Star Wars: Cloak of Deception Page 3

  Rella made a plosive sound. “You were saying, Cohl?”

  The look Cohl directed at Dofine was one of genuine surprise. “Maybe you’re not as thick-skulled as you look.” He leapt up onto the walkway and turned to the viewport array. Rella joined him.

  “The scenario has changed,” Cohl announced to everyone. “The Acquisitor will launch starfighters as soon as it’s within range. Order the Hawk-Bat to take the fight to the freighter.”

  Dofine allowed a smile of satisfaction. “Perhaps you will have to forgo your treasure, after all, Captain Cohl.”

  Cohl shot him a withering glance. “I’m not leaving without it, Commander—and neither are you.” He reached for Dofine’s left wrist to regard the countdown timer. “Fifty-five minutes.”

  “Cohl,” Rella said leadingly.

  He looked at her askance. “Without the aurodium, we don’t get paid, sweetheart.”

  She took her lower lip between her perfect teeth. “Yes, but we have to be alive to spend it.”

  He shook his head. “Death’s not in the cards—at least not in this hand.”

  Close to the bridge, a Nebula Front starfighter, chased down by packets of lethal energy, vanished in a nimbus of white-hot gas and debris.

  “Fire from the Acquisitor,” one of the mercenaries reported.

  Sudden disquiet tugged at Rella’s features.

  Cohl ignored the look she sent him. Plucking Dofine from the command chair and standing him on the walkway, Cohl shoved him toward the bridge’s ruined hatch.

  “Double time, Commander. Our departure window has just narrowed.”

  In the chaotic gloom of the starboard hangar arm, a final pod moving on repulsorlift toward a zone three docking bay didn’t draw much attention. Somewhat turnip shaped, it was larger than most of the pods that had been routed into zone three, though not as large as the one the Nebula Front had infiltrated, and nowhere near the size of some of the ore barges. More, the pod gave no hint that, like the terrorists’ craft, it carried a living cargo.

  Strapped into back-to-back seats were two human males who, in dress, were the polar opposite of Daultay Dofine. Their light-colored tunics and trousers were loose fitting and unadorned, their knee-high boots were made of nerf hide, and they affected neither headpieces nor jewelry.

  Their modest garments only made their obvious guile all the more mysterious.

  The fraudulent cargo pod lacked viewports of any sort, but vidcams concealed in the hull transmitted assorted views of the hangar to display screens inside the craft.

  On observing the disorder Cohl’s band had left in its wake, the young man in the forward seat remarked in a nasal voice, “Captain Cohl has left us an easy trail to follow, Master.”

  “He has indeed, Padawan. But the trail you take into the forest may not be the one you wish to follow when leaving. Stretch out with your feelings, Obi-Wan.”

  Fairly squeezed into the aft seat, the older man was also the larger of the pair. His broad face was fully bearded, and his thick mane of graying hair was pulled back from a gently sloping, noble brow. His eyes were a sharp blue, and the bridge of his strong nose was flattened, as if it had been broken beyond the repair of bacta treatments.

  His name was Qui-Gon Jinn.

  His counterpart at the controls of the pod, Obi-Wan Kenobi, had a youthful, clean-shaven face, a cleft chin, and a high, straight forehead. His brown hair was cropped short, save for a short tail at the rear of his head, and a single, thin plait that fell behind his ear to his right shoulder, a sign of his Padawan rank. Peculiar to the order to which Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan belonged, the word meant apprentice or protégé.

  That order was known as the Jedi Knights.

  “Master, do you see any sign of their craft?” Obi-Wan asked over his shoulder.

  Qui-Gon turned in his seat to indicate an open pod at the lower left of Obi-Wan’s heads-up display screen.

  “That one. They must be planning to launch from the inner rim hangar portal. Set us down nearby, with our hatch facing away from their pod. But be mindful not to draw attention. Cohl is sure to have posted sentries.”

  “Would you like to assume the piloting, Master?” Obi-Wan asked peevishly.

  Qui-Gon smiled to himself. “Only if you’re tiring, Padawan.”

  Obi-Wan compressed his lips. “I’m anything but tired, Master.” He regarded the display screen for a moment. “I’ve found us a good place.”

