through watering eyes, heading toward the building.
The heat was nearly as bad as the poisoned air and the dust. Already the sweat was streaming out of his body, dripping down his brow, getting into his eyes, making it that much harder to see. He resisted the urge to wipe his brow—and the urge to breathe. Amazing how fast you wanted to start again once you stopped.
Never mind. Sonsen—Jenica—was at the airlock, trying to work the very old-fashioned-looking controls—but the metal buttons and knobs were already too hot to touch. Lando pulled the torn-up piece of cloth out of his pocket—being careful to keep his vibro-shiv from falling out—and handed it to her.
She nodded gratefully, not wasting breath on words, and wrapped the cloth around her hand. She threw back the spill lever, equalizing pressure between the interior of the lock and the outside. It would seem the pressure was higher on the outside, judging by the column of smoke and soot that got sucked into the lock. Jenica threw back a big lever and the door swung out and open. She waved her arm vigorously, urging Lando in—and he needed no urging. It was a big lock compartment, capable of handling twenty or thirty people at once. That wasn’t good. The bigger the lock, the more air there would be to move, and the longer it would take.
The dust and smoke swirled around in the wretched air as Lando stumbled into the oven-hot interior of the lock—and suddenly realized that Jenica was not with him. He turned around to find her slumped over by the lock entrance, face-down on the ground, coughing and retching.
His own lungs feeling as if they were about to burst, Lando forced himself to go back outside after her. He grabbed her under the arms and dragged her in, wishing mightily for enough breath to curse the too-high gravity here in the equatorial regions of Centerpoint Station.
Half blinded by the caustic chemicals burning his eyes, Lando hauled Jenica Sonsen into the lock. He was about to let her slump down onto the deck when he realized just how hot that metal deck had to be by now. He threw her left arm over his shoulder and held her up as he searched frantically for the inside lock controls. She managed to take a bit of her weight on her own feet. Coughing horribly, she pointed an unsteady finger over to one corner of the lock.
Lando looked in the direction she was pointing. There! He dragged himself over, Jenica still draped over him, and pulled the close-lock lever, burning his hand in the process. The metal was hot and getting hotter. It seemed to take forever for the door to swing back shut.
He had his finger jammed down on the air pump button almost before the door latches had closed, but the automatics cut in at once anyway—not pumping in good air, but dumping the bad stuff out into the other side of the lock. Shell One, Jenica had called it. The air pumps whirred busily, stirring the ashes and soot up into a new blinding cloud of dust.
Lando’s lungs were screaming for air, demanding that he breathe immediately. He felt as if he were about to pass out, but he knew he did not dare. If he fainted, his reflexes would start him breathing again—and that would probably kill him.
The pressure equalized, and the far lock door opened. The air outside was far colder than the stuff in the lock, and the temperature difference was enough to make up a sharp little gust of wind as the hot bad air expanded out into Shell One—and good cool air swept into the lock chamber.
Lando let go of Jenica and dropped to his knees. He barely noticed the burning heat of the deck as he gasped for air, coughing, gagging, his lungs heaving. He pulled the cloth away from his mouth and coughed harder, spitting out the horrid slime that seemed to have gotten into his mouth, even if he hadn’t been breathing that mess. “Out,” he said, his voice little more than a weak creaking noise. “We need—get out—set lock for others.”
Jenica had collapsed next to him. She nodded, unable to speak even that much. They helped each other to their feet and staggered out of the lock chamber. The air here was a swirling mass of dreadful, sulfurous smoke—but there was air there too, good air. They could not breathe easily just yet, not until the dust and smoke dispersed. But at least they could breathe.
Jenica went to the Shell One side control panel and pulled the old-fashioned lever to swing the interior door shut.
“Hold it!” Lando shouted. He had spotted something. There was a rack of emergency equipment by the lock door—including two small tanks of oxygen with breathing masks. Lando grabbed one, twisted the valve to start the oxygen flowing, and threw it into the lock. Most—or maybe all—of the oxygen would go to waste, of course. But it didn’t matter. Even at full flow, a bottle that size would last ten or fifteen minutes before it went empty. But maybe just enough oxy would blow around to do some good. Or maybe if they were all blinded by the fumes, someone would still hear the hissing noise, and someone would find the mask, and put it to his or her face.
The door swung to, Jenica pulled the lever to open the Hollowtown-side door, and that was that. She turned around and slumped down on the floor with her back to the wall. Lando grabbed the other oxy tank and sat down on the floor facing her. He opened the flow valve and handed her the tank.
Jenica put the breather mask to her face and breathed in deeply—and was subdued by another wave of wracking coughs. She tried it again, with better success. “Yuck,” she said. “I didn’t mean to breathe any of that stuff, but something must have gotten in.” She handed the tank to Lando. He put the mask to his face and breathed in deeply. The cool, clean oxygen felt wonderfully pure and sweet. “Is there anything else we can do to help them in?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not really. There’s a viewport in the airlock here. The safeties won’t let me open both doors at once, but I might be able to set things to pop open the hatch on this side before the chamber repressurizes. That might get ’em in here a little faster. That’s about all.”
