For several seconds, as sudden activity erupted all around him, Echo stayed frozen, disoriented by – everything. He wasn't sure where he was, or what was happening, or what the voices around him were saying. They were angry at someone. Him. No, it was someone else. Who?
His head spun. Someone . . . had thrown him down? Pushed him? He wasn't even certain about that. All he knew for sure was that his head ached, he was lying on his side, and he couldn't move his arms, which were cuffed together behind his back – and, worst of all, he couldn't see. Echo dragged in a breath, the shouting and raised voices around him still blurred into meaningless noise. He was blindfolded and cuffed, and the realization suddenly struck him in words. He was a prisoner. Echo jerked himself into a sitting position.
Someone wanted the Algorithm.
CT-1409 . . . CT-1409 . . . His chest burned, and he tried to make himself breathe.
Abruptly, something hit him across the face, so hard that a burst of brightness appeared in the darkness, and Echo fell sideways against the wall.
"Don't damage it!" snapped someone.
It. The Algorithm. Echo wanted to tell them his name.
Something stopped him from talking.
Hands gripped his arms, dragged him to his knees, uncuffed him. Echo tried to fight, but more hands pinned his human arm against his side. A hand was poking and prodding at his right shoulder, just above the metal of his prosthetic; Echo could hear the owner of the hand breathing, next to his face.
Twisting abruptly, Echo slammed his forehead into the other man's face. The grip on his human arm loosened, and he yanked it free and ducked, throwing a punch at the nearest person.
He was captured again, almost immediately, but by the time they grabbed his arm he'd caught hold of the blindfold and was jerking at it, desperate to get it off his head. It was knotted tightly around his head implant, though, and he couldn't get his fingers to grip it properly.
Then they yanked his hand down and cuffed it to the bars of a cell window, still clinging to his scomp link, and Echo threw himself against the cuff – once, twice, a third time. He'd learned how to get out of cuffs, if he had to, but he couldn't get the right leverage or momentum while he was being held in place –
The punch in the ribs caught him off-guard. Before Echo could straighten, he was shoved back against the wall, his left arm twisted awkwardly behind him as two people pinned him there.
"By the void!" exclaimed a voice that Echo recognized as a Weequay's. "Can't you hold him still for two seconds?"
"You try," grumbled someone, and whoever was holding onto Echo's left arm gave him a hard shake. "Kriffin' bolthead's worse than a –"
"That's enough," said a soft, almost slimy voice.
When everyone fell quiet, Echo jerked his head in the direction of the speaker. He'd heard his voice a minute ago, he remembered.
"Hmm," the voice went on. "I have a feeling that this one would be highly valued as a combatant – and yet, at the same time, selling him there would be such a waste. Still, we could put a higher price on him."
The footsteps moved a short distance away and stopped. There was a slight pause, followed by the sound of metal links brushing metal.
Abruptly, Echo remembered there had been someone else with him. The Kiffar, who had been spying on the Marauder – he'd said something a minute ago, hadn't he?
"This one, too," said the slimy voice. "Proceed as usual."
"You sure, Palabar?" asked the man who had led the attack in the warehouse. Echo blinked a little behind the cloth of his blindfold, the situation coming back to him in bits and pieces.
"What do you mean, am I sure?" asked the voice – Palabar.
"Well, nothing . . . just, we could wait until the big auction, get our money's worth out of 'em."
"Oh, there's no need for that," Palabar replied. "I know of several clients who will be very interested."
As his footsteps started to grow more distant, someone across the hall from Echo said, "Hey, what do you want me to do with this one?"
"Leave him where he is," said Palabar. "As a matter of fact, leave both our guests where they are, but secure them first."
The hands released Echo, only to grab him again, jerk his arms behind his back, and tie his upper arms together with a rope as he struggled. Then they let him go, and he couldn't keep fighting. There was no one to attack, and the rope was tight around his chest and arms, constricting his breathing a little – just enough to make him feel lightheaded and panicky.
There was more shuffling in the background, muttered conversation, a grating laugh from a rough voice that sounded nothing like the Skakoans. Echo managed to get his breathing at least a little under control. Then the footsteps retreated, a door slammed shut, and the room fell silent, except for the sound of his ragged breathing, and the pulse in his own ears.
