Star Wars_ Darksaber - Kevin J. Anderson [122]
“This is Dorsk 81,” he said, “issuing an emergency call. We must use your long-range comm systems immediately. Prepare for an Imperial attack. Announce a red alert.”
The traffic controller responded, “Message received, Dorsk 81. We will arrange a meeting with you and City Leader Kaell 116 as soon as possible upon your arrival.”
“You don’t understand,” Dorsk 81 said. His olive skin flushed a darker green, and his hands trembled. He looked wildly at Kyp Durron, who wore an expression of disgust.
“Don’t worry about it now. It’s a waste of breath arguing,” he said, then took over the comm system. “This is Jedi Knight Kyp Durron. I’ll require full use of your spaceport communication systems.” The anger behind Kyp’s eyes seemed barely restrained by his Jedi calm.
“That can be arranged,” the controller said with maddening calmness.
When they landed on the empty spaceport grid, Kyp leaped through the access hatch with Dorsk 81 close behind him. “I’ll go transmit the wide-band alert to the New Republic,” Kyp said. “You warn your people. Admiral Daala is going to launch in only a couple of days. We have that long to mobilize the fleet.” His face was drawn and grave as he ran to the tall transmitting tower.
Dorsk 81 hurried to meet the cloned aliens who approached him. They were flustered and uneasy—not because of the dire warning, he knew, but because of the unexpectedness of the situation. “We must hurry,” he said to the stony-faced driver of the floating platform. “We have little time. Kyp and I have to go help defend the Jedi academy.”
The driver nodded calmly, but did not increase the speed of the vehicle. The floating platform took Dorsk 81 away from the landing grid, and he looked back at the transmitting tower, hoping Kyp would get the message out.
They reached the opulent political headquarters where a quick meeting had been rammed through the schedule of the generational politician Kaell 116. Dorsk 81, still wearing the clinging work overalls he had taken from the garment locker in the Imperial shuttle, brushed his slender hands down the fabric, trying to make himself more presentable. He smelled of smoke and blood and violence.
Kaell 116 already stood in the large, white meeting room. The walls were made of curved arches that glittered in the light as if molded from solidified salt. Dorsk 81 had never been in such important chambers, and he doubted anyone in his genetic line had either.
The city leader stood dressed in full diplomatic finery; his expression held a mixture of annoyance at this unsettling break from routine and continuing admiration for Khomm’s galactic celebrity.
“Dorsk 81,” he said, “for a person of your importance, we can shuffle our schedule to allow a brief audience, but no more than fifteen minutes. I suggest that our primary goal will be to work out a better time for a full conference of appropriate duration and with an official agenda.”
“No,” Dorsk 81 said, pounding his fist on the table and astonishing everyone there. “Fifteen minutes will be enough—if you listen to me.”
Kaell 116 sniffed. “Of course we will listen. We always listen.”
Dorsk 81 leaned over the table and fixed his yellow eyes on the politician. “But this time you must hear. You must understand this, because the fate of our world and of the galaxy may be at stake.”
Kaell 116 squirmed uncomfortably and then sat down. “Yes, yes, of course. We’ll take detailed notes.”
Before Dorsk 81 could speak, the door opened again, and a flood of outside light shone into the white chambers, sparkling off the crystal-embedded walls. Dorsk 81 turned to see the older and younger copies of himself, his predecessor and his successor at the cloning facilities. Both wore the uniforms of their profession and appeared confused at being summoned away from their daily tasks.
The older Dorsk 80 saw him and snorted. “I might have known.”
The younger version looked first at the elder clone, then at Dorsk 81. “Why have you come back?” Dorsk 82 said.
Kaell 116 motioned for them to sit down. During the interruption,