Star Wars: X-Wing II: Wedge's Gamble

  “Put it in a report, General.”

  “No, you must come see for yourself.”

  Loor hesitated. The holograms appended to the first of Derricote’s reports had been enough to make him queasy. The idea of looking at experimental subjects in person did not appeal to him in the least. Well, perhaps just a bit, but only out of morbid curiosity.

  “Lead the way.”

  Derricote stepped out of the doorway and Loor entered the lab. Unlike the majority of suites in the Imperial Palace, the laboratory had stark, functional appointments. Bright lights reflected from white and silver surfaces and the only things even approximating decoration were red and yellow signs warning of biohazards, live wires, and operating lasers. Glass walls allowed them to peer into a labyrinth of rooms where white-smocked individuals appeared to be taking creatures apart or putting them back together with the help of surgical droids of various configurations.

  The door closed behind them, with the air whistling in as the opening narrowed. Derricote glanced back. “It sounds like that because we are under negative air pressure in here. That way if something breaks out it will not be carried by a draft out of the lab.”

  “I thought humans would be immune to this plague.”

  “No, that’s not exactly correct.” The General smiled and Loor knew the man just loved exposing any weakness in Kirtan’s knowledge of the project. “We are starting from a number of viruses for which aliens show a high susceptibility. It is possible that spontaneous mutations could change it enough that humans could be affected by it. The chances of that are very limited, primarily because the genetic sequences we’re using would have to be massively altered for humans to fall sick. It is possible, of course, that this might happen, but at the average mutation rate, it would take a thousand years before that would happen.”

  “But you could make a vaccine, couldn’t you?”

  “Building up immunity to a virus is not all that simple. It could take years to perfect a vaccine for this disease.” Derricote smiled casually, as if talking about an inconsequential amount of time. “It could be done, but it would take a concentration of resources that would exceed these by ten or twenty times.”

  At least, then, the Rebels won’t have a chance at doing it since they don’t even have this facility. Loor lowered his voice. “You can cure it, yes?”

  Derricote nodded. “Bacta.”

  “Is that all?” Bacta was the treatment for everything from a simple cut to severe combat trauma, from a sniffle to the virulent Bandonian Ague. “If Bacta will cure your disease, the disease is useless.”

  “Hardly. The more severe the case of the disease, the greater the amount of bacta needed to cure it.” Derricote’s dark eyes glittered in a way Loor found rather unnerving. “In the very late stages of the disease bacta can hold the disease at bay, but some organs and extremities may be so damaged that they will require cybernetic replacement. Come and see.”

  Derricote led him deeper into the laboratory complex and through a doorway into a stainless-steel corridor. Transparisteel windows lined the walls and gave them views of detention cells with one or two individuals in them. On the left were piggish Gamorreans—naked, as were the squid-headed Quarren on the right side—looking miserable in their clinically spare environs. Those nearest the doorway through which they entered appeared relatively normal—though they were such a sight that Loor couldn’t bring himself to study them in any great detail.

  “You will notice the transparisteel windows are triple-paned. That central sheet is reflective on their side, so they cannot see us. The walls between the cells are soundproofed. We found that necessary to maintain order.”

  “I see,” Loor said, but he really saw no need for security precautions. The first few Gamorreans were placid, though they did seem to know people might be observing them through the windows, so they sat in such a way that they preserved their modesty. Farther along they appeared to be in some sort of a stupor. Their black eyes had become quite glassy and fixed on one point. They just lay there, barely moving, in whatever position they seemed to find themselves, no matter how uncomfortable.

  Loor did notice a splotchiness on the Gamorreans’ flesh. Angry black boils seemed to radiate out a spider’s web of lines that connected them one to another. One creature had a boil on his tongue and several others showed them on the bottoms of their feet. Loor assumed the boils were painful since what little movement he did see seemed to be an attempt to relieve pressure on them.

