Star Wars - X-Wing - Krytos Trap

by Michael A. Stackpole

  other?"

  'Yes."

  "So, as nearly as you know, Lieutenant Horn might

  have had multiple conversations that could have set him

  off?"

  "I suppose so." Erisi blinked a couple of times. "That

  could be it."

  The Twi'lek bowed his head. "Thank you, Flight Of-

  ricer, that's all I have for you."

  Corran felt like a block of burning ice caught in a lightning

  storm. His flesh felt on fire while his bones seemed chilled to

  absolute zero. Every pain receptor in his body strobed on

  and off on a near-constant basis. The pain would start at his

  feet and move up in a wave, or descend on him like a rain

  shower, or pummel him with randomly delivered jolts.

  He would have welcomed death but for the horror of

  spending eternity with the memory of such pain so fresh.

  He heard a hiss, and the rack retracted from what he

  had taken to calling the Inducer. Corran hung limp from the

  restraining straps and welcomed the constant, unrelenting,

  unshifting pain the straps caused as they sank into his flesh.

  Sweat poured down over his face and stung fiercely where he

  managed to bite through his lower lip, but even that sensa-

  tion was a relief from what he had just been through.

  Ysanne Isard entered the interrogation chamber and

  waved the Trandoshan out. "I would find you fascinating if

  you knew more, Horn." She glanced at the mirrored panel

  on the wall. "Your tolerance for pain is remarkable."

  Corran would have shrugged, but every ounce of energy

  in his body had been exhausted in screaming answers to the

  questions fired at him during the session. He couldn't re-

  member what he had said. He recalled that in those few

  moments of lucidity which he could touch between pulses of

  agony, he had tried to focus on the cold or heat. Locking into

  those sensations had seemed to dull the pain somehow. Now,

  in the absence of pain, he doubted that observation was cor-

  rect, but it had been a sanctuary into which he had retreated,

  and that was a very small victory.

  She posted her fists on her hips. "You present a problem

  for me. You don't know enough to be useful, and your posi-

  tion within the Rebellion is so low that you are hardly vital.

  If I return you to them, they will likely treat you much as

  they are treating Celchu now. You won't have even the free-

  dom he had before his arrest. This does not incline me to

  send you back.

  "On the other hand, you would be perfect to mold into

  my own avenger. Your resistance to pain will make your

  rehabilitation into a right-thinking Imperial time-consuming,

  but not impossible. Your core discomfort with the unlawful

  nture of the Rebellion is a foundation on which I can build

  you anew into the tool I need. I can form an Avenger Squad-

  ron around you that will go after and destroy Rogue Squad-

  ron. Using a Rogue to destroy Rogues, that would be

  delicious."

  Corran summoned strength from reserves he didn't

  know he had and smiled. "You won't live long enough to see

  me turn on my friends."

  "Good, anger directed at me, excellent." She politely

  applauded him. "Hate me all you want. I'll turn your hatred

  for me into hatred for those who haven't saved you from me.

  You won't be the first broken that way, and you'll not be the

  last."

  "I won't break."

  "Ah, but you will. They all do." She nodded solemnly as

  the rack hissed and slowly lowered him toward the Inducer.

  "And when you break, I will put you back together again,

  and in gratitude you will do all I ask, without question or

  regard for loyalties you once held dear."

  15

  It was probably in a place like this that Rogue Squadron

  plotted the conquest of Imperial Center. Kirtan Loor ducked

  his head beneath a series of moist, moldy pipes and followed

  his guide deeper into the rusted-out bowels of Imperial Cen-

  ter. Loor had been driven deeper into the planet-wide city

  than he thought possible, then had gone several kilometers

  farther through a hot, wet labyrinth that had him imagining

  he'd passed through the core of the world and was now

  working his way up and out the other side.

  The Special Intelligence operative leading him through

  the maze cut to the left and through an oval opening hacked

  through the wall of the access tunnel. The opening seemed,

  at first glance, as if it was chopped through the wall; but

  when Loor grabbed its edges as he climbed through the hole,

  the striations he felt made him wonder if it hadn't been nib-

  bled out of the ferrocrete. Unless I can find a way to use it, I

  don't want to know what chewed this hole.

  The low, wide area into which Loor stepped stank of

  rust, stagnant water, and mildew. The few standing puddles

  had an oily slick on them that phosphoresced slightly. The

  weak light supplemented the temporary floodlights the oper-

  atives had arranged to display their motley collection of air-

  speeders. All in all the tableau was unremarkable and

  unlikely to attract attention from anyone save a truly desper-

  ate airspeeder thief.

  And wouldn't he be surprised at what he got.

