The Krytos Trap

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Asyr rubbed her hand over the faint trace of a scar on his belly. “I’ve seen what the bacta left you for a souvenir, remember, love?”

  Gavin blushed. “Yeah.”

  “And I think you’re not nervous about that as much as you’re nervous about being here among my people.” She raised a finger and pressed it to his lips to forestall a comment. “I know you’re not bigoted—if you were you’d not be here—but you’ve even said yourself that most of your life has been spent among humans. It’s not unusual to be anxious when outnumbered—I feel it whenever we go to places where humans predominate.”

  Gavin’s shoulders sagged a centimeter or two. “I should have realized… I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Asyr smiled broadly. “Come on, let’s make an impression on my friends.”

  Gavin brought his head up and smiled. “As you wish, Asyr, so shall it be.”

  Together they descended from the entry platform and started off on a path that took a long, looping spiral down to the central courtyard. The guests at the party were mostly Bothans, and all of them stared at the couple as they walked past. Gavin knew that had to be because of the high-necked, sleeveless gown Asyr wore. Woven of iridescent blue and purple thread, the color shifted and shimmered with her every movement. The garment clung tight to her slender body, but the fact that the skirts had been slit from ankle to high on her thigh meant she was not hampered while walking. She’d loosely draped a simple blue stole, woven from the metallic thread used in her dress, across her back and through her elbows, completing the outfit.

  Other Bothan females wore similar gowns, but none so well. Though he was not wholly adept at reading Bothan body language and facial expressions, the rippling of fur on necks and shoulders of those they passed by told him that Asyr’s gown was making quite an impression indeed. Gavin thought he looked pretty sharp in his Rogue Squadron uniform, but he was a black hole compared with a supernova, and quite content with that role.

  As they reached the courtyard, a lithe female Bothan with black and tan markings excused herself from a circle of individuals who were listening to Borsk Fey’lya holding forth on something. She wore a gown similar in design to Asyr’s, though it had been made of cloth of gold and had been accented with jet beadwork in the form of stripes. She beamed broadly as she approached them. “Asyr Sei’lar, you are a vision!”

  Asyr gave her friend a big hug. “Thank you for the invitation, Liska.”

  Liska pulled back and looked up at Gavin. “And you are Asyr’s friend.”

  Gavin executed a semiformal bow. “Gavin Darklighter of Rogue Squadron, pleased to make your acquaintance.” He took her hand in his and shook it gently.

  Liska sighed contentedly, then smiled at Asyr. “So mannerly, no wonder you find him so attractive. How did you meet him?”

  Asyr hesitated for a moment. “I was part of an operation in Invisec before the liberation. We met then.”

  Gavin smiled. “She was trying to get me executed as an example to the Imps.”

  “You always did play a little rough, Asyr.”

  Asyr shrugged. “Luckily he had Nawara Ven defending him, so the execution was delayed. Imps showed up, Gavin saved my life and I his in the ensuing firefight. Not much more to tell than that.”

  “Quite the first date, Asyr. It’s a wonder he dared go out with you again.” Liska linked her arm through Asyr’s. “You never seemed to get into this sort of trouble when I’ve been there to keep you safe.”

  “True enough.”

  Liska looked up at Gavin. “I’m going to steal her away for a moment or two, just to get caught up. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Gavin gave her a big smile and shook his head. “Not at all—seeing you again is all she’s talked about since the invitation came. I’ll just find myself something to drink.”

  Asyr reached out and gave his right hand a squeeze. “Won’t be but a minute.”

  “Have fun.” Gavin watched Liska lead her away, then looked around, surveying his surroundings. Knots of individuals—almost exclusively Bothans—dominated the landscape. About the only place they were not predominant was at one bar where a couple of humans, two Ithorians, and a handful of other non-Bothan individuals seemed to have taken up residence. Gavin drifted off in that direction, keeping his strides even and his head up even though something in his belly made him want to hurry over there.

  He looked at the bartender. “Lomin-ale, please.”

