The Krytos Trap

by Michael A. Stackpole

  A full 203 paces from the mouth of the cavern complex, Corran passed through what had once been a ship’s hatchway and into the prisoners’ workstation. Rumor among the prisoners had it that Lusankya dated from before the Clone Wars and incorporated parts from various ships that had been blasted to pieces in a naval action beyond the atmosphere. The scavenged hatch and the condition of the old, worn tools did suggest a certain amount of antiquity to the facility, but that conclusion came so easily that Corran was disinclined to trust it. If that’s what Isard wants us to think about her Lusankya, then I don’t want to think it.

  Beyond the hatch they proceeded down a steep grade to a long rectangular cavern that had five tunnels shooting off it like fingers off the palm of a hand. All the fingers ended in doors that were cobbled together from ship bulkhead panels and held closed by chains and locks. The tunnels were big enough to allow a small mining droid to pass through them, but the doors were always shut when the prisoners came into the room, so Corran never saw the droids digging out the ore they processed.

  At the far end of the chamber from the entryway sat several piles of huge boulders. Men would work on them with heavy sledgehammers, bit by bit breaking them down into smaller rocks. Other prisoners would carry those smaller rocks to the middle of the chamber, where more prisoners would smash them with smaller sledges. Yet more prisoners with shovels and screens would sift the debris, pitching back the larger stones. The resulting gravel would then be hauled in buckets to a conveyor belt that carried the gravel up and away. At the top of the conveyor belt the gravel disappeared through a heavy steel grate.

  No one knew much about what lay beyond the grate. They knew air was blowing out of it because they could see a fair amount of dust blown back into the air around the conveyor belt. Most of the prisoners assumed the belt led to a blast furnace where the gravel was melted down, or a mixing container where it was being made into ferrocrete. Corran argued that it was just as likely that the gravel was being dumped into hovertrucks and taken out to pave walkways in some Moff’s garden, and if that was true, the grate was all that stood between them and freedom.

  All of the prisoners knew what they were doing was simply make-work, but the Imps had taken the precautions necessary to prevent work stoppages. The conveyor belt’s workings had been sunk into the ground so the prisoners couldn’t get access to the motor and sabotage it. Steel fibers had been woven into the length of the belt to keep it strong and had been tightened so virtually no slack appeared in the belt on its return trip to the depths of the mine’s floor. A railing had even been set up to prevent prisoners from accidentally falling onto the belt or getting caught in the mechanism.

  Corran dumped his bucket of gravel into the maw of the container bolted on the conveyor belt. Humming away loudly, the belt started the gravel on its twenty-meter journey to the grate. Corran watched it go for a second, then allowed the next man in line to bump him out of the way.

  Heading back to where Urlor was shoveling gravel into buckets, Corran took a quick inventory of the guards watching over them. A full squad of men in stormtrooper armor guarded them, providing one trooper for every ten of the eighty prisoners in the work detail. Six of the troopers carried blaster carbines. The other two crewed an E-Web set up just inside the hatchway, making any attempt to rush out of the mine suicidal. The sharp slope up which the prisoners would have to charge would slow them enough that the two-man heavy blaster would cut them all down. Though none of the guards were as big as stormtroopers, nor seemed as well disciplined as the Empire’s shock troops, even they would have been enough to quell a prisoner revolt.

  Urlor tossed a shovelful of gravel toward Corran’s bucket but missed with half of it. “Don’t do this, Corran.” He kept his voice low enough that the rattling chuff of gravel pouring through a screen hid it from outsiders. “Wait. Learn more.”

  “This is learning.” He winked at the bigger man. “Guards have their blasters selected for stun.”

  Jan looked over from the end of the screen he was holding. “You’ll risk your life on the flick of a thumb?”

  Corran tapped himself on the chest. “Rogue Squadron, remember.”

  “Corellian, more like.” Jan shook his head. “None of you have any respect for odds.”

  “Why respect what you have to beat?” Corran gave each of them a nod. “Trust me, I have to make this run.”

  Urlor dumped a final shovel’s-worth in the bucket. “May the Force be with you.”

