by James Luceno
Anakin shot him a questioning look. “By droids?”
“A lot of them, apparently.”
Anakin glanced into the glowing sky, then back at the commando who had delivered Cody’s message.
“General, forward command reports that your starfighter is on the way,” another commando updated.
Again, Anakin glanced at the sky, only to turn back to the commando. “Where did you say Obi-Wan and Cody are?”
“Level one, sir. In the shipping area.”
Anakin compressed his lips. “All right. Let’s go rescue them.”
In the shipping room, the sliding doors were still cycling—striking the punctured shipping container, retracting, attempting to close once more. Battle droids were still entering with each parting of the doors, and spores were still wafting through the air.
Not much had changed, except within Obi-Wan, who felt as if he had downed three bottles of Whyren’s Reserve. Bleary-eyed but lucid, tipsy but sure-footed, weary but attentive, Obi-Wan seemed to be the sum of all contrasts.
More or less rooted in place, he swayed, wobbled, tottered, and reeled, evading or parrying an almost unremitting current of blaster bolts. His singed and burned cloak bore evidence of all the near hits, but the floor—heaped with droids, whole and in parts, bodies sparking and limbs twitching—spoke to the accuracy of his deflections.
He felt at times as if he were merely holding the lightsaber and letting it to do all the work. In one hand, in both, it made no difference. Other times he was able to anticipate the bolts, twist himself aside at the last instant, and allow the walls and floor to handle the ricochets.
Sometimes he actually took a moment to congratulate himself on the skill of his returns.
He was in the Force, to be sure, but deep in some other zone as well, giddy with astonishment, as the world unfolded in slow motion.
Alerted by the commandos that the air was saturated with spores, Anakin had his rebreather in his mouth as he approached the room in which Obi-Wan had held his own against better than fifty droids, all of which lay scattered about the room. A weaving, shuffling, staggering Obi-Wan was dealing with the last of them when Anakin entered.
When the final droid collapsed, Obi-Wan aimed the blade of his lightsaber casually toward the floor and stood swaying in place, breathing hard but almost grinning.
“Anakin,” he said happily. “How are you?”
When Anakin went to him, Obi-Wan promptly collapsed in his arms.
Anakin deactivated Obi-Wan’s blade and inserted a rebreather into his mouth—the same one that had ended up on the floor of the grotto. Then he carried him from the room to where Cody and several commandos were waiting, some with their helmets removed.
“Exactly what lightsaber form were you using back there, Master?” Anakin asked when Obi-Wan had come around and the rebreathers were no longer necessary.
“Form?”
“More the absence of it.” Anakin laughed shortly. “If only Mace, Kit, or Shaak Ti could have seen you.”
Obi-Wan blinked in confusion and glanced around at the carnage of droids in the shipping area. “We did this?” he said to Cody.
“You did most of it, General.”
Obi-Wan regarded Anakin in confusion.
“I’ll explain later,” Anakin said.
Obi-Wan ran his hand through his hair, then, as if just remembering, said: “Gunray! Did you get him?”
Anakin’s shoulders dropped. “The entire entourage escaped the palace.”
Obi-Wan mulled it over for a moment. “You could have gone after them.”
Anakin shrugged. “And leave you?” He paused, then added: “Of course, if I’d known you’d become master of a new lightsaber form …”
Obi-Wan’s eyes brightened. “They’ll be taken in orbit.”
“Maybe.”
“If not, there’ll be other times, Anakin. We’ll see to it.”
Anakin nodded. “I know that, Master.”
Obi-Wan was about to add something when a helmeted commando stepped from a nearby turbolift and hurried over to them.
“General Kenobi, General Skywalker, we’ve found something of interest among the equipment the Neimoidians left behind.”
The fact that the Sheathipede shuttle had managed to thread its way through a storm of turbolaser bolts and dock in the core ship’s port-side command tower was no guarantee of safety. Indeed, while everyone was filing down the shuttle’s tongue-like boarding ramp, the core ship was still being pummeled by fire from Republic warships.
