Krennel reached the door to his office and passed his metal hand over the lockplate. He took a step forward, banging his right shoulder into the door, but it failed to budge. He ran his hand over the lockplate again, more slowly this time, allowing the sensor in the door to pick up the signature from the circuitry imbedded in the hand.
Again, it did not open.
Krennel snarled and punched a combination into the keypad below the lockplate. The lock clicked and Krennel shouldered the door open. He took two steps into the darkened room, then felt something cold and slender brush against his throat. He was a half step further on when it began to constrict. Krennel swept his metal hand up and around, grasping the slender metal filament. He yanked, and the wire parted, leaving a garland of garrote wire hanging around his neck.
The lonely, sharp sound of a single pair of hands applauding echoed loudly through his office. Ignoring its source, Krennel stiffly legged his way to his desk and reached for the glowplate switch on the wall. He hesitated, his left hand hovering just above it, then slowly turned his head in the direction of the applause.
“If you wanted me dead, the garrote would have gotten me. Will providing us some illumination kill me?”
Silence answered him.
Krennel looked over at his left hand and hit the switch. The tall room’s lighting came from a bank of glow panels built in nearly three meters off the floor. They cast their light up at the domed ceiling, which then reflected it back down. The whole room, which had been decorated in grays, tans, and browns, glowed warmly. Krennel let the light build, then pulled himself up to his full height and slowly turned toward his visitor. He knew he would make an impression, and given the situation, that impression would be important.
And yet, as it turned out, it would be trivial compared to the one made by his visitor.
He’d not seen her in years—save for disturbing dreams from time to time. Barely shorter than he was, she wore her long black hair unbound. Two white sidelocks framed a face that would have made the woman the toast of any number of planets. Her high forehead, strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and straight nose all combined to make her a rare beauty, but two other elements spoiled the effect.
One element was her eyes. The left one smoldered a molten red, as if the iris were radioactively bloodshot. The pale blue of the other eye seemed colder than frozen methane, and her stare sent a shiver down Krennel’s spine. She exuded power, and Krennel found it very seductive, but he also knew she would consume him if she found a way to destroy him.
The other thing that spoiled her beauty was a network of raised scars radiating out from a small puckered crater below her right temple. Krennel studied her closely for a second and thought he saw enough asymmetry in her face to suppose those scars were a sign of massive trauma that had been surgically repaired. He recalled that Rogue Squadron had claimed to have killed her when they ousted her from Thyferra, but her presence in his office put the lie to that story.
Krennel slowly removed the twisted garrote wire and tossed it on the floor between them. “You had a point you wished to make with this, Ysanne Isard?”
The woman smiled coldly. “I could have killed you here, in your office. Your people would have awakened tomorrow morning with me in your place. It is important that you know I could have taken over for you in the blink of an eye, so you will believe me when I tell you that doing so is not my intention.”
Her words came evenly and calmly, and Krennel allowed himself to mull them over before replying. He searched them for her true agenda, not wanting to accept that she was being truthful with him. The second I allow myself to even imagine she does not have another plan working here, I am dead. Still, knowing how perilous a judgment it was, he couldn’t find her deception. Yet.
“You do have a purpose here, then?”
“The same purpose as always: the preservation of my master’s Empire.”
Krennel allowed himself to laugh, then seated himself on the edge of his broad desk. “Your injuries might have cost you a painful memory or two: such as the loss of Imperial Center and the Emperor’s death.”
Isard’s expression sharpened. “I remember those things very well. I carry the pain of those memories in my heart.”
You have a heart? Krennel kept his expression bland. “Then you must also know the best hope of reestablishing the Empire is now dead.”
“Really? You think Thrawn was that hope?”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “You don’t?”
She pressed her hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “Thrawn was brilliant, there was no taking that away from him. But he lacked the vision he needed. He was stunning when fulfilling the missions he’d been given. You and he clashed over conduct in the Unknown Region, out there in the wilds of the galaxy, but I doubt anyone else could have been as effective as Thrawn at pacifying those areas. And against the New Republic he proved very adept. But he never quite grasped the idea that there are times when the use of overwhelming firepower can produce a wave of terror which is a weapon with far-reaching and devastating effects.”
Krennel’s metal hand tightened on the edge of his desk. “I had noticed that flaw in his character before.”
“A flaw commonly found in nonhumans.” The corner of Isard’s mouth lazily curled into a grin. “They seek to be treated as our equals, whereas we act as their superiors. They hold themselves back from accessing the tools power gives them, and therefore can never wrest from us the respect we would give equals. They seek to cloak themselves in nobility, aping all we are and have, yet do not see that if they are not resolved to do what it takes to maintain power, they are never fit to wield it.”
Krennel could hear his pulse beginning to pound in his ears. What Isard said, coming in husky, low tones barely above a whisper, quickened his heart. She’d spoken a credo he’d accepted in his heart when, as a child, he’d helped his father burn alien homes so an agro-combine could turn their land into productive fields. The way she spoke, the conviction in her voice, the disdain in her words, resonated inside him. She knew his mind and knew she could bare her heart without fear of rebuke.
He forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose. “So you agree, then, that Mon Mothma’s mongrel Republic is an affront to humanity?”
“An ‘affront’? You are far too kind to her, Prince-Admiral.” Isard began to slowly pace along a curved path that never brought her closer to him than three meters. “It is an abomination that cannot survive. During the Thrawn crisis Bothans were set against the Mon Calamari—and these are two of the more reasonable species in the New Republic. There are others who, even now, are beginning to arm themselves in the hopes that someday—next week, next year, in the next decade—they will be able to create their own empires, or redress ancient wrongs and renew ancient rivalries.”
She laughed aloud. “Can you imagine, Prince-Admiral, the discord sown if the identity of those who destroyed the Caamasi is ever uncovered? Planetary genocide is a crime that will have everyone howling for blood and lots of it, especially since the Caamasi have become even more pacifistic, more beatific in the wake of their near-extermination a generation ago. There are pressures lurking, building, in the New Republic. Much energy is being deflected into creating a government, but once the structures are in place to allow for the exercise and abuse of power, these pressures will flood through it and tear it apart.”
Krennel brushed his left hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Astute if not terribly surprising observations, Isard.” He made a snap decision to keep her off-balance. “With such understanding, you could easily see a way to create your own Empire. Wait, you tried that, didn’t you? And the Rebels killed you for it?”
Her eyes flashed for a second, and her right hand brushed itself over her scars. “They tried to kill me. They did not succeed.”
Krennel noticed her words came without confidence. She doesn’t remember how they almost got her—amnesia’s no surprise with such massive head trauma. Perhaps she thinks sh
e’s lost some of her edge, which is why she’s come to me. “Are you giving me all this political analysis so I can sit back and watch the galaxy fall into legions of civil wars?”
“No, I tell you this so you can recognize the opportunity you have to rebuild the Empire and become Emperor.” She pointed an unwavering finger at him. “You will recall I offered you this opportunity before, but you decided to take Pestage’s realm instead of bringing him to me. I would have made you Emperor, and now I shall again.”
The Prince-Admiral plucked a comlink from the desk. “Shall we call Mon Mothma now and tell her to hand over the reins of power?”
“Not directly, no. She’ll hand them to us all on her own.”
“What do you mean?”
A brief smile flashed over Isard’s face. “It will not surprise you to learn that sources on Coruscant have reported to me that you have been the subject of discussions in the Provisional Council. The Rebels feel they need to make an example of an Imperial warlord, but they want to pick one and deal with him in such a way that they do not so frighten the others that there is no chance of peaceful settlements later. You are going to be their target.”
“Me? That makes no sense.” Krennel frowned. “I’ve spent the last five years building up defenses, making sure no one can prey upon my worlds. I’m hardly the easiest target they could pick on.”
“True, but you are the one who murdered the Imperial Grand Vizier and so blatantly profited by your act. They think if they wage war on you beneath the pretext of bringing you to trial, the other warlords won’t be threatened by what they do to you.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Transparent political motivations won’t turn lasers or shield ships.”
Isard nodded slowly. “True, but politics can play a leading role in how power shifts in the universe. Think, for a moment. As the New Republic strives to redress some of the ills of the Empire, who will be discomfitted?”
“Humans. They benefited the most under the Empire, so any moves to create equality will result in greater stress on their resources. Humans will have to make do with less so aliens can have more.”
“Very good. And who, now, possesses and controls these resources that will have to be shared.”
Krennel smiled. “Humans do. And even the most liberal of them, the most alien-loving among them, the ones who want to do the most, will feel their nerf is being gored when they are forced to give up more than they want to in order to help others.”
“Exactly. Those who want to preserve their own wealth and power will slow the pace of change, while those who seek power and wealth will want to accelerate it.” Isard opened her hands. “This provides you with an opportunity, Prince-Admiral. You declare your Ciutric Hegemony to be human-friendly. You will provide a haven for anyone who feels he or she is being abused by the New Republic. And you will stress that the Hegemony is open to enterprising individuals of any species—that success here is based on individual effort and the merit of one’s contribution, not based on genetic makeup. The only ‘entitlement’ you recognize is the one of all creatures to be free to make the best life possible for themselves and their families.”
Krennel slowly nodded. “When the New Republic moves against me, it will look as though the aliens have enough influence in the Council to use armed force against someone merely protecting the rights of his own species. That should spike fear among humans and even make some of the other warlords willing to band together so they won’t be made targets.”
“Splendid. And as for the murder charge, you will point out that you merely did to Pestage what the New Republic intended to do all along. In fact, as I recall, Pestage fled from the Rebel forces here on Ciutric and sought sanctuary with you. Could it be he feared they meant to spirit him away and try him for Imperial crimes?”
The Prince-Admiral tapped a metal finger against his chin. “It could be I recall him saying something to that effect before he died.”
“Good, more dissent to be sown.”
Krennel watched Isard closely. “So, you come here, you tell me what the New Republic has in store for me, and you provide me with a political program that will thwart them. Why?”
“To preserve what little is left of the Empire.”
“You said that before. I believe it, but there must be more. There must be something you want, that you want for yourself.”
