Star Wars the Truce at Bakura - Kathy Tyers [94]
Chewbacca stalked slowly around the Falcon, on watch. She was ready to take off, all systems operational—for the moment—and looking good from the outside, which was to say that she hunkered close to the rough-glass white surface, so battered and streaked that a casual observer would doubt that she’d ever lift again. He eyed each ship and gantry, every parked landspeeder and building he could see. There was no sign of Luke.
Finally the whine of an open-top speeder approached. Chewie slipped around the hull and took up a position from which he could fire without being seen. Seconds later, the speeder landed within range. A stormtrooper climbed out clumsily.
That looked like trouble. The trooper didn’t challenge him, but shuffled forward with his arms hanging oddly. Either he couldn’t call out, or he chose not to.
Chewie had just gotten the Falcon lift ready. He wasn’t taking chances on some high-handed Imperial slapping a lock on her hatch. He pulled his blaster, set it for “stun,” and fired off a shot.
The stormtrooper came on, tottering. Chewie fired again. This time, the trooper fell. Tempted to let the intruder lie, he decided the armor might be useful. He dragged the surprisingly heavy body up the Falcon’s ramp. The main hatch slid down into position with a hiss. Crouching, he gripped one side of the white helmet with each massive paw and lifted it off.
A golden head gleamed inside, repeating in a tinny, highspeed voice, “uke! Master … uke! Master …”
Threepio!
Now he’d have to run all those diagnostics again. Disgusted, Chewie kept peeling off armor.
Luke glanced one last time at the cantina’s cracked chrono. In five minutes, if his shuttle hadn’t arrived, he’d join Chewie on the Falcon.
He eyed a slab of unevenly cooked, greasy, mysterious meat. “I guess I’ll have one of those, with whatever you can put on it,” he said. “To go.” He would eat with Chewie.… “Oh. You’d better make it three.” The sooty orange countertop—unoccupied—suggested Pad 12’s nearest cantina was often empty this close to noon. Isolated clusters of Bakurans sat at scattered tables, murmuring and glancing around. “Arrest,” he’d heard from one, and “dead” from another. “Belden” and “Captison” buzzed from table to table. He’d also heard “Jedi.”
The sooner he left, the better.
Quick footsteps approached along the wall outside. Alarmed, he reached out through the Force, so he felt Gaeriel before the main door swung open. His senses came alive, focusing tightly on her presence. She hurried through, followed by an Artoo unit … his, he realized, remembering Threepio’s message. Artoo beeped and whistled incoherently, and Gaeriel’s sense buzzed with shocked excitement. She hurried over, skirt whisking the dirty floor. Luke pushed away from the orange countertop. “What’s going on? How did you find me?”
“Your droid brought me to the commnet terminal you’d used most recently. Haven’t you heard? They’re about to attack. Uncle Yeorg’s been arrested.” Her eyes stayed wide. “Your princess, too.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. I’m trying to get to my carrier—”
Artoo’s insistent warbles rocked the little droid from side to side. “Artoo, wait. I’m not getting any of that.” Closing out Gaeriel for the moment, he reached into the distance for his sister’s feelings. Farther, farther …
“There’s a curfew in effect,” insisted Gaeriel, “and—” A server strolled past, obviously listening. She continued more softly, “Orn Belden keeled over when they tried to lock him up, and died half an hour later. The city’s in turmoil.”
“Poor old Belden,” he murmured. In that instant, he found Leia. Very busy, very excited. Han had obviously found her.
Artoo pushed closer to him, extended a probe … and shocked his left calf, still beeping. “Artoo!” he exclaimed.
Gaeri looked both ways and whispered, “This is your moment,