  As if under the guidance of droids in the hangar traffic stations, the pod settled on its quartet of disk-shaped landing gear. The two Jedi fell silent while they watched the vidcam feeds. After a long moment, a pair of human males emerged from Cohl’s pod, oxygen masks covering their faces and disruptor rifles cradled in their arms.

  “You were right, Master,” Obi-Wan said softly. “Cohl is becoming predictable.”

  “We can hope, Obi-Wan.”

  One of the sentries circled the pod, then returned to the open hatch, where the other was waiting.

  “Now’s our chance,” Qui-Gon said. “You know—”

  “I know what to do, Master. But I still don’t understand your reasoning. We could surprise Cohl here and now.”

  “It’s more important that we discover the location of the Nebula Front’s base, Padawan. There’ll be time then to put an end to Captain Cohl’s exploits.”

  Qui-Gon inserted a small breathing device into his mouth and flipped a switch that opened the circular front hatch. A cacophony of skirling sirens greeted them. The two Jedi climbed out into the red glow of emergency lighting that suffused the hold.

  No object was more symbolic of the Jedi Knights than the polished alloy cylinders Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan wore on the hide belts that cinched their tunics. With the belts’ abundance of utility pouches, the thirty-centimeter-long cylinders might have been tools of a sort—and, indeed, the Jedi viewed them as such—but, in fact, they were weapons of light, actual and figurative, and had been employed by the Jedi for thousands of generations in their self-appointed mandate to serve the Galactic Republic as the stewards of peace and justice.

  The crystal-focused lightsaber, however, was not the true source of a Jedi’s power, for that sprang from the omnipresent energy field that permeated all life and bound the galaxy together, an energy field the Jedi knew as the Force.

  Tens of thousands of years the order had devoted to the study and contemplation of the Force, and as byproducts of that devotion had come powers beyond the ken of ordinary folks: the power to move objects at will, to cloud the thoughts of lesser minds, to peer forward in time. But most of all, the ability to live in symbiotic accord with all life, and thus be allied to the Force itself.

  Moving with preternatural silence and swiftness, Qui-Gon advanced on Cohl’s pod, the lightsaber gripped in his right hand, concealing himself at every opportunity behind other pods. With all the noise in the hangar, he knew that it wasn’t going to be easy to distract the two guards. But he had to buy Obi-Wan at least a few moments.

  Sprawled atop the curving nose of one of the pods was what remained of a battle droid’s upper torso and elongated head. Glancing at Cohl’s sentries, Qui-Gon thumbed the activator button above the lightsaber’s ridged handgrip.

  A rod of brilliant green energy hissed from the sword’s alloy hilt, thrumming as it came in contact with the thin air. With a single one-handed swipe of his lightsaber, Qui-Gon cleaved the droid’s head from its thin neck. At the same time, he extended his left hand, palm outward, and with a blast of Force power sent the severed head hurtling across the hangar, where it struck the deck with a strident clank, not five meters from where the terrorists stood.

  The pair swung to the sound, with weapons raised.

  And in that instant, Obi-Wan disappeared in a blur, headed for Cohl’s pod.

  Midlevel in the freighter’s centersphere, Cohl, Rella, Boiny, and the rest of Cohl’s band gazed wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the cache of aurodium ingots, which had been removed from the Revenue’s security cabin an
d piled—lovingly—atop a repulsorsled. Hypnotic in their beauty, the ingots glowed with a constantly shifting inner light that summoned all colors of the rainbow.

  Even Dofine and his four bridge officers could scarcely tear their eyes away.

  “Take my breath and call me wheezy,” Boiny said. “Now I’ve seen it all.”

  Cohl snapped out of his reverie and turned to Dofine, whose thin wrists were secured in shiny stun cuffs.

  “You have our gratitude, Commander. Most Neimoidians wouldn’t have been so obliging.”

  Dofine glowered. “You go too far, Captain.”

  Cohl’s broad shoulders heaved in dismissal. “Tell that to the members of the Trade Federation Directorate.”

  He nodded to Rella to get the sled under way, then took Boiny by the shoulders and steered him toward an inset control panel.

