Star Wars_ Children of the Jedi - Barbara Hambly [78]
Luke said nothing, but the hair on his nape prickled with the sensation of being watched, observed from the darkness. Jawas? He might not have an SP-80’s olfactory detectors but he’d know if Jawas were around. Ditto for Sand People.
This was something else.
Another blast door. The SP recalibrated, changed course, through a holding area filled with gutted packing containers whose contents—regular navy helmets, coveralls, gray-green half-armor, and blankets—strewed the floor. Pieces of the containers themselves were gone; Luke noted that those that remained were labeled SOROSUB IMPORTS. The walls here were dark in the bobbing light of Luke’s staff, and looked unfinished, with rafters stretching bare overhead and bolt ends glinting in the shadows. The door into a repair bay stood open. Luke glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the corridor entrance, through which they had come moments before, was shut now.
The Will, he thought. It’s herding us. Pushing us the way it wants us to go.
Clanking softly, the SP-80 turned down a long corridor on the starboard side of the ship. Though no damage by Jawas was evident, the lights were gone here, too, and as he and Threepio drew farther from the lighted area and the reflections of its glow got dimmer and dimmer, Luke sensed ever more strongly the presence of an unknown, watching entity. He kept as close to Threepio as he could, matching his halting stride to the droid’s and making sure there was never a space between them when they passed under the periodic blast doors.
The SP-80 turned a corner. A stair led up into pitchy night. Luke heard the hiss-whirr-tap of its short legs negotiating the stairs of a gangway and extended his arm sharply to stop Threepio from following it, feeling only the horrible inner prickling sensation of a trap.
He held out his staff with its dimly shining glowrods toward the square opening of the stairs. The light was flung back by dim strips of opalescent material, thick and thin alternating in a strange not-quite-pattern, vanishing upward into the dark.
Luke looked up. The ceiling of the gangway was dotted with the cold pearly squares of the more usual form of enclision grid.
The SP ascended, unharmed, out of his sight.
“Good heavens.” Threepio stepped closer to the door. “It’s definitely some sort of enclision grid, sir. But obviously deactivated. Possibly the Jawas—”
“No.” Luke leaned against the wall, his leg beginning to throb burningly as the first relief of the perigen wore off. “No, the Will wouldn’t have herded us to a gangway that was disabled. It’s just waiting until we’re too far up to turn back.”
Slowly, the heavy, mechanical stride of the SP droid faded. In the darkness, the weight of the ship seemed to press on them, waiting for them to follow it up the wired stair. Luke hurried his stride as much as he could to get back to the area of the lights.
The Affytechans were waiting for them down in the bright, warm lighting of Deck 15, like an ambulatory garden of enormous and slightly pixilated flowers. “We’ve located the transport craft, sir,” said the captain—the post seemed to have shifted to a stalky tubulate of blue and white. “Two Beta-class Telgorns with a capacity of a hundred and twenty apiece, in the Deck Sixteen portside landing bays.” It saluted him smartly. “Dr. Breen here has been working on getting the schematics program repaired.”
The former orange-and-yellow captain saluted as well. “Simple transposition of numbers, sir. Probably due to operator error. Easily fixed.”
Dr. Breen?
“This way, sir.”
“Even if you are able