  He also noticed these Gamorreans seemed very dry. Mucus and saliva did not decorate their faces the way it normally did. Clearly the creatures were sick, but Loor somehow took that to be the most telling sign of their disease.

  Then he saw the final-stage patients.

  The boils had broken open and the Gamorrean’s flesh had cracked along the spiderweb lines. Black blood oozed from the wounds and the Gamorrean left bloody footprints everywhere it wandered. And wander it did, darting left and right, backward and forward, dancing as if the floor were made of molten lava. The creature slammed into walls, leaving runny silhouettes of itself on the transparisteel, then it would rebound and fall to the ground. There it thrashed around, vomiting up liters of thick black fluid, then somehow clambered back to its feet and hurled itself around the room again.

  Loor reeled away as the Gamorrean he was watching splattered himself against the window. The Intelligence agent fell to his hands and knees, fighting valiantly to keep from vomiting. He forced himself to breathe in and out through his nose and the nausea passed. “That’s horrible.”

  “I know.” Derricote slapped him on the back. “The Quarren go black all over, then their autoimmune system goes insane and liquefies their bones. They become a sack of fluid just teeming with Krytos.”

  “Krytos?”

  “My name for the virus—it is a combination of the world names for the viruses I’ve combined here.” He sighed and Loor could tell he was savoring the vision of the dying Gamorrean. “A milliliter of an end patient’s blood is sufficient to infect an adult. The incubation period is falling slowly, but the period from first symptoms to final stage is remaining fairly constant. I doubt we will improve on that.”

  “Why not?”

  “What you saw, the boils and the bleeding out, part of the whole process. The virus is replicating itself in the host body. Once it has filled a cell with virus, that cell explodes and those next to it are infected. The circulatory system carries the virus throughout the body. Cell by cell the creature dies, and the process escalates until you get the end stage. By then the pain is incredible—did I mention the virus doesn’t seem interested in destroying pain receptors? Most remarkable, really.”

  Loor reared back onto his haunches, then stood. He focused his gaze on Derricote and consciously ignored the movement he caught out of the corner of his eyes. “How long from onset to final stage?”

  “There are seven stages. One for each day of the disease.” Derricote pointed to the right side of the corridor but Loor refused to look in that direction. “The Quarren die more gracefully, if liquefaction can be seen as graceful.”

  “How much tinkering did you do to make the disease jump species?”

  “Not much. With the Quarren version we should be able to attack the Mon Calamari population. I will need other subjects, of course, to test other crosses. I was thinking a raid of Kashyyyk might …”

  “Kashyyyk?” Loor looked at Derricote to see if the man had finally lost the last of his sanity. “I will check with Madam Director Isard, but I think eliminating a species that proved useful as slave labor before would be unwise. I suggest you and your scientists should compare the known susceptibility of alien species and try to group them so you can tailor a virus that will do the most harm to the largest number.”

  “We could do it that way, though it would be more elegant to engineer a specific …”

  “There is nothing about your Krytos that is elegant.”

  Derricote took a step
back and blinked. “What? Not elegant?”

  “Don’t take that the way it sounded, General, take it the way I meant it.” Loor forced himself to smile. “Your work is most impressive, utterly unforgettable.” The image of billions of aliens falling down and dissolving into fetid puddles in the canyons of Imperial Center almost made Loor sick. “The Rebels are coming here to take the center of the Empire. What they will get is a world of death and they will be powerless to save it.”

  13

  Corran Horn waited behind the transparisteel blast shield until the Pulsar Skate’s repulsorlift drives had shut down and the gangway started to descend. The modified Baudo-class yacht looked a lot like its namesake, primarily because of the long, gentle curving lines of the wings. He realized he thought of the ship as quite beautiful, and that surprised him because both he and his father had worked hard to put the Pulsar Skate and its skipper out of commission.

  Its old skipper, he reminded himself. Booster Terrik and his father had been each other’s bane. Booster had a facility for hauling all sorts of contraband, not just spice, and enough of his cargo was made up of things that powerful people wanted that he made a number of influential friends. Booster easily could have become a broker of goods, but he loved flying too much. Eventually Hal Horn caught him and Booster did five years on Kessel.

