Aftermath: Star Wars - DropPDF1.droppdf.com/files/2x7hG/aftermath-star-wars-chuck... · 2015. 10....

StarWars:Aftermathisaworkoffiction.Names,places,andincidentseitherareproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorare

usedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualevents,locales,orpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

Copyright©2015byLucasfilmLtd.®&TMwhereindicated.

Allrightsreserved.ExcerptfromStarWars:

Battlefront:TwilightCompany

byAlexanderFreedcopyright©2015byLucasfilmLtd.®&TMwhereindicated.Allrights

reserved.

PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyDelRey,animprintof

RandomHouse,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,

NewYork.

DELREYandtheHOUSEcolophonareregistered

trademarksofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.

ThisbookcontainsanexcerptfromStarWars:Battlefront:

TwilightCompanybyAlexanderFreed.Thisexcerpthasbeensetforthiseditiononlyandmaynotreflectthe

finalcontentoftheforthcomingedition.

ISBN 9780345511621eBookISBN 9780804177665

randomhousebooks.com

BookdesignbyChristopherM.

Zucker,adaptedforeBookCoverartanddesign:ScottBiel

v4.1ep

ContentsCoverTitlePageCopyrightEpigraph

ProloguePreludeCoruscant

PartOneChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeInterlude:ChandrilaChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixInterlude:SaleucamiChapterSevenChapterEight

ChapterNineInterlude:NaalolChapterTenChapterEleven

PartTwoChapterTwelveInterlude:UyterChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteen

Interlude:ChandrilaChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenChapterEighteenInterlude:CoronetCity,Corellia

ChapterNineteenChapterTwentyChapterTwenty-OneInterlude:Sevarcos

PartThreeChapterTwenty-TwoChapterTwenty-ThreeChapterTwenty-FourInterlude:TarisChapterTwenty-FiveChapterTwenty-SixInterlude:HyperspaceChapterTwenty-SevenInterlude:CoruscantChapterTwenty-Eight

Interlude:Theed,NabooChapterTwenty-NineChapterThirtyChapterThirty-OneInterlude:TatooineChapterThirty-TwoChapterThirty-ThreeChapterThirty-FourInterlude:BespinCloudCity

ChapterThirty-Five

ChapterThirty-SixChapterThirty-SevenInterlude:Jakku

PartFourChapterThirty-EightInterlude:Chandrila

Epilogue

DedicationAcknowledgments

ByChuckWendigAbouttheAuthorExcerptfromStarWars:Battlefront:TwilightCompany

A long time ago in agalaxy far, far

away….

The second Death Star isdestroyed. The Emperorand his powerfulenforcer, Darth Vader,are rumored to be dead.The Galactic Empire is inchaos.

Across the galaxy,some systems celebrate,while in others Imperialfactions tighten theirgrip. Optimism and fear

reign side by side.And while the Rebel

Alliance engages thefractured forces of theEmpire, a lone rebelscout uncovers a secretImperial meeting….

PRELUDE:

Today is a day ofcelebration. We havetriumphed overvillainy andoppression and havegiven our Alliance—and the galaxybeyondit—achancetobreathe and cheer for

the progress inreclaiming ourfreedom from anEmpirethatrobbedusof it.Wehavereportsfrom CommanderSkywalker thatEmperor Palpatine isdead, and hisenforcer, DarthVader,withhim.But thoughwemay

celebrate, we should

not consider this ourtimetorest.Westruckamajor blow againstthe Empire, and nowwill be the time toseize on the openingwe have created. TheEmpire’sweaponmaybe destroyed, but theEmpire itself lives on.Its oppressive handcloses around thethroats of good, free-

thinkingpeopleacrossthe galaxy, from theCoruscantCore to thefarthestsystemsintheOuter Rim. We mustremember that ourfight continues. Ourrebellion is over. Butthe war…the war isjustbeginning.

—ADMIRALACKBAR

Then:MonumentPlaza.Chainsrattleastheylash

the neck of EmperorPalpatine. Ropes followsuit—lassos loopingaroundthestatue’smiddle.The mad cheers of the

crowd as they pull, andpull, and pull.Disappointedgroansasthestone fixture refuses tobudge. But then someonewhips the chains aroundthe back ends of a coupleof heavy-gauge speeders,and then engines warbleand hum to life—thespeeders gun it and againthecrowdpulls—The sound like a giant

bonebreaking.Afractureappearsatthe

baseofthestatue.More cheering. Yelling.

And—Applause as it comes

crashingdown.The head of the statue

snaps off, goes rolling andcrashing into a fountain.Dark water splashes. Thecrowdlaughs.

Andthen:Thewhoopingof klaxons. Red lightsstrobe. Three airspeedersswoop down from thetraffic lanes above—Imperial police. Red-and-blackhelmets.Theglowoftheir lights reflected backintheirhelmets.There comes no

warning. No demand tostanddown.Thelasercannonsatthe

fore of each airspeederopen fire. Red bolts searthe air. The crowd is cutapart.Bodiesdroppedandstitchedwithfire.But still, those gathered

arenotcowed.Theyarenolonger a crowd. Now theyare a mob. They startpicking up hunks of thePalpatine statue andlobbing them up at theairspeeders. One of the

speedersswingstothesideto avoid an incomingchunk of stone—and itbumps another speeder,interrupting its fire.Coruscanti citizens climbup the stone spire behindboth speeders—a spire onwhich are written theImperial values of order,control,andtheruleoflaw—and begin jumping ontothe police cruisers. One

helmetedcopisflungfromhis vehicle. The othercrawlsoutontothehoodofhis speeder, opening firewithapairofblasters—justas a hunk of stone crackshim in the helmet,knocking him to theground.The other two

airspeeders lift higher andkeepfiring.Screams and fire and

smoke.Two of those gathered—

a father and son, Rorakand Jak—quick-duckbehind the collapsedstatue. The sounds of thebattle unfolding right herein Monument Plaza don’tend. In the distance, thesound of more fighting, aplumeofflames,flashesofblaster fire. A billboardhigh up in the sky among

the traffic lanes suddenlygoestostatic.The boy is young, only

twelve standard years, notold enough to fight. Notyet.He looks to his fatherwith pleading eyes. Overthe din he yells: “But thebattle station wasdestroyed,Dad!Thebattleisover!”Theyjustwatcheditonlyanhourbefore.Thesupposed end of the

Empire. The start ofsomethingbetter.The confusion in the

boy’s shiningeyes is clear:He doesn’t understandwhat’shappening.But Rorak does. He’s

heard tales of the CloneWars—tales spoken by hisownfather.Heknowshowwar goes. It’s not manywars, but just one, drawnoutagainandagain,cutup

intoslicessoitseemsmoremanageable.Foralongtimehe’stold

his son not the truth butthe idealized hope: Oneday the Empire will fallandthingswillbedifferentfor when you havechildren.Andthatmaystillcome to pass. But now astronger, sharper truth isrequired: “Jak—the battleisn’tover.Thebattleisjust

starting.”Heholdshissonclose.Then he puts a hunk of

statueintheboy’shand.And he picks one up

himself.

Now:Starlines streak across

thebrightblack.A ship drops out of

hyperspace: a littleStarhopper. A one-personship. Favored by many ofthe less desirable factionsout here in theOuterRim—the pirates, the bookies,the bounty hunters andthose with bounties ontheir heads to hunt. Thisparticular ship has seenaction: plasma scarringacrossthewingsandupitstail fins; a crumpled dent

inthefrontendasifitwaskicked by an Imperialwalker. All the better fortheshiptoblendin.Ahead:theplanetAkiva.

Asmallplanet—fromhere,striations of brown andgreen. Thick white cloudsswirlingoveritssurface.The pilot, Wedge

Antilles, once Red Leaderand now—well, nowsomething else, a role

without a formal title, asyet, because things are sonew,sodifferent,sowildlyup in the air—sits thereandtakesamoment.It’sniceuphere.Quiet.No TIE fighters. No

blastsacrossthebowofhisX-wing.NoX-wing,infact,and thoughhe loves flyingone, it’snice tobeout.NoDeath Star—and here,Wedge shudders, because

hehelpedtakedowntwoofthose things. Some daysthat fills him with pride.Other days it’s somethingelse, something worse.Likehe’sdrawnback to it.The fight still going on allaround him. But that isn’ttoday.Today,it’squiet.Wedgelikesthequiet.Hepullsuphisdatapad.

Scrolls through the listwithatapofthebuttonontheside.(Hehastohititafew extra times just to getit to go—if there’s onething he looks forward towhen all this is over, it’sthat maybe they’ll start toget new tech. Somehow,this datapad had actualsand in it, and that’s whythe buttons stick.) The listofplanetsclickspast.

He’s been to, let’s see,five so far. Florrum.Ryloth. Hinari. Abafar.Raydonia. This planet,Akiva, is the sixth on thelistofmany,toomany.Itwashis idea, thisrun.

Somehow, the remainingfactions of the Empire arestillfuelingtheirwarefforteven months after thedestructionoftheirsecondbattle station. Wedge had

the notion that theymust’ve moved out to theOuter Rim—study yourhistoryand it’s easy to seethat the seeds of theEmpiregrewfirstouthere,away from the Coresystems, away from theprying eyes of theRepublic.WedgetoldAckbar,Mon

Mothma: “Could be that’swhere they are again.

Hiding out there.” Ackbarsaid that it made somesense. After all, didn’tMustafar hold someimportancetotheImperialleadership? Rumors saidthat’s where Vader tooksomeof theJedi longago.Torturing them forinformation before theirexecution.And now Vader’s gone.

Palpatine,too.

Almost there, Wedgethinks—once they find thesupply lines that arebolstering the Imperials,he’llfeelawholelotbetter.He pulls up the comm.

Tries to open a channel tocommandand—Nothing.Maybeit’sbroken.It’san

oldship.Wedge fidgets at his

side, pulls up thepersonalcomm relay that hangsthere at his belt—he tapsthesideof it, tries togetasignal.Oncemore:nothing.His heart drops into his

belly. Feels amoment likehe’s falling. Because whatallofthisaddsuptois:The signal’s blocked.

Some of the criminal

syndicates still operatingout here have technologyto do that locally—but inthespaceabovetheplanet,no,noway.Onlyonegrouphasthattech.His jaw tightens. The

bad feeling in the well ofhis gut is swiftly justified,as ahead a Star Destroyerpunctures space like aknife-tip as it dropsoutofhyperspace.Wedgefiresup

the engines. I have to getoutofhere.A second StarDestroyer

slidesinnexttothefirst.The panels across the

Starhopper’s dash beginblinkingred.They see him. What to

do?What did Han always

say? Just fly casual. Theshipisdisguisedasitisfor

a reason: It looks like itcouldbelongtoanytwo-bitsmuggler out here on thefringe. Akiva’s a hotbed ofcriminal activity. Corruptsatrap governors. Varioussyndicates competing forresources andopportunities. A well-known black market—once, decades ago, theTrade Federation had adroid manufacturing

facilityhere.Whichmeans,if you want some off-the-booksdroid,youcancomeheretobuyone.TheRebelAlliance procuredmany ofits droids right here, as amatteroffact.New dilemma, though:

Whatnow?Flydowntotheplanetto

doaerialrecon,aswastheoriginal plan—or plot acourse back to Chandrila?

Something’s up. Two StarDestroyers appearing outof nowhere? Blockedcomms? That’s notnothing. It means I’vefound what I’m lookingfor.Maybe even something

muchbetter.That means: Time to

plotacourseoutofhere.That’ll take a few

minutes, though—headinginwardfromtheOuterRimisn’t as easy as taking along stride from here tothere. It’s a dangerousjump. Endless variablesawait: nebula clouds,asteroid fields, floatingbands of star-junk fromvarious skirmishes andbattles. Last thing Wedgewantstodoispilotaroundtheedgeofablackholeor

throughthecenterofastargoingsupernova.Thecommcrackles.They’rehailinghim.A crisp Imperial voice

comesacrossthechannel.“This is the Star

Destroyer Vigilance. Youhave entered Imperialspace.” To which Wedgethinks:This isn’t Imperialspace. What’s going on

here?“Identifyyourself.”Fearlancesthroughhim,

sharp and bright as anelectricshock.Thisisn’thisrealm. Talking. Lying. Ascoundrel like Solo couldconvince a Jawa to buy abag of sand. Wedge is apilot. But it’s not like theydidn’t plan for this.Calrissian worked on thestory.Heclearshis throat,hitsthebutton—

“This is Gev Hessan.Piloting an HH-87Starhopper: the Rover.”He transmitshisdatacard.“Sendingovercredentials.”A pause. “Identify the

natureofyourvisit.”“Lightcargo.”“Whatcargo?”The stock answer is:

droid components. Butthat may not fly here. He

thinksquickly—Akiva.Hot.Wet. Mostly jungle.“Dehumidifierparts.”Pause. An excruciating

one.The nav computer runs

throughitscalculations.Almostthere…A different voice comes

through the tinny speaker.Awoman’svoice.Gotsomesteel in it. Less crisp.

Nothing lilting. This issomeone with someauthority—or, at least,someone who thinks shepossessesit.She says, “Gev Hessan.

Pilot number 45236.Devaronian.Yes?”That checks out.

Calrissian knows Hessan.The smuggler—sorry,“legitimate pilot andbusinessman”—did work

smuggling goods to helpLando build Cloud City.And he is indeedDevaronian.“Yougotit,”Wedgesays.Anotherpause.The computer is almost

done with its calculations.Another ten seconds atmost.Numbers crunching,flickeringonthescreen…“Funny,” the woman

says.“Ourrecordsindicatethat Gev Hessan died inImperial custody. Pleaseletuscorrectourrecords.”The hyperspace

computer finishes itscalculations.He pushes the thruster

forwardwiththeheelofhishand—But the ship only

shudders. Then the

Starhoppertremblesagain,andbeginstodriftforward.Toward the pair of StarDestroyers. It meansthey’veengagedthetractorbeams.He turns to the weapon

controls.Ifhe’sgoingtogetoutof

this,it’snowornever.

—

Admiral Rae Sloane staresdown at the console andout thewindow.Theblackvoid.Thewhite stars.Likepinpricksinablanket.Andoutthere, likeachild’s toyon the blanket: a littlelong-rangefighter.“Scan them,” she says.

Lieutenant Nils Tothwinlooks up, offers her anobsequioussmile.“Of course,” he says, his

jaundiced face tight withthat grin. Tothwin is anemblem of what’s wrongwith the Imperial forcesnow:Manyoftheirbestaregone.What’sleftis,inpart,the dregs. The leaves andtwigs at the bottom of acup of spice tea. Still, hedoeswhathe’s told,whichis something—Sloanewonders when the Empirewilltrulybegintofracture.

Forces doing what theywant, when they want it.Chaos and anarchy. Themoment that happens, themoment someone of someprominence breaks fromthefoldtogohisownway,theyarealltrulydoomed.Tothwin scans the

Starhopper as the tractorbeam brings it slowly, butinevitably, closer. Thescreen beneath him

glimmers, and aholographic image of theship rises before him,constructed as if byinvisiblehands.Theimageflashes red along thebottom. Nils, panic in hisvoice, says: “Hessan ischarging his weaponssystems.”Shescowls.“Calmdown,

Lieutenant. The weaponson a Starhopper aren’t

enough to—” Wait. Shesquints. “Is that what Ithinkitis?”“What?” Tothwin asks.

“Idon’t—”Her finger drifts to the

frontendof theholograph—circling the fighter’sbroad,curvednose.“Here.Ordnancelauncher.Protontorpedo.”“But the Starhopper

wouldn’t be equipped—oh.Oh.”“Someone has come

prepared for a fight.” Shereaches down, flips on thecomm again. “This isAdmiral Rae Sloane. I seeyou there, little pilot.Readying a pair oftorpedoes. Let me guess:Youthinkaprotontorpedowill disrupt our tractorbeam long enough to

afford you your escape.Thatmay be accurate. Butletmealsoremindyouthatwe have enough ordnanceon the Vigilance to turnyou not only to scrap butrather,toafineparticulatematter. Like dust, castacrossthedark.Thetimingdoesn’t work. You’ll fireyour torpedo. We’ll fireours. Even if by the timeyourweaponsstrikeusour

beam isdisengaged…”Shecluckshertongue.“Well.Ifyoufeelyoumusttry,thentry.”She tells Nils to target

theStarhopper.Justincase.Butshehopesthepilotis

wise. Not some fool.Probablysomerebelscout,some spy, which is foolishon its own—though less

foolishnow,withthenewlybuilt second Death Stardestroyed like itspredecessor.All the more reason for

her to remain vigilant, asthe name of this shipsuggests. The meeting onAkiva cannot misfire. Itmust take place. It musthave a result. Everythingfeelsontheedge,theentireEmpirestandingonthelip

of the pit, the ledgecrumbling away to screeandstone.The pressure is on. An

almost literal pressure—like a fist pressing againsther back, pushing the airoutofherlungs.Herchancetoexcel.Her chance to change

Imperialfortune.Forgettheoldway.

Indeed.

—

Wedgewinces,heartracingin his chest like an ionpulse. He knows she’sright. The timing doesn’tfavor him. He’s a goodpilot, maybe one of thebest, but he doesn’t havethe Force on his side. IfWedge launches those two

torpedoes, they’ll give himeverything they have. Andthen it won’t matter if hebreaks free from thetractor beam. He won’thave but a second to getaway from whateverfusilladetheysendhisway.Somethingishappening.

Here, in the space aboveAkiva. Or maybe downthere on the planet’ssurface.

If he dies here—nobodywillknowwhatitis.Which means he has to

playthisright.He powers down the

torpedoes.Hehasanotheridea.

—

DockingBay42.RaeSloanestandsinthe

glass-encased balcony,

overlooking the gatheredbattalionofstormtroopers.This lot, like Nils, areimperfect. Those whoreceived top marks at theAcademywent on to serveon the Death Star, or onVader’scommandship,theExecutor. Half of themdidn’t even complete theAcademy—they werepulledoutoftrainingearly.These will do, though.

For now. Ahead is theStarhopper—drifting inthrough the void of space,cradled by the invisiblegrip of the tractor beam.Down past the lineup ofTIE fighters (half of whatthey need, a third of whatshe’d prefer), driftingslowlytowardthegatheredstormtroopers.They have the numbers.

The Starhopper will have

one pilot, most likely.Perhaps a second or thirdcrewmember.It drifts closer and

closer.She wonders: Who are

you? Who is inside thatlittletincan?Then:Abrightflashand

ashudder—theStarhoppersuddenly glows blue fromthenoseendforward.

It explodes in a rain offireandscrap.

—

“Whoever it was,”Lieutenant Tothwin says,“they did not wish to bediscovered. I suppose theyfavoredaquickwayout.”Sloane stands amid the

smoldering wreckage ofthe long-range fighter. It

stinksof ozoneand fire.Apair of gleaming blackastromechs whir, firingextinguishing foam to putout the last of the flames.They have to navigatearoundthehalfdozenorsostormtrooper bodies thatlie about, still. Helmetscracked. Chest platescharred. Blaster riflesscatteredandbroken.“Don’t be a naïve calf,”

shesays,scowling.“No,thepilot didn’t want to bediscovered. But he’s stillhere. If he didn’t want ustoblasthimoutof theskyout there, you really thinkhe’d be eager to die inhere?”“Could be a suicide

attack. Maximize thedamage—”“No. He’s here. And he

can’tbefar.Findhim.”

Nils gives a sharp,nervous nod. “Yes,Admiral.Rightaway.”

“Wehave to turnaround,”Norra says. “Plot anothercourse—”“Whoa, whoa, no,”

Owertosays,halflaughing.He looks up at her—onehalfofhisdarkfaceburnedunderneath a mottledcarpet of scars, scars heclaimstohaveearnedwithadifferent story each timehe tells it: lava, wampa,blaster fire, got blitzed onCorellian rum and felldown on a hot campingstove.“MissSusser—”“NowthatI’mhome,I’m

goingbymymarriednameagain.Wexley.”“Norra. You paidme to

getyouontothesurfaceofthatplanet.”Hepointsoutthe window. There: home.Or was, once. The planetAkiva. Clouds swirling inlazy spirals over thejungles and mountains.Above it: Two StarDestroyers hang there likeswords above the surface.

“Moreimportant,youain’ttheonlycargoI’mbringingin.I’mfinishingthisjob.”“They told us to turn

around.This is a blockade—”“And smugglers like me

are very good at gettingaroundthose.”“Weneed to get back to

the Alliance—” Shecorrects herself. That’s old

thinking. “The NewRepublic. They need toknow.”A third Star Destroyer

suddenly cuts throughspace, appearing in linewiththeothers.“You got family down

there?”She offers a stiff nod.

“That’s why I’m here.”That’swhyI’mhome.

“This was always a risk.TheEmpire’sbeenhereonAkiva for years. Not likethis,but…they’rehere,andwe’re gonna have to dealwith it.” He leans in andsays:“YouknowwhyIcallthisshiptheMoth?”“Idon’t.”“You ever try to catch a

moth? Cup your hands,chase after it, catch it?White moth, brown moth,

anymoth at all?You can’tdo it. They always getaway.Herky-jerkyup-and-downleft-and-right.Likeapuppet dancing onsomebody’s strings. That’sme.That’sthisship.”“Istilldon’tlikeit.”“I don’t like it, either,

but life is full of unlikablethings.Youwannaseeyourfamily again? Then we’redoingthis.Now’sthetime,

too.Looks like they’re justgettingsetup.Mightcouldbemoreontheway.”Ahalf-mad gleam inhis

onegoodeye.Hisother:animplacableredlensframedin an ill-fitting O-ringbolted to the scarred skin.He grins, then: crookedteeth stretched wide. Heactuallylikesthis.Smugglers,shethinks.

Well, she paid for theticket.Timetotaketheride.

—

The long black tablegleams with light shiningup from it—a holographicschematic of theVigilance’s docking bayand surrounding environs.It incorporates a fresh

droid scan and showsdamage to two of the TIEfighters,nottomentionthebodies of thestormtroopers—those leftthere as a reminder toothers what can happenwhen you tussle withrebels.The pilot of the

Starhopper? Mostdefinitelya rebel.Now thequestion: Was this an

attack? Did he know theywerehere?Oristhissomeconfluenceofevents,somecrass coincidence that ledtothisintersection?That,aproblemforlater.

The problem now isfiguring out just where hewent. Because as shethought, the shipcontainednobody.Best she can figure, he

rigged the proton

torpedoes to blow. Beforethey did, however, he…what? She taps a button,goes back to theStarhopper schematic shepulled off the Imperialdatabases. There. A stern-side door. Small, butenough to load smallparcelsofcargoinandout.Her new pilot friend

ducked out the back.Would’ve been a

considerable jump. Jedi?No. Couldn’t be. Only oneof those out there—andzero chance the rebelswould send their goldenboy,Skywalker.Back to the bay

schematic—She spins it. Highlights

theaccessducts.That’s it. She pulls her

comm.“Tothwin.Ourpilot

is in the ducts. I’ll bet allmy credits you’ll find anopenvent—”“Wehaveaproblem.”Theproblem is thatyou

interruptedme,shethinksbutdoesnot say. “What isit?”“We have a blockade-

runner.”“Anotherterrorist?”“Could be. Looks like a

bog-standard smuggler,though. Flying a smallCorellian freighter—an,ahh,let’ssee,anMK-4.”“Dispatch the TIEs. Let

themdealwithit.”“Ofcourse,Admiral.”

—

Everything feels like it’s inslow motion. Norra sits,frozen in the navigator’s

chair next to OwertoNaiucho, the scar-facedsmuggler—flashes of lighton his face, green lightfrom the incoming lasers,orange light bloomingfromaTIEfightermeetingits untimely end. Outside,aheadofthem,aswarmofTIEslikeacloudofinsects—the horrible scream asthey pass, vibrating thechair beneath her and the

console gripped in herwhite-knuckled hands. Inthe moments when sheblinks, she doesn’t seedarkness.Sheseesanotherbattleunfolding—“It’s a trap!” comes

Ackbar’s voice over thecomm. The dread feelingas Imperial TIEs descendupon them like redjacketwasps from a rock-strucknest. The dark of space

lighting up with acracklingbeamofviridianlight—that coming fromthehalf-constructedDeathStar, just one moreshovelful of dirt on theAlliance’s grave as one oftheir own capital ships isgone, erased in a pulse oflight,lightning,andfire—The freighter dives

toward the planet’ssurface. Turning like a

screw.Theshipshudderingas laserfire scores its side.The shields won’t holdforever.Owerto’syellingather: “You need to handlethe guns! Norra! Theguns.”Butshecan’tgetupout of that chair. Herbloodlesshandswon’tevenleave the console. Hermouth is dry. Herunderarms wet. Her heartisbeatinglikeapulsarstar

beforeitgoesdark.“We want you to fly

with us,” Captain Antillessays.Sheobjects,ofcourse—she’s been working forthe rebels for years now,since before thedestruction of the firstDeath Star, but as afreighter pilot. Carryingmessage droids, orsmuggling weapons, orjust shuttling people from

planet to planet and baseto base. “And that doesn’tchange the kind of pilotyou are,” he says. “Yououtran a Star Destroyer.You forced two TIEinterceptors to crash intoeach other. You’ve alwaysbeenagreatpilot.Andweneed you now for whenGeneral Solo gets thoseshield generators down.”He asks her again: Is she

in? Will she fly with theredandthegold?Yes.Shesays yes. Because ofcourse she does—howcouldshesayotherwise?Everything, gone dizzy.

Lights inside the cabinflashing. A rain of sparksfrom somewhere behindtheir chairs. Here in theMoth, everything feelsbalanced on the head of apin.Throughtheglass,the

planet.Theclouds,comingcloser. TIE fighterspunching holes throughthem, vapor swirlingbehind them. She standsup,handsshaking.Inside the bowels of the

beast. Pipes and hissingsteam.Skeletalbeamsandbundles of cord andconduit. The guts of theresurrected Death Star.Theshieldsaredown.This

istheironechance.ButtheTIE fighters areeverywhere. Coming upbehind them, hawksnipping at their tailfeathers.Sheknowswherethis goes: It means she’sgoing to die. But that’showthingsgetdone.GoldLeadercommsin—Lando’svoice in her ear, and hisSullustan copilot’s justbehind it. They tell her

whattodo.Andagainshethinks: This is it, this ishow I die.She acceleratesher fighter. The heatsignature of the core goesleft. She pulls her Y-wingright—and a handful ofthe TIEs break off andfollow her deeper. Awayfrom the MillenniumFalcon.Away from theX-wings. Laserfire fryingher engines. Popping the

top off her astromech.Smoke filling the cabin.Thesmellofozone—“I’m not a gunner,” she

says.“I’mapilot.”Then she pulls Owerto

out of his pilot’s chair.Heprotests,butshegiveshima look—a look she’spracticed,alookwhereherface hardens like coolingsteel, the look of a raptorbefore it takes your eyes.

The smuggler gives abarelyperceptiblenod,andit’s good that he does.Because as soon as she’sdown in the chair andgrabbing the stick andthrottle, she sees a pair ofTIEfighterscomingupfastfromthefront—Herteethclampdownso

hard she thinks her jawmight break. Lasers likedemon fire score the sky

ahead, coming right forthem.She pulls back on the

stick. TheMoth ceases itsdive toward the planet’ssurface—the lasers justmiss, passing under thehind end of the freighter,continuingon—Boom.Theytakeouttwoof the

TIE fighters thathadbeen

following close behind.Andevenas she continueshauling back on the stick,her stomach and hearttrading places, the bloodroaring in her ears, sheloopty-loops the ship justin time to see theremaining two TIEs clipeach other. Vertical wingpanels smashing together,prying apart—each of theshort-range Imperial

fighters suddenly spinningaway, pirouetting wildlythroughspacelikeapairofRepublic Day firecrackerpinwheels.“We got more

incoming!” Owerto hollersfrom somewhere behindher—and then she hearsthe gears of the Moth’stwin cannons grinding asthe turret spins into placeandbeginsbarkingfire.

Cloudswhippast.The ship bangs and

juddersasitkicksaholeintheatmosphere.This is my home, she

thinks. Or was. She grewup on Akiva. Moreimportant,Norrathenwaslike Norra now: Shedoesn’t much care forpeople.Shewentoffonherown a lot. Explored thewilds outside the capital

city of Myrra—the oldtemples, the cave systems,therivers,thecanyons.She knows those places.

Every switchback, everybend, every nook andcranny. Again she thinks,Thisismyhome,andwiththat mantra set to repeat,she stills her shakinghands and banks hard tostarboard, corkscrewingthe ship as laserfire blasts

past.The planet’s surface

comesupfast.Toofast,butshe tells herself that sheknows what she’s doing.Down there, the rise oflush hills and slick-facedcliffs give way to theCanyonofAkar—awindingserpentine valley, and it’sthere she takes theMoth.Into the rain-forestedchannel. Drizzle speckling

her view, streaking away.The wings of the freighterclipbranches, tearingupaflurryofleavesasshejukesleftandjerksright,makingtheMothonehelluvahardtargettohit.Laserfire sears the

canopyahead.Then:abankoffog.Shepushesdownon the

stick, takes the freighter

even lower. Here, thecanyon is tighter. Treesstretching out like selfishhands, thrust up fromrocky outcroppings. Norradeliberately clips these—again on the left, then onthe right. The Moth’sturretsbeltoutcannonfireand suddenlyaTIEcomestumblingend-over-endlikeaflungboulder—shehastobank the ship hard to

dodge it. It smashes intoatree.Abelchingfireball.Thefreightershudders.More sparks. The cabin

goes dark.Owerto: “We’velosttheturrets!”Norra thinks: We don’t

needthem.Because she knows

what’s coming. One of theoldest temple complexes—abandoned, an artifact of

architecture from a timelong, long ago, when theAhia-Ko people dwelledherestill.Butbeforethat:acascadingwaterfall,asilverchurnofwaterleapingovera cliff’s edge. A cliff theycall theWitch’s Finger forthewayitlookslikeabentandaccusingdigit.There’sa space underneath thatbridge of stone, a narrowchannel. Too narrow, she

thinks. But maybe not.Especially not with theturretgone.Too late tododifferentlynow—Sheturnsthefreighterto

itsside—Ahead,thegapunderthe

rock.Waterfallononeside.Jagged cliff face on theother. Norra stills herbreathing. Opens her eyeswide.

That mantra comes onelasttime,spokenaloud:“Thisismyhome.”The freighter passes

throughthechannel.It shakes like an old

drunk—what’s left of theturret shears off. Clangsaway, spinning into thewaterfallspray—But they’re out. Clean.

Alive.

On the console, twoblinkingredblips.TIE fighters. Behind

them.Waitforit.Wait…forit…Theairclapswithapair

ofexplosions.Thetwoblipsflickerand

aregone.Owerto hoots and claps

hishands.“We’reclear!”

Damnrightweare.She turns the freighter

and sets a course for theoutskirtsofMyrra.

—

Nils Tothwin swallowshard and steps over theshatteredglassandpuddleoffizzingliquor—thatfroma ceremonial bottle ofLothalian currant wine, a

wine so purple it’s almostblack. The puddle on thefloor could at first beconfused for a hole in thefloor,infact.Tothwin rubs his hands

together.He’snervous.“You haven’t found

him,”RaeSloanesays.“No.”“And I saw that the

smuggler’sshipisgone.”

“Goneasin,escaped.”Shenarrowshereyes. “I

knowwhatImeant.”“Ofcourse,Admiral.”The puddle bubbles.

Thatbottle,giventohertocelebrate her rise to therole of admiral.Appropriate then that itwas ceremonial, becausethat’s what became of herrole, too—her leadership

was purely ceremony. Foryears she’dbeensidelined.Yes,givencommandoftheVigilance. But theVigilance was itself givennothing close to a majorrole inthestruggleagainsttherisingRebellion.Paltrywork. Patrols in theOuterRim, mostly. Defense andescort of bureaucrats,moffs, dignitaries,ambassadors.

It’s what she gets. Shemade too many enemiesearly on. Sloane wasalways one to speak hermind.Shedidn’tknowherplace.Andithurther.Butnow:Thisisthetime

forsecondchances.She cuts the silence:

“This is a bad time forchaos, Lieutenant. Outthere, already two of ouresteemed guests have

arrived.” Moff ValcoPandion in the StarDestroyer Vanquish, andin the Ascent, one of theGalactic Empire’s oldeststrategists and tacticians:GeneralJyliaShale.“Soon,the others will arrive. Icannothave thisbea timethat demonstrates myweakness. We cannotreveal an inability tocontrol our own

environment, because ifthat happens, itwill prove—particularlytoPandion—that we cannot evencontrol this meeting. Andthis meeting? Must becontrolled.”“Absolutely, Admiral.

Wewill find the interloper—”“No. I will lead the

charge to find ourunanticipated guest. You

assembleateam.Gotothesurface in advance of themeeting. Track thesmugglerandfreighterthatevaded us. Just to be sureit’s not part of somethingbigger.Thismustgoright,andifitgoeswrong?Iwillhold you personallyaccountable.”What little color he has

inhisfacedrains.“Asyouwish,Admiral.”

—

Steam rises like stirredspecters off the surface ofthe Moth—the rain hasstoppedandnowthesunisout.Brightandhot.Theairthick with humidity.Already Norra feels herhair—normally straightand silver as the waterfalltheyjustpassedunderonlyanhourbefore—startingto

curlat theedges, thehairssnarling together. An oddthought:HaveIbroughtabrush?Did she evenbringthe right clothes? WhatwillTemminthinkofher?She hasn’t seen her son

in…too long now. Threestandard years? At that,shewinces.“Youareonewildpilot,”

Owerto says, comingaround the side. He slaps

the ship: whong, whong,whong. “I’m man enoughto admit that you maybesavedtheMoth’sbaconoutthere.”She offers a terse smile.

“Well. I had a goodmoment.”“Flying like that isn’t

luck. It’s skill. You’re arebelpilot,right?”“Right.”

“Seems you’re on thewinningteam,then.”Not yet, she thinks. But

all she says is, “Onehopes.”“They really gone? The

Emperor? That machine-man,Vader?WholeDeathStar blown to little bittybitsalloveragain?”“It was. I was there. I

was…insideit,actually.”

He whistles low andslow. “That explains thefancyflying.”“Maybe.”“Congratulations. You’re

a hero. Must’ve beensomething.”“It was something, all

right.” Even now, thinkingof it,acoldshiverratchetsup her spine despite theoppressive heat. Others

may have felt exhilaratedduring that battle. But forher: It lives on in hernightmares. Watchinggood pilots spiral into thesurface of that massivebase. Hearing theirscreams over the comm.“Your money,” she says,abruptly.Shepullsasmallsack out of her duffel.Tossesittohim.“TenKonarrival, as promised.

Thanks. Sorry about yourship.”“I’llgetitfixedup.Good

luckwithyourfamily.”“My son, mostly. I’m

here to get him and getbackout.”He arches an eyebrow

over his one good eye.“That’s gonna be sometricky business what withtheblockade.Youfigureda

wayoffplanetyet?”“No.Areyouoffering?”“Pay me the same and

promise to fly the shipagainifthechipsaredown,and you got yourself adeal.”She offers a hand. They

shakeonit.“Oh,” he adds as he

walks away. “Welcomehome,NorraWexley.”

Akiva has always hadImperials. Just notoccupying ones. As withmanyof theworldson the

Outer Rim—wheeling ontheir axes at the edges ofknown space—Imperialsused the planet but couldnever, or perhaps wouldnever, stake an officialclaim. These exoplanetswerebeasts too rough, toowild,toostrangetoeverbebroughtundertheGalacticEmpire’s yoke. When theImperialscamehere,itwasforreasonsoftenpersonal:

the drink, the spice, thesmoke, the gambling, theblack-market goods. Ormaybe just to sightsee thewild faces and unmetaliens that cross paths atthis outpost of miscreantsanddeviants.That,all of that, iswhat

broughthimhere.Sinjir Rath Velus.

Imperialloyaltyofficer.

Well.Ex-Imperialloyaltyofficer.The galactic tides swept

him here andwashed himup on this planet of wildjungles and jaggedmountains, this place ofblack volcanoes and glass-sandbeaches.Herehesits.Sameseatatthesamebar,in the same back-alleyquadrant of Myrra, withthe same Mon Calamari

bartender pushing drinksacross the oka-wood bartop.Nursing a sashin-leaf

mead—golden, sweet,tastes like a cross betweena jybbuk-fruit and oi-ois,those little red berries hismother used to pick. Thisishisthirdof theday,andthe sun’s only been up afew hours. Already hisheadislikeaflyinasticky

spider’s web, strugglingandtryingtoflyfreebeforeultimately failing andgivingintofataltorpor.His head feels gummy,

swimmy,boggy.Sinjirholdsupthedrink

andregards it thewayonemightregarda lover.Withpassionand fervorhe saysto it, “You can count onme. I’m all in.” Then hequits nursing it and slams

itback. Itgoesdowneasy.Heshudderswithpleasure.Thenhetapsthebottomofthe glass on the wood.“Bartender. Drink-keeper.Peddler of strangeliqueurs!Another,please.”The Mon Calamari,

named Pok, trundles up.He’sold,thisMonCal—hischintentacles,orwhateverthey are, have grown longand thick, a fringed beard

of red skin, twitchingsuckers, and glisteningbarnacles. His one arm isgone,replacedinsteadwiththegleamingsilverlimbofa protocol droid. A hasty,ill-fitting job—the wiresplugged unceremoniouslyinto the blistering flesh ofhis red shoulder. Anunappetizing thing to lookat, butSinjir cares little atthis point. He deserves

nothingbetterthanthis.Pok gurgles and grunts

at him inwhatever tonguethe Mon Cals speak. Theyhave the sameconversationeverytime:Pokmakeshissounds.Sinjir asks, then

demands, that thebartenderspeakBasic.Pok says, in Basic, “I

don’t speak Basic,” before

going back to gabbling inhisalienway.And then Sinjir makes

his request and Pok fillstheglass.At the end of that

exchange, Sinjir makes anew request: “I’ll take…byallthestarsinalltheskiesit’s hot, isn’t it? I’ll takesomething refreshing?What’s refreshing, mysquid-faced friend? Give

methat.”The bartender shrugs,

his gelatinous frog-eggeyes quivering, beforefetchingawoodencupwitha couple of ice cubesrattling around in thebottom. Pok grabs a dingybottle from the shelf:something with a non-Basic script scrawledacrossit.Justashecannotunderstand the Mon Cal’s

words, Sinjir cannottranslate the language onthebottle.TheEmpirehadlittle interest in learningthe ways and tongues ofother cultures.Theydidn’teven want their people tolearnontheirowntime.(Sinjirisremindedofthe

time he found the youngofficer studying Ithorese,of all things. That young,fresh-faced fellow, sitting

cross-legged on his cot, along index finger scanninglines of the alien script.Sinjirbroke that finger forhim. Said it was betterthan any administrativepunishment—and faster,too.)(Sinjir is also reminded:

I am a terrible person.Guiltandshameduelinhisgut like a pair of hissingLoth-cats.)

Pok pours from thebottle.Sinjir gives it a swirl.

The smell coming off itcouldstriptheblackfromaTIE pilot’s helmet. Hetastesit,expectingittosethis tongue and throat onfire, but it’s quite theopposite.Notsweet.Floral.A taste that fails tomatchthesmell.Fascinating.Hesighs.

“Hey,” someone next tohimwhispers.Sinjir ignores it.Takesa

long, noisy sip of hisstrangebrew.“Hey.”They’respeakingtohim,

aren’t they? Ugh. He tiltshis head and arches botheyebrowsexpectantly,onlyto see someTwi’lek sittingthere. Skin pink like a

newbornbaby’s.Oneofthetail-head’s head-tailscomes off the top of histoo-tall forehead andwindsaroundhis shoulderand underarm the way aworker might carry a coilofropeorhose.“Buddy,” the Twi’lek

says.“Hey.”“No,” Sinjir says quite

crisply. “That’s not—no. Idon’t talk to people. I’m

not here to talk. I’m herefor this.” He holds up thewoodencup,givesitalittleswirlsothatthe icemakesnoise. “Not for this.” Hegesticulates, wagglingfingers in the general areaoftheTwi’lek.“You seen the holovid?”

theTwi’lekasks,indicatingthat he’s one of thosebrash, belligerent typeswhoonlyunderstandsocial

cues when they’redelivered at the end of afistoratthetipofablasterrifle.Still. Holovid? He’s

curious.“No.Whatisit?”The Twi’lek looks left,

looksright,thenpullsoutalittle disk—bigger than hispalm, smaller than aproper dinner plate.Metalring.Blueglasscenter.Thealien licks his sharp little

teeththenhitsabutton.An image appears

hoveringoverthedisk.Awoman.Regalbearing.

Chin lifted high and evenin the fuzzy hologram, hecantellhereyesarebright,flickering with keenintelligence. Of course,maybe it’s because healreadyknowswhosheis:Princess Leia Organa.

Once of Alderaan. Now:one of the heroes andleaders of the RebelAlliance.The recorded image of

theprincessspeaks:“This is Leia Organa,

last princess of Alderaan,former member of theGalactic Senate, and aleader in the Alliance toRestore the Republic. Ihave a message for the

galaxy. The grip of theGalactic Empire on ourgalaxy and its citizens isrelinquished. The DeathStar outside the forestmoon of Endor is gone,and with it the Imperialleadership.”Here the hologram

changes to a sight all toofamiliartoSinjir:The Death Star

exploding in theskyabove

Endor.He knows because he

wasthere.Hesawthegreatflash, thepulseof fire, thebulging clouds like brainsknockedoutofsomefool’scracked head. All the bitsofitupthere,still,floatinglike somuch detritus. Theimage flickers. Then it’sbacktoLeia.“The tyrantPalpatine is

dead. But the fight isn’t

over. The war goes oneven as the Empire’spower diminishes. Butweare here for you. Knowthatwhereveryouare,nomatter how far out intothe Outer Rim you dwell,the New Republic iscoming to help. Alreadywe’ve captured dozens ofImperialcapitalshipsandDestroyers—” Now theimage becomes three-

dimensional footage ofImperials being led off aship’s ramp in cuffs. “Andin the months since thedestructionoftheEmpire’sdread battle station, wehave already liberatedcountless planets in thename of the Alliance.” Anew image: rebels beinggreeted as saviors andliberators by a cheeringcrowd of—where is that?

