Star Wars: The New Rebellion (10 page)

ChoFï was staring at the list. “You know,” he said so softly that only Leia and Senator Gno could hear, “their report won’t be the same.”

“I know,” Leia said. “But I had no real choice. I couldn’t appoint one of our people to pick the investigative team. They outmaneuvered me. If I had been thinking when I came in—”

“It’s not your fault, Leia,” ChoFï said. “If they didn’t approach you on that issue, they would have done so on another. You were running the Senate as it used to be instead of as it is. It is no longer a uniform body. Now we have factions.”

“I don’t like it,” Gno said.

“Like it or not,” ChoFï said, “the factions exist and we have to live with them.”

“I will not live with them,” Gno said. “This is how the Empire took over the last time. Small disagreements became major. Major disagreements were ignored, until the government was so factionalized it didn’t work at all.”

“That won’t happen here,” ChoFï said.

Gno smiled. “I used to believe that, all those years ago.”

Leia picked up the voting record, wincing at the pain in her hands. “We can’t be afraid of change, Senator,” she said to Gno. “We have to remember that there is one major difference between then and now. They don’t have a leader like Palpatine.”

“At least not yet,” Gno said.

Sunlight poured through a hole in the collapsing roof of the Senate Hall. Against the sky, the black-clawed hand of a construction droid awaited orders to remove the rubble and rebuild.

Luke stood in the double doorway, and peered into the Hall. The sunlight illuminated only one corner. Emergency glow panels revealed more destruction.

Most of the voting desks were covered with stone and shattered crystal. The floor was a mass of debris. Freight droids, maintenance droids, and repair droids waited in the back. No one had started the cleanup yet. Leia wanted it to wait until the investigation was underway.

Luke had decided to do some investigating on his own.

Several things bothered him: Leia’s insistence on the involvement of former Imperials; Han’s strange conversation with the missing smuggler; and, most importantly, the disturbance in the Force that Luke, Leia, and the
Solo children had felt to varying degrees. Luke agreed with Han; he doubted the direct involvement of the former Imperials. If they had all known, they would have found an excuse to be away from the Hall at the time. Leia had a point too. Most of the junior senators were uninjured. If she was right, and a former Imperial or a group of former Imperials were involved, what greater way to turn away suspicion than to be in the Hall during the explosion and “miraculously” escape injury?

Luke stepped inside. Dust motes rose in the circle of sunlight. He had been in so many places of destruction, seen so much devastation, and still it didn’t prepare him for this. This Hall was the working Chamber. It had housed the Old Republic’s Senate, and even Palpatine’s redesign hadn’t affected that feeling of ancient and irrevocable law. It had been Leia’s favorite room.

She had been below, at the podium, when the blast hit.

The podium was shattered. The circle on which it had stood was littered in ceiling rubble. The repair crews outside had warned Luke that the building was unstable. They weren’t going to let him in without an escort, but he insisted. He had to see this, and he had to see it alone.

A chill pervaded the air. It was the same kind of chill he had felt on Yavin 4, the chill of quick, sudden death. So many lives, senselessly taken.

He stepped in deeper. Beneath the chill was that odd sense again, that sense of betrayal. Betrayal was probably a common response to sudden death, but this sense felt different. It felt—personal, like the betrayal Luke had felt when Kyp had joined forces with Exar Kun. As if all in this room had died at the hands of someone they once trusted.

Personal death. A bomb was an impersonal death.

He closed his eyes, let the Force flow through him,
and felt for the pockets of coldness. Voices swirled around him, remembered voices, calling for help, shouting instructions. Shouts for friends, wails of the dying.

Pockets of cold.

He opened his eyes.

Not one large explosion. Several small explosions had detonated all at once in this room. And the senators sitting closest to the detonations died.

Several planned executions?

A warning?

Or a destruction of the Hall that went awry?

He couldn’t tell. But now he had something to tell Leia’s investigators. They should stop the search for one big cause, and search for several small ones.

Rubble fell from the ceiling, clattering onto the ruined floor. He turned and accidentally stepped into one of the pockets of coldness. The sunlight grew dim, and he felt the taint of a presence.

A former student.

A man.

Brakiss
.

T
he closet the Kloperian had placed the droids in had a stained permacrete floor, metal walls, and a metal ceiling. The walls were unadorned, and there wasn’t even a knob on the inside of the door. It was pitch-black after the door was closed.

Artoo whistled softly.

“You’re right, Artoo,” Threepio whispered. “I hear footsteps as well. And they’re coming our way.”

The computer lock on the door’s knob clicked and beeped. As the door opened, the closet flooded with light. A different Kloperian from the one that captured them stood outside, work orders clutched in one tentacle, a special key code in another.

“Oh, thank the maker,” Threepio said. “I am See-Threepio and this is my counterpart, Artoo-Detoo. We belong to President Leia Organa Solo, the Chief of State, and to her brother, the Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker. We have been falsely imprisoned—”

“You were trespassing,” the Kloperian said.

