Missing In Action
IV
He ducks and runs, rolling fluidly beneath DD-2's hovering carapace and darting for the door. The somersault makes his arm throb and he bites his lip, muffling the hot yell of pain that wells up in his throat.
Outside, the whole corridor is in blackness; a few sputtering moments and tiny blue emergency lights appear at the junction of floor and wall, illumining his bare feet as he sprints headlong down its length. Other people appear in the hall, shouting instructions and calling for droids – he scampers, dodging a cart here and a machine there, pulse drumming frantically in his ears.
Home. Home. Which way is out?
And then the Twi-Lek healer's voice raps out his name – first and last, very tart and impatient – and he lays on more speed. He cannot be caught now, not when he is so close to freedom, to escape. He skids round a corner, hearing the rapid footfalls behind him, and scrabbles against the near wall, seeking a doorway, an outlet. His fingers find the edge of a hatchway, a smooth line in the plaster wall, and he shoves the panel hard. It gives beneath his weight, swinging upward into a recessed pocket, and he launches himself into the hole thus created, seizing his window of opportunity in the instant it appears.
He tumbles, head over heels into pitch darkness, the hatch snapping shut behind him.
"Ooof!" His landing is inelegant, but mercifully soft. He smells cloth, cleansing herbs, chemicals and plastoid. He is swaddled in thin sheets, an unruly nest of pillows and blankets beneath his sprawling limbs. He takes a moment to breathe, and to consider his options, which at the moment are reduced to two: stay or keep running. There is also something in the way the healer called his name that tells him he is in trouble – that his precipitous departure is likely to be categorized as naughty behavior by most the adults in his life. This is fuel to his fire: he must get back to Ali Alaan, who will sort out the grown-up mess and portect him from the wrath of those who might wish to impose punitive bacta action upon his person.
His heart leaps against his ribs when a door hisses open on pressure pistons, somewhere to his left. He burrows beneath the blankets, hardly daring to breathe. Have they found him already?
But the voice that speaks next is unfamiliar, and preoccupied with other matters. "The secondary generator should have kicked in – maybe the solar collection cells overloaded. The back up system can sustain demand for six standard, but the sooner this is fixed the better. Here, move that laundry bin out. We need the space to disassemble these relay panels."
Two of the blipping, impersonal sorts of droids respond with a string of grunts and trills, and before he can quite comprehend what is happening, the bin – for he is inside a large portable container – is trolleyed away on repulsors, vibrating gently around him as it is propelled a short distance,
When the droids' bleeping and tweeting has faded into the distance again, he kneels and peers from beneath his soft, white cover: this new place is vast, and echoing, and full to the brim with crates and boxes, plastoid molded shapes and shelving units. The roof overhead is fretted with strong girders, and illuminator banks are set high among them, flooding the entire expanse with white radiance. The generator is working here, at least.
He thinks it is some kind of storage area, but the important thing is that nobody else is here.
He grins, a fierce delight kindling in his belly and chest. The Force is with him.
He ducks and runs – which is to say, he seizes the malicious interrogation droid by one articulated arm, spins it savagely in a wide arc, smashing the blaster rifle out of the nearest battle-droid's arm, roundhouse kicks the next droid hard enough to knock its head clean off, rolls beneath the splayed legs of the third, grabs the fallen weapon, pumps the rest of the blundering infantry with short-range plasma bolts, and backflips into the corridor beyond. Another volley of blaster-fire takes out the door controls and sends the emergency lock-down door slamming into place over the opening.
He staggers into the wall, biting his lip to muffle the hot upsurge of imprecation welling in his throat.
Such exertion probably qualifies as strenuous activity, and his dozen half-healed injuries are screaming in protest. One hand on the smooth wall, he takes a moment to breathe and reflect.
Three swift conclusions: first – he has about forty seconds to make his initial getaway; second - Puggil doubtless has a sophisticated back-up security plan in place, and this will therefore not be a frolic in the park; third – although he is debarred from conscious manipulation of the Force, it is still with him. Decades of martial training have made his physical connection to the universal life energy a thing innate, reflexive, pre-volitional. In other words, he can still fight like a cornered krayt.
Of course, a decent weapon , in particular his lightsaber, would be nice. He has half a mind to chuck the uncivilized blaster down the corridor, but that would be stupid.
Time to get a move on. Which way is out?
At this point, an amplified public announcement system blares into life – a klaxon alert followed by Puggil's peculiarly nasal voice, addressing him by name.
"General Kenobi – spare us both the humiliation and bother of making a scene. Surrender immediately and we can resume our previous conversation. All security units: red alert, prisoner at large on hangar level; protocol three. Repeat: protocol three."
Hangar level? This is good news. He moves forward, hands tracing the smooth surface of the walls as he dashes along the corridor in pitch blackness. Footfalls thunder toward him from two directions – the weirdly synchronized tramp of droid squadrons. His fingers find an aperture in the smooth plastoid to his left at the same moment. Quicker than thought – which may not be wise, but is certainly effective –he has shouldered the small hatchway open and is tumbling head over heels down a steep chute and into-
He catches himself at the very terminus of the slanted tunnel, hands and feet braced against its slick sides, back and shoulder muscles stridently objecting to the exercise. A putrid odor wafts up to him from below, alerting him to the presence of a refuse collection pit a handful of meters beneath his body.
Blast.
Still, the droid patrols tramp along the hall, confer briefly with one another and move onward, stymied edgesby his apparent disappearance. He grins, trying not to breathe through his nose, and sets his mind to the present predicament. He has no intention of falling into the pungent swill beneath him. For a moment he wallows in an ironic enjoyment of his situation, but even as he chuckles sardonically at his own plight, his eyes adjust to the blackness. Or, at least, they pick out shapes limned vaguely in a subtle phosphorescent glow.