Echo made himself wait for a full minute before trying anything, in case any of the enemy came back in, but nothing happened. Once he felt a little steadier, he twisted and braced his shoulder against the barred window he was cuffed to and leaned the side of his head against the durasteel door. The metal was smooth, though, and after a few unsuccessful attempts at removing his blindfold, he ducked his head and twisted farther, finally managing to catch the edge of the cloth against the metal in the base of the door's window.
It took him nearly a minute of slow, painstaking work, his neck aching the whole time, but eventually he managed to slide the blindfold off his head implant. From there, it was the work of moments to drag it over the top of his head and let it fall to the floor.
Blinking against the light from the ceiling, Echo glanced around. The hallway he stood in was wide enough, lined on both sides by cells. Across from him, and a little to the left, knelt Echo's former prisoner. The Kiffar's wrists were cuffed behind his back, and a rope had been looped under his arms and through and around the bars of the metal grating that formed one of the cell doors, keeping him mostly upright. His head was hanging, face mostly hidden by his hair, and Echo could only imagine he was unconscious.
It didn't look like there was anything either of the prisoners could do to escape, at least not right now. . . and Palabar was planning to sell them. Echo gritted his teeth and stared at the floor, mentally ordering himself to think.
But he couldn't stay focused. In the back of his mind was the constant drone of his imagination and flickers of the Techno Union.
Think. His heart was beating too fast. In an attempt to distract himself, Echo stared around the row of cells, all of which had open doors. There were no other prisoners right now, no one else who might know something about this place. He couldn't reach the ropes, he couldn't get out of the cuffs. . .
The Kiffar was still motionless.
And what about his squad mates? Echo wondered if they knew something had happened to him yet – maybe, maybe not. His armor was gone, probably waiting to be sold to some buyer or other, and his chrono was gone with it. If he was remembering right, his squad mates had figured on being gone until around two in the morning . . . but it had only been around twenty-three hundred when he and the Kiffar were captured. How long had he been unconscious? Ten minutes? An hour? Longer? Was it already getting on towards daylight? Was it the next day already?
Echo frowned, shifting restlessly. He couldn't tell anything about the time of day from the prison area. There were no windows or chronos. Were his teammates searching for him, or did they think he'd gone somewhere without telling them?
He shook his head once. They wouldn't think that, surely. They would know something was wrong, because Echo had always been such a stickler about the buddy system and making sure his squad mates never traveled alone – or, at the very least, letting the rest of the squad know when he or anyone else headed out.
But even if they knew something was wrong, what could they do? How would they find him, on this immense planet with its billions of people. He knew they'd try to look for him, but if he was sold to the highest bidder, off-planet, and Tech didn't know – Echo couldn't repress a faint shudder at the idea.
He was distracted from his frantic thoughts by a faint groan from his fellow prisoner.
"Wake up," Echo ordered, then had to think about the other guy's name. "– Vos, right? Wake up!"
"Am awake. . ." he slurred, though he hadn't even stirred.
"Right," said Echo. "Can you move?"
Vos shifted, then hissed. "Kriffing ow," he said, and raised his head slightly, squinting at Echo as if he couldn't see well.
The dark bruise on his temple could have had something to do with that, Echo supposed.
"Domino?" the man asked. "You're still here."
"Uh . . ." Echo had forgotten he had a false name. "Yeah."
The man blinked. Then he gave his head a slight shake and said, "What did you say?"
Echo stared at him in concern. "How hard did you get hit? I said 'yeah', that's all."
Vos nodded, still frowning. "You sound like someone," he said, and Echo abruptly realized he'd forgotten to disguise his voice.
Before he could think up some excuse, the Kiffar added, "And you're blurry."
"They hit you with a drug, I think," said Echo, noticing the spot of blood on the man's left forearm. "Or a sedative. Confusion's to be expected."
"A sedative. Oh," said Vos, intelligently. "What – happened?"
