catching it as it slowed to round the curve, but still, it rammed the
breath out of him.
He clung with desperate strength. Eighteen seconds until they
reached the next point, and he counted them off to himself, smiling
inwardly at the civilians gawping up at this strange apparition.
Before any of them could react with anything but distress, he was
gone again.
Obi-Wan wedged himself between the ceiling and the wall, bracing
with hands and feet. A cargo tunnel intersected here, and it was
only ten seconds before he could hear it howling on its way to him,
and he saw the single eye glaring only moments before it was beneath
him. He dropped down onto an ore car. The jagged heap of rock was
so steep that he almost slid off onto the tracks below. He scrabbled
for purchase, found it, lost it, then found it again. The artificial hurricane
ripped Obi-Wans legs out sideways, and he pulled them back
in an instant too late. His right heel slammed into a wall, whipping
him around and back, ripping at his grip, forcing him to release his
hold and then to regain it a few chunks back.
The wind lashed him mercilessly, and there was nothing to be
done about that, not now. He knew that Cestian computers had
modeled his Force-based analysis of the system kinetics, and would
have found it accurate. By now they might even have adapted their
own programs to enable them to track his whereabouts by reckoning
the presence of an undeclared body hopping from car to car throughout
the system.
That, and the overhead monitors, made it clear that he was performing
for an audience both critical and suspicious.
From car to car he migrated, until he reached a junction where he
could finally hop free, landing on the metal track beneath. He
breathed in short, sharp bursts, refusing to give in to the fear lurking
just below the surface of his concentration.
Timing. Tinting.
Obi-Wan bent down and felt the metal path that the magcar levitated
along at cruising speed. The car was coming. Not long now, and
it was also too late to make other plans. Nothing now but to carry
through. A sudden flood of air pressure hit him like a tide, overriding
his carefully constructed mental blocks.
Now. Obi-Wan turned and sprinted down the tunnel as fast as he
could, fleeing the car barreling down on him; he could hear its warning
siren. At the last instant he leapt forward, using the last strength
in his body to accelerate himself, and spun in midair.
For an instant, his body propelled by superbly conditioned muscles
and a nervous system in tune with the deepest currents of the Force,
Obi-Wan's velocity came within five meters per second of the magcar's.
He braced himself, exhaling perfectly in time with the impact,
arms bent as shock absorbers. Breath smashed out of his body with a
gigantic huff, but that very exhalation provided him with the cushioning
that allowed him to survive the impact. If he hadn't almost
matched the magcar s speed . . .
If he hadn't spun to grasp . . .
If the exhalation hadn't been perfectly timed . . .
He would have been smashed down, dragged under, ground into
splinters. As it was, Obi-Wan struggled to pull himself up higher and
higher on the car, until, scraped and panting, he lay above it and settled
in for the rest of the ride.
In the council rooms, members of the Five Families fortunate
enough not to be kidnapped were watching the entire display with
shock. "What kind of creatures are these Jedi?" Llitishi whispered,
mopping perspiration from his crinkled blue brow.
"I don't know... but I am profoundly grateful to have them on our
side," said the elder Debbikin, hoping for his son's safety. "I think
that we must seriously reconsider our stance." There was much murmured
agreement, followed by eager attempts to tap into the sensors
for further data.
39
F.or more than an hour after the magcar's power had been cut and
it had settled to the shaft floor, the mood in the diverted car continued
to deteriorate. The captured leaders of the Five Families had
watched with alarm as their solitary kidnapper was joined by three
ruffians dressed in Desert Wind khakis. The intruders had exchanged
a few quiet words, then gone about their plans. Clearly, they
"What do you intend to do with us?" Lady Por'Ten whispered.
"Wait," a masked Desert Wind soldier replied. "You'll see." The
dark-eyed Nautolan said nothing.
At first they had hoped for rescue, but as they watched their kidnappers
set up electronic scramblers to confuse the tunnel sensors
and monitors, they realized their chances of being found were slight.
One man patrolled outside the car, leaving two within it with the
Nautolan. Young Debbikin watched the one outside. He walked
back and forth around the car . . . and then he was gone. For a moment
there was confusion, and then the figure reappeared. Only . . .
was it the same person? Had he been mistaken, or had the car's tinted
windows revealed some kind of brief and violent struggle?
Hope was a luxury they dared not indulge in. And y e t . . .
"And now—" the taller of the Desert Wind ruffians began. He
never had a chance to finish the words. A black noose dropped down
under his chin. The cord tightened, and the man was hauled up
through an emergency door in the car's roof, kicking and screaming,
scrabbling at his neck with hooked fingers. Instantly their Nautolan
kidnapper wheeled, snarling.