First to set foot on deck, Viceroy Nute Gunray, attired in blood-red robes and sporting a tall, helmet-like miter, asked for a situation report from one of the goggle-wearing technicians who was waiting in the docking bay.
“Even now coordinates for the jump to lightspeed are being calculated, Viceroy,” the nearest one said. “A matter of moments and we will be well away from Cato Neimoidia. Your peers on the Council of Separatists await us in the Outer Rim.”
“Let us hope so,” Gunray said, as the vessel was rocked by a massive explosion.
Behind Gunray walked settlement officer Rune Haako, wearing a crested skullcap; and behind Haako, various financial, legal, and diplomatic officers, each wearing a distinctive headpiece. Droids were already beginning to unload the possessions—the treasures—for which Gunray had risked so much.
He called Haako aside while the others were exiting the sterile docking bay. “Do you think there will be a chance to return and reclaim what we had to leave behind?”
“Not a chance,” puckered Haako said flatly. “Our purse worlds now belong to the Republic. Our only hope is to find sanctuary in the Outer Rim. Otherwise, this ship will have to serve as our home—and perhaps our final resting place!”
Sadness crept into Gunray’s red orbs. “But my collections, my keepsakes …”
“Your most cherished items accompany you,” Haako said, gesturing to the containers already piled at the foot of the boarding ramp. “More important, we escaped with our lives. Another instant and the Jedi would have had us.”
Gunray allowed a nod of agreement. “You warned me.”
“I did.”
“Count Dooku will help us find new worlds to settle when the war is won.”
“If the war is won, you mean. The Republic seems keen on driving us from the galaxy.”
Gunray made a dismissive gesture with his fat fingers. “Temporary setbacks. The Republic has yet to see the face of its real enemy.”
Haako hunched slightly at the reference. “But is even he enough, Viceroy?” he asked quietly.
Gunray said nothing, although he had been asking himself the same question for the past several weeks.
One thing was clear: the glory days of the Trade Federation had come to an untimely end. Ironically, the individual most responsible for that bright burning—for the rise of Nute Gunray himself—was the same individual who had repeatedly betrayed him, and to whom Gunray and the other Separatists were now forced to look for salvation.
The Sith Lord, Darth Sidious.
There at Dorvalla and Eriadu, manipulating events to shunt power and influence to the Neimoidians; there at Naboo, ordering a blockade of the planet, the murder of Jedi, assassination of the Queen … a debacle for the Trade Federation. Years of attempts by the Republic to try to convict Gunray and his chief officers, to break the hold the Trade Federation enjoyed on galactic shipping. But not once during that time of public disgrace did Gunray mention the role Sidious had played.
Out of fear?
Certainly.
But also because he had sensed that Sidious had not abandoned him completely. Rather, the Dark Lord was somehow seeing to it that the trials never came to fruition, that no lasting verdicts were rendered or punishments handed down. As the Separatist movement gained strength, threatening the security of ships and shipments in the far sectors, the Trade Federation had actually been able to increase the size of its standing army of battle droids by dealing directl
y with foundry worlds, such as Geonosis and Hypori. Making the most of the Republic’s sudden instability, lucrative deals had been arranged between the Trade Federation and the Corporate Alliance, the InterGalactic Banking Clan, the Techno Union, the Commerce Guild, and other corporate entities.
It was during the final trial that Gunray had been approached by Count Dooku, who had promised that all would ultimately turn out well for the Trade Federation. In a moment of weakness, Gunray had revealed the truth about his dealings with Darth Sidious. Dooku has listened attentively; had promised to bring the matter to the attention of the Jedi Council, though he himself had left the Order some years earlier. Gunray had mixed feelings about Dooku’s purpose in creating a Separatist movement, chiefly because corruption in the Republic Senate had so often worked to the Trade Federation’s advantage. But if Dooku’s Confederacy of Independent Systems could eliminate even some of the bribes and kickbacks commonplace in galactic trade, then so much the better.
