Isard's Revenge (28 page)

Tycho arched an eyebrow. “Hostages?”

Wedge shook his head. “Just more variables than can be controlled right now. They’ll be locked away, safe, out of trouble.”

Corran frowned. “I don’t like it, but if you say that’s the way it has to be …” He walked over to the tech and snatched the restraining bolt and welding rod from the man’s hands, then dropped to one knee in front of Whistler. “Sorry to do this, pal, but it’s not the first time. You’ll get through it.”

He pressed the bolt to the droid’s chest panel, then turned to the tech. “Okay with you?”

“A little to the left.”

Corran made the adjustment, then used the welding rod to fix the bolt in place with a shower of sparks.

The tech pointed a remote at Whistler, hit a button, and the droid shut down. Another button and Whistler was back on, moaning mournfully.

Corran rose in one swift motion and gently tapped the tech under the chin with his dormant lightsaber. “Hey, just because you have the power, don’t abuse it.”

Wedge laid his hand on Corran’s forearm. “Put it away, Captain. The tech here will take good care of all the droids, won’t you?”

“Lock ’em up snug and tight.” He glanced at Corran. “I may not understand your attachment to the droids, but I’ll respect it. We aren’t all heartless monsters.”

“Good.” Corran smiled coldly and tapped the man on his chest with the lightsaber. “Something happens to Whistler and you will be. You have my promise on that.”

Borsk Fey’lya was not accustomed to being kept waiting, but he understood Booster Terrik’s game and decided to humor him. The Bothan Councilor had never before been on the
Errant Venture
, and he occupied his time studying the ship. He recalled his ire when General Cracken reported that an intact though largely disarmed Imperial Star Destroyer had been turned over to a smuggler who had served five years on Kessel. The idea that a private citizen—an outlaw even—could bully the government into tolerating his possession of a war engine seemed the first sign of impending anarchy. Fey’lya wanted to demote Cracken for his failure to secure the
Errant Venture
for the New Republic, but the rest of the Council disagreed.

He’d let memory of the ship slip from his mind until the Thrawn crisis. Fey’lya had advocated the immediate nationalization of the ship, but New Republic Intelligence had a hard time locating it. Through Terrik’s daughter, the Council had been informed that Booster would welcome the ship’s rearming and his own commissioning as an Admiral. That idea had been rejected outright. Fey’lya got a degree of satisfaction when Cracken suggested leaking intelligence that would have Thrawn looking over his shoulder for the
Errant Venture
, but Terrik’s failure to rally to the cause of the New Republic still infuriated him.

And now I am here, but now I have the measure of the man, and a mission for which he is well suited.
A quick message from the
Errant Venture
had alerted the Council to Rogue Squadron’s destruction. Terrik had returned immediately to Coruscant from Distna, bringing with him the debris which was all that was left of Rogue Squadron and those who had killed them. The ship also brought back a sole survivor: Wes Janson, and the body of one other pilot, the Quarren, Lyyr Zatoq. Save for ship scraps, there was no trace of anyone else.

Fey’lya looked out over the docking bay at the variety of ships occupying deck space. Aside from his own
Lambda
-class shuttle, with two Bothan warriors standing guard at the base of the gangway, the ships present all could easily have been described as salvage. While Fey’lya was fairly certain the
Errant Venture
’s aft docking bay was reserved for customers who patronized the Diamond deck, the level of deterioration in the forward bay marked how difficult it was for Terrik to keep his ship operational. At least one of the turbolifts didn’t work, and several of the winches that lifted small ships into storage racks were frozen. Terrik’s dream of a ship that would pay for itself clearly had become a nightmare.

“Welcome, Councilor Fey’lya. How good of you to grace my humble ship with your presence.” Booster appeared in the doorway of an office on the main deck and waved Fey’lya into its dim interior. “How may I be of service to you?”

Fey’lya flicked a finger toward his shuttle in a subtle gesture meant to tell his bodyguards to stay where they were. He strode past Booster and into the interior of a small office choked with datacards, cargo crates, enough parts to construct a half-dozen droids, and sufficient personal weapons to hold off an Imperial boarding team. The cloying scent of human habitation caused Fey’lya to wrinkle his nose, but he sat in the one chair that had been cleared of debris.

