by Timothy Zahn
The boy shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” he said. “A little worried.” “No need for that,” Torles assured him. “I’ll make sure your father stays clear of the fighting.”
“I know,” Corf said. “Dad promised me that, too. I’m mostly worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Torles said, smiling. “I’m a Jedi, remember?” “Oh, that’s right,” Corf said. He tried to smile in return, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. “I forget sometimes.”
“Well, don’t,” Torles admonished him lightly as he tucked his lightsaber inside his robes. “Stay out of sight and trouble, and I’ll see you later.”
“Okay,” Corf said; and to Torles’ surprise, he stepped forward and gave the Jedi a quick hug. “Be careful.”
Torles had spent part of the day wondering about Laytron’s seemingly casual choice of timing for the operation. It was only as he slipped off the Binalie estate and made his way westward through the edge of Foulahn City that he realized the timing hadn’t been nearly as random as he’d first thought. At sunset, most of the enemy forces surrounding Spaarti would have to face directly into the setting sun to see Roshton’s quiet exit from Outlink Four. Even droid optical sensors had trouble with direct sunlight, and Torles’ estimation of the young lieutenant had gone up as he realized the young man had taken that weakness into account.
Twice along the way, Torles had to take quick cover as a pair of droids on wide picket marched past. But he’d planned for possible delays when he’d scheduled his wake-up call, and he reached the flat, sod-covered roof of Outlink Four with time to spare.
Binalie was waiting beneath a cluster of trees, along with a pair of armored clone troopers. “Master Torles,” Binalie greeted the Jedi, his voice and sense tight with nervous anticipation.
“Anyone see you?”
“No one shot at me, anyway,” Torles told him, eyeing the camouflaged roof. “We aren’t going to have to raise the whole roof to get in, are we?”
Binalie shook his head. “There’s a service stairway along the side.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Torles said, peering into the sky. A dozen STAPs were circling in the east, patrolling the sky over the plant and the landing ship beside it.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the diversion to start?” Binalie asked.
“We can’t afford to,” Torles said. “We’ll need every bit of diversion time just to move all those people out of the plant.”
“You’re right.” Binalie took a deep breath, and set off across the open ground. “Follow me.”
The section of roof over the service stairway swung open with gratifying speed and silence. Binalie led the way down the steps, then waited at the bottom for the others to catch up before using the small control panel attached to the railing to seal the top again. “All the wiring is in place,” he said as he flicked on a pair of glow rods and handed one to Torles. “But I thought running any power in here, even just enough to handle the lights, might be risky.”
“Good point,” Torles agreed, turning to the clone troopers. “You two stay here and guard the exit,” he ordered.
“Acknowledged,” one of them said.
Torles nodded, and he and Binalie set off at a quick jog down the empty tunnel. Ten minutes later, they reached the other end.
“There should be a set of pumps right here, and the intake for the tunnel’s ventilator system about here,” Binalie said, pointing out spots to the left and right of the wall. “It would make this operation a whole lot cheaper if you could manage to miss both of them.”
“I’ll do my best,” Torles said, igniting his lightsaber. Pushing the tip of the blade carefully through the center of Binalie’s indicated safe zone, he began to cut.
A minute later had carved a man-sized rectangle. Closing down the lightsaber, he stretched out with the Force and deftly pulled away the half- meter-thick section of wall.
To find himself gazing down the muzzles of a half dozen blaster rifles. “Commander Roshton?” he called.
The muzzles instantly lifted. “About time,” Roshton said, stepping into view in front of his troops, a grim look on his face. He was equipped for action, Torles noted, wearing his usual clone trooper comlink headset and a pair of bolstered blasters on his belt.. “I was starting to wonder if you’d been caught.”
“What are you talking about?” Binalie asked. “We’re right on time.”
“You’re two minutes late,” Roshton corrected tartly. “If Lieutenant Laytron is on schedule, the diversion will be starting in fourteen minutes. We want to be already moving people out the other end of the tunnel by then.”
