Star Wars the Truce at Bakura - Kathy Tyers [99]
He stood motionless, maintaining the masquerade of obedience, but his mind shrieked, Skywalker! Can you hear me?
Bluescale stalked forward, pointing his beamer at Skywalker’s upper spinal cord. Dev forced himself to hurry close and simper, “Well done, Masters. What can I do? Is he stunned?”
“Mild concussion, I think,” whistled Bluescale. “The human skull is surprisingly fragile. You may carry him. He seems subdued.”
“Oh, thank you.” Dev guessed at the right amount of enthusiasm to pump into his voice. He knelt and pulled Skywalker’s arms over his shoulder. Skywalker, he projected again, are you all right?
The Jedi did not answer. The buzz of his thoughts had shut off. He must be truly unconscious, then. The aliens had won … for the moment. Dev struggled to his feet. His anger boiled every time he remembered another abuse. They popped to the surface of his memory like foul bubbles. He couldn’t let the Ssi-ruuk win—and not just for the sake of the galaxy. They owed him a life. A personality. A soul.
“Good,” said Bluescale. “Now help Firwirrung.”
Staggering already, Dev let the smaller alien lean on his shoulder. Firwirrung wobbled forward, covering his wounded forelimb with the intact foreclaw. The double weight sent new spasms down Dev’s weakened back. He bit his tongue. He was supposed to be brainwashed. The Ssi-ruuk saw humankind, like P’w’ecks, as livestock … experimental animals … soulless.
Bluescale bent and seized the lightsaber. What about the female? Dev guessed Bluescale wouldn’t want to carry her. Skywalker’s resistance had saved her, at least. With only Dev able to carry, the Ssi-ruuk wouldn’t go looking for her. They must even leave their beheaded comrade behind.
Bluescale led toward the kitchen doors, letting them swing back and bump Dev. He lost his balance and almost dropped his burden against a hot cooking surface. The ends of Skywalker’s hair shriveled over its intense heat. By the time Dev had recovered his balance, the hissing green blade had vanished. Bluescale dropped the silent saber handgrip into his shoulder pouch, clipped the pouch around his body again, and proceeded between kitchen machines with his beamer drawn. Firwirrung stumbled against Dev. Dev racked his memory for an appropriate reaction. “Are you in pain, Master?” he asked softly.
The alien grunted.
Bluescale held the rear door for Firwirrung. Outside under a pall of spaceport dust stood the Imperial shuttle. Those now-stunned stormtroopers had flown it to the Shriwirr, then ferried the party planetoide. The sirens had taken effect; Pad 12 and the others clustered around this cantina looked almost deserted. Two P’w’eck guards still stood beside the shuttle, hidden from observers by its drooping wings.
“Help Dev secure the prisoner,” Bluescale whistled. Dev limped up the ramp. The Jedi’s cylindrical droid attempted to roll up after him, railing at them in Ssi-ruuvi. Two P’w’ecks shoved it over the ramp’s edge. It landed with a crash and a final impotent threat. Dev pulled Skywalker into a rear seat, insisting to himself that he had not given up hope. The P’w’ecks snapped wristbinders onto the Jedi and then drew a flight harness around him. Unwatched for the moment, Dev checked again through the Force for life presence. Even unconscious, Skywalker’s mind seemed warmer, brighter, louder than other humans’.
What to do? If the Ssi-ruuk worked their will on Skywalker, humankind was doomed.
Dev clenched his hands. That shot a paroxysm of pain up his left forearm. Was he strong enough to strangle the Jedi, while Firwirrung and Bluescale tried to fly the human shuttle?
Perhaps he could, but he recoiled. That would be a Ssi-ruuvi trick. Skywalker was all Dev might have wished to be, if his mother had survived to apprentice him to a master. He couldn’t kill