Isard's Revenge

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Corran shot Gavin a glance. “Get your hands on that formula and you’ll have no problems naming the kids you adopt.”

  Khe-Jeen crackled the rest of the bone to splinters in his mouth. “Our point is this: On Issor there are no unwanted children, and even those orphaned are the responsibility of the families of those who were bred to create them.”

  Corran scratched at his forehead. “But if eggs and packets can travel, isn’t it possible that children are actually born after the parents are dead? And isn’t it possible that someone could breed a rival to a leader by stealing eggs and packets from people closer to a throne than he is?”

  “Indeed, we have often bred using packets of dead heroes or leaders—we have used the eggs of their sisters or wives or daughters similarly to preserve the bloodline. The families always care for these newborns.” The Issori shrugged his broad shoulders. “As for unsanctioned breedings, they are known as vrecje. The closest Basic word is stranger, but it runs deeper since not only do we not know them, but they have not been raised by a family, so they are not really considered Issori. They are wretched, tortured creatures and are slain as wild beasts are slain.”

  “Having families raise kids sounds right by me.” Gavin smiled, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Asyr has said that family means a lot to the Bothans, and I’ve agreed that any children we adopt should have a full understanding of their own culture.”

  Corran raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to adopt Bothan children?”

  “At least one, yes.” Gavin reached out and rested his right hand on Corran’s left forearm. “Look, after we’re married, a lot of people are going to come around asking about Asyr and me, and whether or not we’re suitable for raising kids and everything like that. I want to use you and Mirax as references, if that’s okay with you.”

  Corran raked a hank of dark brown hair out of his eyes, then nodded, dropping it back down again. “Sure. I’ll run it by Mirax, but I’m sure she’ll agree. We’d be happy to help you.”

  “Great, I’ll tell Asyr. She’ll be excited.”

  “Where is she?”

  Gavin shrugged his shoulders and chewed a mouthful of beans. He glanced around the room, then shook his head. “I thought she was going to try to join me for lunch. She got a message right when our briefing let out. She said she would try to be back.”

  Corran glanced at his chronometer and stood. “Speaking of back, we’ve got fifteen minutes before we’re due in the simulators. I’m going to get come caf, then find Whistler. Anyone else need caf?”

  Khe-Jeen Slee shook his head once, sharply, as if tearing a hunk of flesh from an invisible beast. “Our digestive system is too refined for your caf. If there is chokolate, I would take that.”

  “Got it. Gavin?”

  “I’m good to go, Corran.” Gavin fished some credits from his pocket and held them out. “Let me buy for you two, though. For the help with this adoption thing.”

  Corran waved the money away. “Save it, Gavin. When you finally get kids, there will never be enough of it. Somehow, though, I think the two of you—and your family—will do just fine.”

  Borsk Fey’lya turned slowly from the window looking out over Coruscant. He found Asyr Sei’lar standing just inside the door to his office, with the sunlight streaming past him making the white fur on her face and hands glow with a dazzling intensity. Her violet eyes still had the fire he’d seen in them years ago, and her expression had a determination to it that matched the fire. Good, she is prepared to fight, which means she is prepared to deal.

  “You sent for me, Councilor Fey’lya?”

  Borsk opened his hands slowly and let a little hurt tone play into his voice. “You feel the need to be so formal, Captain Sei’lar? I thought, between us, between Bothans, we could be more familiar.”

  Asyr’s eyes tightened, as did her fists. “I merely wished you to know that I am aware of where the power resides, Councilor.”

  “I see.” Borsk smiled carefully, then stroked his creamy chin-fur. “Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. Well deserved and long overdue. Just like a human to keep your rank artificially low.”

  The black fur rose at the back of Asyr’s neck. “Rogue Squadron has never been overly worried about rank, Councilor. Getting our jobs done has been our paramount concern. The reward of rank has been more than justified by our actions. In fact, I would say that the New Republic has been quite penurious in rewarding heroes such as Wedge Antilles.”