Naboo? Could be Naboo.Back to Leia: “Be patient.Be strong. Fight backwhere you can. TheImperial war machinefalls apart one gear, onegun, one stormtrooper ata time. TheNewRepublicis coming. And we wantyour help to finish thefight.”One last flickering

image:

Alliance fighters withfireworks exploding intheirwake.Anothersightfamiliarto

him—he watched thevictorious rebels shootingoff their fireworks farabove the tops of themassive Endorian trees.Those strange rat-bearcreatures cheering andhootingandchirpinginthedistanceasSinjirhunkered

down, cold and alone andcowardly,inthebrush.“It’s a new day,” the

Twi’lek says, smiling bigand broad with those tinypointy teeth lined up incrooked,serratedrows.“Oneconquerorreplaces

another,” Sinjir says, liptugged up in acharacteristic sneer. Butthelookonhisfacefailstomatch the feeling in his

heart, much the way thedrinkinfrontofhimhasasmellthatdoesn’tjivewithits taste. In his heart, hefeels a swell of…hope?Really? Hope andhappiness and newpromise? How disgusting.He licks his lips and says,“Still, let’s see it again,shallwe?”TheTwi’lekgivesagiddy

nod and goes to tap the

button.A scuff of boots behind

them. Pok, the bartender,gruntsinalarm.Acreakyblackglovefalls

on Sinjir’s shoulder.Another lands on theTwi’lek’sshoulder,givingitapainfulsqueeze.Sinjir smells the oiled

leather,thecrisplinen,theofficial-issue detergent.

The smell of Imperialcleanliness.“What have we here?”

comesabrutishgrowlofavoice—a guttural-tonguedofficer that Sinjir turns tofind looks rather sloppy.Got a gut pushing out thebelly of his gray uniform,so far out that one of thebuttons has gone undone.Hisfaceisunshorn.Hairabitofamuss.

The other one next tohim is considerably betterkept—firm jaw, clear eyes,uniform pressed andwashed. Smug grin—asmugness that isn’tpracticed but (as Sinjirknows well) comesnaturally.Behind them, a pair of

stormtroopers.Now, that’s something.

Stormtroopers. Here, on

Akiva?Akivahasalwayshadits

Imperials, yes, but neverstormtroopers. Thosewhite-armoredsoldiersarefor war and occupation.They don’t come here todrink and dance anddisappear.Something has changed.

Sinjir doesn’t yet knowwhat. But curiosityscratchesatthebackofhis

head like a mole lookingforgrubs.“Me andmy tail-headed

friend here are justwatching a littlepropaganda,” Sinjir says.“Nothing to cause anyoneanyalarmatall.”TheTwi’leksticksouthis

chin. Fear shines in hiseyes, but something else,too—something Sinjir hasseen in those he has

tormented and tortured,thosewhothinktheywon’tbreak:courage.Courage.What a foolish

thing.“Your time isdone,” the

Twi’lek growls in a shakyvoice.“TheEmpireisover.The New Republic iscomingand—”Theoafishofficergivesa

hard,straightpunchtothe

Twi’lek’s throat—the tail-head gurgles, clutching athis windpipe. The otherone, the smug one, puts asteadying hand on Sinjir’sshoulder. A warning,unspokenbutclearjustthesame:Move and you joinyourfriend.Someone barks—behind

thebar,Pokgrumblesandmakes some mushy-mouthed warning of his

own while pointing to asign above his head. Thatsign, in Basic, reads: NOIMPERIALS.It’s actually that sign

that has kept Sinjir hereday and night for the lastweek. First because itmeans no one from theEmpire will come here—which means no one willrecognize him. Second, hejustlikestheironyofit.

TheoafgrinsattheMonCalamari bartender.“Times are changing,squid-beard. You mightwant to reconsider thatsign.”Hegivesasharpnodto the stormtroopers andthe pair of them stepforward, blasters raisedand pointed right at Pok.“We’reheretostay.”With that, the big oaf

startswhalingawayonthe

tail-headagain.The Twi’lek man bleats

inpain.This is not how it’s all

supposed to go.Not at all.Sinjir makes a decision,then,and it’sadecision tosimply stand up and walkout, putting all of thisbehind him. No need tomake trouble. No need tobecome a blip onanybody’s radar screen.

Walk off. Find anotherwateringhole.That’swhathedecidesto

do.It is, quite puzzlingly,

notwhatheactuallydoes.Whathedoes,instead,is

stand up hard and fast.And when OfficerSmugfacetriestopushhimback to his chair, Sinjirreaches back, grabs the

man’shand,andpries twofingers up with a sharpmotion. He goes thedistance, ratcheting thembacksofarthattheysnap—Themanscreams.Ashe

should. Sinjir knows howtodeliverpain.This causes some

concern among theofficer’scohorts,ofcourse.Theoafflingsthetail-headtothegroundandgoesfor

his pistol. The twostormtroopers pivot ontheir heels, swinging theirriflesaroundtohim—Sinjir’s drunk. Or,

drunk-ish. That should bea problem but to hissurprise, it really isn’t—it’sas if the warm wash ofstrange liqueur has wornawayanysecondthoughts,anypeskycriticalanalysisthatmightgivehimpause,

and instead he movesswiftly and withouthesitation. (If a bitinelegantly.)He spins behind the

wailing, smug-facedofficer. Lifts his arm liketheleveronaCorellianslotmachine, and with hisother hand stabs out andplucks the officer’s pistolfromhisholster.Already, theoaf is firing

hisblaster.Hisownblaster(well, the smug one’sblaster) spins out of hishand,sparking.Damnit.Sinjirtightenshisprofile

andturns thesmugone tomeet the attack—laserssearholes inhischestandhe screams before goinglimp. Then, with a quickplant of his foot and hardthrow, he launches theslackbody toward thepair

of stormtroopers—neitherof whom is ready for theattack.And both of whom fall

backward, crashing intotables.Theoafcriesout,liftshis

pistolagain—Sinjir dissects theman’s

defenses. Hand underwrist. Pistol launches up,fires toward the ceiling—

dust streaming down ontheir heads. He stabs outwith a boot, catching theman in the shin, knee,upperthigh.TheImperial’sthickbody crumples like atable with its leg broken,butSinjirwon’tlethimfall—he holds him up by thewrist, and with his freehand strikes at vulnerablepoints. Nose. Eye.Windpipe. Breadbasket.

Then back to the nose,where he hooks the oaf’snostrilswithapairofcruelfingers, forcing him to theground. The man weepsandblubbersandbleeds.The stormtroopers are

notdownforthecount.They scramble to stand.

Blastersagainup—Someonerisesupnextto

the trooper on the right

andswingsachairupwardin a hard, merciless arc.The chair gets right underthe soldier’s white helmetand spins it around. Thattrooper flails just as abottle of liquor spiralsthrough the air, crackingthe second one in thehelmet.Abottleflungfromthe droid arm of theMonCalbehindthebar.Forgoodmeasure,Sinjir

twists the oaf’s wrist sothat the pistol drops fromtheImperial’sgripandintohis own. Then he twirls itandfirestwoshots.Oneinthe center of each of theirhelmets.The stormtroopers fall.

This time, they won’t begettingbackup.Sinjirplantshimselfover

theoaf.Heagaingrabstheman’s nose and gives it a

twist. “Wonderful thingabout the nose is how it’stied to all these sensitivenerve endings behind theface. This fleshyprotuberance—yours likeahog’s snout, if I’m beinghonest—iswhy, right now,your head is filling withmucus and your eyes arefillingwithtears.”“You rebel scum,” the

oafgargles.

“That’s funny. Really,veryfunny.”Youidiot.Youthink I’m one of themwhen really, I’m one ofyou. “I want to knowwhat’sgoingon.”“What’s going on is that

the Empire is here andyou’re—”He twists. The man

screams. “Spare me thesales pitch. Details. Whyare you here? With

stormtroopers,noless.”“Idon’tknow—”Another twist. Another

scream.“I swear I don’t know!

Something’s going on,though. It’s ramped upfast. I…we came down offof the Vigilance and thenthe comms blackout andtheblockade—”SinjirgivesalooktoPok.

“Youknowanything aboutcomms being out? Or ablockade?”Thebartendershrugs.Sinjir sighs, then jams a

fistintheoaf’sface.Thesloppyofficer’shead

racks back andconsciousness leaves him.Sinjir letshimdrop.Then,toPok: “Somebody’sgoingto want to clean this up.

Ah.Goodluckwiththat?”And then, whistling, he

traipsesoutthefrontofthecantina.

Ablurryimage.A sound: whap, whap,

whap.Theblurryimageshakes.

It gets blurrier for asecond, and then focuses

the other way, lurchinginelegantlytowardclarity.The image resolves.

Standing there are twowomen. One, a human.Tall, thin, professional.Darkhair coiffedup like awave about to break. Anecklace around her neckthat looks like a flock ofbirds chained together—itcatchesthelightofthesun.Her smile is big, broad,

practiced.The other woman is

smaller. Pantoran. Blueskin. Golden hair pulledback in a simple, practicalbraid.Shewearsadresstomatch: Some might call itpractical andunpretentious, othersmightsayitisdrab,dull,oreven unsophisticated. Heronly jewelry is a pair ofsilver bracelets. Her smile

is also practiced, butnervous,too.Behind them: the

humble skyline of thecapital,HannaCity.The first woman,

Tracene Kane, says to theTrandoshan behind thecamera: “How’s it look,Lug?”A growl-hiss from

behind the camera. “It

lookedbad.Ihit it.Nowitlooksgood.”Tracene gives the other

woman—Olia Choko—anapologetic shrug. “Oldtech. Doesn’t alwayscomply.”“It’s your first

broadcast,” Olia says. “It’sunderstandable.”“This day is a first for

both of us, I think.”

Tracene laughs—it’s alaugh that sounds almosttoo big to be real. Maybeit’swhosheis.Ormaybeit,like her smile, is born ofeffort and orchestration.“Sohere’showthisisgoingto go. I’ll begin theinterview, and I’ll do abriefintro—blahblahblah,first day of the newGalactic Senate, it’s a newdawn for the galaxy, and

then right to you: OliaChoko, public relationsrepresentative for MonMothma and the newSenate.We’llgetright intoit.”“Great,” Olia says. She

takes a deep breath. “Justgreat.”“Youlooknervous.”“I’m…alittlenervous.”“You’ll be fine. You’re

pretty. You’re alien. You’lltrendwell.”“Oh!” Olia says,

thrusting up a finger.“You’regoing togetashotofwhat’sbehindus, right?Hanna City reflects theSenate’s humble newbeginnings—we’re here forthepeopleofthegalaxy,allthe hardworking people.AndMonMothma is fromhere,so—”

Tracene puts a hand onOlia’s shoulder. “We gotthis.”“Oh! But, uh. Don’t

forget, too, togetashotofthe art installation in thecity circle—it’s a bunch ofstormtrooper helmetspainted different colors,marked with differentsymbols like flowers andstarbursts and Alliancesigils.It’sbytheartist—”

TracenegivesOlia’sarma squeeze. “I said we gotthis. We have the footage.You’re the last link in thechain.Wetalktoyou.Thenthe Senate walks in.Nothingwillgowrong.Yougood?”Oliahesitates.Thesmile

onherfaceisstrained.Shelooks like a panickedsquark-bat frozen in thebeam of a miner’s

headlamp. But she nods.“Yes. I’m good. I’m fine. Icandothis.”To the camera, Tracene

points. “We’reon in three,Lug. Three. Two—” ShemouthsthewordOne—“This is Tracene Kane

broadcasting on the firstday of the Queen of theCore Network. I’mstanding here with OliaChoko, public relations

representative ofChancellor Mon Mothmaand the new GalacticSenate here onChandrila…”

The interrogator droidhovers.Asmallpanelalongitsbottomslidesopenwitha whir and a click. An

extensor arm unfolds—anarm that ends in a pair ofcruel-looking pincers. Soprecise and so sharp theylookliketheycouldpluckaman’s eye clean from hishead. (A performance thisdroidhas likelyperformedonce upon a time.) Thearm reaches down towarditstarget.It grabs the ten-sided

die,liftsit,dropsit.

Thedieclatters.Faceup:a7.The droid exclaims in a

loud, digitized monotone:“AH. I AM AFFORDEDTHE CHANCE TOPROCURE A NEWRESOURCE. I WILL BUYA SPICE LANE. THATCONNECTSTOMYFOUROTHER SPICE LANES.THAT GIVES ME FIVETOTAL, WHICH GRANTS

ME ONE VICTORYPOINT. I AM NOWWINNING. THE SCOREISSIXTOFIVE.”Temmin’slipscurlintoa

frustrated frown. Theboard beneath the two ofthem consists of amap ofcountless hexagonalterritories. Some of thehexes contain planets.Others: stars, or asteroidbelts,ornebulae.

He has never won agame of GalacticExpansion against therepurposed interrogatordroid. But he’s close now.It’sneverbeenthisclose.“Ease off the throttle,

you overconfidentborgleball. One point doesnot make you aconqueror.” He rolls thedie. A 5. Not enough toearn him a new resource,

but he can place a newshipping lane or smugglerroute. He has to thinkabout this. He leans backon the chair. Lets his eyesgaze over the workshopand market—all around,shelves and tablesmounded with what looksto be junk. And a lot of itis. Astromech parts.Starship scrap.Disassembled blasters.

Over in the corner is aWED repair droid—longdefunct, wound up withblinking, twinkling lights.Hanging above his headfromasetofbraidedcablesis a speeder bike scoredwithlasermarks.And there, against the

far wall, is an old TradeFederation battle droid,scrunched down into itsfolded up form and

wrapped up in a rattyblanket.It’snotoneof theB2s—

the war droids with thecannons on the forearmsandthehardchestplating.It’s not one of the

droidekas, either—thoseroly-poly death machines,as if a jungle scorpionhada baby with a rollingthermaldetonator.

It’s just an old B1. Aclanker.Everything here is, or

lookslike,aclanker.Temmin picks up a

smuggler route tile,marked with a red dottedline, and he’s about toplace it when theinterrogator droidsuddenlyturns.Asiftofacesomebody.

“YOU HAVECUSTOMERS,” the droidintones.Temmin cracks his

knuckles and stands up,plastering on his bestsalesmansmile.Theyoungteenkickshis rolling chairaway and turns to face—atrio of thugs. His smilewavers, but only for asecond.“AKoorivar,anIthorian,

and an Abednedo enter ajunkshop,” he says,cracking wise. They don’tseemamused.“It’slikethestart of a joke,” Temminsays,thenadds:“Butifyouhave to explain it, it sortastops being funny.” Heclapshishands.“WhatcanIdoforyou,gents?”“I am a lady,” the

Koorivar snaps, steppingforward. She adjusts her

crimsoncloakandliftsherchin. The spiraling hornatop her head is twistedand bent. A pale tongueflicks the air and lickscraggy,scaledlips.She has a long, serrated

knifehangingatherhip.Temminknowswho she

is. Who all three of themare.The Abednedo with the

fleshy nose slits and theskin tendrils around thatscowling,puckeredmouth:Toomata Wree. Knownusuallyas“Tooms.”The Ithorian with the

sleepyeyes,thethreadbarecoat,thecannonslungoverhis tree-branch-lookingshoulder:Herf.And the Koorivar:

MakarialGravin. (Though,truth be told, Temmin

really thought she was ahe. The Koorivar don’tmakeiteasytotell.)All three work for—or,

rather, belong to—SuratNuat. They are theSullustan’sproperty.“Ma’am,” Temmin says,

spreading his arms wide.“What can I do you for,today? What junkyarddelightscanIofferyou—”

“Cuttherancorspit,youlittle puke,” the Abednedosays.Inthealien’stongue,the

Ithorian adds: “You havestolen from the goodlysavior of Myrra, SuratNuat.”“Hey,no,”Temminsays,

holding up his hands.“We’re all friends here. Iwould never, ever stealfromSurat.We’rebuddies.

It’sallgood.”“You stole from Surat,”

the Koorivar hisses.“Worse,youhaveoffendedhim with grave insult bytaking what is rightfullyhis.”Temmin knew this day

would come. Just not sosoon.Anervousfeelingrisesin

his belly. “The last thing I

wouldwant to do is insultSurat—we all could onlywishwewereassavvyandas slick as he is. I don’tknow what you think Istolefromhim,but—”Makarial the Koorivar

takes another assertivestep forward. “Think hardabout what happened onthe Trabzon Road. Doesthat tickle your brainstem?”

Temmin snaps hisfingers—anervoushabithepicked up from his father.“You mean the transportthatcrashedoutthere?No,no—I mean, yeah, yes, Idefinitely scavenged whatwas left there. I own that.That one’s on me. But Ihad no idea that wasSurat’sship—”“Ithadhis guild sigil all

over it!” Tooms, the

Abednedo, seethes. Theringlets of skin hangingfrom his face twitch andtrembleashespeaks.“Not that I could see—

the transportwas attackedby the Uugteen. Suchprimitives, you know?They burned that thinggood on the outside.Roasted it like a florakeetbefore plucking itsfeathers.”

“And yet, the insideswere ripe for yourplunder,” Makarialaccuses.“Theycouldn’tcrackthat

nut.TheUugteen, Imean.Theircrudeknivescouldn’tpop the latch, but I had atorch and—” He fake-laughs. “I beseech you,friends. Ididn’tknowwhoIwastakingfrom.”He knew. Of course he

knew. And he knew oneday thiswouldcatchuptohim. But the potentialpayout…If ever he hopes to

unseat Surat, he has toplay the game with bigmoves. No weak-kneedbowing and scraping, nosoft touches, no hesitantplays. Everything: big,bold, smart as a whip,strongasabull.

“You still have theweapon?”Toomsasks.“Ahhh, heh-heh, ahhh.”

Temmin clears his throatand then lies throughclenched teeth: “Not somuch.”The Koorivar’s eyes go

wide. With rage andindignation,ifTemminhasto guess. Makarial movesfast. The knife is off thealien’sbeltand,inthespan

of a flash of lightning,againstTemmin’sthroat.Outside, the weather

complies, adding its ownthreat:arumblingboomofthunder. A hard rain fallsagainst the roof ofTemmin’s shop, onlyserving to accentuate thesilence. Behind Temmin,the interrogator droidhovers near the tablewhere the Galactic

Expansionboardsits.The boy swallows. “I’ll

make itup toyou. I’vegotlots on offer here. Hey.Look. Speeder bike. Or Ican scrounge up a coupleofdroids—”“This is all junk,”

Makarial says. “Suratknows your trick. And soweknowyourtrick.This—”With her free hand, theKoorivar makes a move

similar to (and maybemockingof)Temmin’sowngesture when they gothere. “—all of this is afront. You are no junkmerchant.”“One man’s trash is

anotherman’streasure—”Theknifepressesharder

againsthisexposedthroat.“Wecarenothingfortrash.We care everything fortreasure.”

“So, let’s talk treasure,then.”“Surathasaprice.”He feels something wet

drip down his throat.Blood or sweat? He’shonestly not sure.“Everybody does. Nametheprice.”Makarial smiles. A

terriblesighttobehold,forthe Koorivar are, to

Temmin’s mind, uglierthan a happabore walkingbackward. All those lumpsand scales. A nose like afat, segmented grub. Bonespurs above the eyes. Thebreath doesn’t help, either—itstinksofrottingmeat.TheKoorivarsayswitha

flick of her tongue: “Yourshop.”“The shop. Like—the

building?”

“And everything in it.Andeverythingbelowit.”Now: real panic. A cold

saline rush through hisblood. They know. Theyknowwherehekeepssome—most—ofhisbestgoods.Thatisnotideal.“I have something!” he

blurts. “Something big.Something…Surat wants.Okay? Okay? Just, can I

showyou?Please?Please.”The three alien thugs

giveoneanotherlooks.TheIthorian, Herf, gives anoncommittal shrug. InIthorese: “We might aswellsee.”Makarial removes the

knife from his throat. Hegasps, rubs his neck—hishandcomesawaywetwithsweat, not with blood. Heclaps his hands. “It’s right

over there. See that rattyblanket? It’s uhh. It’sunderthere.”Makarial nods to Herf.

The Ithorian unslings thecannon—it’sacustommodjob, that gun, based off aDLTbodybutjackedupforbigger firepower. Thebarrel is long—so long it’sprobably as tall asTemmin.The stoop-necked

Ithorian blinks hishammerhead eyes, thenuses the barrel of the guntoliftuptheblanket.Thusexposing the first-generationbattledroid:theB1.It stands up. Its bones

rattle as it does. Literalbones—thebonesofbeasts,fish, birds. Bound to itsmetallimbswithtwineandwire.Thosearen’t theonly

modifications to thedroid’s appearance, either.Half its head is missing:replacedwithatelescopingred eye. The front of itsnose has been sharpenedandcurved—lessthebillofsome plucky waterfowl,more thebeakof abirdofprey. All of it: paintedblackandred.Meanttostrikeanoteof

fear.

Thealienthugsalllaugh.TheRodianlaughssohardhe stoops over, slapping aknee, little greenmushroom ears twitchingwithdelight.“A battle droid?”

Makarial asks. Morelaughter. “You wanted toshow us…a battle droid?The most incompetentdroidsoldierinthehistoryof both the Republic and

the Empire. A mechanicalcomedyoferrors.”Thewaythe alien enunciates thatlastbit:ameh-CAN-ee-kallCO-mee-dee of err-ORs.“AndyoubelievethatSuratNuat wants a meager,worthlessB1droid?”“I call him Mister

Bones,”Temminsays.Upon saying the droid’s

name, its eye glows asinisterred.

“MISTER BONES ISONLINE,” the droid says:Its voice is a grindingdistortion interrupted bybursts of static. Wordsspeed up and then slowdown again, mangled bywhat seems a faultyvocoder. “HELLO,EVERYONE.”The Rodian shakes his

head. “An idioticname foranidioticdroid.”

“I think you’ve insultedhim,”Temminsays.The laughing stops. For

just amoment, as they tryto figure out what thatevenmeans,orwhatgameTemminisevenplaying.Their hesitation is not

wise.Mister Bones cackles—a

scratchy, warped laughfrom his speakers—as his

onehand swings free on ahinge. From the holesprings a sparking,vibrating blade. TheIthorian is slow to react,and by the time Herf isbringing up his DLTcannon, Bones haswhipped his arm backthree times already—andthe cannon is whittleddown, three smolderingbitsclatteringtothefloor.

The Abednedo draws ablaster—Bones tackles Herf, and

slams him straight intoTooms. The Abednedoflails and falls, with theIthorian landing on top ofhim, and Bones on top ofhim. Temmin’s B1bodyguard beginspounding both fists down,punching the Ithor’s oddlyshaped head hard enough

that each hit ratchets itbackintoTooms’snoselessface.Whap!Whap!Whap!Mister Bones gabbles

andlaughs.Makarial’s maw

stretches wide, hissing agassy exhortation ofdistress and rage. TheKoorivar reaches behind,underhercloak,anddrawsa blaster—pointing it rightat Temmin’s head.

Temmin, who is nowfrozen, reaching for hisown blaster—stuck in aleather holster bolted tothe underside of a nearbytable.“Do not pick that up,”

Makarialwhispers.Temmin calculates his

odds.They’renotgood.He withdraws his hand.

Smiles.Nods.“Sure,sure.”“Tell yourdroid to back

off.”“Now,holdon—”“Tellhim.”Temmin grins. “Which

droidarewe talkingabouthere?”Makarial’s pale, ghostly

eyes focus, thennarrow inbewilderment—just as theinterrogatordroidfloatsup

behindher,asyringefixedto the end of its secondextensor arm. Temminchuckles.The floating droid stabs

down with the needle. Aneedle filled with a toxicnarcotic—locally sourced,locally brewed, and withenough stopping power toput a Gamorrean to sleepfor the better part of aweek.

The needle snaps off,and clicks as it hits theground. Never actuallydelivering its toxicpayload.Right, right. Temmin

thinks, with no smalldisappointment: TheKoorivarhavereallyhardskin,don’tthey?Temmin runs. He leaps

up over a table, then toanother table, then across

a trio of metal stools—blasterfiresizzlesintheairbehindhim,knockingjunkoffshelves.Anoilcanhopsoff the corner of a tableahead of him. Temminyells as he bolts for thedoor—There. Ahead. The door

is open. Someone isstandingthere.Someone new. Long

darkcloak.

Someone with a blasterallhisown.Thenewfigureraisesthe

blaster. Temmin drops hisweight, letting his leg skidout from under him—laserfire trades above hishead, and somewherebehindhimMakarialyelpsin pain. There comes acrash.Temminleapstohisfeet,

presseshimselfflatagainst

the textured wall of hisjunk shop. Makarial’sdown, writhing andhowling.Mister Bones haslifted his head like acurious, startled hound.Thenewvisitorregardsthesituation, then peels backhishood.It’snotahimatall.It’sa

her.Temmin’seyesgowide.

“Mom?”

“Admiral Sloane, theshuttleisready.”She stands. Hands

behind her back. Staring

down a long hallway. Atthe end of the hallway: aventcut freewithamicro-torch. Ahead of her,stormtroopers go in andout of doors—cabins,sleeping quarters. No signoftheinterloperanywhere.She bites down on herteethtosuppressanger.LieutenantTothwinsays

again:“Admiral,Isaid—”“Iheardwhatyou said,”

shesnaps.“The others. They’re

already heading to theplanet’ssurface.”“Everyone is accounted

for,then.”“Yes. Pandion. Shale.

Arsin Crassus’s yachtshowed up on screen ashortwhileagoandisnowdescendingtoAkiva.”“AndYupeTashu?”

“Adviser Tashu’s shuttleis on screen as well. Wedirected him to continueontowardthemeetingsite.They’reexpectingyoutobethereaheadofthem—”“Theycanwait.”“Of course. It’s just that

—Moff Pandion is already—”“Tellme,”shesays.“This

deck. Nothing of import

here,isthere?”“Admiral?” he asks, not

understandingher.She wheels on him,

impatient. “Imean, this isjust empty guest roomshere,andattheotherend,kitchens, sanitation, agameroom.”Sloanechewson that.Couldhebeusingthe sanitation shoot? Thestormtroopers havealreadycheckeditout,and

didn’tfindanything.“Perhaps he thought to

stealabitoffood—”“No,” she says, suddenly

figuring itout. “It’saruse.It’s always a rusewith therebels, isn’t it? Alwayssometrick,somegame.Hedidn’t stop here, he justwantsustothinkhedidsowe waste time. Thatventilation shaft. Wheredoes it go? Show me the

schematic.”Tothwin fumbles with

the holodisk, snaps it on.There, the schematic forthe Vigilance. She scrollsthrough it, moving theimage about, highlightingtheshaftandfollowingittoitslogicalconclusion—Oh,no.She growls: “I know

wherehe’sgoing.”

Or where he’s alreadygone.Damnit!

—

His leg isn’t broken, hedoesn’t think. But it’sjammed up pretty good.Once upon a time, hecrashed an A-wing at thelipofavolcano—oneofhisfirstrunsoutasapilot for

the then-burgeoningRebelAlliance,at theurgingofafriend—a rebel agentknown only as Fulcrum.Thatcrashlefthimlimpingformonths,andthere?Hisleg was broken. In threeplaces, no less.Almost cutshort any career he hopedto have as a pilot, but heconvinced the rebels to lethim work a freightermanning the guns and as

occasionalnavigator,so.Whatever the case, he’s

pretty sure the leg isn’tbusted.But it sure hurts from

hisjumpoutofthebackofthatStarhopper—momentsbeforehesetthetorpedoestoblow.Clambering through

ventilation ducts didn’thelp the pain. But getting

away from Imperial eyeswas key. Since then, he’sbeen sneaking around,doublingback,coveringhistracks—dropping in andoutofvents.Atfirsthewasguideless, without a plan,but it didn’t take long torealizewhathehadtodo—and better yet, being hereon this Star Destroyerofferedhimsomethingofarealopportunity.

Communications areblockedtoall traffic in thespace above Akiva and,he’s betting, to all on theground,too.But if anybody has the

channelsstillopen?It’stheEmpire.Andsonow,hestandsin

thecommunicationsroom.The bodies of three commofficers lie nearby. One

slumped over her station,another two dropped onthe floor. Stunned, notdead.Wedge isn’t a killer.He’s a pilot, and takingdown other pilots meansending the lives ofcombatants. Commofficers aren’t soldiers,aren’t pilots. They’re justpeople. Wedge thinks:That’s a lesson we couldstand to learn. Imperials

are just like us. Some ofthem, at least. It’s easy tolabel those who serve theGalactic Empire as pureevil,allenemy,buttruthis,a lot of those who do sowere either sold a bill oflies, or forced to by threatof pain or death. AlreadytheNewRepublichasseendefectors.Menandwomenwhohaveseenachanceforescape,foranewlife…

That means getting themessage out. That meansrunning the comms nowandbringinginthetroops.Twoholoscreensriseup.

Ontheonesidehetriestoaim a subspace frequencytoward New Republicspace—but all thosefrequencies remainblocked. That presents ashort-term problem and along-term one:Right now,

it means he can’t send amessage towhere it needsto go. In the long term, itmeans the Empire knowstheir frequencies.Suggesting thatsomewhere, there’s amolein the halls of the NewRepublic—maybeunsurprising, but all themorereasonhehastogetamessageoutsomehow.He flips over to local

channeltraffic.There, none of the

known Republic channelsisblocked.Thatmeanshecangeta

message out to those loyal—but they must be local.What are the chances?Thathere, at theprecipiceof colonized space, he’llfind someone listening,someone loyal to the NewRepublic?

It’stheonlyshothehas.He dials it up. Wedge

zeros in on the emergencychannel, then draws themike out of the console,themetalcoldinhishand.Into it he starts to speak:“This is Captain WedgeAntilles of the NewRepublic. Repeat: This isWedgeAntillesof theNewRepublic. I am trappedonthe Star Destroyer

Vigilance in the spaceabove Akiva, and I am in—”A bright light. The bark

ofablaster.Hecriesoutinpainasa

laser bolt burns a holethrough his shoulder. Hishand reflexively opens—the microphone clattersaway. He paws at his hipfor his own blaster, butanother shot and the

weapon that hung there isquickly spun to slag andknockedoffhisbelt.Wedge, breathing deep,

gritting his teeth againstthe pain, wheels on hisattacker. He expects tomeet some stormtrooper,or ironically a commofficer who is justreturningfromameal.Butno.

The woman standingthereisinacrispadmiral’suniform. She’s dark-skinned, with cold browneyestomatch.Inherhand,a long-barreled pistol—aunique blaster of elegant,mirroredchrome.“Please,” he says,

clutching his shoulder,favoringhisleg.She takes three steps

into the room. “I cannot

have you complicatingwhat’s about to happen.ThefutureoftheEmpire—of the whole galaxy—is atstake.”Andthen,aflashofsurprising empathy. “I’msorry.”“Wait. Let’s talk this

out.” He swallows hard,wincing. “It’s over. Youknow it’s over. We cannegotiate a surrender, ameaningful surrender.

Right here, right now, youandIcan—”Behind her, a small

squadronofstormtrooperscatch up, their armoredboots clattering in thehallbehind her. They raisetheirblastersasshelowershers. “I’m sorry, Captain,”she says. Then, to herbackup: “Arrest him. Takehim to detention level—No. Wait.” She snaps her

fingers. “Have himshackled and taken to myshuttle. Have a medicaldroid inattendance.”Witha stiff smile she says (as iffor his approval): “We arenotanimals.”

For years, Norra did notweep.Couldnotweep.Shejoined the Rebel Allianceas a pilot and when the

decision was made—adecision made less in herheadandmoreinhergut—shecinchedeverythingup.Putextrasteelinherspine.All the fears and worriesand emotions becameextraneous things:anchors, she thought,mooringher toanold life,to an old way of thinking.Ifshewasgoingtomakeitthrough this, then shehad

to cut those fetters with acold,mercilessknife.Leavethembehindher.The Alliance deserved

that much from her. Thisfight afforded them notimeforweeping.Theydidnot possess the luxury oflookingback.Since she joined the

fight, she has had twomoments when she wept.The first was onlymonths

earlier,afterthebattleoverEndorhadconcluded;aftershe and her Y-wing (andher laser-crispedastromech) emerged fromthe labyrinth of half-constructed passagesinside the second DeathStar—just escaping in aplume of flame as thewhole thing began toimplode and then explodebehind her, the shock

waves causing her littlefightertotumbleend-over-end until she almostpassedout.Thatnight,shesat alone in a changingroom on the star cruiserHome One, and sittingtherehalfinandhalfoutofher jumpsuit, she wept.Like a baby without itsmother.Hard,rackingsobshither likecrashingwavesuntil shewascurledupon

the floor, feeling gutted. Aday later, she got hermedal. She smiled, turnedtowardtheapplauseof thecrowd. She didn’t showthem how stripped-downand scraped-clean shereallyfelt.The second time is right

here, right now. Holdingher son and feeling hisarms around her in turn.Thetearsthatspillnoware

not the throttling sobs ofthatnightmonthsago,buttears of happiness (andthough she is hesitant toadmit it, even in her ownmind, of shame). It feelslike a completed circuit:Whatshelostthatnightinthebattle is returnedrighthere, right now. Then shefelt gutted. Now she feelsfilleduponcemore.And then, everything

snaps forward. Timeunfixes its feet from thisslow, perfectmoment (shehas not seen her son inyears, after all), andsuddenly Temmin revealshimself less a child andmore a man: He’s young,but starting to grow intohimself.Lean,ropy,amussof dark hair sprouting upoffthetopofhishead.He’ssnapping to the strange

battle droid on the floor,clapping his hands:“Bones. Pull the speederaround back. We need toload these slime-guzzlingHutt-mothers up and youneedtoflythemoutfarasyoucanalongtheTrabzonRoad, I’m talking all theway to theKoraBiedies—”Here he turns to her andsays: “These eddies ofwater where the river

meets the road. Rapids.”Then back to the droid:“Youhearme,Bones?”The B1 battle droid

stands up, all the bonesdangling from its bodyrattling as it does. Themechanical man gives anawkward salute and in agarbled, distorted voicesays: “ROGER-ROGER.BODIES BEGONE,MASTER.”

Then the robot hums adiscordant tune as itbegins to drag the thugsout toward a back portaldoor. Temmin calls after:“Coverthemupbeforeyougo. Use that blanket!”From outside, themechanized voice:“ROGER-ROGER,MASTER!”Norra says: “Temmin, I

don’t know what’s

happening—”“Mom, not now,” he

snaps.“Here,comeon.”Hehurries across the room,hopping over a pile ofspilledjunk.Hereachesupfor the dented skull of anold translator droid andwith his fingers forked,pressesinontheeyes.They depress with loud

clicks.

And a fewmeters away,a shelf slides away, andafter it, a section of wall.Revealed behind theopening is a set of steps.Temmin waves her on.“Comeon,comeon.”Thenhe ducks down thepassage.This isallabitdizzying,

but what choice does shehave?Norraskirtstheedgeof the junk shop and

follows her son down thestaircase. Her boots clankon themetal steps—it getsdarkeranddarkeruntilshecan’t see anything. Andthen—Click. Lights. Garish,

bright,comingononebulbatatime.A room like the one

upstairs—except theshelves are clean, shining,andhomenot to junk,not

to trash, but to bona fidetreasures. Treasuresranging from top-shelftechnology to strangeartifacts.“Welcome to the real

Temmin’s mercantile,” hesays.Sheseespartsfordroids

that haven’t existed sinceshewasa littlegirl.Arackofhigh-endblasterrifles.Acrate of thermal

detonators. A shelf of oldbooks and mysteriouspatina-darkened vasesdepictingimagesofmenindark robes with red faces.“I don’t understand,” shesays.“Upstairs, I sell junk.

Down here? Differentstory.”“No,” she says. “Imean,

weusedtolivehere.This…this was our home. What

happened?”He stops and stares at

her. Regarding her almostlikeshe’sastranger.“Whathappenedis…youleft.”Thesudden silence betweenthemriseslikeaninvisiblewall.And then, as soon asit arrives, it breaks again,andTemmin is oncemorewheelingaroundtheroom,chatteringashedoes: “So.Surat knows all of this is

down here. That’s notgood.AndheknowsIstolethis, too—” Here Temminpoints to a matte-blackcrate bound up withcarbon-banded locks. “Istole it from Surat. Somekind of…weapon, I guess.No idea what it does. Heknows it’s down here, butwhat he doesn’t know,whathecan’tknow,is—”Her son hurries over to

the opposite corner andwhips a blue tarp offsomething: an oldvalachord.Theiroldvalachord.The

instrument wasn’t anartifact from ancienthistory but rather, fromTemmin’s own. (And herethememoryhitsher likeagale-force wind: Temminand his father, Brentin,sitting at that very

valachord, playing one oftheoldjauntyminersongstogetherandlaughing.)Temmin says, “Watch.

Orrather,listen.”Hetapsoutfivenoteson

thekeys—The first five notes of

one of those old minersongs:“TheShantyofCartand Cobble.” And withthat, another door opens

up—this one with a popand a hiss. Even as itopens,afaintbreezekeensthroughtheoldstonewallsbeyond. She smells mold,decay,somethingmetallic.“No way Surat knows

aboutthis,”hesays.Ithitsher then—the glint in hiseyes,thesmirkonhisface.At first she thought heremindedherofhisfather.Butmaybe, justmaybe,he

remindsherofher.“Temmin—”“So,ifwegointotheold

passages underneath thecityand—”“Temmin.” She uses her

motherly voice. The oneshe uses to get people’sattention.Norrasoftens it:“Son. Can we…take amoment?”“Time matters. Those

thugs who were here?Eventuallythey’regoingtowakeupandcrawlbacktotheirbossontheothersideof town. Surat won’t letthatstand,whatIdid.He’llsend someone bigger,meaner, or most likely?He’ll just come herehimself.”Shewalks closer tohim.

“Temmin, I don’t knowwhat’sgoingonhere.Allof

thisis…alientome…”“Because you’ve been

gone.Forthreeyears.”“Iknow—”“Threeyearsyouhaven’t

beenbackhere.”“The Rebellion needed

people—”The volume of his voice

ticks upward as he growsmoreagitated,moreangry.“No, I needed my father

back and you thoughtjoiningtheRebellionmighthelp findhim.Butdid it?”He peers around her side,as if she’s hidingsomething behind herback. “I don’t see himanywhere. Is Dad here?Areyouhidinghim?Isheasurprise?Abirthdaygifttomake up for the three youmissed?No?Ididn’t thinkso.”

“Therewasalargerfighttakingplace. Itwasn’t justabout your father, it wasabout…all the fathers, allthe sons andmothers andfamilies lost to or trappedby theEmpire.We fought.IwasattheBattleofEndor—”“Who cares? Spare me

theheroics. I don’t need ahero.”“You will respect your

mother,”shebarksathim.“Oh?” He laughs: a

mirthless sound. “Will I?Here’s the holonews, lady:Idon’tneedtorespectyou.I’m not a little kidanymore.I’mgrown.”“You’re still a boy.

Fourteen—”“Fifteen.”Shewinces.He continues: “I’m my

own man. Other kids hadparents,butIdidn’t.Ihadamomwho flew thecoop.Months without hearingfrom you each time. I hadtomakedo,soIdid.Now?I’m a businessman, and Ineed to keep my businesssafe. You made yourchoice. Between me andthe galaxy, you chose thegalaxy, so don’t pretendlikeImatternow.”

“You matter. Temmin,byallthestars,youmattertome.I’mheretotakeyouwithme.Ihaveasmugglerready to take us offworldand—”At her belt, the comm

relay crackles to life,vibratingasitdoes.Which means: an

emergency call. A NewRepublicsignal.

Avoicealltoofamiliartoherfillstheair:“This is Captain Wedge

Antilles of the NewRepublic. Repeat: This isWedgeAntillesoftheNewRepublic.Iamtrappedonthe Star DestroyerVigilance in the spaceabove Akiva, and I am in—”Then the sound of a

blaster.Wedgecriesout in

painand—Thecallends.Herbloodgoescold.Her mind wanders—

Norra tries to figure outwhat that even means.Captain Antilles is here?On one of those ImperialDestroyers? Somethingreally is going on. Andsuddenlyshe’sattheheartofit.Again.

“There’s that look,”Temminsays.“What?” she asks,

suddenlydistracted.“It’s the face you make

when you’re about todisappointmeagain.”“Temmin.Please.Thisis

important.”“Oh, trustme, I know. I

can always tell whensomething is important

because you go chasingafter it, leaving usunimportant losersbehind.”Andwith that, he ducks

downthesidepassage.Shehurries after him, but hepulls a lever on the otherside—The door slams shut

betweenthem.

Family dinner at theTaffral house: Thepatriarch of the family,Glen,sitsattheheadofthetable.TohisleftsitsWebb,the older of the two

brothers.Tohisright:Dav,the younger. Webb isbroad-shouldered, full-chested, a rounder belly.Hishairsitstrimmedcloseto the scalp, like hisfather’s. Dav is leaner,smaller, a little scruffier,too.None of them speaks.

Butit’sfarfromquiet.Theloud scrape of knives onplates. The rattle of a

serving spoon against awooden bowl. Thegroaning judder of chairlegsonthewoodenfloorofthe old farmhouse.Outside, wind whistlesthrough the popper-stalksand it carries the chatter-sounds of the starklebirdflocksmigratingeast.Dav speaks. “Pass the

beans.” Webb gives him alook.“Please.”

Webb grabs the dish,starts to pass it over, thenpauses, the dish held fastinhishand.Hesetsitbackdown. His jaw is set andhis teeth work onpulverizing some seed inthebackofhismouth.“Ican’tbelieveyoucame

backhere,”Webbsays.Theway he says it is like hedoesn’twant to say it, likehe’stryingtobitebackthe

words. But they come outanyway. “You gualama-loving, tail-kissing scum-shepherd.”Dav sniffs. “Zowie,

Webb, why don’t you tellmehowyoureallyfeel?”Glenjuststaresoutover

thetable,silentasajudge.“Oh, I’ll tell you. I’ll let

you have it. You betrayedthis family the moment

youwentoutthereandyoubecame a rebel-lover.Joining the star-damnedterrorists likethey’resomesort of freedom fightersinstead of…instead of thecriminalsthattheyare!”Dav lets his fork and

knife clatter against theplate and table. “They’renotterrorists.Theystartedout as an alliance ofresistance,butnowthey’re

a legitimate government,Webb. They’re the realdeal.” He dabs at hismouthwithanapkin.“TheEmpire’sdaysaredone.”Suddenly Webb stands

up. His chair is knockedbackward.“Youwatchyourmouth. That’s treachery,whatyoujustsaid.”“The word is treason,”

Dav says, staying in hisseat.“Andwhy’syournose

sofaruptheEmpire’scan,anyway? You failed out ofthe Academy. They beatyour hide senseless day inanddayout.”Webbpuffsouthischest.