“Then we’d better get started,” Torles said. “Your people ready to move?”
In answer, Roshton lifted a hand. The clone troopers who’d been pointing their rifles at Torles lifted the weapons into carry position across their chests and passed single-file through the newly made opening. Reforming into ranks of three, they set off down the tunnel at a quick jog. They were followed by another squad of six, and another, and another. “What about the techs?” Torles asked as the fifth batch of troopers jogged past him.
“When will they be coming through?”
“When we’ve got enough firepower at the other end to protect them,” Roshton grunted, stepping through himself and giving Binalie a nudge. “Come on, both of you. Our turn to move.” The clone troopers who’d gone on ahead of them were waiting at the far end of the tunnel when Torles, Binalie, and Roshton arrived. “Two minutes to go,” the commander said, consulting his chrono. “What’s cover like up there?”
Binalie opened his mouth to answer - “Open space for three meters to the north, twenty meters to the south,” one of the clone troopers they’d left behind on guard duty spoke up. “Tree cover begins five meters to the east and remains intermittent.”
“Not perfect, but it’ll do,” Roshton decided. “Line up on the stairway. Lord Binalie, is there any trick to operating the exit door?”
“The controls are right there,” Binalie said, pointing to the panel, his tone suddenly sounding strange. “But-”
“But what?” Roshton demanded, glaring at him.
Binalie threw a quick, ambiguous glance at Torles. “Nothing,” he muttered. “It’ll keep.”
“Fine.” Roshton looked up the stairway as his troopers headed up. “Get in position,” he called softly. “We break cover at the sound of the first shot.”
“Two minutes to go,” Lieutenant Laytron said, consulting his chrono. “All squads, report by number.”
He fell silent, listening intently to the reports coming in over his headset. Doriana found himself gazing off to the north, across the open grassland and the picket line of combat droids standing guard there. The force was largely a token one, of course, since there were no doors or windows on the southern side of the plant. The main droid army, plus all their remaining AAT battle tanks, was concentrated around the more vulnerable eastern, western, and northern approaches.
But even a single person or machine on that forbidden stretch of lawn was anathema to the Cranscoc twillers who were the actual heart of the Spaarti operation. They were probably still twitching their indignation, in fact, over all those droids standing around out there. But of course, the Separatist commanders didn’t care about that.
On the other hand, since the plant’s tooling was still set for the cloning cylinders the Republic forces had been sent to Cartao to manufacture, Roshton probably didn’t much care if the twillers were upset, either. Two huge political systems, locked in a massive battle of wills and weapons and death, completely oblivious as to how their actions affected those around them. But those actions frequently involved a lot of unexpected collateral damage. That was a lesson someone was going to learn today.
“One minute,” Laytron said. “Stand ready.”
Doriana took a deep breath, willing calmness into himself. He had carried out his part of the plan, he knew, maneuvering both sides to precisely the right place and the right ti
me. The rest was now out of his hands, and he could feel the churning sense of frustration that always came upon him at times like this.
“And... go.”
With the multi-level roar of a dozen different engine models, a dozen commandeered civilian landspeeders leaped into view from concealment among the hills dotting the landscape, each loaded with anywhere from four to eight clone troopers. Quickly, they maneuvered around their hills to form an attack line on the southern edge of the grassland. Then, as the enemy pickets and the high-flying STAPs seemed to take notice, the engine pitches changed, and the vehicles set off at full speed toward the plant.
“Stand by, cover fire,” Laytron ordered. The STAPs were swooping in to the attack, their twin blasters spitting fire at the landspeeders. Ahead of the advancing landspeeders, the picket forces were drawing inward to form a solid counterline between the clone troopers and the plant. Their blasters opened up, too, searching for the range...
“Fire,” Laytron said.
