Star Wars_ Fate of the Jedi 05_ Allies - Christie Golden [38]
The Nikto sighed. “All right. You drive a hard bargain. Fifty credits. But no lower, and it’s a steal. I grow the best skappis on the whole planet.”
Amazing, keeping up the façade so smoothly. Dyon almost found himself admiring these Others. How to get out of it? Just buy the fruit and walk away? No, he didn’t want his hands encumbered if he had to fight.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, and fought to keep his voice from quivering.
The Nikto glowered, and pointed with a sharp-nailed orange finger at the fruit Dyon had in his hand. Dyon had completely forgotten he was holding it. He had squeezed it so tightly he had split the skin, and juice and soft pulp were oozing in rivulets down his arm.
“You gotta pay for that one at least,” the Nikto growled. “And then move on and quit blocking the aisle. Make room for people who are actually going to purchase something.”
Dyon’s shirt was clinging to his torso, soaked in sweat that did not come from the desert heat. He fished in one of the pockets of his vest and grasped a credcoin, then thrust it at the vendor.
The vendor chuckled, his good humor restored. “Now, while these are the finest skappis on Klatooine, they don’t cost that much per piece. Hang on a moment, lemme get your change.”
Dyon turned and moved at a fast walk toward the glaring whiteness of the sand outside the tent. He didn’t know where to go, he just knew that he had to get away. Had to—
“Hey! Your change!”
Dyon walked faster. Suddenly looming in front of him was a Klatooinian in plastoid armor. At his hip was a WESTAR-34 blaster pistol, which, though dented and dinged, certainly looked functional. The Klatooinian was smiling at him. Smiling the lie.
“Slow down, looks like you forgot your change,” he said cheerfully.
The Other was blocking his way. Was not going to let him escape. Dyon panicked. He had to do something.
Without knowing exactly what prompted him, Dyon reached out, placed a hand on the being’s neck, pinched, and said, “Sleep.” Wordlessly, the guard crumpled to the hard-packed ground, his eyes closed, already snoring.
Someone screamed. Dyon shot out his hand. At once dozens of small objects whirled about: hand-crafted knives, hard-shelled fruits, haunches of meat, small paddy frogs. He hurled them into the thickest part of the crowd of Fakes, and then jerked up his other hand, palm flat. A table laden with yellow spherical fruits lifted, and then came crashing down on the crowd. More screams, this time of pain as well as fear.
Dyon bent over, grabbed the blaster from the sleeping Klatooinian’s belt, and raced as fast as he could for the freedom of the sand.
There was a cluster of vehicles and beasts of burden outside the ground level of the city, and beyond that was a hardpacked dirt ring that was clearly more for symbolism than function. The vehicles were lined up in neat, precise rows, except for a conspicuously empty spot near the gate where a bleeding Klatooinian lay on the sand, struggling to rise, one hand clapped to a shoulder that still smoked. He was wounded, but would survive. Already people were rushing to help him.
A trail led off toward the desert. “He stole a vehicle,” Vestara said unnecessarily.
“Yeah,” Ben said. They both had known it was Dyon. Ben had reached out immediately and felt for Dyon in the Force. The man was terrified, recoiling from Ben’s touch as Ben had once recoiled from the “tentacle friend” in the Maw. Vestara had known it at once, too.
Ben glanced around quickly. Most of the vehicles were old and had seen better days, but there was a speeder bike that looked as if it might not fall apart when touched. If it wasn’t touched too hard. “So it’s time for us to steal one and go after him.”
“Jedi? Steal?” Vestara stared at him, astonished.