Echo sighed, slumping a little. Maybe the Kiffar wouldn't be as useful in an escape attempt as the ARC had hoped. At least Echo had someone to talk to now, though. "What happened," he repeated. "You . . . I don't know, you annoyed them and they knocked you out?"
Three was a long pause. Then Vos said, "Oh. Yeah, I remember now. They were looking at your prosthetics, I shoved one of them, I got jabbed with something."
It almost sounded like the Kiffar had interfered with the Twisted Star because they'd been examining Echo's cybernetic limbs. Surely not, though . . . why would he risk making the gang members angry?
After a moment of silence, Vos said, "What are they going to do?"
"I don't know for sure," Echo admitted. "But I'm pretty sure we're about to get sold."
The Kiffar grimaced and tugged lightly against his bonds, testing them. "Ah," he said after a moment. "Well, guess that breaks my streak of not being sold. And it was going so well, too."
". . . What," said Echo, certain that part of his brain had actually shorted out.
"I haven't been sold since last year," explained the Kiffar, turning to look down the hall. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"No," said Echo, eyeing the other prisoner. Something about his nonchalant attitude in the face of real danger was reminding Echo strongly of certain squad mates.
The Kiffar tried to stand up, failed because of the ropes that kept his arms against the bars, and huffed. "So," he said. "How are we getting out?"
"I don't think we are," Echo told him. "I can't get free. . . and it doesn't look like you can, either."
Vos looked at him, about to answer – then he narrowed his eyes, gaze fixed unblinkingly on Echo's. For a moment, it felt like he was staring into Echo's mind.
The ARC trooper glanced uncomfortably away. "What?" he demanded.
"You look . . ." The Kiffar hesitated, gaze flickering to something on the wall. "You look like someone I know."
"Oh?" Echo tried to keep his tone light, but he was worried. What if the Kiffar somehow recognized him as a clone? What if the gang figured out he was a clone? Would they sell him to a Separatist?
Vos stared at him, more deliberately this time, then looked again at the far corner of the room where the ceiling met the wall. When Echo followed his look, he caught sight of a small black camera that he hadn't noticed before.
"Yeah." Vos shrugged, clearly picking his words with care. "You look a lot like a friend of mine. Some friends of mine, really.
"Hm," Echo said, unwilling to give away anything more about himself – especially now that he knew about the camera.
There was a pause before Vos muttered, so quietly he was almost inaudible, "And you kind of sound like them, too, when you aren't changing your voice."
Echo shrugged, trying to pretend he wasn't bothered that the other man had figured out he was altering his voice. "Well, that's not surprising, is it? It's a big galaxy."
The Kiffar shot him a frustrated look, but said nothing further.
For a few minutes, it was quiet except for the repetitive metallic clicks as Vos twisted his wrists against each other, over and over. Echo tried to get his scomp link out of the rope by rotating and turning it, but when a severe muscle cramp started in his upper right arm – what remained of it, anyway – he was forced to stop.
Sighing, he leaned against the wall as well as he could manage while tied so awkwardly. "Any ideas?" he asked.
The Kiffar stopped struggling against his own bonds and huffed. "Not unless you want one that'll get us in a whole lot more trouble."
"Will it get us out of these ropes?"
Vos tilted his head and shrugged, in a 'maybe, maybe not' gesture, and Echo hesitated. "How much more trouble?" he checked warily. "Assuming you fail, that is . . ."
"A lot more," the Kiffar answered, and sounded like he meant it. Echo knew he wanted to explain further, because he cut himself off visibly and glowered at the camera.
The ARC trooper sighed. "No other way to communicate, I suppose?"
"Like what?" asked the Kiffar.
"Oh, like sign language," said Echo grumpily.
Vos stared at him.
"Sign language is really convenient," Echo went on, wrenching at the cuff around his left wrist again. "Especially when you don't want to be overheard – OH WAIT, no, we can't use our hands, because they're kriffing chained up!"
He directed this last shout at the camera and slouched against his bonds, aching all over. "I really hate slavers," he ended in a bland tone.
"What are you trying to do?" Vos asked, taking Echo's outburst in stride. For some reason, he suddenly looked towards the stairway leading up. A half-smile touched his face and was gone, and he also raised his voice. "Oh. You want to make that idiot Quarren mad so he comes back down here, even though we can't really do anything about him?"