Cloak fluttering around him like the plumage of some bird of prey,
Obi-Wan Kenobi dropped down into the car. The tan-clad Desert
Wind soldier was the first to reach him, and therefore the first to go
down in a brief flicker of a lightsaber. He stumbled back, the shoulder
of his jacket smoking and spitting sparks.
The Nautolan glared at his adversary, and for a moment the
hostages were all but forgotten.
"Jedi!" the Nautolan snarled.
Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed to slits, his courtly manner a distant
memory. In an instant he had transformed from ambassador into the
deadliest of warriors. "Nemonus," he hissed, then added, "Not the
first time you've tried blood diplomacy."
"Nor the last," the Nautolan growled. "But it is the last time I'll tolerate
your meddling."
Without another word the two leapt toward each other and the
fight was on.
As long as they lived, the men and women in that car would remember
the next few moments. The Nautolan wielded his glowing
whip in a sinuous blur, with demonic accuracy. It arced up and
around, flexing and coiling like a living thing. Wherever it went and
whatever he did, the Jedi was there first.
There had been much speculation as to why a Jedi would prefer a
lightsaber to a blaster. All of the disadvantages of such a short-range
weapon were obvious. But now, watching the drama unfold before
them, another fact
became obvious as well: Obi-Wan's lightsaber
moved as if it were an extension of his body, a glowing arm or leg imbued
with the mysterious power of the Force.
The two adversaries were almost perfectly matched. One might
have expected the lightwhip s greater length to give advantage, but in
the confined space that simply wasn't true. Strangely, while the Nautolan's
lash splashed sparks here and there, gouged hot metal from
panels, and sent flecks of fire floating down to where they huddled
on the ground, none of them was touched. The Nautolan was pure
aggression. His face narrowed to a fighting grimace, spitting curses
in strange languages, moving his torso with a boneless agility that
seemed impossible for any vertebrate.
Certainly the Jedi would cower. Would flee and save himself. Nothing
could stand before such a bafflingly lethal onslaught—
But Master Kenobi stood firm. He wove through that narrow
space, his lightsaber flashing like desert lightning, deflecting every
flicker of the whip. The Nautolan's speed and ferocity were matched
by the Jedi's own cold and implacable determination. They leapt and
tumbled, wheeling through the confined space, somersaulting so that
they were virtually walking on the ceiling as they evaded and attacked,
achieving a level of hyperkinesis simultaneously balletic and primal.
Master Kenobi was the first to penetrate the other's guard, such
that the lightwhip was barely able to enmesh the glowing energy
blade in time to deflect. The cloth along the Nautolan's arm flared
with brief, intense heat. They saw the abrupt change in the kidnapper's
demeanor. The Nautolan snarled, and fear shone in his face.
The Jedi was winning! In another engagement, two at the most,
Master Kenobi would have solved the lightwhip's riddle, and go for
the kill.
The Nautolan lashed this way and that as if gathering his energies
for renewed aggression. Then with a single smooth, eye-baffling
motion he scooped up the wounded Desert Wind soldier as if he
were a mere child. The Nautolan bounded up through the roof, and
was gone. They heard his footsteps pattering down the tunnel. And
then . . . nothing.
Master Kenobi turned to them, his face beginning to relax back
from its battle mask. If he had not chosen to speak, there might have
been no words voiced in that car for an hour. "Are you hurt?" he
asked.
Quill was reduced to mere babbling. "No! I—that was amazing! I'd
always heard stories of the Jedi, but never . . . I just want to say thank
you! Thank you so much."
Master Kenobi ignored him and went from one of them to the
other, checking to see that all were well. Then he examined, analyzed,
and disconnected the override device. Within moments light
returned to the car. The droid began to wheel and pivot as if awakening
from drugged slumber. He looked at Kenobi. "Ah! Master Jedi!
I assume it is you who has returned my function."
"That's true."
"And your orders?"
"Get these people back to the capital."
"At once, sir."
The droid fit his action to his words. The rescued hostages gave a
ragged cheer—even Quill, whose faceted eyes shone with awe. Young
Debbikin tugged at their savior's robes again. "Master Jedi," he asked.
"How can I repay you?
The Jedi smiled grimly. "Tell your father to remember his duty," he
said.
40
Deep in the mountains a hundred klicks southeast of the capital
raged a mighty celebration. There was much dancing and laughter,
and more than a bit of drunken boasting.
