by Alex Wheeler
X-7 had followed the trail of information as far as it would take him. It had taken him here. Soresh's codes had provided access to an encrypted Imperial network that had revealed all he could ever want to know about Project Omega. How its unwilling recruits were culled from prisoners whose families thought they were dead. How their brains were wiped. How they were molded into slaves of the Empire, convinced that they had been volunteers. How the records of their past were wiped from the system.
But information wasn't nearly as easy to erase as most people thought. It had been well buried, but X-7 had found it—little more than a name, Trever Flume. Captured on Belazura at age eighteen, shipped off to Project Omega, where he became its most successful graduate. Code name: X-7.
That was it, the dead end. So X-7 had stolen himself a Howlrunner and flown to Belazura. He wasn't leaving until he'd found some answers.
The simplest way to track down information would have been to report to the Imperial liaison at the spaceport. But X-7 needed to stay off the Imperial radar. And likely some kind of fail-safe trigger in the system existed, designed to red-flag anyone who came looking for answers about Trever Flume.
Instead, he decided to begin his search for the past in a more obvious place: Trever Flume's home.
My home? he wondered, staring at the decrepit, crumbling structure that had been Flume's last known address. The two-story house was falling apart: peeling paint, rusted siding, broken generator. Its windows were boarded up, Rebel graffiti scrawled across them in fading reds and blues. It was abandoned; that was clear.
X-7 closed his eyes, trying to force a memory. But the flashbacks always came when he least expected and least desired them. When he was trying to remember, his mind stayed blank.
"You don't belong around here."
X-7 whirled around, furious with himself that he hadn't heard the Arconan approaching. By instinct, his hand flashed toward his blaster—but he stopped himself. The Arconan's anvil-shaped head was shriveled with age, his marble-like eyes milky and unfocused. Despite his hostile glare, there was no chance he'd be a threat. Let it play out, X-7 thought. I can always kill him later.
He adopted a mild, harmless expression. Project Omega might have stripped him of the ability to experience human emotion, but he was remarkably good at imitating it. "I'm looking for the family that used to live here," he said. "They're old friends of mine, and since I'm passing through town, I thought I'd catch up."
The Arconan looked around at the crumbling buildings and cratered street. "No one just passes through this part of town."
Patience, X-7 cautioned himself, itching for his blaster. He'd make this being talk, one way or another. But it would be smartest to do so without attracting unwanted attention. The street might be empty, but he could see plenty of windows with a perfect view. Anyone could be lurking behind the transparisteel.
"I'm in Belazura on business, and—"
"Imperial business?" the Arconan said, now even more suspicious. "Haven't you people done enough? What now? You want to torture their ghosts?"
"Does that mean you knew them?" X-7 asked eagerly. "The Flumes?"
"What's it to you?"
"I told you, I'm an old friend."
The Arconan sneered. "Right. An old friend who came by to say hello after all these years. Except I tell you they're dead and you don't even blink. So how about you tell me what you really want?"
"Money," X-7 said without hesitation. "What else does anyone want?"
"They owe you?" the Arconan asked.
"Big-time."
The Arconan made a strange sound, like a dianoga choking on a lump of sewage. X-7 suddenly realized he was laughing. "Good luck getting them to pay you back now!" he chortled. But quickly, he sobered up. "You want some help tracking down what's left of Flume's people? It's going to cost you."
Again, X-7 swallowed his irritation. This Arconan didn't know how close he was to death. "How much?"
"Fifty."
"Twenty," X-7 countered.
"Fifty."
"Thirty," X-7 offered.
"Fifty."
He was too impatient to negotiate. Money was nothing to him. He threw a handful of it at the alien. "That's half. Give me the address, and I'll hand over the other half."
The Arconan complied, giving him an address on the fringes of town.
"If this information is inaccurate, I'll be back for you," X-7 said coolly. Now he finally withdrew the blaster from its holster.
"Oh, it's accurate," the alien said, laughing again. "You'll find what's left of them, for all the good it will do you."