“Mademeabetterman.”“Made you a belligerent

jerk.”“Why, you slime-slick

no-good-brother—” Andwith that, Webb launches

himself across the table.But he’s half drunk onkoja-rumandDav is soberasthenoontimeskyandsohestepshandilyoutof theway as Webb crashes intothe empty chair andsmashesagainstthewall.But drunk is still

dangerous, and his armsflail out against Dav andthetwogodown,punchingand kicking and calling

each other all sorts ofnames. That is, until Glenclearshisthroat,picksupabowl of greens, and wingsit against the wall hard ashe can. It bangs andclatters. Salad leavessplatter against the wallandceiling.The two brothers poke

theirheadsuplikewhistle-pigs.“Both of you, siddown,”

Glen says, leaning back inhischair.“Sit.”The two brothers do as

theirfathercommands.“Pop,he started it,”Dav

says.Webb interjects: “Pop,

don’t listen to this treasonmonkey—”“Shut up. Both of you!

Youtwoareindireneedofa lesson. I’m an old man.

Had the two of you laterthan I would’ve liked.Figured myself a singleman,asimplefarmer,untilyourmother came along—may all the stars welcomeher soul.” He holds hishand to his heart andcloses his eyes. “So I’veseenathingortwo.”Under his breath,Webb

muttersinamockingtone:“I had to crawl to the

academy house on myhands and knees throughmud and briar and fell-bearsateoffbothmy legs—”With his knife, Glen

gestures: “Boy, you bestclip that line of blabberunlessyouwantme to tanyour hide with a drypopper-stalk.”“Sorry, Pop,” Webb

mopes.

“Now, listen. What’scome before will comeback around again.Republic was the way ofthe world before, and it’llbethewayagain.Andforatime everyone will cheerthem on, and everythingwill be cozy-dosie, butthere will come a timewhen things go sour andsomeonedecidestheygotabetterwayofdoingthings.

And the New Republic orthe New-New Republic orthe Republic We Got ThisWeek will clamp downhardandthenthosepeoplewith the so-called betterwaywillbecome thebraverebel alliance and theRepublic will become theenemy and the wheel willturn once more.” He rubshis eyes. “I’m old enoughto remember when the

Republicshotitselfrightinthe knee. It wasn’t takenover by the Empire. ItbecametheEmpireslowly,surely, not overnight butover years and decades.Fruit always tastes nicewhen it’s ripe. But it can’tstay like that. Every nicepieceoffruitwillrotonthebranch if it hangs therelong enough. Yourememberthat.”

“Pop,” Dav says. “Itwon’t be like that thistime.”“He’s chosen his side,”

Webb says. “And I’vechosenmine.”“And that’s the damn

problem!” Glenn says,pounding the table. “Bothof you, picking sides. Sideyou should pick is yourfamily. No matter what.Above all else. But here

you sit, bickering like abunch of starkles overwhich one gets the firstand last worm. You knowthe Lawquanes? Old manCut,hefoughtintheCloneWars.He saw the truth ofthings: No side in war isthe right side. He did theright thing. Settled down.Had a family. Never gotdrawnbackintothemuck.But you two. Not good

enoughfor—”A sound. A pair of

screamers.TIEfighters.The Empire doesn’t

come out this way. Therealizationsettlesinfast.“You gave me up,” Dav

says,horrified.Webb looks shameful.

“The Empire pays to giveup rebel scum.” But hiswords don’t sound as sure

now. Regret and guiltmingleinthere.Suddenly, a stun blast.

The air flashes with blueand Webb cries out,dropping face-first into abowlofmashedchokeroot.Davgoggles.“Pop…”“You believe in what

you’redoing,Dav?”“I…do.”“Fine. Good enough for

me. I hope you’re right.”He sighs. “Best run now.Go out the back window.Take the speeder bike inthebarn.”“Pop…thanks.”“Nowgo.”“Whatwillyoudo?”Pop shrugs. “I’ll tell

them the truth. That youoverpoweredme, shotme,andran.”Heturnsthegun

toward himself and fires.The stun blast knocks theold man back into hischair. His heels kick upandhemoans.Dav blinks back tears.

Thenherushesover,grabsthegun,andheadsouttheback window just as thefrontdoorbreaksdown.

Above the city ofMyrra, ahaze. Even the sun, brightand bold and punitive,seems to have to push its

lightthroughthethickandgauzyair.Heatvaporsrise,distorting everything. Thehumidity of this place isseenasmuchasitisfelt.Soittakesamomentfor

JasEmaritoconfirmwhatit is that she’s seeing—there,descendingfromtheheavens as if a divinechariot, a ship glinting inthe sun. A yacht, in fact:ornate and opulent,

gleaming brass andcarmine piping, a shipbuilt asmuch for its looksasitsfunction.It is the yacht of Arsin

Crassus.TheGalacticEmpireisa

leviathan of force—acarbon-armored fistcrushing those systemsthatwoulddaretodenyitsauthority. But such forceand such authority could

not be conjured out ofnothing. Even the Sithcould not manage suchmagic. It was one thingthatmadethedifference:Credits.Money.Crassus is one of the

Empire’s mainmoneylenders. Has beenfordecades.Thestorygoesthat he was once a young

man in the TradeFederation,andhelpedtheas-yet-unformed butburgeoning Empire leadthe Federation heads toslaughter on Mustafarwhile then plundering alltheiraccountstohelpfundthe new government. Andthat’s where he’s been,since: helping thecorporate side of Imperialgovernment.

He’salsoaslaver.And today, he is her

target.Jas clings to the rusted

oldtowerrisinghighaboveMyrra’s defunct capitolbuilding. Cables cincharound her waist and herright thigh, belting her tothe structure so that shecan lean out with somefreedomofmovementand,more important, freedom

to both of her hands. Allwithoutfalling.The bounty hunter has

been here for some time.Waiting. Barely sleeping.She’s tired. Her musclesache. But this is the job.(The life of a bountyhunter offers a great dealof watching and waiting—those long stretchesaccompaniedbyveryshort,sharpburstsofaction.)

She unbuckles the riflefrom her back: a long-range rifle the Zabrakconstructed herself. Basedon an old Czerkaslugthrower, she modifiedit to fire different roundsaccording to her needsdependingonwhichbarreland which chamber shebrings to the weapon. Jasonce heard the story thatthe Jedi constructed their

own lightsabers and shefigured,well,whycan’tshedothesamewithherrifle?So she did. Because shecandowhatevershewants.Jas lifts the rifle to her

shoulder,thenwithherlefthand pulls down thetelescoping unipod thatclicksintotheD-ringatherwaist.(Itgivestheriflethatlittle extra stability,especially in such an

unstable position as this,hanging a hundred or someters up in the air,staring out over thesprawling city.) Shepresses her eye to thescope.There, the yacht. The

scopegiveshercriticaldata—the heat coming off thebackof it, theship’sspeedand trajectory, anybiologicalsignatures(those

are presently nil given theyacht’sshielding).She points the weapon

toward the raised landingplatform atop the satrap’spalace—thehomeofSatrapIsstra Dirus, a venalgovernorknown forcaringverylittleaboutthepeopleof his city and very muchabout how fat his pocketshave become with otherpeople’scredits.

In a perfect galaxy, hewouldbeatarget,too.But Jas Emari is a

professional. No collateraldamage. Whether it’sjustifiedornot.Through the scope she

seesit:Theyacht,easinginfora

landing.Steamburnsoffinghostly plumes. It lands,rockingsoftlyas itdoes.A

gangplank descends. Thesatrapemerges:atallman,handsome once, thougheventhroughthescopeshecan see the lines etchinginto his stony face likewater carving channelsinto a mountain. He’s allsmilesandgentleapplause.Bowing and scrapingbecause he knows whichsideofhismuftaribreadisspiced and salted; Jas has

seenhisrecords,seenhowthe flow of credits stemsfrom various Imperialcorporations and tricklesinto his limitless coffers.The planets of the OuterRim are a very good placetohidemoneyandprocureillicit goods (slavesincluded),andAkivaisjustsuch a world. Behind thesatrap: two of his guards.Tall helmets with red

plumage. Eachwith vibro-pikes taller than thosehelmets, their blade tipspointedskyward.Crassus steps down off

the plank, attended to byhis own guard: women inhardened-lacquer animalmasks. Slaves, too, mostlikely.The man himself makes

no small target—he’s bigand round, with a beard

dyed the color of deepestspace, a glittering robetrailing behind him like apeacockwith its tail in thedirt. He claps his handsand then takes both ofthem and clutches thewristsofthesatrap.Theylaugh.Ha,ha,ha.Timetoendyourmirth,

ArsinCrassus.

But then her scopeflashes—Incomingships.Jas pivots the rifle,

followingthearrowsinsidethe scope’s display—andthere she sees an Imperialshuttle, Lambda-class,descending through thespiraling cloud cover. Asecond and third arrowblip.

Twomoreshuttles.And with them, TIE

fighters.Sheswingstherifleback

to theplatform.Crassus isstill there (she hissespanicked breath throughher teeth,glad tohavenotmissed her opportunitythanks to a distraction),now standing elbow-to-elbowwith the satrap.Hisownguardshave linedup,

waiting.Crassushas takenoffhis robeandoneofhisguards is now coolinghimoffwithanunfoldedfan.Then, walking in from

the rooftop door: threestormtroopers.Curious.Take the shot, she

thinks.Earnthecredits.But—But.

Something’s happening.Her intel didn’t detail anyofthis,andnowshecursesherself for falling into afamiliar trap.Sheoperatestoooftenwithblinderson.She sees the target andmakesabeelineforit—andsometimes,when shedoesthat, she misses things. Abigger picture. Unseenenemies. Complications.Theviewofthescopeisall

the view she needs, or soshe believes until realityproves otherwise. She’sbeen hunting ArsinCrassus now for a month,following his self-importantvaportrailasheflitsaboutthegalaxylikeascaredthatch-sparrow,andwhen she heard of themeeting between him andSatrap Dirus, she lookednofarther.

Turns out, she shouldhave.Herfingerhesitates,and

one by one, the shuttlesbegintoland.Theshuttles,alightingin

ahalfcircle,begintoopenup.Their guests begin to

spillout.And with it, her breath

catches in her chest. She

feelslikesomeonewhohasdug a hole in theirbackyard only to find atrunk full of Old Republicdataries—a box ofunexpectedtreasure.ArsinCrassus,yes.Then: someone she

doesn’t know, someone inan absurd piece ofheadwear (if Jas had todescribethehat,shewouldsuggest it looked like

someone had killed anemerald kofta-grouse andstuck it on his head) withthe lush, plush, purplerobes of an old Imperialadviser.Out of the next shuttle

comes someone sherecognizes instantly: JyliaShale. An old woman,shrunken up like agallstone and with all thehardness of an uncracked

koja nut. Shouldersforward, hands claspedbehind her back, Shalewears the crisp Imperial-gray uniform, her hairdoneup inanausterebunatop her head. She comeswith a pair of red-helmeted, red-cloakedImperial Guards. Part ofPalpatine’s own royalprotection.Andthen, fromthe final

shuttle.MoffValcoPandion.Stiff, hatchet-chinned, a

scar running across hisbrow,thekindofscarthatlooks like it has a storybehindit.And there, on his chest,

a curious emblem: arectangular one, with sixblue squares in the toprow, and three red and

threeyellowbelowit.That, theemblemnotof

moff, but rather: grandmoff.Atitleassigned,oratitle

claimedandtaken?There, on that platform,

stand three significanttargets. Crassus is theintendedtarget,butShale?Pandion? Better payouts.Pandioninparticularisthe

highest number in thePazaak card deck handedout by her contact withinthe New Republic: Thehigher the number of thecard,themorevaluablethetarget.Andtherearethreeofthosetargets.Butterflies turn inside

herstomach.KillPandion.The New Republic will

want them alive but willstillpayquiteabitfortheircorpses. As long as theyaren’t disintegrated, ofcourse—handinginajarofgreasyashisn’tagoodwayto get paid. She alwaysintended to kill Crassus.Better a man like that beput in the ground than bethrown in a cell. Penanceforhiscrimes.On the landing deck,

Pandion joins the others,though he remains a stepor two back: distant,haughty, purposefullyseparate. The others arehaving a conversation.Introductions, perhaps, orreintroductions.Jasplays this out inher

head. She takes off theblinders, tries to thinkbeyond the moment,beyond the pulling of a

trigger.Killing Pandion, or any

ofthem,isanoption.Asingleshot,andoneis

down.Withit:asignificantpayday.The others will scatter.

Back to the shuttles or inthroughthepalacedoor.Iftheygobacktothepalace,then maybe, maybe shewill have a shot at taking

outorcapturingtheothers.But if they return to theskies? Then that chancewillbegone.A wind blows. A warm

wind, even up here. Likethe breath of a beast.Hissing past the thornyspikes rising off the top ofherhead.Thatcouldwork.Let them go. Get one

target.But there exists a larger

play. All of them together.A coup, for her. Jas had aname with the Empire. Aname,too,amongmanyofthe crime syndicates hereattheOuterRim—withtheHutts, Black Sun, theCrymorah, the PerlemianCartel. But with thedestruction of the DeathStar (again), andwith the

switching of her ownallegiance, her name andherreputationareinflux—asissomuchofthegalaxy.If she’s going to earn herkeep, that means takingbiggerrisks.Playingitsafe—slow and steady—is notanoption.She reaches thedecisionandputsawaytherifle.One target is not

enough.

Shehastotakethemall.AndIhavetodoitright

now.

—

Turbulence as the shuttleentersAkiva’satmosphere.Sloane sits in thenavigator’s chair—a non-essential role given theshort distance they’reflying,thoughshecouldfill

it capably if needed—andwatches the darkness ofspace give way to thewashed-out light of theplanetbelow.Cloudsbrushpast the glass, and theheads-up displaydesignatesthehorizonline,their trajectory, theirplottedcourse.Next to her, her pilot—

MornaKee.Beenherpilotfor some time now. A

capable pilot. A loyalImperial. A faithfulImperial. It’s nice to havepeople around whosenames she knows. Buttheir defeat over Endor,plus the New Republicmaking deals withgovernorsandsectorheadsleft and right in order toscoop up Imperial navalships?Not tomention thethreat of internal schism.

It’s left her reeling.Grasping for details sheonce found vital. Detailsthat can no longer beimportant.Behind her: the

archivist, the little manwhowill takenoteson themeeting, inscribing theresults of the summit sothat the history of theImperial resurgence isneatly writ and officially

recorded.Next tohim,herassistantonthismission,abright-eyed youngCorellian woman namedAdea Rite. Then a halfsquadron ofstormtroopers. Those withthe best test scores, takenfrom the rosters of theVigilance. They standguard over her newprisoner: Captain WedgeAntilles.Therebelliesona

floating medical table,unconscious from thedrugs pumping into hisarm. The medical droidhovers over him, checkingvitals,securingthetubing.A fly in the ointment,

thatone.A dangerous one. The

rebelswillcomelooking.Andthenwhat?Pressure lives in the

hinge of her jaw. This hasto work. All of it. Themeetingmustyieldresults.ThefutureoftheEmpire—and the stability of thegalaxy—is counting onthat.The meeting wasn’t her

idea alone, though thosegatheredthinkitis.Allthemore reason for this toplay out according to herdesign and without any

furtherhitches.Ifthisfallsapart,they’llblameme.Below,thecityofMyrra.

A sprawling, chokedmess.Strange-angled buildingspushing up out of thejungle, thoughnotwithoutthe jungle trying to fightback: vines like cruelfingers draped over thewallsandclay-tilerooftopsas if they’re trying to pullapart the city in slow

motion. Between thebuildingsarepathwaystoonarrowtobecalledroads—just alleyways, really, andone of the things thatmakesImperialoccupationheretricky.Those“streets”are too narrow for any oftheir transports with theexceptionofspeederbikes,and even then the cornersare too sharp for thosespeederstoturn.

Itwon’tmatter,shetellsherself.This is temporary.The meeting cannot lastforever (though she’s sureitwillfeellikeit,attimes).The shuttle pivots hard,

swoopinglowoverthecity.Dead ahead, the palace oftheirally,theSatrapIsstraDirus, an execrablesycophant, though shereminds herself that hisparticular brand is a

necessaryonesometimes—the machine only workswhen all the parts agree.The palace itself is apompousaffair:anoldcitytemple repurposed to fitthe satrapy’s opulence.Quartzine walls shotthrough with brightvermilion—walls tippedwith useless golden pikes,windows so multifacetedand crystalline that while

they look beautiful, theyfail to maintain thecharacteristic thatwindows are meant todemonstrate:transparency. She farprefers the stern,uncompromising design ofthe—Ahead,movement.Someone is zip-lining

across from a nearbycomm tower—a tower that

lookstolonghavebeenoutof use, once part of acapitol building that hasfailed to maintain propergovernment since thesatrapy seized total powerout here (notcoincidentally when theEmpire seized theGalacticSenate).Raetapsabutton,spinsadial—A portion of the HUD

captures the image of the

zip-lining interloper,zoomingin.Zabrak,bythelooks of the horns on thehead.Female.Rifleonherback. A long rifle, too—asniper.Bountyhunter.Rae Sloane growls,

springsupoutofherchairand to the chair andconsole behind her—thegunnery station. Whoeverthat Zabrak is, Rae has

neither the time nor thepatience to figure it out—andwhileit’slikelygauchefor an admiral toman theguns,itiswhatitis.Letthemworry.Shepullsupthecontrols

andbeginstofire.

—

Jas prays the cable shefiredfromthistowertothe

rooffaracrossthewaywillhold her. It’s long and thetower it’s moored to isweak. Even now she hearsitgroaningbehindher.Turns out, it doesn’t

muchmatter.The shuttle appears to

her left out of nowhere.Another Lambda-classImperial transport. Blackwindow glass above thenosecone.

Implacable anduncaring.The cannons begin to

fire. Jas sucks in a breathand tightens her body up.She pulls herself close tothe cable. Her musclesburn. She brings her legsuptighttoherbody,kneestucked into her stomach.All in an effort to makeherselfassmallaspossibleastheblastercannonsspit

lasers—Theyseartheairinfront

of her. Behind her. Belowandabove.Sheknowsshe’smaking a sound—a long,steady scream of rage andfear—but she can’t hear it.All she hears is the windandthecannons.Good news is, the

blastersundereachwingofthatshuttlearen’tmeanttohit relatively tiny targets

like herself. Unless theperson piloting that thinghas Force sensibilities—aJedi or someDathomirianNightsister—hitting herwould be an act of purecosmicprovidence.Bad news is, whoever is

operating those things justfiguredthatout.The shuttle turns just

slightly—

And fires at the towerbehindher.A bright glow of flame

behind her. The shriek ofmetal.Andthenit’s falling—she knows it’s fallingbecause suddenly, thecable on which she’straveling goes slack in herhands.Fromarigidlinetoaloosenoodle.Shethinks:Hold on to it, hold tight,it’llswingyoudown—

But the tumult is toomuch. The cable slipsthroughhergrip.Wind whipping past.

The city rushing up togreether.JasEmarifalls.

Norra comes back downinto the basement. Thesecret door is still closed,the valachord still sitting

there. She growls,more atherself than at anything.Now she has to dosomething she’s neverbeengoodat.She has to remember

howtoplaythevalachord.Well—she has to

remember how to play afewnotesonthevalachord,because it’s not like sheever had 1 percent of themusical talent of her

husbandandchild.Shesitsdown,tapsafewkeys,eachnote a melodious tonetinged with a faintmechanical susurrusbehind it. Tap, tap, tap.She’s not making music.She’sjustmakingamess.But then—ahh. There.

That’s the one. That’s thestart of the “Cart andCobble” shanty, isn’t it?Theoldminersong.Norra

closes her eyes.Remembers her husband’shandsonthekeys.Thewaythe thumb and last fingersplay out. The progressionof notes, one-two-three-four-five—She takes a deep breath

andplaysthem.Thedoorpopsopenwith

thesoundofairrushing.Relief floods in and

Norra steps up andthrough the doorway.Againthatsmellhitsher—thesmellofage,ofdust,ofmold. The smell of a dirtclod broken in your hand,or the smell of dry andcrumblingmoss.The walls ahead look to

beoldstone.Myrrausedtobe Norra’s home, and sheknowsthatunderneaththecity are the old catacombs

—a city beneath a city, amaze from a much earliertime. Rumors about themaze abounded: a Jeditraining temple, a Sithtrap, the first dwelling ofthe primitive Uugteen,some slimy Hutt breedingground. Stories aboutpeople getting lost downhere, never found. Eatenby rancors. Falling foreverdown into the depths of

bottomless pits. Stolen bytheUugteenandmadeintooneofthem,whatevertheyeven are. Even ghoststories, as if the place issomehowhaunted.Sheknowsthestories.Norra hadn’t known the

old catacombs connectedright up to her damnhouse. Isn’t thatsomething?

She takes one step andnearlyscreams.Temmin is sitting right

there,inasmallalcove,hisface highlit by the blueglow of a small holotabcomputer.Onit,amap.Hequickly turns it over andthe screen goes dark. Hesniffs.Wipeshis eyeswiththe back of his hand thenthrustshischinupas if tocoverupthefacthe’sbeen

crying.Norrasays,“I’msorry.”“Yeah.Metoo.”She holds out her hand

andhetakesit.Norragivesalittlesqueeze.“Ididn’t know this…was

here.”Helooksupandaround.

“The catacombs? Yeah. Igotholdofamapacoupleof years back. The

undergroundconnectstoalotofthehouses,especiallyhereonChenzaHill.”“Ispoketoyouraunts.”“Yeah?”“They said you don’t

even stay with themanymore.”He clears his throat.

“No. I stay here now. I’mindependent.” He sighs.“Yougonnaseethemwhile

you’rehere?”“No,”shesays.“Figures.”A spike of anger stabs

her insides. Anger not atTemmin, but at the twoaunts—her sister, Esmelle,and Esmelle’s wife,Shirene.It’snottheirfault,she knows that, but shecan’t help what she feels.They couldn’t handle

Temmin and now here heis. Running this shop.Leading this life. Almostgetting killed by…who?Local criminals. Thugs.Brutes.“I spoke to them. They

don’t want to leave Akiva.They’re settled here and Isuppose I don’t blamethem.”Temmin stands up. An

incredulous, sarcastic grin

on his face. “Leave?Whatdoyoumean,leave?”“Temmin.” Norra holds

his hand tighter. “That’swhy I’m here. I’m here togetyou.Wehavetogo.”“Go?Noway.Thisismy

life. This ismy shop. Thisismyhome.You’recrazyifyouthinkI’mgonnaleave.”“Listen to me.

Something’s happening

here. The Empire is downbut they’re not out. Thecity is crawling now withstormtroopers.TheEmpireishere.They’veinstitutedablockade and acommunicationsblackout.”Henarrowshiseyes.He

didn’tknowaboutthat,didhe? Most of Myrraprobably didn’t—thoughthey’ll figure it out soonerthan later. “Whatever. I’ve

got an in with someImperials.Isellthemstuff.I’m not worried. Youshould go and save your…friend. Wedgie orwhatever.”“Wedge.”“Sure.”She says, “I’m not. I

heard what you said,Temmin. I’m making achoiceandyou’reit.You’re

thepriority.I’mtakingyouaway.”“Nope. You’re not. I’m

stayinghere.Youcanleaveif you want, though. I’llkeepdoingwhatI’vedone:survivefinewithoutyou.”She bites her lip, trying

not to say all the thingsthat are threatening tocome out. He was alwaysheadstrongandwillful,butthis is taking it to awhole

other level. Temminpushes past her, headingback toward the shop’sbasement, back throughthesecretdoor.“Temmin,wait—”“I have to start loading

this stuff into thecatacombs. Hide it fromSurat. It was nice to seeyou,Mom.Youcango.”She grabs his arm as he

steps through the door.Whenhe turns around, hesees what’s in her handandhismouth formsanOofprotest—Norra sticks the needle,

the half-broken one shestole fromthe interrogatordroid, into his neck. Sheonly needs to press theplunger part of the way—Temmin’s eyelids flutterlikebutterfliesinajar.

He passes out, and shecatcheshim.“I’msosorry,”shesays.Thenshestartsdragging

himbackupstairs.

As Admiral Rae Sloaneenters the room, theyswarm her. This room istall and broad and arched

—in the center sits amassive table made fromsome old tree, the woodinlaidwithtileofmirroredglass—but the way theycomeuponhermakesherfeel suddenlyclaustrophobic, as if thisvery big room is all anillusion, as if it’s farsmaller than itsdimensionswouldsuggest.Rae lets it come. She

doesn’t waver. Doesn’tshowthepressure.They’realldemandingto

know what that was, butit’s Moff Pandion whospeaks with the clearestdemand. And when hespeaks,theothersquiet.Shemakesanoteofthat.

Unsurprising,perhaps,butstill.“What, pray tell, was

that sound?” he asks,stepping forward. Meetingheralmostnose-to-noseashe enters uncomfortablyintoherpersonalspace.“The blaster cannons,

youmean.”“No,” he says with a

blisteringeyeroll,“Imeanthesquawkingofbirds,thebarking of dogs, the tuneyou were whistling as youwalked in.” He somehow

smiles and scowls at thesame time: “Yes, I meanthe sound of the blastercannons.Whatwasthat?”“Aninsurgent,”shesays.“A rebel?” says the

onetime adviser toPalpatine, Yupe Tashu,horror struck on his facelike the gong of a bell.“Here?”“No,”shelies.Likelynot

thelastlieshe’lltellduringthis summit, either. “Noteven that. Some local. Asyouwellknow—”Shestopssuddenly and says: “Maywe push back? Sit down?Enjoy the food SatrapDirushasprovidedforus?”That suggestion, met withreluctant nods andgrumbles. Raemoves withthe crowd, giving smallnods of greeting to the

others: Jylia Shale, ArsinCrassus, the satrap, thesatrap’s own cabal ofbowing and scrapingadvisers.Serversmovearoundthe

roomwithshallowwoodenbowls.Theyofferthebowlsto those gathered so thatthe guests of the summitmay pluck various foods—foods that Rae does notrecognize.Little squirming

things with black, inkytentacles.Smalldumplingsthat smell of fragrantplum. Little seed-speckledballs that smell like theinside of her boots aftershe takes them offfollowingalongdayonherfeet. Yupe Tashu picks atthe food. Crassus eatsgreedily. Jylia has put asmall plate of the food infront of her but seems

hesitant to touch it.Pandion, predictably, haswavedofffood.“As you know,” she

continues,settlinginatthehead of the table—andstanding, not sitting. “Therebels have begun todisseminatepropagandainthe form of variousholovids. In some casesthey have literally stolenandsubvertedsomeofour

probedroidsandareusingthemtospreadtheirlies.”“Are they really lies?”

Shale says. Just loudenough to be heard. “Orare we the ones lying toourselves?”A chill, after that.

Pandion stares daggers attheoldwoman.Raeignoresitandmoves

on: “We have been

betrayed by various sectorheads and governorsacross the galaxy. The so-called New Republic hasledattacksonanumberofour freighters andtransports—successfulattacks, I will add. Thusdiminishing our numbers.Weare,tobefrank,onthedefensive. An inopportunetime to be scattered andleaderless. Hence the

purpose of this meeting.I’dliketothankyouallfor—”Pandion interrupts: “So,

justnow.Wewereattackedby a local insurgent? Nota…properrebel?”“No.”Raebristles at the

interruption, but it’s to beexpected from him. “Asnoted, just a local. Likelyone inspired by theaforementioned

propaganda. Now, thesummitbeginstonight—”“First, you’re late. Then

you open fire outside thesatrap’s palace. What ofthe rebel you tookprisoner? Or of thesmuggler’s ship that rantheblockadeandescaped?Are we truly safe here,Admiral?”A sinking, sour feeling

pulls at Rae’s gut. Her

stomach acid churns. IfPandion knows that, itmeansshehasaleakyship.A spy. Betrayal. Alreadythe feeling that she’s lostcontrol and they’re noteven an hour into themeeting.Yupe Tashu looks

delighted. “We have aprisoner?”“Andyoudidn’ttellus?”

Crassussays.

“This is quiteconcerning,” Shale says.“Quiteconcerning.”Rae turns, looks toward

her own squadron ofstormtroopers,allofwhomguard the door. To themand the pilot, she gives asmallnod.Theydisappear.“The rebel was not part

of any concerted attack,”

she explains. “Just a lonerebel. Likely scouting forImperialpresence.”“Well, he found it,”

Pandionsays,smirking.With that, the door

opens again and thestormtroopersusherinthehovering gurney. Themedicaldroidaccompaniesthe prisoner. CaptainAntilles remains sedated.Fornow.

“That,”Sloanesays,“isadanger to us, but also afortune. For we havecaptured no small rebelheretoday.ThatisCaptainWedgeAntilles, one of theheroes of the misguidedRebellion, present andinstrumentalinbothoftheDeath Star attacks. Notonly will Antilles besuitable to plumb forinformation, but should

the rebels suss out thismeeting,wecanusehimasabargainingchip.”Tashu raises a hand.

“MayIbeinvolvedinthe…interrogation?”Sheignoreshim.Pandion says: “Is this

whowearenow?Reducedto common hostage-takers? Perhaps theGalactic Empire truly is

fading, like a star gonebright and then soon todust.Atleastwiththelikesof you at the helm.” Thatlast sentence a barbdeliveredrighttoSloane.“The summit begins

tonight,” Sloane says. “Sorestup ifneedbe.Time isof the essence. The futureof the Empire will bedecided by us.” She looksto the archivist, a small,

brittlemannamedTemmt.Februs Temmt. “Note inthe official record that wewill be referred to inhistory as the ImperialFuture Council, or theIFC.”Asharpnodtothoseattended. “Thank you, andseethelotofyoutonight.”She moves quickly

toward the door. Sloanefishhooks Adea, her newassistant,withthecrookof

her arm and pulls herclose.Shehisses:“Anysignofthebountyhunter?”Panicked, Adea gives a

small shake of her head.“No,Admiral.”“Problems?” Pandion

says, suddenly appearingby her side. That reptiliangrinonhistoo-paleface.“None,”Sloanesays.“Admiral, Iadmirewhat

you’re doing here. I do.You are not wrong thatnowisthetimetoact.TheEmpire I love will noteasily come back from theblowoflosingnotonlytheDeath Star but also ourleadership.But IwantyoutorealizethatthefutureoftheEmpirehasneverbeendecided by something sospinelessandspiritlessasacouncil.AnEmpireneedsa

leader. An Empiredemandsanemperor.”“Then perhaps that is

what the council willdiscover,” she says. Hereyes flit down to therectangular bands acrosshis breast. “I see you areelevated to grand moff. Aself-proclaimed title, I’mguessing.”Thatwickedgrin.“Ifone

wants power, one must

takeit.”“True,perhaps.”“Not perhaps. And you

know it in your bones. Iknow that you havewrestedcontrolofnotonlythe Vigilance, but of theRavager, too. And likelythe fleet that goes with it.Imagine that. Little RaeSloane,manning an entireSuperStarDestroyerallbyherself.Ourlast,isn’tit?”

Shesaysnothing.Allshedoesisstare,stone-faced.He goes on: “That was

the fleet admiral’s ship,wasn’tit?”“Itwas.”“Was. So he’s truly

gone?”“Truly. And sadly. He

wasoneofthebestofus.”“He was.” A trickster

twinkle in Pandion’s eye.

He’s got secrets. They alldo. She just hasn’t figuredhis out yet. “I’ll see you atthemeeting,Admiral.Iameagertogetstarted.”

A small town in themountains, reduced torubble. A wind whips up,and dry leaves scrape theroad between bodies. Thecorpses are everywhere.

Two stormtroopers acrossthe street. Two soldiersfrom the New Republicslumped up against aburning house, the roofstillsmoldering.Moredownthelane,and

morebehindthem.Mon Mothma walks

among the wreckage,attendants on each side ofher: Hostis Ij to her left,and Auxi Kray Korbin on

herright.Eachservingtheroleofangelanddemononher shoulder (though therole isneverfixedandonebecomes the otherdepending on thesituation). Behind them,fourNewRepublicsoldierswalking with blaster riflesattheready.This is the reality of

war,MonMothma thinks.It has to be over soon. It

must be. Ending thisconflict was priority one.Naalol was strategicallyinsignificant.Here,aseriesof little mountain townswith their little crookedmountain houses, andpeople who were valdeershepherds or artisans orminers. But not far awaywas a small Imperialgarrison, and when theEmpire began to lose

ground elsewhere, it triedto gain it on planets likeNaalol—fallback positions.Whatwasasmallgarrisonbecame a large one, andthen war came to thesepeople. And now thosepeople—or the people inthis town, at least—areeither dead or have foundtheirlivesinruins.It’sasifHostishearsher

thoughts.As shewalks,he

strokeshis longbeardandmakes lots of hmms andahhh sounds. Finally hespeaks, unprovoked (as heoften does): “This is theprice of war. It is not theNew Republic’s fault,Chancellor.”“I’ve seen war,” Mon

Mothma says. “I know itsshape. Iknow itsmargins.But I’ll never becomfortable with it.” As

some most certainly are,she thinks. She walksamong some villagerswhohave gathered along thelength of a low rock wall.Two Republic soldiersladlehotbrothoutofapotandintocupsforthem.Asshe walks, Mon Mothmatakes hands and shakesthem, pressing a fewcredits into palms as shedoes and saying a few

smallwordsofapologyandgratitude.Astheypassshesays:“Itisourfaultandwemust act that way touphold ourresponsibilities. And it’swhy the war must stopsoon. We cannot keepfighting it. We are notequippedto.”Hostisblustersandsays:

“That’s hardly true. We’remore equipped than ever,

Chancellor. The Empire iswaning and the wholegalaxycansenseit.Wecanbarelycontainthelineupofrecruitswilling to fight forus now that the conflict ismore out in the open.Wehave more ships. Moreequipment.Moreweapons.Thetidehasturnedand—”“I don’t mean equipped

inthe literalsense,Hostis.Imeanthat this isnotour

heart.Warisnotastateofbeing. It is meant to be atemporary chaos betweenperiods of peace. Somewant it tobe the courseofthings: a default fact ofexistence.ButIwillnotletthatbeso.”Here, Auxi leans in and

the Togruta womanwhispers: “Chancellor, justtobemindful:Wewillhavetoleavesoonifwearetobe

homeonChandrilaintimefortheSenate’sfirstofficialdayback.”“Yes.Ofcourse.”Shestandsinthemiddle

of it all. The rubble. Thebodies. In the distance: awrecked Imperial AT-ATwalker, slumped forwardlikeananimalwithitsneckbroken.Notfarfromit:thecross-foils fromanX-wingfighterbrokenandburning

on a mountain ledge. Onestreet over, a lineup ofImperials bound in acascading series ofshackles, each connectedto the other by a buzzingthread of electricity. Theprisoners are marchedforwardtowardatransportbyNewRepublictroops.Thechaoshereflaredup

and is now dying down.The Imperial garrison is

diminished. They fled intothe mountains, pursuednow by the New Republicsoldiers. Naalol’s timesteeped in the boilingwatersofwarwillbeshort,shethinks.Whichishowitshould be. Though warleaves its scars no matterits duration: Naalol willnotforgetthisday.To Hostis, Auxi says:

“Youdorealizewearestill

going ahead with therelinquishment,yes?”“What? You can’t be

serious.” ToMonMothmahe says: “Chancellor. Ibegof you. Now is not thattime.”“It is and must be that

time,” she says, her voicequietbutfirm.“Rightnow,I put my finger downanywhereonthestarmap,and our troops will go.

They will fight. Some willdie. That is myresponsibility,butIdonotwant it. I neverwanted it.The charter of Chancellormaintains the emergencypowers granted byPalpatine, and they canpersistnolonger.Theyarea poison to democracy.Theyundercutmyrole.”As Hostis starts to

stammer,sheturnstohim

and takes his hands inhers.MonMothmasays:“Iam not a military leader,Hostis. I am the leader ofthe Senate, and if we’rereallygoingtoattractmoreworlds and convince themtoreturntothisprocess,itmustnotseemtobeunderthreat.”“But the army and navy

oftheRepublic—”“Will continue for a

time, but not under myleadership. Rather, it willexist under thearrangement that alreadyexists in practice, just notin law: I will be part of acouncil ofwise voiceswhowill determine the bestcourseofactionintermsofour military presence inthis civil war.” She pausestoconsiderhernextwords.“It is vital we demilitarize

our government so that agalacticwarcannothappenlikethisagain.”The wind whips up and

liftshiswispyhairfromhisliver-spottedhead.“Wearenot yet at that day. Wemust show militarystrength. If we projectweakness, the Empire willcapitalize on it.Giving thewar over to the ficklevagaries of politics will

slow our response time,weaken our resolve, andmakeusappearvulnerable—in part because we willbevulnerable.”Auxi offers a wry,

knowing smile—she’senjoying this, isn’t she?“Oh, it gets worse, Hostis.Tellhim,Chancellor.”MonMothma sighs and

says,“Iwilltodayputupavote that resolves to cut

our military presence byninetypercentonceweareabletoofficiallyconfirmanendtothiswar.”Hisfacefalls.Eyeswide,

mouth open as if the oldman is hoping to catch awingedmeal of one of theorange-eyeddeer-flies thatbuzz around here. “Youcannotbeserious.”“Iamquiteserious.Look

around you. The dead on

our side are not propersoldiers, no matter howmuchwepretendtheyare.They’re farmers andminers, pilots andsmugglers, all drawn intothis conflict against thegreater evil of theEmpire.Once our conflict is over,what do we say to them?Keep fighting for us?Against what? To whatend?Forwhatideal?”

“For democracy, ofcourse—”“Democracy is not in

need of defense. Peopleare.Andit’swhywe’llkeepthat ten percent. Apeacekeeping force. Therest of our efforts will gotoward training themilitaries of other worlds.We will be a true Galacticalliance, and not a falseone with an authoritarian

sunatitscenter.”Hostis scowls. Gravely

hesays:“Thenweshallseeonly endless war,Chancellor.Smallerarmiesjust means smaller civilwars all across the galaxy.It means oppression willgrow like weeds and wewon’t have the eyes or thecontrol to stop it. In thistime of upheaval, thegalaxy will need law and

orderandyouwill grant itonly chaos. It is thatvulnerability that causedthe rise of the Empire inthe first place. The peopleof thegalaxy reachingout,looking for a centralauthority, desperate forprotection…”It’s Auxi who speaks up

next.Thewomanisalwayswry, spunky, even a littlevenomous at times. “It

sounds likeyouareon thewrong sideof this conflict.I’msuretheEmpirewouldbe glad to have you,Hostis.”“Why…howdareyou…”Mon Mothma holds out

both hands. “Stop. Please.Nobickering.Notlikethis.We must respectdisagreement. That beingsaid,Auxihas apoint.WearenotfightingtheEmpire

justtobecometheEmpire.This is not a power grab,and that’s what I want toshow the galaxy. I wantthemtoknowthatwetrustthem, as the Republic hasalways trusted them. Ifwe’regoingtoaskanybodytofightforus,theyneedtoknowwhatthey’re fightingfor.And theywill fight fora unified, democraticgalaxy. Not one that

merely pretends to be asit’s squeezed tighter in anunyielding fist. We mustyield. And to yourcomment about earlierhistory…we will putsafeguards in place. Wewillmoveforward,smarterthistime.Moreaware.”“Chancellor…,” Hostis

says, but his plea dies inhismouth.“My mind is made up.

It’swhyIbroughtyoubothhere.Ineedyoutoseethebodies. The waste. Thetragedyofwar. Ineedyoutoseewhyweneedtoendit. I cannot askourpeopleto fight for this again andagain.NotoncetheEmpireistrulydiminished.”Auxinodsandsays:“It’s

time to go, Chancellor.Historyawaits.”Hostis says nothing

further. He just screws uphis face into anuncomfortable smile andoffers a grim, placatingnod.“Ofcourse.”“Thank you both,” Mon

Mothmasays.Together,theywalkback

through the debris of war.For it is time to returnhome. It is time to returndemocracytothegalaxy.

“I need to procure a wayoff this rock,” Sinjirmutters, pushing onthroughthenarrowstreets

of Myrra. He passes by afood vendor—the big-headed Bith, like most ofthe vendors, have theirtables and shops pressedinto thenooksandalcovesof the city’s buildings. Ashe passes by, he grabs acrispy something-or-otherfrom a dangling rack. Hequick-pops it to his otherhandsonobody sees, thenlooks down: somemanner

of little bird. Batter-dipped, deep-fried. Hebites into it. Warm, juicy.Too warm, too juicy. It’lldo, though,sincesuddenlyhe’sstarving.Behind him, the Twi’lek

manfromPok’sbarhurriesafter. “But whywould youwanttoleave?”To get away from you.

The alien has beenfollowing him for the last

hour. Sinjir left the bar toclear his mind and, betteryet, to get far away fromthat foolish scuffle—whichhewouldhavebeenwisetoavoid—and this gawpingblurrgwho’s trailingSinjirlikealostnek.Instead, Sinjir says: “I

don’twanttobeherewhenitallgoestopieces.Alltherunning around and theyelling and the…” He

gesticulateswithhishandstoindicateafrenziedmess.“Chaos is mostunpleasant.”As if to emphasize his

point,apairofTIEfightersroar over their heads, notfar above the citybuildings.This may not be an

occupation, butsomething’sup.