Fey’lya waited for Booster to take his place behind his desk, but the smuggler vexed him by perching himself on the corner of his desk and folding his arms over his
chest. The Bothan smoothed the fur at the back of his head, then glanced up at the man’s face. “I have come to thank you for bringing back to Coruscant as much of Asyr Sei’lar’s ship as you did. The images recovered from her battleroms have confirmed her great skill and bravery in this, her final fight. Bothans everywhere will take pride in what she did.”

Booster nodded solemnly. “ ’Pears she even scraped a TIE or two off my daughter’s dead husband.”

Fey’lya noted that Booster did not refer to Corran Horn as his “son-in-law” and catalogued that fact away for possible use. “Her devotion to her squadron-mates was quite clear. Likewise her devotion to the highest of Bothan ideals. She is an example to the younger generation.”

“Indeed, appears you have another Martyr to hold up.”

“It is a pity you were unable to recover her body.”

Booster leaned back, pressing his hands behind him against the surface of the desk. “When we got there I sent recovery teams out. We found Captain Janson still alive—just barely. Got him into bacta. All the bacta on Thyferra wouldn’t have helped the Quarren. Your Asyr and the rest, I suspect they burned up in the gas giant. Kind of fitting for Rogue pilots—blaze of glory and all.”

“True, but this presents something of a problem because I had a different glory in mind for one of them.” Fey’lya shifted in his chair and studied the talons on his left hand. “I was wondering if you had considered going back to look for more bodies.”

The eyebrow above Booster’s mechanical eye shot up. “Go back into a war zone to a system guarded by a ship better armed than this, to look for bodies that long since have been sucked into a gas giant? I’ve no reason to do that.”

“But your daughter’s husband—”

Booster’s voice dropped into a bass growl. “He’s dead and I’m helping her deal with that.”

“And I want to help the Bothan people deal with their grief, too.” Fey’lya looked up. “The Bothan people hold dear the memory of the Martyrs, but the Imperial troops
who killed them also destroyed their bodies. The monument on Bothawui is empty and, because of that, it is diminished somewhat. I wish to see Asyr interred there, and I am willing to cover the costs of an expedition to find her. I really think, if you went back, you would find Asyr’s body.”

Booster frowned. “Did you miss what I said? It’s not there.”

“And I think you missed what I said. I need a body as a symbol.” Fey’lya smiled. “I think a man who is as resourceful as you could find a suitable body, and you would be well rewarded for that search.”

Booster’s mouth slowly opened as he sat forward. “You think I could just find a Bothan body out there?”

“I have the utmost respect for your ability to get things done discreetly.”

“Even if it meant the death of a Bothan?”

“There are bandits and others whose lives will come to no useful end. This could redeem them.” The Bothan smiled. “I would be most generous and grateful. You would find my gratitude very useful.”

“Perhaps I would.” Booster slid from the desk and peered past Fey’lya for a second, then snatched him up by the front of his tunic and hauled him out of his chair. The Councilor struck at Booster’s arms and felt the chair go tumbling behind him. As surprised as he was, it took him a moment to remember his claws could open the man’s arms in seconds.

Booster slammed Fey’lya into a bulkhead with tooth-rattling force. All reason evaporated from Fey’lya’s brain as stars exploded before his eyes. The man hammered him into the wall again, then drove his forehead into the Bothan’s sensitive snout. Fey’lya raised his hands to protect his nose, then felt a heavy fist pound his stomach. Air
whoofed
from him and he wanted to vomit.

The dim closeness of the office vanished as the man carried him out to the docking bay and tossed him to the deck. Booster towered over him, his fists doubled, and Fey’lya shrank back, pulling himself along the decking for a moment.
Then he remembered who he was. He stopped, but still flinched as Booster feinted with a fist.

Booster straightened up and posted his fists on his hips. “I don’t know how your Bothan Martyrs got their hands on Death Star plans, but I’ll bet it wasn’t by asking others to do their wet work for them. It’s pretty evident you don’t think highly of me, my species, or my ship. I won’t say I can’t be bought, but I can’t be bought by the likes of you.”

He lowered his voice. “How you could even dream of sealing some glitbiter away in Asyr’s tomb, I don’t know.”