  A short, balding man smiled over at him. “You should drink the expensive stuff—the Bothans are paying for it.”

  “Perhaps, but I like lomin-ale.” Gavin accepted the frothy green glass of ale, sipped, then licked the foam off his upper lip. The ale was good, though not nearly cold enough for his tastes. Bothans don’t seem to like particularly cold drinks, so that’s not a big surprise, I guess.

  The shorter man offered Gavin his hand. “Herrit Gordon, Ministry of State.”

  “Gavin Darklighter, Rogue Squadron.”

  Herrit shook his hand firmly. “Glad to meet you. I did a tour of duty with the Diplomatic Corps on Bothawui, so they felt they had to invite me.” He pointed off toward a woman who looked positively dowdy amid a circle of Bothan females. “That’s my wife, Tatavan. She learned to speak Bothan, so she’s quite popular among the Bothans.”

  “A useful skill, I have no doubt. I only know a few words.” Gavin sipped his ale again. “I came with Asyr Sei’lar. She’s a friend of Liska Dan’kre.”

  “I know the family. I liaised with her father on Bothawui. Minor nobles, but they have a thriving trade business to support them, so they wield a bit more power than might be imagined by their place in the formal hierarchy.”

  “Powerful, really?”

  “She was able to bring you, wasn’t she?”

  Gavin frowned and drank again, killing the need for an immediate reply. I know she didn’t bring me as a trophy—she told me that much and I believe her. “You make it sound as if she’s trying to annoy some of the folks here.”

  “Not the impression I meant to make, I’m afraid. Asyr is something of a renegade. She went to school with Liska and some of the others.”

  “I know. She told me.”

  “I’m sure she did. That school, however, was meant to prepare her for a life as a trader or in a governmental position. Without her family’s permission she transmitted an application to the Bothan Martial Academy and was accepted. She did very well there, and her family is very proud of her accomplishments, but they wonder when she will abandon what they see as adventurism and get a real career.”

  Gavin’s smile returned to his face. “I doubt that will happen very soon. Asyr seems very at home in the squadron.”

  “Don’t underestimate the pull of the Bothan family structure. Their families are very tightly bound together.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  Herrit nodded, then looked toward his wife and paled. Gavin followed his gaze and saw a trio of male Bothans approaching them. The leader stood as tall as Gavin, though he did not have Gavin’s bulk. Creamy white fur and golden eyes contrasted with the black uniform he wore. His subordinates wore similar uniforms, but their fur was a motley riot of orange and black.

  The lead Bothan stopped right in front of Gavin, but did not offer a hand in greeting. “I am Karka Kre’fey, grandson of General Laryn Kre’fey. You were with Rogue Squadron at Borleias?”

  “I was.” Setting his ale on the bar, Gavin aped Karka’s stance by grasping his hands together at the small of his back. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Reports on the assault suggest my grandfather was poorly prepared for the assault and made foolish decisions in the battle.”

  “And?”

  The Bothan’s golden eyes burned with anger. “I would know if you feel these reports are correct.”

  Gavin ignored the gasp from Herrit. “In my opinion, they are.”

  Karka’s open-handed slap arrived with no warning and caught Gavin ove
r the left cheek, snapping his head around. Gavin staggered back a step, but the bar kept him from going down. He grabbed onto it with his hands, then straightened up slowly. He wanted to shake his head to kill the ringing in his ears, but he stopped himself and instead looked Karka hard in the eyes.

  “I understand your being upset over your grandfather’s death.”

  “I am upset because you have besmirched his honor.”

  “Be that as it may, don’t slap me again.”

  “Or?”

  Herrit stepped forward. “Please, let’s not have an altercation here.”

  Gavin reached out and grabbed Herrit by the back of the neck. He directed the diplomat back to his place at the bar. “We’re not going to have a fight, sir.”

  Karka’s lip curled back in a snarl. “You have sullied the honor of the Kre’fey family. I challenge you to a duel.”

  Gavin shook his head slowly. “No.”

  “You refuse to accept?”

  “I will not fight you.”

