by Alex Wheeler
"Possible that Trever is still alive somewhere?" Ferus said sadly. "Possible, even, that our lie has stumbled upon the truth? That X-7 really is—"
"I never said that," Div cut in harshly. "I'm no fool."
"A coincidence like that—"
"Aren't you Jedi always saying there are no coincidences?" Div asked.
"I would know if it was Trever," Ferus said heavily. "I would sense it."
"But I wouldn't, right?" Div scowled. "Because I've given up on the Force, I can't even be trusted to recognize my own brother. Not like you can. Even if you barely knew him. Only cared enough to leave him to die."
Ferus flinched. Div cursed himself for doing it again: striking Ferus exactly where it was guaranteed to hurt the most.
"Just be careful," Ferus said without resentment. "Don't let your guard down. Don't think you can trust him."
"I don't trust anyone," Div said.
Just another thing he and X-7 had in common.
Before Ferus could reply, Luke, Leia, and Han burst into the shack. "We got them!" Luke said triumphantly, waving a memory chip in the air.
Han arched an eyebrow. "We?"
Luke rolled his eyes. "Okay. Han got the blueprints."
"And then we got Han out before the Imperials turned him into a scorch mark," Leia put in. "And by the way, you're welcome."
"And you're delusional," Han said. "If I hadn't been around to save both of your scrawny necks, you'd be dianoga food by now."
Ferus cleared his throat. At once, they fell silent. Div marveled at the way Ferus somehow commanded their respect despite that no one knew who he really was. Even Leia, who always acted like he was worthless, followed his lead. Not for the first time, Div wondered why Ferus had kept close to her all those years, pretending to be someone he wasn't. Ferus refused to speak of it.
This wasn't unusual. Ferus spoke little and often fell into long, heavy silences, staring into nothingness. He was just as kind and determined as ever, but some piece of him was gone.
"It sounds like X-7 is ready, too," Ferus said.
Luke shook his head, a fierce scowl crossing his face. "We have the blueprints; we don't need him."
"We can use him," Div countered.
"How are we supposed to use him when we can't trust him?" Luke asked.
"You have another plan?" Ferus said.
Luke and Han glanced at each other, and Han gave a small nod. "We've been working on something," Luke said, pulling up the blueprints on his datapad. "If we go in through the south entrance…" He traced his index finger along the route.
There was a hint of movement in the shadows. A rustling, as soft as a whisper. Div looked up, on alert, but saw nothing.
As the others hunched over the datapad, Ferus caught his eye. He gave Div a nearly imperceptible nod.
So Ferus had heard it, too.
Div kept his head down, but his eyes flicked from side to side as he sought out their intruder. There was no further noise or movement, but Div could feel his presence.
How long had he been there?
And how much had he heard?
Div half listened as Luke and Han laid out their plan. His mind raced furiously, searching for a way to spin this to his advantage. And by the time the planning ended and the others slipped out, he was ready.
The last to go, Ferus hesitated on his way out. "Do you need me to—"
"Go," Div said firmly. Ferus didn't argue. He just tapped his hip, where Div could see the faint outline of a lightsaber hidden beneath his coat. Then he pointed at Div and left without another word. He didn't need words; his meaning was clear.
May the Force be with you.
Div waited in the dark. May the Force be with me, he thought wryly. I'd rather you left me with your lightsaber.
He had his blaster, of course. But he had a feeling that this time the blaster might not be enough.
Long minutes passed. Nothing happened. "You can come out now," he said loudly. "I'm not leaving until you do."
X-7 emerged from the shadows. He held his blaster in a trembling hand. "I should have known," he said.
"You did know," Div said, forcing himself to remain calm. If X-7 had overheard the conversation with Ferus, then all was lost. But there'd been no sign of his presence then. If all he'd overheard was the Rebels discussing their mission, then things could still be salvaged. Maybe. "That's why you followed me here. You wanted it to be true. You wanted me to be working with the Rebels."