By and by Dooku’s real aims had been made clear: he was less interested in providing an alternative to the Republic than he was in bringing the Republic to its knees—through the use of force if necessary. In much the same way that the Trade Federation had amassed an army right under the nose of Supreme Chancellor Finis Valorum, Dooku—in plain sight—was seeing to it that Baktoid Armor Workshops was supplying weapons to any corporations that agreed to ally with him.
Regardless, Gunray had resisted offers to throw his full support to the Separatists—not when there were still profits to be made in countless Republic star systems. Playing a game of his own, teasing Dooku along, he had informed Dooku that a precondition to their entering into any exclusive arrangement was the death of former Naboo Queen Padmé Amidala, who had foiled Gunray on two occasions, and had been the loudest opposition voice at his trials.
Dooku had hired a bounty hunter to oversee the business, but two attempts at assassinating Senator Amidala had failed.
Then came Geonosis.
But just when Gunray finally had Amidala in his grasp—on trial, no less, for espionage—Dooku had equivocated, refusing to have Amidala killed outright, and not lifting a hand against the Jedi until some two hundred of them had showed up with a clone army the Republic had grown in secret!
That day had provided Gunray with the first in what would be a series of narrow escapes. Hurrying to the catacombs with Dooku at their side, Gunray and Haako had barely managed to flee the embattled surface and recall what core ships and droid carriers remained.
By then, though, it was too late for anyone to resign from Dooku’s Confederacy.
The war was begun, and it was Dooku’s turn for revelations: he, too, was Sith, and his Master was none other than Sidious! Whether a replacement for the fearsome Darth Maul, or a Sith even during his years in the Jedi Order, Gunray didn’t care to know. What mattered was simply that Nute Gunray was right back where he had been so many years earlier: in service to forces over which he had no control whatsoever.
When the war had been going well, the issue of whom he served had been scarcely a problem. Trade had continued, and the Trade Federation had continued in the black. For a time it appeared that Sidious and Dooku’s dreams of toppling the Republic might succeed after all. But they found themselves facing a worthy opponent in the person of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine—also from Naboo—who had never much impressed Gunray, but who had managed through a combination of charm and artfulness not only to remain in power long past his term of office, but also, in conjunction with the Jedi, to conduct the war. Slowly, the wheel began to turn, as one Separatist world after another was retaken by the Republic, and now Viceroy Nute Gunray himself had been driven from the Core.
A tragedy for the Trade Federation; a tragedy, he feared, for the entire Neimoidian species.
He gazed at the few possessions he had been able to gather: his costly robes and miters, resplendent jewelry, priceless works of art—
A sudden chill laddered up his spine. His bulging forehead and lower jaw tingled in dread. Eyes protruding from his mottled gray face, he swung to Rune Haako.
“The chair! Where is the chair?”
Haako stared at him.
“The mechno-chair!” Gunray said. “It’s not here anywhere!”
Now Haako’s eyes widened in apprehension. “Surely we couldn’t have overlooked it.”
Gunray paced worriedly, trying to recall when and where he had last seen the device. “I’m certain that I had it moved to the launching bay. Yes, yes, I remember seeing it there! But in the rush to launch—”
“But you armed it to self-destruct,” Haako said. “Tell me you armed it!”
Gunray stared at him. “I thought you had armed it.”
Haako gestured to himself. “I don’t even know the sequence codes!”
Gunray fell silent for a moment. “Haako, what if they should decide to tamper with it?”
Haako’s broad slash of mouth twitched with worry. “Without the codes, what could they possibly gain from it?”
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”
Gunray tried to convince himself. It was just a mechno-chair, after all; finely wrought, but just a walking chair. A walking chair equipped with a hyperwave transceiver. A hyperwave transceiver given to him fourteen years ago by—
“What if he should learn that we left it behind?” Gunray rasped.
“Sidious,” Haako said softly.
“Not Sidious!”
“Count Dooku, you mean.”
“Are you brain-dead?” Gunray fairly screeched. “Grievous! What if Grievous should find out?”
