Star Wars - X-Wing - Krytos Trap

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Gavin forced himself to step forward and reenter the

  Gamorrean's hovel. The fetid stink returned to his nose and

  found accompaniment in the horrible sights and sounds that

  greeted him. The single-room hovel itself was scarcely larger

  than his own room in the squadron headquarters--and he

  found that a bit cramped for one. It had two doors--the one

  he'd opened using a lock-descrambling unit and a back door.

  A heating plate and water spigot to the left of the doorway

  marked the extent of the dwelling's kitchen facilities. The

  refresher station stood farther along that wall, in the corner.

  Spattered blood covered all of it, sprayed along the

  floor, up the walls, and across the ceiling. It had dried and

  taken on a black hue, making the room look as if a shadow

  had exploded. The explosion's epicenter lay in the back cor-

  ner, on a raised black platform that glistened in what little

  light made it in past Gavin.

  A wet, gurgling sound pulsed arhythmically from that

  corner. On the platform, restrained by bedding twisted about

  him while in the throes of agony, the mortal shell of the

  Gamorrean named Tolra somehow clung to life. Gavin could

  see where the flesh had split, allowing leg and arm bones to

  protrude. The skin itself had thinned to a green-grey translu-

  cency and hung in ragged ribbons from ribs and fingers.

  The Gamorrean seemed to sense Gavin's presence, be-

  cause he turned to look at him. With a thick sucking sound,

  like cold grease being slathered over machine gears, the skull

  turned toward him while the fleshy sac encompassing it did

  not. The Gamorrean's horns and tusks gashed his own skin,

  then the thick muscles on the creature's neck snapped, leav-

  ing the massive skull to 1oll unnaturally in a puddle of vis-

  cous tissue.

  A chill settled over Gavin. Though he knew Tolra was

  dead and that the disease had long since eaten away any

  trace of sapience, he nodded toward the Gamorrean. "You

  saved them. You did it. May the Force be with you."

  Shivering, he turned and walked from the room. He sat

  down outside and stripped the filmplast covering off his

  boots, then tossed them back through the darkened door-

  way. He didn't bother to look up when a shadow fell over

  him. "He's dead."

  Asyr crouched down beside him. "The clean team will

  get here shortly. Are you all right?"

  Gavin thought a moment before he answered. "I will be,

  and I think that scares me." "No reason it should."

  "I think there is." He jerked a thumb toward the hovel.

  "There is a Gamorrean in there who has been turned into a

  mass of jelly. The disease killed him, but it did so in a way

  that didn't let him die until he could experience every frag-

  ment of pain possible. There's nothing left to him, but he was

  still breathing when I went in there. He was so tough, he

  probably lasted longer than a week in the end stages of the

  disease."

  The Bothan stroked Gavin's cheek. "He fought the dis-

  ease. That's good."

  "Sure, but the fact that we can find something noble in

  this seems twisted." He shook his head. 'Tve seen more

  death in my time with Rogue Squadron than I have ever seen

  before, but nothing was so hideous as this. A year ago !

  would have run screaming. Now I just clean my boots and

  wait for guys with sterilizer units to show up. I'm changing

  and I'm not sure I like it."

  Asyr smiled gently at him. "It's called maturing, Gavin,

  and not everyone likes it. Now me, I think you're maturing

  very well."

  Gavin half-coughed a laugh. "Thanks, but I still have to

  wonder if it's right that we can see something like that and

  just continue on."

  "We continue on, my dear, because we must." Asyr's

  voice developed an edge. "The Gamorrean, he summoned up

  the strength to lock others out and protect them. That was

  good. You and I, though, have a different mission. This dis-

  ease doesn't appear to affect our species, so we have volun-

  teered to help out during this public health crisis, but that is

  not our primary purpose here. Our mission is to fly our

  X-wings, to locate and destroy the kind of monsters who

  would do this kind of thing to others. Doing that requires all

  the maturity we can muster."

  "I know." He rubbed a hand along her spine, then

  looked over to where Emtrey was conversing with an Emdee-

  oh and two men carrying portable plasma-incinerator units.

  The droid would take samples; then the men would burn

  everything in the hovel, including the first five millimeters of

  ferrocrete, to a white ash that would be vacuumed up and

  disposed of safely.

  Gavin let Asyr help him to his feet. "You're right, of

  course. I hope we can accomplish our mission. If we don't,

  I'm afraid we'll have to take Coruscant down to bedrock,

  and I don't think even that will erase the scourge of the

  Empire from the galaxy."

