Star Wars: Labyrinth of Evil, page 21
The Jedi had insisted nevertheless that an attempt be made to take Dooku alive.
Obi-Wan and Anakin didn’t need to be reminded of what had happened only weeks earlier on Cato Neimoidia when they had gone after Viceroy Gunray, but they were not about to forgo a chance to capture the Sith Lord.
Red Squadron’s intended insertion point was twenty degrees south of Tythe’s north pole, where the Separatist line was most dispersed. With droid fighters still pouring from the curving arms of Trade Federation Lucrehulks, and the recoiling barrels of Commerce Guild cannons filling local space with storms of unleashed energy, Anakin led the starfighters on a weaving course through the heart of the enemy fleet.
“No signature for Grievous’s cruiser,” he said to Obi-Wan. “None of the ships of the Separatist leadership are here.”
Obi-Wan glanced at the wire-frame display of his threat-assessment screen. “All the more reason to believe that Dooku was ordered here by Sidious.”
“Then where’s everyone else?”
Obi-Wan was troubled by the thought, but didn’t admit to it. “Dooku will know,” he started to say, when the starfighter’s proximity scanners stammered a warning. “Techno Union starship is veering to intercept us.”
“Droid fighters are away and locking on,” Red Three added.
Obi-Wan acknowledged. “Angle shields. We can out-fly them.”
“We’ll end up too far off course,” Anakin said.
“We’re almost at the insertion point,” Obi-Wan said.
“That starship isn’t just going to move aside. Form up on me. We’ll show them how well we improvise.”
There was no time to argue the point. Rolling to port, Obi-Wan fell in behind Anakin and fired his thrusters. Trailing behind, Red Squadron accelerated and banked for the narrow-waisted vessel.
“Ready proton torpedoes,” Anakin said. “Sow them just above the fuel cells.”
Point-defense turbolasers sought the starfighters as they fell on the ship, needling space with outpourings of gaudy energy. Corkscrewing missiles claimed Red Ten and Red Twelve, both of which disappeared in angry blossoms of fire. Sensing its sudden vulnerability, the huge vessel launched additional droid fighters. In the instant it lowered its shields to route power to the sublight drives, Red Squadron attacked.
Tight on Anakin, the ten remaining starfighters yawed for the waist of the ship, just forward of its cluster of cylindrical fuel cells. Dropping his craft to within one hundred meters of the pinched hull, Anakin began to hug the surface, surging onto a course that would whip Red Squadron through a tight circle around the forward ends of the fuel cells.
“Torpedoes away!” he said at the halfway mark.
Obi-Wan triggered the launchers and watched two torpedoes burn toward the target. Behind him, the rest of Red Squadron did the same. Hits began to score, fire and gas fountaining from breaches in the ship’s dark hull.
The disabling run completed, Anakin boosted for Tythe.
“She’s finished!”
In single file, Red Squadron followed.
Almost instantly the punctured vessel exploded, stunning the fleeing starfighters with a wave of force. Red Nine disappeared at the edge of the roiling detonation zone, and Red Seven wheeled off into the void with both wings sheared away.
Obi-Wan regained control of his craft and once more attached himself to Anakin’s six.
“Insertion point in fifteen seconds,” Anakin updated. “Dial inertial compensators to maximum. All power to the ablative shields. Deceleration burn on my mark …”
Obi-Wan clamped his hands on the violently shaking yoke as Red Squadron ripped into Tythe’s plundered atmosphere. He thought his teeth might rattle out of his jaws and drop into his lap; eyes and ears might implode from the pressure; chest might cave in and crush his heart.
Light flashed behind him; streaked past the cockpit.
Half a dozen droid fighters were chasing them down the well.
Not having to concern themselves with endangering living systems, the Vultures should have been able to descend even more rapidly and more acutely than the starfighters. But as the heat of entry built in the ships, survival protocols began to kick in, tasking the fighters to adjust the angle of their descents. For some of the droids it was already too late. Single contrails became particle showers as gravity summoned the broken fighters to their doom.