  “Thanks.” Corran, letting the bucket dangle down between his legs, started the awkward, hunched-over Rybet-walk back toward the conveyor belt. His plan was simple: he’d dump his bucket, then hop over the railing and ride the belt up to the grate. Up there, at least as viewed from the work floor, there appeared to be enough shadowed space to conceal him. If he could then get down through the grate, or find a hidden passageway out, he’d be free.

  “You there.”

  Corran looked over at the guard pointing at him. “Me?”

  “Come here.”

  Why me? Corran shuffled over toward the man. “Sir?”

  “Don’t question me, prisoner.” The guard, clad in the lighter weight scout version of the armor, loomed over him. “As for the reason I picked you, you’re new and need a lesson.”

  Without warning the guard brought the blaster carbine up and around in a one-handed backhand stroke that caught Corran over the right ear. Stars exploded before his eyes and the clank of metal on skull started a fierce ringing in his ears. A flange on the barrel cut his ear and split his scalp, while the force of the blow spun Corran around to the left.

  Pain overrode panic. As Corran whirled he held on tight to the bucket, brought it up, and let it fly when his tormentor came into view again. The gravel-filled container smashed into the guard’s faceplate. The man’s head snapped back as the blow knocked him from his feet. He stumbled backward as the bucket flew on comet-like, spraying out a gravel tail.

  Corran’s vision cleared and seconds seemed to take hours to pass. The guard’s carbine, the muzzle glistening with his blood, hung in the air. Corran knew he could snatch it before it hit the ground and burn down the two closest guards in a heartbeat. Half the guards in the detail would have been accounted for. Getting the rest would be difficult, but the other prisoners could swarm them. They’d take the guards’ weapons and…

  And die trying to clear the E-Web. Or die trying to fight our way out of the belly of this prison. All of them will die, and their deaths will be on my head, if I grab that gun.

  He heard the whine of a blaster and saw something blue shoot past him. All the prisoners dove for the floor. They shrank into a huddled carpet of dirty arms and legs, ducking their heads to avoid recognition, yet peeking out to see what would happen.

  All of them went down save for one.

  Jan.

  Eyes filled with horror and pride, he nodded to Corran.

  Corran, understanding, nodded back.

  The stun-bolt caught Corran square in the middle of his chest. It did to his nervous system what an ion-bolt did to a machine. In one instant every nerve in Corran’s body fired, instantly wracking him with pain, burning him up, shaking, crushing, and freezing him. All of his muscles contracted, bowing his back, grinding his teeth, and kicking him up into the air with a little hop. His limp body’s impact on the ground probably hurt, but his nervous system couldn’t route reports to his brain properly, so he really didn’t know how he felt.

  Except it’s not good.

  He saw Jan crouching over him. “I’ll see they get you help.”

  Corran wanted to nod, wanted to blink, wanted to do something to let Jan know he heard him, but he couldn’t. About half the time he’d been hit with a stun-bolt before—in training exercises and a couple of times with CorSec in the field—he’d lost consciousness. The times he hadn’t, he’d wished he had, because the feeling of helplessness created by being trapped inside a body that didn’t work was worse than any pain.

&n
bsp; The medical team called for by the guards arrived rather quickly, bringing with them a repulsorlift stretcher. After they loaded their unconscious comrade on it, they reluctantly draped Corran over the man’s legs, leaving Corran’s head dangling and his hands and feet scraping along the ground as they hauled the two individuals out of the mine.

  Staring down at the floor, he couldn’t see much on the trip out. The medtechs wrestled the stretcher into a lift, and the one to the right of the door, at the foot of the stretcher, punched a button and started the box ascending. Corran heard three tones, which he took to mean they had ascended three floors, then the lift stopped and the medtechs again struggled to get the stretcher out of the lift.

  They floated Corran on through corridors that appeared much more modern and maintained, if floor tile was any indication, than the rest of the facility. Finally they brought the stretcher to a stop in a place where he caught the familiar scent of bacta, and unceremoniously dumped him to the floor. He rolled onto his left side, his cheek pressed against the cold flooring.

