Siege

by Karen Miller

  “Oh, stang,” Anakin said, the air rasping raw in his throat. “Stay back, you barves. There’s nothing to see here.”

  Too late. Programmed with their holoimages, with orders to capture, not kill, the droids had seen their quarry and the sparking agitation in the shield.

  He stared at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan stared back.

  “Master, do you trust me?”

  Speechless, Obi-Wan nodded.

  “Then do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you, no questions. On three. One—two—three—”

  There was no time for explanations. There was barely time to breathe. Plunged into that otherplace where a machine was a living thing and it spoke to him in whispers, Anakin sank himself into the generator’s mechanical heart and let it tell him what was wrong. What to do. Faster than thought, faster than feeling, fueled by the Force, he surrendered himself and became one with the machine. He felt his lips move, barking orders that Obi-Wan immediately obeyed, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying. He couldn’t see what he was doing. He was somebody—something—else. A fusion of man and machine.

  On the other side of the faltering shield Durd’s droids were firing without pause. He could feel the blooming plasma like lava in his veins, scalding him and scorching him and melting his bones. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t flesh anymore, so he couldn’t burn.

  A shower of sparks. A surge of power. A shuddering in the Force. And then the generator stopped flickering and the storm shield firmed.

  Thwarted, Durd’s droids lowered their blasters.

  Someone was sobbing. After a moment, Anakin realized Oh. That’s me. And then his knees were buckling and he was heading for the ground.

  Obi-Wan caught him. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

  He let Obi-Wan take his full weight because he was too tired not to. Everything hurt, even his stub of an arm.

  And then he cried out, and Obi-Wan cried out, because between labored heartbeats they felt a fresh surge through the Force.

  There were Jedi high above them. Help had come, at last.

  Chapter Seventeen

  STANDING ON INDOMITABLE’S bridge, MACE WINDU SPAT A string of curses, not one in a language Ahsoka could recognize or understand. But that didn’t matter—their meaning was perfectly clear. And if she’d been alone, or belowdecks with Rex and the others, and could still see what she was seeing, well… I’d be cursing, too.

  Lanteeb was blockaded, the entire planet belted by Separatist warships. And the buckle on that belt? General Grievous’s massive cruiser.

  Admiral Yularen, hands clasped behind his back, frowned through his bridge’s transparisteel viewport. “Well. I certainly wasn’t expecting that.”

  “No,” said Master Windu, his voice very tight. “Neither was I.”

  Yularen’s stare slid sideways. “They knew we were coming. Which means—”

  “I know what it means,” said Master Windu. “I need a priority scrambled channel back to the Jedi Temple.”

  “Lieutenant Avrey,” said the admiral, over his shoulder.

  “You heard Master Windu.”

  “Coming right up, sir,” she replied.

  Tearing her gaze from the gut-punching sight of all those Sep warships just sitting there, waiting for them, Ahsoka looked around the bridge. This was such a fine crew—not one of their faces betrayed an inappropriate emotion. But she could feel their frustration and their alarm, shrill in the Force.

  And who can blame them? We’ve got four ships in this battle group and we’re looking at more than twenty-five against us.

  She turned back to the viewport and tried to see past the blockade to the planet Grievous and his massive battle group were defending. Lanteeb. It was a nothing place, drab and brown and devoid of interest. Well, almost devoid.

  I can feel him. I can. It’s not my imagination.

  Master Windu glanced down at her. “Padawan?”

  He made her nervous in a way no other Jedi did, not even Master Yoda. His presence in the Force was breathtaking. Standing beside him was like being buffeted by a gale—and he wasn’t even trying. He was just breathing, just being himself. What it felt like to be near Mace Windu when he exerted himself? That was something she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to experience.

  “Master—” Her mouth was dry. She swallowed, trying to calm her thudding heart. “He’s down there. Master Skywalker. I can feel him. Not strongly. It’s just a whisper. But he’s there.”

  “I know,” said Master Windu. With his first blinding flash of fury controlled he was quiet again, completely self-contained. “They’re both there. Somewhere. And they’re in trouble.”