  “Patch into the central control computer and tell it to run a diagnostic on the fuel-drivers. When the computer locates the thermal detonator, it should order an abandon ship.”

  Boiny nodded in comprehension.

  “Be sure to convince it to jettison all the cargo pods and barges,” Cohl added.

  Dofine’s eyes widened in revelation. “So, the lommite is important, after all.”

  Cohl turned to him. “You’re confusing me with someone who cares one way or another what goes on between the Trade Federation and the Nebula Front.”

  Dofine was confused. “Then why are you saving the cargo?”

  “Saving it?” Cohl put his hands on his hips and laughed heartily. “I’m merely providing the Acquisitor with a target-rich environment, Commander.”

  With the same extraordinary nimbleness that had guided him to the terrorists’ pod, Obi-Wan returned to the Jedi craft.

  “Everything is in place, Master,” he said, just loudly enough to be heard over the wailing sirens.

  Qui-Gon motioned him toward the hatch. But Obi-Wan hadn’t even raised a foot when all the pods in the hangar began to levitate and wheel toward one hangar portal or another.

  “What’s happening?”

  Qui-Gon looked around in mild perplexity. “They’re jettisoning the cargo.”

  “Hardly the act of terrorists, Master.”

  Qui-Gon’s brow furrowed in thought. “The central control computer wouldn’t allow this unless the freighter was in serious jeopardy.”

  “Perhaps it is, Master.”

  Qui-Gon agreed. “Either way, Padawan, we’re better off inside our craft. Unless Cohl has failed in his mission, he should be arriving at any moment.”

  Barely keeping pace with the ingot-heaped repulsorsled, Cohl’s band jogged down the broad avenue of the starboard hangar toward the rendezvous point. The Revenue’s bridge crew struggled to keep up, despite being equipped with rebreather masks and even when prodded in the back by the emitter nozzles of the terrorists’ blasters. To all sides of them hovered cargo pods and tenders, moving toward inner and outer wall hangar portals.

  Even Cohl was out of breath by the time everyone reached zone three and the waiting pod. Only one member of the first team—a blond-furred Bothan—had made it back, but Cohl refused to concern himself just then with the fate of the rest. Every member chosen for the operation had been apprised of the risks.

  “Get the aurodium stowed,” he shouted to Boiny through the rebreather’s communicator. “Rella, do a head count and get everyone aboard.”

  Daultay Dofine glanced worriedly at the countdown timer still affixed to the back of his hand. “What is to become of us?” he yelled.

  A human member of Cohl’s band motioned broadly toward a large, nearby pod that had yet to lift off. “I suggest you unload that one and cram yourselves inside.”

  Dofine blinked back panic. “We’ll die in there.”

  The human laughed scornfully. “That’s the idea.”

  Dofine looked at Cohl. “Your word …”

  Cohl twisted his head to one side to read the display on the countdown timer, then cut his eyes to Dofine.

  “If you hurry, you’ll make it to the escape pods in time.”

  Obi-Wan waited for the terrorists’ pod to rise from the hangar deck before activating the repulsorlift engines. In addition to the huge portals at the ends of the hangar arms, magnetic containment portals along the inner curve of the arms had opened up in each zone. Scores of cargo pods and barges had begun to converge on these smaller egresses, but bottlenecks were forming quickly, despite the supervisory efforts of the central control computer.

  Obi-Wan understood that if they were too late in reaching the portal, he and Qui-Gon would be forced to resort to some other means of abandoning ship. But the young Jedi was nothing if not methodical. He spent a long moment studying the flow of traffic and anticipating where jams were likely to occur before deciding on a course.

  That course took them straight up into the hangar’s lofty reaches of hoists and cranes, before descending acutely for the zone three portal. Grazing three pods on the way down, Obi-Wan neatly avoided a collision with a barge that was fast becoming lodged in the opening.

  Cohl had exited the hangar arm minutes earlier, but the tracker Obi-Wan had affixed assured that the Jedi would be able to single Cohl’s pod out from the now stampeding herd.

  “We have them, Master,” he told Qui-Gon, who was studying the rear display screens. “They’re heading straight for the centersphere. I’m not certain if they intend to climb over it or dive beneath it, but they are accelerating.”

