Star Wars_ Planet of Twilight - Barbara Hambly [125]
“I fear I’ve left it rather late.” The philosopher’s voice sank to a whisper again. “I was lying to Dzym. The program that will take the Reliant out past the gun stations is finished. It just needs to be input. And the first load of Spook crystals is ready to be shipped.”
Luke winced, as sudden pain stabbed through his head. At least, he thought, growing up on this world, Ashgad wouldn’t have the education that would permit him to input something as complex as a launch-vector.
“And crystals,” went on Liegeus, not noticing, “are not the only thing it will carry. It will bear Dzym to some headquarters, where he will not be affected by the sunlight and radiance of this world. Dzym and as many drochs as he cares to take with him, to draw lives from others that he may then drink those lives from them in his turn. And so it will go on, until half the worlds of the galaxy are planets of the dead.”
Deep in the dark of the Transit Galactic Shipping Warehouse on Cybloc XII, a flare of white light sparked. There was a hiss, as of an electric welding arm, and the sudden, choking stink of sizzling plastene.
“Artoo-Detoo,” complained a voice, close by but somewhat muffled, “would you please take a few more precautions to ascertain that it is safe before you undertake activities of this nature?”
No reply. Plastene fizzled with heat; then the tenor snarl of popaway fasteners breaking loose. From outside came the dim, swift squeaking of wheels, the fleeing patter of feet.
“Really, if I had known that Master Yarbolk’s ‘plan’ to get us to Cybloc XII consisted of mailing us parcel post …”
The light vanished. Silence returned, a dreadful silence far too deep for the hub of trade between the Meridian sector and the Republic whose gateway this lifeless moon was. Then another creak and pop, and the white plastene side of a particularly large crate fell with a clatter.
Artoo-Detoo set forward his balance wheel and trundled slowly out, raining styrene packing in all directions. The white glow of his visual receptor moved across the contents of the warehouse: crates and boxes stamped with shipping labels and addresses from every corner of the Meridian sector, bales of raw materials, machinery and computer equipment still muffled in goatgrass casings. Apart from the cluster of containers stamped with the name and shipping number of the freighter Impardiac, out of Budpock, every crate, every bale, every casing had been opened and rifled. Machinery lay strewn across the rough gray crete of the floor. Gobbets of packing material surrounded broken boxes like wads of gristle after a butchering. Near the door, two men in the uniforms of the shipping company lay dead, with the blue faces and bloated bellies of those who have ceased to worry about the cares of this world quite some time ago.
The huge chamber stank of death.
Artoo’s wheels squeaked softly as he moved around the pile of crates, seeking a particular one. The voice that had spoken before said impatiently, “Over here! Really, this may be the safest way for droids to travel, but it certainly has its drawbacks.”
The label on the crate said:
CALRISSIAN, CYBLOC XII
HOLD FOR PICKUP
The return addressee was one Yarbolk Yemm, of Dimmit station, on Budpock. A sharp sound in a corner of the warehouse made Artoo swivel his cap, the light following the source of the noise. It was only a small, fanged, insentient scavenger, sniffing for what it could get.
Artoo began to pry open the pop fasteners on Threepio’s crate. The silence was dreadful.
“Well, of course, it’s quiet,” said Threepio, when Artoo remarked on that silence. He carefully unfolded his much-mangled joints, stepping out of the crate and picking goatgrass and styrene beads out of his joints. “It’s quite late at night. I suppose even major ports have to sleep