Punching through the blankets of clouds at suicidal velocity, Obi-Wan’s starfighter went into a roll. Pinwheeling before his eyes, Tythe was a kaleidoscopic furor of white and brown, smeared occasionally with striations of blue-green.
Anakin’s voice grew loud in his ears. “Nose up! Nose up!”
With effort, Obi-Wan leveled out of his plummet, his stomach lurching up into his throat. Reaching forward, he engaged the starfighter’s topographic sensors. The ship was dropping toward ice floes and bergs. Then, far below, peninsulas of rocky islands came into view. The surging waves of a dead gray ocean. The denuded shelf of a continent. Barren land fissured by dry, sinuous riverbeds, and mounded by brown hills strewn with toppled trees.
A ruined world.
“Head count,” he said into his helmet microphone.
Five voices responded. Reds Eight and Eleven were lost.
“Locking in target coordinates,” Anakin said.
Red Squadron flew just above the contours of land that had once been as lush as the area surrounding Theed, on Naboo. Now a desert, save for areas where exotic species of vegetation thrived in lakes of red-brown water, their jagged shorelines crusted yellow and black.
Also like Naboo, Tythe had once mined plasma in sufficient quantities to ship offworld. But greed had driven LiMerge Power to experiment with dangerous methods for keeping the ionized gas under adequate heat. A chain reaction set in motion by nuclear fuels had destroyed facilities throughout Tythe’s northern hemisphere and had left the planet uninhabitable for a generation.
“Target facility is ten kilometers west,” Anakin said. “We should be hearing from artillery soon enough.”
Soaring from the edge of a high plateau, the six starfighters dropped into a broad valley, disturbingly reminiscent of Geonosis, right down to the berthed starships and war machines spread across the floor.
Hailfire droids wheeled out to greet them with volleys of surface-to-air missiles. Turbolaser cannons affixed to Trade Federation landing ships cut the gray-yellow sky to ribbons. STAPs lifted into the air, and squads of infantry droids hurried for armed skimmers.
Unequipped to defend itself against the onslaught, tattered Red Squadron banked broadly to the north, evading plasma beams and flak from exploding heat seekers. Anakin and Obi-Wan paid out the last of their proton torpedoes in futile attempts to save Reds Three, Four, and Five. Bursts from their laser cannons crippled two enemy speeders and countless droid fighters, sending them crashing into the contaminated terrain. R4-P17 howled as Obi-Wan twisted the starfighter through violent airbursts and superheated clouds of billowing smoke.
Red Six vanished.
When they had juked their way through the worst of it, Anakin came alongside Obi-Wan.
It was just the two of them now.
“Point three-oh,” Anakin said. “On the landing platform.”
Obi-Wan gazed out the right side of the cockpit at what had been an enormous plasma-generating facility. Fractured containment domes and adjacent roofless structures revealed toppled extraction shafts, exploded activators, and tumbled walkways. In the center of the complex stood an elevated square of corroded ferrocrete, crowded with enemy fighter craft and bearing a single Geonosian fantail of distinctive design.
“Dooku’s sloop.”
The words had scarcely left Obi-Wan’s mouth when battle droids began to gush from the facility and out onto the landing platform. Bolts from the droids’ blasters clawed at the pair of prowling starfighters.
“I guess we’re not going in through the front door,” Obi-Wan said.
“There’s another way,” Anakin said, as they were emerging from their flyby. “We go in through the north dome.”
Obi-Wan looked over his left shoulder at the partially collapsed hemisphere. The lid that had once topped the plasma containment structure was long gone, and the resultant circular opening was large enough for a starfighter to thread.
Obi-Wan had misgivings, nevertheless.
“What about residual radiation inside the dome?”
“Radiation?” Anakin laughed. “The maneuver alone will probably kill us!”
With its fifty-three skydocks, hundreds of private turbolifts, arrays of hidden security armaments, and towering atria, 500 Republica was a world unto itself. Containing more technology than many Outer Rim worlds and more residents than some, the sky-piercing structure was the unrivaled gem of the Senate District, and the elegant cynosure of the district’s prestigious Ambassadorial Sector.