“But—you’re a rebel.You’re here to fight theEmpire.”Sinjir stops. You’re a

rebel. He almost wants tolaugh, but the idea isabsurd, too absurd, soabsurd he can only standthere,hisbreath caught inhis chest. Might as welltake the lie—a lie thatreally began on the forestmoon of Endor many

months ago—and runwithit.“Yes,” he says, wheeling

ontheTwi’lek.Firmnessinhis voice. “I am an agentfortheNewRepublic.Thatiscorrect.AndImusttakewhat I have learned hereand bring it back to myloyalalliesattheAlliance.”From over the Twi’lek’s

shoulder,hespiesatrioofstormtroopers pushing up

through this crooked alley—shoulder-to-shoulder,blasters out. They’relooking for someone,something.Maybehim.Sinjir grabs the Twi’lek,

pulls him into a smallalcove. Finger to his lips.Thestormtrooperspass.“See?Weareindanger.”TheTwi’lekmannods.“My name is Orgadomo

Dokura,” the Twi’lek says,his head-tails twitchinglike serpents as he speakshisnamewithsomepride.“Please. Let me help you.Make me an agent of theRebellion.”“You mean, the New

Republic.”“Yes!Yes.”“My name is Markoos…

Cozen.” A name he just

makes up right there onthespot.Cozen isa familyname—distant, on hismother’sside.Markoosis…well, he really did justmake that one up. “Youwant tohelpme?Helpmefind transport off thisplanet. If there’s ablockade up there—” Hepoints heavenward, andevenastheswirlingcloudsparthecansee thedistant

shapesoftrianglesfloatingup there in the sky.Imperial Star Destroyers.“Then I need a sub rosaway of escape. Who cangrantmethat?WhodoIgoto,Oga-dokiDomura—”“OrgadomoDokura.”“Yes, excellent,

whatever. Just answer thequestion.”“You’regoing toneed to

seeSuratNuat.”The gangster. “Him?

Really? No othercompeting syndicates? Nosmuggler’s guild here? Nofellow-who-knows-a-fellow-who-knows-a-very-nice-lady-pilot? None ofthat?”TheTwi’lekoffersawan

smile with those littlesharpteeth.“Sorry.”

“Fine, let’s go. You canshowmetheway.”They step out of the

alcove—And there stand two

stormtroopers.Centimeters away—soclose, in fact, they almostrunintoeachother.“Outof theway,” oneof

the troopers barks, thenreaches with a sweeping

armtopushthemaside.The other stormtrooper,

though—hishelmetedheadturns for a quick secondlook. “Hey. Hey. Grabthem!”Somuchforthat.Sinjir ducks a grabbing

arm,andknees theother’sblaster up so that thebarrel points toward theskyas it fires.Hesnatches

the rifle and cracks oneacross the helmet,knockinghimback.To the Twi’lek, Sinjir

mouthstheword:“Run.”

—

Sheliterallycannotseetheforestforthetrees.In her sights: Princess

Leia Organa. Dressed notas a princess, not as a

dignitary or diplomat orenvoy from one world toanother, but garbedinstead in the raiments ofa soldier. It’s no costume.Jashasreadthefiles.Andevenwithout the files, thestoriesareknown:Leia isa powerful woman. Ascapable with a blaster asten stormtroopers.Twenty,even.And right now, she’s

injured.A bird with its wing

broken.Aneasytarget.Jassitsup inoneof the

Endorian trees—massive-trunkedthings.Impossiblylarge. Theymake her feelvery small. It has takenherquitesometimejusttoget to this spot—navigating the battle,skirtinglaserfire,avoidingthose little black-eyed rat

cubsthatarenativetothisplace. Now she’s in place.All around, the fightinghas died down. The fuzzynatives are all around,wrenching helmets offstormtrooper heads.Bashing them once morebefore dragging thembackthroughthejungle.Then an Imperial scout

walker comes trompingthrough thewoods. Brush

crackling beneath its feet.Gunspointedat the shieldbunker.HanSoloemerges,while Leia remainscrumpled against thedoor. Hands up. Thegolden droid fritteringabout,anastromechdownforthecount.Ifthewalkerblaststhem

into oblivion, then what?Could she still recover thebody? Cash it in for

credits?Claimsuccess?A deception. One she

doesnotprefer.JasEmariis a professional. Andthough she despises theGalactic Empire, they arethe client and if they everfound out…though,suddenly she wonders ifthatevenmatters.That is not for her to

worry.

Her worry is thismoment.Anopportunitytofinish

thejob.She again returns to

Leia in her scopes. Herfinger coils around thetriggerlikeastarvingvinesnakeand—

—

The scuff of a boot. Jas

opensher eyes, standsup.Moving quickly remindsher of the hit she tookfallingdownfromthatzip-line—then she fired asecondarygrapplelinelate,too late, and its anchorclaw moored onto abalcony just three storiesabove the road. The linejerkedher armdamnnearout of its socket, and thenshe swung down and

slammed into the side ofthe palace wall. A wallbrushedwithrough,jaggedstucco. Her arm nowscraped up, the skin intatters. Already crustingoverwithscabs.Thatdoesn’tmatternow.

Whatmattersis—“Whomightyoube?”ASullustanstandsthere.

Oneofhiseyesisdead—an

opalescentcataractover it,andarounditastarburstofscartissue.Asmallnoseoftwo pinholes and pursedlips sit underneath thedouble flapsof jowl tissue.Atop his head: a skullcap,black. Like a spiderclutchinghisscalp.“Surat,”shesays.He is, of course, not

alone. Six others standbehindhim.Various thugs

of various races: twoNarquois with blasterspulled, an Ithorian with along rifle and one eyebruised shut, a pair ofgray-faced Duros, and atthe back, a heaving,seething Herglic, theblowhole atop its slickblack skin puffing out andhissinggoutsofbreathandspit.TheHerglichasanax.Averybigax.

JasEmaricursesherself.She fell asleep. Here in

the boy’s junk shop. Shecame in, didn’t findTemminWexleyanywhere,then curled up on a backbench next to a tableholding the board tosome…child’s strategygame.“I know you,” the

Sullustan says. His face iswet and thick with flaps,

and one would expect hisvoice to be some slurrygargle of sounds—or, aswith some of those fromSullust, a gabbling jabber.But his voice is smooth,almost velvety. A deepbass. “Youare thatbountyhunter.JasEmari.”“Glad my name gets

around in the propercircles.” She offers a stiffsmile. Utterly fake.

“Whatever this is, itdoesn’tinvolveme.Excuseme.”She moves to skirt past

him.But he sidesteps back

into her path. He offers araised finger, then tick-tocks it side-to-side. “Ah,ah,ah.Maywetalk?”“I’m on the job. So

unless you have credits to

spare—?”“Please. You have

enough time for a nap.Surelyyouhavethe luxuryof speakingwitha friend.”That, a jab at her forsleeping.Adeservedone.“A friend. Are we

friends?”“We could be. If you’re

honest.”She pauses. Then sighs,

and takes a step back.“Let’stalk.”“Why are you here?

Seems a strange place tofind a hunter of yourcaliber. This boy…hisshop…” The Sullustanmakes a face like he’s justlicked the hind end of abantha.“It’sreallybeneathyourlevel.”She shrugs. “I need a

part for my gun. He has

parts.”“Ihaveparts.”One of the Narquois

chuckles.“It’s no slight against

you. It’s a smallcomponent and, really,beneath your level. So Icamehere.”Surat claps his hands

together. A moist sound.Clap, clap, clap. “Very

good.Verygood.”Butthenthelittlesmiledropsoffhispuckered lips. He stepsforward.“ButmayIofferacountermandingtheory?”Jas is good at reading

body language. A talentthat has been practiced—oneofhermanysensessheendeavors to keep sharp,like a knife. All of thegangster’sbodyhastensedup just now. His eyes

narrowing,thengoingwideagain. Paranoia bleeds offhim in waves. A not-uncommon characteristicof individuals in hisposition—certainlyhead ofa crime syndicate is a lifereplete with nigh-constantthreat. Her life is similar.But she knows not to givein to it. Paranoia is adeadlyemotion.Deadly for you. But

deadly for those aroundyou,too.“Whatever you’re

thinking—”“I am thinking that

insolent grub, TemminWexley, has decided tomake a play. Heorchestrated the theft of…something important tome.Andnowheintendstodispatchme.”Anotherstepforward. “He is a crafty

little trilobite, that one.Smart, if not smartenough. He comes at youfrom the side, as he hasdone to me for the lastyear.Nibbling away atmybusiness like the hiss-wyrmgrubs of Sullust,chewing up oursubterranean gardens,eating the roots of ourunderground trees.” Thegangster’s moist face-flaps

tremble. “You. He hiredyou.Tokillme.”Thereitis.“You’rebeingparanoid,”

shesays.“Paranoia has kept me

alive. Even when it hasturned out misguided, Iremain happily paranoidand have no regrets aboutit.Bettersafethansorry.”“I’m not here to kill

you.”“Soyousay.Iletyougo,

I’ll likely get a slug in theback of my skull before Ilay my head to resttonight.”Jas thinks: If I wanted

to end your existence, Icoulddoitrighthere,rightnow.Atherbackisasmallutility knife. The bladewould spring out with thetap of a button. She’s fast.

Faster than him. But notfaster, she suspects, thanthe cadre of his cohorts.Certainly not faster thantheir weapons. Anotheroption is to run—duck,dodge, feint, move. Attackthem, not him. Distract.Fling junk. But they’re allblockingthedoorout.Andshe’s both tired andinjured. Not an idealsituation.

Shedoescalculations.Onlyoneoptionpresents

itself. An excruciatingsolution, in fact, but shehas no other reasonablechoice. “I’m not here foryou. I’mhere for someoneelse. The pay is good. I’llcut you in, seventy-five–twenty-five.”“Oh, my.” He fans

himself. “Twenty-fivepercent?”Hismouthtwists

into a sour curve. “Youthink that’s what your lifeisworth?”Justkillhim.No.“Sixty–forty split,” she

offers. “And you facilitate.You help get me close. Atthat level, I expect mypartnerstoearntheirpay.”A true statement, that. Orwould be, if she ever

workedwithpartners.“Let me guess. The

target is Imperial? I seewhat’s happening outthere.Stormtroopersinthestreets. Officers cluckingalong like little gray birds.The TIE fighters. Theshuttle.” He smirks.“Rumor has it one suchshuttle—of a Lambdadesignation—fired on theoldcapitolbuilding.”

“Soyou’llhelp.”“By the stars, no. The

Empire is an ally. Youthink I haven’t heard?You’re no longer offeringcontracts to the likes ofthem. Or the likes of me.You’reakeptdognow.OntheAlliance’s leash.Reallyquitesad.”Her muscles tighten.

This isn’t working. Shemakes one last plea: “You

need to watch the stars,Surat. The galaxy iswheeling on its axis. It’sturning against theEmpire. Don’t tie yourfortunes to that ship,because it’s about to comecrashing down. The NewRepublic—”“Isabastionoffools!”he

suddenly screams, foul-smellingsalivafleckinghercheeks. She pivots on the

ballofherfoot—A blast from one of the

Narquois hits her in theside. Her foot skids out—she crashes down on atable full of spacer parts.Metal clatters against thefloor as she slides off.Herbody, slack. Her mind,suddenly disconnectedfrom her muscles. Astunningshot,notakillingone.

Surat stands over her,hands clasped in front ofhim.Heseethes:“TheNewRepublic will make noroomfor the likesofme. Iwill not face extinction atthe hands of a choir ofoverly moralistic do-gooders. The Empireallowsme towork, and sothe Empire remains myfriend.Andnow,asitturnsout, I have a new gift for

myfriend.”He claps his hands

again, and suddenly hiscohortsarepickingherup.TheHerglictossesheroverhis slick, cartilaginousshoulder. She wills herhands to move. Her legs.Her teeth. Anything at all.But it’sall fornaught.Hereffortsarefutile.As they carry her out,

she thinks: You should

havekilledme.

—

Sinjir steps out of thefadinglightofdayandintothe dank underground—well, what to call it? It’s acantina, probably, at leastinpart.Thenamehangingon the door outside says:THEALCAZAR.Butit’smorethan justa cantina.By the

look of it, it’s also agambling house. And ahouse of ill repute.Probably also a slavermarket, and blackmarket,and—it’s a whole damncompound, frankly.Inthisroomsitsanelevatedstageon which plays somewarbling gang of so-calledmusicians. Along the farwall is a long black barcarved out of some dead

hunk of lacquereddriftwood—andeverywhere else, tables ofgamblerssit,allprayingtocatchalittleofthatmagic,whether at pazaak orrolling sheg-knuckles oryanking the lever on theOne-ArmedSmuggler.Gambling. Sinjir never

understood it. He had totake punitive measuresagainst any Imperial

soldier or officerattempting to gamble inthe bunks, the mess, on along and lonely shift. Hedecided thatgamblingwasnever about the credits. Itwasalwaysabouttherisk.Therisk,andthethrillit

brings.Sinjirhasnoloveofthat

thrill.He wants to get off this

planetassoonaspossible.“Come on, Ogly,” he

says,wavinghisnewfriendfarther.“Orgadomo.”“Uh-huh. Let’s get a

drink.” His own sogginessis starting to dry up andwear off—now’s a goodtime to replenish thatpleasant feeling. And ofcourse find out a little

information. He grabs alength of the Twi’lek’shead-tailandpullshimupto the bar. Sinjir gives thebartopagood,wetslap.Thebartender—ahuman

man, as scruffy as aWookiee yet somehowslimy like a worrt—turns,poppingsomekindof thingreenleafinhismouth.Hechews it. Green fluid runsdownhischinandhelicks

the one good tooth in hismouth.“Wuzzat?”“Two drinks. I’ll have

a…” He turns to theTwi’lek. “You first, friend.Whatareyouhaving?”“An…ale?”The Twi’lek looks

nervous.Sinjir makes a face.

“He’ll have an ale. I needsomething stronger. You

got ahh, let’s see. Joganfruitbrandy?”“Kind of a fancy place

you think this is?” thebartender rumbles. “I gotale. More ale. Other ale.Different ale. Grog. Andstarfire’skee.”“I’ll take that last

decoction,then.Ajorumof’skeeforme.”Thebartendergrumbles.

Begins pouring a glass ofsomething brown andmuddy before sliding abottleoffoamingaletotheTwi’lek. “That’ll be tencredits.”Sinjir catches the man’s

wrist—a gentle hold, andthe man’s skin is, as itsappearance suggests,sweat-slick and slimy. Theman gives Sinjir’s hand apoisonous look as another

squirt of green fluid runsdown his chin. Sinjirlaughs, withdraws hishand,andsays,“Onemorething.”“Goon.”“Ineedtoseethemanin

charge of thisestablishment. SuratNuat.”“Oh,doyou?”“Ido.AndIwillpay.”

The bartender’s eyes flitabout. “Then let’s call it ahundred.”Sinjir winces. That’s

valuable drinking money.He reminds himself thatnow, it’s also valuableescaping money. Heunpockets the credits andslides the small cairn offilthy lucre across thetable.“Now,” he says. “Where

canIfindhim?”Thebartendergetsabig,

nasty grin across his face.Likeasmearofmudacrossthe wall, that grin. “He’scoming in the door rightnow.”Sinjir sighs. He turns

andlooks.ASullustaniscomingin

thedoor.Milkyeye.Smug,self-satisfied look. He’s

trailed by a pack of punksandthugs.Thewayalleyesturn towardhim—amixofgenuineaweandutterfear—tellsSinjir thatthisalienistherealdeal.Thatthisis,indeed,SuratNuat.He’s about to turn and

demandhiscreditsback.But then he sees

someoneelse.Awoman. Zabrak—or is

it Dathomirian? OrIridonian?He’snotsureofthe distinction or if oneeven exists. Those paleeyes. The dark tattoosforming spirals and knotson her cheeks and browandchin.Hisbreathcatchesinhis

chest—

—

Sinjir stands there. Fernsuptohiships.Afallentreeacross the soft, spongymoss of Endor. Beneathhim, a rebel. Dead. Theman’s outer clothes—vest,poncho, camouflage pants—now hanging on Sinjir’sframe.Heputs thehelmeton, too. Blinks. Swallows.Triestofocus.A bead of blood drips

downSinjir’shead.To the

end of his nose. It hangsthere before he sneezes itaway.His ears still ring from

the sound of the shieldgeneratorsgoingup.His hands are filthy

with dirt and blood. Hisownblood.Superficial cuts, he tells

himself. Nothing deep.He’snotdying.

Nottoday,anyway.Then: the snap of a

stick.Heturns—andthereshe

is. An alien. Sharp thornyspursformingacrownonher moonlight-blue skin.She turns and sees him.The tattoos on her face—whorls and corkscrews ofblack ink—almost seem toturnanddrift, like snakesentwining with other

snakes.Butwhenheblinksagain, that stops. Just anillusion. He’s still shakenup. Maybe she’s not evenreal.Shenodsathim.Henodsather.And then she yanks on

what looks like a vine—and a whole swath ofnetting, netting woventhrough with sticks and

blankets for purposes ofhiding something in plainsight—pulls away.Underneath is a speederbike.The woman cinches a

rifleuponherback.ShegivesSinjirone last

look. Then the engine ofthe speeder bike revs andshe’s gone, whistlingthrough the underbrushandbetweenthetrees.

—

—heknowsher.“I know her,” he says.

Low enough so that onlyhisnewfriendhears.The Twi’lek grunts in

confusion.“Her,” Sinjir clarifies.

“The one with Surat’sthugs.” I saw her on themoon of Endor. “I don’tknowherknowher.Never

mind.Comeon.”Hehopsoffthestool—Thenquickdartsbackto

thebar,andslamsbackthe’skee. It tastes like he’sdrinking pure laserfire,anditcarvesahot,burningchannel deep through hiscore. Sinjir shakes it off,thenpursuesSuratandhisentourage.

Out the window, past theendless black, a repairdroidtotterspast,carryingbits of scrap, its welding

torch dangling by a long,black tube. Even afterthesemanymonths,HomeOnestillrequiresalastfewrepairsfromthebattleoverEndor.Ackbarthinks:It isagood thingwewon thatbattle.Itwastheirlasttrueshot. They gambledeverything. And theyalmost lost it all. By thegrace of the stars and theseas and all the gods and

all the heroes, somehow,somehow,theymanaged.Heclearshisthroat.His

time isup.Withawebbedhand he grabs the plasticbottle and squeezesmoisturizer into his palmand then rubs it on hisneck, his bare shoulders,down the length of eachredarm.Adeepbreath.

Then, he is again underattack. He moves fast,picking up the kar-shak—the net-pole, a traditionalMon Calamari weapon—and whirls about in thepadded room. Astormtrooper rushes up,theblasterrifleraised.Ackbar grunts in rage,

spinning the kar-shak andcracking the stormtrooperin the helmet. The end of

thestick:barbedlikeagaffhook. It whishes cleanthrough the air, and cleanthroughthewhiteImperialhelmet.As it passes, the stick

interrupts the hologramforjustamoment—Thenthestormtrooperis

back, and Ackbar’s enemytopples.A secondone comesup,

and a third, and Ackbarcaptures the one’s head ina net, and flings him intothe other—again theirholograms disrupt, thenflicker back to life beforedropping.One,two,andnowthree

stormtroopers enter fromthecornerprojectorsand—Someone clears his

throat.

Ackbarstops.“Pause,” he barks. The

trio of incoming troopersfreeze.Shimmering.There, at the door, a

youngman.A cadet. “Sir,”hesays.Asmallfearshinesin his eyes. But he standstall,justthesame.Chinupand out. Hands holding ascreenpressedtohischest.“Ifthisisabadtime—”

“Deltura,isn’tit?”“Ensign Deltura, yes,

sir.”“No,nowisafinetime,”

Ackbargrowls,andsetshisstick down. “I am toassumethisisimportant?”“Youassumecorrectly.”“And why isn’t

Commander Agatebringingthistome?”“She is occupied with

repairs,sir.”Ackbarharrumphs, then

steps forward. His sharpfingers click together.“Verywell.Let’sseeit.”Deltura hands over the

screen.The admiral looks over

it.Hisbigyelloweyesturnback toward EnsignDeltura. “And you’re sureaboutthis?”

“Yes, sir. CaptainAntilles hasn’t checked in,and his comm won’tanswer.Wecan’tevenpingit.”“His last known

location?”“Raydonia.”“And he found nothing

there.”“No,sir.”“And I will hazard a

guess that sayswe arenotcertain of his next jump?”Theensignshakeshisheadbecause that’s not howWedgewantedtoplaythis,was it? Captain Antillessaw no harm in doingsome light scouting. Hesaid it would feel like a“vacation”—just him andtheStarhopper.Alonewithhisthoughts.Ackbarthinks:Iwarned

himofthis.I’m sure I won’t find

anything, Wedge said atthetime.You don’t know that.

One does not want tocasually stumble upon apit of eels, Ackbarcautioned. But it canhappen.Just doing my due

diligence.It’llbenice.

“Nice.”Harrumph.The ensign says, “The

five closest worlds toRaydoniaofferaglimpseofwhere Captain Antillescould have been headingnext.”Onthescreen:a listof five planets. Mustafar.Geonosis. Dermos. Akiva.Tatooine. Any of themcould make sense—theyknowtheEmpirehasgone

to ground. “Mustafarmakessomesense,asdoesGeonosis—”Deltura is looking at

him. Wanting to saysomething.Ackbarpauses. “What is

it?”“There’smore.”“And?”“Something more than

what’sonthatscreen.”

“Spit it out, Ensign. Idon’t care for thiswaffling.”“Wehaveintel.Fromthe

Operator.”Ackbar steps closer to

Deltura. “And howdoyouknow about the Operator?That is classifiedinformation,Ensign.”“Commander Agate

clearedme.”

“Commander Agateseemstotrustyou.”Acurtnod.“Ihopeso.”“Then Ido, too.What is

thisintel?”WhenDeltura tells him,

Ackbar feels all themoisture go out of him.They keep the air in thisshipashumidaspossible—it is aMon Calamari ship,after all—but he suddenly

feels bonedry.Desiccated.He feels again on theprecipice of somethingbigger, somethingdangerous. Some shadowunseen in the margins.“Areyoucertain?”“No.Wehavenospiesin

the region that we knowof.”“I’molder,”Ackbarsays,

suddenly. Staring off atnothing. “The reason I do

this—stand here and takemy kar-shak and continueto practice my kotas—isbecause I wish to staysharp. And flexible. Andahead of my enemies. Iknow one day that I willfail at this, andwe almostfailed above Endor. Werushed in. Careless. Italmostcostuseverything.”A moment of silence

betweenthem.Hisnostrils

flaring.“Sir—”“Yes, yes, send scouts to

each of those planets. Butsend two scouts to Akiva.Wemustbesurebeforewecommittoanything.”Delturasalutes.“Sir,yes,

sir.”As the ensign leaves,

Ackbar is left alone oncemore.Andhetrulyfeelsit,

for a moment: the weightof the galaxy on hisshoulders. An illusion, ofcourse. He is not thestandard-bearer for theNewRepublic,andnothinghinges on him. But thepressure remains, just thesame.And with it, a worrying

thought persists: As aninformant within theEmpire, the self-titled

Operator has not steeredthem wrong yet. Hispinpointing of vulnerableImperial routes andconvoys, as well assupplying themwith a listof likely governors andother galactic leaders whowould gladly betray theEmpire, was all ofimmeasurablehelp.So why, then, can’t

Ackbar shake the feeling

that once again they areabouttofallintoatrap?

“Wehaveaproblem.”Someone shakes

Temmin awake.He gaspsand sits up in the bed inthe nook upstairs in theirhouse.Thunderboomslike

cannon fire outside, likeships in the sky tearingoneanotherapart—flashesof lightning like fire. It’samausim—an old Akivanwordforoneoftheannualstorms that rise up andsignal the start of thewetseason. The clouds turnblackandtightenoverthecity like a noose. Amausim-stormcanlastfordays, even weeks.

Flooding the city withheavyrains.Heavywindsstoppingtraffic.Temmin sniffs, rubs his

eyes. It’s his father. Hestoops down and kissesTemminonthebrow.“Dad…whh…what’s

goingon.”A voice from the door.

Mom. “Brentin. What isit?”

Dad answers: “I’msorry.I’mso—”Downstairs,apounding

atthedoor.Then another boom of

thunder.Brentinstoops,holdshis

sontight.“Temmin.Ineedyou to be good to yourmother.Promiseme.”Temmin blinks, still

sleepy.“Dad,whatareyou

talkingabout—”Mom is there, now,

standing by the bed, aconcerned face revealedwith every pulse oflightning. Downstairs—more pounding, and thentheir visitor seizes uponimpatience as they breakin.Momcriesout.Brentin says to his son:

“Promise.Me.”

“I…promise.”Hisfathergiveshimone

last hug. “Norra.Helpmewith this—” He hurries tothe window, a windowcovered with a slattedmetal shutter. Meant tokeepthestormout—shouldthe wind break the glass,the shutter will react, theslats will slam shut, andthe whole thing willvacuum-seal. The two of

themgoover,oneoneachside,pullingtheleversthathold the shutters to theframe.Momsays:“Brentin, what is going

on?”“They’recoming forme.

Notforyou.Forme.”Voices. The crackle of a

comm. Footsteps.Suddenlyothersareintheroom.Thewhitearmorof

a pair of stormtroopers.The black outfit of someImperialofficer.Everyoneisyelling.Blastersup.Dadis saying he’ll gopeacefully. Temmin criesout.Momgets in betweenthe troopersandDad,herhandsup—oneofthemhitsher in the head with thebackofhisrifle.She cries out, goes

down. Dad leaps, calling

them all monsters,banging his fists againsttheone’shelmet—A pulse from a blaster.

Dad cries out and drops.They start dragging himout. Mom starts crawlingafter them on her handsand knees and the officerin black stays behind,stoops low, and shoves adatapad in front of herface. “The arrest warrant

for Brentin Lore Wexley.Rebelscum.”She claws at his boot

andheshakesherfree.Temmin checks on his

mother. She’s collapsed ina heap, crying. Grief andfear are tamped downunderneath a suddensurge of anger. Temmingets up, runs downstairs.Already they’ve got hisfather out the front door.

Draggedoutintotherain,into the street wherewater runs over theirbootsastheysplashforth.Temmin bolts outside intothe hard slashes of rain—everything feels like anightmare, like thiscouldn’t be real, like thesky has cracked open andall the evils have cometumblingout.Butitisreal.He calls out for them to

stop.Theofficerturnsandlaughs as the twostormtroopers toss hisfather into the back of abala-bala,oneofthesmallspeeders used to navigatethe tight channels andstreetsofMyrra.The officer pulls his

pistol.“Stop,”Temminsays,his

voicemore likeananimalinpainthanhisownvoice.

“Please.”The officer points the

blaster.“Do not meddle, boy.

Your father is a criminal.Letjusticebe.”“Thisisn’tjustice.”“Take a step and you’ll

seewhatjusticeis.”Temminstartstotakea

step—But a pair of hands

catches him around themiddle, yanking him upoffhis feet.Temminkicks.Screams.Hismotherinhisear: “Temmin, no, shhh,not like this. Back inside.Backinside!”“I’ll kill you!” he

screams, though at who,he doesn’t even know. “Ipromise, I’ll kill you forthis!”

—

“Wehaveaproblem.”Hismother,inhisear.Whispering.“Wuzza,” he blurts, his

mouthtackyanddry.“Shh,”shecautionshim.

“We’reindanger.”Hedrawsadeepbreath.

Temmin tries to get hisbearings.Cargobay.Small

ship. Freighter, maybe.Corellian design. They’rebehind a stack of carbon-shell crates on a pallet. Ahoverpallet, by the look ofit, though right now it’spowered down and setagainst the metal of theship’sfloor.Thenhespiesit:Abody.A deadman. Turned on

his side.Half of his face amoon-skin of scars,cratered with old burns.His eyes are empty, havelosttheirluster.Tohisleft,thebaydoor.

Large enough for a trio ofthese crates, side by side.To his right, the sealeddoor—shouldgototherestof the ship. The bunk, thegunnerstation,thecockpit,thehead.

Frombeyondthatdoor—thesoundofcommchatter.Andvoicesthroughhelmetspeakers. “Stormtroopers,”hesays,hisvoicelow.He tries to remember

what happened, how heeven got here. It’s liketrying tocatchcloudswithpinching fingers. But thenthe memory starts toresolve. He was down inthe catacombs. Not far in.

Just sitting. He’d justarguedwithhismother.Heturnedtogobackand…She stuck something in

hisneck.Hismother starts to say

something but hewhispers:“Youbroughtmehere!”Alarminhereyes.“Ihad

to.”“Oh.Youjusthadto?”

“We need to leave thisplanet,Tem.”“Where’s Mister Bones?

Whereevenarewe?”“Your droid?” she asks,

sounding almost irritated.“Idon’tknow.Weareonaship. On the outskirts—neartheAkarRoad.”Gods,howfardidshebringhim?Allthewayouthere?Nearthecanyonsandoldtemplecomplexes? Panic seizes

him.My shop. My goods.My droids. “That’s thepilot.” She gestures to thedead man. “He was goingto takeusoutofhere.Theplace was crawling withstormtroopers, so I snuckusonboardandfoundhimhere, already dead. Thestormtroopers came backin—I don’t know why. Asecond sweep.Looking forcontraband,maybe.”

They’re looking for us,hethinks.“We need to take the

ship and escape,” Momsays. “We can do this.Together. I’ll need you tobemynavigator—wedon’thave an astromech.” Shemust see the look in hiseyesbecauseshesays: “I’llguideyou.”She gives his hand a

squeeze.

Heseethes:“Ican’tleavehere.Thisismyhome.”“We have a new home

now.”“You don’t get to just

kidnapmeand—”“IcanbecauseIamyour

mother.”A thousand angry

rebuttals run through hisheadlikering-dogschasingtheirownbandedtails.But

nowisn’tthetime.“I…haveaplan,”hesays.

It’snotalie.Notreally.“I’mlistening.”“Stay here. Follow my

signal.”Shestartstoprotest,but

he darts out from behindthecrates.Temminhurriesup to thecabindoor.Nextto it on the wall: a panel.He casts a look to his

mother, who gives him aquizzicalstare.I’m sorry are the two

words he mouths to her,silently.Her eyes gowide as she

figuresitout.I have a plan, it’s just

notoneyou’regonnalike.He quickly punches a

few buttons on the wallpanel. He overrides the

cargo bay’s pneumatichinges—the ones thatwould open the bay doorandrampslowly,settlingitagainst the ground asgently as amother restingher baby in the cradle.Temmindoesn’thave timefor that. He pops thepistons with a screaminghiss and the bay rampdrops with a resoundinggong.

Outside—a cracked,shattered landing pad.Roots and shoots pushingupthroughtheplastocrete.Jungleandcitybeyond.Andstormtroopers.A whole squad of

stormtroopers.They seem taken by

surprise. They aren’t linedup, ready for battle.They’re out there milling

around, standing about,poking through theunderbrush and crackingopencrates.That gives Temmin one

shot.He yells, running

forward, slamming hisshoulderintothepalletfullof crates. With a quickshoveofhis knee,he jamsthe button on the pallethandle and the thing

suddenly pops up off theground, hovering a fewcentimeters above the bayfloor. His mother rushesforhim.Butshe’stooslow.Temmin hurries

forward, pushing thehovering crate stack outthe bay door with hisshoulder.He hides behindit, shielding himself fromthe sudden fusillade of

blaster fire. His mothercalls after him, but all hecan think is: This was astupid,stupididea.

—

“Do we have a problem?”SuratNuatasks.Sinjir crossed the

gambling floor, shovingpast dice throwers andcard holders until he was

standing in front of theSullustan gangster. Andnow that gangster standsthere, regarding him withone good eye. Sinjir feelssuddenly dissected, like awinged insect pulled apartby a cruel child’s pluckingfingers.The feeling isonlymademore intense by theclatterofblastersraisedinhis direction and ready tofire.

Gasps all around. Themusicstops.Eyeswatch.He feelshisnewTwi’lek

“friend” trembling behindhim.Sinjir clears his throat

andsmiles.“Not at all,” Sinjir says.

“No problems here. Apolite entreaty, if youwill.May I appeal to your…”Whatwordwillsatisfythis

self-important thug?Whatwill tickle the Sullustan’sego, an ego sure to be asplump and bloated as asun-cooked shaak carcass.“To your limitless grace,your many-faced wisdom,youreternalmight?”Surat smacks his lips

together. “You have aneloquence.Manners. I likethat. Even if your crookedhuman nose is dark with

excrement. So. Make yourplea.Butmakeitquickly.”Thethoughtrunslapsin

Sinjir’s mind: Just walkaway. This does notinvolveyou.Sheisnoone.She does not matter. Youdon’t know each other!You had a moment, onesingular moment.Moments do not tally toanythingmeaningful.Runaway,likeyouaresogood

atdoing.But that woman? The

Zabrak is watching him.Andhemightbeimaginingit, but—is that recognitionin her eyes? A familiarscrutiny?As if to confirm it, she

gives him a small nod ofherhead.To Surat, Sinjir says:

“The woman. Is she yours

tosell?”“She is,”Suratconfirms,

pursing his lips inamusement.“ThenIwouldbuyher.I

would pay well for a firstchance—”“The process,” Surat

interrupts, “for a primecandidate such as this,would be an auction. Tomaximize theeffortand to

ensure that all interestedbuyershaveachance.”“I will then offer to pay

extratoundercutthem.”Surat holds up a hand.

“It does not matter.Because there shall be noauction for this one. Wealreadyhave a buyer linedup. Unless you think youcan equal the endlesscoffers of the GalacticEmpire?”

Sinjir’sheartsinksinhischestlikeastoneinswampmud. But he refuses toshow the fear anddisappointment on hisface. Instead, he claps hishands and smiles big.“Then theremustbe someconfusion—a muddledcommunication.Yousee, Iam from the GalacticEmpire.Anemissary.Iamloyalty officer Sinjir Rath

Velus, last stationedat theImperial shield base onEndor, and now here onAkiva as part of a…diplomatic mission. Didthey not tell you I wascoming?Weusedtohaveitso together before thoserebel pigs blew up ourfavorite toy. I apologize,butI’mherenow—”“Ihavenotyetinformed

the Empire of this prize,”

Suratsays.“What?Idon’tfollow.”“They do not know I

have this one.” Thegangster gestures towardthe woman. “Perhaps youhave a Jedi aroundsomewhere who predictedmy call? Or maybe you,loyalty officer Sinjir RathVelus, are some kind ofwizard in possession ofgreatprecognition?”

“Well,Iamquitegifted.”“Or maybe you are a

rebel. Or just a con artist.Doesitevenmatter?”Sinjir swallowshard.He

forces a smile and says: “Iassureyou—”Suratscowls.“Kill him!” the gangster

barks.Surat’smenstartfiring.

—

“We have a problem,Admiral,”AdeaRitesays.Sloane marches down

the palace hall, the wallslined with gold-framedportraits of satraps past:the sluggy, jowly face ofSatrap Mongo Hingo; thejaundiced, sicklycountenance of Satrap TinWithrafisp; the handsome,

smoldering portrait ofyoung Satrap KadeHingo,a young lad governor whodied too early (writtenhistory says by assassinbutwhisperedhistorysaysby venereal disease).Sloane skids to a halt andsays: “What kind of aproblem? I’ll remind youthat I am heading to ameeting that will make orbreak the back of the

Empire and the galaxy itendeavorstorule.”Oh, the lookof fear that

rises on the poor girl’sface…like a sun darkenedby clouds. Sloane feels asmall pinprick of shameover that—whatever theproblemis,it’snotlikelytobe the girl’s fault. Still, toher credit, she summonshercourageafterdrawingabreath.

“Two rebel scout ships,”Adea says. Again to hercredit, she says thisquietly. Who knows ifanyonecouldbelistening?“Where? Here? Above

thisplanet?”A small nod. “Yes.

Tothwin claims both wererebel-designatedA-wings.”This is happening too

soon.

“And what became ofthem?”Not that it much

matters.Adea says: “Both were

destroyed before theycould return tohyperspace.”Raewinces.“Did the other Star

Destroyerssee?”“I don’t think so. At

least, they haven’tindicated such. The shipscame in on the starboardside, away from the othertwo Destroyers. Thedistance between theDestroyers suggests theycouldn’thave.”Thatmaybuythemabit

more time—if the A-wingswere able to returnsuccessfully and make areport, the swiftness of a

rebel attack on theirburgeoningblockadecouldbeprofound.Butsince theA-wings can’t return, therebels won’t have anyuseful intel. It will givethem pause. The A-wingscould be dead from anImperial attack, yes. Or avolatile oort cloud. Or anunexpected debris field.Therebelfleetwillexercisecaution.

Regardless, that leavesherwithanewproblem:Doesshetelltheothers?

She could attempt tosupersede their authority.NeitherShalenorPandionis an admiral. Neithertechnically possess theauthoritytocommandfleetmovements like Sloanedoes. But each is still incommand of a StarDestroyer, and the rules

thesedaysarenotsoclearon who truly has properauthoritytodoanythingatall.If she tries to run an

endgamearoundthem…Theywill try to run one

around her, as well. Acoup,perhaps.Then the meeting will

become a different gamealtogether.

Shebitesbackacurse.“Right,” she says, then

thankstheassistant.Sloane marches toward

the first fatefulmeeting ofthesummit.

—

“What’s the problem in—hey!”Norrawheelstowardthe

voice and sees that it

belongs to a stormtrooper—one of three standingthere at the door betweenthebayandthebulkoftheship. The three step in,blasterriflesupandready.Temmin, why did you

havetorun?A smaller voice inside

her answers: Because yougavehimnochoice.Outside the ship, past

the bay door where shecan’t see, Norra hears thesounds of battle: Blasterrifles. Men yelling inalarm.“There!” one of the

stormtroopers says,spottingher.The three turn toward

her,pointingandgesturingwiththeirweapons.“Freeze.”

The third says, “Standup.”Slowly, Norra stands.

Theblasteratherhipfeelsheavy, as if burdenedwithgreat purpose and greatrisk. Her hand itches toreach down, pull it out,take her chances—herblood roars in her ears, ariver of fear and anger. Itrushes back to her, themkicking down her family’s

door, the Imperialsdragging her husband outof her son’s bedroom, thestormtrooper slammingher in the head with theendofhisrifle.She thinks: You’re fast.

Thebucketheadsareslow.Taketheshot.One of the troopers

turnsbacktowardthebay.He startles, taken bysurprise,andforamoment

she doesn’t know why.“Look out—!” he starts tosay, and then blaster firepins him to the wall. Theothertwopivot,blastersupand firing, but it’s too lateforthem,too—A speeder bike bolts in

through thebaydoorsanddrifts as it enters, its backend sliding hard andclipping the twostormtroopers in the

knees. They cry out as thespeeder wipes them out,knockingthemtothefloor.Temminliftsthebrimof

his new helmet with histhumb.“Let’s go!” he says. “Go

gogogo.”Norra takes a deep

breath and hops on theback of the speeder asTemmin twists his grip

forward. The vehicle takesofflikeaprotonrocket.

—

“Wehavea—”Raestartstosay.Pandion answers: “A

problem, yes, I should sayso. I have heard thatCaptain Antilles is not yetresponding toanyofour…efforts.”

Tashu, having arrivedlate wearing a strange redmetal mask, one thatappeared quite demonic,spins the mask (nowfacedown on the table)with his hand. “Do notworry, Moff Pandion. Mytechniquetakestime,butIhave been trained by thebest. The ancient Sith artof—”“It’s grand moff,”

Pandion says, “and I mayremind you here that theSith are all dead and youcarry none of their magicwithyou.”“Theproblem,”Raesays,

putting some fire in hervoice,“isthattheVigilanceencountered two rebel A-wing scouts. Wedispatchedboth—”ArsinCrassusstandsup.

Theman, alreadywhite as

ground-down bonepowder, goes almosttranslucent. Panic coilsaround his voice,tighteningashestammers:“The rebels will come forus. We must end thismeeting immediately, as Iamnowarrior,butmerelyamerchant—”“Sitdown,”Raesays.Crassus hesitates,

rubbing thumbs against

fingers.Anervoushabit.Pandion says: “Don’t be

acoward,Crassus.Sit.”Crassus sits, then.

Though,Sloanenotes,onlywhenPandionsaysto.“Ihaveaplan,”shesays.

“Though it may seemunconventional.”Jylia Shale leans

forward.“We’relistening.”“IwanttomovetheStar

Destroyers to hyperspace.Not far. But out of bothopticandfar-sweepsensorrange.”“That will leave us

exposed!”Crassussays.“If the rebels find

nothing here, they’ll movealong.Theydon’thave thetime or the resources tomonitor some backwaterfringe territory such asthis.Butiftheyseeatrioof

Imperial StarDestroyers…”Pandion leans back in

his chair. Sneering.“Apparently, I’mata tablefull of cowards. Let meposit an alternativesolution, Admiral. You arein control of the Ravagerfleet. Our last Super StarDestroyer, and youhave itand—well, how manyships? We don’t even

know. An unknownquantity, hidden away theway a greedy child hideshis best toys.” Here heleans forward, pointing anaccusing finger. “Perhapsit’stimetoshare,Admiral.Bring your fleet forward.Let’s not run with our tailtucked betwixt our legs.Let’s go the other way.Buildupourpresence.Therebels come poking

around, they’ll find theyhave stirred a nest ofvipers.”“No,” General Shale

says, giving the table apound with her small,wrinkled fist. The oldwoman gives a firm shaketoherhead.“Noneofusisready for that. This is agame of chatta-ragul. Allthe tokens are on theboard,whetherwelikeitor

not. Minions, Scouts,Knights, all theway to thePontiffs, the Alcazar, theEmpress. You never movetheEmpressoutunlessyouhavenootherchoice.Thatwas our failing withPalpatine’s grand battlestation: The Death Starwas our Empress. Wemoved it forward tooquickly: a chatta-ragulgambit that failed

spectacularly.”“Speakplainly,”Pandion

says.“Thisisn’tagame.”“Itisagame,”Jyliasays,

her jaw set. “It is a gamewith very high stakeswhere we must second-guess our opponent. Thehead of the New Republicfleet is Grand AdmiralAckbar. He is a geniustactician. A warrior of themind. But he will not be

quick to jump into this.One rebel missing, thentwo more on top: He willfearsomethingisgoingon,that this could be yetanother trap for him toblunder into. But withoutany information at all, hewillbehesitanttosendonemore rebel to the grave.His next play will mostlikely be to send a droneship.”

