Star Wars_ The Dark Lord Trilogy - James Luceno [17]
“Do you see that? That is very likely the ship we’re waiting for. And the Intelligence officers aboard are not going to take kindly to our sticking our noses in their business.”
“Sirs,” TC-16 said from behind them.
“Not now,” Obi-Wan said.
R2-D2 began to loose a long series of whistles, chirps, and chitters.
“If and when they give the okay,” Obi-Wan went on, “then feel free to dissect the entire chair, if that’s your objective.”
“That’s not my objective, Master.”
“Maybe Qui-Gon should have left you at Watto’s junk shop.”
“You don’t mean that, Master.”
“Of course not. But I know how you love to tinker with things.”
“Sirs—”
“Keep quiet, TeeCee,” Anakin said.
R2-D2 honked and razzed, though as if from a distance.
“And you, too, Artoo.”
Obi-Wan glanced over his shoulder, and his jaw dropped. “Where’s the mechno-chair?”
Anakin swung around and scanned the bay. “Where’s Artoo?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, sirs,” TC-16 said, gesturing toward the launching bay’s ruined iris hatch. “The chair walked away—taking your high-thinking little droid with it!”
Obi-Wan stared at Anakin in bewilderment.
“Well, it couldn’t have gotten far on foot, Master.”
They rushed into the corridor, saw that it was deserted in both directions, and began searching the rooms that adjoined the bay. A prolonged electronic squeal brought both of them back into the main corridor.
“That’s Artoo,” Anakin said.
“Either that, or TeeCee has developed a talent for mimicry.”
The protocol droid following behind, they hurried into a compact data room, where they saw R2-D2 with his interface arm still jacked into the chair, and the gripper of his grasping arm clamped to the bar handle of a storage cabinet. Stretched to its full extent, a computer interface cable now connected the mechno-chair to a control console of some sort. The chair’s talon-like feet were in constant motion, attempting to gain purchase on the smooth floor in an effort to propel the chair closer to the console.
“What’s it doing?” Obi-Wan asked.
Anakin made his face long and shook his head. “Recharging itself?”
“Never seen such tenacity in a mechno-chair.”
R2-D2 chattered and wheezed.
“What’s Artoo saying?” Obi-Wan asked TC-16.
“He’s saying, sir, that the mechno-chair has just armed itself to self-destruct!”
Anakin made a mad dash for the console.
“Artoo, unplug yourself!” Obi-Wan shouted. “Anakin, get away from that thing!”
Anakin’s fingers were already busy undoing leads that linked the holoprojector unit to the chair.
“Can’t, Master. Now we know there’s something stored in this chair no one wants us to see.”
Obi-Wan glanced worriedly at R2-D2. “How much time, Artoo?”
TC-16 translated the astromech’s response. “Seconds, sir!”
Obi-Wan rushed to Anakin’s side. “There isn’t time, Anakin. Besides, it could be rigged to detonate if tampered with.”
“Almost there, Master …”
“You’ll deactivate us in the process!”
Obi-Wan sensed a disturbance in the Force.
Without thinking, he pulled Anakin to the floor an instant before the chair shot a stream of white vapor into the space Anakin had occupied.
Coughing, Obi-Wan covered his mouth and nose with the wide sleeve of his robe. “Poison gas! Good bet it’s the same one Gunray tried to use on Qui-Gon and me at Naboo.”
“Thank you, Master,” Anakin said. “What’s that make it, twenty-five to thirty-seven?”
“Thirty-six—if you’ve any interest in accuracy.”
Anakin studied the chair for a moment. “We have to take the chance.”
Before Obi-Wan could even think about stopping him, Anakin had leaned forward and wrenched the interface cable from the control console.
R2-D2 yowled, and TC-16 moaned in distress.
A web of blue energy gamboled around the chair and the console, knocking Anakin onto his backside.
At the same time, a high-resolution blue hologram projected from the chair’s holoplate.
R2-D2 mewled in alarm.
And to the meter-high figure in the hooded cloak, the unmistakable voice of Viceroy