Star Wars - Kenobi

every entrance was vulnerable. Reaching Ben, Orrin saw the man holding the pistol, contemplating it. “I hope you learned to use that, where you came from.”
    Ben had started to respond when figures loomed in the doorways on every side of the store. Tuskens, all—carrying gaderffii and blaster rifles. Orrin started to raise his rifle, only to have Ben place his hand on his wrist. “Not now,” Ben said.
    The Tuskens at the front of the store parted to allow another to enter. Orrin strained to see through the haze. Shorter than the others, this one wore looser-fitting robes, with no bandolier like the others. And only a single eyepiece, on the left. A red gem glinted where the right eye should be.
    “Plug-eye,” Orrin whispered, gravely. This was it. He hoped his kids had made it out.
    But the lead Tusken wasn’t interested in Orrin. A wrapped hand thrust forward, pointing at Annileen. “Ena’grosh,” a low voice said, less guttural than other Tuskens whom Orrin had heard. And he heard many, now, as the others repeated the same word. “Ena’grosh.”
    “They mean you,” Ben said, watching Annileen walk around from behind the counter, cashbox in hand.
    Orrin moved to stop her, but Ben again held his arm. “I think she’s got this,” he said confidently.
    Annileen stood bravely before the Tuskens, opened the cashbox, and pressed the button of the small device inside. A device Orrin recognized as the remote control activator for the Settlers’ Call—a call which now went out from the oasis, both over the airwaves, and as a roaring scream from a siren outside. A siren that still worked.
    The recorded krayt dragon screeched, and behind Plug-eye, the Sand People responded as Sand People usually did.
    “We’re closed,” Annileen said coldly. “Get the hell out of my store!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    FOR THE SECOND TIME in a month, A’Yark stood before a human settlement, yelling after fleeing cowards.
    “Prodorra! Prodorra!”
    Hoax!
    It was no use. Despite the war leader’s efforts to teach the others, it was the morning raid at the farm all over again. A’Yark had explained that the krayt dragon call was a deceit. They even knew how to silence it, by attacking the towering water-leech with the sound-maker atop it. Their minds understood, and their bodies had followed the initial plan. But their attacks had failed to squelch the siren, and now their spirits betrayed them. Even A’Deen had fled the Airshaper’s home, ignoring his “honored parent.”
    A’Yark looked back over the rise at the structure. The Airshaper was still in there, as were the bodies of the first wave of Tusken attackers. So many slain! Had the Airshaper somehow struck them down? This was her sanctuary. It made sense she would call upon all her powers to defend it. But A’Yark still knew the numbers favored the Tuskens, if they could be compelled to fight.
    Young A’Deen skittered up the dune. “We must go,” the youth said, rushed breaths whistling through his mouthpiece.
    “No!”
    A’Deen was A’Yark’s only surviving child—yet the warrior struggled to resist the urge to smash the youth’s face in. Such fear in A’Yark’s bloodline? Unthinkable!
    So A’Yark chose not to think on it. “No. Recall the others. We get what we came for, or—”
    The warrior’s head turned. The siren was still blaring, its scream having resolved into a long monotone. But there was another sound there, too.
    “Landspeeders,” A’Yark spat. Responding to the alarm, or arriving by chance? It didn’t matter. A’Yark looked south. The retreat of the others had turned into a mad dash, all of them heedless of their leader and without any care for their camping gear, abandoned in the staging area.
    A’Deen bowed his head, looking suddenly quite small. “Honored parent. We must go. ”
    “All my offspring were born under the cowardly sun,” A’Yark said, stomping past the child warrior. “We must catch up to the others.”
    “It is right. They go to safety.”
    “No.” A’Yark said, hardly believing what was happening. “We must catch them— because they’re heading the wrong way! ”
    The ground quaked beneath Orrin’s dress boots. A dozen meters above, the Settlers’ Call siren screamed its ear-piercing warning to the oasis and beyond. But neither sound waves nor retreating Tuskens could distract the farmer from the sorry sight in front of him.
    The base of Old Number One sparked, the vaporator’s control panels