Star Wars - X-Wing 02 - Wedge's Gamble

by Michael A. Stackpole

  He decided to get his bearings and moved in off the street. This required him to thread his way through vari-

  ous makes and models of speeder bikes hovering in a wall in front of a cantina. If there was any lettering painted on the wall or door to indicate what the place was, it had long since faded too much for Corran to read it. A series of holograms flickered in sequence showing a storm-trooper's helmet breaking into four uneven and rather messy sections. What it meant mystified him until he walked inside and down the steps and saw a sizzling or­ange sign that proclaimed the place to be "The Headquar­ters," or, at least, did so when all the letters chose to buzz to life.

  Corran had chased fleeing Selonians through sewers with better atmosphere and more consistent lighting than the Headquarters. The narrow stairway broadened out into a foyer that ended where one side of the triangular bar blocked it off. To get farther into the cantina one had to pass through the choke points at either end of the bar. While a fair amount of dense smoke filled the air, Corran could see tables clogging the floor and booths back against the walls. Two curtained doorways were built into the back corners, leading to waste relief stations and, given the sort of clientele drawn to this type of establish­ment, providing access to dozens of bolt-holes.

  Speaking of bolt-holes . . . Blaster bolts had dotted the walls near the entrance with a dense pattern of holes. Corran noticed they tended to be grouped about a meter up from the floor and tapered off past head height for the average stormtrooper. He found this marginally reassur­ing, though his gut did not agree with that sentiment at all. The faster I can get out of here, the better I'll like it.

  He kept his gait casual and a bit loose. His hands emerged from his pockets slowly as he approached the bar, slipping into a spot near the end over to the left. A fairly powerfully built Quarren female in a sleeveless tu­nic planted her hands on the bar right in front of him. "I think you're lost."

  In an instant Corran was back in CorSec making sweeps of various Coronet City cantinas. "If I wanted thinking, I'd not be in here. Lomin-ale." He put enough

  of an edge in his voice to make her question the judgment she'd made of him. As she moved away to comply, with her facial tentacles twitching out a silent curse at him, he realized his clothes were too new for him to fit in easily. Most of the patrons wore cloaks, less out of a concession to fashion than because it concealed their identities, and not many people coming into a place like the Headquar­ters really wanted to be spotted.

  She returned with a small glass of ale, half of which was foam. He tossed a couple of credit coins on the bar and they disappeared instantly in her grey fist. He sipped the ale and found it wasn't as bad as he expected, though it could have benefited from being colder. His was the only small glass being used in the place, which he took as a not-so-subtle measure of his popularity with the staff. He knew he'd not get served again, and he wasn't inclined to linger over his drink.

  By the same token, if he just turned around and walked out, half the regulars would be all over him like chitin on a Verpine. Running away would have the same effect as flagrantly flashing credits around, or opening his jacket and letting everyone see he didn't have a blaster with him. He considered, for a moment, trying to buy a blaster from someone, but that would put him in direct contact with gun-carrying criminals who might decide killing and robbing him was easier than selling him a weapon.

  Corran leaned on the bar and drank more of the ale. Realizing he was not in a good position, he started to look around and assess the threats suggested by the can-tina's patrons. Dozens and dozens of criminal profiles flit­ted through his brain. He classified people based on their species, the amount of interest they showed in him, and the kind of hunches he got when he looked at them. The people inside seven meters provided him with two definite class-one threats, a half-dozen class-two threats, and one Gamorrean who appeared scared enough that Corran tried to attach the face to any warrants that had been out-

  standing when he'd been in CorSec. He came up blank, then started on the booths along the wall to the left.

  What? Corran blinked his eyes and shook his head, then took another look. Through the swirling smoke, seated facing a tall, slender figure in a cloak and hood, Corran saw Tycho Celchu. Impossible.

  He looked away, then back for a third time. The in­dividual to whom Tycho was speaking stood, eclipsing Corran's view of the unit's Executive Officer. In doing so the figure also managed to destroy Corran's interest in Tycho because despite the dim light and the thick smoke, he knew the hooded and cloaked figure could only be one person.