X-7 wasn't looking to do himself good. He was looking for answers. After that, who knew? Maybe he would reclaim his old identity and learn to be human again, weak and pathetic.
Or maybe he would track down every last Flume, kill them all, and be done with this mess forever.
The rest of them, X-7 thought sourly. Perfect.
The Arconan hadn't lied. Not technically, at least. Presumably whatever was left of Trever Flume's family was here—underground. Beneath the crooked tombstones. At the edge of an old graveyard, weeds spouting between the mounds of dirt.
Trever Flume. Clive Flax. Astri Divinian.
They didn't share a name, but the epitaphs—loving brother, loving mother, loving father—made it clear they were a family. Love. It put a bad taste in his mouth.
There was something about the last name Divinian. Something familiar. Could it mean he was on the right track? X-7 stared at the graves, trying to feel something. "My parents," he said aloud, testing the phrase on his tongue. It felt wrong.
"Trever," he tried next. "My name is Trever."
Each of the three graves had "Gone never. Here forever," the standard Belazuran mourning cry, etched across the top.
Each was marked by a bouquet of nahtival flowers. The flowers were fresh; someone was tending to these graves.
X-7 paced quickly to the entrance of the graveyard, where a hunched Belazuran had been hacking at the ground with a rusty shovel. He was still there, now sliding a tombstone into the shallow hole.
"Who's been here today?" X-7 asked harshly.
The weary Belazuran looked at him blankly.
"Today!" X-7 shouted. "Someone put fresh flowers on those graves." He gestured toward the Divinian plots. "Who was it?"
The man nodded slowly. "That's right, he did come by today. Didn't expect him."
X-7 grabbed the man's shoulders and gave him a brutal shake. "Him who, you mudcrutch?"
"The boy," the man said in a dreamy voice. "Of course, he's not a boy anymore, is he? Time's passing, it is. Slow, fast, it just keeps going. Yesterday we're a republic, today we're an empire, tomorrow—"
"The boy," X-7 growled.
"A man now," the Belazuran said. "Thought I wouldn't recognize him, but I did, didn't I? Looks just like his mother. Astri was a beauty, that one."
So Trever had a brother. There had been a suspicious lack of information about Trever's family in the files, as if it had been purposefully blotted out. But this was better than a file; this was a living relative in the flesh. In reach. If the man could focus long enough to spill the details. He'll tell me what I need, X-7 thought with determination. Even if I have to cut it out of him.
"Lucky boy," the old man said. "Don't know why he doesn't spend more time in that house. Not many lucky enough to have an ocean view, not these days."
"I was just at Flume's house," X-7 snapped. "No one's living there. It's falling apart."
"Falling apart?" The man shook his head. "It was fine yesterday, in perfect condition. Perfect condition the day before. Walk past it every day on my way home, I do. Don't know why they kept it as a summerhouse. If it were my house, I'd live in it year-round, day in, day out, I would. But not them. Two months a year, in and out. Never made much sense to me."
"Where is it?" X-7 asked harshly. "Where's this summerhouse?"
The grave tender narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious. "Why do y
ou want to know?"
X-7 sighed. Of course the senile Belazuran chose now to come out of his daze. X-7 didn't have the patience for deception or persuasion. He lashed out with lightning speed, grabbing the man by the neck. Then he squeezed. "Tell me where the house is. Or die."
The man gasped, trying desperately to draw in breath. His hands hammered at X-7's arm, but the blows were as negligible as tesfli piercer bites. "Time's running out," X-7 said, "I'm sure I can obtain the information somewhere else—but I won't be very happy about it." He squeezed tighter.
The man's eyes bulged. He wheezed something inaudible.
"What's that?" X-7 relaxed his grip very slightly.
"The Fallows, beyond the city, along the water. The blue house, you can't miss it," he gasped. "Please. Please don't kill me."
It would take minimal effort to squeeze just a bit tighter, to cut off the man's air entirely. That way he wouldn't be able to tell anyone about the strange man who'd come around asking questions; he wouldn't be able to warn the brother. It made sense. That was the rule: When in doubt, kill.
