Star Wars: X-Wing II: Wedge's Gamble Read online

  Aril appropriated Gavin’s ale and downed a healthy swallow of it. “That was close.”

  “Gand has previously avoided such contact. Gand has seen Imperials rounding up others, both Quarren and Gamorreans.”

  Shiel nodded. “The kid and I saw a family of Gamorreans herded off.”

  “The stories we’ve heard indicate occasional sweeps taking in Gamorreans and Quarren on a weekly basis. They take a dozen or two.” Nawara Ven scraped talons along his jawline. “Perhaps there has been an anti-Imperial uprising on Gamorr.”

  “That would explain the taking of Gamorreans.” Aril’s garnet eyes sparkled in the backlight of the glowing drink the service droid placed in front of Rhysati. “Why the Quarren?”

  Nawara dropped a ten-credit piece in the slot on top of the droid’s head and drew his brandy from the tray. “Quarren share the same world with the Mon Calamari, but the two populations are not wholly united. Perhaps they want to exploit the enmity between them.”

  A petite, black-furred female Bothan came walking over to their table and smiled invitingly in Gavin’s direction. A diamond of silken white fur covered her from throat to navel—it being visible beneath her sleeveless jacket’s loose lacing closures. White also sheathed her hands and carried on up to mid forearm. A blaze of white fur blossomed in the middle of her brow and splashed across her left eye and cheek to where it narrowed again at the corner of her jaw. Her light violet eyes shone brightly in contrast to the fur surrounding them, giving her a penetrating stare that sent a quick jolt through Gavin.

  Nawara looked up at her. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I think not, sir.” She picked up Gavin’s identification card, read it, and gently set it down again. “I noticed how you dared defy that stormtrooper, Vin Leiger, and I thought perhaps I would like to learn more of a man who can be so casual in a place where so few of his kind are found. I thought we might discuss this … privately.”

  It took Gavin a half second to remember he was Vin Leiger, but that was because he’d not recognized himself in her description of the encounter with the stormtrooper. She must have somehow confused me with Nawara, but she’s looking right at me. “Urn, I, ah, I’m here with my friends.”

  She nodded politely. “Of course, you would not want to abandon them. I understand.” The Bothan glanced back over her shoulder toward where people were dancing. “Surely they would not begrudge my stealing you away for one dance?”

  “Ah, we’re discussing something right now. Perhaps another time, Miss …”

  “I am Asyr Sei’lar.” Her smile slackened slightly. “Another time, then?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  A Gotal seated in the next booth over turned around. “He’s lying, Asyr. Your approach made him nervous and your retreat filled him with relief.” As the horned humanoid came around to face Gavin he produced a blaster and pointed it at the Rogues. Out of the corner of his eye Gavon saw Asyr move and a small blaster appeared in her right hand. While he saw no more guns, he heard a crescendo of safety switches being snapped off, so he instantly rejected the idea of digging for his puny hold-out blaster.

  Nawara’s voice took on an edge, the sort of edge Gavin imagined it had when the Twi’lek had fought for his clients in court. “Would someone care to explain what my friend has done wrong here? Is it a crime to refuse to dance in the Azure Dianoga?”

  “Not at all, but his relief shows him to be as much a bigot as the stormtroopers who just left here.” Asyr tapped Gavin’s ID card with the muzzle of her blaster. “If he’d not lied, if he’d accepted my invitation, we’d have known he’s like your woman—someone to whom species makes no difference. Since he’s a bigot, we have other uses for him.”

  “And those would be?”

  The Bothan smiled coolly. “The Imps have been kidnapping people from Invisec and they’ve not returned them. Something has to be done, so we have formed the Alien Combine. We need someone to take a message to the Imps to let them know we’ll tolerate their prédation no longer. Your friend has elected himself to fill that post and this will be one time when a dead man will tell a tale.”