  Very good, Asyr. Borsk nodded and moved from the window toward his desk. You suggest that Antilles has been insufficiently rewarded, and allow the implication that we have been similarly neglectful of the rest of the Rogues to chastise me. You play the game well.

  Borsk waved a hand toward the chair before his desk. “Please, be seated. I want you to be comfortable.”

  Asyr moved forward, but stood behind the chair. “I’ve been sitting all day during briefings. It feels good to stretch my muscles, but do not let me stop you. Please, be seated.”

  And let you look down upon me? Borsk nodded and seated himself in a massive chair. He tapped a datacard—the only datacard—on his desk with his index finger. He let the sound of his nail clicking on the datacard’s casing fill the room, then he scooped up the card into his hand and slowly turned it over. “You know what this is.”

  Asyr stiffened, then gathered her hands at the small of her back. “I assume it is my application to adopt a Bothan orphan.”

  “You do know, of course, that a hero of your stature would never be denied such an honor. There are doubtless Bothan families that would gladly give up one of their children to you, knowing their child would be raised in a home where power does not trickle, but flows and floods.” Borsk tapped the datacard against his muzzle, then lowered it and smiled. “After the second Death Star was destroyed and the role of the Martyrs was revealed, their families were overwhelmed with claims that children had been fathered by the Martyrs. Claiming a piece of the grand Bothan tradition is so important to our people that we would give our own flesh and blood away so they can be part of it.”

  Her chin came up. “Then you called me here to tell me the application has been approved?”

  “No, and you know that is not true.” Borsk slid the datacard across the desk toward her. “I want you to withdraw the application.”

  “What?”

  “Please, Asyr, you know how impossible this is. You are involved in a liaison with a human—you want to marry him. It might add a bit of exotic luster to your image on Bothawui, but the vast majority of Bothans consider it something of a perversion. He’s all but furless and his face is so squashed it’s, well, hideous. That you have found something in him that attracts you, this I can understand, but you cannot allow this infatuation with him to last.”

  “It’s not an infatuation. We love each other.”

  Borsk Fey’lya raised his hands and waved away her declaration. “Infatuation, love, lust, whatever you call it, it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: We were prepared to indulge your dalliance, but no more. You cannot be permitted to marry him and create a family with him.”

  “His name is Gavin Darklighter, and he’s every bit as much a hero as I am.” Asyr’s clawed hands came around and gripped the back of the nerf-hide chair. “I cannot believe you have the impudence to sit there and tell me what I can and cannot do with my life.”

  “No?” Borsk kept his voice low and even, meeting her hot stare with a cold one of his own. “And I do not believe you can stand there and have the impudence to totally abrogate your responsibility to your people.”

  “What?”

  Borsk spread his arms, resting his hands flat on the desk. “I have told you before that you have become a role model for young Bothans. The Martyrs represent what we all hope we could achieve, what we hope we would be willing to do when called upon. They are shining examples of what we are at our best. Their greatest virtue is that they are dead. They are defined by the moment of the
ir death, and nothing that went before matters. All their weaknesses, their frailties and vices were washed away when the Empire spilled their blood.

  “You, my dear, are different. You have accomplished much and you still live. You provide an ongoing example to our people. When a young female faces a decision, she might ask herself, ‘What would Asyr Sei’lar do?’ You defied your parents and entered the Bothan Martial Academy. You’ve taken up with a human. You have no interest, apparently, in bearing children of your own, but are content to raise a mongrel pack of children salvaged from the ruins of the Empire. Yes, humans certainly see that as charitable and enviable, but it is not the Bothan way. By following your example, others will destroy the Bothan way of life.”

  Asyr shook her head. “No, it is not fair to put the blame for change on me. Bothan society was repressed by the Empire and by turning inward, by maintaining our strength, we survived that oppression. Now things are different, change is happening and there is no way to stop it.”