The tops of a dozen nearby hills suddenly blurred as camouflage covers were thrown off and heavy weapons scavenged from damaged gunships and AATs were swung around to bear on the enemy. Laser cannon bolts sizzled across the incoming STAPs, destroying half a dozen in the first salvo and sending the rest twisting away into evasive maneuvers. A pair of missiles streaked from one of the hills to hit the droid counterline dead center. When the smoke, dust, and purple afterimage of the explosion cleared from Doriana’s sight, there was nothing left of the picket line but a crater and a hundred smoking pieces of combat droid.
“Here they come,” Roshton murmured, pointing to the east. Doriana shifted his eyes that direction. Three AAT battle tanks had appeared around the side of the building, laying down fire of their own as they lumbered toward the incoming landspeeders.
“They’re too late,” Doriana said, estimating distances and speeds.
“Absolutely,” Laytron agreed as the hilltop covering fire shifted aim and began pummeling the AATs. “The fatal flaw of droid armies, Master Doriana: the soldiers actually on the scene can’t think or anticipate.”
Doriana smiled. “Which is why the Republic is going to win.”
The battle tanks were still firing uselessly as the landspeeders reached the plant. Even before the vehicles came to a complete stop the clone troopers were leaping out, slinging their heavy rifles over their shoulders as they formed up beside the wall. The first two dozen to reach position lifted liquid-cable guns and fired upward. The grapplers caught the top edge of the rooftop, and a moment later, the soldiers were being reeled swiftly upward as their comrades held guard position beneath them. The remaining STAPs swung to this new threat, managing to kill two of the rising clone troopers before fire from the troopers below eliminated that threat.
The first wave reached the roof and scrambled up onto it, unslinging their rifles and setting up a defensive perimeter. The second wave was already halfway up the side of the building by the time they were in position, with the final wave just leaving the ground.
“And that’s that,” Laytron said with grim satisfaction as the clone troopers regrouped and started across the rooftop, weapons at the ready. “The Separatists can’t fire on them without risking damage to the plant, but they’ll be able to fire on the landing ship as soon as they’re in range. Is that the sort of diversion you were thinking about, Master Doriana?”
Doriana smiled. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he said softly. “That should do nicely.”
The sounds of distant blaster fire were clearly audible as Torles emerged from the tunnel into the late afternoon sunlight.
“Sounds like it’s started,” he muttered to Binalie as the two of them raced for the trees where most of the clone troopers who had gone before them had already taken cover. “I just hope they can keep it up until everyone’s out.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Binalie said as they reached the trees.
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” Torles asked as they squatted beneath the cover of a wide-crested forlaline bush.
“That’s the whole point of this exercise.”
Binalie shook his head. “Maybe it was your point, and mine,” he said, his voice tense. “But it wasn’t Roshton’s. He has no intention of getting those techs out.”
“What are you talking about?” Torles demanded, frowning.
“Didn’t you hear him?” Binalie countered. “Him and his soldiers? He asked about cover, and they gave him the stuff north, south, and east. They never said anything about cover to the west; and he never asked.”
Torles blinked as the memory of that conversation flashed back to him. Binalie was right: Roshton hadn’t inquired about conditions to the west. Yet west was the obvious direction for anyone fleeing the plant to go.
But if they weren’t leaving...
His eyes flicked around, looking for Roshton, understanding suddenly stabbing into his stomach. He spotted the commander standing beside the tunnel entrance, gazing down the stairway as clone troopers continued to file out.
Torles rose to his feet and started toward him. He’d taken perhaps three steps when Roshton lifted a hand and pointed east. And suddenly, the army was on the move, blasters at the ready, running toward the landing ship towering above the treetops. The last of the troopers was passing Roshton when Torles caught up with him. “What are you doing?” he demanded, catching the commander’s arm. “This was supposed to be a rescue mission.”
“Out of my way, Jedi,” Roshton snapped, shrugging off his arm. “Of course it’s a rescue mission. It’s a rescue of Lord Binalie’s precious manufacturing plant.”
“But...”
