Star Wars the Truce at Bakura - Kathy Tyers [105]
Once Skywalker lay helpless and Firwirrung pulled the main switch, they could entech humans from nearby ships, and even planetside, and energize all the battle droids they could need to complete the invasion. Through his inner vision stabbed the agonizing memory of lying on that table himself. He glanced at the motionless Jedi.
“Dev?” Firwirrung’s huge black eye appeared over the back of his seat. “Are you all right? You don’t look happy.”
“Oh,” Dev exclaimed hastily, wishing Ssi-ruuvi faces showed readable expressions. “I’m concerned for your wound, Master. He had no right to do that to you.”
Firwirrung blinked triple eyelids. “It is a wound of honor. But our prisoner does not seem to please you.”
Dev’s fingers twitched. If he betrayed his state of mind, they’d renew him instantly. Worse, they’d separate him from Skywalker. The perfect answer sprang late into his mind. “He hurt you, Master.”
Firwirrung slowly nodded. “I see.” He turned and whistled something too softly to understand.
The Jedi gave every impression of unconsciousness, slumped with his mouth hanging open. Dev ran a hand over his head. From warmth in the Force he found where Bluescale had struck him. It was healing already. Again doubt clamored at him.
Skywalker? Dev thought tentatively. Are you aware? Can I help you? What can I do? His only answer was the pulse of the galaxy.
Dev bit off a fingernail. A flight of battle droids flashed upward past the shuttle. Defending it, he realized. He could almost picture Admiral Ivpikkis stroking one thumbclaw with the other.
Entechment circuitry worked only on conscious individuals. There would be a few seconds, at least. You’ll have to move quickly, he thought hard at the helpless Jedi. They’re not going to create any openings.
Entechment. He shuddered. He’d longed to escape his own will. He’d cooperated with his own enslavement. He’d hoped to share it with all humankind. He glared at the back of Bluescale’s head.
The Shriwirr’s underside swept across the viewport. The idea of licking Ssi-ruuvi footclaws again, for any length of time, made him bristle—but it wouldn’t last long. Soon he’d be free or dead, or both.
Metal blast doors closed behind them. Seconds later, the shuttle landed roughly on the deck of a docking bay. Skywalker did not flinch.
Dev stayed in his seat while medics helped Firwirrung out the nose ramp. He caught himself drumming his fingers, and pressed his palms flat to make himself stop it. A brainwashed slave showed no anxiety.
The medic’s scaly head peered back up the ramp. “Unconscious?” he whistled.
“Minor head injury,” answered Dev. “It has kept him immobile.”
The medic made a disgusted clacking noise. “Our knowledge of human anatomy is limited. We’ll need you to stay with him.”
Chilled, Dev realized they might cut him apart to see how Skywalker was built. “Here, Master,” he said. “Let me carry him.”
“Good,” grunted the Ssi-ruu. “We only brought one stretcher.”
Dev unharnessed himself, then Skywalker, then cautiously ran a hand over the injured spot. At least, he thought it was the spot. All evidence had faded. It took him several minutes of fumbling in a crouched position, battling fettered arms and dangling legs and the weight of the Jedi’s compact, muscular body, before he reached the open hatch.
Clustered around the shuttle in an immense landing bay, a dozen Ssi-ruuk stood waiting. Dev forced a grin, expecting a cheer. Silent instead, they watched him struggle. His deck shoes clicked down the ramp. They probably enjoyed the spectacle of one human slave, bearing the fate of humankind on his shoulders.
Staggering under his load, Dev followed the medic across the landing