“There is, and you will give it to me.” Isard reached up with her right hand and touched the scars on the side of her face. “Rogue Squadron managed to defy me in the past and I cannot let that transgression go unpunished. In the course of what will happen, I will lay a trap for Rogue Squadron and you will give me the resources I need to destroy them.”
Krennel snorted lightly. “I have no love for Rogue Squadron, either. You do not ask for much, but your goal may be unattainable. Rogue Squadron has led a charmed life when it comes to traps.”
“That’s all in the past, Prince-Admiral.” Isard’s arctic eye sparkled. “I’ve sent them a message, one that will confuse and distract them. It is bait and, as they follow it, they will move into my trap. You’ll see, you’ll see I’m right. And, when the time comes, your score with them will be settled as well.”
Chapter Five
Wedge Antilles shivered, and he knew it wasn’t just because the morgue was kept cool. Beyond the big transparisteel viewport that separated him from the stainless steel and tile room where droids performed autopsies, Wedge saw row upon row of little doors behind which the dead waited for someone to have the sad duty of claiming them. Two droids, a Two-Onebee and an Emdee-One, slid Urlor Sette’s shrouded form into one of the refrigerated drawers and shut the door with a faintly audible click.
Wedge turned away from the viewport and looked at the other two of the room’s occupants. Corran Horn sat hunched over on a chair with his hands covering his face. Blood droplets stained his jacket front and a small crescent of blood decorated each cuff, as well as the knee on which he had knelt next to the body. Corran’s reaction to Sette’s death didn’t strike Wedge as at all wrong—the death had been shocking and the loss of a friend was never pleasant.
He also knew Corran well enough to know there was more to it than just shock. Sette’s death is a defeat for him. Before Thrawn, before we freed Thyferra, Corran gave his word that he would free the people who had been imprisoned on the Lusankya with him. Sette’s death is a failure, and opens up for him the possibility that he might continue to fail in this quest.
The woman sitting next to Corran rubbed her right hand along his curved back. She wore her light brown hair up and had on a cerulean dress with a short black jacket over it. She’d been at the party, too, and had immediately taken charge of the situation. Wedge marveled at her calm strength in the midst of such an incident, but that sort of strength was something he had come to expect and admire in Iella Wessiri.
“Corran,” she said softly, “there is no way you can accept responsibility for this man’s death. You didn’t kill him.”
Corran looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “That’s not what the droids said.” He pointed at the small box-and-wire device that the Emdee-One that had performed the autopsy had deposited on the room’s stainless steel table. “The second I said his name, I doomed him. I might as well have put a blaster to his head and pulled the trigger.”
“Listen to me, Corran Horn, you know that’s nonsense.” Iella’s voice developed an edge and anger sparked in her brown eyes. “The person who put that device together, the person who implanted it into your friend, that person killed him.”
Corran’s green eyes narrowed. “I know that in my head, Iella, but my heart…” He tapped his chest with a fist. “My heart still feels the guilt. If we’d moved faster to find them and free them, maybe—”
Wedge shook his head. “Listen to yourself, Corran. You know as well as I do that we’ve devoted a lot of time and energy to locating the Lusankya prisoners. While I was off with Wraith Squadron, you Rogues worked hard on that p
roblem. You had Iella and a lot of New Republic Intelligence resources working with you. You did all you could, the best you could.”
“But we didn’t find them.”
“No, you didn’t find what, two hundred, maybe three hundred individuals in a galaxy with thousands and thousands of planets to each one of them? The New Republic barely communicates with three-quarters of the Empire’s old worlds, and you know as well as I do that much of those communications are hollow formalities. When Isard scattered the prisoners, she did so because she knew we wanted them, and she was sharp enough to take steps to make sure we never found them.”
Wedge frowned. “The secret of where she placed them died when you and Tycho blew up her shuttle at Thyferra. You didn’t know that she’d hidden the prisoners, so you couldn’t have anticipated the result.”
Iella nodded in agreement. “And, Corran, there was no way you could have let her live, let her run. That kind of evil had to be stopped, and you know everyone who was on the Lusankya would have agreed with you.”
Wedge felt a lump rise in his throat as she spoke. Iella’s husband, Diric, had once been a prisoner on the Lusankya, though no one had known it until after his death. Ysanne Isard had broken Diric and turned him into one of her agents. She sent him after an Imperial official who was defecting to the New Republic, a prisoner Iella was guarding. Iella had been forced to kill her own husband. Forced much in the same way as Corran was forced to trigger the death of his friend.
Corran took Iella’s left hand in his own and gave it a squeeze. “You’re right, of course. Both of you. I know that. Still, this knot in my gut isn’t going away until we find the other prisoners.” His voice sank slightly. “Or find out what happened to them.”
Iella got up and walked over to the table. She picked up the small box-and-wire device and turned it over in her hands. “Well, we have a good place to start with this. It’s a nasty little piece of work, and a fairly specialized one. Most of it is made up of off-the-shelf components, but there are some custom pieces in here, too. Whoever put it together knew what he was doing.”
Isard's Revenge Page 4
