The Krytos Trap

by Michael A. Stackpole

  And destroy.

  Ysanne Isard had given him the job of creating and leading a Palpatine Counter-insurgency Front. He knew she did not expect grand success from him. He had been given ample resources to make himself a nuisance. He could disrupt the functioning of the New Republic. He could slow their takeover of Coruscant and hamper their ability to master the mechanisms of galactic administration. A bother, minor but vexatious, is what Ysanne Isard had intended he become.

  Kirtan Loor knew he had to become more. Years before, when he started working as an Imperial liaison officer with the Corellian Security Force on Corellia, he never would have dreamed of finding himself rising so far and playing so deadly a game. Even so, he had always been ambitious, and supremely confident in himself and his abilities. His chief asset was his memory, which allowed him to recall a plethora of facts, no matter how obscure. Once he had seen or read or heard something he could draw it from his memory, and this ability gave him a gross advantage over the criminals and bureaucrats with whom he dealt.

  His reliance on his memory had also hobbled him. His prodigious feats of recall so overawed his enemies that they would naturally assume he had processed the information he possessed and had drawn the logical conclusions from it. Since they assumed he already knew what only they knew, they would tell him what he had not bothered to figure out for himself. They made it unnecessary for him to truly think, and that skill had begun to atrophy in him.

  Ysanne Isard, when she summoned him to Imperial Center, had made it abundantly clear that learning to think and not to assume was the key to his continued existence. Her supervision made up in severity what it lacked in duration, putting him through a grueling regimen that rehabilitated his cognitive abilities. By the time she fled Imperial Center, Isard had clearly been confident in his ability to annoy and confound the Rebels.

  More importantly, Kirtan Loor had become certain that he could do all she wanted and yet more.

  From his vantage point he looked down on the distant blob of dignitaries and mourners gathered at the memorial for Corran Horn. While he despised them all for their politics, he joined them in mourning Horn’s loss. Corran Horn had been Loor’s nemesis. They had hated each other on Corellia, and Loor had spent a year and a half trying to hunt Corran down after he fled from Corellia. The hunt had ended when Ysanne Isard brought Loor to Imperial Center, but he had anticipated a renewal of his private little war with Horn when given the assignment to remain on Coruscant.

  Of course, Corran’s demise hardly made a dent in the legion of enemies Loor had on Imperial Center. Foremost among them was General Airen Cracken, the director of Alliance Intelligence. Cracken’s network of spies and operatives had ultimately made the conquest of the Imperial capital possible, and his security precautions had given Imperial counterintelligence agents fits for years. Cracken—or Kraken, as some of Loor’s people had taken to calling the Rebel—would be a difficult foe with whom to grapple.

  Loor knew he had some other enemies who would pursue him as part of a personal vendetta. The whole of Rogue Squadron, from Antilles to the new recruits, would gladly hunt him down and kill him—including the spy in their midst since Loor presented a security risk for the spy. Even if they could not connect him with Corran’s death directly, the mere fact that Corran hated him would be a burden they’d gladly accept and a debt they would attempt to discharge.

  Iella Wessiri was the last of the CorSec personnel Loor had hunted, and her presence on Imperial Center gave him pause. She had never been as relentless as Corran Horn in her pursuit of criminals, but that had always seemed to Loor to be because she was more thorough than Horn. Whereas Corran might muscle his way through an investigation, Iella picked up on small clues and accomplished with élan what Corran did with brute strength. In the shadow game in which Loor was engaged, this meant she was a foe he might not see coming, and that made her the most dangerous of all.

  Loor backed away from the window and looked at the holographic representation of the figures below as they strode across his holotable. The ceremony had been broadcast planetwide, and would be rebroadcast at various worlds throughout the galaxy. He watched Borsk Fey’lya and Wedge Antilles as they met in close conversation, then split apart and wandered away. Everyone appeared more like toys to him than they did real people. He found it easy to imagine himself a titanic—no, Imperial—presence who had deigned to be distracted by the actions of bugs.