“No buts,” Roshton cut him off, gesturing with his blaster. “This is our one chance to get into that landing ship and destroy the droid control matrix. You want to help, fine, we’d be glad to have you. If not, just get out of our way.”
Torles looked back at Binalie, still crouching beside his bush, his face rigid with anger and fear and frustration. “Go back to the estate,” he called to the other. “I’ll meet you there.”
Binalie’s eyes flicked over Torles’ shoulder toward the plant.
“Go,” Torles repeated.
Binalie’s expression still looked pinched, but he nodded. “All right.”
He slipped away through the trees, and Torles turned back to Roshton. “I’ll come with you,” he said, pulling out his lightsaber. “But we will talk about this later.”
“Sure,” Roshton grunted. “Come on.”
They headed off after the soldiers, dodging between trees and around bushes. Occasionally Torles caught a glimpse of white armor ahead of them, but the clone troopers were traveling at least as fast as they were and had a fair head start on top of it. “So what’s the plan?” he asked Roshton. “The new revised plan, I mean.”
“Laytron’s got men up on the plant roof laying down fire,” Roshton panted. “The droids by the landing ship are currently trying to pick them off without damaging the plant. With luck, they should all have their backs to us when we hit them.” Torles grimaced. And when they found their army in a crossfire, what would the Neimoidians controlling the droids do? Whatever they deemed necessary to defend themselves, including wrecking the Spaarti plant? Probably.
It was up to Torles to make sure that didn’t happen.
“First elements have reached firing position,” Roshton reported, pressing his headset tighter against his ear. “Following units are fanning out. If we’re lucky, and they’re not spotted-” He broke off, and Torles caught his breath as the volume of the firing ahead suddenly changed. “They were,” Roshton growled.
“All units: fire at will.”
He leaped ahead, picking up his pace. “Spotted?” Torles asked, catching up with him.
“By one of the guards at the landing ramp,” Roshton confirmed as weapons of a different pitch joined the sounds ahead. “But we’ve still got the advantage.”
They ran another fifty meters through the forest. And then, suddenly
, they were there.
Square in the middle of a pitched battle.
Roshton ducked into the partial cover of a nearby tree, his blaster already blazing away against the enemy. Torles stopped beside a tree of his own, trying to get a quick sense of the action. Two AAT battle tanks, which had been facing the door into the plant, were trying to turn around to deal with this new threat, their maneuvering slow and awkward as they fought the tangle of underbrush and heavy fire from two directions. Advancing briskly toward Roshton’s group of clone troopers were three ranks of super battle droids supported by a few D60 assault droids. The whole line was taking considerable damage, but was still coming.
The tanks, Torles decided, were his first priority. “I’m going in,” he called to Roshton over the noise, pointing toward the tanks. “Cover me.”
“Right,” Roshton shouted back as Torles ignited his lightsaber.
“All units: cover fire left!”
The rain of fire from the clone trooper blasters abruptly changed focus, concentrating all their fury on the left flank of the advancing forces and blowing the droids on that side into a chaos of shards and rubble and smoke. Gathering his feet beneath him, Torles ducked under the friendly fire and dodged around the end of the disintegrating enemy line.
The droids in the AATs saw him coming, of course. Even as their primary laser cannon began chewing up the landscape along the right flank of the Republic forces, the short-range defensive blasters on either side of the main air-cooling intake began firing at him. Torles’ lightsaber flashed in answer, deflecting the bolts away or bouncing them into the backs of the advancing droids whenever he could manage it.
He reached the nearest AAT and jumped up onto the front. Positioning himself in front of the air intake where he was out of reach of both defensive blasters, he stabbed his lightsaber downward through the heavy armor into the forward repulsor disk. The vehicle pitched forward, its nose slamming into the ground like a quadruped that had had both front legs kicked out from under it. Torles leaped straight up as it dug itself half a meter into the dirt, landing just in front of the top hatch, and with three quick slashes sliced off the primary laser cannon and the two side-mounted secondary laser guns.