Borsk Fey’lya felt the hot lash of the man’s words and almost, for a nanosecond, let shame ruffle the fur on the back of his head.
I never had Asyr’s compliance with my wishes, and I would have had it from the grave. It would have been for the glory of Bothans. Could that be wrong?
Yet before he could frame an answer, his bodyguards arrived at his side and were helping him up. His embarrassment at needing their aid swallowed any shame he might have felt.

Borsk coughed and rubbed at his nose. “You have misunderstood …”

Booster waved away his words. “Oh, I understood you. You didn’t understand
me.
When I smack someone into a bulkhead and toss him on the deck, that’s me saying he should get his carcass off my ship. The other things, the head butt and the stomach punch, that was just because I don’t like you.”

“Then our business is concluded.” Borsk Fey’lya freed his arms from his bodyguards’ grips and straightened his tunic. “I shall not forget this, Booster Terrik.”

“Never did think you were stupid enough to let this lesson get away from you.” Booster pointed at his shuttle. “Get off my ship, now!”

Booster watched as the shuttle descended from the
Errant Venture
’s belly and unfolded its wings. “That was a nasty piece of business.”

“That’s one way of describing it.” Iella Wessiri’s heels clicked against the decking as she walked over to him. “Borsk Fey’lya is not the sort of enemy I’d want to make.”

“I’ve made worse.”

“Have you?” She shook her head. “Fey’lya’s the kind who will go after you, after your friends, after your friends’ friends. He knows you know Karrde, so any of Karrde’s associates will be on his enemies list. Through Corran anyone connected with CorSec will be an enemy.”

Booster smiled. “And the downside to that is?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“For the most part you’re right.” Booster frowned. “How is she?”

“Last bacta treatment now. Mirax is with her. Should be there for another two hours.”

Booster sighed. “No improvement in her memory?”

“Of the events at Distna, no. Everything else, including her last meeting with Fey’lya, that’s all fine.” Iella shrugged. “She’s not going to be very helpful in letting us know what happened at Distna, but when we figure it out and go after the folks responsible, she’ll be ready to go with us.”

“And willing to do her own wet work.” Booster watched Fey’lya’s shuttle become a dim speck. “It’s a start, and I bet there will be plenty of wet work by the time we’re done.”

25

Corran Horn saw the Imperial flight instructor vectoring in on him as he entered the simulation chamber, but he didn’t slow or alter his course. He snapped the comlink into place inside the TIE pilot’s helmet and headed toward where the rest of the Rogues stood, dressed in black flight suits. Only Tycho looked natural in it—mainly because he’d always worn black and still had his Rebel battle tabs sewn on the flight suit.

That big, bright Coruscant one really has to gall the Imps.

The flight instructor planted himself in front of Corran. “You’ll do well to be on time, Captain Horn.”

Corran shrugged, sweeping a lanky lock of brown hair out of his eyes. “I knew what time it was.”

“And you weren’t here because?”

He lifted the helmet and showed the comlink to the instructor. “I was checking out my equipment.”

The instructor’s eyes narrowed to brown slits. “There is nothing wrong with the comlinks in those helmets. They’re all preset to the training frequency. You had no cause to adjust it.”

Corran leaned forward, leaving his nose barely three
centimeters from the instructor’s nose. “Ysanne Isard is running your operation, which means I have every reason I need to check out every little detail of what’s going on here. Got it?” He’d discovered, among other things, that the comlinks had restricted power so they couldn’t get much outside the Imperial compound. He was fairly certain that the folks in the surrounding city really didn’t have any idea what was going on there, and that they were discouraged from paying too much attention.

The instructor lifted his head and sniffed the air officiously. “Your suspicions are unwarranted, given the objective of your mission and ours. We’re prepping you to be an Imperial squadron that will get in past Krennel’s defenses. We’re giving you the most advanced starfighter in the galaxy to do so. The secret of your death is being maintained so Krennel will relax his guard. Do anything to upset that delicate balance and you could destroy the last best chance at ending Krennel’s reign of terror over the Hegemony.”

“I’ll remember that.” Corran winked at the man, then stepped around him. “Let’s see what these things have.”