  Kirtan Loor.

  Corran set his ale down and began to move around the bar. Loor and Tycho! He is an Imperial agent! I have to get to . . .

  He slammed into a large Trandoshan and rebounded from the reptilian's chest. Someone clapped a hand on Corran's right shoulder and he felt the muzzle of a blaster jam into his ribs. The Trandoshan closed in on the left, pinning him against the man with the blaster. "You're go­ing nowhere, pal."

  Corran looked to his right and couldn't recognize the man holding the gun on him. What he did notice about the gunman was that he had a comlink clipped to the la­pel of his jacket and a small lead to an earphone in his left ear. As Corran looked back to the left to see if the Trandoshan was similarly equipped he saw the cloaked figure disappear out one of the back entrances. Tycho was gone as well.

  Depression blossomed full in the pit of Corran's stomach, yet he knew things could easily continue to get worse.

  They did. Very easily.

  Through the doorway that swallowed the cloaked man swaggered a person swathed in garish and gaudy clothes. The smoke would have been enough to conceal his identity until he drew closer, but the cantina's dim

  light allowed the diamond pupils in his eyes to shine brightly.

  Corran shook his head. "What you see when you don't have a blaster."

  Zekka Thyne didn't bother to smile. "Your thoughts parallel mine." He reached back and drew Inyri Forge from his shadow. As she came around him she handed him a blaster pistol. "Of course, now I have a blaster and am just full of ideas about what I can do with it."

  23

  Though he marched at the head of the parade, Gavin Darklighter felt anything but happy. He'd been searched and deprived of his hold-out blaster. The Gotal walked behind him, occasionally poking him with a blaster, and Asyr Sei'lar walked on his right. She seldom looked over at him, but when she did he saw only venom in her violet eyes.

  The other Rogues had been dragged along in his wake, with a thick knot of denizens from the cantina traveling behind them. The Rogues had been allowed to keep their weapons, but their power packs had been taken away, reducing the blasters to oddly shaped clubs. Shiel seemed the most angry, but Aril and Ooryl insulated him from the individuals on either side so no violence broke out.

  Asyr led the way through a set of corridors and stair­ways that provided easy and instant access to the city's lower reaches. Unlike the pathways Gavin and Shiel had located, this one appeared to have been built in place, not hacked out of what construction droids had created. It didn't seem that new—and certainly not as new as Asyr had made the Alien Combine sound—so Gavin guessed it had been built after a Hutt or some other criminal bribed the city planners to program it into a construction droid. The journey ended in a large rectangular warehouse area that they entered through double doors in one of the narrow walls. Scattered throughout the space were all sorts of makeshift hovels. They had been cobbled to­gether from ferrocrete blocks, duraplast packaging, bro­ken sheets of transparisteel, and ragged bits of cloth. Dwellings for larger creatures formed the foundation of the makeshift apartment blocks. Smaller creatures like Sullustans, Ugnaughts, and Jawas occupied the upper lev­els. Gavin felt pretty certain things actually roosted up in the shadows ten meters overhead, but the light was too dim for him to see more than silhouettes moving about.

  The Bothan led them to a central clearing. Wide roll-up doors had been slid dow
n in place where they bi­sected the longer walls. The one off to Gavin's left had a hole cut in it large enough to permit transit by most hu­manoid creatures. A couple of Twi'leks and a Rodian bearing guns stood watch nearby. Since both of the roll-up doors were large enough to admit repulsorlift trucks, Gavin assumed they led out onto whatever passed for streets at this level of the city.

  Asyr stopped Gavin at the center of the clearing. The rest of the aliens fanned out in a semicircle behind them to ring half the clearing. This left the rest of the Rogues halfway between Gavin and the circle. The Gotal came around from behind him and stalked forward to where a steel post had been set into the duracrete floor. He picked up the hammer that hung from a string and pounded it against the post's flattened top.

  A heavy mournful tone rang from the post and filled the room. Gavin could feel vibrations play through the floor. All around curious faces peered out through holes, windows, and doorways in the hovels. The Gotal hit the post again, summoning more people to come out of their homes. He hit it a third and final time, then let the ham­mer drop.

