Isard's Grip

[athersgeo]

Well...as threatened (or was that promised), this is the next installment of Isard's Grip. It's unbeta'ed and still very much first draft (so if I've goofed on a name somewhere, please please PLEASE poke me hard!)


Chapter One

The pot of caf on the table looked as if it was strong enough to melt durasteel and was making good headway in escaping its pot. It was a brew that Nawara Ven could well imagine the overall commander of Rogue Squadron drinking. Correllians were famed for paying no heed to the odds, and the odds of drinking that caf and surviving were, the Twi'lek judged, slim to none.

And yet, the man drinking the caf was not a Correllian.

"Lieutenant, good morning," the man observed, dragging Nawara's attention from the caf and to the man.

"Is it?" he enquired, flicking his gaze from the man's face to the pot of caf and back. "I know Commander Antilles likes caf that strong, but I didn't realise you'd acquired the taste, Captain."

The man, Tycho Celchu, gave a rueful chuckle. "I haven't. It tastes like three day old space lubricant mixed with--- Actually, I'd rather not figure out what it's been mixed with." He gestured to an empty seat at the table. "But we have a lot to get through this morning and I'd sooner be awake for it."

Nawara's eyes widened as he took the seat. "Should I ask?"

Tycho shook his head. "Just a bad night of sleep." He smiled self-deprecatorily. "It's probably nerves. Six months ago I didn't think I'd be able to fly in New Republic colours again and now, here I am, in charge of a Squadron."

"Probably." Though privately, Nawara thought Tycho was the last person to suffer those sort of nerves. "Are we expecting anyone else?"

Tycho took a mouthful of caf from his mug, grimaced then shook his head. "Hobbie and the rest of the squadron are still on leave."

"And what did we do to offend command?" Nawara enquired.

"The joys of being left in charge by Wedge, I think," Tycho answered. "So, these are the pilots available to fill in the holes…"

Nawara listened as Tycho brought their meeting onto the day's business, namely finishing the Rogue Squadron roster, but he couldn't help wonder once more about the caf. It just didn't seem like Tycho.

~*~

Myron Nemath had worked as a law enforcement agent for a long time, first on his native Kuat, then within the Rebellion and now finally on secondment to the Coruscanti militia. He'd seen a great many things that would turn the average sapient's stomach inside out and back, but this particular violent death shocked even him.

The Rodian had been kneeling, to judge from the way her legs were bent, and there were ligature marks around her ankles and wrists from being bound up, though oddly the bindings themselves were missing. She had been beaten and then her killer had slit her open from navel to neck.

"Who would do something like this?"

Myron turned to look at the speaker, his partner. "It's amazing what sapient creatures will do to one another," he answered.

His partner, Caz Fenn, didn't look remotely comforted. "But this?"

"We're going to need forensics down here," Myron continued. "Maybe they'll be able to tell us something."

Caz stepped back, and pulled out a comm. link ready to call the forensic investigators in. Myron, meanwhile, stepped further into the scene. Treading carefully so as to avoid the Rodian, he moved into the room she'd been killed in and looked around. It was a bedroom and since it showed no signs of a struggle, he guessed she'd been asleep when her assailant had entered. Perhaps she'd been stunned first, then tied up. An autopsy would tell him more.

Something caught his eye. On the back wall, towards the bottom, some words had been scrawled: "Lusankya's Revenge"

Myron frowned. The Lusankya had been a prison run by Ysanne Isard. But she was dead and the facility, in the belly of a Super Star Destroyer of the same name, was in New Republic hands. Was this some last remnant of Isard's twisted evil? Or was this something else?

"Forensics are on their way," Caz called. "And I've got an ID on the body."

Myron half turned, keeping the scrawl in sight but letting himself see Caz in the doorway. "Oh?"

"The apartment's occupant was Greeata Kavila," Caz said. "She was a Rodian singer."

"Singer, huh?" Myron's frown deepened. "Who would want to kill a singer?" he wondered. And what connection did that singer have to Lusankya?

~*~

Tycho studied the datapad, trying to concentrate on the words displayed, but they steadfastly refused to remain still. He was too tired to concentrate on the details of Koobis Nu's piloting career.

With a groan, he reached for the caf, only to find the pot was empty, as was his mug. Damn, how had that happened? Had he really drunk it all? And if he had, why was he still nearly asleep?

"Perhaps," said Nawara hesitantly, "we should continue this tomorrow?"

Tycho looked up from the datapad. There was a lot of sense in the suggestion. They had managed to confirm two of the empty positions and, from what he could recall, Hobbie had been involved in training the three candidates for the last position. His input would probably help.

On the other hand, if he stopped now, Tycho knew he was likely to sleep, and sleep meant nightmares. He opened his mouth to reply, but all that happened was he yawned widely enough to make his face hurt.

"I guess I can't argue," he murmured, feeling sheepish. Nawara, wisely, made no comment. "Call Hobbie in for tomorrow."

Nawara nodded. "Yes, sir." He stood up. "See you tomorrow, sir."

Tycho nodded. "See you tomorrow," he echoed.

As Nawara left, Tycho shuffled the datapads back into some kind of order and locked them in his desk drawer. A brief movement, just in his peripheral vision, made him look up. But what he saw made him freeze rigid.

"You can't escape me." Ysanne Isard was standing in the middle of his office. Dressed in her red admiral's uniform, arms clasped behind her back, she looked every inch the head of Imperial Intelligence. "You are mine and you always have been, Captain Celchu."