  Oh. She’d been hoping she had imagined that.

  “Master Windu?” said Lieutenant Avrey, behind them. “I have the Jedi Temple on priority scramble for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Master Windu, and crossed to the communication console. Taking the patched-in comlink from her, he raised it to his lips and looked back at the blockade. “This is Mace Windu. Get me Master Yoda. Now.”

  As Master Windu explained the situation, Ahsoka closed her eyes and sank more deeply into the Force. If she tried hard enough maybe, just maybe, she could make contact with Skyguy. Mind-touch over this kind of distance was practically unheard of, but she had felt his presence. That had to mean something. And they had a special connection, she and her Master. So if she focused harder and tighter than she ever had before, if she imagined herself a laser and sent her mind searing through space toward him…

  Master. Skyguy. Anakin. I’m here.

  She heard her heartbeat, thundering. Felt sweat break on her brow. Her skin started to crawl with the effort of reaching him, and pain built to a crescendo behind her closed eyes.

  Master, it’s me. Ahsoka. Please, let me know you’re all right.

  There was no answer, only that faintest of faint whispers. A teasing tickle that told her Yes. He’s alive.

  Gasping, abruptly unsteady on her own two feet, she broke free of the Force. Master Windu was still talking to Yoda.

  “—right. Then unless we’re directly engaged we’ll hold fire until I hear from you. But don’t make us wait too long. And if they try to get past us with more of that bioweapon—then I won’t hold back. Windu out.”

  Lieutenant Avrey closed down the scrambled channel, then turned to Admiral Yularen. “Good news, sir. They tried to jam our signal four times, but our countermeasure upgrade stopped them.”

  “Excellent,” said Yularen, permitting himself a small, satisfied smile. “Let Pioneer and Coruscant Sky know. But they’ll keep on trying, so stay on your toes.”

  Master Windu turned. “I want ship-to-ship. I think a warning shot across Grievous’s bow wouldn’t go astray.”

  “You’re sure?” said the admiral. “Why not let him sweat awhile? Push him into making the first move.”

  “Right now we’re outnumbered more than five starships to one,” said Master Windu. “I doubt he’s sweating much, Admiral.” He showed his teeth in a fierce smile. “But he might get a little uneasy once he realizes who he’s up against. At the very least I’ll give him something to think about, and that’ll buy us a little time.”

  “For what?” Yularen asked quietly. “Do you really think Strategic Command’s going to send us more ships? With seven major battlefronts actively engaged and eleven cruisers still disabled with this comm virus?”

  Master Windu’s expression was grim. “They might not want to, but they don’t have a choice. Not if they want to avoid more Chandrilas. Besides—that’s Grievous standing in our way. Our highest priority is taking him out. Lanteeb’s as good a place as any to get the job done.”

  “Master Windu, far be it for me to dictate to a Jedi of your experience, but truly—” The admiral stepped closer. “I think it would be best to hold our fire a while longer. Get him thinking. Throw him off balance, if only a little bit. We can’t make threats we’re not in a position to carry out. I strongly suggest we wait until we know
what kind of reinforcements we can expect. Any way you look at it, this is going to be one dirty, brutal fight—but I’d prefer to know exactly how dirty and brutal before I poke a stick in this Bizikian hornets’ nest.”

  Master Windu thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll split the difference with you, Admiral. One standard hour. Master Yoda will have an answer for us within that time.” His eyes narrowed. “And then we’ll get down to a little stick poking.”

  Ahsoka stood a little straighter. “Master Windu?”

  “Padawan?”

  “I’d like to tell Captain Rex what’s going on.”

  For a moment she thought he’d deny her permission—but then he nodded. “Very well. You can brief the Five Hundred First. Leave the other companies to me.”

  “And after that, Master, I—I’d like to meditate.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Meditate?”

  There was no fooling this man. Not that she’d even try, of course. Uncomfortably aware that Yularen and the other bridge officers were within earshot, she clasped her hands behind her back. Not defiant. Never that. Just… determined.

  “Master, I know it’s a long shot, but I want to see if I can reach Master Skywalker.”