  Gavin heard the whir of an engine and looked up as

  a box drifted forward and slowly down. Cables lowered it from the mobile winch moving along tracks out away from the far wall. Lights came on inside the box, reveal­ing windows and a doorway. As the floating building came to rest against the floor, the doorway opened and a male Devaronian stepped forth. The black cloak he wore nearly shrouded all of him—what little of his rotund belly and chest it didn't cover made a bright scarlet stripe down his middle that matched the tone of his flesh.

  Asyr bowed her head in his direction. "Dmaynel, we have brought you one of the bigoted men who has trav­eled into Invisec to mock us. He is the one we should use as the message we wish to send to the Empire."

  Light reflected white from the Devaronian's sable horns. He stepped forward and took Gavin's chin in his hand. His fingernails pressed hard into Gavin's flesh, but Gavin did not flinch nor try to pull away. He stared down into Dmaynel's dark eyes and did his best to hide his fear.

  The Devaronian smiled, then released him and stepped back. "You have chosen wisely, Asyr. He is youthful and even handsome by their standards. His body will say all we want to say, and more."

  "Indeed," said Nawara Ven, "it will let them know they are superior to all of us in every way they think now and new ones as well."

  "Who are you?"

  The Bothan scowled. "These five were with this Man."

  Dmaynel looked past Gavin. "And you five are his friends?"

  "We are, and proud to be so." Nawara Ven appeared at Gavin's left hand. "I have known him for well over six standard months and consider him one of the best friends I have ever had."

  The Devaronian folded his arms across his chest. "It is rare among us to find one who so openly professes his friendship with a bigot."

  Nawara smiled. "And what proof do you have that he is a bigot?"

  Asyr snarled. "He refused to dance with me."

  The Twi'lek opened his arms. "Of course, how could I have forgotten? Refusing to dance is a sign of being a bigot. What if I had refused your request? Would I have been a bigot?"

  "You were with her."

  "The human female, yes." Nawara nodded slowly. "So you would say I would have had a reason to refuse you."

  Asyr nervously smoothed the fur on her face. "Yes, you would have."

  "Is it not possible, then, that this Man had a reason to refuse you?"

  "He did. He is a bigot."

  "You draw a conclusion that is not supported by ev­idence, my dear." Nawara opened his hands and lifted them up to take in all the aliens watching. "Is there no reason other than bigotry that might explain his action? Perhaps he is not a good dancer. Perhaps he has someone he loves far away from here. Perhaps he is allergic to Bothan fur."

  Asyr thrust a finger toward the Gotal. "But Mnor Nha said he felt relief when I went away. He was relieved he would not have to touch me and associate with me."

  "She is telling the truth, Dmaynel. That is what I sensed."

  Nawara drew himself up to his full height and turned to face the Gotal. "Tell me, Mnor Nha, did you sense re­lief from this Man when the stormtrooper departed from our table?"

  The Gotal hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

  "So when one threat removed itself, this Man felt re­lief." Nawara turned back and smiled at Asyr. "Could it be, fair Asyr Sei'lar, that this man felt you as threatening in some ways as a stormtrooper?"

  The Bothan's head came up. "I am no stormtrooper."

  "Perhaps not in form, but in impact, I think you are." The Twi'lek patted Gavin on the shoulder. "My friend here is young and

  you are very beautiful. You approached him. You flattered him. You expressed interest in him and you were persistent. You

  stalked him, all of which must have quickened his pulse. You clearly saw something in him that he was not certain truly

  existed, which certainly would make him anxious. Your departure meant he never had to discover how disappointed you

  would be when you discovered he did not live up to the image you carried in your mind. Relief at your departure would only

  be natural."

  Gavin nodded in agreement with Nawara's assess­ment and saw heads among the spectators also bob away. Nawara's hitting close to one part of the truth so he can leave the rest of it alone. Rather obviously Gavin's relief could be explained in terms of his being on a covert mis­sion from the Rebellion, but revealing that fact would blow the operation. As much as the Alien Combine had been organized to protest Imperial misconduct, he knew there had to be at least one Imperial informant among the creatures assembled in the warehouse.