  20

  Kirtan Loor’s ears popped as the lift ascended to the rarefied precincts where Ysanne Isard lived. She does not live, she lairs. As much as he hated her intrusive holo-visitations to his tiny office, being summoned to see her personally was even less of a cause for celebration. And even though all of the news he had relayed to her had been very positive, he did not see her as someone who would invite a subordinate to her office to congratulate him on his successes.

  To eat him alive, perhaps, but not to congratulate him.

  The lift slowed, then stopped, and the doors slid open. He stepped out and paused, raising his arms away from his body. Though the scarlet-armored Imperial Guards on either side of the lift and at either end of the short corridor did not move or even seem to pay attention to him, he knew rash or casual movements could prove lethal in their territory. He waited, then lowered his arms and walked down the corridor to his right. After a couple more turns, passing several more guard stations, he arrived at the door to Isard’s office and it slid open soundlessly.

  Though he stood half a head taller than she did, Loor always felt dwarfed by her. That impression had nothing to do with her physical presence, though she was a strikingly handsome woman, and her mismatched eyes did lend her an exotic air. Instead it was the way she stood, how she moved, and how well she wore the scarlet uniform that confirmed her right to rule. Though she made no claim to the title of Empress, she was very much Imperial in her manner. In a time when the Empire was crumbling, that was enough to leave her in charge.

  Isard waved Loor into her office. As he had on each previous visit to it, he marveled at the sheer emptiness of the cavernous room. Whereas other Imperial officers and bureaucrats managed to cram their cramped offices with treasures from countless worlds, Isard reveled in the greatest luxury of all on crowded Imperial Center—uncluttered space. The external transparisteel wall gave her a view of the world she ruled as the sun set on it and the red strip edging the room’s blue carpet appeared to be just an extension of the red sunset.

  “You wished to see me, Madam Director?”

  Isard hit a button on a remote and shields slowly descended to eclipse the sun. She let the office fall completely dark before slowly bringing the lights up. “I did indeed wish to see you. General Derricote now wants Sullustans for his experiments?”

  “He does. They were his second choice. He would have preferred Wookiees, but I explained to him the foolishness of killing off a valuable labor source.”

  “Did you think to explain to him the foolishness of choosing Sullustans?”

  Loor nodded. “I did, but he countered that since SoroSuub had chosen to back the Rebellion, punishing them is hardly out of the question. I suggested he should use Ewoks as a substitute, but he actually has some sound scientific reasons for wanting to work with Sullustans. The Quarren are an outlink to some of the more aquatic species, Gamorreans to another set of creatures, and the Sullustans, he says, will be a bridge race to Shistavanen, Bothan, and similar species.”

  Isard frowned. “I would prefer avoiding the slaughter of Sullustans—like Wookiees they are useful. However, if their sacrifice will give me dead Bothans, the advantage outweighs the immediate disadvantage. Perhaps we should quarantine a breeding stock of Sullustans so they can repopulate their world.”

  Her reasoning seemed logical to him, which surprised Kirtan Loor. On one hand she was plotting a way to slaughter millions of creatures in a most horrible way, yet on the other she was concerned with having enough of one species left alive to repopulate devastated worlds. While he had no love for Sullustans, and did see them as being inferior to humanity, he did think of them as something more than grain that could be poisoned and fed to rats, with some pristine kernels held back as seed stock.

  Was there a time I would have seen this as insanity? That question lurked in
his brain and he was surprised that he did not have a clear answer to it. Does it truly matter? These are extraordinary times, and they call for extraordinary action.

  “Your precaution, Madam Director, is wise, but I wonder if it will be needed.”

  “You are approaching a subject obliquely, Agent Loor. Please be more direct.” She clasped her hands at the small of her back. “You see a problem with Derricote’s Krytos virus?”

  “I do. It can be cured by bacta.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, of course.” Isard smiled slightly. “That a cure can be affected by the use of bacta was one of my original design parameters for the virus.”

  Loor’s jaw dropped. “But I thought your goal was to kill the aliens here on Imperial Center so that when the Rebels came here they would be horrified.”