  “Then you are a coward.”

  Gavin laughed aloud. Just a year previous he would have leaped on Karka and done his best to pummel him, but his time with Rogue Squadron had changed him so that was not an option. Actually, it is an option, but not one I’m compelled to choose. In the last year Wedge and Corran and even Tycho had impressed upon him the fact that what others thought and said didn’t matter—it was the person inside and what he thought of himself that mattered. That’s what allows Tycho to endure everything he’s going through. He’s got a quiet kind of courage that doesn’t require boasts and defenses because it’s the courage that kicks in when it’s really needed.

  While part of him still wanted to know the satisfaction of using his fist to disassociate Karka’s teeth from their sockets, another part of him reveled in his freedom to ignore the challenge. Because he would not allow himself to be aroused by the Bothan’s taunts, those taunts had no power. They became pitiful in their efforts, and transparent. And ignoring them hurts Karka more than any physical damage I could inflict upon him.

  Gavin met Karka’s molten stare. “Call me a coward if you wish, I don’t care. You are not my enemy. My enemy is the Empire and its remnants. Maybe you can’t see that. Your grandfather could. Strikes me that you honor his memory more by continuing his crusade than in trying to hide mistakes he may have made.” He extended his right hand toward the Bothan.

  Karka stared at it as if it were a snake, then snarled and spun on his heel. His subordinates fell into step with him, prompting a sigh of relief from Herrit as they departed.

  The bartender plopped a fresh lomin-ale on the bar for Gavin. “To your health, sir.”

  Herrit clinked his lum mug against the glass. “You handled that well. Sorry I got in your way.”

  “No blood, no report.” Gavin worked his jaw around and heard it pop. “I’ll be feeling that tomorrow.”

  Asyr appeared at his side. “What happened?”

  Gavin shrugged. “Nothing, really.”

  Herrit smiled. “Just a couple of boys getting some exercise.”

  Asyr looked up at Gavin. “Exercise?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I gave that maturity you were talking about a workout. Felt pretty good, too.”

  “If you want to leave, we can.”

  Gavin shook his head. “No, stay and see your friends. Have fun. I don’t think there’s going to be any more excitement tonight.”

  The fact that Borsk Fey’lya was nowhere to be seen heartened Admiral Ackbar greatly as he entered Mon Mothma’s living quarters. The presence of General Cracken confirmed that the reason he had been summoned was business, but that everything would be conducted informally. Whatever action needed to be referred to the Provisional Council would be in its own good time.

  Had he thought Mon Mothma possessed a Bothan’s sense of subtlety, he would have assumed the way her apartments had been redecorated were designed to encourage a sense of well-being in him. Diaphanous blue and green drapes rippled gently in front of the windows—the movement being caused by the air conditioning, though it did suggest the windows behind the drapes were open. The carpeting had a rich aquamarine hue to it, and the tile pattern used to decorate the lower half of the wall had a nautical motif. The upper part of the wall matched the carpet in color, but the recessed oscillating lights in the ceiling gently picked up and sparkled from the rainbow pinpoints worked into the paint.

  Even the furnishings were more to his liking than most. Painted in greens, browns, and blues, they had an organic and flowing shape to them. They lacked the pure symmetry that most humans seemed to prefer. The table in the center of the room, for example, could have been water that had been poured out on the ground, frozen, and then placed atop legs. The lack of sharp edges and jagged corners somehow drained tension from the room, and Ackbar felt himself relaxing.

  Mon Mothma smiled in warm welcome. “I thank you for coming so quickly after I sent for you. I know the trial is your primary concern and is occupying much of your time.”

  “The trial is indeed a concern of mine, but I consider it a cove, when my real concern is the ocean of security for the New Republic.” Ackbar opened his hands. “I must compliment you on the decor—I find it most pleasing. You grew up in one of Chandrila’s port cities, did you not?”

  “Yes, my mother was the governor there. I learned to love the Silver Sea. I find that making my home over in the image of where I lived in better times is good for my sanity.”