What had begun as a stately building in the classic style had, over the course of centuries, become a veritable mountain of steps and setbacks—some with flat roofs, others as gently rounded as shoulders, and still others as massive as any structure in the district. Up and up they climbed, profuse, organic, in seeming competition for Coruscant’s sunlight, culminating in a graceful crown, banded with penthouses and topped by a lithe spire. Gilded by the rising sun, its head in the clouds, buttressed by the towers that had allowed it to outgrow all its neighbors, 500 Republica was the lofty vantage from which a privileged few could actually gaze down on Coruscant.
Which was precisely why the building had become the landmark the galaxy’s disenfranchised pointed to when they spoke of Coruscant’s disproportionate wealth and elitism. Why 500 Republica was viewed by many as more emblematic of the bloated, indulgent Senate than the Senate’s own squat mushroom of a home.
Mace could feel the oppressive weight of the structure bearing down on him as the team entered 500 Republica’s level-one sub-basement—square kilometers of supportive ferrocrete and durasteel, crammed with whining, whirring machines that kept the tower stable, aloft, secure, climate-controlled, and supplied with water and power. As deep as it was, the sub-basement was still a hundred meters above Coruscant’s true underground, and twice that above the original surface of the planet.
The team had had to wait hours for Republica security to grant them permission to enter and carry on with the investigation. For a time, Mace had considered appealing to Palpatine for permission, since the Supreme Chancellor had an upper-level suite in the building. For company, the probe droids had scores of custodial and maintenance droids, but the trail to Sidious had gone cold.
Lost among countless footprints that covered the floor.
“Unless we can find prints that say otherwise, there’s no guarantee our quarry gained entrance to the sub-basement from Five Hundred Republica itself,” Dyne pronounced, switching his handheld processor to standby mode. “He may have entered from the tunnels that connect to the east or west skydocks.”
“In other words, he could have arrived here from just about anywhere on Coruscant,” Shaak Ti said.
Dyne nodded. “Presumably.”
Mace gazed down the tunnel the team had taken.
“Could we have missed something along the way?”
“The droids wouldn’t.”
Mace gestured to the smudged and stained ferrocrete floor. “Why would the prints suddenly end right here?”
Dyne compressed his lips and shook his head. “Maybe someone carried him here by repulsorlift. Unless you’re suggesting he levitated across the floor.” He thought about it for a long moment, then said: “All right, for the sake of argument, let’s say that he did levitate here.”
“There’ll be prints at his starting point,” Mace said.
Dyne scanned the sub-basement, pursed his lips, and blew out his breath. “We’re going to need a lot more probe droids.”
“How many more?” Mace said.
“A lot.”
“How long to bring them here and search this entire level?”
“With all this machinery, the skydock access tunnels, the waste and supply turbolifts … I couldn’t begin to guess. What’s more, we’re going to need additional security clearance to search the tunnels.”
“You’ll have whatever clearance you need,” Shaak Ti promised.
Mace glanced around. “You’ll have to run imaging scans of the partitions and the exterior walls.”
“That could require several weeks,” Dyne said cautiously.
“Then the sooner we begin, the better.”
Dyne took a comlink from his belt and was about to activate it when the floor began to tremble.
“A quake?” Mace asked Shaak Ti.
She shook her head. “I’m not sure—”
A second jolt shook the sub-basement, strong enough to dust the team with loose ferrocrete from the high ceiling.
“Feels like something rammed the building,” Dyne said.
It wouldn’t be the first time an intoxicated or exhausted driver had veered from one of the free-travel skylanes and plowed into the side of a building, Mace told himself. And yet—
The next shudder was accompanied by the distant sound of a powerful explosion. Lights in the sub-basement faded momentarily, then returned to full illumination, sending the custodial and maintenance droids into frantic activity.
Also at a far remove, klaxons and sirens blared.
“My comlink isn’t working,” Dyne said, jabbing at the device’s frequency search control with his forefinger.
“We’re tiers below midlevel,” Shaak Ti said.
Dyne shook his head. “That shouldn’t matter. Not in here.”