“Oradroid,”Raesays.“Yes. Yes! A long-range

probe. That is likely. Sentfrom a ship kept at adistance—close enough forscanner range, whichmeans, if we have shipshere? That droid will bewholly unnecessary. Andthat ship will be out ofrange of our weapons. Itwill jump to hyperspace,and Ackbar will mobilize

his fleet. And then it isopen war once more. Abattle that we cannotaffordtolose,because,asIwill remind you, we areexpending resources at agreater rate than weproduce them. We’ve lostships, weapons factories,droid factories, spicemines, fuel depots. Youwanttoriskmoreofit?Wecannot afford to pay that

debt.”“Cowards,” Pandion

rages, standing up so fasthis chair almost knocksover behind him. “TheRavager is a powerfulweapon, and Sloane issittingonitlikeafatnunahenuponanestofalreadyhatchedeggs.”HepointstoCrassusandTashu.“Thisisa meeting where everyvoice counts, does it not?

Then let me ask you two.How do you vote? Are wean Empire of curs andcuckoohens?Cluckingandwhimpering in the dark?Whatsayyou?”Crassgivesanod.“Isay

we bring that Super StarDestroyer forward. I saywe attack.” He awkwardlythrustsafist intothemeatofhisopenhand.Rae says, “Crassus has

alreadyadmittedthatheisno warrior. Just amerchant,wasn’tit,Arsin?You’re going to take hisadvice?”Tashu speaks, jumping

ahead of Pandion’s nextoutburst. “I will say this:The Sith are masters ofdeception. It is nocowardice to hide in theshadows and strike whenyourenemypasses.Iagree

withtheadmiral.”Sloane nods. “That’s

three to two.Wemove theDestroyers.”“No,” Pandion says.

“One of those ships isundermycommand.AndIwon’tmoveit.Itstays.”The defiance in his eyes

flasheslikestarfire.Thisishappening earlier thanSloane expected—she

always knew one of them,probably Valco Pandion,would test her. Fine. Shemarchesaroundthesideofthe table and meets himnose-to-nose.“Iamtheadmiralofthis

naval fleet. You do nothave the authority, self-proclaimed or not, tocommandoneshipagainstthe movement of itsfellows. You do not have

theauthoritytodenymeinthis.”Pandion grins. “And

whatifIdo,anyway?”“Then theVigilance will

shoot your ship out of thesky. Its pieces will raindownuponus, and that ishow the Empire will end.With us destroying oneanother, like rats drivenmad by hunger, rats whoeat one another instead of

hunting down a propermeal.”“I could take my ship.

Flee to some distantsystem—”“Flee?” she asks. “You

want to run.Soyou’re thecoward.”From Pandion: a small

intake of breath. A tinylittlegasp.Ihaveyou.

Fornow.“Admiral,” he says, his

tone suddenly changing.Heevenoffersawansmileand bows his head. “I amof course just playing theImperial advocate. Onemust attempt to fullydissect the animal tounderstand it, and so Iappreciate you letting mechallenge you in this way.Doasyouseefit.”

She nods. A temporaryvictory, she thinks. ButPandion is doing exactlywhat shewants todowiththe fleetaboveAkiva:He’sretreating temporarily inthe hope of fighting againanother day. What was itTashu said? Hide in theshadows and strike whenyourenemypasses.

—

Seems we do have aproblem, after all, Sinjirthinks,duckingblasterfireand leaping up, runningacrossgamblingtables.Hekicksa setof chitsup intotheair—thegambler,somedegenerate nerf herderwith a sweat-slick face,chases after his lost chitsandgetsblaster fire in theback for his trouble. Sinjirknocks a set of dice off

another table, then nearlytrips on a gambling wheelbefore taking a runningleap—He catches the bar top

across his middle. The airgoes out of his lungs.Blaster fire peppers thewood and sends bottlesandglassesspinningtotheground, shattering. Sinjiroofs but still clambers upandover,holdinghisarms

above his head to protecthis skull from the fallingbarware.Then everything goes

quiet.Hethinks:Isitover?Ashadowdescendsover

him.The bartender looks

down. Greasy grin on hisface. His chin still greenandslimywithleaf-spit.

“Yougotaproblem,”thebartendersays.Then the bartender

drops a fist like a fallingmeteor. IthitsSinjir likeamalfunctioning bay-doorpiston, and his eyes rollback in his head aseverything goes slipperyand he tumbles towardunconsciousness.

“We have a problem,” thedriversays.Young Pade sees the

smoke over the hills longbefore he sees what’smaking it.Though theboy

cancertainlytakeaguess.He looks around at the

otherrecruits—orpotentialrecruits, anyway. They’reall whispering about itnow. Murmuring andopening the windows onthe transport and lookingout.The hoverbus driver—a

bewhiskered, round-muzzled Nimbanel—looksback with eyes that look

beadyunderitshugebrow.TheNimbanelsaystoPadeandtheotherboys:“You…you tell them. You tellthem I don’t work for theEmpire. I’m just a driver!Youallknowthat,right?”“Go on, mister,” Pade

says. “Just turn aroundandgetusthere.”The Nimbanel mutters

somethingmeanunderhisbreath.

Oneoftheotherboys—apudge-bellied kid withdark, coarse hair and aspeckling of moles on hischeeks—turns around andstares over the seat atPade. “You think we’redonefor?”“I dunno,” Pade says

with a shrug. “Wait andsee,Ifigure.”Heputsonatoughface.

It’s a lie, though. Because

he’sscared,too.The bus continues on,

riding over the brokenroadsofUyter.Hillsrisingup on either side—thegrass once green, nowbleached pale. And soon,tuckedbetweenthosehills:the Imperial stormtrooperacademyhere.It’s burning. Or, rather,

it has burned.Half of it istorn open by the tearing

handsofold fire, andnowblack smoke drifts frominsideit.On the ground, a dozen

deadstormtroopers.Amongthem:othermen

andwomen.NotImperials.Simple vests and utilitybelts. They have rifles andblasters. All the boys onthebusleanoutandstare.They,likePade,haveneverseen weapons up close.

Pitchforks and spannersand a few bluntinstruments here andthere.Mostly, they’re farmboys. Locals from thefringes. Some of themrecruitedbyofficers.Someofthem,likePade,

weresimply…sentaway.Senthere.To a place that is no

longeraplace.

The bus stops as one ofthemen—oneoftherebels,Padethinks—stepsinfrontof the vehicle. The dooropens and the Nimbanelsteps out. The boys stayseated, not surewhat theyshoulddo.Pade thinks to look

tough.Hegetsoffthebus.The Nimbanel and the

rebel,amanwithascruffybeard and a scar running

acrossthesideofhisneck,arearguing.TheNimbaneliswavinghishandssaying,“No,no,thesekidsarenotmy responsibility. No! Iwon’tdrivethemback.I’mnotpaidforthat—”“Sir,” the rebel says, “as

you can see, the Imperialacademy is closed. Thisisn’t a place for kidsanymore—”And then he sees Pade

standing there. The manturnsawayfromthedriverandlooksdown.“Mister,”Padesays.“Son,” the man says.

“We’ll get youbackon thebusandonyourwayhomein two twitches of a nerftail—”“I don’t want to go

home.”“Just the same, home

isn’there.”“Home isn’t anywhere,

then. My parents kickedmycandowntheroadandmoved on when I wasn’tlooking. Went off to benomads somewhere. It’sthe Imperial academy forme,orit’snowhere.”Therebelchewsonthat.

He looks off at the hills.Then to theNimbanel andthe bus and back to Pade.

“What’llyoudoifyoucan’tgohere?”“Itoldyou,gonowhere.”

Pade leans, lowers hisvoice. “Youkill thekids inthat academy? Ones whowere gonna be babystormtroopers?”“What?Stars,no.”“What’d you do with

them?”“You sure stick your

noseinit,don’tyou,kid?”“Maybe that’s why my

parents fixed to get rid ofme.”The man sighs. He

kneels down. “Some ofthose kids will go home.Someof themareheadingout to the New Academyon Chandrila. If they’re ofanage,we’lltakethemandteach them how to besoldiers,iftheycaretojoin

the cause. Otherwise, it’sbacktotheirparents.Ortoorphanages.”Pade thrusts out his

chin. “Then that’s where Iwanna go, too. The NewAcademy.”“Hm.”Themannarrows

his eyes. “All right. Here.”He dives in his pockets,pulls out a handful ofcredits, then turns andslaps them into the

Nimbanel’s palm. To Padehesays:“CentralCity’sstillin the Empire’s backpocket, so make sure hedrivesyoutoRiverbreaker.Shuttle’s leaving theretomorrow morning forHannaCity.Beonit.”Pade nods. “Thanks,

mister.”“Otherboysarewelcome

tocatchthatride,too.Youtellthem.”

“Iwill.”Padeturns,thencalls over his shoulder.“Thanks.MaytheForcebewithyou,mister.”“Youtoo,kid.Youtoo.”

A strange thing, being aparent. A parent raises achild with the expectationthatit’sherjobtoteachthe

childhow to…well, how todoeverything.Howtoeat,live, breathe, work, play,exist.Amotheradvisesherchild on how to deal withbullies at the academy, orwhat streets are safe andwhatonesaren’t,orhowtodrive a bala-bala cartwithout crashing it into awall. The parent teachesthese things because thechild needs to know.

Because the child isn’tcapable. Not the child’sfault, of course. They’reborn a clean slate. It’s theparent’sjobtoputthefirstwriting on the wall, tomake sure that writingserves as an instructionmanual. To ensure, well,thekiddoesn’tdietryingtofigureouthowtolive.It’s hard to get out of

that mode. Hard to see

when one’s child has castoffthemantleofignoranceand figured out how to dothings.Orjusthowtobe.And right now, Norra

isn’tseeingit.Becausehersonisabout

tokillthemboth.Sheleapsonthespeeder

bikeandTemminlaunchesbackoutof theMoth’sbay

doorslikeajogan-batwithits wings on fire. She tugson his arm, points towardthe jungle—the rain forestisthick,andit’seasytogetlost out there. Thesestormtroopers aren’twilderness-ready. They’renot proper speeder pilots.Out among the trees andvines, Temmin and Norrawill be able to disappear.Maybeevendown into the

canyon.But Temmin doesn’t

listen.Listening,itseems,isno

longer his strong suit. Heused tobe a good listener.A good kid. Alwaysheadstrong, sure, but helistened to his mother.Took her advice, did whatshetoldhimtodo.That has changed.

Plainly.Shetellshimtogotoward the jungle, and hegoes the other way.Temminpointsthespeederbacktowardthecity.The streets are too

narrow! They can takesome of the mainthoroughfares, yes—whipthespeederdowntheCBDoracrossMain66—buttheformerwillbechokedwithpeople, and the latter

choked with vehicles andherd animals. She tries toyellathimagain, trying toget him to turn backaround and head towardthe rain forest, but hebrushesheroff—Justaslaserfirekicksup

mud and stone aroundthem.A glance over her

shoulder reveals: twospeeder bikes, coming up

fast.The stormtroopers are

hunched forward,throttling the speeders totheir maximum. Redblaster fire sears the airfrom underneath thebladed steering vanes atthe fore of each vehicle.Sheyells inTemmin’s ear:“Incoming!” And he givesher a quick nod and thencutsthespeedersharplyto

theright.Hetakesitoverasmall berm, and thenbeneath them is theshattered plastocrete thattakes them right down awindingalley.Wallswhippastoneach

side. Norra finds herbreath trapped in herlungs. Just a fewcentimeters one way oranother, and they’re toast.If she moves even a little

bit,thewallwillweardownherkneecaporelbowlikeamacrosander,andthat’llbetheendof them.Suddenlythe speeder jerks up andover a bundle of wirefencingcrossingthealley.Behind them, both the

pursuing speedersmanagethe same jump. One afterthe other—now in a line,not next to each other.Whichmeansthatonlyone

can fire its cannon. Ashrewd move by her son.Maybe.Aslongastheydon’tdie

from taking a too-sharpturn.Temmin does indeed

take a sharp turn—aroundthe bend of an octagonalbuilding.Anoldbank, shethinks, which meansthey’re headed toward themarkets, toward the CBD

avenue. There, a widerplace to drive, but moredangerous, too. All thosepeople will complicate theequation. Like asteroidsfloatinginwide-openspace—and the last thing shewants to see is whathappens when they clipsome poor ship merchantor quilka-leaf vendor andturnhimintoaredspray.Ahead, between a stack

of boxes, the way towardtheCBD.Blaster fire pocks the

boxes. They jump andjudder.Theturncomes—And Temmin doesn’t

takeit.Hekeepsgoingstraight.Ahead, a low wall. A

dead end. Just a pile ofjunk: more bundles of

wire, more crates, a pieceofcorrugatedaluminum.She begins yelling

Temmin’s name—“Temmin! Temmin!”—but he just gives her athumbs-up.Heyellsback:“Trustme!”Trustinherson.Trust him to make the

rightdecisions.Trust him not to kill

him, her, and those twostormtroopershotontheirtail.Thewallapproachesfast

—boxes,wire,sheetmetal.It’sthensherealizes:He’s not going to go

straightforward.He’s going to take them

straightup.Onequickshot fromthe

blaster at the fore of his

speederandthealuminumdoesaquickhop—it slidesa bit to the left, creating ashallowramp.Heturnsthespeeder just so, and nextthing Norra knows, herstomach is left somewhereabout threemetersbehindthem,downontheground.Norrafeelshersontense

up. And thenturbothrusters push themforward,fastandhard.

The speeder zips up theramp, over the boxes, andalong the top of the shortwall. A wall that’sscalloped, the concreteshapedwithwavycontours—and the speeder followsthem like a boat skippingacross rollicking tides.They zip fast withsickening dips and Norraholdsonfordearlife.Behind them,oneof the

stormtroopers tries thesamemove.The front foil catches at

the lipof thewall,andtheback end of the vehicleflips up and over. Thestormtroopershrieksashepitches forward, thewholespeeder crashing down onhim.Itburstsintoaplumeofflame.Theotherspeedermakes

the jump. Through the

belching fire of the firstspeederitroars,cannononfull-auto.Pepperingtheairaround them withscreaminglaserblasts.Temmin cuts to the

right.Hetakesthespeederover a plank sitting catty-corner from the shortwallto a taller one: a housewith a decrepit rooftopgarden long gone unused.They whip past a saggy-

bellied, shaggy-chinnedLutrillian sitting in a half-collapsed lawn chair, ahalf-eaten amphibian inhisgrip.Hebarely startlesastheyzoompast.Temmin, she realizes,

isn’tplanningondroppingthem down to the streetlevelatall. The rooftops—of course. You want totravel Myrra, most peoplestick to the streets. But

Temmin and his friendsalways used the rooftops.Making jumps frombuilding to building thatwouldcauseNorratosnapher ankle like a piece ofbrittle driftwood. Temminand the others set upplanks and sheets of tin.Ropes and balance poles,too.Heknowstherooftopsof

thiscitywell.

And it occurs to her:Thisprobablyisn’tthefirsttime he’s taken a speederbikeuphere,either.Herson,sherealizes,isa

damngoodpilot.And a smaller voice

chidesher:Justasrecklessasyou,too.Suddenly—a shower of

sparks behind them. Hertailbone vibrates as a

blaster hit clips the backend of their own speeder.The vehicle starts towobble and drift just astheycrossoveranothersetofplankstoanevenhigherrooftop. But Temminmanagestokeepitsteady.He reaches back, grabs

his mother’s hands, andpulls her forward, placingboth her hands on thehandlebarcontrols.

“Your turn!” he yells.Then starts to squirmunderherarm.“What?” she yells back,

inpanic.Ahead, a metal pole

thrust up out of agreenhouse at a forty-five-degree angle. As Temminsnakeshiswaytothebackofthespeeder—leavingherin control of it—he yells:“Meet me at Aunt

Esmelle’s!”Temmin,no!He jumps off the

speeder.She continues to rocket

forward—ahead,acobbled-together crossing of hullmetal between one roofand another. Norra thinksto jam on the brakes, butdoingthatnow?She’dlosetoo much momentum.

Probably drop the frontendofthespeederovertheedge of the wall and gooverwithit.And so she does what

shecan.Sheaccelerates.Behindher,sheseesher

son spin around themetalbar likeacircusperformer—whendid he learn to dothat? she wonders—andthenheswingsbackdown,landing right behind the

stormtrooper on theImperial’sspeeder.Norra takes her own

jump, crests another roof,andthen:brakes.Thespeederproteststhe

fastdeceleration.Shecocksthe maneuvering controlsso that she skids toahalt,paralleltotheroof’sedge—Her heart sinks when

shesees:

There, on the roof, astormtrooper. Supine andstill.And going the other

direction:Temmin’s new ride,

disappearing back downthewaytheycame.Norra grits her teeth,

pivots the vehicle backaround—but she hasn’tridden a speeder in years.

Everything feels clumsy,andevenasshethrottlesitforward again, therealization hits her like afisttothechin:I’velosthim.

Thunderthrottlestheskiesover Myrra, lightningflicking between bands ofdark clouds like a

dewback’s tongue.Darkness has settled in,and with it the rains havecome.Norrastaresoutthewindow. Rain streaks thecircular glass. Every boomand flash makes Norraflinch.“I’msurehe’sfine,”says

her sister, Esmelle.Esmelleisolderthansheisbyagoodnumberofyears—when Norra was born,

Esmelle was alreadyrunning around the citywithagangofhooligansallherown.She’s losta lotofthat rebellious edge sincethen—now a womancontent to sit in her homeon Orchard Hill, as ifwaiting todieand join therestofthegravesthatwaitjust up the road. Gravesunderneath fruiting trees.SO THAT WE MAY EAT OF

THOSE WE LOST ANDREMEMBERTHEM,aplaquesays on the gate into theorchard. That idea alwaysturnedNorra’sstomach.Norra turns to meet

Esmelle. She’s been tryingto keep the anger insidethebottle,allstopperedup.Butshe’snervous,onedge,and she feels the bottleshaking,theglasscracking.“Really? Why would you

saythat?”Esmelle, a wispy thing,

just smiles. “He’s alwaysbeenfine.”“Yes. Fine. Perfectly,

utterly fine. Like how hedoesn’t live herewith you,buthowyoulethimliveinour old house. And howyoulethimturnit intohisown personal little blackmarket, where he getsthreatened by…by

criminals, where he stealsand sells the-stars-know-what,where—”Esmelle, always the

smiler, pats Norra on theshoulder. “Norra, honey,you should be proud ofhim. You raised him to besmart. Independent. Youcan’t be mad at him forbeingwhatyoutaughthimtobe.”Norra laughs—a hollow,

bittersound.“I’mnotmadathim,Esme.I’mtickedatyou.Ilefthiminyourcare.Youweresupposedtobeaparenttomyson.AndnowIfindyou’vegiventhatup.Didyouevereventry?”“Did I?” The smile falls

away from Esmelle’s facelike the last leaf on astorm-shooktree.Hereyesnarrow. Good, Norrathinks. Let’s do this. Let’s

scrap this out. “Might Iremind you that you, dearNorra, took off. I thoughtbetter than to chase somefool’s crusade halfwayacross the galaxy like you,choosing to make otherpeople your responsibilityand not your own blood-born son. And—” HereEsmelle makes anexasperated sound, pfah!“—and if you wonder why

the boy enjoys hangingaround criminals, might Iremind you that your ownhusbandwas—”Norra raises the back of

herhand.“Don’t.”Esmelle blinks.

Swallows.Asifsherealizesshedanced rightup to theedge of the cliff and nowit’s breaking apartunderneath her feet. “I’msimply saying: The boy’s

lastmemoryofhisfatherisof them coming anddragging him out into thestreets like a commonthief-runner.”“Brentin was a good

man.He carriedmessagesfor the Rebellion evenbefore there was aRebellion.Andnowthere’smore than that. There’s anew dawn, a new day, aNew Republic. In part

because of people likehim.”Esmellesniffs.“Yes.And

Isupposeyou thinkyou’rejust such a hero, as well.You saved the galaxy, butlost your son. Worth it,dearsister?”Why…you venomous

canyonadder…Esmelle’s wife, Shirene,

steps in. She secures

Esmelle’s elbow with herown, giving the woman akiss on the cheek. “Esme,how about a hot tea? I’veleft the thermajug on thestovetopinthekitchen.”“Yes. Yes, that sounds

good. I’ll…I’ll get tea.”Esmelleoffersastiffsmile,then fritters off as she iswonttodo.Shirenesighs.Shirene is

the opposite of Esmelle in

many ways—Esmelle isthin,reedy,paleasaghost.Shirene is rounded,pillowy, skin as dark as ahandfulofoverturnedsoil.Herhairisshortandcurlyand close to the scalp;Esmelle’s is long, a silvercascadedownherback.“Shirene,youdon’tneed

to step into the middle ofthis—”Shirene clucks her

tongue.“Please,Norra.I’min this. I have skin in thisgame. I love Temmin likemy own son. But what Ineed you to realize is thathe isn’t our son.” Norrastarts to protest, butShirene shushes her—andsomehow, Shirene has themagical ability to makethat shushing feel gentleand welcome, soft andnecessary. “Don’t

misunderstand me. I justmean that we were neverready for this. For him.He’sgotyoursparkinhim.Yours and Brentin’s. He’schallenging because he’ssmart as a whip-snake,savvy as a sail-bird.Forgive Esmelle. Forgiveme.Wejustweren’tready.And you were gone, sowhatchoicedidwehave?”“I had to go. I had to

fight.”“I know. And I’m sorry

youneverfoundBrentin.”Norrawincesatthat.It’s

likebeingslapped.Shirenedoesn’tmean it thatway—the look on her face tellsNorrathatthethoughtisasincere one, and not abarbed lash. But it stingsjustthesame.“Hewasn’tacriminal.”

“I know. And Esmelleknowsit,too.”Outside, the sky splits

with a close clap ofthunder. Rain batters theside of the house. Normalfor this time of year—themausim-storms havealreadycomeandgoneandusheredinthewetseason.“Here’s the stars’ own

truth,” Shirene says.“Temmin takes care of us

more thanwe take care ofhim. He helps pay forthings. Shows up at thestart of the week with abasket of fruits andbread,sometimes some wyrg-jerkyorsomeofthatspicyarguez sausage. If ourevaporator or our flood-pumpbreaks,heshowsupwiththepartsandthetoolsand he fixes it. We’re acoupleofoldcluckers,and

he takes care of us good.We’llmisshim.”“You can come with us.

That offer is still on thetable—”“Pssh. Norra, better or

worse,weput down roots.We’re as grown into thishill as the orchard up theroad, as settled as thebones inthedirt.Youtakeyour boy, though, and gethimsomewherebetter.”

Norrasighs.“It’snotlikehewantstogo.”“Well,he’sbuiltupalife

here.Thatshopofhis—”Thatshopofhis.IthitsNorralikeabeam

oflight.“That’s where he went,”

she says, scowling.“Temmin was neverplanningtocomehere.Hewent back to his shop.” I

never should’ve takenhimaway from there in thefirstplace.“Well,that’sprobablyall

right—”“It’s not all right. Those

criminals I mentioned?They’llbe looking forhim.Damnit!I’mtoocaughtupin everything—I didn’teven see it. Thestormtroopers didn’t gethim. He just bailed.” She

sighs, presses the heels ofher hands into her eyes.Hardenough thatsheseesstarsstreakingandmeltingacrosstheblackbehindherlids.“Ineedtoborrowyourbala-bala.”Shirene offers a sad

smile. “Of course, Norra.Anythingyouneed.”

—

Damn this rain! Temminthinks.Heliesonhisbellyon the rooftop of MasterHyor-ka’s dao-bensteamedbunshopthatsitsacross the alley from hisown—and though he sitsunder a tarp, he’s stillsoaked through like a red-eyed silt-rat that drownedin a cistern. The rain pinshim there like a divinehand.

He again lifts themacrobinoculars to hiseyes. Flicks them over tonightvision.Two of Surat Nuat’s

lackeys—a potbelliedRodian and that oil-skinned Herglic—continueto do what they’ve beendoing for the last hour.They pitch junk fromTemmin’s shop into thestreetwithaclang,clatter,

and splash. And then thesame pair of Kowakianmonkey-lizards descendfrom the nearby rooftopandcanopytopickthroughthe shiniest bits beforefleeingoncemore,cacklingliketinywizenedlunatics.Inside, he hears more

banging.Drilling.Yelling.They’retryingtofindout

how to get into the sub-layer. They want what he

stolefromSurat.Not that he knowswhat

exactly it is that he stolefromSurat.A weapon, he figures.

Hastobe.And whatever it is, it’s

hisnow.NotthatSullustanfrag-head’s.Whentheyhavethedoor

open,hecanseejustinside—and there, he sees the

familiarpointedfeetofhisown personal B1 battledroid bodyguard: MisterBones. The feet are still.They look collapsedagainst the legs, whichmeans the rickety droid iscollapsed and in storagemode.Worse,Temmincansee a slight blue glowaroundthemetal.That, he suspects, is the

glow from an ion lock. It

explainswhyMisterBoneshasn’t been responding tohis comlink. They’ve gotthe droid locked up andshutdowninanionfield.Smartmove.And it leaves Temmin

with one less option thanbefore. In fact, Bones washis best chance to reclaimthe shop quickly (iftemporarily): Send therefurbed,moddedB1droid

in towhip everybody’s tailso that Temmin couldsneak inandgetback intothe sub-layer to securehisstuff.With that option off the

table, itmeans the longer,morearduouspathawaits:Hehastogofindoneofthebolt-holes into the oldcatacombs beneath thecity, then wend his wayback to his own shop. He

knowstheway,butitwon’tbe fast. Better to get to it,then. And hope he getsthere before Surat’sentourage of space-brainsfigure out how to gainentry.Temminstartstoputhis

binocsaway—Butthen,offtohisright?

Ashrillcackle.Heknowsthatsound.

Suddenly a flash ofmovement—a dartingshape moves toward him,and one of the monkey-lizards has seized hisbinocs. The little demonhisses and spits at him,then pecks at his handswhenhestartsplayingtug-of-warwithit.“Get!Off!”hegrowls.But then something

cannonballs into the small

ofhisback.The second monkey-

lizard.That onebegins clawing

athisearsandbiting tuftsof hair off his scalp.Laughingall thewhile.It’senough of a distraction.The binocs slip from hisgripandthemonkey-lizardgambols about, delightinginitsprize.

Temmin lurches to hisfeet,lungingforit—And the second one

drops to the ground anddartsinfrontofhim.Hisanklecatchesonthe

creature’s body—its tailaround his thigh, giving ahard tug. Next thing heknows, Temmin is goingtail-over-teakettle as hetumbles over the edge ofthe roof. He hits the

awning over the dao-benshop and rolls off it,landing in a deep puddle.Splash.He splutters and spits,

lifting himself up. Waterstreamingdown inasmalldirty waterfall, his hairnow in his eyes. Temminwipeslocksaway—And the curled tip of a

giant ax blade hooks justinside his nostril and tugs

his head up.Ow, ow, ow!The Herglic stands there,its mouth twisted into asinister grin—rows androws of serrated teethsliding together with thesound of a rasp runningacrosswood.The Herglic cries: “It’s

thekid!Wegotthekid!”Above, the monkey-

lizardschantandcackle.

—

He staggers through theforest.Theburning forest.Bits of brush smoldering.A stormtrooper helmetnearby, charred and halfmelted.A small fire burnsnearby. In the distance,the skeleton of an AT-ATwalker.Itstopblownopenin the blast, peeled openlike a metal flower. That

burns,too.Bodiesallaround.Some of them are

faceless,nameless.Tohim,at least. But others, heknows. Or knew. There—the fresh-faced officer,Cerk Lormin. Good kid.Eagertoplease.JoinedtheEmpire because it’s whatyou did. Not a truebeliever, not by a longstretch.Not far fromhim:

CaptainBlevins.Definitelya true believer. A froth-mouthed braggart andbully, too. His face is amask of blood. Sinjir isglad that one is dead.Nearby, a youngwoman:He knows her face fromthe mess, but not hername, and the insigniarankonherchesthasbeencoveredinblood.Whoevershe was, she’s nobody

now.Mulch for the forest.FoodforthenativeEwoks.Juststardustandnothing.We’re all stardust and

nothing,hethinks.An absurd thought. But

no less absurd than theonethatfollows:Wedidthistoourselves.He should blame them.

The rebels. Even now hecan hear them

applauding. Firingblastersintotheair.Hicksand yokels. Farm boywarriors and pipe-fitterpilots.Goodforthem.They deserve their

celebration.Just as we deserve our

graves.

—

A pebble wakes him up.Pock!Itbeansoffhishead—a head that feels like itsbeen stepped on by thecrushing leg of a passingImperial walker—andlands next to his face.Clattering intoasmallpileofotherpebbles.Sinjirgroansandtriesto

stand.Thegroundbeneathhim

shifts and swings—and he

feels suddenly like he’sfalling, even though he’snot.Vertigoassailshim.He blinks. Tries to get

hisbearings.He’s in a cage. Iron.

Rusted. Shaped like abirdcage, except person-sized, though only barely.It dangles from a thick,heavy-gaugechain.Achainthat ascends through thejagged, dripping rock

above into a long, darkwell.Belowhim—Isnothing.A massive rift, a black

chasmbetweencraggy,wetwalls. Walls barely lit bybraziersoflightalongafarwall—a wall that sports anarrow metal walkwaybolted into the glisteningrock.Afigurewalksalongthat

path. A Sakiyan, by hishairless scalp and ink-black skin. The guard hasin his hand the end of aleash, the leash wound uparound his wrist all theway to the elbow. At theother end of the rope? Along, red-eyed beast. Skinasroughandraggedasthewall it passes. A narrowmaw with many teeth. Asallowbellydraggingalong

theground.“You’re awake” comes a

voicefrombehindhim.Sinjir startles. It causes

his own cage to swing,which in turn makes hishead pound harder. Heidlyconsidersthrowingup.There, behind him:

another half dozen cageslikehis.Only two of them are

occupied.In one: a skeleton. Not

human, thoughhumanoid.Somethingwith a horn onitshead.Whatlittleskinisleft on those bones looksliketatteredragsandstripsofrottenleather.Intheother:It’sher.The

Zabrakbountyhunter.Thankfully, it’s she who

spoke. Not the skeleton.

Because…gross.“You,” he groans. “You

were throwing pebbles atme.”“Yes. Me. The one you

triedtobuy.”“Not like that. Not like

youthink.”“Thenlikehow?”He leans his forehead

against the cool iron.Water drips down on his

head,runsdowntotheendof his nose (a bead ofbloodhangs thereuntilhesneezes it away: areturningmemorythathitshim like a seismic wave).“You really don’trememberme,doyou?”“Idonot.”Disappointment pulls

him down like quicksand.“I thought we shared aspecialmoment.”

“Clearly,wedidnot.”“Endor,” he says. “After

everything.Aftertherebelssecuredtheirvictory,I…wesaweachother.”She hesitates. “Oh.

Right.”“So,youremember.”“Isuppose.”“Well, come now. Don’t

you think that’ssomething? A moment of

cosmic significance? Thegalaxy trying to tell ussomething? I mean, whatarethechances?”She sniffs. “I don’t have

adroidaroundtotellme.”“Let’s just assume

astronomical,then.”“Andthatmeanswhat?”“I…I don’t know, I just

expect it meanssomething.” Suddenly, a

pebble appears out of thehalfdarknessandthwackshim in the head again.“Ow!Do you have to keepdoingthat?I’mawake.”“Everything means

something, but not everysomethingmatters. Idon’tbelieve in cosmicsignificance. I don’t carefor magic or the Force orkissingachitandthrowingit into a fountain for good

luck. I care about what Icansee,taste,smell,and—most important—what Icando.Youmeannothingtomeuntil youdo. You’rearebel?”He chews on his lip.

“Yes?”“Whyareyouhere?”“I came to see Surat to

find a way off this damp,jungly rock. Incidentally,

didyouseewhathappenedto my friend? The tail-head?”“They carried his body

out after they draggedyoursaway.”“Ishe…?”“Dead,yes.”Sinjir shuts his eyes.

Says a small, meaninglessprayer for the eager-eyedfool. What was his name?

Orgadomie, Orlagummo,Orgie-Borgie, whoeveryouare,youdidn’tdeservethat.“Why are you here?” he

asks.But the Zabrak ignores

the question. She cranesherneck,staringout.He follows her gaze. On

thewalkway,theguardandthe leashed creature

disappear into a tunnelandaregone.“I’mplanningongetting

outofhere,”shesays.“Ah,well.Good for you.

CanIcome?”She reaches up, fidgets

withherscalp.Hewatchesas her fingers drift alongthebarbedhornsthatforma thorny crown on herhead—she grimaces as she

breaksoneofthemoffwithaloudsnap.Hesays,“Thatlookslike

ithurt.”“It didn’t. It’s fake.” She

teasessomethingoutofthehorn—something metal.Like a key. She begins touse it on the lock at thedoor.Alockpick.Clever.

“You can come with meifyou’reuseful,”shesays.“I’m very useful. A very

usefulrebel,indeed.”The lock pops, and her

doorclangsopen.“I’mnothearingmuchin

evidenceofthat.”She jumps out of the

cage backward, catchingthelipofitwithherhands.The whole thing swings

backandforth.TheZabrakswings a few good times,then bends her back in away that Sinjir is fairlycertain would shatter hisspine like a falling icicle.Her legs swing all thewayup,herfeetclosingaroundthe top of the cage. Herhandsletgo.Herlegsswingherupper

torsobackup.“You’re…limber,” he

says.“Andyouappearuseless.

Condolences.”She quickly climbs the

chain above her cage,disappearing into thehollow space. No, no, no!She’s his one chance!He’sin this cage because hetriedtosaveher!“Wait!”hecalls.“I’mnot

a rebel! I’m an Imperial!”

He shouts louder: “An ex-Imperial loyalty officer! Istole a rebel’s clothes onEndor! And his…” Butshe’s gone. Her cage hasalready stopped swinging.“Identity.”Andhislifeandhis ship and apparentlyhismoralcenter.Wellthen.He groans. Again

considerspuking.

But then: His cageshudders.AndtheZabrak’supside-

down face appears levelwithhisown.She scowls. “A loyalty

officer. You just becameinteresting. And useful.”The bounty hunter holdsup her lock pick. “You’regoing tohelpmecatchmyquarry. That’s the deal.Take it and I open this

door. Leave it, and Suratwill likely sell you to theEmpire. They don’t caremuchfordeserters,Ihear.Once, there might havebeen a tribunal, but thesedaystheywillshootyouinthestreetlikealowlycur.”“I’lltakethedeal,aslong

asyouhelpmegetoff thisplanetafter.”Sheconsidersit.“Done.”

As the Zabrak goes toworkonthelock,shesays:“I’mJasEmari.”“SinjirRathVelus.”“Apleasure.Ifyoutryto

frag me over, I’ll gut youwhereyoustand.”“Noted.”Thedoorpopsopenand

she offers a hand. “Let’sgo.”

—

Toomata Wree—akaTooms—pokes around theboy’sjunkshop.Theothershave gone. Once the boyhimself showed up, all thedigging and messingaround in here stopped.Surat said they’ll get theinformation from the kidproper-like, because whilethe kid’s a punk, he’s just

that. He’ll fold like a badgamblerandtellthemhowtogetintothedown-belowof this joint, so they canstealbackSurat’sprizeandany other goodies theyfind.Tooms fishes in his

pocket, pulls out somenumbspray. He gives hisbruised face a couple ofgood mistings—psst psstpsst—and instantly the

pain subsides underneatha carpet of sweetanesthesia.That battle droid did a

numberonhim.A battle droid, of all

things.Kidmightbeapunk,but

kid’salsogottalent.Whatever. Right now,

Tooms looks around theshop. Maybe he’ll find

somethinghereforhisgirl,Looda. He’s on the outswith her (the samerigmarole: You work toomuch, Toomata, you donot care about me, if youlike Surat Nuat so muchwhydoyounotmakehimyourlover),soalittleprizemight go a long way. Butall this stuff? Droid partsand conduits and piecesblownoffspaceships.Over

thereareevaporatorparts.Below them: vaporatorparts. Then circuit boardsinahalf-rottenbox.Thenabox full of wonky thermaldetonators—paperweightduds.Thenheseessomething:Theheadof a translator

droid. Tarnished up, butstillshiny.Looda,shelikesshiny things. Maybe hecoulddosomethingwithit.

Putacouplebloodorchidsin it, or hammer open thehead and use it as a…adish.Hereachesup for it,his

fingers grabbing for theeyes—The head doesn’t budge

off the shelf. It’s bolteddown.Hepullsharder—And the eyes suddenly

sink into the droid’s skullwithawhir-click.Adooropensup.Asmall

windkicksup through theopenspaceandtheRodiansees a set of steps down.Thisisit.This is it.This isthewayintothebasement!Into Temmin Wexley’sspecialstash.Toomsgrabsfor the comlink at his beltbutthenpauses.Maybeheshouldgodownthere,take

a quick look for himself.Youknow.ForLooda.He chuckles, then steps

towardthedoor.Behind him, a voice:

“Where is my son?” Awoman’svoice.The Rodian purses his

cracked,splitlips—thenhemoves fast, spinningaround, reaching to drawtheblasterathisside—

Thewomanshootsfirst.The shot takes him in

the stomach.He cries out,staggering backward as hetries to raise his ownblaster—but the womanshoots again, and hisweapon spins out of hishand. He clutches at hisseared,smolderingmiddle.She steps closer to him,

revealing her face underthe hood. A dark-eyed,

steely glare awaits. Herecognizes her from theshop that day. The scowlon her face is deep. Theboy’s mother thrusts thepistolunderhischin.“I’ll ask one more time:

Where is my son,Temmin?”

—

The boot presses down on

thebackofTemmin’sneck.His hands are pulled

taut behind his back,swaddled in chains andheld fast with a pair ofmagnetic manacles. Hetastesbloodanddust.“You stole from me,”

Surat says, pressing downwith his boot. Temmintries not to cry out, but ithurts,andasoundescapeshis throat without him

meaning—a wounded-animalsound.He’s here in Surat’s

office. It’s a spare, severeroom—redwallslinedwithmanacles. In themiddle,adesk whose surface ismadefromsomeSullustanfrozen in carbonite. Onthat desk is a blaster, acollectionofquillsinacup,a bottle of ink. The roomfeatures only one other

piece of furniture: a tallblack cabinet, sealed tightwithamaglock.“I…didn’t…,” Temmin

says.“Itwasanaccident.Ididn’tknow—”He’s yanked up off his

feet. The Herglic does thelifting. Surat stands thereinfrontofhim,pursinghislips almost as if he wantsto kiss the air. TheSullustangangsterrunsan

indexfingerunderhisowncheek flaps, flicking dirtaway with thumb andfingertip. “Youare lying tome, boy. And even if youwerenotlying,whatdoesitmatter? You have slightedmeandthatslightmustberepaid in kind. Otherwise,howwillthatlook?”“Itwilllookmerciful—”The Sullustan grabs

Temmin by the throat.He

squeezes. The blood startsto pound in Temmin’stemplesashewheezesandgurgles, trying desperatelyto catch a breath—hiswhole face starts to throb.Blackness drifts in at theedges of his vision likepoolsofspilledoil.“The only Mercy I have

ever had was a Corellianslave girl. She was nice tome. I was nice to her.

Mostly.”Then the criminal

overlord lets go. Oxygenrushes back in throughTemmin’s burning throat.He gasps and coughs, spitdanglingfromhislip.TheHerglickickshimin

the back of the knee andTemmin falls once more.And with his arms behindhisback,thebesthecandois take the hit on his

shoulder so his headdoesn’t snap against thehardmetalfloor.“Let me tell you who I

am,” Surat says. “So youknow what I can do. Ikilled my own mother fordaringtospeakbacktome.Welivedinawind-harvesttunnel on Sullust, and Ithrew her into the blades.Whenmyfatherfoundout,heofcoursewantedtohurt

me like I hurther, butmyfather? He was a soft,pliableman.Hetriedtohitme and I cut his throatwith a piece of kitchencutlery. It wasmy brotherthat proved the greatestchallenge. We fought foryears.Backandforth,fromthe shadows. He wasruthless. A worthychallenger, Rutar was.”TheSullustannods sagely,

as if lost in memory.Suddenlyheperkshisheadup and nods. “That’s himthere.” He points to thedesk. “He’s the one frozenin carbonite. Some say IlearnedthattrickfromtheEmpire,butIassureyou—theylearneditfromme.”“Please,” Temmin says,

bubbles of saliva formingand popping on his lips.“Givemeachancetomake

it right. I can repay you. Icanbeindebt—”“The question is, what

can I take right now? Anear? A hand? My brothertook my eye in our finalbattle—” Surat cocks hisheadsothattheSullustan’sone milky, ruined eye ispointed right at Temmin.“And that has become myway. My foes must leavehaving given something

vital. Not just money.Credits are so crass. Butsomething necessary. Apieceofthemselvesofferedand taken. What do youoffer?”“Not that, not that—you

cantakemyshop,youcanhave my droids, I’ll giveyou back the weapon,anything. Let’s just…let’stalkitout.Wecantalkthisout.Can’twe?”

Surat sighs. “I think thetime for talk has passed.”And then he thrusts hisfinger up in the air and abig smile parts his strangeface.“Ah!Yes.Youdoloveto talk, don’t you? I shalltakeyourtongue.”Temmin gets his legs

underneath him, tries tostand as he cries out inangerandfear.TheHerglicknees him in the side and

knockshimdown.The slick-skinned brute

laughs.Surat says, “Gor-kooda,

take him to the cistern. Iwill get my things.” ThenSurat saunters over to hiscabinet. He pulls back asleeve and reveals abracelet, then waves thebracelet over themaglock.Itpops.

As Gor-kooda theHerglic drags Temmin outof the room kicking andscreaming, Surat removesa long surgical gown andbegins to put it on.Hummingashedoes.

—

“This doesn’t seemessential.”“Itis.”

“He’snotourproblem.”“They’regoingtocutout

histongue.”“Oh,nowyouhaveasoft

spot? I thought you onlyhelped those who were—how did you put it?‘Useful.’ ”“The boy is useful. I

believe he can furnish therepairs on my gun.Otherwise, I would leave

him to his fate. Wouldyou?”Sinjir flinches at that.

