Star Wars - X-Wing 8 - Isard's Revenge

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Mirax pressed fingers to Corran's lips and gave him a glare that forestalled any comment about her father. "To answer your earlier question, General Antilles, your arrival was anticipated because Admiral Ackbar requested a party to welcome the squadron back. Emtrey, being efficient and interested in good value, communicated to me the needs for this celebration."

  Corran gently pulled Mirax's fingers from his lips. "We're having a welcome-home party catered by a droid?"

  His wife smiled. "I gave him a choice: his budget or his selections. Things will kick off in your base recreation center about eight."

  Wedge nodded. "You making a ryshcate?'"

  "That's my intention. I pretty much have everything I need at home." Mirax glanced at Corran. "Save, perhaps, an assistant."

  Corran pointed back to where a tech was using a crane to pull Whistler out of his green and white X-wing. "Whistler will be available in just a second."

  Her grip on his hand tightened. "Not quite the assistant I had in mind."

  Corran felt a burst of heat rush up his body, and then his face reddened. He looked over at Wedge. "If you don't mind, General, I guess I have some cooking to do."

  Whistler's diligent timing of the baking ryshcate and his promise of a shrill alarm when it was done enabled Corran and Mirax to spend time outside the kitchen of their small apartment. The kitchen itself, while boasting some of the best appliances available, felt as cramped as an X-wing cockpit when all three of them tried to crowd in there. They retreated to a small living room, which was built side-by-side with the smaller of the apartment's two bedrooms. Mirax used that room as an office for her import-export business, which meant it remained crammed with all manner of odd things. Corran didn't mind that, though, since the clutter made it difficult to offer the room to Mirax's father as a place to stay on his visits to Coruscant.

  Mirax had redecorated the master bedroom while Corran was off with Rogue Squadron chasing Grand Admiral Thrawn. Redecorating while a war raged may have seemed frivolous, but Corran could understand it. He knew Mirax had not been idle during the Thrawn crisis. She had spent a great deal of time rescuing refugees from worlds Thrawn had threatened and running supplies to those who needed

  them. When she returned to their apartment in Coruscant, the empty bedroom she had shared with him emphasized the fact that he wasn't there. By changing it around, by rearranging it into something she would show me when I returned, she worked toward making a future as opposed to worrying about an uncertain present.

  Once the baking process had been turned over to Whistler, Mirax gladly and anxiously showed him all the changes she had made. He found the new bed very comfortable, the carpet woven of Ottegan silk very soft, and the nerf-wool towels'decidedly greedy in drinking up the water left behind after a hot, steamy stint in the refresher station. Mirax had even made changes in his wardrobe, having added a couple of suits that were stylishly cut-though the bright colors did seem a tad harsh on his eyes.

  Mirax snorted at his protests about the color of the outfit she wanted him to wear. "That vibrant green in slacks and tunic, with an ivory banded-collar shirt beneath, that's the style now, Corran. The Empire made its last attempt to destroy the New Republic. Wearing dour Imperial colors, or the drab sort of things folks wore when fighting them, is out. Those clothes served to hide one away, but no longer." "It's one thing to not be hiding away, but another to make yourself a target." He smiled as he watched Mirax settle little dangling earrings in her lobes. The jewelry had a silvery sheen to it, much like the highlight and accent color of her gown. Corran couldn't quite figure out how the long black dress, which had been cut low in the front and lower in the back, managed to get silver highlights-perhaps, it uses some weirdly shaped thread in the weave that reflects from certain angles-but it clearly made Mirax into a target. "Very impressive gown."

  "Why, thank you. You got it for me for our anniversary." Corran started to speak, and then hesitated and frowned. He saw Mirax watching him in the mirror, so he just winced. "I didn't forget the day, you know."

  "I know. I got the message you sent. I knew this was the sort of thing you'd get if you were here, so I just helped you out." She turned and kissed him on the lips. "You know,

  even though we've had to spend a fair amount of time apart, I am very happy to be married to you."

  "As I am to you." Corran stroked the bare flesh over her spine as he kissed her. "The next Imp or warlord or pirate that decides to keep us apart is dead, just clean dead."

  "My thoughts exactly, my dear." She kissed his nose, and then turned him and steered him toward the door. "Perhaps the Rogues should issue a communique to that effect and peace will reign from now on."

  Despite a personal preference for remaining at home with Mirax and getting caught up with her life, Corran did enjoy the party his wife had arranged. In the almost three years he had spent in the squadron, he had gotten to know his fellow pilots well. He'd spent an incredible amount of time with them, usually under conditions that would most generously be described as adverse. They'd all become very close, and seeing them without the pressure of combat let Corran realize just how much he cared for them.