Supreme Commander of the droid armies, General Grievous had been San Hill and Poggle the Lesser’s gift to Dooku. Once merely a barbaric living being; now a cyborg monstrosity, devoted to death and destruction. Already the butcher of entire populations; the devastator of countless worlds—
“It’s not too late,” Haako said suddenly. “We can communicate with the chair from here.”
“Can we arm it to self-destruct?”
Haako shook his head negatively. “But we might be able to instruct it to arm itself.”
A technician intercepted them while they were hurrying toward a communications console.
“Viceroy, we are prepared to make the jump to lightspeed.”
“You will do no such thing!” Gunray cried. “Not until I give the order!”
“But, Viceroy, our vessel can only withstand so much bombardment.”
“Bombardment is the least of our concerns!”
“Hurry,” Haako insisted, “we haven’t much time!”
Gunray rushed to join him at the console. “Say nothing of this to anyone,” he warned.
Sickle-footed, humpbacked, incised with intricate designs, the mechno-chair sat in the launching bay of the now seized fortress, amid a heap of equally exquisite belongings left by the fleeing Neimoidians.
Obi-Wan was circling it, right hand caressing his bearded chin. “I think I’ve seen this chair before.”
Squatting alongside it, Anakin looked up at him. “Where?”
Obi-Wan stopped. “On Naboo. Shortly after Viceroy Gunray and his entourage were taken into custody in Theed.”
Anakin shook his head. “I don’t remember seeing it.”
Obi-Wan snorted. “I suspect you were too excited about having blown up the Droid Control Ship to take much notice of anything. What’s more, I saw it only for a moment. But I do remember being struck by the design of the holoprojector plate. I’d never seen one quite like it—or since, for that matter.”
On the far side of the spacious bay, up on its hardstand, sat Anakin’s sleek yellow starfighter. R2-D2 stood nearby, communing with TC-16. Commander Cody and the rest of Squad Seven were elsewhere in the palace, “mopping up,” as the clones liked to say.
Anakin examined the chair’s holoprojector without touching it. An oval of ribbed alloy, it was equipped with a pair of dorsal sockets sized to accept data cells of some sort. “It
is unusual. You know, Master, these cells could contain valuable messages in storage.”
“All the more reason to leave it be until someone from Intelligence can have a look at it.”
Anakin frowned. “That could take forever.”
Obi-Wan folded his arms and regarded him. “Are you in a rush, Anakin?”
“For all we know, the cells could be programmed to erase themselves.”
“Do you see any evidence of that?”
“No, but—”
“Then we’re better off waiting until we can run a proper diagnostic.”
Anakin grimaced. “What do you know about running diagnostics? Master.”
“I’m not exactly a stranger to the Temple’s cyberlabs, Anakin.”
“I know that. But Artoo can run the diagnostic.” He beckoned for the droid to join him at the mechno-chair.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan started to say.
“Really, sirs, I must protest,” TC-16 interrupted, hurrying behind R2-D2. “These items remain the property of Viceroy Gunray and other members of his party.”
“You don’t have a say in the matter,” Anakin said.
R2-D2 trilled and hooted at the battered protocol droid. The two had been bickering since R2-D2’s arrival a short time earlier.
“I’m fully aware that my circuits are corroded,” TC-16 said. “As for my posture, there’s little I can do about that until my pelvic joint is serviced. You astromechs think very highly of yourselves, just because you can pilot starfighters.”
“Don’t pay Artoo any mind, TeeCee,” Anakin said. “He’s been spoiled by another protocol droid. Haven’t you, Artoo?”
Artoo toodled a response, extended his computer interface arm, and inserted the magnetic tip into an output socket in the chair.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan said sharply.
Anakin stood up and joined Obi-Wan on the launch platform. Obi-Wan was pointing to a blinking light that was growing larger by the second in the night sky.
“Do you see that? That is very likely the ship we’re waiting for. And the Intelligence officers aboard are not going to take kindly to our sticking our noses in their business.”