Stretching out with the Force, Mace sensed danger, frenzy, pain, and death. “Where’s the nearest exit?”
Dyne pointed to his left. “The tunnel to the east skydock.”
Mace’s thoughts swirled. He turned to Valiant. “Commander, Shaak Ti and I will need half your squad. You and the rest of your team will assist Captain Dyne with the search. Keep me informed of your progress.”
“What about me, sir?”
Mace looked at TC-16, then at Dyne. “The droid stays with you.”
Flanked by commandos, Mace and Shaak Ti raced off. The tunnel to the east skydock shook as they hurried through mixed-species crowds of frightened pedestrians heading toward and away from 500 Republica. Ahead of them loomed a square of dim sunlight, almost aquatic in quality, typical of the lower reaches of Coruscant’s urban canyons.
On the huge quadrangular skydock, humans, humanoids, and aliens were crouched behind parked limos, taxis, and private yachts, or hurrying for the entrance to the upper-level mag-lev platform. Shouts and screams punctuated the drone of overhead traffic. Panic gripped the free-travel skylanes. Taxis and transports were swerving in all directions, careening into one another and the sides of buildings, making desperate rooftop and plaza landings.
Higher, a plunging vehicle—a boxy cargo ship, engulfed in flames—came streaking through a horizontal autonavigation lane, surrendering some of its velocity to a violent collision with a public transport pod before continuing its fiery plunge toward the bottom of the canyon.
Mace tracked the ill-fated ship for a moment, then tilted his head back and put the edge of his hand to his brow. Distant buildings shimmered, as if miraged by heat.
The district’s defensive shield had been raised!
Higher still, something was wrong with the flickering sky. Light flared behind stratified clouds, and thunder of a kind reverberated from the summits of the taller buildings. Far to the south, Coruscant’s pale blue mantle was hashed into triangles and slivers by white contrails.
In their oblate pools of white skin, Shaak Ti’s eyes were wide when she looked at Mace.
“An attack,” she said in stunned disbelief.
Comlink already in hand, Mace activated the Jedi Temple frequency and held the device to his ear.
“Nothing but noise.”
“The deflector shield,” Shaak Ti said.
She craned her neck, striped montrals and head-tail quivering. “Or could they be jamming transmissions?”
Mace’s nostrils flared. “Crowd control!” he told the commandos. To Shaak Ti, he said: “Find Palpatine. See to it he’s conveyed to safety. I’ll send backup.”
In the ruined archive hall of LiMerge Power’s plasma facility, Count Dooku waited for Kenobi and Skywalker to arrive. The room was enormous by any standard, thirty meters high and three times that in circumference. Dooku could imagine it when it had hummed with life and activity, before the catastrophe. Still, that it had remained intact was a testament to its builders. And with its curved walls of holobooks and data storage disks—irradiated beyond salvage—he accepted that some might believe that secrets of the most sinister sort were concealed here.
Jedi like Kenobi and Skywalker, who wanted to believe as much.
Despite their gullibility, they were nothing if not tenacious and—dare he admit it?—exceptional.
In the risks they undertook.
In how deluded they were—about so many things.
In their unabashed zeal to capture him they had actually piloted their starfighters straight through the roof of the largest of the facility’s containment domes, and had managed to survive. Such superhuman feats were almost enough to convince Dooku that they still had the Force with them.
If only they weren’t so naïve and easily manipulated.
Once again, Darth Sidious had divined the actions they would take well in advance of their own deciding. The talent had less to do with being able to peer into the future than with having access to streams of possibilities. Sidious wasn’t unerring. He could be surprised or taken off his guard—as at Geonosis, as in the case of Gunray’s mechno-chair—but not for long. His mastery of the dark side of the Force endowed him with the power to decipher the currents that comprised the future, and to comprehend that while those currents were manifold, they were not boundless.
Such mastery was one of the skills that distinguished Sidious from Yoda, who believed the future was so much in motion it could not be read with any clarity—especially during times when the dark side was on the ascendant. But how could Yoda be expected to see the whole picture with one eye closed?