“On the contrary,” Threepio said. “We—”

“I don’t care,” the Kloperian said. “If it were up to me, I’d put you in recycling with all the other out-of-date
droids. But we ran your serial numbers and you are who you say you are. Next time you come down here, your owners need to give us official notice. We can’t have just any old droids down here. This is a dangerous area, and some of my assistants are overly enthusiastic. They might think you’re scrap and use you for parts.”

“Parts!” Threepio said. “I assure you, sir, we are anything but parts. Why, my counterpart and I might even be considered—”

“You are a protocol droid at least three models behind, and an astromech droid sixteen models out of date. If you were part of our team here, we’d definitely recycle you.”

Artoo blatted.

“As it stands, we’ll let you see the X-wing. Then you have to leave.” The Kloperian crossed two tentacles. “Follow me.”

Threepio hurried out of the closet, Artoo at his side. The Kloperian slithered forward at a fast clip. Threepio dropped back a few paces, just out of the Kloperian’s hearing range.

“You see, Artoo. I told you that they wouldn’t hold us once they knew who we were.”

Artoo bleeped.

“Well, it doesn’t seem odd to me,” Threepio said.

Artoo blurbled.

“All right,” Threepio said. “I admit they could have checked our serial numbers quicker. But the point is, Artoo, that they did. Although I do admit, things could have gone badly. Recycling! And I thought the scrap heap for out-of-date droids was just a legend.”

Artoo’s head swiveled as they walked, and the tiny holocam in his unit flickered. He was filming.

“I don’t believe you have permission—”

Artoo bleebled so loudly that the Kloperian turned.

“Is there a problem?” it asked.

Threepio glanced at Artoo. “There is no problem,” Threepio said. “No problem at all.” And he put his hand heavily on Artoo’s head for good measure. The clang of metal against metal echoed in the hangar.

They passed dozens of X-wings in various states of disrepair. Through open hangar doors were Y-wings and A-wings that had been disassembled. And in a final hangar, new craft glistened, cleaning droids polishing the luminescent metal.

Finally they stopped. The Kloperian pointed to a battered and scarred X-wing in pieces on the hangar floor.

Artoo moaned.

Threepio approached the pieces. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Master Luke relies on this craft.”

“We’ll have it reassembled for him in two days,” the Kloperian said.

Artoo whistled and beeped.

“My counterpart wants to know why it had to be dismantled in the first place.”

“Orders,” the Kloperian said. “These old X-wings have too many problems to fly across the galaxy without an occasional overhaul.”

Artoo cheebled.

“My counterpart says the ship was in perfect condition.”

“Well, he’s wrong,” the Kloperian said. “Amateur upkeep is no substitute for a major revamp.”

Artoo shrilled.

“Artoo!” Threepio said. “I’m so sorry, sir. He was close to the X-wing. He’s afraid you’ve damaged it permanently.”

“I haven’t touched it,” the Kloperian said. “And now that you’ve seen it, you can report on its condition to your master. The exit is through that door.”

Threepio nodded. “Come along, Artoo. We must talk with Master Luke.”

Artoo gave a warbling sigh. He stopped beside the X-wing and leaned precariously over it.

“Artoo!” Threepio said. “We’ve seen enough.”

“You might want to tell your master to purge that astromech unit’s memory. The R2 unit is seriously dated as it is, and with the new changes in ship design it will be obsolete in a matter of months.”

A cylindrical arm extended from Artoo’s left side, the side away from the Kloperian.

“I will certainly inform Master Luke,” Threepio said. “This little R2 unit has been trouble from the day he bought it.”

“They all have,” the Kloperian said. “Now you two get out of here before I take you out myself.”

“Yes, sir! Come along, Artoo.”

Artoo’s arm slid back into its compartment. He put his third wheel down and rolled toward the exit.

“Thank you, sir, for showing us the X-wing,” Threepio said as he scurried after Artoo. “I will most certainly speak to our master about you—”

And then he stopped as the bay doors closed behind them. Artoo let out a long, pitiful wail.

“I think you’re overreacting, Artoo. The X-wing isn’t dead. It’s merely disassembled.” Threepio hurried down the corridor.

Artoo beeped as he kept up.

“Erase its memory? But Master Luke gave specific instructions that the X-wing’s memory shouldn’t be touched.”

Artoo bleeped an affirmative.

“But that doesn’t mean there’s a conspiracy, Artoo. Organic beings are subject to error.”

Artoo whistled and shrilled.

“Very well, then,” Threepio said. “You can believe what you want. But you’ll tell Master Luke yourself. I’ll have no part in such flights of fancy.”

Artoo grunted.

“Still,” Threepio said as they left the hangar and entered the upper level of the docking bay, “I will inform Mistress Leia of that being’s attitude. If we were imprisoned over such a trivial thing, imagine what would happen to droids with less important owners. It’s a disgrace. Such a thing should not be allowed on Coruscant.”

Artoo blurbled.

“I am not thinking about myself,” Threepio said. “If I were thinking of myself, would I have mentioned other droids?”