But he didn't do it. Something strange stilled his hand. Mercy?
The thought repulsed him. Enraged, he slammed a fist into the grave tender's head, hard enough to guarantee he wouldn't be warning anyone anytime soon. The grave tender crumpled to the ground. And X-7 set off in search of his past.
He scaled the exterior of the house and perched on a ledge beside a large picture window. The ledge was only a few centimeters wide, but he was in no danger of losing his balance. The fogged transparisteel offered an imperfect view of the living room. But he could make out the figure puttering around inside. He could have just knocked on the door. But he was no fool. If this was a trap, he wasn't about to walk straight into it. Recon first, then action.
The man kept his face away from the window.
Turn around, X-7 ordered him silently. Show me who you are.
As if in reaction to the silent command, the man turned. X-7 stiffened in surprise. He'd seen that face before. Not in a half-remembered flash of childhood. Less than a month before, on an arid moon, accepting a mission to kill Luke Skywalker. The man was a mercenary pilot, one of the best, by the name of Lune—
Divinian! he suddenly remembered. As in Astri Divinian. It wasn't like him to forget those kinds of details. That was the sort of mistake that could get you killed. The sort of mistake that would lead you straight into a trap.
Because the odds against that man being his brother? Astronomical. There was a much more likely possibility.
X-7 gritted his teeth, furious that he'd allowed himself to be misled. This Divinian obviously had some kind of ax to grind. Perhaps he was still angry to have lost out on his payment when the Kamino mission went sour. Whatever the reason, he'd decided to come after X-7. To play with his mind, his emotions.
Bad mistake.
Recon was over, X-7 decided. Time for action.
He hurled himself through the window. Lune Divinian flung his hands over his face, shielding himself from the hail of transparisteel. And all traces of mercy wiped away, X-7 lunged for his throat.
CHAPTER NINE
The thunder of stormtrooper boots was growing louder, closer. Han dragged Leia around the corner, but the corridor dead-ended a few meters away. No cover, no escape. They pressed themselves against the wall, held their breath, and hoped.
A phalanx of stormtroopers stomped down the hallway, feet rising and falling in unison. As they swept past, Han whispered into the comlink, cupping his hands around it to block the noise. "A little more warning next time?"
"It's all clear now," Luke's voice assured him. "You have a straight shot to the records room. Two guards at the door, and you're in. Easy."
"Sure, easy for you," Han muttered. "You're not the one in here making friends with the boys in white."
"What's that?"
"Nothing, kid. In and out. We'll get those blueprints to you faster than a neek." Han glowered at the comlink. Bad enough he was infiltrating an Imperial administrative center with only the kid's help to guide him through. Even worse that Leia had insisted on coming, too. Which meant that if there was trouble—make that when there was trouble—he couldn't just save his own neck. He'd have to save hers, too. It was his responsibility.
Except none of this is my responsibility, he thought irritably. So what am I doing here?
Div had agreed to go along with Ferus's plan, but he'd demanded something in return: a Rebel attack on Belazura's Imperial garrison. The garrison was the center of Imperial power on the planet, but it was also a valuable strategic asset for the Empire. At the heart of the Inner Rim, it gave them a perfect base to control the surrounding planetary systems. Dark rumors swirled about the weaponry housed there. Belazura was packed with Imperial factories and arms manufactures, and several of the latest prototypes were said to be stored in the garrison. It was one of the reasons the citizens of Belazura were thoroughly cowed by their Imperial rulers. And one of the reasons it had long sat toward the top of the Rebels' target list.
The garrison was built on the spot where Div's entire family had died.
So Han understood why Div wanted it gone. He knew why the Rebels had decided to go along with Div and plan a strike. He was less clear about why he'd agreed to go along, much less volunteered for this recon mission. The garrison's blueprints were considered so valuable that they weren't stored in the computer system. Instead, only one hard copy existed, and it was housed in the basement of the Imperial administration center. Leia had appointed herself the one to retrieve it.
So here he was, by her side.