Again the questions hithim:WhatkindofmanamI?AmIcapableofwalkingon past? Am I differentnow, or the same? Hechanged that day onEndor. Something turnedinside him. The short,sharp shock of losingeverything made him a

newperson.Buttowhatend?Whois

henow?A coward, or someone

bigger,someonebetter?The two of them crouch

down in the tunnelsbelowtheAlcazar,Surat’scantinaand criminal compound.After the bounty hunterhauled him up out of thedungeon he found himself

in, they crept through thisspacelookingforawayout—andtheretheyhappenedupon voices in the otherroom. Surat, as he abusedand threatened someyoungkid.The shuffling of the

Herglic’s feet approaches.With it come the boy’sgruntsandbleats—plustheechoing sound of his feetkicking the floor and the

walls as he struggles toescape.“You first,” Jashisses in

Sinjir’sear.Thensheshoveshimout

infrontoftheHerglic.The Herglic: a huge,

shinycreature.Tinyeyesina massive head. No neck.Tiny teeth in a massivemaw.Nochin.“Unnh?” the Herglic

says.Sinjirwinces, then stabs

out a foot to catch thebeast in the knee: acommon weak pointamong most humanoidbeings.Butit’slikekickinga tree. Thud. The Herglicjust looks down, thensnorts.Thealien letsgooftheboy’sboundwristsandgrabs Sinjir with bothhands—hands big enough

totieaspeederbikeintoapretzel twist. But slipperyhands, too, and Sinjirslides out of the grip andquickly goes for anotherweak point—the monster’sthroat. He flips around,trying like hell to get hisarmsaroundthecreature’sneck, but oops, no suchneck exists. The Herglicchuckles, then jams hismassive frame right, then

left, each time smashingSinjir into the wall—Wham!Wham!Sinjir sees stars, his

brain shook up like acocktail.A voice. Her voice. The

Zabrak’s.“Thenose,”shesays.Then thrusts the heel of

herhandforward.Smashing it right into

theHerglic’snose.Thealienhowls,hiseyes

squeezingshut.Somekindof saline slime-snotbeginspouring out of his nasalperforations, and the poorlug slaps at his snout likeit’sonfire.“Gettheboy,”shesays.Sinjir slides around the

hulking bulk of theHerglic’s frame, and helps

the boy stand. The kidlookslikesomerattystreetpunk.Tan skin, hair up ina messy knot. Someonehere has worked him overpretty good. Blooms ofbruising on his cheek. Asplitlip.“Rescue party,” Sinjir

says,offeringastiffsmile.Then he shoves the boy

forward. Out of the rangeof the Herglic’s meaty,

blindpawing.The kid looks at the

bounty hunter. “I knowyou,”hesays.“We’llget intothat,”she

says. “We need to go.Now.”

—

This isher life.This is thelife of a bounty hunter. Itnever comes easy. Many

try. They pretend at doingthe work, but aren’t readyfor what awaits. Becausethe job? The job nevercomes easy. You think thejob to extract someQuarrenbookiewho’sbeenstealingfromtheEmpireisgonnabeacakewalk,anditturns out he’s got sixsquid-head egg-broodbrothers and sisters wholookjustlikehim.Another

job comes and that oneseems easy, too—all youhavetodoiskillsomesoft-handed Black Sunaccountant, but then itturns out there’s a bountyonyou,andnextthingyouknow you’re trussed up inthe cargo bay of a shipbelonging to that slovenlyleper-head, Dengar, allwhile your prey hashightailed it to the far

corners of the Outer Rim.Youthink,yes, I’llkill thisspunky rebel princess-warrior like the Empirewants, but then youwatchtherebelsturnthetideandyou realize the winningside isn’t thewinning sideanymoreandifyouwannasurvive, you’d damn wellbetter change your skin orjustplaindisappear.You think: I’ll just take

out Arsin Crassus. Oneshot,boom.And then you realize:

He’s sitting there in awhole nest of Imperials.High-ranking players withbig bounties. And nextthing you know, you’refalling, your gun breaks,and a local gangster withdelusions of grandeurforces you to bust out ofhis prison and out of his

cantina, but when you goupstairs and plan to headrightforthedoor—You see an Imperial

officer standing therewithaquartetofstormtroopers.And another cadre ofSurat’s thugs—not tomention the ones thatwillprobably be coming upbehindyouanysecond.Becauseyoujustescaped

theirprison.

And because you justreleased another couple ofprisoners,too.The job is always

complicated.It’s never as easy as it

seems.Eventhehardonesalways endupharder.Butthis is the lifeJas took forherself.And she’s learned to

handle it without panic.

(Or, at least, withoutlettingthatpanicoutofitscage. Fear can be a strongmotivator, provided youcontrol it rather thanlettingitcontrolyou.)The cantina and

gambling house is full,even at this hour. Fullernow than it was earlier. Ahaze of smoke hovers inthe air, so thick you couldyou grab a handful and

form it into a ball. Thesoundoftheroomisalowroar: a din of voicesyelling, cards shuffling,knuckle-dice clatteringagainsttables.There—off to the side.A

small doorway out.Probablyintoanalley.Theshame door, they call it.Yougettoodrunkon’skee,you lose your pants in agameofKesselWheel,you

meet a new friend anddon’t want anybody to seeyou leave…you head outtheshamedoor.Ormaybeyou’re ushered out quietlybySurat’smen—nogoodtojustthrowthosepeopleoutonthestreet.Thattendstohave a chilling effect onanybody wanting to comein through the door andspendtheircredits.Thingis,theshamedoor

isalwaysguarded.Tonight, by an Ithorian

with one side of hishammerhead swaddled ina bandage. The wrappingcoveringoneeye.Jas doesn’t tell the

otherstheplan.She just points and

moves.Theyfollowafter.The Ithorian grunts as

heseesthemcomeup.The

aliengurglesatthemintheIthorian tongue, wavingthemoff—But then his one good

eye widens. He recognizesthem.InBasichesays,“Hey!”Jas hooks the inside of

her leg around his tree-trunk limb, spins aroundhim like he’s a pole, anduses the momentum to

smashthesideofhisheadintothewall.Hisothereyeshutsandhetoppleslikeafelledashsaptree.Sinjir goes to open the

door,thencursesunderhisbreath.“Bug-huggingpieceof star-burned flog-waste.”Hekicksthedoor.At first she doesn’t see

what he’s going on aboutbutthen—

The door is locked. TheIthorian was standing infront of the wheel-lock:three colored metal platesinside a circle, like wide,flat spokes. Hit the threeplates in the rightcombination,thenspinthewheel?Thedoorwillopen.Problem is: They don’thave the rightcombination.Her planet for an

astromechdroid.Shesensesmovement—Across the room, at the

fore of the cantina, astormtrooper is tappingthe Imperialofficeron theshoulder with one hand.Andwiththeother?He’s pointing right at

them.“We’re spotted,” she

hisses.

ShegivesaquickkicktotheIthorian’ship,catchinghisblasterholsterwiththetip of her boot. The gunjugglesoutandshepuntsitup into the air, where shecatchesit.Behind them, from the

door they just fled, comeanother trio of Surat’smen. “There!” a thin-necked Rodian cries. “Killthem!”

He raises his pistol—alittle BlasTech bolt-thrower—andfires.Jas grabs Temmin,

pirouettes,andmoveshimoutoftheway.Just as the blaster bolt

sizzles past, and hits thewheel-lock panel. Thepanel pops in a rain ofsparks, and hops off thewalllikeaframedpaintingduringagroundquake.Jas

grits her teeth—can’t getoutthatway.But then the door

shudders and whips open,sparking. The wholesystem malfunctioning intheirfavor.“Out!” she says, moving

the boy and the ex-Imperial out through thedoor and into thehammering rain. Shesidesteps more incoming

fire, then pivots and hopsoutthedoor—Astorm ragesoverhead.

Water runs down thecrooked alley: neon lighttrapped in it, moving likehot pink and glowslimesnakes.Therain iscomingdown so hard and so fastit’s hard to see. Then thesky flashes—blue pulses oflightning followed swiftlyby ground-shaking

thunder—and it forces theeyestoreadjust.Justpickadirection,she

thinks.Shetakesasteponeway

—“There!” comes a shout.

White shapes thatdirection. Stormtroopers.Coming around from thefront side of the Alcazar.Jastakesafewshots,then

pushes Sinjir and the boyintheotherdirection.Theyboltdownthealley.

Feet splashing. Rainthreatening to push themto the cracked plastocreteand drown them likeunwanted cats. The threeof them turn a sharpcorner—Lightning flashes again,

revealingadeadend.

Voices behind them.Moresplashing.The alley was supposed

to be their way out. Nowit’s just a murder chute.“We’re trapped,” Sinjirsays.Temmin shoulders into

her. “My cuffs. Shoot ’emoff!”Heturnshisbacktoward

her and cranes his arms.

Jasholdsoneofhiswrists,then puts the end of thestolen blaster against thecuffs—A red glow and rain of

embers as she pulls thetrigger. The bolt shrieksthrough the middle of theshackles, and Temminyelps, staggering forward,shaking both hands as ifthey’rebee-stung.“C’mon,” he says. “Look

—a storm ladder.” Hepoints and she follows hisfinger. At the end of thealley, sure enough, there’sa ladder—a jointed laddermadeofchainsbundledupatthetopofanarrowroof.Storm ladders. Right.During bad storms, theyget you off the groundquicklyincaseaflashfloodcomeschurningthrough.Alot of rooftops have them

here.The threeof themhurry

to the end. Temmin slamsupagainstthewall,feelingaround until he finds thebutton.Heslamsitwiththeheel

of his hand. Above hishead, a clicking as theladder is released from itsmooring—a rattle-clatteras it drops and smacksdownagainstthewall.

Footsteps. Shouts.Comingaroundthecorner,now—not even fifteenmetersaway.Ablasterbolthisses through the rain,hits the wall. Temminbegins to clamber up theladder—But up above, a metal

squeak. Then areverberatinggroan.The ladder above

becomes suddenly

unmoored, the bracketsholdingthechainsinplacepoppingfree.Temminfallsameter,landsonhisback,gasping.Jasyellsathimtomove,andhedoes—rollingoutofthewayjustintime,as the ladder mechanismcomes crashing downwherehisheadwasonly asecondbefore.Jashelpshimstand.Their one way up and

out of this dead end isgone.They await no more

incoming fire. Becausetheir enemies have them.What approaches is acurious mix of theImperialandthecriminal.Surat’s thugs at the edges,and the Imperials—oneofficer, four stormtroopers—comingdownthemiddle.Theofficerisabeak-nosed

prig, grinning like he getsfirst bite of the bird onFounder’sDay.“Drop that blaster,” he

calls over the roar of therain.Jas sucks in a breath,

ponders on the way out.Shove the boy and the ex-Imperial forward. Leap ontheir heads, use thestormtrooper helmets asstepping-stones—hoping

she can use the cover ofnight and thebadweatherto escape. Hoping they’llbecontentwith theirprizeofSinjirandtheboy.Itwon’twork.Toorisky.She growls, and lets the

blasterdropintothewaterstreaming around theirfeet. Lightning flashesagain.Andthat’swhenshesees

it.

—

That thing almost justcrushedmyhead,Temminthinksasthewatergurglespasthisears.Above,stormclouds glow pregnantwithlightning beforedischarging forked boltsacrossthesky.Thewoman—a bounty hunter, if he

remembers her right—reaches down, helps himup.He’s stilldazedwhenhe

realizes, the gig is up.Show’s over. They’re likedroids on the sunderingtable: about to be rippedupforscrap.TheytellJastodropthe

blaster.She hesitates, but then

doesit.Temmin’s heart sinks.

So close. Surat will takemore than his tongue forthis. But then, anotherpulseoflightning.And a smile spreads

acrosshisface.The light illuminates a

figure. The figure standson a rooftop above andbehind the pack of

Imperialsandthugs.Whenthe lightning flash is goneagain,oncemorethefiguremerges with the darkness.But to Temmin’s eyes, theshapeofthethingremainsemblazoned upon hisvision like an X-ray—heknows that skeletal shape.That beaked head. Theknobbyjoints.MisterBonesishere.The next lightning flash

—There he is. In midair.

Claw arms around hisknees. Spiraling throughopenspace,capturedinthestrobe-light pulse of thestorm, gone again oncedarknessresumes—Butnotreallygoneatall.The droid lands on the

ground with a hard clackandasplash.

Itbegins.

—

What happens next is likesomething out of anightmare, Sinjir thinks.(Though it seems to be anightmare dreamed up intheir favor.) They’restanding there, about tosurrender. Then he seessomething—movement in

the air, somethingspinning. Then he hearssomethingland.The Imperials and

Surat’s men are slow torespond.Tooslow,asitturnsout.Two strangled cries rise

up, swiftly silenced—andtwo stormtrooper helmetsvault up into the air,turning like pinwheels. It

occurs to him momentslater:Not thehelmets.Buttheheads.The two other troopers

turn—and so does Surat’scollection of thugs. Theofficer, slow to realize, isknocked to the ground assomething moves into themiddleof them,wading inlike a threshing machine.Some shape, some bonyconfiguration of limbs,

begins wheeling about—avibroblade buzzingthrough the air. Menscream. They dischargetheir weapons, but thisthing is fast, too fast,improbably fast, and theyend up shooting oneanotheras the thingducksunder,itswholebodybentandsuddenlyscuttlinglikea stirred-up spider. It getsunderneath theofficer just

ashe standsup.Thenhe’sdragged down to theground once more,thrashing about—bonescrack and shatter as theImperial’s screams are cutshort.Sinjirgapes.Whatmadhellisthis?But the boy is at his

elbow,urginghimon.“Wehavetogo!”

Sinjirnods,gamely.Yes,yestheydo.

—

They run. Past the chaos.Past the throng of bodiesbattlingasingularlyinsanebattle droid in the rain—the droid now crowing adiscordantsongashespinsabout, bladeout, knockingstormtroopers to the

ground and dispatchingSurat’s thugs with a mad,dancingwhirl.Temmin charges hard—

almost losing his balancefrom the water rushingaround his feet. Doesn’thelp that he’s dizzy,hungry, and shot throughwith so much adrenalinehe’s pretty sure he mightvibrate into a cloud ofdisconnected molecules at

anygivensecond.Ahead, a three-eyed

Gran steps out. One ofSurat’s many enforcers.The alien’s caprinemuzzlebleats out in alarm—theGran raises a netgun, andTemmin winces, waitingfortheincomingblast.Butthere’s a flash in the rainfrom behind the enforcer,and suddenly the alien’sthreeeyesrollbackintheir

fleshy stalks before heplunges face-first to theground.Mom!Norra stands there,

straddling a bala-balaspeeder—anarrow,stumpyvehicle meant to take thetight channels and sharp-angled turns of the streetsof Myrra. Everyone usesthem to go to work ormove crates.On any given

morning or evening, theCBD ends up choked withthose speeders: every onein a different color, eachonemoddedatleastalittlebitby itsowners.Thisoneisblue,withabracedbox-rack in the back, where achain and ball-hitch arehookedaswell.Temmin instantly

recognizes it as belongingtohisaunts.

Norra waves them on.“Comeon!Comeon.”Temmin hops on the

backofhisspeederbehindhismother.Norrastartstohit the throttle—Temminyells at her. Tells her towait for his friends. Sheturns,emotionswarringonherface.“We have to go,” she

pleads.

“Theysavedme.They’recoming,orI’mnot.”Shegiveshimanod.The other man, the tall

one who came in with thebounty hunter, runsforward ducking anincoming bolt of fire. Henearly falls over—butcatcheshimselfagainsttheside of the speeder.Temminpointshim to thebox-rack in the back. The

tall man makes adisgruntled face, butclimbs into it and wadshimself up like he’s a too-big animal for a too-smallcrate.The man yells: “What

abouther?”Jas comes up—she’s got

the blaster back in herhand, apparently havingscooped itup.She’s layingdowncoveringfire.

The Zabrak bountyhunter turns, sees thestumpyspeeder.They all look to one

anotherinpanic.Thedoorsof thecantina

burst open. More thugsand brutes. The Herglicleads the charge. Surat isin the midst, still in hissurgical robe—he pointsandshrieks.

The bounty huntermovesfast.As she runs, she tucks

theblasterinherpants.She claps her hands,

yellingtotheman:“Throwmethechain!”The tall man wings the

end of the chain at her—she snatches it out of theair like it’s nothing, thenwinds it around the dead

Granlayingthere.Temmin’seyesboggle.Is

she doing what he thinksshe’sdoing?She is. Because as soon

as she has the chainaround, she flinches awayfrom incoming blaster fireandyells:“Go,go,go!”Norra hits the throttle.

The bala-bala lurchesforward like a tauntaun

with its tail stepped on—thethree-eyedalien’sbodygoes with it, at firstsplashing through thestreet water but thenskimmingaboveit.Thebountyhunter rides

the body. Like it’s no bigthing at all. Just anotherdayinthelifeofJasEmari.

In the deep well of OuterRimspace,aCarrack-classlight cruiser—theOculus—sits quiet and still amid a

fieldofdebris.Thedebris:the pulverized leftoversfrom the comet Kinro, acelestial object oncepredicted to carve a pathclean through the CoreWorlds many eons ago,sure to destroy one orseveral planets and thepeople on them. Thehistory books suggest thatitwastheJediwhobandedtogether, and several gave

theirlives(some,justtheirminds)willingthecomettobreak apart before it evereven punched a holethroughtheMidRim.Ensign Deltura cares

little for that history. Notbecause it doesn’t interesthim—it does. His fatherwas a history buff. Theirhome had little furniture,but stacks of books andheapsofmaps.

Right now, though, theonly thing Deltura caresaboutregardingthiscometfieldisthatitprovideshimand the cruiser perfectcover.He looks over to the

youngTogrutawomannextto him: Science OfficerNiriian.Shecocksherheadtowardhim.Niriianiscold,efficient. All business. Thewoman keeps her head-

tails pulled back behindher, bound with a smallblackcord.Shestudieshimand everyone around herlike they’re winged insectspinnedtoaboard.Helikesthat about her. Delturasuspectsitswhyshe’sgoodatherjob.Speakingofthat—He gives her the nod.

“Launchtheprobedroid.”She returns the nod.

“Launching viper probedroid,designationBALK1.”A tap of the button, and—out there, in the void ofspace,aplumeofgas,andthe droid launches. It’s anImperial droid, stolen andsubverted for Alliance—hehastocorrecthisthinking,NewRepublic—purposes.“Wegood?”heasksher.She turns a dial on the

consoleandflipsaswitch—

the screen starts to fill upwith data and the speakerplaysthestrangeencrypteddroid-song.“Already reporting in

withatmosphericdata.”“Thank you, Officer

Niriian.”He takes her hand and

kissesit.She offers him a small

smile. One of his greatest,

mostcherishedthings,thatsmile. The fact that healone seems able to crackthe ice wall façade she’sthrown up gives him faithinhimself,herself,themasa pair, the New Republic.Heck, the whole galaxy.Optimismblooms.He comms in. Ackbar’s

faceappearsonthescreen.The admiral looks tired.Unsurprisingly. Holding

together the pieces of abroken galaxy is a strain.Deltura can only imaginethetoll ithastakenontheMonCalamari.“Probe launched,”

Delturasays.“Excellent,” Ackbar

answers. “Seeyouagain insix hours, Ensign.” Sixhours: thetimeitwill takefortheprobedroidtoenterthe space around Akiva.

Though even now he canseetheplanet: justasmallmarble floating out therebeyondthedebrisfield.She smiles. “We have

time.Dinner,thenrest?”“Dinner,thensomething

else,thenrest?”She chuckles. Amusical

sound.

—

Theargument, raging longintothenight.Asturbulentas the storm outside thesatrap’s palace. (Thoughthe satrap seems tobe theonly one utterlydisinterested in the stormoutside and the stormraging in this very room—he sits in the corner,slumped against the wall,snoring.)“—wemustn’tforgetthat

wehavethecredits,”ArsinCrassus says, rapping hisknucklesonthetableashespeaks. He does thiswhenever he feels he’smaking an importantpoint, and it would seemthat he always feels he’smakinganimportantpointas he makes this knock-knock-knock gesture withirritating frequency. “Thecredits to spend how we

seefit.”Jylia Shale sits stone-

faced. Barely havingmoved in the last manyhours—as if this isn’ttaking the toll on her thatit is on the rest of them.Shale says, “Credits willnot buy back our galaxy.They will not buy thehearts and minds of thepeople. And the Imperialcoffers are far less

formidable than they oncewere,Arsin.”“We still have the

reserve accounts. TheBanking Clan has wealth,tangible wealth we canplunderyet—”“And plunge the galaxy

into a recession?” Shalebarks in a huff. “Oh, yes,thatwill surelywin us theconfidenceofthepeople.”

“It’s not about winningover all the people,”Crassus says. Knock,knock, knock. “I told youalready, the best wayforward is to establish aformalsplinterEmpire.Setup a trucewith theseNewRepublic slime-dogs, allowthem to go their way, andwe go ours. We’re alreadylocked in something of acold war with those

ninnymanderers, so wemakeitofficial.”Shale rolls her eyes.

“Yes. Let’s build a walldown the middle of thegalaxy.Theycanhavetheirhalfandwe’llkeepours.Itdoesn’t work like that. Letme make this abundantlycleartoallwhodarelisten:We lost this war. Weplayed with a foolish,overconfident, reckless

hand, and we paid theprice for it. There is notruce to be had. The NewRepublic will not abide ustaking our toys to theOuterRim.Theywill huntus down. They will try usaswarcriminals.Theywilljailsomeofus,andexecuteothers.”Sloane watches as the

archivist struggles to keepup,hurriedly takingnotes.

He and the satrap are theonly others without aformalstakeinthemeetingallowed in the room.EvenAdea must be elsewhere.(Though stormtroopersguardthedoor,ofcourse.)Once again, Arsin leans

forward and starts tospeak, rapping hisknuckles on the table topunctuate his words:“Shale, you were a vital

strategist for the Empireand yet you lament theEmpire’sstrategy—”“Arsin,” Rae blurts out.

“If you bang thoseknuckles on this table onemore time, I will breakthemwithastick.”“I…that is no way to

speaktome,”heblusters.Pandion smirks. “She’s

right, Crassus. It’s deeply

irritating. Do it again andI’llbreaktheotherhandtomake sure it’s really trulydone.”The banker sits back,

arms crossed over hisbarrelchest.Hemopeslikeascornedchild.“The strategy of the

Galactic Empire,” Shalebegins,“wasnotundermysupreme control. I’llmakeit clear yet again that I

disagreed with bothimplementations of theDeath Star. I opposed itscreation from the verybeginning—and in fact,that oppositionmarginalized my inputgoing forward. Except,perhaps, at Hoth. But theDeath Star was ourundoing. That old phrase,Don’t work your childrenin the same mine, applies

here. Putting so muchtime, and money, andeffort,and people into theecosystem of that massivebattle station was a fool’scrusade. Palpatine wasarrogant.”Tashu, who has been

mostly quiet this entiretime—frittering with hisfingers and the tassels attheendsofhissleevesasifthis is all very boring to

him, or as if his mind issimply elsewhere—finallyspeaksup:“Palpatine’sarrogance is

undeniable. Once alsocannot deny that withoutit,theEmpirewouldneverhave existed in the firstplace.”Moff Pandion—Grand

Moff Pandion, apparently—standsup,beginstopaceasemicirclearoundhisend

of the table. “I for onceagreewithJyliaShale.Notjust that the Death Starwas our greatest mistake,but also that no truce willsuffice. Thatwill not slakethe so-called NewRepublic’s thirst for ourblood. They’ve got it intheir heads that we’remonsters.Itisdecided.Butthatalsomeanswecannotmerely surrender. They’ll

want their tasteofblood—don’t be surprised if thebest of us get dragged outinto the streets so we canbe shot by some savagewithaslugthrower.”“Yes, Valco,” Shale says.

“Weknowthatyouwanttoattack, attack, attack. Nomatter how much it willcostustodoso.”He sniffs. “So you’d

rather lay down arms and

bow your head for theexecutioner’s ax? Youwouldn’t want to go outfighting?”“This isn’t some kind of

inspirational story. Somescrappy, ragtag underdogtale,somepugilisticmatchwhere we’re thegoodheartedgladiatorwhobringsdowntheoppressiveregimethatputhiminthearena. They get to have

that narrative.We are theones who enslaved wholeworlds full of alieninhabitants. We are theones who built somethingcalled aDeath Star undertheleadershipofadecrepitold goblinwhobelieved inthe ‘dark side’ of someancient,insanereligion.”Yupe Tashu raises a

quizzical, academic eyetowardher.

Pandion just sneers.“Were this a better day,you’d be executed fortreason,GeneralShale.”“See?” Shale says. “We

are the ones who do theexecuting, Grand MoffPandion. If we surrender,the aberrant kindness ofthe New Republic maytranslatetous.Wemaygetto keep our heads still.”She huffs. “Besides. We

don’t have a meaningfulstrategyofattack.”“Of course we do,”

Pandionsayswithalaugh.“Are youmad? The rebels—because that’s what theyare, rebels, criminals,deviants—did what theydid with almost no warmachine in place.Insurgents, all of them.Theymanageda few luckyshots with their slingshots

butwestillhavetheships,themen, the training.”Hepoints to Arsin. “Themoney.”“Thenwhydogovernors

turn away from us everyday?Whydowelosemoreships everyweek?Whydowe see holovids of freedworlds throwing paradesand tearing down statues?They did somuchwith solittle, Pandion. You

misunderstand our placeinhistory.”“Thenwe domuchwith

little. Besides—”Hewaveshis hand dismissively.“Those holovids arepropaganda,andyoudamnwellknowit.Therealityis,the Rebel Alliance doesn’thave theresources tokeepcontrol of this galaxy. Butwestilldo.And—”Hereheturns toward Rae Sloane.

“Let’s not forget we stillpossess a Super StarDestroyer. Isn’t that right,Admiral Sloane? Or—dowe possess it? Perhapsonly you possess it.Perhaps you’re being agreedy little child whodoesn’twant toshareyourfleet with the rest of theacademy.”An expected

commentary. One he’s

been making again andagainsincetheybeganthisthing. Rae says the samething she says every timehe brings it up: “TheRavageranditsfleetareatthedisposaloftheGalacticEmpire, Valco. Thequestionremains—”He echoes her response

even as she speaks it(though with aconsiderably more

mocking tone): “—thequestion remains, whateven is the Empire at thisjunctureandwhocontrolsit? Yes, I’m aware of yourstance. I just want theroom to be aware thatyou’re the one with yourfinger curled around thetrigger of our greatestweapon, and yet you keepit hidden…well, we don’tevenknowwhere,dowe?”

“Your spies haven’tservedyouthatsliceofpie,yet, hmm?” she says,putting a small curl at thecorners of her lips.Pandion starts to protest,but she wants to controlthismeeting, so control it,she does: “Thismeeting isto decide the fate of theEmpire with the input ofseveral advisers, not justone.IfIwantedtotakethe

Ravagerandseizecontrol,I couldmake that attemptand I might even manageit.But I’d rathernotmakethesamemistakesasinthepast.Now,GrandMoff,wehave heard from you. Weknow your position.”Again and again. “Oneperson we have not heardfromisyou,AdviserTashu.Wouldyouenlightenus?”Tashu looks up once

more as if all this is adistraction. “Hm?Oh.Yes,yes.Ofcourse.”Tashuwasa close adviser—and afriend, as much as onecould be, apparently—tothe former EmperorPalpatine. The man whowasoncesenator,andthenchancellor. And the manwhom rumors said wasalsoadarkSithLord.Amidthe Empire, the presence

of the Sith was less a factand more a myth: A fewspoke of it as beingpossible,butmostbelievedit to be concoction.Palpatinewouldnotbethefirst ruler to invent storiesof himself as if hewere ofcosmicimport:Thehistory’crons say that a regent ofthe Old Republic,Hylemane Lightbringer,claimed he was “born in

the dust of the TyphonicNebula”and “couldnotbekilledbymortalweapons.”(Afactprovenuntruewhenhe was indeed killed by amortal weapon—bludgeoned by a chair,apparently.) Palpatine’slegendextended,too,tohisenforcer,thebrutishDarthVader. Sloane believestheir powers to be real,though perhaps not as

omnipotent as Palpatinewould have preferredeveryonebelieve.It is then no surprise

thatTashucleavestothosewayswhenhespeaks.He says, “You chastise

the dark side as if it is anevil path, laughable for itsmalevolence. But do notconfuseitwithevil.Anddonot confuse the light asbeing the product of

benevolence. The Jedi ofold were cheats and liars.Power-hungry maniacsoperating under the guiseof a holy monastic order.Moral crusaders whosediplomacy was that of thelightsaber.Thedarksideishonest. The dark side isdirect.Itistheknifeinthefrontratherthanonestuckinyourback.Thedarksideisself-interested,yes,butit

is about extending thatinterest outward. Toyourself, but then beyondyourself. Palpatine caredabout the galaxy. He didnotwrestcontrolsimplytohavepowerforhimself—healready had power, aschancellor. He wanted totakepowerfromthosewhoabused it. He wanted toextend control and safetytothepeopleofallworlds.

That came with costs. Heknew them and lamentedthem. But paid them justthe samebecause thedarkside understands thateverything has a cost, andthe cost must always bepaid.”Amomentofsilence.Then Pandion snort-

laughs. Rae thinks, If theEmperor were stillaround, that single

utterance would earnPandion the loss of hishead. That’s the cost thatwould be paid for suchtreasonousdisdain.The moff holds up a

handandoperatesit likeababbling puppet. “You sayall these words, AdviserTashu, and yet, none ofthem sound like theyhaveany bearing on…”Anothersnort-laugh. “Anything at

all.”Tashu offers a beatific,

self-assuredsmile.“WhatImean to say is thatPalpatine was a smartman. Smarter than thecombination of all of ushere.Wemustemulatehispath. The Emperor knewthe dark side was hissavior,andsowetoomustmakethedarksideours.”“Hnnh,” Shale grumps.

“Andhowdowedothat?Idon’t think any of us aretrained in the ways of theForce.”“NoSithremain,”Tashu

says. “And the lone Jedithat exists—the son ofAnakin Skywalker—possesses an untouchablesoul. At least for now.Wemust insteadmove towardthedarkside.Palpatinefeltthat the universe beyond

theedgesofourmapswaswhere his power camefrom.Overthemanyyearshe,withouraid, sentmenandwomenbeyondknownspace. They built labs andcommunicationstationsondistant moons, asteroids,out there in thewilds.Wemust follow them. Retreatfrom the galaxy. Go outbeyond the veil of stars.Wemustseekthesourceof

the dark side like a manlooking for awellspring ofwater.”Crassus twists up his

pudgy, jowly face somuchit looks like a wrung rag.“You’re saying we…leave?Wepackup our ships andrun away? Like fearfullittle children afraid ofDaddy’sbelt?”“Not fearful,” Tashu

says.“Hopeful.”

Andfromthere,abrand-newfusilladeofargumentsrise up—this time fromeachcorner,allatthesametime. A cacophony of thesame arguments. Truce.Money. Surrender. Coldwar.Hotwar.Allofit,nonsense.None

of them agree. Sloanewonders if ever they will.Whichmeans this summitwasafoolishendeavor.

Butwestillhavetotry.TheGalacticEmpireisa

broken mirror. Manyreflections of itself,shattered and separate.Sloane tellsherself:It’s upto me to repair the glass.To fix the reflection. Shebelieves in the Empire.Andshebelievesthatsheistheonewhocanandmustfixit.AnascendantEmpirewill again rule the galaxy.

Andher place in itwill becemented—no longer keptto the margins, no longerleft off the ledger. Sloanewillmatter.She stands up. “Please

continue.I’llbeback.”They don’t even notice

that she leaves. She’s notsure if that’s a good thingorabadthing.

—

InthespaceaboveAkiva,aviper probe droiddecelerates with cautiousbursts from itsretrothrusters. Whenfinally it stabilizes, its fivespiderlike limbs extendoutward. Its eye glows. Aseries of small antennasemerge from the topof itsdomed head, all meant totakemeasurements.Itbeginsitsscans.

—

A hard hand cups underhis chin. Moves his headup, back, left, right. Theflat of this intrusive handslaps his cheek. Not hard.Just:pat,pat,pat.Wedge inhales sharply.

Hiseyesopen.It’s her. The one who

caught him at thecommunications station.

Theonewhoput a blasterroundinhisback.“What now?” he says.

“Come to torture meyourself?”The other one, the one

with the pale face and thedark wrinkles—skinmarked with boldstriations,asifhewerehalfdead—isn’t here, but heappears now and again.Maybe once an hour,

though it’s hard to saybecause time is slippery.It’s always just as Wedgestarts to sleep again. Andthis strangeman,hehurtsWedgewheneverheshows.He cut into Wedge’s sidewith a knife—no deepslashes, always shallowcuts. He thrust a spark-prod against the inside ofWedge’s thigh, and whenhe did, everything inside

Wedge lit up like amalfunctioning console.One time he just came inandnoisilyate fruit.Atnotimehashe said anything.Then he just licked hisfingers.Theothertimeshejust chuckledquietlyashedeliveredpain.But this one. This

woman. An admiral, isn’tshe?“No,” she says. “I’m not

atorturer.”“No,” he wheezes. “Of

course not. You’re thequestioner.”“I thought so. But I’m

not sure.” Nearby, themedical droid checks thetubethatwindsaroundhisarm and plunges into theskin.“Youwouldn’tanswermeanyway,wouldyou?”“No,” Wedge says. He

tries to put some carbonsteel in his voice. He triesnot to let his fear creepinto that word. If shesenses fear, she’ll pounce.Tearintohimlikeawampascenting blood on thesnow.Buthe isscared.Hecameall thisway, throughcountless battles in space,over snow, across desertand swamp and open sky,and now at the end of it

he’s here. Wounded andstrappeduprighttoatable.Torturedtodeath.“It wouldn’t matter

anyway. I ask you aboutvital New Republic details—ship movements, baselocations, attack plans—what could I do with it?Notmuch,I’mafraid.”“Ready to surrender

yet?” he says, giving her asmile.It’snotakindsmile.

It’s cruel. Hemeans for itto hurt. I’m laughing atyou,hethinks.“Let me ask you this.

Why?”“Why…what?”“Why be a rebel? Why

join?”“TodestroytheEmpire.”She shakes her head.

“No. Too easy. That’s justthe paint. Scratch off the

color, there’s somethingpersonalunderneathit.”He again shows her his

teeth—bared in a terriblesmile. “Of course there is,Admiral. The Empire hurtpeopleclosetome.Family.Friends. A girl I loved,once. And I’m not alone.All of us in the NewRepublic, we all havestories like that.” Hecoughs. His eyes water.

“We’re the harvest of allthe horrible seeds youplanted.”“But we kept order in a

lawlessgalaxy.”“And you did it with a

closed fist instead of anopenhand.”“You have a way with

wordsforjustapilot.”He tries to shrug but

even that hurts. A grunt

comesfromthebackofhisthroat and he bites backanyfurthercry.The woman nods, and

then turns and leaveswithoutanotherword.

—

Ensign Deltura’s headhovers above the table. Ablue glow surrounding thehologram. Ackbar leans

forward at the table.“You’re quite certain,Ensign?”“No sign of Imperial

ships,Admiral.”“But you did find signs

ofourown.”“Just debris. Nothing

you’d findwith thehumaneye, but the viper is asurprisinglyeffectiveprobedroid. It found molecular

remnants indicative of ourownships,yes,sir.”“The A-wings.” Ackbar

hmms. “Something shotthemdown.”“Something from the

surface,sir?”“Unlikely. Couldn’t hit

an A-wing from thatdistance.” Ackbar’s long,webbed fingers meshtogether. They rub against

one another. He turns hischairtotheotherpersonintheroom—This person, also a

hologram.And this hologram is

onlybarelyaperson.The image stands there,

offtotheside.Likeaghost.Thebodyand faceshiftingand distorting. Shadowyand unclear. This is their

inside man: an informantknown only as theOperator. So far, his intelhas been trustworthy.Impeccably so. WhichmakesAckbarallthemoredubious.“What say you,

Operator?”Thevoicethatemergesis

asdistortedasthevisual:amechanized, warpedsound. “Does the droid

detect any traffic in andout of the capital city? Oraroundtheplanetatall?”ToDeltura,Ackbarsays:

“Youheardthequestion.”“No,sir.Noshipsatall.”The Operator says:

“Have the droid ping allthe comm relaysplanetside. See whathappens.”Deltura nods, says

something to someoneoutside holorange. Likelyhisscienceofficer:ayoungTogruta woman. Momentsof uncomfortable silencespread out like somethingnoxious spilling across thefloor.Ackbar likesnoneofthis. A septic feeling sitsinside him, sucking up allthe optimism he hadpossessed.The ensign’s glowing

holographicheadreturns.“Nothing,” he says,

almost shocked. “Ah,nothing, sir. The probedroid cannot ping any ofthe relays. It’s like they’redead.”“Communications

blackout,” the Operatorsays. “An Imperial trick.They are there, AdmiralAckbar. Their ships mustbe in hiding. But if no

traffic is coming in andout, they have instituted ablockade. No ships. Nocommunications.Something is happening. Idonotknowwhat.”“Thank you,” Ackbar

says.“You will act on this?”

the Operator asks. Eager.Tooeager?Ackbar doesn’t answer.

Heturnsoffthehologram.Deltura asks: “Is thereanything you want me todo,sir?”“Hold position,” Ackbar

says. “Ineed time to thinkandconferwiththeothers.Thankyou,Ensign.”“Admiral,sir.”The man’s face

disappears.Worry gnaws at Ackbar

like a school of brine-maggots.Heneedstimetothink, but too much timeandtheycouldmissavitalopportunity.Or,hethinks,escape the jaws of yetanother Imperial trap. Isthis a ruse, or is this thereal thing? Could be asecret meeting. There, anirony too bold to ignore:Onceitwastherebelswhohad to sneak around and

hide their presence. Nowit’s the Empire. The rolesare reversing. A sign oftheir nascent victory overImperial oppression,perhaps. But he worries,too, about theiroverconfidence. TheEmpireisn’tgone.Notyet.It’s waiting to strike

again. Of that, he’s quitesure.

A purple fruit comes fromoff camera and crashesinto the side of OliaChoko’s face. The fruitpops. Juice runsdownhercheek and drips from her

jawline.Shelooksstunned.From off screen, an

angryvoice:“Boo!BoototheGalactic

Senate! Boo to the NewRepublic!”Another fruit flies—this

one misses its mark,sailingoverOlia’shead.Tracene starts to say:

“Okay,Lug,timetocut—”“No,” Olia says,

interrupting. She swallowshardandwipessomeofthegoopy fruit innards fromher cheek. “You. Theprotester.Comecloser.”Tracene gives Lug a

barelyperceptiblenod.A pair of scaly

Trandoshan hands appearat the edges of the screenand pivot the hoveringcameratowardasmallXanman in a dirty gray

jumpsuit. He has a smallbasket of fruits andvegetables,mostlyrotten.Heisalone.He sees the camera is

pointed at him and hewaveshishands.“No,no,Ido not want to be oncamera.Please.”Olia approaches.

Gingerly. Hands out,beseeching. “If you have

concerns, then I’d like tohearthem.”“I…,”theXanstammers,

lookingaround.Asifthisissomekindof joke.Oras ifhewasn’tpreparedtohavethis effect. “I am sorry, Ishould go.” He starts topull away, but Tracenestepsinfrontofhim.“Youcanhaveyoursay.”Suspicious, he says:

“Really?”Olia answers: “Really.

Tellmeyourtroubles.”To the camera Tracene

mouths:Arewestillon?A reptilian thumbs-up

appears for a moment onscreen.“I…,”thealienbegins.“I

am Geeska Dotalo. I’mfromGanMoradir.Colonyin theMid Rim. The New

Republiccame.They…theydestroyed an Imperialbase. Now the Imperialsare gone. The Empire wascruel. But at least therewas order! We had foodandwater.Thingsworked.Now the rebels have gone.And the gangs have come.Thepirates.Wedon’thaveenough food. Thedestruction affected ourwells and…” He begins to

sob. “We savedup enoughcredits tobringmehere. Iamallwehave.”For a moment, Olia

seemsstruckdumb.Tracene looks like she’s

about to intervene, butthenOliaspeaks:“It’s good you came,

Mister Dotalo. I don’tbelieveGanMoradir has arepresentative yet in the

Senate. Today, you’ll bethatrepresentative.”His eyes go wider than

seemspossible.“Wh…what?”“War is terrible. And an

army isn’t enough to fixproblems. We need asolution for what happensaftertheydotheirjob,andthat’s why the Senate isbeginning again—and why

we’redoing ithere, on thechancellor’s homeworld.Somethinkofthisplaceasa small, inconsequentialworld—but Chandrila hasalwaysbeenanoriginpointfor big ideas and thecitizens to carry them tothe larger galaxy beyond.The galaxy needs help. Itneeds those big ideas butlike you say, it needs thesmaller things, too: food,

water, shelter. Basicthings. And after war isover, there has to besomething else to fixwhat’sbroken.I inviteyoutoday to speak to theSenate about your peopleand your colony.Let themlisten.Letushelpyou.”She summons someone

from off camera. AnotherPantoran—a man in blueadministrative robes. Olia

whispers to him. Shemakesasmallintroductionbetween him and GeeskaDotalo.Then thePantoranman gently urges himaway.Tracene smiles and calls

“cut.” But her eyes flit tothedistance.Because there’s a

commotion now. Peopleare looking up and away.Tracene motions with her

hand and Lug spins thecamera.Over in the distance, a

line of Imperial prisoners.Cuffed together,shepherded along by aNewRepublicofficer.“This is unacceptable,”

Olia hisses, then darts offtointervene.

