Star Wars_ Children of the Jedi - Barbara Hambly [49]
“What happened when?” inquired Threepio.
“What happened thirty years ago. As Triv told us, the Eye of Palpatine—the whole Belsavis mission—was set up to be a secret, a secret even from the Jedi Knights. That’s why they automated everything. So there would be no leaks.
“But there was a leak, Threepio. Somebody found out.”
A sound from the doorway made him turn his head. Four or five tripods wandered through the mess-hall door, beautiful with their shadings of turquoises and pinks, their long yellow fur around the hips and tentacles. Luke got to his feet, leaning painfully on his staff, and limped to the water spigot near the food slots. The pile of discarded plates along that wall was nearly a meter high; Luke selected the deepest bowl he could find, filled it with water, and carried it over to the tripods, having learned that even setting it on a table wouldn’t work. Threepio, at Luke’s orders, followed with a couple of dishes of porridge, which the poor befuddled creatures accepted gratefully, dipping long snouts in and slurping deeply.
“Somebody found out,” Luke continued as he worked, “and came to the Moonflower Nebula. Their Y-wing got shot to pieces by the autodefenses—which are the closest thing to human I’ve ever seen—but they made it in. They disabled the Eye’s triggering mechanism—probably disabled whatever slaved signal-relay stations they could find, so no signal could come in to start the mission. Then they took the launch from the hangar, and fled.”
“One could only wish,” said Threepio, “that they had disabled the autodefenses as well.”
“Maybe they couldn’t,” said Luke. The tripods began to move off, hooning and muttering vaguely among themselves, and Luke and Threepio started back to the table where Luke had been.
“According to the power cell readings in the hangar, that bay is just above the fighter berths where the short-range fliers—the ground supports and the escorts, TIEs according to the power consumption graphs—are docked. If the mission involved a ground assault—and it has to have, if they were picking up stormtroopers—there have to be assault shuttles somewhere, probably on the upper decks in this same area, but they wouldn’t have been any good either in deep space. They have to have taken the launch.”
“I see,” replied the droid. He was silent a moment, holding Luke’s staff and offering his arm to help him down into the chair. “But if the signal relay was destroyed, what started it up again?” he asked. “After thirty years?”
A horrible cacophony of shouts sounded in the corridor outside. Luke swung to his feet, outdistancing Threepio as he limped to the door. Through the grunting, shrieking, bellowing, he could hear the heavy thunder of feet.
It was a member of the Klagg tribe. Luke recognized it instantly, for the Klaggs had all been wearing helmets and armor from regular navy troopers rather than stormtroopers, bucket-shaped helmets and gray breastplates instead of the familiar white. Wherever their headquarters was, it was obviously close to different armories than the Gakfedds’. However, Luke scarcely needed this observation, since the Klagg was in full and terrified flight from fifteen Gakfedds, howling, waving axes and forcepikes, brandishing blasters and carbines, and occasionally letting off a shot that ricocheted wild and lethal along the corridors like a red-hot hornet.
Luke said, “Come on!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He’ll be heading back to his home territory!”
Luke crossed the mess hall to the opposite doors, knowing that the corridor down which the Gakfedds chased their prey led nowhere and the Klagg would have to double back. Sure enough, moments later Luke heard behind him in the corridor the thudding crash of a single set of feet, the snuffling, slobbering pant of the fugitive Klagg. He led Threepio into a laundry drop room to let the Klagg hasten by without seeing them, then stepped out again, following, listening. The Gakfedds seemed to have lost their prey, the echoes of their shouting ringing from corridors nearby,