Clone Wars Gambit: Siege (14 page)

The refinery was like a war zone.

Oblivious to their imminent danger, the villagers of Torbel worked furiously to satisfy the needs of a government that used them as slaves. Every station was in operation—sorting barrels, compression chambers, screening units, conveyor belts, tumblers, graders, laser-emulsifiers, sonic scrubbers and packing bays, with trolleys waiting at the end to be loaded with damotite, then hauled out to the warehouse for collection.

Death for a thousand, thousand worlds.

Everything was stink and noise. Thumping, thudding, banging, ringing, screeching, grinding: Obi-Wan felt the cacophony like percussion on his skin. His bones were tuning forks driving spikes of sound through his brain and his nose and mouth sucked dry with the heat and acrid fumes. Raw damotite was poisonous and he wore no protection. How long before he’d be affected? He had no idea and it didn’t matter anyway. There wasn’t time to pull on a suit.

Long rows of strip lighting sputtered and surged, echoing the instability of the village’s threatened power supply. Not a single safety-suited villager seemed to have noticed. They were consumed by desperation, by the obliterating need to meet their impossible quota. If Devi had managed to get a call through here, no one had listened.

He took hold of the nearest villager and spun her around. As she gaped at him through her eye shield, he gave her a hard shake. “You’re in terrible danger, Teeba. Get out, now.
Run.
”

The villagers close enough to hear him stopped working. Letting go of the woman, he turned on them next.

“All of you, get out of here! There’s a power surge building!”

They didn’t know him. They didn’t trust him. Foolishly, understandably, they hesitated. Recklessly desperate, he used the Force to push them.

“
Get out!
”

The villagers dropped their tools and ran for the door, clumsy and slow in their heavy protective clothing.

He could feel the air swirling, reacting to the unstable power grid. The lights overhead were flickering faster now. And then the conveyor belts shuddered and groaned. Added to the refinery’s rough symphony, a counterpoint of startled voices.

“Get out, get out!” he shouted, running along the aisles, between the workstations. “Spread the word! Get out! This sector of the power grid is about to blow!”

He couldn’t see Arrad. Perhaps Rikkard’s son didn’t know there was trouble. Because if Devi had called here and he’d ignored her—

The trickle of fleeing villagers was building to a flood as his frantic warning leapt from station to station. Static discharges began a brilliant, lethal dance over the refinery’s battered old equipment, arcing and spitting and sizzling with sparks.

An angry shout cut through the noise trapped beneath the refinery’s roof. Obi-Wan spun around. It was Arrad, slamming back into the main work area.

“What are you doing?” The young man snatched at the nearest villagers squeezing past him, heading for safety. “You can’t go, we’re not finished!”

“He says there’s a power surge!” one of the villagers shouted, pulling free. “The grid’s going to blow. Get out yourself, Arrad!”

“What?” Arrad was shaking his head. “What are you—Rontl, get back here! Harba! You can’t go! My father’s relying on us to—”

But Rontl and Harba weren’t listening.

“Arrad!” Obi-Wan leapt for him. “You must get everyone out of here, there’s a—”

Arrad shoved him away. “There’s still time. We’ve nearly made quota. We have to protect this last batch of damotite, Yavid! You don’t understand what—”

“No, you fool,
you
don’t understand!” he retorted. “Look around you! Look at the static discharge! Devi says the power surge is going to ground itself right here!”

The last villagers were making their escape. Arrad stared after them in furious despair, then waved a dismissive hand and turned his back. Heedless of the danger, he rushed to the nearest juddering conveyor belt and slammed a lever down, halting its progress before the chunks of raw damotite it carried could tumble to the pitted ferrocrete floor.

Somewhere in the refinery a warning klaxon began to shriek.

“
Arrad!
” Obi-Wan followed the younger man as he slid between workstations to the nearest sonic scrubber. “Do you hear that? Your subgenerator’s starting to overload! You have to come with me,
now!
”

“If you want to run, then run,” Arrad spat, keying rapid-fire instructions into the scrubber’s command center. He’d discarded his protective head gear, revealing straw-colored hair curled with sweat. “But my father’s trusting me to keep this shipment—”

Is the young fool mad?
“Your father doesn’t want you to die for it! For pity’s
sake
, Arrad—”

Snarling, Arrad snatched a wrench from his sagging tool belt and raised it. “I only need a few more minutes, Yavid! If you aren’t going to help me than get out of my way!”

Battered by noise and by the Force’s insistent push that he
get out get out get out
, Obi-Wan lunged for Rikkard’s son. Taking hold of the young man’s wrist, he poured every last bit of compulsion he possessed into his eyes, his voice.