"And you let me listen," X-7 said. "You wouldn't have done that unless…"
"That's right," Div said, encouraging him. "Unless I wanted you there. This isn't just any Rebel mission; this is the Imperial garrison built on the site of the first Imperial munitions factory. The one that—" He swallowed hard. He wouldn't need to fake the emotion. It flooded back whenever he thought about that day. "I've been waiting a long time for this opportunity to show the Empire that they can't just destroy my family, my planet, without consequences. This is payback."
"Revenge," X-7 said in a dreamy voice.
Div realized that he had finally hit on a human emotion that X-7 understood. "Revenge," he agreed. "For what the Empire did to Clive and Astri—and to you. I've always known this moment would come. But I thought when it did, I would be alone."
X-7 lowered the blaster. He crossed the room in three long, swift strides and clasped Div's hand, then squeezed. "You won't," he said. Abruptly, he dropped his hand, and his tone turned businesslike. "Tell your Rebel friends I have all the Imperial access codes they need. I can obtain the necessary security clearances. Anything you need. We will have our revenge."
It was all working out better than Div could ever have hoped—assuming X-7 was telling the truth.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Revenge.
It was the thought that got him through the day, and the next. It was the dream. Revenge on the people who had slaughtered his family, who had stolen his identity. It was the only thing about this new life that made sense. By day, Div showed him holopic after holopic, strangers' faces that meant nothing to him, memories of another life, belonging to another man. And when the stars came out, so did the nightmares. More strangers, calling out for him. Green grass and sparkling seas and a feeling, alien and unwelcome. Happy. He woke every morning in a cold sweat, and only one thing calmed him down. One word.
Revenge.
This was the act that would unite his past and present. It would restore sanity to his insane world. He was Trever Flume, a passionate warrior; he was X-7, a heartless assassin. Two identities, galaxies apart, united by a single need.
Revenge.
Whatever he was, whatever he had been, he was a killer. He would kill, he would destroy, he would avenge. X-7 would repay his debt to Trever Flume, to the name, the body he wore like a costume. He would join the Rebels. He would help them tear down the walls of the Imperial garrison. His true nature would emerge in the hot crucible of revenge. Either he would strip away the years of X-7 and embrace Trever Flume, or Trever would die—really die this time—in the fire that incinerated the garrison, and X-7 would be free.
Finally, things had started making sense again. And then, the day before the attack, they stopped.
Alone in the strange house, he sat stiffly in a hard-backed chair. It was the only place he felt comfortable. This house, it was a place of comfort, of decadence. With its plush overstuffed couches, its fully stocked kitchen, its luxuriously soft mattresses and picture windows, it wasn't a house for a man like him, a man of discipline. A man of action.
He had come downstairs planning to look at more pictures, dull as they were with their endless grinning faces. Strangers—now nothing but corpses—who meant nothing to him.
But he couldn't face them.
I have to leave this place, he thought, standing abruptly. Suddenly certain. Now, forever.
But he didn't move. Because it was just as certain that he had to stay. There was Div. There was his empty past. There was revenge.
>
This place was tearing him apart.
He was standing there, frozen and undecided, when his comlink pinged with an incoming message. And everything fell apart.
Don't believe the lies, the message said. Transmitted on an encrypted channel. If you want the truth, all you need do is ask. There was no name, but there was a time. And an address.
X-7 knew it was likely a trap. But what kind of trap could contain him?
Only a trap of lies, he thought. He told himself that no one had the ability to lie to him; he was too good at seeing through pathetic human deception. Except that was no longer true, was it? Emotions clouded everything, dulling the sharp edges of the world. It was possible Div was lying to him and he was just too foolish to see it. If there was more truth to be found, he had to have it.
And if someone was trying to trap him, X-7 had to know who it was. You had to know your enemy before you could kill it.
The building was empty, but it didn't look abandoned.