  "He was threatened by me?" Asyr's violet eyes nar­rowed. "That's nonsense. How could anyone think of me as threatening?"

  "How indeed?" Nawara exaggerated a frown. "Could it be that he has heard it was the Bothan people who bravely sacrificed themselves to carry news of the second Death Star to the Rebellion? How could he find a member of the species that caused the Emperor's death threatening? No, of course, you're right, that is not pos­sible.

  "The larger question to ask, of course, is why would he find you or me or any of us threatening right now? Could it be that his random selection, his being sentenced to death for an offense that is poorly defined; could that possibly remind him of the Empire you hate so much? Could it be the idea of being used to convey a message to people he does not know sounds very Imperial to him? Could it be that your action in this regard makes it diffi­cult for him to differentiate between you and the Em­pire?"

  "Absurd!"

  "It is, Asyr?" Nawara looked up and out at the aliens staring down at the center of the room. "If you act like the Empire, you will be seen as the Empire."

  The Devaronian waved that idea away. "He is one of them. Kill him and leave the body for them."

  "No! He is one of us." The Twi'lek shook his head vehemently. "You are protesting death and mistreatment by the Empire, but Humans have suffered as much at the hands of the Empire as any of us. Yes, Mon Calamari, Gamorreans, and Wookiees have all been enslaved, but none of them had their homeworlds destroyed as Alderaan was destroyed. And who is it who has struck the most mortal blows against the Empire? The Rebel­lion, yes, but the Men among them. How many of us were part of the Rebellion and shed our blood at Yavin? How many of us froze on Hoth or died at Derra IV?"

  Someone in an upper gallery shouted down, "We were there at Endor. A Mon Cal led the fleet at Endor. We have contributed to the war against the Empire."

  "He's right," Asyr crowed. "We were there at En­dor—without Bothans, Endor would not have happened. A Sullustan piloted the Millennium Falcon and it killed the second Death Star. Your points are for naught."

  Nawara smiled slowly. "Yes, we were there at Endor, but Men fired the shots that destroyed that Death Star. Men killed the Emperor. Even so, the point you bring up to protest mine makes my case for me. We would not have been at Endor
except that the Men who began the Rebellion, the Men who bled and died for its first victo­ries, the Men who allowed us in, brought us in, welcomed us with open arms. You accuse this Man of bigotry be­cause he felt relief when you left him alone, yet you are willing to treat him as a loyal son of the Empire when you already know that to do so is to discard any possibil­ity that he hates the Empire just as much as you do."

  Dmaynel shrugged casually. "If he hated the Empire that much, he would be out fighting it, not here hiding at its heart."

  Nawara hesitated for a second and Gavin shook his head. Don't blow mission security. It's better they kill me and our mission remain secret than to let the Empire know we're here. Too many people would hear the expla­nation for us to be safe.

  The Twi'lek stroked his chin. "And what if his loyalty to the Rebellion can be demonstrated?"

  Dmaynel shrugged. "The Rebellion is far away. It will be years before I have to deal with them, and by then, this one will be forgotten. Right now he can serve notice on the Empire that we will no longer tolerate their preda­tion upon us. Kill him."

  The Gotal took careful aim with his blaster, but be­fore he could pull the trigger, earsplitting explosions and bright flashes buckled the metal door to Gavin's left. The metal ribbon flopped down over the Twi'leks and Rodian standing guard. A cylindrical Ubrikkian HAVr A9 Float­ing Fortress cruised forward. The repulsorlift field pressed the door flat against the floor causing dark fluids to gush out from beneath it. The blaster cannon turret atop the vehicle spun to the right and the two spotlights on either side pinpointed the Devaronian. In the vehicle's wake two dozen armored stormtroopers poured into the warehouse.

  Light from the machine's cockpit control panel re­vealed an image of the Fortress's Commander holding a comlink up to his mouth. "This is an unlawful assembly. You will lay down your weapons and disperse peacefully when given leave to do so. If you do not, my orders are clear. So are my fields of fire."