“
Arrad, come with me!
”

Arrad snapped his wrist free. “I can’t!” he shouted, almost drowned out by the blaring klaxon and the snapping, sparking sizzle of static discharge. “If we shortchange the shipment’s weight they’ll cut our food or worse, give the contract to another village. We won’t survive that! We’re barely surviving now! If you want to make Torbel your home, Yavid, then
help me!
”

Obi-Wan stared at him.
If I force him out of here at the tip of my lightsaber, that will be that. He’ll turn us in out of sheer spite. I can’t convince him and I can’t leave him here
.

He had only one other choice.

“All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll help.”

“Shut down that bank of laser-emulsifiers!” Arrad ordered. “Hurry! And then we’ll—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, closing his fingers around the back of the younger man’s broad neck. “But we’re out of time.”

This was no simple mind push—he blanked Arrad’s resistance with a blast of the Force. The young man’s anger wilted and his muscles softened. Above their heads the strip lighting flared sun-bright once and died, plunging the refinery into a darkness leavened only by the eerie blue flashes of static discharge.

Trusting their lives to the Force, Obi-Wan slid his hand down to Arrad’s shoulder, gripped the foolish young man’s shirt, pulled… then ran.

But they’d left too late.

With a deafening roar the power grid overloaded and they were tossed with casual violence through the stinking, burning air.

Anakin felt the explosion heartbeats before it happened. Sweating and trembling with the effort of holding back the theta storm, ignoring the villagers who’d come to see what was going on, he tried to send Obi-Wan a warning—but his mind was so bludgeoned by the quicksilver torment of keeping the raging storm at bay that he couldn’t feel his former Master’s presence.

And then the refinery went up like Coruscant fireworks on Republic Day.

Screams and shouts sounded as panic surged through the Force, bright and white and stunning. Vision smearing and blearing, Anakin sought in the crowd for Teeba Jaklin. She’d come from the charter house to see what the fuss was about and remained because she couldn’t believe her own eyes.

“
Jaklin! Teeba Jaklin!
”

She pushed and shoved and swore her way to him through the jostling villagers who pointed and gasped and were beginning to break for the refinery.

“Yes, Markl?” She scowled. “If that’s even your name.”

“It’s my name at the moment,” he said, his teeth gritted against the relentless pain of the storm. “Teeba Jaklin, please. Find Yavid for me. Make sure he’s all right.”

The explosion’s echoes rolled around the village, trapped beneath the barely holding shield. The red stormglow beyond it was matched by the red glow of leaping flames. The refinery was burning. He and Jaklin stared at each other as the rest of Torbel’s people ran to help, shadows in the glare of the storm. Some headed for the artesian well, for water. Others made straight for the burning building full of raw damotite.

A chilling thought struck him. Was the mineral itself flammable? That smoke—was it a toxic cloud poised to poison every last man, woman, and child beneath the storm shield?

“Teeba Jaklin! Is there danger from the—”

Her eyes were full of fear. “Yes. Not drop-dead-on-the-spot trouble but even with our secret protection we’ll all of us be sickly in the next few days.” She looked up at the thrashing theta storm over their heads. “Unless that clears quick soon and we can down the shields so the smoke gets to blow clean away.”

“Which—” He had to pause, to rebalance himself. The effort of fighting the storm was threatening to drive him to his knees. He’d started to breathe in harsh gasping pants. “Which is—worse? The theta particles—or the damotite—smoke?”

The question made her laugh grimly. “The storm—unless it don’t clear and we’re left breathing smoke for hours on end. Then we’ll be likely done for whichever way you slice the bread.”

Of course they would be. The universe had a stinking sense of humor.

“You need—to find Yavid,” he gasped. “If he’s—not hurt he—can help you.”

The look on her face said she thought they were all beyond help. “I’ll look for him. How much longer before you fail, Teeb?”

He didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about that. “I’m—all right. Go. Please.” Another deep, shuddering breath. “Find Yavid.”

They were alone now, save for the men working on the shield generator. Jaklin turned away from him. “Guyne! How soon before that generator’s fixed?”

The oldest of the four feverishly tinkering men spared her a glance. “Going as fast as we can, Jaklin. Half the circuits are burned out.”

Anakin tightened his hold on the Force, feeling the seethe and surge of the storm like living fire. “I can—hold on, Teeba. Don’t—worry—about me. Just go.
Go!
”

Half step by half step, Jaklin retreated. In the garish light her eyes were narrowed. A muscle worked along her jaw. “I know what you are, young Teeb. You’re—”

“
Not—now,
” he said, almost groaning. “Please. Find Yavid. Tell him—I’ll get there—soon as—I can.”

Instead of answering, she turned to look at Guyne one last time. “Could be our lives are with you now, old Teeb,” she said, her voice cracking. “Don’t you be letting us down.”

His teeth showed briefly in his thin, seamed face. “Not planning to, old Teeba. Get on now. Rikkard’ll have need of you.”

Anakin took another rib-cracking breath. “Teeba—”

“I know,” she snapped, retreating. “Yavid. I said I’d look, and I will.
I’m
an honest one—even if you aren’t.”