  “Oh, I expect that, but in a way you never imagined. The problem with your scenario is that it will not cripple the Rebellion.” Her eyes sharpened. “Warlord Zsinj, Darth Vader, and even the Emperor failed to see that a single strike at the Rebellion will not destroy it. The Rebellion is a fire. You have to extinguish each and every hot spot, or you have to deny it fuel, so it cannot burn any longer. They settled on the former method, whereas I will use the latter.”

  “I am not certain I follow you.”

  “This is not a surprise.” She held a hand up. “What do the Rebels do when one of their comrades is killed?”

  “Bury him, burn him, whatever.”

  “And if one of their comrades is wounded?”

  “Get him help.” The simplicity of the question and the speed with which the answer came to him undercut its importance. He thought for a moment, then added, “Rescuing the man, getting him medical help, rehabilitating him, and getting him back into combat all require more resources than a memorial service.”

  “There is hope for you, Agent Loor.” Isard’s smile grew, as did the lump of ice in Loor’s stomach. “The Rebellion has done a great deal with severely restricted resources, both in terms of matériel and personnel. If a trained warrior cannot be saved by medical intervention, the Rebellion has lost him and all the hours spent training him. While there are always more bodies willing to be sacrificed to tear down the Empire, training them is a strain.

  “Another question for you: What will the Rebels do when they find people beginning to be sick with the Krytos virus.”

  Loor frowned. “They will heal them, if they can.”

  “Which means they will require unbelievably vast amounts of bacta. Just stabilizing a Krytos victim in the disease’s incubation period—before the virus has begun to reproduce out of control—will result in the loss of a full liter of bacta. That doesn’t seem like much, of course, since a bacta tank holds considerably more than that, but the losses will become significant as the disease spreads. Total production on Thyferra last year was seventeen billion liters. The amount needed to treat all the victims here on Imperial Center will require three quarters of last year’s production. At the current prices for bacta, saving everyone they can will bankrupt the Rebellion.”

  “With no fuel they cannot burn.” Loor stared down at the floor, then shook himself. “When Derricote gets the virus perfected, you’ll turn the planet over to the Rebels.”

  “Exactly. And because the virus will not infect humans, I force the human Rebels to act to save as many aliens as they can. If they do not, because they are unaffected it will appear to their alien allies that they are just as unconcerned about aliens as they accuse us Imperials of being. Moreover, because elements of Rogue Squadron are here on Imperial Center now, we can begin to weave together lies that will implicate them in spreading the virus.”

  “No one would believe that of them.”

  “No one would believe they would free vicious criminals from Kessel and send them to Imperial Center, but they did.” Isard slowly rubbed her hands together. “While that morsel will be a lie, it is a lie that the Bothans will use as a pry bar to work more power into their hands. Those aliens we do not kill or drive away into a self-imposed quarantine will see the wisdom of repudiating their alliance with treacherous humans. The Rebellion will tear itself apart from within.”

  Loor gave himself a few moments and let all she had said sort itself out in his brain. “Am I to assume, then, that you do not want the members of Rogue Squadron we have identified swept up?”

  “No, I want them to scout out the world and decide on one or another plan of attack to take this world away from us. As long as they are seeing what we want them to see, and our agent keeps us apprised of their timetable, they are useful to us. We cannot allow them to act before we have sufficiently infected the alien population of the world. If they strike prematurely, they will never take the world and our efforts to gather them here and present to them the Krytos crisis will fail.”

  Isard closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “You will send out the appropriate code phrases to alert our agent that you desire a meeting, face-to-face.”

  “Isn’t that risky?”

  “I think it is vital. Arrange for it this evening—you will go yourself.”

  “But …”

  Ysanne Isard’s light laughter came laden with sharp barbs. “You are afraid of Corran Horn finding you, yes?”

  Loor knew denying the truth in her question was foolish. “He would kill me if he had the opportunity to do so.”

  “But the chances of your running into him here, on Imperial Center, are what, one in trillions?”