  The dented and dinged airspeeders, which were of a va-

  riety of years and makes, had been carefully worked over by

  the operatives and transformed into a half-dozen flying

  bombs. The hollow spaces in the chassis had been filled with

  explosives. Designed to be flown by remote from a compan-

  ion airspeeder, they would be driven like proton torpedoes

  into the various bacta storage facilities around the world.

  An operative came walking over to Loor, unable to keep

  a smirk from his square face. "As you can see, we are pre-

  pared to go at any time. We have completed our initial elec-

  tronic sweep of the target sites and have found them negative

  for counter-remote tactics or equipment."

  "Very good." The Empire had long ago perfected pre-

  cautionary measures to take against bombs that might be set

  to detonate by remote. The easiest of these was to broadcast

  strong signals on a variety of comlink frequencies of the sort

  used by Rebel terrorists to detonate such bombs, causing a

  premature detonation while the bombs were still in the at-

  tackers' keeping. Broadcasting from patrolling airspeeders in

  hostile areas had even detonated explosives in bomb facto-

  ries that Intelligence had suspected existed, but had not been

  able to pinpoint for a more surgical strike. The harm done to

  innocents in the area when the bombs went off had been seen

  as just punishment for the failure of the people to report the

  Rebels working in their area.

  Although they had been unable to detect similar

  counter-remote tactics in the bacta storage areas, Loor's peo-

  ple had decided against detonating the bombs by remote.

  Getting an airspeeder into position and leaving it there long

  enough for the setup team to get away provi
ded a window

  for discovery and deactivation. Even though that window

  would be small, it was felt to be too risky; they intended to

  hit a number of sites in rapid succession, and if the Rebel

  forces discovered one bomb and sent out a warning, it would

  make hitting the others far more difficult. Moreover, the fact

  that they could not detect anti-remote equipment in their

  reconnaissance sweeps could have been explained by nothing

  more sinister than someone forgetting to turn the devices on

  that day.

  The plan they h ad hit on was actually fairly simple.

  Commercial speeder-ferry vehicles were not an uncommon

  sight on Imperial Center, hauling broken air- and land-

  speeders to repair shops. Using a tractor beam and a simple

  remote-slave hookup, repair techs regularly flew speeders

  throughout the city. Using a speeder-ferry to haul a vehicle to

  the right area, then having someone fly it by remote into the

  building, was seen as a clean way to deliver the bombs. Since

  the remote-slave hookup was in common use by these sorts

  of vehicles, it couldn't be jammed without causing dozens of

  legitimate disasters, so Loor knew their delivery method was

  safe from interference.

  Contact detonators had been rigged in the various

  panels and bumpers on each vehicle. The explosives would

  be triggered when the detonators were compressed with the

  force of an airspeeder slamming into a building. While a

  head-on collision with another airspeeder at significant ve-

  locity could cause the bomb to go off, the chances of that

  happening were relatively small. Regardless, the amount of

  explosives packed into the vehicles meant that any explosion

  in the general vicinity of the target would do substantial

  damage and, if not destroy the store of bacta, at least make

  its distribution difficult.

  The operative looked up at Loor expectantly. "When

  will we be given the signal to go?"

  Loor looked at his wrist chronometer. "Rumor has it

  that Mon Mothma is going to announce the particulars of

  the bacta distribution plan approved by the Provisional

  Council in fourteen hours or so. I am debating whether we

  should use these vehicles to punctuate her speech, or let pub-

  lic anticipation build for a day or so before striking."

  Loor kept his tone light, as if the decision to be made

  was of little consequence. He preferred going off sooner

  rather than waiting, but he was fairly certain that Ysanne

  Isard would want him to wait. So far he had gotten no word

  back from her on this plan--or on any of my plans. This

  meant the decision was truly up to him, but he knew it didn't

  have to be made until an hour or two before the assault

  would take place.

  The Intelligence agent frowned. "Contact me on a secure

  frequency three hours before the scheduled start of Mon

  Mothma's speech. Assume the operation will go off during

  her speech. When you call me, I will either cancel the assault

  and reschedule, or let you go. If you do not reach me, you are

  on?

  "Very good, sir." The operative waved a hand toward

  the airspeeders. "If you care to inspect our handiwork?"

  Loor shook his head. "You have ever been efficient be-

  fore, Captain. I see no reason to doubt your preparedness

  now?

  "Thank you."

  "Of course." Loor smiled slowly. "And, speaking of effi-

  ciency, your people dealt with Nartlo, yes?"

  "As you ordered, sir."

  "Excellent."

  "Yes, sir. I'll have someone conduct you back now, sir."

  The operative waved another of his plainly clothed men

  over and Loor followed that operative out through another

  exit from the underground bunker. Loor found this route less

  odious, and the use of a series of turbolifts meant it took less

  time to get back into more hospitable regions of the city.