  “You’re right,” said Master Windu. “That is a very long shot, Padawan. But I won’t tell you not to try. Stranger things have happened—and we’ve got an hour to sit here with nothing better to do.”

  She did try to keep the excitement from her face and voice, but she wasn’t sure she succeeded. Still—nothing in Master Windu’s expression suggested he was displeased.

  “Thank you, Master. Once I’ve spoken with Rex I’ll be in my quarters, if you need me for anything.”

  He nodded, dismissing her, and she left the bridge to go belowdecks, where Rex and the rest of the 501st were geared up and ready for a fight.

  Don’t worry, Anakin. We’re here and we’re not going anywhere. Not until we’ve got you and Master Kenobi off that planet.

  LOK DURD SAT behind his office desk, bloated with a malignant satisfaction. On the desk sat a compact holoimager, running a selection of HoloNet News reports on the aftermath of Chandrila. With wet, shining eyes he watched the unspeakable images, the uproar in the Senate, the Supreme Chancellor’s pleas for patience and courage. Every now and then he chortled, and bounced a little in his chair.

  “You see, Doctor? You see? I was right!” he gloated. “With one small blow I have struck terror into the rotten heart of the Republic. One more blow and I’ll have it on its knees. Yet again I prove myself indispensable to Count Dooku. Single-handedly I will win this war for him and he will shower me with riches the likes of which have never been seen!”

  Staring at the flickering holorecording, Bant’ena couldn’t tell if her heart was beating or if the dry office air moved in and out of her lungs. She felt disconnected from the world around her. Inhuman. As though someone had transformed her from woman to droid.

  I did this. Look at all the people I killed.

  Master Kenobi was right. She’d put the lives of her family, her friends, before everything—before her conscience and her ethics, before the oath she’d sworn as a scientist. Now thousands of lives were destroyed as a result and the Republic teetered on the brink of chaos.

  I did this. It’s my fault.

  “I’m sorry, General,” she said abruptly, standing. “I require the ’fresher. Might I be excused?”

  He barely glanced up from enjoying the horror show she’d helped him create. “Be quick. We have things to discuss. I want to refine the weapon’s formula. There won’t be time to use the new mix on Bespin, but—”

  His office tip-tilted around her. “Bespin? You’re attacking Bespin next?”

  He chortled again, so pleased with himself. “Within the next few days. As soon as the Republic starts to relax. Ingenious, aren’t I? The Republic’s scrambling to protect the rest of the Core Worlds. It’s the perfect opportunity to disrupt the Tibanna gas market. When Count Dooku sees how much I’ve hurt the Republic my position will be unassailable.” Pleasure vanishing, he scowled. “No more doubting my judgment. No more questioning my expertise.”

  Bant’ena’s belly heaved. “I’m sorry. Please excuse me.”

  “Don’t be long,” Durd snapped. “Kay-Dee Seventy-seven, go with her.”

  Forced to keep pace with his hated personal droid, which daily tormented her with holoimages of her family, she barely made it to the refresher before her stomach turned itself inside out. On her knees and running with sweat, she emptied herself of food and bile, then slumped shivering to the cold, tiled floor.

  At least she had only KD-77 as a witness. Durd had dispensed with her battle droid escort; he’d needed the machines to send after the Jedi. In fact he’d stripped the compound of battle droids—but it hadn’t done him any good. Wherever Anakin and Master Kenobi were now, somehow they were managing to hold Durd’s forces at bay. She’d heard the Neimoidian screaming at Colonel Barev, demanding to know why the Jedi were still at large. Barev had said something about not alerting the wrong people to the fact there was a siege, that they couldn’t ship in more droids and heavier weapons for fear of awkward questions being asked. He’d told Durd to be patient, promising that the village couldn’t hold out much longer.

  But she refused to believe it. If anyone could beat Durd, it was Anakin and Master Kenobi.

  For one moment she’d thought the withdrawal of the compound’s battle droid contingent might give her a chance to escape this new compound—but no. Durd fitted her with a slave collar. The blasted thing was the wrong size—her neck was chafed, her skin rubbed bloody over her collarbones. Durd didn’t care. He had more important things to worry about, like orchestrating another mass murder.