It had taken all of ninety seconds to get them in here. Amazing how much longer than that it felt. But if there was company coming, they had best get ready. Lando took another deep breath off the oxy tank and handed it back to Jenica. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get the lock set so you can pop the inner door early.”
“Yeah. We’d better. I have a nasty feeling your friends might have it a little rougher than we did.” Jenica stood up and rubbed her face. Her hand came away even dirtier than it had been. “Burning stars, but I must be a mess.”
“You did look better before,” Lando said with a smile. “Your face has about a centimeter of dust on it.”
“Oh, a little soap and water will fix that,” she said. “But I don’t even want to think what this has done to my hair.”
* * *
Luke Skywalker watched Artoo intently, waiting for the three minutes to be up. He forced himself to calmness, to clarity. Jedi were not impatient.
Except sometimes. This situation was getting out of hand. The temperature in the car had jumped dramatically when the outside air had come in. All of them were sweating profusely. And all of them—even the great Jedi Master himself—were having trouble breathing.
Kalenda coughed again and swore under her breath—what little breath she h
ad. “How much longer?” she asked. Either the smoke or the cloth over her mouth made her voice seem a bit murky, a bit throaty.
“About another thirty seconds, I think,” Luke said. “Let’s get ready. Both of you out before me so I can keep an eye on you,” he said.
Gaeriel seemed about to protest, but Luke cut her off. “It’s no time to be modest,” he said. “My Jedi powers give me an edge you two won’t have. If they didn’t, I’ve wasted my time with all that training for all these years. Artoo, Threepio, you come after me. You watch me. Watch all of us. We might need your help—but maybe we can move faster than you two can. If we get there first, we’re going to have to leave you on this side of the lock—but we’ll cycle the lock again as soon as we’re through. All right?”
Artoo whistled and beeped and swung his head back and forth. “I quite agree with Artoo,” Threepio said. “We might be immune to the poisonous atmosphere, but the corrosive airborne chemicals and the rising temperatures could easily do us harm. Please do not delay in getting us.”
“I won’t,” Luke said. “I promise.”
Threepio nodded happily. “I am glad to hear it,” he said. Apparently the word of a Jedi Master was good enough even for a protocol droid.
“Kalenda—Gaeriel—are you ready?”
“No, not really,” said Gaeriel, coughing just a bit. “But I doubt I ever will be ready for this sort of thing. Let’s go.”
Kalenda nodded and let it go at that.
“Here we go,” Luke said, and hit the button.
A new blast of burning-hot air struck at them as the door opened. The winds were blowing more and more fiercely as the Glowpoint dumped more and more energy into the system. Gaeriel stepped out into the storm and was nearly blown off her feet before Kalenda could grab at her. Luke stepped out into it and was nearly bowled over himself. The heat was incredible, and the noxious gases seemed to eat into his skin, his eyes. For a Jedi there is no pain, Luke told himself. There is awareness. There is calm. The three humans stepped around the side of the turbovator car—and discovered they had been in the lee of the wind. The full force of the corrosive gale blasted straight into their faces, utterly blinding them, forcing them to jam their eyes shut. The wind carried finegrained sand, and that slammed into them as well.
Luke got one fleeting moment of good visibility before the roaring wall of dust and cinders enveloped them, one moment when he saw where the airlock hatch was—and saw that it was swinging open for them. That one moment would have to be enough. It would be worse than useless to open his eyes in this storm. Not only would he be unable to see—his eyes would be destroyed. He would have to do it by dead reckoning—and drag the others with him. He reached out with the Force and found Kalenda and Gaeriel hand-in-hand, just a meter or two ahead of him. They were headed in the wrong direction. They must have been turned around by the wind already.
Luke lunged forward into the wind and, using the Force to guide him, grabbed Kalenda by the hand and yanked hard in the proper direction. Kalenda came willingly enough, and Luke could feel Gaeriel in the Force, feel her hesitate a moment and then follow along as well.
Luke became aware of a burning sense in his chest. Air. He needed air. And if he felt the urgent need to breathe, the others must be in an agony to do so.
Closer. Closer. In his mind’s eye, he could see the hatch. He knew, with all the power and precision of his Jedi senses, exactly where it was. But that did not get him there any faster, did not give him the power to move effortlessly against this deadly wind.
There. They were there. He still did not dare open his eyes, but he knew they were at the entrance to the lock. He pulled Kalenda forward, pushed her in ahead of him, and shoved Gaeriel in as well before stepping in himself—and running smack into something metal, something hard and angular and tall. He suddenly realized it was Threepio. “It would seem Artoo and I got here before you after all, Master Luke!” Threepio shouted over the howl of the sandstorm. A droid could speak in this mess without wasting air or getting sand in his mouth. Luke couldn’t, and he settled for a nod instead.