  I think even stormtroopers would find my men terrifyingly

  efficient. From the dark security of the grav-car's interior,

  Kirtan Loor watched as four Special Intelligence operatives

  clad in civilian garb approached the building's door. As huge

  and imposing as they were, they moved with a lethal fluidity

  their armor normally hid. Almost casually, one of them

  placed a thermite boring charge on the door lock and set it,

  then accepted a blaster carbine from a compatriot and flat-

  tened himself against the building's wall.

  A red light blinked three times on the thermite charge,

  then a smoke-shrouded gout of white fire burst to hissing

  life. The harsh light transformed the shadowed Imperial Cen-

  ter street into a chiaroscuro landscape burned clean of imper-

  fections but still full of menace. One of the operatives

  punched a hooked prybar through the center of the fire and

  yanked the door open, then his three compatriots dashed

  through.

  The blue backlight of stun-fire strobed momentarily

  through the doorway and gaps in the window shading. Loor

  waited for a moment, then saw two more flashes. A human

  figure appeared in the doorway and nodded in his direction,

  then retreated into the shadows of the building's interior.

  Loor opened the grav-car's door and emerged. He gath-

  ered a cloak about himself and pulled the hood up to conceal

  his face from incidental observation. He strode forward pur-

  posefully, but he imagined himself a pale imitation of Darth

  Vader. Tall and skeletally slender, with dark hair, he had

  been told he resembled a young Grand Moff Tarkin. While

  that comparison had been one he had used to his advantage,

  he would have preferred to inspire Vaderian terror in those

  with whom he dealt.

  He squeezed past the two operatives at the doorway and

  stepped over the drooling Ithorian lying in the center of the

  antechamber. Beyond it, through a short corridor and past a

  third operative, he arri
ved in a room that resembled a rodent

  nest more than it did a human dwelling. It stank of mildew

  and old, musty sweat, th ough the occupant's new terror

  added piquant elements to the room's stale bouquet.

  Loor looked down at the small, balding man pinned to

  the stained mattress by the muzzle of a blaster. "Your sur-

  roundings are so miserable, I am almost moved to pity you,

  Nartlo, but then, pity is wasted on the dead, isn't it?"

  "What are you talking about?" The man's brown eyes

  bulged with terror. "I don't know you. What did I do?"

  "True, you do not know me, but you have brokered

  some cure for friends of mine. It has been selling at a high

  price, but they tell me that you have told them the market

  has crashed. At the same time they noted that the supply of

  cure you returned to them had gone from 95 percent purity

  to 75 percent purity." Loor shook his head slowly, mourn-

  fully. "My friends feel you have lied to and cheated them."

  "No, no, I didn't do that." Nartlo tried to claw his way

  into a sitting position, but the operative beside the makeshift

  bed kept him rooted in one spot. "I drew off some of the

  bacta as a sample, but a deal went bad and I lost it. I didn't

  figure they'd believe I lost it, so I tried to cover up what I'd

  done. I'm sorry."

  "And stupid if you expect me to believe a story that was

  ancient when the Old Republic was born." Loor let anger

  into his voice and won a groan from his victim. Because of

  the surveillance he had on Nartlo, Loor did know that the

  story was not wholly false. Some of the bacta had been lost

  when a deal went sour, but only some. The rest of the miss-

  ing cure had been donated to an alien pleasure house for the

  employees' own use. Nartlo had spent a week basking in

  their considerable gratitude. "Tell me we won't find a

  Rodian concubine's sucker-marks on your back if we strip

  off your shirt."

  Nartlo accompanied his curling up into a fetal ball with

  a low moan. "I owed some favors."

  "You gained some favors, more than you owed." Loor

  took a step closer to the bed, forcing Nartlo to crane his neck

  back to look up at him. "Now you owe me favors."

  "Anything you want, anything."

  "Good." Loor turned to the right and nodded at the

  operative menacing the small man. The operative withdrew a

  step and Nartlo coughed as the pressure eased on his rib

  cage. "You told my friends that the market for cure had

  crashed. Explain."

  "The Rebels picked up a lot of cure. I don't know when

  or where, but it was recent and was really very quiet. Rogue

  Squadron was involved, though, I know that much. I've been

  selling some of your cure to people who do business with

  people who work for people in the Provisional Council, see.

  They've been buying to be able to keep themselves and their

  supporters healthy--no matter the plague doesn't seem to

  affect them."

  Loor smiled within the dark sanctum of his hood. The

  New Republic government had put into place programs that

  were designed to be fair to the victims of the Krytos virus.

  The scarcity of bacta meant virtually all of the public supply

  went to individuals who were infected, with the goal being to

  save their lives. By curing them, public health officials could

  limit the spread of the disease. Others, mostly those from

  uninfected populations, argued that a prophylactic use of

  bacta to prevent the spread to new populations would be

  best. Public health officials argued that there was no proof

  pre-exposure bacta therapy could prevent someone from be-

  coming infected with the virus, but that did nothing to stem

  the desire to get bacta and use it as preventative medicine.