  Booster’s daughter, Mirax, was unbraiding her long black hair as she came down the gangway. She stopped when she saw Corran and smiled. The fierce rivalry their fathers had known gave them a link—a link strengthened by the fact that they also were both raised on Corellia—and that link had allowed them to avoid inheriting their father’s enmity.

  Corran returned her smile. “How was your run?”

  “No Imperial complications.” She rolled her brown eyes. “On the other hand, having two dozen utterly jubilant Sullustans aboard the Skate for a week is sufficient to remind me why I prefer moving inert cargo.”

  “Eat their weight in rations?”

  “Yes, but that wasn’t the problem. They’re rather perky when they’re happy, and perky can wear on you pretty fast.” She jerked a thumb back toward the bridge of her ship. “Liat wasn’t any help. He fell instantly and madly in love with one of the refugees. She seemed thrilled, as did the others. I think there may even have been a wedding in the hold, but I’m not sure.”

  Corran shrugged. “I don’t know anything about Sullustan customs. We could ask Captain Nunb.”

  “That’s a possibility.” Mirax’s smile slackened just a bit as she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Any bad effects from the trip to Kessel?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “A lot of good people made it off Kessel, but I know some real rancor bait had to have been let free to win their release. After all, I don’t think the guy running Kessel is going to take New Republic promissory chits in exchange for prisoners. Doole doesn’t do anything for nothing.”

  “Unlike some smugglers?”

  Her smile brightened again for a moment. “I’m counting on you and Wedge to finish this Empire off so I can begin collecting what I’m owed.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “Then just like that Jedcred you wear, the chits will become collectible and I’ll make the money back later.” Her hand shifted from his shoulder, allowing her to give him a light punch in the arm. “Nice change of subject, though.”

  “Sorry.” Corran hadn’t answered her question because he hadn’t allowed himself to think about it very much. It was all well and good to tell Wedge before the trip that he didn’t have any problem letting criminals loose. It was true that CorSec, like any other security force, made deals with a lesser evil to get rid of some greater evil. That clearly was what the whole Kessel operation was about—they’d be pitting a resurgent Black Sun against the Empire. With Fliry Vorru included in the mix of people freed, the chances were Black Sun wouldn’t run hopelessly wild.

  On the other hand, Corran would have felt a lot better if the list of criminals they freed had been a list of folks lost on a ship that flew into the Maw and never came out again. The criminals were capable of doing the job the New Republic wanted them to do, but it was precisely because they were as ruthless and cruel as any Grand Moff that had ever served the Emperor. And while it was true that their activities would help break the Empire down, Corran knew plenty of innocent people could get hurt by any violent spillovers—and the people they had released could easily be described as sloppy when it came to violence.

  “I guess I’m having some second thoughts. I know the Empire wouldn’t hesitate to use any weapon against us, so they’re definitely the target to shoot at.” He frowned heavily. “Once we take Coruscant, I’d be happy to help hunt down and ship back to Kessel any of the slime we released.”

  “If you need someone to do the hauling, I’m in, free of charge.”

  Corran smiled. “But we won’t tell your father you’re working with a Horn on such a thing.”

  “No, I like him alive too much to shock him with that news.” Mirax laughed a bit. “Has the food here on Noquivzor gotten any better than the last time I was here?”

  “It actually has. Lots of good things were shipped in for a meeting here last month and Admiral Ackbar left the surplus here. I think Emtrey has traded some of it away, but there are still some surprises. Want to get something to eat?”

  “Please.”

  They headed off toward the central corridor that eventually sent a branch running down to the mess hall. As they walked along Mirax related some of the odder antics of her Sullustan pilot and his bride to be. The stories were funny, and Corran laughed in all the appropriate places, but he was laughing because of more than the humor in the stories. He realized that with Mirax he felt very much at ease, providing one more reason why he found her attractive.

