Isard's Revenge (5 page)

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

And yet, as it turned out, it would be trivial compared to the one made by his visitor.

He’d not seen her in years—save for disturbing dreams from time to time. Barely shorter than he was, she wore her long black hair unbound. Two white sidelocks framed a face that would have made the woman the toast of any number of planets. Her high forehead, strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and straight nose all combined to make her a rare beauty, but two other elements spoiled the effect.

One element was her eyes. The left one smoldered a molten red, as if the iris were radioactively bloodshot. The pale blue of the other eye seemed colder than frozen methane, and her stare sent a shiver down Krennel’s spine. She exuded power, and Krennel found it very seductive, but he also knew she would consume him if she found a way to destroy him.

The other thing that spoiled her beauty was a network of raised scars radiating out from a small puckered crater below her right temple. Krennel studied her closely for a second and thought he saw enough asymmetry in her face to suppose those scars were a sign of massive trauma that had been surgically repaired. He recalled that Rogue Squadron had claimed to have killed her when they ousted her from Thyferra, but her presence in his office put the lie to that story.

Krennel slowly removed the twisted garrote wire and
tossed it on the floor between them. “You had a point you wished to make with this, Ysanne Isard?”

The woman smiled coldly. “I could have killed you here, in your office. Your people would have awakened tomorrow morning with me in your place. It is important that you know I could have taken over for you in the blink of an eye, so you will believe me when I tell you that doing so is not my intention.”

Her words came evenly and calmly, and Krennel allowed himself to mull them over before replying. He searched them for her true agenda, not wanting to accept that she was being truthful with him.
The second I allow myself to even imagine she does not have another plan working here, I am dead.
Still, knowing how perilous a judgment it was, he couldn’t find her deception.
Yet.

“You do have a purpose here, then?”

“The same purpose as always: the preservation of my master’s Empire.”

Krennel allowed himself to laugh, then seated himself on the edge of his broad desk. “Your injuries might have cost you a painful memory or two: such as the loss of Imperial Center and the Emperor’s death.”

Isard’s expression sharpened. “I remember those things very well. I carry the pain of those memories in my heart.”

You have a heart?
Krennel kept his expression bland. “Then you must also know the best hope of reestablishing the Empire is now dead.”

“Really? You think Thrawn was that hope?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “You don’t?”

She pressed her hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “Thrawn was brilliant, there was no taking that away from him. But he lacked the vision he needed. He was stunning when fulfilling the missions he’d been given. You and he clashed over conduct in the Unknown Region, out there in the wilds of the galaxy, but I doubt anyone else could have been as effective as Thrawn at pacifying those areas. And against the New Republic he proved very adept. But he never quite grasped the idea that there are times when the
use of overwhelming firepower can produce a wave of terror which is a weapon with far-reaching and devastating effects.”

Krennel’s metal hand tightened on the edge of his desk. “I had noticed that flaw in his character before.”

“A flaw commonly found in nonhumans.” The corner of Isard’s mouth lazily curled into a grin. “They seek to be treated as our
equals
, whereas we act as their
superiors.
They hold themselves back from accessing the tools power gives them, and therefore can never wrest from us the respect we would give equals. They seek to cloak themselves in nobility, aping all we are and have, yet do not see that if they are not resolved to do what it takes to maintain power, they are never fit to wield it.”

Krennel could hear his pulse beginning to pound in his ears. What Isard said, coming in husky, low tones barely above a whisper, quickened his heart. She’d spoken a credo he’d accepted in his heart when, as a child, he’d helped his father burn alien homes so an agro-combine could turn their land into productive fields. The way she spoke, the conviction in her voice, the disdain in her words, resonated inside him. She knew his mind and knew she could bare her heart without fear of rebuke.

He forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose. “So you agree, then, that Mon Mothma’s mongrel Republic is an affront to humanity?”

“An ‘affront’? You are far too kind to her, Prince-Admiral.” Isard began to slowly pace along a curved path that never brought her closer to him than three meters. “It is an abomination that cannot survive. During the Thrawn crisis Bothans were set against the Mon Calamari—and these are two of the more reasonable species in the New Republic. There are others who, even now, are beginning to arm themselves in the hopes that someday—next week, next year, in the next decade—they will be able to create their own empires, or redress ancient wrongs and renew ancient rivalries.”

She laughed aloud. “Can you imagine, Prince-Admiral, the discord sown if the identity of those who destroyed the
Caamasi is ever uncovered? Planetary genocide is a crime that will have everyone howling for blood and lots of it, especially since the Caamasi have become even more pacifistic, more beatific in the wake of their near-extermination a generation ago. There are pressures lurking, building, in the New Republic. Much energy is being deflected into creating a government, but once the structures are in place to allow for the exercise and abuse of power, these pressures will flood through it and tear it apart.”

Krennel brushed his left hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Astute if not terribly surprising observations, Isard.” He made a snap decision to keep her off-balance. “With such understanding, you could easily see a way to create your own Empire. Wait, you tried that, didn’t you? And the Rebels killed you for it?”

Her eyes flashed for a second, and her right hand brushed itself over her scars. “They tried to kill me. They did not succeed.”

Krennel noticed her words came without confidence.
She doesn’t remember how they almost got her—amnesia’s no surprise with such massive head trauma. Perhaps she thinks she’s lost some of her edge, which is why she’s come to me.
“Are you giving me all this political analysis so I can sit back and watch the galaxy fall into legions of civil wars?”