She broke into a flat-footed run. He watched her for a few short, uneven strides, feeling Guyne’s measured stare.

Don’t look at me, old man. Fix that generator, would you?

Anakin hurt so much now it would be easy just to… give in. Give up. Let go. But he couldn’t do that. Hundreds of lives were depending on him. He had to stand here and take it until the generator was fixed—or his heart gave out. So he closed his eyes. Whether it made sense or not he always found it easier to focus his will when cocooned in darkness.

With sight denied him all his other senses leapt to keener life. The stink of the shield generator’s scorched circuitry. The stink of burning damotite from the exploded refinery. The stink of his own sweat. He heard—felt—three more explosions. Smaller this time, in swift succession. There were shouts, sirens. Sounds and echoes drumming. The worst of the Force’s insistent warning had faded, leaving him scoured hollow and stunned. Now all he felt in the Force was confusion, fear and pain. Everything he usually felt, no matter where he was. It was terrible and yet, in the strangest way, also comforting. He knew how to deal with that.

It was the unknown that made him nervous.

How long had he been standing here, holding back the storm? Probably less than an hour. It felt like days. Years. He didn’t have much time before the choice of whether to let go or endure would be out of his hands. Even the Chosen One had limits.

He remembered himself as a small boy, boasting to Qui-Gon at his mother’s rough table.

Has anyone ever seen a Podrace? I’m the only human who can do it
.

And now he was probably the only Jedi who could turn himself into a living storm shield.

It isn’t boasting. It’s the truth. I’ve got a knack for beating the odds
.

Now all he had to do was beat these odds for just a little bit longer…

Sweat pouring, heart pounding, dimly aware that he was burning himself out, Anakin clung to the Force like a child to its mother’s hand. Time passed. He passed with it, in silence.

“All right,” said Guyne at last. “I think that’s got it. Teeb Markl—”

Stirring, he opened his eyes. “Teeb?”

“We’re going to try the generator. Get ready.”

He managed to nod.

The other three men stepped back from the generator as Guyne, sore and sorry and tired, took a deep breath and reconnected the power supply. He flipped a series of switches, waited—waited—then activated the shield.

With a sizzling hum the storm shield came back online. Guyne and his three friends cheered, tiredly ecstatic… and Anakin slumped, falling boneless and graceless to the hard, dry ground.

He could feel himself shaking. Teeth chattering, lungs aching for air, he rolled on to his side and curled into a ball. His lightsaber, undiscovered, banged against his ribs as Torbel swung and spun around him. Vaguely he was aware of agitated voices calling his name and concerned hands poking and prodding to see if he was still in one piece. He couldn’t say. He couldn’t answer their anxious, shouted questions. He couldn’t even tell if he was still hurting or if what he felt now was just the memory of pain. Only once before had he ever felt anything close to this, and that was on Geonosis, in the cave, after Dooku’s savage Force lightning had come close to killing him. After a while… eons… the worst of the shuddering passed. He opened his eyes, uncurled his spine and looked up. Yes, Torbel had a storm shield—and it wasn’t him. On the other side of the plasma the theta storm continued to spit radioactive rage.

Spit away. I don’t care. You’re not getting in
.

He rolled onto his hands and knees and then levered himself upright. Reaching hands helped him, and he was grateful for that. Red and black spots danced before his eyes. He had to blink and blink to clear his vision.

“Steady there, young Teeb,” said Guyne, holding tight to his elbow. “Went down hard, you did. Just you catch your breath.”

“I’m all right,” he said, and was startled to hear how raw his voice sounded. Staggering, he turned to look across the darkened village toward the refinery. The flames were dying down, and the smoke. But the air was still tainted and thick. He tried not to think about the poison he was sucking into his lungs.

He looked back at Guyne. “Stay here and keep an eye on that generator, Teeb. And if it looks like blowing again send for me. I’ll come back.”

In the shifting light the old villager’s salt-gray eyebrows lifted. “Mighty sure of yourself you are, for a young Teeb,” he said, very dry. “Never knew a Lanteeban farmer with your knack of taking charge. Never knew any farmer could hold back a theta storm, neither. Not with the power of his mind.”

Behind him, his friends nodded agreement, a small knot of suspicion even though they were grateful.

Anakin sighed. “Teeb Guyne, we both know I’m not a farmer. Will you stay here?”

“We’ll stay,” said Guyne, nodding. “And if we’re needful of a Jedi we’ll know where to look.”

Wonderful. Obi-Wan’s going to kill me
.

He had no hope of Force-sprinting his way to the ruined refinery. The vicious edge of his pain had dulled, but every bone and muscle and sinew still ached. His sense of the Force was fiercely dimmed… and how long it would take for his numb shock to subside he couldn’t begin to guess. He’d never exhausted himself like this before.

There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. I just really wish that this wasn’t it
.

Gagging at the stench of burned damotite, he pushed himself into a stumbling run, left the villagers behind him and went in search of Obi-Wan.