Luke nodded and moved farther forward into the lock, out of the stinging wind. He wiped the worst of the dust from his eyes and risked opening them, just in time to see the lock swinging shut.
There was a sudden flare of orange from behind him. He turned around. Gaeriel and Kalenda were standing, eyes still shut, in about the midpoint of the lock chamber, holding to each other, coughing miserably.
And Gaeriel’s long flowing white dress was on fire—and Gaeriel did not know it yet. Luke lunged for her and threw his body on the blossoming flames, trying to smother them. His flight suit was insulated and fireproof. He felt a brief bloom of heat on his chest, and that was all. The fire died. He stood back up and helped Gaeriel to her feet.
A red-hot bit of debris, blown from someplace where things were hotter still, must have gotten itself lodged in the fabric of Gaeriel’s dress. But how could it burn, with no available oxygen?
Luke heard a hissing noise from behind him and looked around. An oxygen mask. Lando and Kalenda had thrown an oxygen mask into the lock chamber—and Gaeriel had been standing right on top of it. Her dress must have trapped the oxygen. A million-to-one shot, but one that had almost killed Gaeriel.
All of that flashed through his mind even as he was grabbing for the mask. He tore the cloth strip off her mouth and put the oxy mask over her mouth and nose. Still half blinded, and probably still unaware of why Luke had knocked her over, she jerked away from the mask at first, until she realized what it was. Then she grabbed for it greedily, opened her mouth, and took in a deep, urgent breath. She started coughing almost instantly. Luke handed the mask to Kalenda, who took two deep breaths herself before handing it back to Luke.
Luke pulled down his dust cloth, exhaled the last breath he had breathed in back in the turbovator car, and sucked in as much air as the mask had to give. He realized that he had been seeing spots before his eyes, there toward the end. Even Jedi Masters have to breathe, he told himself.
He was just handing the mask on to Gaeriel when the inner door swung violently open, and the air in the lock blasted out into the chamber beyond in a last choking, blinding—but now harmless—cloud of dust.
They had made it.
* * *
“I was on fire?” Gaeriel asked, looking down at the remains of her dress. Jenica had led them all to a small infirmary near the Shell One side of the airlock. Everyone had cuts and bruises and scrapes and minor burns that needed attention of one sort or another. They all needed baths and clean clothes as well, but those could wait just a bit. “I was on fire and I didn’t know about it?”
“A claim not many can make,” Luke said, laughing. “I apologize for knocking you over—”
“And I apologize for throwing that oxy mask in there,” said Lando.
“Don’t either of you apologize,” Gaeriel said, a bit tartly. She went over to the sink and started scrubbing her hands. “The mask probably saved all our lives in there. I was near passing out, and if I had fainted and breathed in much more of that stuff than I did by accident—well, at best I’d have been in here with something a lot worse than a sore throat. And I’d much rather have a bruised dignity than third-degree burns.”
“I think we were all pretty lucky in there,” Kalenda said in more serious tones as she sprayed some quick-heal salve on Jenica’s burned hand. “The way the temperatures were rising, I don’t think we’d have gotten out another five minutes later.”
“What’s it like in there now, Artoo?” Luke asked as Lando sprayed antiseptic solution into the sand burns on his face. “Ow! That stuff stings.”
“Hold still,” Lando said, dabbing ointment onto the worst of the burns. “Almost done.”
Artoo, who had plugged himself into a dataport in the infirmary wall, squeaked and whistled and buzzed and beeped in an agitated fashion.
“Dear me,” said Threepio. “Things are rapidly getting worse in there.”
“What did that Artoo thing say, for those of us who don’t speak bird-whistle?” Jenica asked.
“Temperatures where we were ten minutes ago are up over the boiling point of water and headed higher,” said Threepio. “The surviving detectors show hot spots closer to the Glowpoint well over five hundred degrees—and there are probably temperatures much higher than that, except the detectors are not there anymore to tell us.”
“Not good,” said Lando. “Not good at all.”
Jenica Sonsen nodded her head. “And it’s also no terrorist attack,” she said. “Even twice didn’t make a great deal of sense—but three times?”
“I think you’re very wrong there,” Lando said. “Very wrong indeed. But I’m afraid your people here weren’t the intended victims. I think you were more like innocent bystanders who got in the way.”
Jenica turned and looked sharply at Lando as she flexed the hand with the burn salve on it. “Captain Calrissian—Lando—you said a few things earlier that made it sound like you had an idea what this was all about. Maybe now would be the right time to explain yourself.”
Lando let out a deep sigh. “I think maybe you’re right,” he said. “But no one’s going to like it much. I might even be wrong—but on the other hand, it’s all staring us in the face.”
Star Wars: The Corellian Trilogy III: Showdown at Centerpoint Page 13