Star Wars - Incognito by John Jackson Miller Page B

Dewell didn’t hear the rest, reaching down for the bag of belongings at his feet. It was time to move again.

    Dewell didn’t know what planet he was on, except that the sky was a bright green, and that again he was having trouble seeing. He was glad to get off the Space Slug , in any event.
    He had waited for the Devaronians to disembark first. He hadn’t seen where the Young Father had gone. That was too bad; the human had seemed a decent sort. This was how it was going to be, Dewell realized. Going from one place to another, never forming a relationship that lasted more than five minutes, never mind a friendship. It was hardly a life worth living, much less fighting for.
    Slouching as he walked across the grungy spaceport, his bag tightly in hand, he looked around at the crowd. He felt eyes on him, and while he couldn’t see any faces clearly, he imagined the rest. He spotted a lonely passageway leading between two of the maintenance buildings, and headed toward it. That way he could get to the landing pad while avoiding most of the foot traffic.
    Walking down the tiled alley, he heard a bleating cry from around a corner. Instinctively, he stepped forward and looked. A long-trunked Ortolan janitor, still clutching his mop, was being shaken by two figures in white armor. Clone troopers, from the so-called Grand Army of the Republic. Dewell couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the stubby blue figure howled as they shook him.
    That was enough! Forgetting his size — and everything else that concerned him — Dewell charged into the secluded area. “Stop that!” he yelled. The troopers paid him no mind. The rope wrapped tightly around his paw, Dewell slung his bag of belongings forward. It struck the trooper holding the janitor on the shin.
    He had their attention now, whether he wanted it or not. The trooper dropped the Ortolan, who ran off through one of the  side passages, abandoning his cleaning cart and bucket. Pulling a blaster rifle from over his shoulder, the trooper looked directly at the Kedorzhan. “Dewell Bronk?”
    Dewell looked up, startled. “That is my name.”
    “Senator Bronk, you are under arrest.”
    “On whose authority?”
    “Emperor Palpatine.” The second trooper held up a datapad with Dewell’s image.
    Dewell’s eyes opened to their full, enormous width. Of course, there was no Imperial interest in hassling janitors. At least, not yet. It was a trap, and he had walked right into it. His arms fell to his sides. “I guess I knew this was —”
    Before he could finish, something astonishing happened. The janitor’s bucket landed over the helmet of the first clone trooper with a loud clang, spilling sudsy water and completely obscuring the soldier’s vision. The second trooper turned, raising his rifle; surely, it would have taken someone a Wookiees height to shove the bucket over his partner’s head. But there was no one behind him at all. Instead, there was someone to the side — wielding, of all things, a large spray can. As Dewell dove for the ground, he heard the loud spritzing noise and smelled the high-pressure cleanser foam.

    Looking up, he saw the comical sight of the trooper, his eye ports and air intakes clogged with the thick goo, moving his rifle in an attempt to fire randomly. But his assailant was on him now, wresting away the weapon. The secluded area was shaded enough that Dewell could make out his rescuer’s identity.
    The Young Father!
    In one swift move, the human smashed the trooper in the head with the butt of his own rifle. The armored figure stumbled backwards, bumping into his bucket-headed partner. The Young Father shoved at them both now — exactly how, Dewell could not see — pushing them into one of the side doorways. It was a maintenance pit, he realized. He heard the colossal clamor as the armored men tumbled down a staircase.
    The Young Father walked over and closed the door, locking it. “They won’t be bothering you again,