Ah, yes. Some of the microbes used to break down garbage emit a pale bioluminescence. In the light of these glowing bacterial cultures, he can trace the crossbeams of the compaction machinery, a series of balance beams and gymnastic equipment rising from the chambers sides to the maintenance access hatch far overhead.
Perfect.
He grimaces, gauging the distance he will have to jump – propel himself awkwardly through the air – to make a safe landing. It can't be any worse than the obstacle course in the Temple's junior gymnasium, though, can it?
Gasping with the effort, he launches himself in a tight somersault, rolling once and grabbing the thin beam. He misses his landing and ends up dangling by both hands, bare feet a revolting centimeter's distance from the suppurating froth at the pit's top, but this is better than actually falling. He heaves himself onto the beam, curses under his breath because his ribs crack under pressure and a hot wave of pain lances along his flank, and then peers upward.
One more jump, as sloppy and amateurish as the last, and he is straddling the highest bit of scaffolding. The maintenance hatch is overhead, and his fingers pry at its edges, eventually loosing the panel enough to slide it open. He is momentarily blinded by white light, a glimpse of girders overhead, the hint of a vast and echoing space filled to the brim with stacked crates and plastoid containers, glaring in the bright radiance. The power generator is working here, at least.
He hears no clank and creak of droids, nor any sentients' voices, so he gratefully squirms his way up and out, retching a little on the lingering effluvia of the septic tank. His limbs are shaking with even this trifling effort, and he squats down in the shadowed alcove of a towering crate, catching his wind and taking stock of his surroundings.
It is clearly a storage bay but the important thing is that nobody else is here.
He grins, a fierce delight kindling in his chest and belly. The Force is with him.
There are all sorts of things stacked and piled in the warehouse, some of them sealed up in boxes much larger than he is, some of them laid out on shelves or palettes. Around a corner, he discovers a hover-sled loaded with boxes and cartons of food. There is a round plastoid barrel of muja fruits, and several tall shapes labeled in aurebesh letters. His fingers trace over the familiar forms, and he sounds out some of the names, but his academic curiosity is abruptly curtailed by the sound of footsteps and voices, these living and not droid.
He ducks and crouches among the foodstuffs, surreptitiously pocketing a muja while he is at it.
"Did you hear? One of the younglings got loose from the infirmary and is on the lam… keep your eyes peeled."
This voice belongs to a docent, or perhaps the kitchen manager – one of the kindly staff members who perform various housekeeping duties about the Temple. Reflexively, he tries to make himself disappear; golden light seems to condense about him, shield and veil at once. He curls in on himself, knees to chest, and quiets his breathing until he is barely there.
Footfalls, friendly chatter, and then the grav-sled moves – he is being carted away!
His mind races: food – kitchen- refectory- lunchtime- crèche – Ali Alaan – home.
Yes. He is almost free. If only he can evade capture long enough to make it back. He cannot wait to regale his friends with an account of his misadventures and daring escape. Garen is going to love this story.
He hunkers down in his chosen hiding place and bides his time, while his unwitting escort propels him safely through enemy territory.
There is a plethora of ordnance and tech parts stockpiled in Puggil's warehouse, most of it sealed in pressurized shipping crates but a few items laid out upon shelves or stacked on palettes. Around a corner, he discovers a gravsled loaded with new fusion-inverter power cells, the sort required to sustain a defensive energy dome. The cylindrical casings are labeled with standard radiation warnings and the guild mark of their manufacturer, Baktoid Armories. He traces fingers over the print, scanning the elaborate legal disclaimers the foundry has appended to its product, but his morbid curiosity is abruptly curtailed by the sound of footsteps and voices, these living and not droid.
Blast. He needs to be more careful; normally he would have sensed newcomers before they arrived – it is difficult to remember that he is half-blind. There is no other cover, so he ducks and crouches between the rows of power cells, back pressed against the cool convexity of the nearest one.
"Fierfek. Aerial assault outside while we've got a prisoner on the lam here. What else can go wrong?"
This voice belongs to a petty officer, or a harried subaltern – he recognizes the exasperated timbre of a man who is expected to clean up the messes made by his superiors, and who barely outranks his own underlings. Reflexively, he attempts ot shield with the Force, but of course, nothing happens. He is left all but holding his breath and practicing the dead man kata, absolute stillness, his breath the merest wafting of hot moisture, his presence as rigid and motionless as the looming battery-casings surrounding him.
"Ah, not to worry – this level is all bio-code locks. He can't even get past the doors."
"True. Just creeps me out, knowing we gotta Jedi inside the perimeter, ya know?"
"Never mind that chisszzk – I'm more worried about that dome. C'mon – let's move it."
Footfalls, disgruntled muttering, and then the grav-sled moves. The incompetent chosski are carting him away past their vaunted security locked doors, providing him with a means of infiltration so elegant, so perfect, that it sets his mind to racing.
Never mind escape. He could bring the whole protective dome down, enabling the republic assault force to penetrate far into the interior, possibly taking out the munitions center – and part of the advanced fleet.
Yes. Victory from the jaws of defeat. Presuming, of course, that he can evade capture long enough to effect his risky stratagem. But what is life without impossible odds? He begins formulating an appropriately wry narrative of this misadventure, for recounting off the official record; Anakin is going to absolutely love this story.
He hunkers down in his chosen hiding place and bides his time, while his unwitting escorts propel him safely through the security doors and deep into enemy territory.