  “Corran Horn has an annoying facility for beating those kinds of odds and showing up where he is least wanted.” Loor’s frown deepened into a scowl, but not because he resented the fear he had of Corran Horn. That fear was well founded and useful, just as the fear of a rancor might keep someone away from its lair. If Corran had the opportunity to kill him, he would take it and likely succeed.

  What bothered Loor more than that eventuality was Ysanne Isard’s willingness to put him in jeopardy by sending him out to meet the traitor in Rogue Squadron. So far information generated by the spy had only been used actively once. That use had resulted in the death of Bror Jace, but things had been arranged so that everything appeared coincidental. That could have been enough to leave Corran without suspicion, but if it was not, then Loor’s sojourn could lead to a confrontation and his death.

  To her I am expendable—an opinion I do not share. While she can take chances with me, I cannot afford to take chances myself. Fortunately I am not entirely without resources of my own here on Imperial Center. I will have to take precautions myself. I must prevent Corran from having a confrontation he devoutly desires and one I heartily wish to avoid.

  Isard studied him with no mercy in her eyes. “Horn is not what should concern you—assuring our spy of our support is. Without timely and reliable reports, things could collapse and that would not please me.”

  “Yes, Madam Director.”

  “Oh, and order the collection of some Sullustans. Keep General Derricote happy.” She hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “Or, at least, keep him productive. The Empire is a house afire and he is the means to smothering the blaze. When his work is done, the Rebellion will have ceased to be a problem. Then and only then will we be able to begin to restore the galaxy to the way it should be.”

  21

  Though Mirax’s appearance surprised Wedge and had him a bit off balance, Iella took it immediately in stride. She looped an arm through Mirax’s and smiled sweetly. “We have some catching up to do, so you boys just follow along and don’t you dare try to overhear us.” Though her smile remained in place, and she kept a light tone in her voice, Wedge read tension and wariness in her eyes.

  “As you wish, ladies.” He sketched a short bow, then followed them to the lifts. They descended in one cage, then headed out onto the rain-slicked promenade. Iella and Mirax chatted and laughed as their path meandered around, entering buildings, stopping at vistas, and going from point to point of interest wh
ile always descending. Wedge could tell, from the way they traveled, that Iella made some choices at random, but others with a purpose. With the frequent stops and passes through clothing boutiques that made him feel uncomfortable, Iella made it very difficult for anyone following them to go unnoticed.

  Wedge realized that being forced to wait amid racks of women’s clothing samples made him uneasy because of more than his gender making him feel utterly out of place there. For the past seven plus years he had been at war. While there had been relaxing times and he’d been given leaves, he’d never slipped out of his identity of being a pilot. Without family to visit—his parents were dead, and because of his connection to the Rebellion, visiting any other relatives would put them in jeopardy—he’d taken time off but not time away. Wandering through the byways of Coruscant was as close as he had come to what others might see as normal life since his parents were killed.

  He smiled. Even the time he had put in as a touring hero for the Rebellion had been far from normal. He found himself whisked around from planet to planet, banquet to banquet, wearing a dress uniform he didn’t even know the Rebellion had. At receptions and parties and dinners he found himself congratulated for his part in the Rebellion by creatures he never knew existed before. Gifts had been bestowed upon him, honors given him, and opportunities provided him to do things he’d never had the courage to even dream about as a child.

  He watched as Iella and Mirax played with a garment-fabricator holo-unit, lengthening and shortening, trimming and coloring dresses they’d never order. They laughed and were having fun. Just the way normal folks do when enjoying a normal life.

  The word “normal” stuck in his brain for a moment and he realized that “normal” was a goal for most folks that had no definition. When Rogue Squadron’s chief tech, Zraii, ran diagnostics on Wedge’s X-wing, normal was defined by a series of benchmark readings established in Alliance specifications and Incom performance manuals. There was a way to determine if the fighter was performing normally or not. And if it was deficient in some way or other, that defect could be corrected.