  He picked up the remote device from the table and flicked it on. A couple of small lights flashed on the black rectangle in his left palm, then a red button in the center of it glowed almost benignly. His thumb hovered over it for a second. He smiled, but killed the impulse to stab his thumb down and gently returned the device to the table.

  A year before he would have punched that button, detonating the explosives his people had secreted around the memorial. With one casual caress he could have unleashed fire and pain, wiping out a cadre of traitorous planetary officials and eliminating Rogue Squadron. He knew, given a chance, any of the SI operatives under his command would have triggered the nergon 14 charges—as would the majority of the military command staff still serving the Empire.

  Loor did not. Isard had pointed out on numerous occasions that before the Empire could be reestablished, the Rebellion had to die. She had pointed out that the Emperor’s obsession with destroying the Jedi Knights had caused him to regard the rest of the Rebellion as a lesser threat, yet it had outlived the Jedi and the Emperor. Only by destroying the Rebellion would it be possible to reassert the Empire’s authority over the galaxy. Destroying the Rebellion required methods more subtle than exploding grandstands and planets, accomplishing with a vibroblade what could not be done with a Death Star.

  Rogue Squadron could not be allowed to die, because they were required for the public spectacle of Tycho Celchu’s trial. General Cracken had uncovered ample evidence that pointed toward Celchu’s guilt, and Loor had delighted in clearing the way for Cracken’s investigators to find yet more of it. The evidence would be condemning, yet so obviously questionable that the members of Rogue Squadron—all of whom had indicated a belief in Tycho’s innocence at one level or another—would decry it as false. That would increase the tension between the conquerors of Imperial Center and the politicians who slunk in after the pilots had risked their lives to secure the world. If the heroes of the Rebellion could doubt and resent the government of the New Republic, how would the citizenry build confidence in their leaders?

  The Krytos virus further complicated things. Created by an Imperial scientist under Loor’s supervision, it killed non-humans in a most hideous manner. Roughly three weeks after infection, the victims entered the final, lethal stage of the disease. Over the course of a week the virus multiplied very rapidly, exploding cell after cell in their bodies. Their flesh weakened, sagged, and split open while the victims bled from every pore and orifice. The resulting liquid was highly infectious, and though bacta could hold the disease at bay or, in sufficient quantities, cure it, the Rebellion did not have access to enough bacta to treat all the cases on Coruscant.

  The price of bacta had shot up and supplies dwindled. People hoarded bacta and rumors about the disease having spread to the human population caused waves of panic. Already a number of worlds had ordered ships from Imperial Center quarantined so the disease would not spread, further disrupting the New Republic’s weak economy and eroding its authority. It did no good for human bureaucrats to try to explain the precautions they had taken for dealing with the disease since they were immune, and that immunity built up resentment between the human and non-human populations within the New Republic.

  Loor allowed himself a small laugh. He had taken the precaution of putting away a supply of bacta, which he was selling off in small lots. As a result of this action, anxious Rebels were supplying the financing for an organization bent on the destruction of the New Republic. The irony of it all was sufficient to dull the omnipresent fear of discovery and capture.


  There was no question in his mind that to be captured was to be killed, yet he did not let that prospect daunt him. Being able to turn the Rebels’ tactics back on them struck him as justice. He would be returning to them the fear and frustration Imperials everywhere had known during the Rebellion. He would strike from hiding, hitting at targets chosen randomly. His vengeance would be loosely focused because that meant no one could feel safe from his touch.

  He knew his efforts would be denounced as crude terrorism, but he intended there to be nothing crude about his efforts. Today he would destroy the grandstands around the memorial. They would be nearly empty, and all those who had left the stands would breath a sigh of relief that they had not been blown up minutes or hours earlier; but everyone would have to consider congregating in a public place to be dangerous in the future. And if he hit a bacta treatment and distribution center tomorrow, people would also have to weigh obtaining protection from the virus against the possibility of being blown to bits.