There was no thick layer of dust, no broken transparisteel, no apparent garbage or squatters, nothing to indicate that the building had been deserted for more than a few days, if that. It was a stout, unassuming building tucked into a cluster of faceless high-rises. The Imperial presence in this city was unusually heavy. Stormtroopers were posted at regular intervals, noting the movements of the citizens. X-7 knew that the Rebels believed that destroying the garrison would be the first step in reclaiming Belazura. They hoped the city would rebel against its Imperial rulers and rediscover the courage that had let them battle the Empire for so long. But X-7 had his doubts. The faces he passed weren't the faces of Rebels. They were the faces of defeated, terrified cowards who'd learned their lessons about fighting back. Astri Divinian and Clive Flax hadn't been the only ones to die that day ten years earlier. The day the weapons factory was destroyed, the city had rebelled. Three thousand Belazurans had been killed.
Those who had survived weren't eager to be punished again.
Before going in, X-7 made a thorough survey of the perimeter. His modified infrared goggles let him peer through the walls and search for heat signatures, telltale signs of an enemy lying in wait. But he saw nothing. He drew his blaster and stepped inside.
It was only one room, large and echoing, lit by nothing but the dim glow of the setting suns, filtering through dirty transparisteel. Ten meters by ten meters, ample windows and doors to serve as escape routes. Which, of course, meant ample points for possible attack. He prowled the edge of the wide room, turning in slow circles with his weapon raised. No surprises this time, no one sneaking up on him from behind. It would be easier if he knew what he was searching for. A person? A message?
A bomb?
There was a soft, nearly inaudible click. X-7 went on high alert, spinning wildly, searching in vain for the source of the noise. The building was still empty. Then the silence was broken by a whirring hum, machinery springing into motion. Certain of only one thing—the need to leave—X-7 pivoted and raced toward the nearest exit.
A durasteel shutter slammed down across the door, blocking his way.
The room echoed with the clang of durasteel on duracrete as the thick, heavy shutters slammed down all around him, covering every window, every door, every means of escape. All except for one: The entrance to a turbolift had suddenly appeared in a previously blank wall of duracrete.
X-7 combed the room, centimeter by centimeter, making sure there wasn't any other option. There wasn't. So he stepped into the turbolift.
As soon as the doors slid shut, the bottom dropped out beneath him. The lift zoomed downward, then abruptly stopped and whooshed horizontally for several long seconds. X-7 calculated that he was at least twenty meters below the ground, traveling two, possibly three city blocks. He'd come across such contraptions on other planets, underground turbolifts, buildings connected by secret passageways. The Rebels were like borrats, hollowing out warrens in the heart of every city so they could operate beneath the Imperial radar. But X-7 was certain no Rebel cells were operating on Belazura—none, that is, except for the one he'd found himself a part of.
Without warning, the turbolift started to rise.
As it came to a stop, X-7 gauged the speed and the time and, with a simple calculation, judged himself to be about twenty stories off the ground. Too high to jump, if it came to that. But not too high to climb.
The doors soundlessly slid open, revealing an office nearly identical to one he'd recently visited on Coruscant. Its occupant stood behind the imposing desk, clearly waiting for X-7's arrival.
X-7's first reaction was relief. His body wanted to drop to its knees, beg forgiveness from his commander.
"Surprised?" Rezi Soresh raised his eyebrows. "But not disappointed, I hope?"
X-7 raised his blaster and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The shot tore into the wall behind Soresh's head.
Soresh sighed. "This is Sittana marble and it certainly looks better without holes in it," he said. "But I suppose I should thank you for not putting one in my head."
"What are you doing here?" X-7 asked harshly.
"Oh, your Rebel reconnaissance didn't reveal that I was in the neighborhood?" Soresh asked with false shock. X-7 kept his face blank. So Soresh knew about the Rebel plans—which meant they were doomed. "I'm supervising the new munitions shipments—and more to the point, I'm supervising you. You think I can afford to have an agent running wild through the galaxy? In this condition? That should be obvious. No, the question you should be asking is why are you here?" He formed a temple with his fingers and propped his chin on his fingertips. "I didn't train you to be the kind of man who could be surprised."
