Star Wars_ Children of the Jedi - Barbara Hambly [134]
• It is consonant with the intent of the Will that you ascend to Deck 19 by means of Lift 21 and annihilate those stinking sons of cabbage-pickers, and their mangy little morrts, too
They nearly trampled him barreling out the door.
“What is it?” growled Ugbuz. At Luke’s signal the two stormtroopers who’d been carrying him for the sake of speed stopped and set him on his feet. “This ain’t Lift Twenty-one.” The Gamorrean’s piggy yellow eyes gleamed suspiciously in the dim flare of the emergency lights. The whole deck was dark now, and the air felt cold, stuffy, and strange. Curious scramblings and scufflings seemed to whisper all around them in the dark and Luke realized it had been quite some time since he’d seen a working SP or MSE. Only their gutted corpses, like roadkills along the walls.
Threepio stood silhouetted in the dark door of the quartermaster’s office, gleaming in the feeble reflection of the lights of Luke’s staff.
“Intelligence report.” Luke hobbled to the droid’s side and put a hand on the golden metal shoulder to draw him through to the storeroom beyond the office.
The antigrav sled was there. Additional power had been jacked into it from the cells of the G-40 and the two snake-droids Luke had killed to raise it three meters above the floor.
“You okay in here?” he asked softly.
“Quite all right, Master Luke. As long as I remain within the perimeters programmed into the trackers the Jawas cannot molest me. But I suggest that you pay off the Jawas quickly, before the power ebbs to the point where the sled settles any further.”
It had already settled a good half meter—even with the two trackers Threepio had reprogrammed to stun Jawas, once the sled with its load of dead robots got within two Jawa-heights of the floor—the point at which they could stand on each other’s shoulders—one way or another, they’d find a means of helping themselves. Luke could already see the little knot of brown-robed figures grouped in the door making their calculations, muttering among themselves in their shrill, childlike voices.
“Any problems?”
The smallest of the Jawas scurried forward, lay down, and kissed Luke’s boots. “Master, we did our best, did our best.” It got up again. It was the one he’d rescued, whom he’d nicknamed Shorty in his mind. Yellow eyes gleamed like firebugs in the black pit of its hood. “Went to the places you said, tried to cut the wires you said.”
It held out its hand. Luke winced. The clawlike fingers were blistered and black with burns. Others stepped forward, stretching out their arms, and the evidence of injury was appalling.
“It’s true, Luke.” Callista’s voice spoke soft at his side. “The cables feeding power to the Punishment Chamber aren’t only shielded, they’re booby-trapped. One of the Jawas was killed trying to get in and two others are badly stunned. We can’t cut power to the grid.”
“Something else?” queried Shorty. “Trade you six hundred meters silver wire, fourteen size A Telgorn power cells, thirty size D Loronar cells for drive housings, and optical circuitry of two Cybot Galactica Gyrowheel Multifunctions.”
Luke barely heard him. He felt cold, panic whispering under the bones of his chest. Cray was due to be taken to execution in under an hour and the grid in the Punishment Chamber was still live. His mind raced, trying to fit new plans, new conditions …
“Twenty size A Telgorns,” Shorty urged. “This is all we have. Without them we will grope in the dark like blind grubs in the rock, but for you, master, we make a special deal …”
“Thirty As,” said Luke, recovering, knowing what he’d have to do. If the Jawas claimed they had twenty size As it meant a stockpile of at least forty-five. “And thirty Ds, and thirty meters of reversing shielded cable, in trade for the Gyrowheel Multis. For the rest, you do another job for me.”
“All the rest?” Half a dozen hooded heads turned—one Jawa moved a step toward the black, floating shadow of the sled, and both trackers swiveled in a flashing of baleful lenses. The