"Concur," Watchman agreed.
Fel nodded. "All right, then," he said, digging into his emergency pack. "The others are off by themselves, out of our reach and protection. That is unacceptable."
His fingers located the insulator blanket and emergency food paste he'd been looking for. So Pressor was proud that he could make use of limited resources? Fine. As far as Fel was concerned, the Empire of the Hand had invented that particular operational philosophy. "So let's make ourselves a little privacy," he continued, crossing toward the hidden monitor, "and then see what exactly we can do about this."
"...so I'd advise against trying to shoot your way out," Pressor said, wiping the sweat from his forehead in the hot room as he once again ran through the warning message he'd prepared. "Is that understood?"
"Clearly," the Blue One—Chiss—who had identified himself as Aristocra something-or-other said calmly. He'd ended up in the Number Four Turbolift Car, along with three more Chiss and two of the other, unknown aliens. "We'll await your decision," the Aristocra continued. "I would simply say that we've come here to help you, not to harm you."
"I understand," Pressor said. "I'll speak with you soon."
He cut off the speaker, scowling blackly at the fuzzy image that was the best the turbolift monitors could handle anymore. Of course they weren't here to harm anyone. Just like those strange soldiers with their white armor and hidden faces weren't here to harm anyone, or the Jedi weren't here to harm anyone.
Jedi.
For a long minute Pressor stared at the image of the two Jedi on the Number Two display. It was hard to tell on the ancient and failing equipment, but they looked young, probably younger than he himself was.
But of course, age didn't mean anything. According to Director Uliar, the Jedi culture and methods were centuries old, passed down from one generation to the next with all the passion and rigidity of a system kept alive through sheer inertia. If these two were following in that same tradition, they would be exactly like the Jedi who had set out with Outbound Flight all those years ago.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Of course, he'd only been four when Outbound Flight died, and admittedly nowhere near the center of the action. But still, he remembered those Jedi.
Or at least, he remembered one of them.
The control room door slid open, letting in a blast of even hotter air, and Evlyn stepped inside. "Do we have all of them?" she asked.
"Every one," Pressor assured her, gazing back at his niece's bright blue eyes. They might look innocent—Evlyn herself might look innocent—but Pressor wasn't fooled. There was something odd about the girl, something he'd been aware of since she was three years old. Something the others would eventually notice, too.
"Good," Evlyn said, taking another stop toward Pressor to allow the door to slide shut behind her. "It's a lot cooler in here."
"A little cooler, anyway," Pressor said. "The repulsorlift generators are running pretty hot."
"That's not good, is it?" Evlyn asked, peering over his shoulder at the monitors.
"Not if one of them gets hot enough to fail, no," he conceded, swiveling back around in his creaky chair. "At least it would be a fast way to die."
He glanced over the bank of monitors, frowning. One of the displays was suddenly showing nothing except black, the one in the Number Six Car. Muttering a curse at the antiquated equipment, he reached for the controls.
"That's not going to help," Evlyn said. "The man in the gray uniform put a piece of cloth over the monitor. I saw him do it as I was coming in."
Pressor glared over his shoulder at her. "And you didn't say anything?"
"What could you have done about it if I had?"
Disgustedly, he turned back around. She was right, of course, but that wasn't the point. "Next time you see something important, tell me," he growled. The low conversation coming from the Number Six speaker had vanished along with the video image, he noted, disappearing into a faint hum. Cranking up the volume did nothing but increase the intensity of the hum. "Did they do something to the voice pickup, too?" he asked Evlyn.
"I didn't see anything," she said, sounding puzzled. "That sounds a lot like the hum from the repulsor generators, though."
"Of course it does," Pressor growled as the explanation hit him. The cloth they were using to block the camera was heavy enough to pick up the vibration from the wall and amplify it over the voice pickup, deafening him as well as blinding him with a single move. So much for keeping tabs on the armored soldiers and their officer.
And from the looks of things, the two Jedi were trying to shut him down, too. "Blast them all, anyway."
"You could," Evlyn reminded him.
Pressor grimaced. Yes, he could blast them, all right. He could blast all of them. A flick of a switch, and they would be slammed down the turbolift pylon hard enough to turn them into jelly. "We'll let them be for now," he told the girl. "Anyway, whether we can see them or not, they're still trapped."
He shifted his attention to the Number Five Car's monitor. The man the Aristocra had identified as Ambassador Jinzler was in there, plus a young-looking Chiss and two of the aliens with the twin mouths, one of whom was currently pounding on the control panel as if trying to break it open.
Talking with them would be a risk, he knew, especially if this New Republic they'd mentioned was anything like the Republic Outbound Flight had left all those years ago. But he had to talk to someone. And of all those in the boarding party, at least none of this particular group was carrying any weapons.
"Go ahead and release Number Five," he told Evlyn. "Actually, give me a couple of minutes to talk to them and then release it. You remember how to deactivate the trap and put the car back on normal?"
"Sure," she said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out the command stick he'd given her. "Seven-three-three-six."
"Right," he said. "Bring them back up here and take them to the pilot ready room. I'll be waiting for them there."
"Okay," she said, taking a step backward. The door behind her slid open, letting in another blast of hot air, and she was gone.
Pressor reached for the comm control, checking over the readings one last time. Ambassador Jinzler—he repeated the name in his mind, making sure he had it right. Jinzler. Jinzler.
His fingers froze a centimeter from the comm switch. Jinzler?
He sucked in a lungful of hot air, staring at the man on the display. Ambassador Jinzler, here aboard his ship. Jedi Lorana was how he'd known her, but her full name had been Jedi Lorana Jinzler.
With an effort, he forced his fingers to travel that last centimeter. "Hello, Ambassador Jinzler."
Without warning, two huge panels slammed down in front of and behind them, the resonating thud as they hit the floor cutting across Feesa's sudden scream of fright. "It's all right," Jinzler said reflexively, reaching out an arm to catch her around her shoulders as she half fell, half lunged against his side. She jerked at his touch, but didn't pull away. "It's all right," he repeated as soothingly as he could.
It wasn't soothing enough, evidently. Her body was trembling as she pressed against him, her glowing eyes narrowed. Jinzler tightened his grip around her shoulders, looking helplessly at Bearsh and the other Geroon who'd wound up trapped in here with them.
But neither alien was in any shape to give him any assistance. Bearsh's companion had pulled his heavy wolvkil drapery half over his head, gripping it by its blue-and-gold collar, as if instinctively preparing to throw off the extra weight and make a run for it, or else just as irrationally hoping that he could hide underneath it. Bearsh himself was half crouched beside the door, his twin mouths repeating the same agitated tones over and over as he clutched the other Geroon's arm with one hand and pounded uselessly on the small control board beside the door with the other.