  He smiled as he watched Gavin Darklighter dancing with Asyr Sei'lar. Corran remembered Gavin when he came into the squadron as a tall kid, just past that gawky phase but not by much. His light brown hair and brown eyes combined with a soft-spoken, easygoing personality that instantly inspired trust and friendship. Through the years Gavin had matured-with the goatee and mustache he now sported an external sign of the growing-up he had done. The war transformed him from a desert-world farmboy to an ace pilot and a man who thinks before he acts.

  Asyr Sei'lar, the Bothan female with whom Gavin had built a relationship, had a playful light burning in her violet eyes. While she might have been described as petite, and her black and white fur did give her a kittenish appearance, she moved with a fluid grace that hinted at a lot of power in her frame. Corran respected her as a pilot and because of choices she had made. She stuck with the squadron in defiance of the wishes of her Bothan superiors, and she's continued to see Gavin despite disapproval as well. Bucking authority,

  especially for a Bothan, took serious steel in the spine, but Asyr had plenty.

  Ooryl Qyrgg, Corran's long-time Gand wingman, came walking over to him, bearing a small plate covered with a rainbow of long, glistening, protoplasmic strips. He plucked one from the plate in a three-fingered hand, and then delicately sucked it into his mouth, letting his mandibles click shut as it disappeared. A clear membrane nictitated over Ooryl's compound eyes and the Gand hissed in what Corran had long ago learned tp recognize as Ooryl's approximation of a self-satisfied sigh.

  "Tasty, are they?"

  "Yes, Corran, very much so." His mandibles spread apart in the best grin Ooryl could muster. "But an acquired taste. On Gand there are some races that cannot eat these uumlourti-they will actually die if they do. I do not think you would like them."

  Corran patted his friend on the gray-green exoskeleton over his left shoulder. "Truth be told, I've never been much for food that rates high on the slimy scale. And risking death to find out just isn't something I want to do right now. But, don't let me stop you."

  "I have no intention of that, Corran."

  The Corellian pilot shook his head. "There was a time, though, when you would have."

  "Ooryl does not quite understand that comment."

  "Looking at Gavin, I was thinking back to when I joined the squadron. Back then you had not been made janwuine, so you always referred to yourself as Ooryl or Qyrgg. You were not so forthright, but more cautious. Then you grew in your confidence and your skill, and it was- is-great."

  Ooryl gave him a sidelong glance. "The Ooryl you describe would have probably pointed out that he learned much from you during his time with the squadron."

  "Probably."

  "I, on the other hand, would not inflate your ego that way." His mouthparts snapped open and closed sharply. "I am
kidding you, yes?"

  "I got it, Ooryl. You really have learned."

  "Yes. I have learned to appreciate my friends." Ooryl gestured at another couple on the dance floor. "Captain Celchu remained focused on fighting the Empire despite being under suspicion of being a spy. Winter remained supportive of him despite the charges the New Republic laid against him. We were all happy when he was proved innocent, but Tycho never showed signs of being bitter."

  "True, he took his vindication in stride." Corran looked around the room at the other squadron members. Hobbie and Janson were off in a corner chatting up a couple of Bothans. Inyri Forge, Nawara Ven and his wife, Rhysati Ynr-who Corran had seen only occasionally since she resigned from the squadron to start a family with Nawara-sat at a table listening to an old man tell tales of his days in a cockpit. Myn Donos had joined Wedge in speaking with General Salm, while the Quarren female, Lyyr Zatoq, and the male Issori, Khe-Jeen Slee, both appeared to be deep in conversation with Koyi Komad, a Twi'lek who had once served with Rogue Squadron as the chief mechanic.

  "We're all so different, but united because of our experiences in the squadron. That we were able to come together gives me some hope for the New Republic."

  "Yes, I have hope in that, too." Ooryl slurped another uumlourti. "It is good to see all of our friends here."

  "True. I'd forgotten we had so many." Corran smiled and nodded at a tall, bearded man who worked his way through the crowd toward him. Corran knew he had met the man in the past, but he couldn't place him. Then the man raised his right hand in an abortive wave and Corran saw he was missing the last two fingers of his right hand. "Sithspawn!"

  Ooryl looked over at Corran. "What?"

  "That man, coming toward us, he was a prisoner on the Lusankya with me. He's one of the men who was missing." Corran started forward, opening his arms. Complete disbelief slacked his jaw. "Emperor's Black Bones, what are you doing here?"

  The man stopped and hesitated, the recognition and confidence gone from his eyes and expression. "I have a message for you, Corran Horn." He raised his hands to his temples and winced. "I'm sorry. I know I know you, but..." Anguish entered his voice. "I don't know who I am."

  Corran pulled up short of the man and let his hands drop by his sides. "You were on the Lusankya with me, you served as General Jan Dodonna's aide. Your name is Urlor Sette."