  “Stay with them, Obi-Wan. But keep a fixed distance. We don’t want to reveal ourselves just yet.”

  With the bone-white centersphere looming and the broad sweep of the immense arms to either side, the inner district of the annular freighter was a sight to behold—especially with crafts of all size and shape pouring from the holds. But the erratic motion of those same pods and barges left Obi-Wan little time to appreciate the view. He divided his attention between the flashing bezel that was Cohl’s pod on the heads-up display, and the console screens, which showed exterior views to either side.

  With most of the pods streaming toward the lower portion of the centersphere, even slight encounters were causing chain reactions within the bunch. Many pods were already spinning out of control, and a few were on collision courses for the hangar arms.

  It all began to remind Obi-Wan of some of the exercises he had endured during his youth in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, where the goal of a student was to remain unswervingly attentive to a single task, while as many as five teachers did all they could to distract.

  “Watch our stern, Padawan,” Qui-Gon warned.

  A pod had emerged from below them, catching them aft on its ascent. In danger of being tipped end over end, Obi-Wan applied power to the nose attitude jets and managed just in time to stabilize their craft. But the brush had knocked them off course, and suddenly they were closing on the thick structural stalk that wedded the immense centersphere to the hangar arms.

  Obi-Wan glanced at the heads-up display, but found no pulsing bezel.

  “Master, I’ve lost them.”

  “Focus on where you want to go, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said in a calm voice. “Forget the display screen, and let the Force guide you.”

  Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a moment, then, following his instincts, adjusted their course. Glancing at the display, he saw Cohl’s pod ahead of them, off to starboard.

  “I see them, Master. They’re angling for the top of the centersphere.”

  “Captain Cohl was never one to remain long in the herd.”

  Obi-Wan fired the pod’s attitude jets to adjust course and soon saw the reassuring blinking of the bezel.

  The centersphere filled the display screens linked to the pod’s nose vidcams, revealing level after level of what Obi-Wan knew had once been conference rooms and living spaces for the ship’s crew, before the Trade Federation had turned to droid labor. They were almost to the crown of the centersphere when a lone starfighter streaked across one of the display screen
s, dual laser cannons loosing bursts at some unseen target.

  “A Nebula Front CloakShape,” Qui-Gon said in mild surprise.

  A sturdy, low-profile starfighter with downsloping wings, CloakShapes had been designed for atmospheric combat. But the terrorist group had retrofitted this one with rear-mounted maneuvering fins and a strap-on hyperdrive.

  “But what are they firing at?” Obi-Wan asked. “Cohl’s pilots must have destroyed the Revenue’s starfighters by now.”

  “I suspect we’ll know soon enough, Padawan. In the meantime, stay focused on the matter at hand.”

  Obi-Wan bristled slightly at the mild reprimand, but it was deserved. He had a habit of looking forward, as opposed to staying in the moment, as Qui-Gon preferred—of attending to what the Jedi called the living Force.

  Well above the bald crown of the centersphere and the boxy scanners that topped the freighter’s command tower, Cohl’s pod was gathering speed and, with bold maneuvers, was emerging from the cloud of pods within which it had hidden. In danger of falling too far behind, Obi-Wan called on the drives for added power.

  By the time they were coming around the top curve of the centersphere, Obi-Wan had greatly reduced the distance between the two pods. He was preparing to follow Cohl into space when another starfighter—a modified Z-95 Headhunter—flashed into view on the display screens and exploded.

  “The battle continues,” Qui-Gon said.

  Emerged from the embrace of the arms, the two Jedi saw the source of the return fire. Floating like a ring above Dorvalla’s nightside was a second freighter, engulfed in blossoms of fire sown by the Nebula Front ships.

  “Trade Federation reinforcements,” Obi-Wan said.

  “That freighter could complicate matters,” Qui-Gon mused.

  “But surely we have Cohl this time.”

  “Cohl is a sly one, Obi-Wan. He would have anticipated this. He doesn’t make a move without a contingency plan.”

  “But, Master, without his support ships—”

  “Expect nothing,” Qui-Gon interrupted. “Simply stay your course.”