Nate leaned back against a rock, deeply satisfied. The operation
had indeed gone smoothly, without a single life lost. His throat was a
bit sore from General Kenobi's lariat, but the support brace concealed
in the neck of his cowl had worked perfectly. The extra
padding in the shoulder of OnSon's "Desert Wind" uniform had
protected him from the carefully judged swipe of General Kenobi's
lightsaber. In every way, from obtaining the crucial intelligence from
the criminal Trillot to transferring it, from evaluation to creation of
a plan, from penetrating the transport security network to diverting
the car, from impersonating the exhausted forces of Desert
Wind to subduing resistance among the Five Families, from simulating
combat with General Kenobi to effecting their eventual escape
. . .
Every step had gone off without a hitch.
There was another, additional bonus: from his perch atop the
roof of the car he had been able to witness the "duel" between the
two Jedi. Nate had thought that he had seen and learned everything
about unarmed combats. Now he knew that, in comparison,
Kamino's most advanced martial sciences were mere back-alley thuggery.
Nate knew that the Jedi had something that would keep troopers
alive, if he could only learn more about it.
But how? That thought burning in his mind, he sat back and
looked up at the stars, deliriously content to replay each motion of
lightsaber and whip.
Sheeka Tull had landed Spindragon a safe distance away, and
walked into camp under a burgeoning double moon. She had just
completed a tiring run connecting three of Cestus's six major city
nodes, delivering volatile cargo illegal to ship through the subterranean
tunnels.
A familiar unhelmeted form in dark green fatigues approached
her, waving his hand. "Ah, Sheeka. Good to see you."
From brown skin to tightly muscled body, everything was familiar,
but still she looked at him askance. "You're not Nate," she said, although
the trooper's casual dress lacked military insignia or other
identifying marks.
Forry blinked then transformed into wide-eyed innocence. "Who
else would I be?"
She grinned and pointed. "Nice try. He has a little scar right here
on his jawline. You don't."
Sirty came up behind Forry, laughing at their brother's efforts to
fool her.
Forry grinned ruefully. "All right. You're right. Just a little game we
like to play." He jerked his thumb. "Nate's on the other side of camp."
"Nice try." She slapped him on the back and went to see her
new .. . friend? Were they friends? She supposed that she could use
that word for their relationship. Friends with her dead sweetheart's
clone. It was a bit morbid, but also strangely exciting.
She found him leaning back against a rock, lost in his own thoughts.
He smiled and raised a cup of Cestian spore-mead as he saw her.
"What do we celebrate?" she asked, suspecting that she already
knew the answer.
"A little operation that went even better than expected. And no, no
one is dead."
She searched his face. "Disappointed?"
He glared at her. "Absolutely. I was hoping for human barbecue
tonight."
She leaned back against the rock with him. "Touche. I shouldn't
blame you simply for enjoying your work. It's what you were trained
to do."
"Superbly," he agreed.
She was relieved that these lethal, bottlebred
warriors had a sense of humor.
"And you've been fully trained in all matters of soldierly behavior?"
she asked.
"Fully."
She paused, and looked at him more carefully. "And do soldiers
dance?"
Now he seemed to lose that smile and become genuinely thoughtful.
"Of course. The Jakelian knife-dance is a primary tool for teaching
distance, timing, and rhythm in engagement."
She groaned. Practicality again. "No. Dancing. You know: man,
woman. Dancing?"
He shrugged. "The cohorts compete with each other in dance.
Team and individual events."
Sheeka found herself fighting a growing sense of exasperation.
"Haven't you ever done it for fun?"
He squinted. "That is fun."
"You exhaust me," she said, and then held her arms out. "Come
on."
He hesitated, and then came to her.
The musicians were playing some fast-paced number with flute
and drum. Their jig steps were bouncy and light. The other recruits
grinned, laughed, chattered, and swung their partners around with
the kind of enthusiasm that suggested a serious need to blow off
steam. The troopers watched, tapping their feet to the rhythm. From
time to time one of them would perform a series of precise, martial
movements to the music, spiced with tumbling floor gymnastics. The
recruits approved, clapping along and cheering.
Just what happened today? She hesitated to ask. He had great coordination,
but not much sense of moving in unity with a partner. Still,
she liked it. She liked it a lot.
"I heard things on the scanner," she said, innocently enough.
"Really?" he asked. "What did they say?" He held her firmly and
caught a half beat cleverly enough to spin her. Several of the other
couples had as well, and the air filled with whoops of joy.
"Oh, something about a group of Five Family types being kidnapped
and then rescued."
"Kidnapped? Rescued?" he said, wide-eyed. "Goodness. Sounds
exciting."
So. He wasn't going to say anything. Need-to-know, she supposed.
Still, from the number of people celebrating, she knew that the operation
had been substantial, and she guessed that she might be able
to pry the details out of a farmer or miner.
He must have noticed the thoughtful frown on her face, and misinterpreted
its meaning a bit. "So," he said. "I get the sense that you