Han wasn't a big fan of whys. It didn't matter why he was here. All that mattered was getting in, getting the blueprints, and getting out. Both of them.
"Luke says go now," he told Leia. R2-D2 had managed to tap into the security systems. He'd disabled the security alerts and holocams. Now Luke could see what was happening inside the building, but he was the only one. Luke was monitoring from beyond the perimeter, guiding them through safely. Supposedly.
Han and Leia ran soundlessly down the corridor, turning right at the third corner. And as promised, only two stormtroopers stood guarding the door. They fumbled with their blasters as Han and Leia appeared in the hallway.
But Han was faster. Laserfire burst from his blaster, and the stormtrooper on the right went down. The other dropped at nearly the same instant. Leia pocketed her smoking blaster pistol. Han shook his head in appreciation. The princess might have an attitude—but she also had perfect aim.
"Ready?" Leia asked, preparing the detonite charge that would blow open the locked door.
Han nodded and raised his blaster. There were no security holocams in the basement records room, which meant they were going in blind. He was ready, all right. Ready for anything.
Except for the door exploding out toward them before Leia even had a chance to plant the charge. Han and Leia flew backward, slamming hard into the wall. Their blasters clattered out of their hands.
Han lifted himself up. He shook his head and blinked hard, hoping he was seeing double. Maybe triple.
But the vision was real. A line of stormtroopers emerged from the dark basement and opened fire.
"Han!" Luke shouted into the comlink, starting to panic. "Leia! Han! What's going on?" But the comlink broadcast nothing but shouting and explosions. Luke was certain that amid the chaos, he heard Leia scream.
"Chewie! Come on—we're going in!" Luke cried, already springing into motion. He'd been monitoring the mission from a hidden spot by the freight entrance while Chewbacca waited nearby with the landspeeder, ready to take off at a moment's notice. The Wookiee didn't hesitate.
He threw himself against the door, which gave way like it was made of flimsiplast. Luke and Chewbacca barreled down the hallway. Luke led the way, the building's twisting corridors engraved in his mind. Not that it was difficult to find their way to the basement; all they had to do was follow the noise. Laserfire pings, shouts, g
runts, explosions, and, again, something that sounded terrifyingly like Leia's scream.
They rounded the corner. Stormtrooper bodies littered the corridor. Han and Leia were battling their way through a storm of plastoid armor and laserfire. Smoke billowed through the hallway, giving their faces a gray, sickly pallor. Han aimed his weapon at one of the stormtroopers, but nothing happened. Luke realized he was out of ammo.
"Han, heads up!" he shouted, and without thinking, tossed his blaster over to his friend. Han jumped up and snatched it out of the air, then began firing again before his feet touched the ground.
Chewbacca's bowcaster was of little use in such a cramped space, but the Wookiee didn't hesitate to charge into the fight. He grabbed the stormtrooper closest to Leia and twisted his blaster into a knot with one hand as he slammed the trooper against the wall with the other.
Luke took it all in, even as he tried desperately to disarm the stormtroopers with his lightsaber. Loose grip, firm shoulders, don't lean too hard to the right, he thought, trying to remember all the advice Div had given him. He bent his knees slightly and tried to remember the first form—but was he supposed to parry before thrust, or thrust before parry? A blast of laserfire whizzing past his ear knocked him out of his confusion. Stop trying to be a Jedi warrior, he told himself. Just stay alive. Forgetting about form and technique and strategy, he hacked blindly with the lightsaber, letting the glowing blade guide his hands. The stormtrooper dropped to the ground.
Yes! Luke thought. Then he saw Han standing behind the fallen trooper, a smoking blaster in his hands. "Thanks for the loaner," he said, hoisting it at Luke like he was toasting a glass of lum. "Consider us even."
It was the last of the stormtroopers. But surely more would be on the way. While Leia and Chewbacca covered the corridor, Luke and Han raced down into the records room. They tore through the files, searching for the garrison blueprints. Finally, Han shouted in triumph. "Got it!" he said, brandishing a data chip. "Let's go."