  He caught snatches of the conversation between the medtechs and the Emdee droid that would be caring for the guard, but the ringing in his right ear made it difficult for him to catch everything. Moreover, he wasn’t certain he could trust any sensory inputs, because what he was hearing through his left ear was simply impossible.

  Starting from above his head and continuing on down toward his feet, he heard the dopplered sound of stormtroopers—real, well-disciplined stormtroopers—marching along. That was not remarkable in and of itself except in that if they had been there, they’d have been marching over him, and as messed up as he was, he was fairly certain he’d have noticed that. The only other alternative was that they were in a room below him, marching on the ceiling, and what that meant was, at that time, well and truly beyond his ability to comprehend.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wedge thumbed his comlink on. “What do you need, Mirax?”

  “Coming up on the Kala’uun Starport, Wedge. I thought you might like to be up here on the bridge as we come in. It’s quite the sight.”

  “On my way.” He glanced around the cargo hold and nodded at his R5 unit. “Hang on, Mynock, we’re almost there. Keep a scanner on these crates for me, will you?”

  The cylinder-headed droid beeped affirmatively. The R5 unit then exchanged some softer tones with the Pulsar Skate’s Verpine maintenance droid.

  No, they can’t be talking about me. Wedge laughed at his flash of paranoia and stepped out of the hold. The doors crunched shut behind him. Letting a hand trail along the corridor’s ceiling, he made his way along the spine of the ship to the bridge. He thought he might have been imagining things, but heat from the atmosphere already appeared to be bleeding in through the ship’s hull. Scant wonder there are Twi’leks that think of Tatooine as a suitable place to flee to during the hot season here.

  He stepped down into the bridge and dropped into a seat behind Mirax. “I’d forgotten how impressive this is.”

  The tortured surface of Ryloth spread out before them like the shards of a shattered earthenware vase. Black basalt mountains thrust up into a dusky red sky. Centermost in their view of the planet stood a massive mountain with a huge tunnel cored into the interior at its base. The smaller holes dotting the face of the mountain would have appeared to be natural openings except for the regularity with which they were arranged.

  Because the planet rotated on its axis once per year, the same side of Ryloth always faced the sun. Kala’uun existed near the terminus line—where day and night met—making it one of the cooler sunside locations. Because of Ryloth’s elliptical orbit, the planet did have seasons, though most humans could not tell the difference between summer and the cool season since both were unbearably hot.

  “Yeah, impressive and impressively treacherous. Liat, watch the crosswinds as we enter the tunnel.”

  The Sullustan pilot chittered angrily at her.

  “I know you can’t miss the rocks out there, I just want to make sure we miss the rocks.” Mirax smiled. “No heat storm activity today, it seems, but the currents can still be tricky.”

  “Right.”

  Liat Tevv took the Pulsar Skate down into the canyon that led to the tunnel. Harsh winds had smoothed the stone to the consistency of polished glass in some spots, and had torn away huge dagger-like slabs in others. Smaller areas of damage to the rocks—some graced with a splash of paint or metallic debris—gave mute testimony to the need for care in negotiating the approach to Kala’uun.

  The Pulsar Skate slipped into the approach tunnel with plenty of room to spare on all sides. Liat flicked on the ship’s external running lights and floods, filling the dark tunnel with jagged shadows. Up ahead a massive portcullis slowly rose into the tunnel’s ceiling. As they flew past it Wedge guessed it was at least thirty meters thick and would require a lot of pounding before it admitted unwanted visitors.

  Mirax glanced back at him. “Ever get the feeling that the portcullis is as much for keeping folks in as it is for keeping them out?”

  “Only when I’m on the inside of it.” Three years had passed since his first and last trip to Kala’uun, when he and the rest of Rogue Squadron had arrived unbidden and in pursuit of a Twi’lek. The circumstances of this trip were certainly more favorable. Even so, just to make certain there were no grudges being borne against him, he’d put Emtrey’s scavenging abilities to good use and had him round up a plethora of gifts for the Twi’leks.