He pressed something on his desk, and the door to the turbolift disappeared into the wall. A bookshelf took its place. X-7 cursed himself for letting his one guaranteed means of exit disappear.
"Old Rebel hideaway," Soresh said, gesturing at the hidden turbolift, obviously pleased with himself. "Of course, there aren't any of them left to hide. We took care of that."
X-7 did his best to ignore Soresh. Automatically, he surveyed his surroundings, eyes alighting on any possible means of escape. The office, clearly a temporary one, was mostly bare, although the Commander had stupidly left his files and datapad sitting out on the desk. Perhaps he'd forgotten that he'd equipped X-7 with a photographic memory. Once the information passed in front of his face, it was in his mind forever. The desk also contained the controls for the hidden turbolift. Once the Commander was out of commission—which would be easy enough to see to—the lift would be accessible.
And if all else failed, there was always the window.
Soresh waved a hand lazily at the transparisteel. "Go," he said. "If that's what you really want. I didn't think you were the kind of man who would enjoy living a lie, but be my guest."
"There are only two things I want," X-7 retorted. "My life—and your death." He watched his commander carefully, searching for some sign of anxiety or concern. But the man remained perfectly calm. Confident. What does he know that I don't? X-7 thought, suddenly wary. Maybe he should leave sooner rather than later.
But if he left, the Commander would always be waiting to reassert control, to turn X-7 back into a slave. It would be much more expedient to kill him now.
Think like a human, X-7 reminded himself. Let yourself feel.
Fine, then. Not just expedient. It would be satisfying—it would be just—to watch the Commander die.
Soresh burst into laughter. "Want? You don't know the meaning of the word."
"You know nothing about me," X-7 said. "Not anymore."
"I know everything about you." Soresh's voice was like a dragon snake, slithering into X-7's ears, into his brain. Laced with venom. "Certainly more than you know about yourself."
"And I know about you," X-7 spat out. "Your precious program, your volunteers. We were prisoners. You told me I'd enlisted, that all I wanted was to serve the Empire. I was a Rebel. You kil
led me, the real me—you made me a murderer and turned me against my own."
"Whining doesn't become you," the Commander said. But his voice had tightened, nearly imperceptibly. His eyelids fluttered. X-7 knew the signs. He'd hit a nerve. "Nor does stupidity. You actually believe their lies?"
"I can see when a man is telling the truth," X-7 said coolly. "You taught me well."
"Fine." The Commander stood. "You weren't a volunteer. None of you were. But you're not this, this pathetic Trever Flume they're trying to turn you into, either. It's a trap. Don't be such a fool that you walk right into it."
X-7 scanned the Commander's face for evidence that this, too, was a lie. But he could find none.
It doesn't mean anything, he thought. The Commander was a practiced manipulator.
And X-7 wasn't exactly objective when it came to listening to his lies.
"I don't believe you," he said steadily. He wouldn't let Soresh sense his inner hesitation. Perhaps he was becoming more human, more Trever, but enough of him was still X-7. His thoughts, his doubts remained his own.
"Believe me; don't believe me. That's irrelevant. Haven't you figured it out yet?" The Commander twisted his face into a gruesome smile. "It doesn't matter who you were. Trever Flume, or some other fool, whoever it was, that man is dead. There's no going backward, no hiding in the past. No becoming ordinary again. Why would you ever want such a thing? You're better than that. Stronger, faster, smarter. Harder. Better because I made you that way. You think you can make yourself soft again? Make yourself stupid? Please. You're a weapon, razor sharp. Be grateful."
"To you?" X-7 whispered harshly, and drew out a slim vibroblade. The blaster would be quicker, surer. But he wanted satisfaction.
"You can thank me later," Soresh said breezily. "Or kill me now, if that's what you really want. If you hate your creator so very much. Kill me."
It was all the invitation X-7 needed. He raised the blade. Stepped forward.
Tried to step forward. But it was like his shoes were nailed to the floor.