Echo assumed that someone was coming, and that he just couldn't hear him. "The idiot Quarren?" he repeated, fighting an aggressive smirk. "That moron?"
"Yeah, him," Vos answered. "The aspiring villain in the blue armor."
"His name's Palabar," Echo explained. "He seems to think he'll be able to sell us off to his customers. Crazy squid face doesn't know what he's getting himself into."
"His second-in-command's just as bad," Vos added thoughtfully. "Took him how many men to take just two of us down?"
"A lot," said Echo. "Palabar thinks we'll be worth something in the fighting ring. You want to bet we can make him lose money?"
"Yeah," Vos said, looking at the stairs again. "It's easy. We wait until we're put in the ring, and immediately attack whoever had the misfortune to buy us."
"Right," said Echo. "Sounds like a –"
He cut off as the door opened and the Quarren glided back into the room, hands tucked behind his back. He walked a little like General Grievous, but more smoothly, shoulders stooped heavily even though they were only about half the width of the cyborg general's.
"You will not have freedom to attack my clients," he announced, unbothered by their insults. "I know you are trying to aggravate me, but your opinions of me are of little concern."
"It was worth a shot," Vos said with a shrug, as several Weequay entered the room.
"Unbind them," said Palabar to his men. "Vos, Domino – stand still without struggling, or I will be forced to send pictures to my clients that involve only unconscious prisoners."
"Unconscious prisoners are bad for business, I take it?" Vos asked, with obviously fake solicitude.
"Somewhat." Palabar folded his long fingers together, standing a little to one side as three Weequay undid the rope that kept the Kiffar kneeling, but left his hands cuffed. "Now, stand up."
Vos did stand up, eyes sparking with repressed anger. He even stood motionless while the thugs made him stand against a blank metal wall and pushed at his head until he was keeping his chin up.
Echo was also untied, but only long enough for the thugs to tie his human arm so tightly to his scomp link that he could feel the metal making marks in his skin. They shoved him next to Vos, who turned to regard him as the Weequay stepped away.
"What is it with you?" hissed Echo, uncomfortable all over again. "Quit acting like there's something you know about me. You don't know anything about me."
Vos blinked, watching as Palabar spoke to his thugs. "Well," he said, totally unbothered by Echo's annoyance. "That's your opinion, man . . . See, it took me a bit, but I finally connected a few facts."
When Echo scoffed, Vos went on, in a lower voice, "I think you're a lot like those friends of mine."
"You think that, huh?"
"Yeah. I'm sure of it. In fact –" He smirked to himself, as if at some joke only he was aware of. "I'd say I'm ninety-nine percent sure."
Echo tried not to react, but felt his own eyes widen slightly and realized that the Kiffar had caught sight of his change of expression.
". . . No way," Vos said blankly. "Them?"
"What," said Echo. There was no way the Kiffar knew his team. . . Right?
"Hey!" yelled a Weequay, and shoved Echo into Vos. "Quit talkin' and stand still!"
Echo glowered, straightening. He did not want to stand there like some exhibit and have his picture taken for slavers to gawk at. No. No way. Palabar had said he'd take pictures of him unconscious if he didn't cooperate? Fine, but at least he wouldn't have to be awake for it.
"Would you hold still?" yelled another Weequay, grabbing Vos, who had just turned his head aside again. The Kiffar twisted hard and rammed his elbow into his stomach, and the Weequay folded over himself, coughing.
"Stop resisting!" Palabar ordered, stepping closer.
The Kiffar narrowed his eyes, a tinge of angry color touching his cheeks. "Why should we stop resisting, k'lor'slug?"
Without changing expression, the Quarren dealt Vos a vicious backhand to the face, knocking him back against the wall.
"Both of you, hold still," Palabar ordered sharply, wrapping a long hand around Echo's throat while Vos spat blood onto the floor.
The ARC trooper glared at the Quarren with every ounce of his anger and bruised pride. "Make me, aiwha-bait," he snarled. He didn't regret it, either, not even when Palabar released him and the Weequay advanced.