Trapped (9 page)

R
evenge.

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.

T
he 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 dragonsnake, 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 killed 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
Com-mander
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.

“Problem?” The Commander smiled. “Let me help you out.” He took a step toward X-7. Then another, and another, until they were standing face to face.

Now,
X-7 thought. But his limbs were frozen. And his mind was screaming in pain.

He hadn't had any trouble holding the blade to the Commander's throat before. But that had been different. Then he had only intended to scare Soresh. Now, with murder running through his veins, he couldn't move. Could barely breathe.

“Feeling out of sorts?” Soresh said smugly. “Limbs a little heavy? Chest a little constricted?”

X-7 tried to speak, but found he couldn't even do that. The more desperately he wanted to kill the Commander, the more rigid and useless his limbs became. It was becoming an effort to stand. The vibroblade was heavy and awkward in his numb fingers. Distantly, he felt it drop to the floor.

And the pain...

X-7 had suffered pain before. He had been bred for pain. But this was different. It had no source; it came from within.

“You can't hurt me,” the Commander said, “because I'm your master, whether you choose to forget that or not. Your
mind
will never forget. Your
programming
will never forget.” He clapped a hand on X-7's shoulder. X-7 spat in his face. The Commander didn't even bother to wipe it off. “Let this be a lesson to you,” he said, saliva dripping down his cheek. “
Humans
have free will. But you have only
my
will. You're not a person anymore. You're a tool. You're a program. You are, and will always be,
mine.
”

X-7 finally understood.

Take me home.
The words formed themselves in his brain, almost without his intention. But he knew that if he were to try to form them, his mouth would comply. He would be able to move. His rebellious body would fall into line again, ready to serve the Commander. It would be easy. He opened his mouth.

And the window exploded.