  After taking leave of the operative, Loor worked his way up

  and through the city. He constantly checked his surround-

  ings and back-trail for sign of pursuit, but found none.

  The prospect of destroying the Rebels' bacta supply

  pleased him, but not for the reasons most Rebels would

  ascribe to him. He took no delight in the fact that the de-

  struction of the bacta would cause the deaths of millions,

  even billions. As odd as it seemed, even to him, their lives

  meant nothing. Since he did not know them, they were num-

  bers, and Kirtan Loor had never been one to be terribly emo-

  tional about numbers.

  Destroying the bacta would be a victory in the war he

  was waging against the Rebellion. He and his people were

  outnumbered, out-gunned, and under-resourced, but they

  were winning. So far they had struck when and where they

  wished. Just the fact that they were able to assemble an ar-

  mada of bombs on Imperial Center without detection was a

  triumph in their battle against General Cracken and his

  forces.

  Oddly enough, Loor realized that he was playing a game

  to sudden death, and it was more likely to be his death than

  that of his foes. Still, he now understood the secret thrill that

  kept the Rebels going. They had been the insects repeatedly

  stinging the bumbling giant that was the Empire. Yes, the

  giant had swatted them and, in some cases, had hurt them

  badly, but it could never kill all of them. The defiance they

  showed the Empire now burned in his veins, and while it did

  not make him think he was immortal or unstoppable, it did

  drive him with a desire to do more and more to torment his

  enemy.

  He also knew that his efforts would not reestablish the

  Empire. That was not the goal Ysanne Isard had in mind

  when she set him up on Imperial Center as the leader of a

  pro-Palpatine movement. What he was doing would weaken

  the Rebellion and allow other forces to tear it apart. Whether

  those other forces included a warlord like Zsinj blasting his

  way into Imperial Center and taking it over, or the product

  of some other scheme Iceheart was undoubtedly planning,

  did not matter. Isard wanted to destroy the Rebellion, and

  that was the goal he intended to help her reach.

  He smiled. He had been given a great responsibility, and

  his success would create a power vacuum at the heart of the

  Empire. Isard maintained her goal was not the resurrection

  of the Empire, but the destruction of the Rebellion; still, it

  seemed obvious to him that the recreation of the Empire was

  a natural consequence of eliminating the Rebellion. When

  the Rebellion collapsed, if he did things well, he would be in

  position to help restore the Empire. While he knew better

  than to make himself a direct rival to Iceheart, he also knew

  she wouldn't live forever.

  Nor will I, but if I live longer than she does, the Em-

  peror's throne might well be open to me. Loor smiled and

  sniffed proudly, but the scent of the city's lower reaches tar-

  nished his fantasy. He glanced down at his feet
and saw a

  glistening fungoid residue that seemed to shift colors as he

  watched it. Immediately desirous of returning to his eyrie

  and washing away the stink of Imperial Center's darker

  reaches, he fished a comlink out of his pocket and called for

  one of his guards to meet him with his airspeeder.

  Loor did his best to scrape the goo off his shoes against

  the side of a building, but it clung tenaciously. He chuckled

  to himself, thinking of it as true Rebel scum. He made no

  headway in his battle with it and wondered if a lightsaber

  would be able to damage it. He'd concluded it would not by

  the time his airspeeder slid up to the curb and the rear gull's-

  wing door swung up.

  Loor started into the passenger compartment, then

  caught himself. Inside, nestled in the corner, a smallish,

  white-haired man pointed a blaster pistol at him. "Sorry,

  wrong speeder. My mistake."

  "No mistake. Get in." The man sighed. "Get in or my

  other people will shove you in."

  Given no choice, Loor entered the vehicle and folded

  himself into one of the jumpseats. The door closed behind

  him, leaving the two of them alone in the speeder's darkened

  interior. Loor raised his hands and clutched the safety straps.

  "Is there any purpose in my putting these on, Moff Vorru?"

  Fliry Vorru nodded his head graciously. "Very good,

  Agent Loor. Yes, by all means, strap yourself in. I do not

  anticipate this being a rough ride, but things can get turbu-

  lent here on Imperial Center." "So I have noticed."

  "I'm certain you have." Vorru set the blaster pistol on

  the seat beside him, then tugged at the grey cuffs on his

  midnight-blue jacket. "And I'm no longer a moff, merely a

  colonel in the Imperial Center People's Militia."

  "Natty uniform. I'm sure it will show you off at your

  best when you hold a news conference and announce my

  capture." Loor tried to force a smile on his face, but it hardly

  seemed worth the effort. "Quite the coup for you."

  "Indeed, it could be." Vorru yawned in an exaggerated

  fashion. "The question remains as to whether or not that is

  necessary."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You present me with a problem, Agent Loor. Your