Baddreams.It’s one of the classics,

one of the dreams thatreplaysinsideNorra’shead

now and again—it’s herand her Y-wing and herastromech, R5-G4, andthey’re in the twistingbowels of the Death Staragain. Shebreaks off fromthemain conduit, drawingahandfulofTIEsafterherlike flies on a gorth’s tail.She can’t swat them, can’tbatthemaway,can’toutflythem. And suddenly therearemoreaheadofher,and

the inside of the battlestation is a maze loopingback on itself, and fromsomewhere she feels theconcussive shock of thepower source going up,and then everything startsto fall apart around her,and the fire fills the spacebehind her, and then it’sthere at the front, too,rushinguptogreether—She wakes up bathed in

sweat. Like she alwaysdoes,nomatterhowwarmor cold the air. Norrachecksherwatch.Shehas,of course, been asleep forless than an hour. Afterrescuing her son from theclutches of that vilegangster, she’sstillgot thefeeling—like they’re beingchased. Heart pounding,muscles tight, jaw set,adrenaline cooking

through her like liquidblaster fire. Sleep was abadidea.Norra heads downstairs

to get some tea. Sheexpects that everyone isstill asleep—and here shereminds herself to thankher sister, Esmelle, forlettingthiscrewofcuriousstrangers stay the night—but as she descends, shehears voices coming from

thekitchen.There, gathered around

a small table, are the twocurious strangers: JasEmari and Sinjir RathVelus. They’ve set asideEsmelle’s hydrodome(where she grows smallherbs, like heartweed andsinthanseed)andhavesetoutacrossthesmalltableaseries of odd objects: asaltcellar, a series of herb

vials,anapkindispenser,abunch of quicksticks andfruitknives.She enters, and the two

ofthemstraightenup.Like children who have

donewrong.Hm.“What’s all this?” Norra

asks.“Nothing,”Jassays.“Just…playing a game,”

the other one, Sinjir, sayswith a smile. A strangecouple, these two. She, acold-faced, curt-tonguedZabrak.He’satalldrinkofmilk: a bit rangy, scruffy,thesmellofwineorbrandyleaving his pores.He’s gota big, duplicitous grin.She’s got eyes like cutstones.Norra mumbles

something and then taps

the button on the side ofthekettle.From theuppercabinetsheselectsageshatea,measures some into acup. The other two arestaringholesinherback.The kettle whistles, and

shepours.Ghostsofsteamrisearoundher.Thensheturnsandsays,

“Thatlookslikeamap.”“It’s not,” Sinjir says,

stillsmiling.“Itis,”theZabraksaysat

almostthesametime.“Willyoutellmewhatit

is?”Norraasks.“No,”theothertwoboth

answer in unison. Jas andSinjir give each other alook. A bit quizzical, a bitamused,thatsharedlook.Norra leans over.

Scrutinizes their

arrangement. “This, thenapkin dispenser. It’sbigger than everythingelse. So it’s meant torepresent something big.The satrap’s palace, I’mguessing. Which lines upwith the rest—here’s theold capitol building,here’stheAvenueof theSatrapy,here’s the narrowWithrafisp Road—this wasonce a secret road, I’m

told, to sneak satraps inand out of the palace, butit’sbeenpublicsinceIwasagirl.”“Nope,” Sinjir says,

feigning total sincerity.“Sorry.Thankyou,though,for playing. Now, if you’llexcuseus—”“Shut up,” Jas says to

him. Then to Norra: “Yes.You’reright.Didyougrowuphere?”

Norranods.“Idid.”“You’re…”Jasgiveshera

look-over.“Arebel?”“AmIthatobvious?”TheZabrakshrugs. “No.

But I’m no fool. You hadno problem shooting atstormtroopers last night.Andyetyoudon’tlooklikeanother criminal. Or justanother local. You…dresslikearebel.Theutilitarian

vest.Theutilitybelt.Thoseboots.” She squints.“Pilot?”Norra laughs. “Yes,

that’scorrect.”“I’m a bounty hunter,”

Jas says. “I’m herecollecting a bounty for theNew Republic. I think Icoulduseyourhelp.”“Wait one star-burned

second,” Sinjir protests,

wavingbothhands.“You’recuttingmeinforameagertwenty-five percent, andnow you’re going to waterdown the bounty evenmorebybringingherin?”The bounty hunter says,

“I’m hoping she’ll do itbecause it’s theright thingandbecause it isanattackon the Empire. Notbecauseofcredits.”Norra feels the call of

dutycrawlingoverherlikeants.Shewantstofindoutmore, wants to throw inand spit in the eye of theEmpire,but—“I can’t,” she says,

speaking throughclenchedjaw.“Ireallycan’t.Mysonand I have to leave thisplanet. My first priority istakinghimaway—”“Go save your friend,”

Temmin says. “Antilles.

BecauseItoldyou,I’mnotgoing.” Temmin shufflesinto the kitchen. “And bytheway,Iknowyoupeoplethink you’re not beingloud, but you’re totallybeingloud.”Norra catches his arm.

“I’ll letsomeoneelse…saveCaptain Antilles. My jobisn’t fighting this waranymore.Myjobisyou.”But he pulls away from

her. He grabs a glass ofblue milk from the cold-chest.“Didmydroidcomehome yet? He should beherebynow.”Norra wants to keep

fightinghim, but shebitesher tongue. He’s asstubbornassheis.Pushinghimislikepunchingawall.She’ll only breakherhandtrying.Sinjir says to the boy,

“That was your droid,huh?”“Yeah.”“That was a battle

droid.”“Iknow.”“They’re the most inept

fighting unit in…perhapsthe history of the galaxy.And trust me,stormtroopersarebasicallyjust overturned mop

buckets with guns,especiallythesedays.”“Do not sell the

stormtroopers short,” Jassnaps. “In number, theyaredangerous.”“So are swamp buffalo,”

Sinjir says. “It doesn’tmean they’re particularlyeffective. Battle droids,evenlessso.Kudostoyou,youngman.Turningoneofthemintoa…bonafidewar

machine?” Sinjir softlyapplauds. “Though I thinkit’swise toprepare for theeventuality that theyoverwhelmed him. He’s abattle droid, not atechnologicalmiracle.”“Yeah, well.” Temmin

standsthere,lookingsurly,sipping his drink. “Youdon’t know borcat scatfrom dewback dung, pal.Mister Bones is

programmed with…well,justtrustme.MisterBoneswill be just fine.” Norrawatches her son—the wayhe stands with his fistsballed up. His browfurrowed.He’s angry.Likeshe was…and maybe stillis, she admits to herself.But then his eyes narrowand he looks down at thetable.“What’sthis?”“Nothing,”Sinjirsays.

“It’s a map,” Temminsays. And Norra swellswith small pride. A pridethat grows as Temminadds: “What’s this? Thesatrap’spalace?”“By all the damned

stars,” Sinjir says. “Likemother,likeson.”The boy frowns at that.

Norrafeelsstung.JasEmarithenjumpsin

withbothfeet:“Rightnow,at that palace—providedwe have not missed ouropportunity—a secretmeeting is takingplace.Atthis meeting are a smallnumber of very importantindividuals within theImperial ranks. Moversand shakers. High bountyvalues.” She lists thoseindividuals: Moff ValcoPandion, Admiral Rae

Sloane, Adviser YupeTashu,GeneralJyliaShale,and the bounty hunter’soriginal target, the bankerandslaver:ArsinCrassus.“That’s it,” Norra says,

snapping her fingers. Partof her feels like sheshould’ve figured this outalready, but then anotherpartofher—arealisticsideor maybe just the cynicalside—says she’s just some

pilot, how would she haveknown? Still. “It all addsup. The Star Destroyers.The blockade. The commblackout. They’reprotecting this meeting.AndWedge…”The Zabrak raises an

eyebrow. “What is a‘Wedge’?”“Wedge Antilles,” Sinjir

says. “Right? Pilot for theRebelAlliance?”

Norra nods. “Yes. Howdidyouknow?”The man hesitates.

“I’m…arebel,too.”That strikes her as odd.

Heisdressedabitlikeone.But something about himfeels off, somehow. Still—therebellionishometoallkinds.Norra continues: “They

musthavehim.Wedge.He

was probably scouting theOuter Rim and ran afoulof…whateverthisis.”“He’s probably still

alive,” Jas says. “Whichmeans you have anopportunity. Helpme.Wewill strike a blow for yourNew Republic. We willundo the efforts of theEmpire, cutting theirhamstrings just as they’rerelearning how to stand.

You will rescue yourfriend.”Again, duty swarms

Norra. The chance to doright. But the opposingfeeling rises true, too—foronce, she just wants tokeep her head down, herchintoherchest,andduckall incoming fire. Shedoesn’twanttoflyintothebellyof thebeast.Not thistime.

“No,” she says, staringdownbelowherdarkeningbrow. “The best wayforward is to get off thisplanet.Soonaswegetintocomm range, we alert theRepublic, they send inshipsandtroopsand—”The bounty hunter

interrupts: “Wrong. Bythen themeetingwillhaveconcluded—if it hasn’talready. And your friend

willeitherbegoneordead.The way forward is now.Theworkisourstodo.”“I’m in,” Temmin says.

“ButIwantacut.”“Young man,” Sinjir

says, chuckling. “Let’s notoverreach. We dutifullysaved your little can fromgettingkicked—”“Fine,”JasEmarisaysto

theboy.“Youcanhavehalf

of his cut.” She tilts herthorny head, gesturingtowardSinjir.Sinjirobjects:“Hey!”“You’ll still get passage

offthisplanet,”theZabrakwoman says. She gives ahaughty little flip—the ax-bladesliceofhairbetweenherthornssuddenlyfallstothesideofher scalp. “Andthe bounty is significantenoughthatevenafraction

will buy you enoughotherworldly liquors tokeep you pickled until theNew Republic once morebecomestheOldRepublic.Takethedealorleaveit.”Herollshiseyes.“Fine.”“I don’t know about

this,”Norrasays.“Icoulduseyourhelp. I

bet your friend could, aswell.”

Norra hesitates. It’s likebeing a kid again andjumping off one of thewaterfalls inAkarCanyon.Sheliterallyhastoholdherbreath before she says:“I’min.ButIwantpassageoffthisplanet,too.”“Done,”Jassays.“NowI

thinkweshould—”Whamwhamwham.Thewholehouseshakes.

Someone’s at the door. AsJas pulls her blaster, thememory oncemore comesrushing back to meetNorra, coming at her asfastasthesilverwaterafterjumping off one of thosewaterfalls—that sound,fistspoundingonthedoor.The sound of Imperialscoming to take herhusbandaway.

Around the table sit threefigures of flesh and bloodand two holograms. Thosepresent: Admiral Ackbar,

Commander Kyrsta Agate,and Captain Saff Melor.The two holograms:General Crix Madine, andthe newly appointedchancellor of the NewRepublic, Mon Mothma.All of them look tired andworried. Ackbar suspectsheappearsmuchthesame.Everything feels tohimona pivot—balanced on theblade of a knife. Like it

couldgooneway.Orwiththe barest breeze, it couldfall back to the other side.A razor’s edge ofpossibility,goodandbad.“Are we sure we can

trust this informant?”Madine says.He scratchesat his prodigious whitebeard.Thelinesinhisface,seen even here inhologram, appear deeperthanever.

“So far,” Agate answers,“allsignspointtoyes.”Ackbar interjects: “But

wealsomustrecognizetheEmpire’sabilitytoplaythelong game. Our victoryover Endor was fortunate,but the Empireorchestratedthattrapwithgreatpatience.”“Send in a fleet,” Melor

says. The Cerean captaincarries a certain

haughtiness with him.Hishead—tall and ridged, afrustrated and dubiousbrow that extends upwardto demonstrate excessincredulity. “Two lightcruisers, a contingent offighters from GoldSquadron, and see what’sthere.Ifthere’safight,thefleetwillbereadyforit.”Mon Mothma speaks:

“We must be cautious.

Inroads to the Outer Rimare slow.Further, this is atime of relative peace, butthat peace restsuncomfortably on veryunstable ground. Anincursion of thatmagnitude could be seenas overly aggressive. Wemust be seen as friends,not intruders. Occupyingthe airspace over Akivacouldbetrouble.”

Melor shakes his head.“Chancellor—andcongratulations,bytheway—Akiva is, with all duerespect, no feather inanyone’s cap. It is amarginal planet at best,and the satrapy is in theEmpire’s pocket. Theyproduce resources we donot require and the olddroid factory beneath thecityhasbeenoutofusefor

decades. As such, Akivaoffers us very littlestrategic advantage orconcern—”“Butthepeoplethereare

our concern,” MonMothma says. Ackbardetects that her hackleshave been raised. Melordoesthat,sometimes.He’sfromamilitary familyandthough he carries some ofthat Cerean intellectual

arrogance, his aggressionis well known. Moncontinues: “And we haveintelligence that suggestsour messaging has gottenthrough there. The peoplearereadyforachange.TheNew Republic is thatchange.”Melor starts to speak,

but once more, Ackbarinterjects: “I am in accordwith the chancellor here.

Thisisafragilepeace.Andwe must be wary of anyrusesetbeforeus.GeneralMadine, do you think youcouldput togethera striketeam?Small.FivetosevenRepublicsoldiers.”“I think that’s doable.

You want them on theground?”“Mm-hmm,” Ackbar

says.“Asuborbital landingsquad.Specialforces.Drop

fromhighatmosphere.Weneed reports from on theground. This seems themost opportuneway todoit.Smallbut effective.Canweallagreeonthat?”Nodsall around except fromMelor—thecaptainfrowns,puckeringhislipsasifhe’sabout to object. But thenhesighsandnods,aswell.“Good. Let’s get this inmotion. I want boots on

the ground in six hours.Soonerifwecanmanageit.Thankyou,all.”

Jas wings the door open.Blasterup.A droid stands there in

theearly-morningrain.

It’saB1battledroid.TheB1 battle droid—thebodyguard Temmin callsMisterBones.Rainhitstheservomotor in its exposedskull,sparkingandturningto steam as it does.TemminrushespastJas.The droid, painted red

and black, laughsmaniacally: a warped,mechanized sound. Itraises its one arm (the

other isnowmissing),andall the little animal bonesthat dangle from it rattleandclack.The droid gives a robot

thumbs-up.“Bones!” Temmin says,

throwing his arms aroundthedroid.“I PERFORMED

VIOLENCE,” the droidwarbles. Jas wonders if

that’s pride she hears inthe thing’s discordantvoice.“ROGER-ROGER.”Thenashowerofsparks

erupts from its head. Itseyesgodark.It falls to the side like a

felledtree.Temmin makes a sad

sound in the back of histhroat. Sinjir peeks pastand says: “I think that

thinghasseenbetterdays,boy.”“Quiet,” the kid snaps.

“You’llhurthisfeelings.Hejust needs work. Help megethiminside.”

—

“It’s night, you know,”comesavoice.Wedge, magnetically

shackled to the table,

startles awake. The dreamhe was in—a dream ofbeing out in space in abroken fighter, the oxygenfailing, his astromechblown to slag, the shipdriftingthroughthevoid—fallsapartinhishandslikewet sand gone suddenlydry.The voice. It’s coming

fromthestrangeman—theman whose age is hard to

tell, the onewith the darkstriations that aren’t quitewrinkles. With the beadyeyesandserpent’ssmile.TheonewhocutsWedge

withtheknife.Right now, though, he

seesnoknife.Justthemanclasping his hands withinthe bundled, puffy sleevesofhisrobe.“You here for more

torture?Iwon’tbreak.”Theman’s spooky smile

never wavers. “I know. Icanseethat.Icanseeyourvitality will never waver.”Hethrustsupafinger,asifhaving an epiphany. Buttheepiphanyisnothisown—rather, he seems towishto deliver one. “Did youknowthatSithLordscouldsometimesdraintheForceenergyfromtheircaptives?

Siphoning life from themand using it to strengthentheir connection to thedark side?Extending theirown lives, as well, so thatthey could live forcenturies beyond theirintendedexpiration?”“You fancy yourself

somekindofwizard?”The man tut-tut-tuts.

“Hardly. I am Tashu.Merely a historian. An

eager student of the oldways. And, until recently,anadvisertoPalpatine.”“MyfriendLuketoldme

somethingsabouthim.”Tashu’s grin broadens.

Showing off his too-whiteteeth.“Yes, I imagine he did.

Seen through the lensof aconfused, naïve boy, mostassuredly.” His fingers

pluck at the air like aspider testing its webs. “Iknow I won’t break youphysically.”“So why come here at

all?”“To keep you from

sleeping well. And to helpbreakyoumentally.Itmaynot yield us anyinformation. But I like topractice.”

“I’m a pilot. I’mused tonotsleeping.”“Yes,butyou’renotused

to hopelessness. Lookaround. You’re lockedaway. Tortured withoutfunction.TheEmpireevennow is resurging here inthisverypalace.YourNewRepublic has amoment tobreathe and gain itsfooting—butwehaveawarmachine. We have the

blessings of the dark side.And even if your peoplecontinuetomarchforward,reclaiming system aftersystem—wewillbewaiting.In some form or another.The Empire is just a skinwe wear, you see. A shell.It’snot just about lawandorder. It’s about totalcontrol. We will alwayscomebackforit.Nomatterhowhardyouworktobeat

us back, we are aninfection inside thegalaxy’sbones.Andwewillalways surge forth whenyouleastexpectit.”“You’re wrong,” Wedge

says, gritting his teeth.“The galaxy is home togood people. There’smoreof us than there are ofyou.”“It’s not about numbers

or percentages. It’s about

faith. The few of us haveinfinitely more faith thanthemanyofyou.”“I have faith in theNew

Republic.”Tashu chuckles. “And

thatfaithwillbetested.”“Your facewillbe tested

whenIkickinyourteeth.”“Thereitis,”Tashusays,

snapping his fingers soharditsoundslikeabird’s

neck breaking. “A vitalspike of anger and hate.Born of the hopelessnessI’ve planted in you. Aterrible little seed. I can’twait for it to grow itswretched tree and bear itsuglyfruit.”

Lightning flashes, and thefight continues. On theroof of the old holoplex,against the backdrop of abright,gaudy,ever-shiftingbillboard of

advertisements, two menbattle. They’ve been herefor so long now, all senseof time has escaped them.They’re tired. Bedraggled.Soaked by the rains thatcame through and havegoneagain.Buttheykeepgoingatit.The older one—thick,

slovenly, his body encasedinlooserust-redarmor,hishead swaddled in rain-

sodden wraps—circles.Both of his hands up inclublike fists. A line ofblood snakes from hisnose, andhe licks it away,thengrinslikeadrunk.“We can quit this

charade anytime, mate,”Dengargrowls.“Wecansitdown, have a proper pintsomewhere, talk over theagreement.”“Noagreement,”saysthe

other man—the one whocalls himself MercurialSwift. He’s young. Agile.Noarmorat all.Darkhairnow plastered to his palebrow. In his hands, a pairofbatons.Hegivesthematwirl. “You gotta give thisup, Dengar. You’rereaching past the stars onthis one. A fool’s crusade—”Atthat,Dengarrushesin

again. Swinging fists likehammers. Like he doesn’tjust want to punch theyounger, faster man, butwants to pulp him like afruit forhismorningjuice.Mercurial catches a fist tohis collarbone, and painshoots up his neck anddown his arm. One of hisbatons clatters against therooftop, splashing into apuddle.

Mercurialcartwheelstheother way. When Dengarmoves to follow, theyounger bounty hunterducks,andpistonstheendof his baton in the gapbetween Dengar’s armorplates—rightintohisribs.The older thug howls

and staggers back,clutchinghisside.His smile is somehow a

scowl at the same time.

“Join me. You’re good.You’re fast. But dumb.Real dumb. Just look atyou. Green as fresh doakispice.Youneeda…guidinghand.”“From you?” Mercurial

askswithacoughingscoff.“Ican’tseethathappening,oldman.”Another flashoflightning. No thunder.“Don’tyougetit?IgotintothisgigbecauseIlikebeing

alone. I like the roguething.” He laughs: acuriouslymelodicsound.“Ididn’t become a bountyhunter so I could join aclub,eh?”Dengar begins to circle

again.Mercurial circles the

otherway.Towardhis lostbaton.“We’ve always been a

club!”Dengarshouts.“Maybe that’s what’s

been holding you back.Other hunters alwaysscooping up the bountiesbefore you.Beating you tothe punch.” There. AtMercurial’s feet—thebaton. He kicks it up intohishand.“Ohhoho,youthinkI’ve

lostastep,huh?”

“Can’t lose a step youneverhad!”Dengar guffaws. “You

littlescrap-muncher.Iwasputting away bountieswhileyouwerestillinyourspacediapers.”“What’s it sayaboutyou

that you’re still in yourspacediapers?”“Youdon’tmuchlikeme,

doyou?”

“You want it point-blank? You’re a strange,grossoldman.Hearttothemoon,truthonmysleeve?Nobody’severlikedyou.”There. That got him.

Dengar’s likea crazybeast—youjusthavetowavetheright bait in front of hisnose to get him to charge.And charge he does,thundering forward like astarvingpackanimal.

But then, at the lastmoment,hejukesleft.Theolder bounty hunter divesacross the roof and tucksinto a roll. When hesprings back up on theotherside,hespinsaround—and his particle arraygun is in his hand. Readyto scatter Mercurial’satoms across the flashingbillboard.Again, the fight pauses.

Mercurial with his handsup. Dengar on one kneewiththewidemouthofthearraygunpointed.This time, they’re silent.

Tension drawn out likestrangling cord. Lightningflashes again. Dengar’sfinger hovers near thetrigger. The gun hums.Mercurial’s hands tightenaroundthebatons.Something is about to

break.Somethinghas tobreak.

OrDengar’sgoingtoshoothim.Mercurial’s eyes flash to

a nearby rooftop.His eyesgowide.Hisjaw,slack.Hesummons the image inhismindandsays:“BobaFett?”Dengar wheels toward

therooftop, thegunbarrel

turning.And that is Mercurial’s

opportunity.He flings oneof the batons—it cracksDengar on the top of hisforehead as soon as hewhips his head backaround.As his skull snapsback, Mercurial is alreadyleaping forward anddrivingakneeintothesideof the old bounty hunter’sface. Then an elbow

against his collarbone. Abaton against his wrist.Thegundrops.Mercurialpicksitupand

jams the barrel underDengar’schin.Justas freshrainbegins

to fall. A spitting, fleckingrain.Dengar winces. “You’re

good.”“I’vebeentold.”

“That trick back there?MaybeIhavelostabloodystep,mate.”Mercurial shrugs. “I

used to be an actor and adancer.”“No fooling?” Dengar

croaks. “What turned youtothislife?”“The Empire doesn’t

much care for theperformancearts.”

“True that, true that.”Dengar sniffs a bubble ofbloodbackuphisnoseandsneers.“Butallthat’smoreto the point, innit? Thingsare changing now. Ourprofession is about to getmarginalized, too. Thoserebels won’t put up withour special brand of saucefor too long,will they? It’swhy we gotta bandtogether. Form a proper

union. We’ll be a force toreckonwith.We’ll look allofficial-like!”“I’ll take my chances

alone.”Dengar nods. “Okay.

Okay.You,ahh.Yougoingtokillme?”“Nobountyonyou.Why

bother?”“You watch. That day

will come.Bountieson the

bountyhunters.We’llseeitsoon enough. Even in mylifetime.Justyouwatch.”Mercurial nods, takes

the gun away. “Take care,Dengar.”“Not likely, kid. Not

bloodylikely.”

It’s morning, and AdeawaitsforAdmiralSloane.Adea realizes that in the

grand scheme of things,

she is of little import. Anattaché. An assistant. Shehandspapers.Fetchescupsof caf.Asks for signatures.Deliverscommunications.But one day, maybe

she’llbesomethingmore.Thisisaglorioustimeto

bealive.The Empire is reeling.

That is, itself, not a goodthing. But in those cracks

and fractures waitsopportunity.Everycrackisa place where Adea caneasethetipofherfoot.Shecan widen those gaps andfind a place for herself inthere.It’swhysheadmiresSloanesomuch.The admiral

understands. The admiralis making the best of thissituation. And right now,Adea has bad news to

deliver.That thrills her,

honestly. It shouldn’t,probably. Bad news is, byits designation,declaratively andobjectivelybad.Butit’sthereaction that matters.People are made underduress.Theyareformedbycrisis. Adea grew up onCoruscant.Butherparentswerenotimportantpeople.

Her father was a welder.Notsolowthattheyhadtowork in the bowels of thecity-world—he workedprimejobsfortheEmpire.But he still got his handsdirty.Andburned,andcut,until one day they werearthritic claws of scartissueandcallus.She always marveled

how the laser-welderscould make or break

things. How they couldjoinpiecestogether—orcutthemapart.Thisislikethat.Crisiswillbringthemall

together or destroy them.But she believes thatSloanewillbemadebythiscrisis. Not just this smallone she’s about to hand-deliver, but the largercrisis.

She admires Sloanegreatly.She would hate to

disappointtheadmiral.

—

Raestandsunderthesprayof an ice-cold shower.Piped in straight from thecanyon, the satrap said.Thepurestwater youwillfind on Akiva. The old

Ahia-Ko people believedthe water was so pure, itcould take from you yoursinsandleaveyouabetterperson.Ifonlythatweretrue.Shekeepsthewatercold

because that’s how theshowers were on her firstassignment somany yearsago. When she was just acadet aboard the ImperialStar Destroyer Defiance.

She grew to like it. Thecold water toughened her.Wokeherup.Justlikeitisnow.Plus, it’s a necessary

contrastwiththeheathere.Soon as she steps out ofthe shower, that heatassaults her—yes, the hot,humid air is invisible, butno less tangible. It feelslike she’s walking throughboiling swamp water.

Drowningwhilestanding.Out in the luxurious

room that the satrap hasfurnished for Rae, Adeaawaits. Morning lightilluminates her as shestands there, dutiful as acoatrack,theholoscreeninherhand.“You got some sleep?”

Rae asks, toweling off herhead.

“Yes, Admiral,” Adeasays,avertinghereyesandblushing as Rae dries anddresses herself. Adea isn’ttrue military. Raesometimes forgets thatthose outside the navy orthe army don’t share thesame experience. Sloane’snudity isn’t meant to beanything other than atransitional state. Nothingromantic, nothing

shameful. It is a practicalfactofexistence.“Good,” Sloane says.

“Sleepwillbenecessaryforthedayahead.”“I thought the meeting

wentwell.”“The meeting went well

the same way a crashlandinggoeswell.Itwasanineffective,inconsequentialfirst step.” Rae steps into

her uniform, smoothingout the wrinkles—at leastthat’s one good thing thehumidity gives her. (Andherhairlooksactuallysortof amazing for the firsttime in how many years.Appearance figures verylittle into how she seesherself,butonceinawhileit’snicetorememberwhatshe really looks like.) “Wewill try again today. That

said, I don’t expect much.This is just the firstsummit. We may needmore. Bring in morevoices.TellMornathatsheshould have the shuttlereadyjustafterdinner.”“Of course, Admiral. Do

you expect that we willsummon the Vigilanceback to orbit, or shouldMorna plot hyperspacecalculations into the

shuttle compu—” Adea’sscreenflashes.Once,twice,thengoesred.Rae furrows her brow.

“Whatisitnow?”“We have a situation.

An…incursion.”

The transport buckles andbounces along the cloudtops of Akiva. The sunforms a hot line over the

swirling curls of white,looking like melting steel.Down below, the barelyseencityofMyrra.Hiddenbehind the clouds, andwhensightofitemerges,itremains garbed in a gauzypinkhaze.Sergeant Major Jom

Barell of New RepublicSpecial Forces(SpecForces) looks to thefive men and women

standingtotherightofhimat theopendoor.On theirtorsos sit carbon-lacearmor, the shouldersmarkedwiththesigiloftheNewRepublic:theAlliancestarbird, now inside asunburst. The symbol of achanged day, a new dawn.Thephoenix,trulyreborn.The soldiers standing

here with him: CorporalsKason, Stromm,

Gahee’abee, Polnichk, andDurs. He knows which iswhich, even though theirfacesareconcealedbehindtheorbitaldropmasks.He gives the nod.

“Drop!”One by one, they unclip

and leap into the clouds.Slugthrowers on theirbacks.Armsstretchedout,asiftryingtoreachforthesun.

Histurn.Barell hates jumping.

Give him anything else.Anything. Creepingthrough some Nabooswamp.Freezinghistailoffin some ice-walled snowbase.Onetime,theyhadtofly a gunship through anelectrical superstorm overGeonosis to root out someImperialsthathadgottenitin their heads to start up

the old Geonosian droidfactories again—the stormwasalllightningandheavywinds and hale pepperingthesideofthecraftsohardit left little dents in themetal. He was pretty suretheyweredeadbeforetheyeven landed.And thatwasstill better than jumpingoutofaship.Especially a suborbital

drop.

Well,itiswhatitis.Barell jumps after Durs,

the last in the line. It feelslike it always does—hisguts sucking out throughhishindend,hisheart leftsomewhere behind in thesky above him, the panic,theterror.Andthen—The air rocks. A

concussive wave hits him.Hisbodyspins likea spuntopandabovehimhesees

it—the side of thetransport, blown open,black smoke bellowing asflames flash and sparksshower. The ship lists andstartstotiltasitgoesdown—He tries to comm, but

it’snogood,heknowsthat.There’s a comm blackout.Nothinghesaysisgoingtogoanywhere.Best he can do now is

dropandtrynottodie.But that’s a far trickier

task than he expected—becausebelowhim,heseesCorporalKasonatthefrontof the line disappear in aflash.Somethingcomesupfrom the ground: theblinding streak from aturbolaser. One minute,there’sKason,andthenexthe’s justa redsprayandatorn-up tatter of carbon-

lace armor spiralingthroughtheclouds.We’re dead, Barell

thinks.Another blast and

Stromm is next—a flashandhe’sgone.Barelldivesdown through the spacewhere Stromm was justtwosecondsbefore.Barellsignalstheothers:

“We’re pigeons to hunt up

here.Weneedtobefalcons—engage para-wings.” It’stoo soon, they’re too highup. The winds up herecould kill them. But whatchoicedotheyhave?Belowhim, the other three snapout their arms and legs—and their wing-suitsengage.It’s too late for

Gahee’abee—the momentthe Kupohan’s para-wings

extendfromwristtoankle,he’s gone.Another searingblast from the surface ofthe planet and he’s justragged wing strips caughtonthewind.

Aquietmorning inMyrra.The rains have stopped.Heat rises off the rooftopsand streets, leaving

everything smeary behindthe vapor blur. A pair ofcerulean skycatchers duckand dive in the air aboveNorra’s head, chasing oneanotherinwhatmightbeaterritorial dogfight or amating dance. Or both,perhaps, given the natureofthosepluckybluebirds.It feels calmup here on

Esmelle and Shirene’srooftopasshesipshertea.

But the serenity outsidedoes nothing to quell thechaosinside.Norraknowsthisfeeling.

Suiting up for her Y-wing.Sitting there in thehangaronHomeOne, waiting forthe signal, waiting for thejump to lightspeed. It wasquiet, then, too. A fewmurmuredvoiceshereandthere. A droid burblingpast.Thesoundsoftheold

frigate—a tink-tink-tink inthepipesbehindthewalls,a faint groan of metal onmetal,therumbleoftheairscrubberskickingon.Shetriesnottofeelsick,

buttodayislikethatday.She just wants to go

home.But duty calls once

more.Downstairs in the

basement, Temmin worksonhisdroid.Theothertwomanaged some sleep.Norradid,aswell—thoughjust a fewhours, andeventhose were not withouttrouble.But the boy kept

working.Sheadmireshim.He’slikehisfather,single-minded and driven. Buthe’s got her stubbornstreak. Her anger, her

cockysure-footedness—thesame sure-footedness thatmadeher leave thisplanetandjointheRebelAllianceunder the foolishassumption she alonewould be able to find outwhere they were keepingher husband and…what?Rescuehim?Likehewasaprincesstrappedinatowerlike the old fairy tales?What a blubber-headed

notionthatwas.Across the way, up

toward the orchard, shesees another rooftop—anolder couple sits up there.She recognizes them.They’ve been here foryears, those two.Thepair:a couple of old shriveledBith. She forgets theirnames, though Esmelleprobablyknows them.ThetwoBithsitthereunderan

umbrella, watching thesunrise over the distantjungle, sipping from asinglecylinder—probablyacup of oratay slurry. Bithseemtolovethestuff.Peaceful people, the

Bith.Norra wishes she could

belikethem—Justthen,asoundinthe

distance. A sound Norra

knows deep in her bonesbefore her ears evenreceiveit—theroarofaTIEfighter.It streaks past, flying

low. Toward the citycenter.The Bith—the peace-

loving, oratay-sippingBith—stand up. The old manhasablasterrifleheyanksout from under his chair,and next thing Norra

knowshescreamsababbleof profanity in his nativetongue before firing futilelaserboltsatthescreamingImperialfighter.The Bith woman, she

shakesherfistandjoinsinthetirade.It hits Norra, then. Of

course.Ofcourse.She’s about to turn

around and head back

inside when out over thecity center, an explosionrocksthesky.Norraspins,and sees up there in theclouds something burning—a small black shape. Aship.Suddenlylistinghardand plunging through thewhirlingclouds.Anotherflash—acannon

blast from a turbolaserpunches up through thesky. It hits…something up

there.Somethingsmall.Asoldier,maybe.Her middle tightens. A

rebelsoldier?Itmakessense.But that means their

timetablejustchanged.

—

Whong! Whong!Whonnnng!

With the last hit fromthe spanner, the battledroid’s eyes pulse andflicker back to life. Thespeaker underneath thething’spointedmetal beakutters a grinding,stuttering sound:“RRRRRRRRggggRRRRR.”Temminhitsitagain.Whong!“RRRRRROGER-

ROGER.”The droid stands up.

Servomotors whir as itregards its repaired arm—anarm that’snot somuchan arm as it is anastromech leg. It spins theleg around, slow at first,thenfasterandfasteruntilit’s just a blur. “THIS ISNOTMYARM.”“Iknow,Bones.Sorry.”

“THIS IS ANASTROMECHLEG.”“No,no,Iknow.”“ASTROMECHS ARE

INFERIOR. THEY AREBEEPING BOOPINGTRASH CANS. I AMMADEINFERIORBYTHEINCLUSION OF THISNON-ARM.”Temmin shrugs. “I

promise, I’ll get you fixed

upwhenwegetbacktotheshop. Right now, this iswhat my aunts hadaround.”Downhere inthebasement workshop iswhere he first built Bones—cobbled together fromscrapped droids he foundin the catacombs beneaththe cities. Debris andruination from the CloneWars. When the factorydownthere—nowagutted,

flame-charred crater—stillpumpedoutdroids for theSeparatists.He reaches for the

spanner,andcollapses it—it’s a little multitool healways keeps at his belt.Can become nearly anytool he needs just bytelescoping out differentprongs.Hetwirlsit,popsitbackonhisutilitybelt.“PERHAPSICANSTILL

BE FUNCTIONAL.” Thedroid thrusts theastromech leg forward. “ICAN BLUDGEON THOSEWHO WOULD HURTYOU.IWILLBEATTHEMTOAGREASY TREACLE-PASTE.DONOTWORRY,MASTER TEMMIN. YOUARESAFE.”“Thanks, Bones.”

Temmin throws his armsaround the droid. The

droid returns the hug—admittedly, with one arm.The astromech leg justkind of…pats him on theside of his arm, pat patpat.“IthoughtIlostyou.”He’s had Bones for a

whilenow.The thought oflosingthisdroid…“I DID GOOD. I CAME

BACK.”“You did. Thanks,

Bones.”“ROGER-ROGER.”A creak of a board—

someone shifting weighton the plankwood steps.It’s hismother.They stareat each other for a fewmoments. Like they don’tknow how to deal witheach other. Because theydon’t, do they? They’restrangerstoeachother.Herealizes that now. He lifts

his head. He’sembarrassed. Did she seehim hug his droid? Ugh.“Mom. You could…knockorsomethingnexttime.”“Temmin,somethinghas

happened. And…I think Ihaveaplan.”“I’llberightup.”She waits there for a

moment.“I’m…”“What?Spititout.”

“I’m glad we’re backtogether. And I’m gladyour droid is fine. Heseems to mean a lot toyou.”“No! He doesn’t. He’s

just a droid, okay? I saidI’llberightup.”His mother offers a

small smile and nod, thenreturnsupstairs.When she’s gone,

Temmin whispers to thedroid:“Ididn’tmeanthat.”“IKNOW.”“You’rethebest.”“IKNOWTHAT,TOO.”

—

Esmelle meets her at thetopof thesteps.Hersistergently closes the door.Worrycrossesthewoman’sface. Her features bunch

up like a drawstringcinchedtight.“Isthedroidokay?”“I think so.” Norra

neglects to mention theastromech arm that hasnow replaced his missingone.“Sortof?”“That droidmeans a lot

tohim.”“SoIgathered.”“No,youdon’tgetit.He

builtMisterBonestheyearyou left. Temmin doesn’thave many friends. Thatdroidmightbeit.”“You can’t be friends

withadroid.”“Well, he is. Temmin

was getting taunted andbeatenbyagangof…youngtyrants. Bones protectedhim. He’s not just abodyguard.Whenyoutookoffonyour…trip…”

“I get it,” Norra snaps.“You think I should feelbadaboutleaving.Idofeelbad. I felt bad then. I feelworsenow.I’mtryingtofixthings.”“And yet here you are.

Doing more work for therebels. It’s your son thatneeds you, Norra, notthis…crusadeofyours.”Crusade. That’s how

Esmelle sees it. Norra

snarls, “War is coming toAkiva, Esme. Not later.Soon. Now, maybe. Youcan pretend that it won’tlandonyourdoorstep,buttrustme, you soft-handed,weak-backed sister ofmine, no amount ofwishingwill hold back thetide. Now step aside. Idon’t have time for thisconversation.”Her sister protests, but

Norrapushespasther.

—

“Can’t I just sit back andwatch?”Sinjirsays.It’sjusthim and Jas. In front ofthem, another display ofkitchen implements andfoodstuffs. The map ofMyrrahasgrownsincelastnight. “All this business isreally quite distasteful. I

could sit back, hold upscorecards. Do a littlepropercheerleading?”He takes a nip from the

unlabeled bottle. Theliquor is sweet. Honey onthe front, and lavender atthe finish. The tastelingering on his tongue iscoppery, almost electric,likehe’slickingthetopofathoriumbattery.“Itoldyou,Ineedactual

help, not the illusion ofhelp.” Jas stares at him,sees him drinking. Shesnatches the bottle out ofhishands,sniffsit.“Hey! That’s no way to

be.”“You’readrunk.”“I’m no such thing. I’m

nodrunkerthanapickle.Ibrine myself in order tomaintain a low level of…”

He waggles his fingers inthe air. “Fuzziness. I findlife is so much morepleasantthatway.”“Ineedyouclear.”“Oh,” he mopes, “we’re

perfectlyclear.”Thebountyhunterstares

holes through him. “Whathappened to you? OnEndor.Idorememberyou.Standing there, covered in

blood.Yours?”He sneers. “I do not

wanttotalkaboutthis.”“And yet, here we are,

talking about it.” She sitsdown. Sighs. “I became abounty hunter because Idid not like the life mymotherhadchosenforme.It felt…overly arranged. Itchokedme.So I tookaftermy mother’s sister: AuntSugi was a bounty hunter,

too. Thing is, Sugi alwaysworked with a crew. Shewasnolonebird,norogueoperator. One thing Ilearned from her was, if Iwas going to work with acrew,Ihadtotrustthem.Ihad to know them. So Ididn’t work with a crew.Because I trusted myselfabove anyone else. Now,here I am. Working withyou.”

“Which, let’s be honest,makes you very fortunate.I’m really very cool. It’salmostasifyou’vewontheEmpire Day lottery.” Hesmirks.“Hey,ifyouhaveaship,where is it?Can’tweuse it to just…flit off thisrock? Go find somethingbettertodo?”“It’safewdays’walkout

into the jungle,” she says,but the way she says it

indicates that the Zabrakisn’tbuyinganyofit.“Hadtomake suremy trek intothecitywasunseen.”“Convenient. By way of

graveinconvenience.”Shestaresholesthrough

him. “Whathappened thatday?OnEndor?”“You know what

happened. You werethere.”

“Toyou.Whathappenedtoyou.”“I…” Sinjir puts forth a

grim smile, trying not tospeak aloud thememoriesthatare tearinghimapart.“Fine. You really want toknow? You won’t stoppoking? Let’s have it,then.” He swirls thehoneyed liquid around thebellofthebottle.“So,likeIsaid, I was an Imperial

loyalty officer on the baseof Endor and—oh look it’sNorra!” He nearly dropsthebottlewhenheseesherstepintothekitchen.Her. Norra. Standing

right there. Fuming. Chestrising and falling like thatofabeastwhosmellsbloodon thewind.He should’veheard her come up. Butwith the drinking and thetalking…

“AnImperial,”shesays.“I’m sure you misheard

me,” he says. “I said…mImperial?” He frownsandhmmphs.“That’snotaword,isit.”“An Imperial,” she says

again.Louderthistime.“Norra,listen—”She charges at him.

Tackles him into thecounter.Bowlsclatter.The

saltcellarspinsofftheedgeof the table and shatters.Herhandswraparoundhisthroat andher facehoversoverhis.“Ishould’veknown,”she

says. “You didn’t carryyourselflikeoneofus.Toosuperior, too nose-at-the-sky.Thataccent,too.Crisplike a bitten cracker. Yousonofagundark—”Theclickofablaster.

JaspressesittothesideofNorra’shead.The bounty hunter

speaks in a calm voice.“Norra. You are going tohave to make peace withthis. If you can’t makepeace, everything fallsapart.HewasanImperial.Andwecanusehim.”It’s like watching the

mist clear out over lakewater.Thefightgoesoutof

Norra and she falls intothis thousand-meter stare.Sinjir eases out of herslackening grip and rubshisthroat.“Wecanusehim,”Norra

says. “You’re right.” Herfocussnapsbackandit’sasif she’s made a decision.“Somethinghashappened.The timeline has changed.Weneedtomovenow.”From behind them,

Temmin says: “Am Iinterruptingsomething?”Nobodysaysanything.“What’s going on?

Hello?Anybody?”Norrasmilesandsays:“Ihaveaplan.”

Three slaveshuddle in theshadows of Imperialturrets, hiding behind ajagged rock as the battlerages: Hatchet, theWeequay, whose craggy

faceismarkedbyacentralscar running downbetweenhiseyes,downthelengthofhisnose,overhislips, and even to his chin;Palabar the Quarren,whose tentacled face ischapped and chafed andpeeling (for the air here isso dry and full ofparticulate it will slowlyabrade you sure as watererodesrock);andGreybok,

the one-armedWookiee, abeast who hovers over theboth of them and protectsthem even as an A-wingslams into the red-rockmountainside above,rainingdebrisuponthem.“Wemust run,”Hatchet

hisses. “The Imperials arewinning this battle. Andwhen they do, the mineswill again be theirs. Wewillagainbetheirs!”

The Quarren nods.Palabar has been sotraumatizedover theyearsthat he goes wherever thewind takes him, coweringand nodding andwhimperinginthedark.But Greybok roars: a

guttural growl of dissent.He shakes his one fist inrage,baringhisteethasheululates.TheImperialturretsspit

fire across the open plainleadinguptothemouthofthe spice mine. Otherslaveshuddle about. Somewounded. Others dead.Most just trying to survivehowevertheycan.Greybok growls again,

his head lifting, his filthy,mattedfurshaking.Hatchetshakeshishead.

