Star Wars_ X-Wing 03_ The Krytos Trap - Michael A. Stackpole [63]
“Or he could be innocent?” Halla shook her head. “Don’t plot a course into that black hole.”
“But that black hole might be the truth.”
“Sure, but we’re not the triers of fact in this case, the Tribunal members are. We just have to present to them the best case we can muster, and the defense has to knock it apart.” Halla’s brown eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to start in on me about wanting to make sure your partner’s killer really is caught, because I’ll tell you we’ve got him beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Iella shrugged. “And if I don’t want to be reasonable?”
Halla winced, then sat back in her white high-backed chair. “Idealists should not be in this business, you know.”
“And your point is?”
“The Duros thing has bothered me, too. I can grant that Tycho might have pulled that name from Corran’s file just to annoy him, but that would be very risky for him to do. The trail Tycho has left has shown him to be very careful, so I don’t see him throwing out that sort of taunt. Therefore I can imagine that he really did meet with Lai Nootka. And if that’s true, I have to wonder about our inability to find Nootka or any record of his presence here on Coruscant.”
“So even though you believe Tycho was working for the Empire, you think Nootka’s disappearance may be evidence of someone making sure Tycho’s perfidy is obvious?” Iella frowned. “Who? Why?”
“Good, obstruction-of-justice questions to answer.” Halla sighed. “You want to find Nootka, right?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Halla sat forward and fingered a small black wafer of silicon. “Do it. And take this—it’s a code chip that will let you bring your airspeeder into the upper-level security garage. You can take the turbolift down to the court from there. It’ll save Diric from having to go in and out with the courtroom crowds from now on.”
Iella accepted it from her and smiled. “Things are just going to continue getting crazier, aren’t they?”
“I’m afraid so.” Halla visibly shivered. “I’m very much afraid so.”
17
Aided by the Trandoshan’s healthy shove, Corran flew through the darkened doorway. Unable to see anything, he curled himself into a ball and hoped he didn’t land on his head. He smashed his shins into something hard, then bounced down onto his right shoulder before continuing his roll. He hit more things, most of which cried out, and all of which gave way, then came to an abrupt stop against something very solid.
Corran opened his eyes and in the dim light made out the smiling, bearded face of a positively huge man. He’d come to rest against the man’s shin and thigh—clearly the man had dropped to one knee to stop Corran’s tumble through the room. Back along his flight path Corran heard the muttered curses of people he’d knocked down.
The bearded man stood and dragged Corran to his feet. “Quite the entrance.”
“I had help in making it.” Corran plucked at the shoulders of his tan canvas tunic and tried to settle it in place. The bulky garment extended all the way to his knees. The sleeves ran to mid-forearm, but that was because the shoulder seam started well below the curve of his deltoids. Naked beneath it, Corran felt a little uncomfortable. He knew that was part of the psychological war waged by Isard on him and the other prisoners—deny them human clothing and you deny them a little piece of their humanity.
The big man nodded. “The Trandoshan doesn’t like anyone. I’m Urlor Sette.” He offered Corran his hand. Sette was missing the last two fingers of his right hand but didn’t seem bashful or embarrassed about it.
Corran met the man’s firm grip with a solid one of his own. “Corran Horn.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance.” Sette pointed off to the left. “Come on, I’ll take you to the Old Man.” The big man’s voice carried with it equal measures of respect and affection, reminding Corran of how he’d often called Gil Bastra “the Old Man.”
Must be the nominal leader among the prisoners