  Nartlo swiped at spittle recking the corners of his

  mouth. "Seems there's going to be enough now so the provos

  think they won't need their own supply."

  Loor frowned. "Impossible. It would take a decade of

  bacta cartel production to satisfy the demand here."

  "Could be, sir, could be, but right now the word is out

  that the New Republic's government has things under con-

  trol."

  "It's a lie, of course, but a good one." Loor slowly sank

  down onto his haunches, letting his cloak pool around him.

  "You believe this bacta supply exists?"

  "I think some does, sir, yes, sir."

  "You will learn about it. All about it."

  Nartlo's eyes grew large again. "I don't know as I can,

  sir. Security is tight."

  "You owe me, little man." Loor's growl cowed Nartlo.

  "You will go to your contacts and this time offer to buy cure

  at a good price."

  "What if they don't want to sell?"

  "Tell them that they will find exposure of their previous

  black market bacta dealings rather painful and embarrass-

  ing. If that is insufficient, perhaps making an example of one

  or more of them would be persuasive. I can and will do

  that." Loor nodded toward the operative to his right. "Blast-

  ers have more than just a stun setting on them, you know."

  Nartlo licked at dry lips with a dry tongue. "Yes, sir, I

  know."

  "Good. I want to know how much they have, how long

  they think their supply will last. I need to estimate when the

  price will climb again."

  "I can understand that, sir."

  And with that information I can begin to project how

  large a facility they would need to store it and how best to

  destroy it. Loor began to smile. I could even just spread the

  rumor that they have more than enough bacta to cure every-

  one, then reveal the true amount they have in their stores.

  The gap between what is hoped for and what is real should

  create a lot of unrest. That is a suitable fall-back plan, and

  one which I can pursue while seeking out and destroying the

  containment facility.

  "And, Nartlo, you will try to find out whatever you can

  about their storage, transport, and distribution network. If I

  do go buying more bacta as a hedge against shortage, I

  would prefer to go directly to the source. I would like to cut

  out the middlemen, no offense intended." "No, sir, none taken."

  "Good, good. I'm glad we understand each other." Loor

  straightened up again. "I will be interested in hearing what

  you can find out."

  Nartlo nodded enthusiastically. "You can count on me."

  "I am counting on you. See to it that you do not fail

  me."

  "Yes, sir." The small man shivered. "But, sir, I was won-

  dering . . ." "Yes?"

  "How do I . . ."

  Loor laughed in as sinister a manner as he could man-

  age. "We will find you. Have something for me in two days."

  "But that's not enough time."

  "But it is all the time you have, Nartlo." Loor turned

  and swept from the room. The operatives crowded behind

  him and the two at the door preceded him to his grav-car.

  Loor climbed into the back, one of them got behind the con-

  trols, and the other three disapp
eared into the night.

  "Drive."

  Inertial forces pushed Loor back into the car's plush

  upholstery. He began composing the report he would send

  off to Ysanne Isard. The fact that the Rebellion had gotten its

  hands on a new supply of bacta would not please her. She

  had wanted the demand for bacta to bankrupt the Rebellion,

  but Rogue Squadron's capture of more bacta meant it was

  not nearly as pricey for the Rebels as Iceheart desired. The

  only way to counteract that bit of luck was to locate and

  destroy the bacta store, which was exactly what he intended

  to do.

  The problem is that no matter how quickly I resolve this

  matter, it will not be quick enough for her. It occurred to him

  that her messages to him suffered little reduction in their

  venom, despite having to be recorded and transmitted in-

  stead of being delivered in person. He would have thought

  that the distance between them would have insulated him

  from her criticisms, but it had not. She seemed to have a

  preternatural ability to point up to him errors he had made,

  no matter how slight, and that kept him constantly off bal-

  ance.

  He realized that if he told her he was having some of his

  people train for a strike on the bacta facility before he knew

  what that mission would take, she would point out that he

  was wasting time and resources. He decided he would put

  men into training for smaller missions that could serve as

  diversions or that would, at the very least, provide the train-

  ing framework upon which the bacta strike mission could be

  built. Iceheart might maintain that he was wasting resources

  that could be better used to locate the bacta facility in the

  first place. But trying to argue that stormtroopers could be

  used as spies was not the sort of blunder Isard would make.

  The gray-car broke free of sub-urban roadway and shot

  up into the night sky. Countless towers flashed past, each lit

  as brilliantly as the fire of the thermite charge, but not nearly

  as harshly. tte wondered how many of the people and aliens

  living in those towers were rejoicing over the secret word

  that their worries about the Krytos virus would soon be over.

  Many. Too many.

  Loor let his own laughter become a parody of the sound