  By choosing targets of minimal military value he could stir up the populace to demand the military do something. If the public’s ire focused on one official or another, he could target that person, giving the public some power. He would let their displeasure choose his victims, just as his choices would give direction to their fear. Theirs would be a virulent and symbiotic relationship. He would be nightmare and benefactor, they would be victims and supporters. He would become a faceless evil they sought to direct while fearing any attention they drew to themselves.

  Having once been on the side attempting to stop an anti-government force, he could well appreciate the difficulties the New Republic would have in dealing with him. The fact that the Rebellion had never resorted to outright terrorism did not concern him. Their goal had been to build a new government; his was merely to destroy what they had created. He wanted things to degenerate into an anarchy that would prompt an outcry for leadership and authority. When that call went out, his mission would be accomplished and the Empire would return.

  He again took up the remote control and returned to the window. Down at the memorial he could see small pinpricks of color that marked passersby on their way to and from other places. He glanced at the holograms striding across his holotable and saw that none of the people were of consequence. He followed the course of one woman, allowing her to clear the blast radius, then pressed the button.

  A staccato series of explosions went off sequentially around the memorial. To the south the grandstands teetered forward and started to somersault their way into the depths of Imperial Center. A half-dozen people who had been seated on them fell like colorful confetti. One actually grabbed the edge of the platform next to the barrow and hauled himself up to safety, but a subsequent blast tossed him back into the pit from which he had narrowly escaped.

  Other explosions twisted metal and shattered transparisteel windows in the surrounding buildings. Grandstands clung to the sides of buildings like mutilated metal insects with bleeding, moaning people clutched in their limbs. Dust and smoke cleared to show the central ferrocrete ring around the memorial had been nibbled away, with a huge chunk of it dangling perilously by a reinforcement bar or two.

  Loor finally felt the blast’s shockwave send a tremor through his tower. The hawk-bats flapped black wings to steady themselves, then dropped away from their perches. Wings snapped open, sending the creatures soaring into a slow spiral that would take them down to the blast site. Loor knew enough of them to know the hawk-bats would first look to see if the holes in the buildings revealed previously hidden granite slugs, but when deprived of their favorite prey, they would settle for the gobbets of flesh left behind by the victims.

  “Good hunting,” he wished them, “eat your fill. Before I am done there will be more, much more for you to consume. I shall let you feast on my enemies, and together, here on a world they call their own, we shall both thrive.”

  Chapter Three

  It seemed to Wedge that the mood of the Provisional Council was as dark as the room in which they met and as sour as the scent of bacta in the air. The dimly lit chamber had once been part of the Senatorial apartments Mon Mothma had called home before the Rebellion and her role in it forced her to go underground. It had been redecorated in garish reds and purples by Imperial agents, with green and gold trim on everything, but the paucity of light quelled the riot of color.

  A desire to hide signs of Imperial occupation of the apartments was not the reason for keeping the room dim. Sian Tevv, the Sullustan member of the Provisional Council, had been exposed to the Krytos virus. While there was no evidence he had contracted the disease, he had undergone preventative bacta therapy and had some residual sensitivity to bright light. The Council made a concession to him by lowering the light, and another to the non-human members of the Council by circulating a light bacta mist through the air to prevent possible contagion. This increased humidity seemed to please no one, save perhaps Admiral Ackbar, but he looked grim for his own reasons.

  Primarily because I’m actually here. Wedge knew his petition was doomed to fail—Borsk Fey’lya had said as much at the memorial ceremony, and various other councilors had repeated the warning in the two days since then, including Admiral Ackbar and Princess Leia Organa. In fact, Wedge knew, the only reason he was being given a chance to address the Council was because of his status as a liberator of Coruscant.

  The Council had arranged three long tables in a half-hexagonal formation, with Mon Mothma in the middle, flanked by Princess Leia and Corellia’s Doman Beruss. Ackbar and Fey’lya anchored the far ends of the two angled tables. This left Wedge to stand in the open area before the Council, as if he were on trial. This is exactly what Tycho will face if I do not succeed here today; therefore, I must succeed.