  “I don’t want to stop it, Asyr, but I do need to direct it.” Borsk paused for a second, less for dramatic effect than for a genuine need to gather his thoughts. If I cannot convince you of your part in the salvation of the Bothan people, other steps may have to be taken. He admired the steel in her spine, the energy blazing from her eyes, but if he could not control her and the direction she took, the disaster he saw looming on the horizon would swallow the Bothan people.

  Desperation fueled inspiration.

  He sighed heavily. “The Empire put forward the idea that any species that was not human was inferior. Humans were held up as the absolute acme of accomplishment. If we were to aspire to greatness, we had to aspire to be human or more than human. That is a message we had beaten into us during the Imperial period. Children of your generation have been raised in a world where that is the reality. Humans are the measure against which we compare ourselves.

  “Now you, a Bothan, are a hero who has attained parity with human heroes. They accept you, and you accept them, and this is very good. The same is true for Ooryl Qyrgg or Chewbacca. You are shining examples to humans of what nonhumans can do. In this capacity you serve every nonhuman species in the New Republic very well.”

  Borsk drew his hands together, rubbing one over the other. “You, however, have a romantic relationship with a human. The message that sends is not one of equality. It suggests that, somehow, a nonhuman is not sufficiently worthy of your affections. This relationship was tolerable and manageable when it could be dismissed as a dalliance. Settling down for a life with Gavin Darklighter will confirm what the Empire has been telling us all along: We are inferior to humans, and even our heroes know that, which is why you, Asyr Sei’lar, take as your life companion a human.”

  “No, that’s not right.” Asyr shook her head, but the earlier vehemence in her voice had lost something. “By choosing Gavin, it says there are a galaxy of possibilities out there.”

  Borsk slowly shook his head and allowed a kindly note to enter his voice. “Possibilities, yes, but sterile ones, unfruitful ones. You’re telling everyone that you would rather turn your back on the family traditions of the Bothans to marry a human than accept your responsibilities in our community. That may not be the message you intend to send, but that is the one everyone is hearing.”

  Asyr leaned forward, bending over the back of the chair. “You’re telling me that by exercising my freedom of choice, a freedom I fought for and helped win from the Empire, I will be perpetuating the Empire’s influence?”

  “It is not as grave as that, but essentially you are correct. You have the misfortune to be a Bothan hero in a time when we desperately need Bothan heroes to be very Bothan. It’s not fair. It’s even cruel. But it is your lot in life, and your responsibility to deal with it.”

  She looked up at him. “What would my future be? What do I have to do to be more Bothan?”

  “I have not thought along those lines.”

  Asyr snarled, curling a lip to show some teeth. “You can badger me, you can hurt me, but do not treat me like some stupid child. The second you saw my application you plotted out the course you would like my life to take. You would have me break off my relationship with Gavin and then what? Resign from the squadron, return to Bothawui to command my own squadron? Then, after a time and suitable negotiations I would be wed to a nephew of yours? Perhaps a son?”

  Borsk narrowed his eyes. “That would be an acceptable course, yes. Your family is desirous of your return to our world, and there are many Houses that would welcome you into them.”

  She nodded. “And the alternative is what, to be ostracized, cut off from my people? I would get no Bothan child to raise, and you would use your power to see to it that Gavin and I never adopted any other child? You would make my life miserable because if I am unwilling to serve as the sort of example you want, you can make me into a negative example that will serve your purpose just as easily.”

  Borsk nodded a brief salute to her. “You are very Bothan at the moment, Asyr. This is good. Your choices are clearly laid out for you.”

  “You would have me break Gavin’s heart.” Asyr hesitated for a second. “You’ll let our people break mine for me.”

  “Better one heart broken than the culture of a people lost forever.”

  Asyr straightened up. “I will need time to think on this.”

  “It is understandable.” Borsk Fey’lya smiled easily. “Rogue Squadron’s current mission should redouble your fame. At its conclusion your decision would be expected.”

