Fine, thought Fi. His helmet was recording. I don’t need to see your faces. I know what you were; how you move, how you sound, and that’s how I’ll know who you are when I blow your brains out.
Kaim’s voice was soothing and reasonable. “These people need food and water.”
“That’s the least of their worries.”, The one in gray: Fi noted his voice. The one in light tan turned to look at the Senator and told him to shut up. Green Man was holding his blaster left-handed. Detail. “Take a look at their baggage.”
Tan Man-Fi now saw the targets as color-coded grabbed the old Garqian man by his shoulder and dragged him across the polished tiles a little way from the wall on his backside. The old woman’s voice whimpered, terrified. Fi could see now what Gray had meant by baggage: The hostages had small packs strapped to them.
“Six lives are a price worth paying, Jedi,” said Gray. “We will detonate the charges.”
“This wins you no sympathy. Mercy will.”
“We don’t require sympathy. Just your compliance.”
“Let the old couple go, at least.”
There was a pause. Fi wasn’t sure where Kaim had managed to place the strip-cam, but Gray’s shrouded face came closer and Fi saw two pale eyes as if he was looking into them personally.
“Lying Jedi filth! Spy!” Gray hissed, and the sound and image crashed to static and black.
“Fierfek . .” said Atin.
They heard the screams. They weren’t only from an old woman. Then there was a thud, and shouting-“Shut up! Shut up, or you die now!”-then silence.
Fi looked to the ARC, rifle aimed at the doors: Darman raised the remote detonators in his glove, a mute request for permission to blow the doors.
“Hold fire,” said the ARC.
The twin doors began to part and Fi, Atin and Niner had their Deeces trained on the widening gap. He could see the different views through their scopes in his HUD.
“I said hold!”
Something tipped and rolled onto the polished marble and the doors sighed shut again. It was Kaim. Fi and Niner edged forward first and the police closed up behind them. Fi wondered how much the hovercams and broadcast droids could see. Could the gang see them?
Kaim wasn’t moving. Niner put out a cautious hand to pull back the Jedi’s robe, and Fi saw a flicker of light and heard Niner catch his breath.
“Booby trap-counting down!”
Fi didn’t think.
The police officers were right on top of him, unprotected.
He flung himself flat on Kaim’s body, eyes tight shut so he wouldn’t see the shattered face, waiting long fractions within fractions of seconds before a shock wave lifted him like a body blow and raw noise filled his helmet. He felt as if he’d been shaken hard in a metal box. For an instant, red light flooded his eyes behind his closed lids.
How long the next moments took he didn’t know. But he could hear the ARC shouting, “Droid those cams! Do it! Now!”
He could hear yelling, so he wasn’t dead. That was something.
Holoflash, 1758: A Huruun Kal group holding Senator Tills has killed a Jedi negotiator. All location cams have been disabled in a news blackout, but we’ve just witnessed horrific scenes as the Jedi’s booby-trapped remains exploded in the terminal. It’s thought a member of the elite Republic Commando shielded the blast with his body. Viewers might find the following images distressing.
“What do you use for brains, Fi?” Skirata hissed, supporting Fi’s shoulders. “You’re a di’kut.”
Fi could feel bruises forming everywhere he had places.
He sat upright with some difficulty. “Thanks for the sympathy, Sarge. I’m fine.”
“You trust that pretty armor a lot more than I would.” Skirata suddenly shook him fiercely by the shoulder. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, son. You hear? Let the cops look after themselves.”
It hadn’t been a big device, just enough to kill or maim a couple of people, but not enough to breach Katarn armor. He’d smothered the blast and the shrapnel that went with it. Fi hadn’t been 100 percent sure at the time that the armor would absorb the energy from the blast, and now that the adrenaline had finished coursing through his veins he felt shaky.
The ARC stared down at him, fists on hips. Skirata kept calling him Ordo: Skirata insisted men had names, not numbers, whatever the rules said.
“Nice move,” said Ordo.
“Nice skirt.” Fi indicated Ordo’s battle-scarred belt-spat, shredded at the hem like a flag that had been left too long on its mast. Fi wiped his armor, trying to forget what was smeared on the plastoid-alloy but the smell kept reminding him. “Really suits you. Hand washable?”