  “You have done a wonderful job.” Ackbar looked around the room again. “It is a pity to bring the discussion of difficult times into such a beautiful place.”

  “There are always compromises that become necessary.” Mon Mothma waved Ackbar to a floating chair fashioned after a fan of blue seaweed. She seated herself in a similar chair, and General Cracken joined them by dragging over a green coral chair. “There are some things that have come up that could require Council activity, but I think it would be better to present them to the Council as fait accompli.”

  Ackbar’s barbels twitched. “Insulating the Council from a backlash?”

  “And preventing the chance for people to profit from what we are going to be doing, materially or politically.” Mon Mothma sighed heavily. “There are times I can see glimmers of what made the Emperor decide to dissolve the Senate. I reject that course of action, but I can certainly feel its allure. I especially hate it when action that is necessary is delayed so various individuals can set themselves up to reap the benefits of doing what they have no choice but to do. Not the way it was when we had to deal directly with the Empire.”

  “I have ridden the crest of that wave myself, Mon Mothma. Being a rebellion was much more simple than being a government.” Ackbar settled back into his chair and folded his hands into his lap. “What is it you would have of me?”

  Mon Mothma looked at General Cracken. “You might want to give the Admiral some of the background on this.”

  Cracken nodded. “Though the pro-Palpatine terrorists last struck ten days ago, that attack has had a chilling effect on our bacta distribution efforts. The Krytos virus is beginning to spread a bit more quickly than we projected when we got the bacta from Warlord Zsinj. People are balancing their fear of the disease against their fear of being at ground zero of a terrorist attack. Black market prices for bacta are beginning to climb again because, in effect, the PCF attack has made our bacta off-limits to a lot of people. The demand for bacta from other sources is thus increasing, and so are the prices.”

  Ackbar gave Cracken a wall-eyed stare. “Vorru and his militia have not been able to crack down on the black marketeers?”

  “Vorru claims his people are concentrating on keeping the PCF under wraps. They’re reacting to every rumor they get and, though we have not released this information to the public, they have uncovered a couple of bombs that our people think were created by the PCF. I do not for a minute think Vorru is playing everything entirely straight, but his people are main
taining order in a sector we had no chance of controlling.”

  “And how does this concern me?”

  Mon Mothma nodded. “General Cracken has been in charge of some ultra-secret researches into the Krytos virus. Details of them have been kept even from me, but their continuation requires a quantity of ryll.”

  The Mon Calamari pressed his hands together. “And that will require an expedition to Ryloth.”

  “Precisely. Aside from getting the ryll, I think this will be an excellent opportunity for us to open some diplomatic channels with the Twi’leks, even if it is only at a very low level.”

  “And you will want Counselor Ven to go.”

  “Yes.” Mon Mothma smiled. “All of Rogue Squadron, in fact. Commander Antilles made quite an impression there several years ago, and the contribution of Nawara Ven to the taking of Coruscant has attracted a lot of attention on Ryloth. This notoriety will add weight to our negotiating position.”

  “So you need me to delay the trial and release Rogue Squadron to this duty.”

  The leader of the New Republic narrowed her eyes. “Is there a problem with this? Surely you can find a reason to grant a continuance in the case.”

  Ackbar’s mouth dropped open in a silent laugh. “Find a reason? I could find a school of them, Chief Councilor. I applaud General Cracken’s ability to uncover so much so quickly about Captain Celchu’s involvement with the Empire—the pace of discovery is remarkable. The trial is moving with such alacrity that there is no way the defense has adequate time to prepare. Counselor Ven is doing his best, but this is clearly the most difficult assignment he’s been given since joining Rogue Squadron.”

  “So this is not a problem?”

  “No, though I suppose the continuance cannot be granted on the grounds that Rogue Squadron is going off on a secret mission to Ryloth?” When silence met his question, Ackbar opened his mouth in a smile. “I was being facetious. It was a joke.”

  Cracken laughed, but Mon Mothma just smiled. “Forgive me, my friend, but as General Cracken will attest, I have not heard many things that make me laugh of late.”