  She nodded once. “You’ll see how truly Bothan I am, Councilor Fey’lya. As power flows are warped and twisted, just remember it is you who made me remember, and made me live up to my heritage.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Adjusting his blaster belt, Corran Horn sprinted across the Swift Liberty’s launch bay and leaped halfway up the ladder connected to his X-wing’s cockpit. The X-wing had been repainted the green, black, and white color scheme it had sported when he’d been with CorSec. The techs had even dutifully painted on his kill markers again and stenciled his name, CAPTAIN CORRAN HORN, on the side. He let his fingers brush over his rank, then he climbed into the cockpit and waved at the techs pulling the ladder away.

  Whistler blatted harshly at him as he pulled on his helmet.

  “Yes, Whistler, I heard the call, but I was finishing up a message to Mirax in case we don’t make it back. Of course, I figure she’ll miss you more than me.”

  The droid warbled in a very self-satisfactory manner.

  “Good to know we’re in agreement.” Corran strapped himself into his seat and hit the switch that lowered the canopy and locked it into position. He punched the ignition sequence into the command console. The engines caught on the first try, sending a gentle thrum through the fighter.

  “Whistler, set my inertial compensator at point-nine-five gravities and load fleet, squadron, and Three Flight comm channels into switches one through three respectively.” As the droid did that, Corran ran power from the engines into the weapons system. One by one the X-wing’s lasers all came online and began charging. The proton torpedo launcher’s computer reported the device was set to go, and the magazine was loaded with six torpedoes. The diagnostics screens showed that the X-wing sported an auxiliary belly tank with enough fuel to allow them to fight both in space and down in atmosphere for an extended period of time.

  I hope this belly tank works better than the one I had on Borleias.

  Wedge’s voice crackled through Corran’s headset. “Good to have you with us, Captain Horn.”

  “Sorry about that, General Antilles. I was recording a message for my wife and there was a bit of a line to use the equipment.” Corran looked over at the mission chronometer on the command console. “We’ve still got two minutes to reversion. Besides, with General Salm’s B-wings out there, we won’t be needed at all.”

  “Then they’ll release us to hit ground targets.” Wedge’s voice carried with it a hint of amusement.
“The B-wings are tough and will take a lot of damage, but they’re still slower and less maneuverable than the eyeballs and squints we’ll be facing. Salm may only leave crumbs behind, but they’re our crumbs.”

  “I copy, Rogue Leader.” Corran switched his comm unit over to Three Flight’s channel. “Okay, Rogues, we’re under two minutes to reversion. All systems should be green. I don’t know exactly what there will be out there for us to light up, but whatever it is, I want us shining really bright.”

  Commander Vict Darron strode onto the Direption’s bridge and was pleased with the fact that his crew kept hard at work. When I was Krennel’s executive officer, if the crew didn’t immediately fawn all over him when he appeared, he’d start working up insubordination charges for the lot of them. Darron knew any distraction for a crew on a warship was an invitation to disaster, and disasters are never good on a warship.

  Krennel had given him command of the Imperial Star Destroyer, Mark II, after its previous commander, a Captain Rensen, had been executed for failing to raze a village that had been home to someone who tried to assassinate Krennel. Darron immediately set about locating those crewmen who Krennel had cited for being insubordinate and asked for them to be assigned to his ship. He promised Krennel they would no longer be a problem, and Krennel gladly gave them up.

  But Krennel also demanded he raze the same village his predecessor had refused to destroy.

  Being well aware that Krennel’s mechanical hand could crush his throat as easily as it had Rensen’s, Darron had immediately agreed to carry out the mission. From the second he left Krennel’s presence he sought for a way to preserve his life without engaging in the wholesale slaughter of villagers. His search took him back over old territory, for every Imperial officer in any position of authority had long since wrestled with his piece of responsibility for the destruction of Alderaan and the policies of the Empire.

  Many simply laid the blame on Grand Moff Tarkin and said, had they been in charge, they never would have used an inhabited planet as a target. That, of course, overlooked the fact that the Empire had created a weapon that could destroy planets, then built another one after the first was destroyed. Clearly the Emperor intended to be vaping worlds, and any officer who didn’t do something to stop that madness bore some guilt for it.