“You’re mad! We cannothelptherebelswin.Thisis

not our war, you walkingpelt! Our only hope is nottodie.”But in a rare fit of

dissent, Palabar says:“What…what if theWookiee is right? What ifthis is our only chance? Ifwerun,theywillfindus…”Greybok barks in

agreement. He shakes hisarm again. The Sevarcosslavemasterstookhisother

onemany years ago whenhe tried to escape. Theirmasters were notthemselves Imperials, butthisminehas longbeen inthe grip of the Empire.Officers coming to inspectthe proceedings, to take atithingofcreditsandspice.TheEmpiredoesnotfrownon slaves, but rather wasbuilt on their backs. Thecredits in the Imperial

coffersareearnedbythosewho are kept against theirwill. Whole species!Greybokknowsallofthis—he is no common worker,though that is his purposehere, to swing a pneumo-hammer and pulverizerock.Once,hewasatribaldiplomat. He knows therough shape of things. Heisnofool.And though he is no

warrior,todayhehascausetotry.“Don’t go out there,”

Hatchet spits. “Don’t be afool,Wookiee.”But theWookieedoesn’t

care.Greybokjustwantstobe

free.He standsup.Roars the

battle cry of his people.Then he runs into battle,

ducking laserfire. AnImperial in mechanizedbattle armor wheels onhim, turning a heavyhandheld cannon towardhim. But Greybok hasspeed and surprise, andgetsunderhisattackerandflings the heavy trooperintoacrevasse.Greybok never stops

moving.Hehasaplan.

There, ahead: a corral.High fencewith electrifiedgate.Insidearethreemoreslaves—these easily tentimes the size of Greybok.Rancors. Creatures madevicious by the slavers.Forced to march in theouter canyons to keep theslaves from attemptingescape—everyone knowsthat if you did make it tothosecanyons, the rancors

there would hunt you andeatyou.But when the Imperials

come, the rancors aredrawn back to their high-fencecorralandkept—theydon’t like anybody. Slaveor Imperial. The rancorsaretrainedonlyto liketheslaverswhotrainthem.These rancors are here

now. On the side of theImperials. They gnash

their teeth and scream.One of them is smallerthan the others: brightyelloweyesandgray-greenface. The others are rustred like the mountains inthis part of Sevarcos:bigger,too.Greybok bolts toward

the corral, scooping up aheavyrockashegoes.Therancors turn toward him,shrieking. Greybok roars

back and begins to bangthe rock against themassive lock holding theelectrifiedgateclosed.Wham. Wham. Wham.

The rancors stopscreamingandwatchwhathe’s doing with intensefascination.Imperialsstartto yell. Laser bolts pepperthe ground near his feet,and sizzle against thefence.

He keeps going.Wham.Wham.Wham.Until—The lock cracks in half

anddrops.Thecracklingserpentsof

electricity that oncecrawled all over the corralfence suddenly flicker anddie.Thechargeisgone.And the gate starts to

swingopen.Thesmallerrancorroars

and bats the gate openwith the back of its hand.The gate catches Greybokand flings him to theground. His head cracksagainst a rock andeverythinggoesblurry.Abovehim,dizzyshapes

as the three rancorsescape. Screams ensue.Something explodes. Men,yelling in panic. Then,suddenly, someone

appears over Greybok—aslaver.AZygerrian.Mouthtwisted up in feral rage.Themasterseethes:“Whathaveyoudone,slave?”Greybok tries to stand,

but the Zygerrian pointsone of their terribleweapons—ablastercalledaneedler.Theslaverspinsadial on the side and pullsthe trigger. Ropes of redlightning flicker from the

tip of the weapon andsurround the one-armedWookiee.Everything is light and

painandfire.He can’t even roar. He

canonlychokeandgurgle.Blackness bleeds in at

the edges. The Zygerrianmeans to kill him. That isone of the powers of theneedler:Itcancausealittle

pain, or a whole lot of it.Enough, over a shortperiod, to seize your heartandkillyou.But then it stops—the

firerecedes,thepainfades(though the memory willlong remain). TheZygerriandrops.There stands Hatchet,

holdingabludgeoningrockofhisown.

Greybok roars a thank-you.Andthendarknesstakes

him. Though only for amoment. Or so he thinks:He opens his eyes and itfeels like no time haspassedatall.Except,ithas.Hatchet sits there,

picking his teeth with abroken stick.All around is

the waste of war: theturrets on fire, rebelsrounding up slavers,canisters of spice thrownintoacracklingfire.Oneofthe rancors lies dead: oneof the big ones. The gray-green one and the otherrust-red monster arenowhere to be found andno sounds of them can beheard.Greybok roars a

question.The Weequay answers:

“What happened is, wewon. Or the rebels won.Well, somebody won, anditwasn’ttheEmpireortheslavers.”Nearby, Palabar holds

his knees close with hislong arms. His tentaclessearch the air anxiously.He asks: “What happensnow?”

Greybok echoes thequestion in a low,thrumming grumble. As arebel soldier passes by,Hatchet calls out to her:“Hey. Honey. Whathappens now? For us, Imean.Theslaves.”She smiles a little. But

Greybok sees that shelooks lost, too.All she candoisshrug.“Idon’tknow.Nobody knows. You’re

free,though.”The woman keeps on

moving. She kicks astormtrooperhelmetoutofthe way and then she’sgone. In the distance, thesound of another battle.Greybok wonders if all ofSevarcos will fall. Or if itwill be reclaimed by theEmpire. The future issuddenly unpinned—evolving, spinning, leaping

about likeapanickedtree-loormor.Hatchet laughs: a

mirthless sound. “Nobodyknows. You hear that,fellas?Nobodyknowswhathappens next.” He sniffsand stands up. “Whateveritis,Iguesswe’retheoneswhogottadoit.Let’swalk.We’re free now. Might aswellactlikeit,seewhatthegalaxyhastoofferatrioof

no-good, no-class ex-slaves,yeah?”

Bleary-eyed, AdmiralAckbar stands, studyingthedata.It’sashortpacketof information,shownina

three-dimensional display—beforehim,thesurfaceofthe planet Akiva growsbigger, blowing up like aballoon until it seems likehe could reach out andmove thewhorls of cloudswith the flat of his hand.Like a god. But it’s just aprojection. A hologram.Datapulledfromtheprobedroid still there in space.He sees what the droid

saw: the small dot(illuminated by a redcircle) representing thetransport flying in, theSpecForce soldiers exitingtheshiponebyone(eachayellow circle). Then theflash of cannon fire. Aturbolaser from theplanet’ssurface.That,fromsomewhere down belowtheclouds.The red circle flickers

and goes dark, explodingin midair before it everreachestheground.One by one, the yellow

circles flickerandgodark,too.Exceptforone.They lose his signal

when he reaches theplanet,butitwouldappearasifSergeantJomBarellofthe SpecForces survived

the attack. To what end,Ackbar does not know.Informationatthispointisand will be sketchy. Thecommunications blackoutis doing them no favors—the probe droid only hasthe information it hasbecauseof a visual survey.And they only have thedroid’s informationbecause it daisy-chainedthe communiqué back to

the Oculus, which is farenoughoutofrangethatitcansend itback toAckbarhere on the Home One.Short-rangecommunicationmadelong.“And we think Barell

survived,”Ackbarsays.The hologram of

Deltura’s face nods. “Wedo.”Hemovesaside,andthe

science officer’s faceappears. Officer Niriiansays: “Though his survivalis not guaranteed. You’llnote the erratic patternhesuddenly follows—apattern that continues tothe ground.” She replaysthatlastbit,whereBarell’sglowing circle suddenlydarts right, then left, thenzigzags down. “It suggestshedeployed thepara-wing

tooearly.Thewindat thatlevel is intense.Wecannotbe certain that the manwho landedon the surfaceis a man who is alive andwell.”Ackbar nods. “Thank

you, Officer Niriian.Commendable work, asalways.” He cranes hisneckandmassagesit.Deltura returns. “Sir?

Ourorders,Admiral?”

“Remain in place untilfurther order. But remainwary. Something is goingon there. It seems we willhave to reveal the face ofthis thing with a farmoreactive hand than initiallyanticipated.”If this is the Empire, as

their shadowy informantsuggests, then the war forthe galaxy haspreemptively come to this

sectoroftheOuterRim.

—

They already know by thetime she gets to the room.The volume level of thosepresent is already aclamorous din, and whenRae enters through thedoor,thatvexedandfretfuloutcry turns toward herlike a laser. The satrap,

acting like a servant,hurries toward her andhe’ssaying—nottoherbutto those gathered—“I toldyou, it’s safe, it’s safe, thewalls here are stone asthick as you are tall.” HegetstoRaeandoffersheratray full of fragrantpastries: delicate littlepinwheels with sweet,floralfruitpressedintothecenters. She hand-waves

them away, despite thehungryprotestationsofherstomach—shecannotseemlike an effective leader ifshe has a funny littleconfectioninherhandandcrumbs at the corners ofherlips.No.Betteryet—howbest

todownplaytheseverity?Shecatchesthesatrapby

the arm and plucks apastry from the tray and

beginstoeatit.Letthemseeshedoesn’t

takethisthreatseriously.Alie.It’sserious.Orwill

be dire enough, soonenough.The fact they already

knowsomething’sgoingonis again a credit toPandion. He has someoneon the inside of her team.Tothwin? Could be. The

prat.AdeaorMorna?That,amoretroublingconcern.Nothingtobedonenow.

Notimeforarathunt.She waves her hand,

catching a few fallingcrumbs in the palmof herhand. “As you know,” shestarts to say, then has tosayitlouderagaintoquietthose gathered. “As youknow, there has been anincursion into Akivan

space. We discovered arebel transport in theatmosphere above Myrra.We eradicated thattransport with one of thesuborbital ground-to-orbitcannons.Thatistheendofourpresentconcerns.”“The end?” Crassus

barks. “That feels hardlyaccurate. How dismissive!This is a threat, AdmiralSloane, the Rebel Alliance

—”Pandioninterrupts:“The

rebelswillsendafleet.Notimmediately, but soon.And when they do, weshould meet them here.They are blind to thesituation. Yet we see withclear eyes. That gives us apowerful advantage. Theysend a fleet and we haveourown—ledby theSuperStarDestroyerRavager,of

course—waiting. A victoryfor the Empire. One thatwill serve as a tolling bellringing throughout thegalaxy, heralding thereturnoforder.”Tashu and Crassus nod.

Shale says, elbowing pastthe obsequious satrap andhis tray of pastries: “Theystill have the militaryadvantage. Particularly iftheysendinalargefleetas

aresponse.Howlikelythatis,Icannotsay,butjustthesame, putting any of ourcommand ships into playright now is foolhardy.This battle has no stakesexceptthatofoursurvival.That is a battle you onlyfightifyoumust.Ifwelosethis, then we lose ourcommandships,andlikelyour lives or our freedoms.That will be a tolling bell,

Moff Pandion. Do youwant to lose here as youdidonMalastare?Thelossof that communicationsstation lost us ourmeagerholdonthatworld.”She, too, heard of his

loss there—only heescaped. Fleeing in anescapeshuttleastherebelstook the base behind him.In the navy, the admiralgoes down with the ship.

Moffs do not hold such acode,itseems.Bringing ituphas stung

Pandion.Hisangerat thatcommenthangsonhisfacelike an ugly mask. “Youcoward.”Shale shrugs. “Not so

much of a coward that Ifled as my men fell tocaptureordeath.”It’stimetostepinbefore

these two kill each other.(Though that, she thinks,might solve a problem,wouldn’t it? If only sheweresoruthless.)“TheplanasIseeit,”she

againsaysquite loudly, “isthatwe continuebreakfastand continue discussingour greater purpose—thefuture of the GalacticEmpire and the galaxy itostensibly controls. In the

meantime, our people willprepare our shuttles, packour things, and myassistantAdeawillplot forus a revised location forthis meeting. Bylunchtime,wewilladjournto that secondary locationandcontinuethisthere.”That statement is her

trying to put her bootdown on the neck of awriggling serpent to pin it

to the ground before itbitesher.Thiswholethingthreatens to be a ropeslidingall thewaythroughher grip. Right now herdeclarative statementseems to give thempause,but she knows at anymoment someone likePandionwill step forward,call a vote. That, aprecedent from the nightbefore—and amistake she

madelettingthemallhavea voice. (And here shewonders at the largermistake: Is this meeting afoolhardy endeavor?Perhaps Pandion has apoint. The Empire needsan emperor. Not somesquabbling council.Councilsarehowyouslowthe wheels of progress toan imperceptible crawl.The Galactic Senate was

known for its inability toaccomplishanything.)Itiswhatitis.“Let our meeting

commence,”shesays.

—

Jom Barrel coughs. Hiseyes refocus.Where is he?Whathappened?Itdoesn’ttakelongforit

to come careening back—

fast as the ground lungingup to meet him. Thememory of falling. Thetransport in flames. Histeam erased from the sky,one by one, as if by theflicking finger of a callowand callous god.Andhim:his wings out. The windtaking him. Durs belowhim. Polnichk above him.A laser erasing Durs. Thewind breaking Polnichk

before the cannon claimshim,too.Jom fell into it, then—a

jet stream of air pushinghard, a cold wind thatswept him aside like abrutish hand. He droppedabout thirty meters in afewseconds, then tumbledforward, theairgone fromunder his wings. Heblackedoutonlytoawakenagain closer to the ground

now—the city visiblebeneath him.He extendedhis arms once more, felttheairseizehim—His descent was ill

controlled.Hecrashedintothe side of a small wagon.And then crawledunderneath a smallwooden overhang strewnwith hay and fruit rinds—the leavings of somedomesticated animal—

before passing out intowhat he feared might bedeath.Butalive,heremains.It’s hot as a rancor’s

mouth here. Jom pries offhis mask, flings it to theground.Hetriestomove—but his one arm gives out,and pain fires from thewrist to the shoulder likean arc-whip of electricity.Hecan’tevenclosehisfist.

The limb feels uselessinsidethecasingofcarbonlace.It’sbroken.Frag.He reaches around for

the rifle strapped to hisbackwithplanstouseitasacane—Butit’sgone.Doublefrag.Must’vebrokenoffinthe

fall (or the landing). Herolls over, starts to pushhimself up onto his kneeswithhisunbrokenarmand—When he lifts his head,

sweatpouringoffhisbrow,he sees the white boots ofstormtroopers standingthere. Three of them.Blasterspointed.And that’s a triple frag

forthefragtrifecta.

“Well, hey, boys,” Jomsays, words ushered outthroughgrittedteeth.“Hotenoughforyou?”“Freeze,” one

stormtroopersays.“Stand up,” the other

says.Idiots.“I can’t likely do both,”

Barell says. “I’m just oneman, not three like you

fine soldiers—” And onthat last word he pivotsand kicks a leg out hard,stabbing his heel at thepost holding up thewooden overhang. It’senough—the post crackslike a snapped bone, andthe whole roof comesdown. Clay tile clatters offand rains down upon thestormtroopers as thewoodenplatformseparates

himfromthem.No time to waste. He

springs up with both legs,urging himself past thepain and slamming hisshoulder into the roof,shoving it forward. Thestormtroopers give way,toppling to the groundwith the rattle of armor.They’re trappedunderneath it. He crawlson top and slams his

weightdownafewtimes—but he sees movement atthe edge. One of them istrying to crawl out fromunder. Blaster rifle in onehand.Jomrollsover,pries the

blaster from thestormtrooper’shand.“Hey!” the trooper

shouts.“Hey,” Barell seethes,

standing up—using theblasterforsupport.Then he fires the rifle

down through the wood,peppering it with searingbolts. Splinters spray.Smoke drifts through theholes. The stormtroopersstopstrugglingandliestill.He winces, spits, and

thenstepsofftheplatform.Timetomove.

They walk. Hard to keepyour face hidden here onthe streets of Myrra,especially inhotweather—

a cloak is out of thequestion and a face maskwilldrownyouinyourownsweat. Veils are the waytheygo:Norrawithawhiteveil over her nose andmouth,Jaswithafullheadveil, black as midnight.(Thoughtheveildoeslittleto conceal her head-spikes.)Ahead, a pair of

stormtrooperswalktoward

them.From somewhere

behind,aflungjoganfruit.Ithits theonetrooperandsplatters—purple juiceandpale seeds running downthe white helmet in gooeyrivulets. The two trooperswheel,blasterriflesup.“Whodidthat?Who?”“Showyourself!”But nobody does. The

pairofImperialscurseandkeepwalking.Jas and Norra cinch

their veils closer to theirfacesandskirtpastthetwostormtroopers on the farsideof the crowded street.Theymakeit.Norrafeelssotenseshe’s

afraid her teeth mightbreakagainstoneanother.She tries to relax, tries tounclench. But everything

feels like it hinges oneverythingelse—onewrongmove and the entire thingcomes tumbling downaroundthem.“Your plan really might

work,”Jassays.“Youthink?”Norraasks.

“I’msuddenlynotsosure.”Jasshrugs.“Afterseeing

what we just saw? I feelconsiderably better about

it.Here.Ahead.Yourson’sshop.”Temmin’s shop. Norra

thinks but does not say:Once,myhome.From inside, the sounds

of banging. Metal strikingagainststone.Apowerdrillrevs up somewhere pastthe door. Norra can feelthevibrationsofthedrillinthe heels of her feet upthroughhercalves.

“Yousureyoudon’twantme to come in with you?”Norraasks.Jaspopstheknuckleson

each handwith a pressingthumb. “Too crowded inthere.You’llonlygetinmyway.”“Thanks for the vote of

confidence.”“You be the pilot. I’ll be

thebountyhunter.”

“Fairenough. I’llgetmygun fixed, then I’ll meetyouattheevil-eye.”Jas nods, then steps

forward, blaster drawn.Norra waits around—justin case. As the bountyhunter steps forward, thedoor to Temmin’s shophisses open. The Zabraksteps in. The door slidesshutbehindher.Thedrillingsoundstops.

It’s replaced by yelling.They’veseenher.Then the yelling cuts

short.Banging.Athud.Blaster

fire. Another bang. Threemoreblastershotsinquicksuccession. Someonemewlinginpain.Onemoreshot. The mewling ends,cutoffasfastasitbegan.Momentstickby.

Thedoorhissesopen.Jas stands there, a line

ofdarkbloodtrickingfromher nose. Her lip is split.Blood smears her teeth.She gives a wink. “We’reclear.Nowgo.”

—

“Stand down,” Sinjirgrowls past the pair ofblaster rifles shoved inhis

face. He lifts his chin andsneers. “Don’t you knowwho you’re talking to?Didn’t anyone inform youofmypresence?”The two stormtroopers

give each other abewildered look. As if tosay, Is this some kind ofJedimindtrick?Behind Sinjir, in the

narrowalley,afewMyrrancitizens hurriedly pass—a

scurrying Dug, a pair ofwasherwomen, anUgnaught riding on theswooped and bent neck ofanIthorian.And behind the

stormtroopersisadoor.A door that leads to a

local communicationsstation. A three-floordome-shaped buildingwith a tall—if crooked—antennaatthetopofit.An

antenna that isn’tmuch tolookat.It’snotbigenoughto climb or hang off of.Were the wind to kick upin a storm, said antennawould probably waggleback and forth like ajudgmentalfinger.It won’t get a signal out

intospace.But it will send one

locally.

“Step back,” one of thetrooperssays.Sinjir feigns incredulity.

“You really…hah, youreally don’t know who Iam.Yourfaceswillbequitered under those austerehelmetswhenyoufindout.You have an officerpresent, I take it? Gethim.”Another shared look.

One of the stormtroopers

comms: “Sir?We have a…problem at the sideentrance. Uh-huh. He’sclaimingtobeanImperial?Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Then toSinjir: “OfficerRapacewillberightdown.”Hethrustshis rifle up and forwardagain as if to assert hisdominance and to say:Don’tgetanyfunnyideas.Sinjir is nothing but

funny ideas, so, oops,

sorry,toolate.Moments later, thedoor

behind the troopers slidesopen and an Imperialofficer—little hat andeverything—steps out. Aprig-nosedmanwithasoft,downy beard. “What isthis?Whoisthis?”“Are you Officer

Rapace?”Sinjirsays.“Iam.Whoareyou?”

“I am Loyalty OfficerSinjirRathVelus.”There it is. That

delicious flinch. Atightening of the eyes. Atremor in the hands. Fearand uncertainty doing awild and whirling dance.ThoughRapacetriesnottoshow it, Sinjir sees it.Because it ishis job toseeit.Andbecauseeveryone is

afraidofaloyaltyofficer.“Wedon’thaveany,ahh,

loyalty officers stationedhere,”Rapacesays,abitofastammerinhisvoice.Hepullsa scanneroffhisbeltand holds it up to Sinjir’sface while thestormtroopers keep theirblasters trained on him—thoughnowthebarrelsarepointed just slightlydownward because they

know the fear, too.Probably quaking insidethatarmor.Thescannerbeeps.Rapace seems taken

aback. “Sinjir Rath Velus.You…you died on Endor.You are listed as acasualty.”“Ugh,” Sinjir says,

making a distasteful face.“This clerical error has

been following me like abad smell.” He rolls hiseyes.“No, IdidnotdieonEndor,andyes,Iamreallyhere, right now, standinginfrontofyou.”“I…,” Rapace says,

bewildered. “You’re not inuniform.”“Iwas on leave.But I’m

reportingfordutyandthislocalcommstationwastheclosestplaceforme.Anold

comm station, wasn’t it?Good for you. Lock downany points of informationtransmission. Nicely done,Officer.”BeforeRapacecanblunder through a thank-you, Sinjir says, “May wego inside? I would like toevaluatethesituation.”“Sir,”Rapacesayswitha

stiff nod. “Of course,Loyalty Officer Velus.Right away.” He turns

heel-to-toe, trying toputaceremonial spin on it as ifto indicate what a goodImperial he is, andmarchesinside.Sinjir passes the two

stormtroopers. “You two.Inside,aswell.”“But sir, we’re guarding

thedoor—”“Are you questioning a

loyalty officer? Perhaps

you should remain outhere. I could search yourquarters.Digthroughyourfiles. Speak to Rapaceabout any instances of…insubordination that mayhaveoccurred.”“Lead the way, sir,” the

otherstormtroopersays.(When Sinjir turns his

back, the one elbows theother.)

Theystepinthroughthedoor.The door closes behind

them.Officer Rapace walks

ahead toward a set ofdimly lit steps curvingupwardtothesecondfloor.At the door outside: a

knock-knock-knock. Metalrappingonmetal.Which means: Now is

thetime.The stormtroopers turn,

grunting in confusion.Soonastheystarttopivot,Sinjir reaches behindRapacetosnatchhispistol—while, with his otherhand,heshovestheofficerforward.HeshootsRapace in the

back. The officer pitchesface-first.

The stormtroopers cryout in alarm and wheelback toward him. But forthem, it’s too late. Thedoor opens. Framed thereinthedoorwayisthebattledroid—Temmin’s droid.Bones. His astromech legspins up like a turbinerotor and hits one of thetroopers so hard in thehelmet the white armorsplitsdownthemiddlelike

a cracked kukuia nut. Theother cries out in panic,and is silenced by avibroblade punchedthroughhischestplate.Thestormtroopersdrop.“HELLO MAY I COME

IN,”MisterBonesintones.Sinjirsighs.“I thinkyou

saidthatpartalittlelate.”“ROGER-ROGER.”From the staircase: the

dull clack-and-thud offootsteps. Sinjir positionshimself next to and justbehindasmallfootlocker—and as soon as the othertwo stormtroopers appear,he squeezes off two shotsin quick succession. Theone tumbles forward. Theother topples backwardand slides down on hissmooth armor. They liestill.

Sinjir nods to the droid.“TellTemminit’stime.”“MASTER TEMMIN.

HIS NAME IS MASTERTEMMIN.”“Yes, great, fine, tell

MasterTemminit’stime.”“ROGER-ROGER!”

—

Norrasitsontherooftopofthe old outfitter’s store.

Used to belong to that oldTuskface—the Aqualish,Torvo Bolo—before itburned down. Bolo playedat being a hard-ass, buthe’d always sneak her andEsmelle little candy-swirlsticks while he soldprovisionstotheirparents.Story goes that it wassomeone from the blackmarket who burned itdown. Simple enough to

increase black-marketprofits if the blackmarketsuddenly includes itemsthat were once easy tocomeby.But that’s Akiva. The

corruption once held fastto the satrapy and itsbackstabbing aristocracyleakedoutlikeapuncturedslabin barrel, got all overeverything. Became toxicin that dose. A changed

world.But that’s a thought for

anothertime.Now:There’sataskathand.Acrossthenarrowstreet

sits another rooftop: theold KaryvinhousePlantation.Homethenandnow to one of thoseduplicitous aristocratfamilies, the Karyvin clan.Old money. They ownislands down in the

SouthernArchipelago,theyown crystal mines in theNorthernJungles.Alltheirchildren always seem toskiptheAcademyandheadrighttoofficers’school,notclimbing the Imperialranks so much as pole-vaultingoverthem.On the rooftop: twoTIE

fighters. This quiet, subrosa occupation of Myrrahas left a number of the

Imperial short-rangefightersparkedonEmpire-friendly rooftops allaroundthecity.Norra needs one of

them.She glances behind her,

watchingtherooftopoftheSaltwheel Playhouse. Therooftop where a branch ofa gnarled old-growthjarwal tree broke off andfellyearsago,andstillsits.

Norrawaitsandwaits.Howlongisthisgoingto

take?Jasshould’vebeen—There.A flash. A little mirror

catchingsunlight.It’stime.Norrascoopsupabitof

broken mortar from therooftop,andthenpitchesithard. It hits the verticalwing of the TIE—pock!

And then, sure enough,from around the far side:Here comes the TIE pilot.Helmet off, tucked underhis arm. Hand drifting tohispistol.Hebendsdown,picksup

thethrownhunkofmortar.Norrastands,whistles.He perks his head up

like a whistle-pig at itshole. It takes him a

moment to even registerthatthere’ssomeonethere.He starts to yell at her—“You there!”—and hishand moves toward hisblaster.From far behind Norra,

towardtheplayhouseroof:asmallsound.Piff.The pilot shudders just

slightly. His words die in

hismouth and he dips hischin to his chest andstares, bewildered, at theholethere.He doesn’t collapse so

muchashejust…crumples.Norra psyches herself

up.She’soldernow.Notasspry as she oncewas.Herbones don’t ache all thetime—just inthemornings—butit’senoughtoremindher she’s not a young

mother jetting around thegalaxy anymore. Time hasground her down. She’s agood pilot, but all thisrunning and jumping? It’snotreallyherbag.It’s a short jump. You

candoit.Deep breath and then—

Norraruns.Shecrossesthegeneral store rooftop, andahead the narrow streetgaploomsandshetriesnot

tothinkaboutfalling,triesnot to think aboutdropping three stories andbreaking her body on theplastocrete below, and sheplantsherheelat theedgeof the rooftop tomake thejump……just as a second TIE

pilotemergesandseesher.Theblaster is already in

his hand and he startsfiring.

Norra’s foot skids outfrom under her and shefallsofftherooftop.

—

Temmin kneels. Holds upboth hands in front of hisface.Hestaresthroughhisfingersattheblasterbarrelpointedtowardhim.“Please,” he pleads.

“Please. I didn’t do

anything.”The Imperial officer

chuckles and then says: “Iknow.”Temmin springs to his

feet, feigns trying to runtheotherway—Theblastergoesoff.The

bolthitshimintheback.He drops. The air gone

from his lungs. He wantsto cry out, gasp, roll

around, try to suck in afreshbreath.Buthehastohold it. This has to lookconvincing. Stay still.Don’t move. Don’t evenbreathe.Playdead.Moments pass. Temmin

feelslikehe’sgoingblueintheface.Then,finally—“Did we get it?” the

Imperial officer—Sinjir,actually—says.Mister Bones stands

there, still as a coatrack.“WHAT.”Temminletsoutabreath

as he stands up and pullsthe comm-relay panel outfrom under his shirt. Adeep dent sits in themiddle of the steel grid.These plates line theoutside of the receiver

toweron the roof, andaremeant to survive themausin-storms, so they’reprettydamnindestructible.“This dent looks awfulclose to being a hole,” hesays,chidingSinjir.“Well, sorry,” Sinjir

snips. “Itwas your idea touse the relay panel.Besides, this was allnecessary for the ruse.Now will you please ask

your psychotic automatonif he captured thefootage?”“Bones, did you get that

footage?”“ROGER-ROGER,

MASTERTEMMIN.”Then the droid starts

humming to himself.Shuffling from foot to footalmost as if trying not todance, but dancing

anyway.Sinjir asks the droid:

“And you have Norra’srecording?”“ROGER-ROGER.”He turns to Temmin:

“Andyouhavethe—”“Yeah, yeah, I have the

holodisk. This thing hasgone everywhere.Everybody seems to haveit. Or seen it.” He

reluctantly admits: Momhad a pretty good plan.This part, at least. Therest?He’s not so sure. Hedefinitely doesn’t want toleave this planet. This ishishome.Thisiswherehehas his business. His life.And she just wants to riphim away? Take himoffworld to—where?Chandrila? Naboo? Gross.He tries to shake off the

feeling. “You know, thisplace. It used to transmitthe news. My mom anddadusedtolistentoit.ButthesatrapyshutitdownonImperial orders.” Hethinks but does not say:And then it turns out mydad was using this veryconsole to transmit rebelpropaganda all acrossAkiva.The irony is not lost on

him.Sinjir pulls a chair away

from the console andpushesittowardhim.“Andyou really think you canhackthesignal?”“I built him, didn’t I?”

Temmin thumbs in thedirection of the droid. Hesitsinthechair,blowsdustofftheconsole.Mister Bones is slicing

his vibroblade through theair,tryingtoattackamoth.Finally, he succeeds—thencomes a tiny little bzzt asthemothisslicedintwain,two little white wingsfluttering to the ground,smoldering.“Yes,” Sinjir says, voice

as dry as an old biscuit.“That is what I’m worriedabout.”

—

Norra’s lungs andshoulders burn as sheclings to the plantationrooftop, her handsscrabbling on the wetledge.Herboottoesscrapefutilely against the wall asshetriestopullherselfup.A shadow looms over

her.The TIE pilot. Standing

there,pistolpointed.“You killed NK-409. He

was a friend. You rebelsssssss—”He staggers back. His

finger reaching to probetheholeinthedeadcenterofhisblackchestplate.“Scum,”hefinishes.Then pitches forward—

right toward her. Norracriesoutandhugsthewall

ascloseasshecan.Shecanfeel the air disturbedbehind her as the pilotplunges through andplummets to the streetbelow.Her fingers start to slip.

Shethinksofthedeadmanbelow.I’mabouttojoinhim.Getittogether,Norra.Everything relies on

this.MakeTemminproud.The tip of one boot

anchors her against thewall. She presses up withher leg—the calf and thighstraining, burning. Then,groaning,shehaulsherselfup andover the ledge andontotheplantationroof.Norra lies there for a

moment. The massive

black bat-wing of the TIEfighter—an evil-eye as sheandsomeotherrebelshavecalledthem,becausethat’sdamn sure what they looklike screaming at youthroughtheendlessvoidofspace—and thinks: I’mabout to fly one of thosethings.One last exhalation.

Whew. Better get to it,then.

—

“We’rein,”Temminsays.Justthen:bangingatthe

door here at the commtransmission booth. Fromtheotherside:“Openup!”Sinjir takes the blaster

and fires a shot into thedoormechanism.Aflashofflameandarainofsparks.The door judders, thenlocks.

“Doit,”Sinjirsays.Temminhitsthebutton.Thetransmissionbegins.

—

AllacrossthecityofMyrra,HoloNet receivers flickon.Above cantinabar tops, inlittle galley kitchens,appearing above thewristwatch projectorssportedbythosestuckina

long bala-bala commutedown the Main 66highway.Itappearsonthebig, cracked screenhanging just outside theHydorrabad Arena in themiddle octagon of theCBD.On all the projections

appears the face of NorraWexley.Apleadingface.

The projected Norrasays:Akivans, your planet

has been occupied.MyrraisnowunderthecontroloftheGalacticEmpire.Longhave we resisted totaloccupation, but now thewar is at our door. Andwith war comes crimessuchasthis:Asceneplaysout.Aboy

holding up his hands. An

Imperial officer with apistol. Please. Please! Ididn’t do anything. Andtheofficerlaughsandsays,Iknow. Then the Imperialshoots theboy in thebackas he tries to escape. Theboy falls to the ground,dead.The Imperial is not

reallyanImperial,andthedead boy is not really adead boy. But few would

even get the chance torecognizetheartifice.When they see it, all

across Myrra the Akivansgasp. They shake theirheads. They cluck theirtongues. And all that soonturnstoquakinginrage.Norraappearsagain,her

voiceboomingout:Right now, at this very

moment, a meeting takes

place inside the walls ofthe satrap’s palace.Already a hotbed ofcorruption, this Imperialmeeting means tonegotiate the totaloccupation of your cityand your planet.Will youstandforthis?Orwillyoufight?Isay:fight.Andknow that theNew

Republicstandswithyou.

ThenNorradisappears.A new projection plays,

thisoneonaloop.PrincessLeiaappearsandspeaksinthesamevideomanyoftheMyrranshavealreadyseen,aholovidgoingaroundandaround.Itbegins:The New Republic

wantsyou.ThegripoftheGalactic Empire on ourgalaxy and its citizens isrelinquished. The Death

Star outside the forestmoon of Endor is gone,and with it the Imperialleadership…

Raequakes.Adea shows her the

holovid outside the diningarea—theothersarestillin

there, once more arguingtheir respective positions.Now they’ve moved on towhoexactlyshouldbecomeemperor in the wake ofPalpatine’s death. WhenAdeapulledheroutof theroom, Adviser Tashu wasfloatinganideawheretheyused a proxy to show thatthe Emperor was “stillalive”—after all, he hadmany body doubles. Easy

enough to use one.Tohersurprise,theyallseemedtolike that idea. And that’swhenAdeagother.Andshowedherthevid.…atthisverymoment,a

meeting takesplace insidethe walls of the satrap’spalace…“Someonehassabotaged

us,” Rae hisses. She setsher jaw and growls: “This

isnotknowninformation.”“Iknow.”“Wasityou?”Fear travels across

Adea’sfacelikeacrackinawall. “No,” she stammers.“I…Admiral, please, Iwouldnever—”She thinks to press it.

Reach out. Take the girl’sthroat. Make her confessthrough a collapsed

windpipe.Butsuchcrueltyis beyond her right now.Adea didn’t do this. Nomotive lines up. It makeslittlesense.Who, then? Pandion?

Thesatrap?Someone else, someone

unseen?“Get me Isstra,” Rae

says.Adeanods,andducksback in through the large

red double doors leadinginto the dining room.Doors opulent withscrollwork and carvings ofsome satrap fighting offstrange creatures—a nexuin one carving, a pack offeral humanoids inanother. Rae stares at itandsuddenlysympathizes:I,too,ambesieged.The doors open as she

watches them. The satrap

emerges, all sycophanticsmiles and deferentialbowingandscraping.“Yes,Admiral Sloane, please,please tell me what I cando—”She shows him the

holovid.His eyes go wide, wide,

wider as he watches it.“Oh,my.”“Showmeawindowthat

facesthefront.TowardtheAvenue of the Satrapy.Now.”He nods, claps his

hands, and with a lasso-whirlofafingertwoofhisattendants—young womengarbed insoft,diaphanousgolden scarves—followafter, feeding him smalldried fruits as he walksworriedly and hurriedlyforward. They go up a set

of blue-tile steps, past awallthatisitselfaburblingfountain,upanothersetofsteps—these curving, andso tight that two cannotwalkupthemsidebyside.They reach a longerhallway, one lined withnarrow, arrow-slitwindows. “Here,” he says,chewing on one of thesmalldarkfruitsnervously.Raewalksovertooneof

theslitwindows.Even now, she can see

Akivans gathering outfront.Not amob.Not yet.But they regard thepalaceasanunpleasantcuriosity.Like they’re trying todecidewhatthey’reseeing.Or what to do. Or maybethey’relookingforasignofwhat’s really going on inhere—already they’vesurely seen the Imperial

ships parked along thelandingringthatformsthetop of the palace. Andthey’ve seen the increasedstormtrooperpresence,theTIE fighters swooping, theoccupation of several keylocationsacrossMyrra.The situation is a

canister of fuel, stuffedwith a rag, the rag lit onfire.Theragwillburn.Itwill

burn faster than anybodylikesorexpects.Andwhenitdoes:boom.To Adea, Rae says:

“Begin to prepare theships.”“Itwilltakesometimeto

calculate hyperspacejumps—”“Wecandothatafterwe

exit the atmosphere. Timeisoftheessence.”

Thismeetingisover.Timetotelltheothers.

In the darkness, a redlightsaber rises from itshilt.The blade gently sways

—vwomm, vwomm.Leaving streaks of red in

the black. Nearby, a fatassassin-spiderdangles,itsthorax glowing with aphosphorescent skullpattern.Thearachnidspitsvenom at the red blade astheredglowmovescloser.Then: The sword movesquickly.Thespider isbisected in

twain with a little shriekandhiss.Both halves plop to the

floor.The light returns to the

room as a young rat-facedgirl pulls back a blackcurtainoverthewindow.The wielder of the

lightsaber: a long-snoutedKubaz, his eyes concealedbehind gold-lensedgoggles, the rest of hishead swaddled in redleatherscarves.Heretractsthe crimson blade into its

hilt.Three individuals stand

before him. Two in blackrobes, their facesconcealed. The thirdstandsat theforeof them:a young woman. Pale.Hunched over, as if herspine refuses to keep herstraight.Herhandsplayatthe air—fingers like thelegs of that spider,plucking invisible threads

that perhaps only she cansee.They stand in a

tenement on Taris—now,with the black sheet backfrom the window, thisroom is revealed asnothingshortofawreck.Atick-infestedpileofpillowson the floor. Walls taggedwith graffiti (one suchpiece of tagging: a stencilof a familiar Sith Lord’s

helmet with the phrasebeneath it reading VADERLIVES). Rubble and ruineverywhere. Not muchdifferent outside:tenements stacked atoponeanother.Somearejustshipping containers.Others are hulls fromruined spacecraft teeteringprecariously on top of oragainst each other. Rankpollution floats about:

yellow like the scum ondirtywater.The Kubaz squeaks in

his native tongue: “Youhave thecredits?”Therat-faced girl translates forhim,repeatinghiswordsinBasic.“Is it really his

lightsaber?” the youngwomanasks.Hervoiceisaraspy whisper, as ifsomething is wrong in the

wellofherthroat.“It’stheSithLord’slaser

sword,sureenough.”“MayI?”sheasks.The Kubaz shakes his

snout and says: “No. Notuntil I see the money.Money talks or Ooblamonwalks.”Ooblamon’s little friend,

the rat-faced girl, giggleswhenshetranslates.

Thepalewomanlookstotheothertwointheirdarkrobes. They whisper toeach other. Almost as ifarguing.Sheturnsback.“Howdo

we know it is Vader’sblade?”“You don’t. But it’s a

lightsaber,isn’tit?Andit’sred.Isn’tthatthecoloryouseek?”

More whispering, morearguing.Amadsusurrus.Finally, some sort of

concession. The robedfigures each give her asmall box marked withstrange sigils. She shakesthem: Ooblamon theKubazknows the soundofcredits rattling. It warmshisunkindheart.They hand over the

boxes. He refuses to take

them, and instead the rat-girl scurries over. “This ismy cohort and apprentice,Vermia.”Shetakesoneboxinaclickingclaw,andthentheother.Shehurriesbackto the corner to begin hercount. Credit chatteringagainstcreditasshemakeshertally.Theyoungwomanoffers

her pale hand. “The…lightsaber,please.”

“When the count iscomplete,”Ooblamonsays.He cocks his head andstaresat them throughhisgoggles. “What are you?You’renoJedi.”“We are adherents,” she

hisses. “Acolytes of theBeyond.”“Fanatics of the dark

side?” he asks. “Or justchildrenwhowant to playwithtoys?”

“Judgeusnot,thief.”TheKubazsniffswithhis

snout,adismissivegesture.Vermia hurries back overand says with a chuckle:“Thecreditsareallthere.”Ooblamon goes to hand

overtheweapon,butastheyoung woman reaches forit, he yanks it back. Thenhe pulls back a bit of hisown brown, grungy robeand shows the blaster

hanging there. “You getsquirrelly and think tousethat laser sword onme ormycohort,thiswillnotendwell.”“Wearenotviolent.Not

yet.”The Kubaz grunts, then

handsoverthelightsaber.The three strangers

suddenly turn to face oneanother, holding the

lightsaber among them.Whisperingtooneanother.Ortoit.The woman mutters a

half-heard expression ofgratitude,thentheystarttohurryoutthedoor.Astheygo,Ooblamoncallsafter:“What do you plan on

doingwiththatthing?”Thewomansays,simply:

“Wewilldestroyit.”

He laughs. “Why wouldyoudothat?”“So that it can be

returned to its master indeath.”They scurry away.

Outside, the sounds ofTaris: a bleating horn,someoneyelling,aspeederbike backfiring, distantblasterfire.Vermia says: “Was that

reallyVader’sweapon?”TheKubazshrugs.“Whoknows.Andreally,

whocares?”

A line of sparks, red as ademon’s eyes, runs upalong the outside of thedoor leading into the

consoleroomofthecommstation. Mister Bonesstands in front of it,waiting. Humming adiscordant little song—asong some maniac mightthink ispretty, thekindofsongthatsoundslikewindhowling through a cavernmight sing. Sinjir waits,too,pistoldrawn.They’llcomeforus.And then he wonders,

Whatthen?Already he’s alerted the

Imperials that he is,indeed, still alive. Theywon’t realize it, yet. Butwhenallofthisshakesout,someone somewhere insome office of the EmpirewillseethatOfficerRapacepingedtheirnetworkswithhis name and his facialscan.What if they capturehim?

Oh,ironyofironies—He will likely be taken

beforealoyaltyofficer.Onesuchashimself.He almost wants to

laughatthat.The line of sparks,

halfwayupthedoornow.“Wait,” Temmin says.

“Wait,wait,wait.Look.”Sinjir looks. An

evaporatorunithangsfrom