  Mon Mothma inclined her head toward him. “I need not introduce to you a man who has appeared before this Council previously and who has been so instrumental in the New Republic’s success. Because Commander Antilles may end up discussing highly sensitive material, this will be an executive session of the Provisional Council. Everything said here is confidential, and reporting of it will result in possible criminal charges.”

  Doman Beruss smiled. “Ah, to have cases before we have a Judiciary, now that is civilization!”

  Even Mon Mothma smiled at the remark, then set her face again into a mask of solemnity. “Please, Commander, speak your mind.”

  Wedge took a deep breath, then began. “I have come here today to ask you to prevent a gross injustice from being enacted. Captain Tycho Celchu has been arrested and will be tried on murder and treason charges. The evidence against him—what little of it I know about—is circumstantial and weaker than the defenses Ysanne Isard left behind here. Tycho is a hero of the Rebellion. If not for his efforts, we would not be here right now, and I would be dead. The man he’s accused of killing is someone whose life Tycho saved on numerous occasions—Corran would have long since been dead if Tycho wanted him dead. Tycho is innocent, and to put him through this trial after all he has endured would be cruelty on a truly Imperial scale.”

  Mon Mothma nodded slowly. “I appreciate your frankness, Commander, and have no doubt you believe everything you’ve told us. Before we can make any sort of decision, it would be useful for us to have a better grasp of the facts surrounding the situation.” She pointed to a green-eyed man whose hair had shifted from its original red to mostly white. “If you would, General Cracken, please bring the Council up to date with what you have learned concerning Captain Celchu.”

  Cracken walked over to stand next to Wedge. “I hope Commander Antilles will forgive my contradicting him on a couple of points. Some of this information has been developed recently, and because the circumstances surrounding the investigation are tricky, I have not had a chance to brief him on them.”

  Wedge dropped his voice to a whisper. “Nice ambush.”

  “That’s the last thing I want to do, Commander.” Cracken cleared his throat. “Tycho Celchu is a native of Alderaan w
ho graduated from the Imperial Naval Academy and was made a TIE fighter pilot. Subsequent to the destruction of his homeworld—which he had the misfortune of witnessing via holonet communications with his family—he defected from Imperial service and joined the Rebellion. He joined us just after the evacuation of Yavin 4, served with distinction at Hoth, and accompanied Commander Antilles on the assault on the Death Star at Endor. He is one of a handful of pilots who entered and escaped the Death Star.

  “Slightly less than two years ago Celchu volunteered for a covert scouting mission to Coruscant. On the way back out, he was captured and sent to Ysanne Isard’s Lusankya facility. Little is known about this prison, except that people who have come from it have routinely been brainwashed into becoming Imperial agents who commit acts of murder and mayhem when bidden to do so by Isard. Tycho is unique among those who have been to Lusankya in that he retains some memories of having been there. Prior to his appearance, former inmates revealed their connection to this place only after they had been activated, done their damage, and were captured by our forces.”

  Wedge shook his head. “I’m sure General Cracken will not mind my pointing out that Tycho did not escape from Lusankya. Isard transferred him to the penal colony at Akrit’tar, and he escaped from there to return to us.”

  “Thank you, Commander, I was just getting to that.” Cracken’s expression betrayed neither amusement nor irritation, which somehow made Wedge think things were not going to go well for Tycho. “Upon his return, Captain Celchu was debriefed, and his debriefing, in fact, indicated he recalled almost nothing of his time at Lusankya. We could find no indication he had been brainwashed by Isard. However, we had never detected brainwashing in any of her other little bio-weapons. We were left in the unenviable position of having to assume the worst about Captain Celchu. Commander Antilles, believing then as he does now in his friend’s innocence, struck a bargain with his superiors to get Celchu assigned as his executive officer. Security was maintained, for the most part, and the incidents where it was not betrayed no Imperial leanings on the part of Captain Celchu.”