  He knew he wasn’t in love with her, but he knew himself well enough that he’d be poised at the top of that very slippery slope if he just let himself go. Falling in love, for him, had never been one of those one-look-and-passion-ignites things. When that happened to him he knew it was lust, pure and simple. While Mirax was pretty enough to inspire lust, Corran knew things that burned hot burned out fast, and he’d been raised to think relationships should be stable, not supernova events that collapse into an emotional black hole.

  The fact was that his father’s murder had cut him adrift emotionally. While he was still with CorSec he had Gil and Iella keeping him pointed in the right direction, but he had only made one new friend during that time, and she left after six months. Then, on the run, he couldn’t get close to people for fear of being unmasked and turned over to Imperial authorities. Even when he joined the Rebellion and applied for admittance to Rogue Squadron, the fierce competition with other pilots to get accepted created a wall. Lujayne Forge had made the first big breech in it, then others exploited that breech and helped him get used to being with people and trusting them again.

  “Corran.”

  Both he and Mirax stopped at the high-pitched squeal of his name. They turned back as a tall, blocky Gand came down the corridor from behind them. The Gand’s exoskeleton appeared uniform in color except where shadows edged the plates and on his right forearm and hand. There the exoskeleton was much more pale and even chalky. The latter half of the limb matched the left one in length, but was not quite as big around.

  Corran pointed at his right arm. “They removed the bacta capsule.”

  “Yes. Ooryl is most pleased.” The Gand forced inflections into his Basic, mostly at the right places, and added volume to emphasize his pleasure. Two months before, at the first battle for Borleias, Ooryl Qrygg had been shot out of his X-wing and had lost his right forearm in the process. By circulating bacta through a capsule, Rebel medics had been able to speed up the Gand’s rather remarkable regenerative abilities—abilities no one in the Alliance had known Gands possessed.

  Ooryl flexed his three-fingered hand. “Once the carapace hardens, Ooryl will be fit en
ough to be your wing-Gand again.”

  “I can’t wait. Trying to keep up with Captain Nunb is tough. She’s good enough she could fly through a nova and her ship would stay dark.”

  Mirax smiled. “We’re going to get food. Do you want to join us?”

  “Ooryl would be pleased, but Ooryl was sent by Commander Antilles.” Armored lids flicked down over the Gand’s multifaceted ebon eyes and back up again. “He wants to see you, Corran.”

  “Why would he want to see me?” Corran couldn’t remember having done anything unusual. I hope Emtrey doesn’t have Whistler slicing some files for him.

  Mirax tugged on Corran’s hand. “Let’s go and get this over with. I can say hi to Wedge, then we can get some food.”

  Ooryl laid his left hand gently on Mirax’s forearm. “Qrygg regrets to tell you that Commander Antilles said this is official business. The Commander knew you would be together—Ooryl was sent first to your ship—and he wants Corran to go alone. Commander Antilles said he would see you later and explain everything.”

  “If it’s official, it’s official.” She shrugged and let Corran’s hand go. “I’m still going to get some food. I’ll eat slowly, so if you get done fast, find me.”

  “I will.”

  Mirax looked at Ooryl. “You are still more than welcome to join me.”

  “Ooryl is honored.”

  “Good, I like having company, and since you share a room with Corran, you can tell me all sorts of embarrassing things about him.” She slipped her right arm through the crook of his left and winked at Corran. “Take your time with Wedge. I’ll be well taken care of.”

  Corran laughed, more at Ooryl’s discomfiture than her remark. “Have fun—the fun I can bet I won’t be having.”

  Corran walked past Emtrey and into the office space Wedge had been given on the unit’s return to Noquivzor. The room, which was not really that big, seemed far too large to suit Wedge. Other officers would have had the walls lined with holograms and the shelves packed with trophies from their various adventures. Aside from a few holograms of his dead parents and of him posing with squadron mates, Wedge didn’t have much reflective of his time with the Rebellion.