  "Yes, Urlor Sette." For the barest of seconds Corran saw relief in the man's brown eyes and felt it roll off him in one strong pulse. Then those brown eyes rolled up into his head, and blood began to stream from his eyes and nose. The man screamed once, sharply, spraying a bloody mist from his mouth. His back bowed and his bones cracked, and then he pitched over backward and lay in a slowly expanding pool of blood as the crowd retreated from him.

  Corran knelt by his side and reached out to feel his throat for a pulse, but stopped because he could see he wouldn't find one. Though he had never spent much time working with the latent Jedi abilities to which he was heir, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the man was dead.

  Wedge crouched across the body from him. "What happened?"

  Corran shivered. "Urlor Sette was on the Lusankya. He said he had a message for me." Corran reached up and closed the man's eyes. "I got it, and given the method of its delivery, there's only one person who could have sent it."

  4

  Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel strode silently through the darkened hallways of his palace on Ciutric. Though tall and possessed of a solid build with broad shoulders and narrow waist and hips, Krennel had always prided himself on his ability to move quickly and quietly. In his days at the Imperial Academy at Prefsbelt IV he had been an intramural unarmed-combat champion and was pleased that over the years he'd kept himself in fighting trim. I am yet every gram the fighter I was in those days.

  He glanced down at the naked metal construct that replaced his right hand and forearm. The fingers flexed and collapsed into a fist noiselessly, with only a hint of a reddish glow from deep inside to define the metal plates and pins that made up the artificial limb. Actually, I am even more a fighter than I was, but this is good. Today I must be.

  He stalked toward his office, his close-cropped hair havi ng been raked into a rough semblance of order with his fingers. His white tunic with red trim still gaped open and he would have been concerned about his appearance save for the hour and the fact that he'd been awakened from a sound sleep for momentous news. The abbreviated message, delivered by a protocol droid, had brought him

  instantly awake and sent him out to his office to confirm what he had heard.

  His blue eyes narrowed. He had a hard time believing Grand Admiral Thrawn was dead-in fact he'd not wanted to believe the news because he had hoped to kill Thrawn himself one day. Krennel had been dispatched by the Imperial Navy to the Unknown Regions and found himself serving under Thrawn. He had bristled at being ordered about by an alien, and while he did acknowledge that Thrawn was a genius, Krennel had also found him fatally flawed.

  He recalled how Thrawn would study the artwork of a culture, seeking clues to how the species thought and functioned. Thrawn claimed such study provided him with keys that unlocked the doorway to victory against many alien species. Krennel thought it also inspired in Thrawn a certain respect for these species-all of which were subhuman-and weakened his ability to be effective. Krennel had shown Thrawn how ruthless conduct could be even more effective than artistic study, but Thrawn's reaction to the lesson Krennel taught came all out of proportion to the lesson itself.

  Krennel's cheeks still burned when he thought of Thrawn sending him and his ship, Reckoning, back in the Core worlds. Krennel returned in disgrace and was certain the Emperor himself-with whom Thrawn seemed to have an inordinate amount of influence-would have destroyed Krennel's career. Luckily for Krennel, the Emperor died at Endor, allowing Krennel to escape punishment.

  "And forever barring me from vindication." Krennel's deep voice carried through the dark corridor even though he barely hissed the words. His metal hand tightened into a fist again. "Forever leaving my reputation tainted."

  He had rejoined the Imperial Navy, resisting his initial urge to become a warlord, but within six months of the Emperor's death, circumstances conspired to offer him an opportunity to fashion his own destiny. Sate Pestage, the Emperor's Grand Vizier, had assumed control of Imperial Center upon the Emperor's death. As the man's position eroded he tried to strike a deal with the New Republic. Pestage had offered Imperial Center and other key worlds in

  return for the promise of his own well-being and retention of his own holdings. The military tribunal that replaced Pestage after he fled to Ciutric charged Krennel with bringing Pestage to justice. Krennel came to Ciutric, found Pestage, and usurped his holdings and authority. He created for himself the post of Prince-Admiral and succeeded in holding the dozen worlds of the Ciutric Hegemony together through the turbulent times that followed as the New Republic took Imperial Center and even crushed Warlord Zsinj.

  Then Thrawn came back. Thrawn claimed authority over Imperial assets upon his return. Krennel had found it expedient to offer Thrawn some support-munitions, personnel, some basic resources-but he never acknowledged Thrawn as any sort of superior. Krennel had dreaded the idea that Thrawn might come after him and his little realm, but he had allowed himself to believe that he could have held his own against Thrawn.

  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, and then felt something cold and slender brush against his throat. He was a half step further on when it began to cons
trict. 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, and 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, and then pulled himself up te 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.