  The filthy device was plugged into her spinal cord. If she crossed the compound’s boundary, or tried to take the collar off, it would drop her to the ground, paralyzed. He’d demonstrated that once, and she’d been left drooling for two hours.

  To make things worse, it also had a punishment component. If she said the wrong thing, if she was too slow or didn’t grovel enough or displeased Durd in any way, he pressed a remote device and the collar surged pain through her body. Not enough to cripple her; she was still too useful. But it made her weep, and he enjoyed that. Denying him pleasure was the only act of rebellion she had left.

  Durd’s droid buzzed a warning. “Time’s up.”

  Feeling faint, Bant’ena struggled to her feet. With her face washed and her mouth rinsed, hollow and despairing, she returned to Durd’s office. The Neimoidian had dispensed with the news footage from Chandrila and was now gazing raptly at a holoimage of the bioweapon’s molecular structure. A fresh wave of nausea struck her as she stared at its elegant, lethal simplicity.

  It was her greatest work. Her finest achievement. And the only thing she hated more than her creation was herself, for creating it.

  I was wrong. I should’ve let them all die, even my mother. How many mothers are dead now, because of me?

  Durd glanced at her. “Well, Doctor, don’t just stand there. Sit down.”

  She sat, mechanically, as the droid retreated to its customary place in the corner.

  “We know from Chandrila,” Durd said, tapping the holoimager, “that the weapon’s dispersal rate is too slow. Its gaseous form is too heavy. Now, that won’t matter on Bespin because it’s a sealed environment. But it is important for our next outdoor target. So, Doctor, we need to reduce the weapon’s weight so that even the slightest breeze can—”

  Interrupted by a comm signal, he cursed and answered it.

  “What, Barev? I’m busy!”

  Though it was only a voice comm, Barev’s alarm was unmistakable. “The Republic’s sent cruisers to break Grievous’s blockade! Lanteeb’s under siege, Durd.”

  Lok Durd leapt to his feet. “What? What? How is that possible?”

  “Your missing Jedi must’ve called to the Republic for help!”

  “How could they, y
ou idiot? They’re in the middle of nowhere!” Durd slammed his fist to the desk. “Barev, this is your doing! That psychic seeker of yours—I told you we should’ve kept it here under guard until this was over. But no, you insisted we let it leave. That Drivok’s talked—sold us out to the Republic for more money! You never should’ve—”

  “Don’t blame this on me, you fat fool! This disaster is entirely your doing!”

  “Fat fool? Fat fool?” Gasping, Durd thumped his fist to the desk. “How dare you?”

  “No, General, how dare you—”

  “Enough!” Durd shouted. “This disaster you’ve created must be dealt with at once. My entire bioweapon strategy hangs in the balance! Where are you?”

  “Where do you think? In the spaceport security complex.”

  “Then stay there. I want to see this blockade for myself. I want to speak with General Grievous. I must make him understand his duty to protect me. Stay there, Barev. I’m coming to you now.”

  With enormous effort Bant’ena kept her face blank. If Durd so much as caught a hint of the elation coursing through her, he’d lose himself to fury and kill her on the spot.

  Spittled with rage, he turned on her. “You’re as much to blame as Barev for this calamity! When the emergency’s over and those Republic ships are scrap metal in the sky I am going to punish you, Doctor. I am going to kill those nephews of yours!”

  Snatching up the collar’s remote, he stabbed at its control button. Bant’ena cried out and fell from her chair to the floor, flailing and grunting.

  “You want to save the puling little bloodsacs?” Durd demanded, and threw the remote onto his desk. “Then get back to your lab and find me a way to improve the weapon’s dispersal rate! Do it in the next hour and I might spare their lives!”

  She’d bitten her tongue. Head spinning with pain, her mouth full of iron and salt, she dragged herself to her feet. “Yes, General.”

  Durd thrashed his way out from behind his desk, flung open his office door, then seized her arm and shoved her into the deserted corridor beyond.