  Mirax nodded. “Kala’uun is the one place my father figures he didn’t make out like a bandit. The Twi’leks are tough negotiators.”

  “I hope that skill holds for Nawara’s efforts on behalf of Tycho.”

  Mirax’s brown eyes narrowed. “I hope so, too, I think. I know you believe Tycho had nothing to do with Corran’s death, but I can’t be so sure. I wish I could, really, because Tycho helped me save Corran at Borleias.”

  “Don’t forget that Tycho saved me and the rest of the Squadron on Coruscant.”

  “I’ve not forgotten that, but while he was saving you, Corran and I were saving each other from the Empire and the traitor in Fliry Vorru’s organization.” She patted Wedge on the knee. “We’ve been over this a dozen times and I’m getting better about it, I really am. I don’t cry nearly as much right now as I did.”

  Wedge tipped her face up with his left hand and brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Hey, being sad doesn’t reflect badly on you at all.”

  “Thanks.” Mirax sniffed a little. “It’s just that it seems so ridiculous sometimes. We’d not even dated. We didn’t know each other that well. For his death to hurt this much we should have been a lot closer.”

  “That’s the trick of it, Mirax, you were a lot closer than you imagine. The two of you shared a lot of the same qualities.” Wedge smiled. “Your father and Corran’s father were mortal enemies. Why? Because they were a lot alike, too. Both of you had strong relationships with your fathers, which is reflected in how you turned out. Under different circumstances old Booster and Hal Horn probably could have been friends. You and Corran became friends because you met under those different circumstances.”

  She frowned for a moment. “You are probably right. I could also help myself get over this, I think, if I could just finally accept the fact that Corran’s dead. Listening to the comlink call when he went in, that was pretty nasty, but we never found a body. I know it’s stupid to make anything of that, what with the building coming down on him and all, but my father always said that if you don’t see a body, don’t count on someone being dead. He did once—”

  “And it cost him his eye. I remember the story.” Wedge laughed lightly. “Now I remember it. That explains a lot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Biggs, Porkins, Corran, my parents—I never saw their dead bodies. Partly because of your father’s story, I suspect, and just human stubbornness, I find myself sometimes expecting to see them walk into my office.”

>   Mirax’s face brightened. “Or you think you see them walking along in a crowd. You catch a glimpse of them.” She glanced down. “Part of me thinks that we see them because we don’t truly believe they’re dead. Maybe the barrier that separates the living from the dead is permeable as long as there is someone who doesn’t accept death. Sithspawn, listen to me. I’m talking like a glitbiter.”

  “That’s not a problem, Mirax, I understand.” Wedge leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “And I don’t think your theory is all that wrong. I don’t imagine we can bring people back to life by hoping, but letting their memories live on inside us is not a bad thing to do at all.”

  The Sullustan cheebled something at Mirax, prompting her to spin around in her command chair. She hit several switches above her head, then punched a button on the console. “Landing gear deployed, repulsorlift drives engaged. Kill thrust and set her down gently.”

  Liat’s melodic grumble accompanied the delicate thunder of the Pulsar Skate’s landing. Mirax slapped a button on the command console and Wedge immediately felt a rush of warm air as the ship’s gangway lowered itself. Mirax nodded toward the aft and the opening. “After you, Commander Antilles.”

  “Thank you, Captain Terrik.”

  Mirax smiled. “By the way, I think you look slicker than a Hutt’s slime trail in that native garb.”

  “Thanks.” Since the mission was diplomatic in nature, Rogue Squadron had been supplied with clothes like those their counterparts on Ryloth would wear. Because of the planet’s oppressive heat, the natives tended to wear loose, bulky, hooded cloaks over their other garments. The nature of the clothes they wore beneath the cloaks depended upon their occupation. Twi’lek warriors tended to be clad in a loincloth, wrapped leggings to the knee, fingerless gloves, and a highly decorative bandoleer that did still serve a martial function. Their cloaks also tended to be abbreviated, as if their whole costume was meant to show they were tough enough to endure even the harshest of conditions on the planet.