Upload
others
View
7
Download
1
Embed Size (px)
Citation preview
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
the ceiling like a pregnantdroid. “So? It’s anevaporator.Theydon’tuseductswe can fit through—it’s just piping, isn’t it?Unless you have amolecular miniaturizationray handy that willmagically shrink us downto hamster size, I don’tthink—”“No, look.” Temmin
points to a pair of hinges.
Hegetsontohistippy-toes,thenrapsonthethingwiththebackofhisknuckles.It results in a hollow
bong,bong,bong.“It’s not real,” Sinjir
realizesoutloud.“Right. It’s a way out.
Probably to the roof. Theyused to do rebeltransmissions from thisbooth. My dad might’ve
put this here. Or used it.”Temminjumpsup,catchesthemetal lip of the device—hisweightpullsthethingdown, and it hangs off itshinges.The welder line around
the door is almost to itsend.“No time like the
present,” Sinjir says, andhurriesover.
Up there, through thespace:aladder.Theboywasright.Theyclimb.
—
Temminstickshisheadupthrough a hatch. The doorswings open andeverythingiswashedoutina wave of searing white:The comm console room
was so dark, and out hereit’s almost too bright. Hepulls himself up, his eyesstilladjusting.Ashebelly-flops onto the roof of thecomm station, he can’thelp feeling an odd surgeof pride. Inside his mind,he repeats what he toldSinjir: My dad might’veputthishere.But then the familiar
anger stomps down its
foot:Dadbeingarebeliswhy
hegotcaught.AndwhyMomleft.Andwhyeverything fell
apart.Thatgoodfeelinghehad
is instantly poisoned. Likea beautiful flower sprayedwith acid—it withers androtsinsidehim.He looks up, then,
blinking.He hears the sound
beforeheseesit.ATIE fighter.Heblinks
again,staringupatthesky,towardthesun.No.NotoneTIEfighter.
Twoofthem.He helps haul Sinjir up
—“We have to move!Incoming!”ThefirstTIEbearsdown
on them like a meteorready to roll right overthem.It’sthenthathegetsit.Temmin knows what
thatfighterisheretodo.Boneshopsupoutofthe
hole—Temmin tackles Sinjir
and the battle droid. Heknocksthembothbehindametalfixturemeanttolook
like the exteriormechanism of the (not-actually-working)evaporator system. Theyallhitthedeck.Just as the TIE fires its
frontcannons.Thebuildingshakesand
from the other corner ofthe structure there’restreaks of fire and a smallblooming cloud of yellowsmoke. Temmin peeks his
head out and sees theantenna array tilting offthe roof and falling away,leaving behind a rain ofelectricalembers.They killed the
transmission.Hehas tohope it stayed
outtherelongenough.Andnow,herecomesthe
second TIE fighter. Itstarts firingat therooftop,
likely intent on bringingthe whole building down.It’s not a bomber, so itwon’t happen with onerun, but those weapons atthe front are no smallpopguns, either. A coupleof passes and the top halfofthecommstationwillbeturned to flaming chunksofrubble.He grabs both sides of
Bones’s head. “You got
this?”Bones says in that voice
that warbles from deep toshrill, a mechanizeddistortion: “CONSIDER ITDONE, MASTERTEMMIN.”The TIE cannons begin
shatteringtheotherhalfofthe roof. Debris sprays.Fire plumes.The soundofthefighteranditsgunsandthe explosions roars in
Temmin’sears.Notjusthisears. He can feel it in theback of his teeth. Sinjirwinces, clearly feeling it,too,poppinguptofireoffafew futile shots at theincoming fighter—andthen turning to pop shotsat the stormtroopers nowcoming up through theescapeshaft.Bonesshrieks:“ROGER-
ROGER.” Then the battle
droid jumps up in the air,tucking arms and legstogether, forming acannonball—And crashing through
the TIE fighter’s frontwindshield.The TIE wibbles and
wobbles in the air,careening drunkenlyacrosstheMyrranrooftops—it zigzags herkily-jerkilyoutofsight.
JustasthefirstTIE,nowlooping back on its returntrip, begins firing itscannons.Theblastspepperthe top of the building,crossing the rooftop, andcoming right for them.Temmin turns and looks—there’s no time to think,onlytimetoact,butthere’snootherrooftowhichtheycanjump—Sinjirpoints.
A third TIE has joinedthefray.It swoops in, front
blasters flashing—lasersunzippingthesky.Lasers that strike the
first TIE in the side. Itshexagonal wing panelbreaks off, hitting the sideof the comm station. Therest of it spins off to theside, streaking along thebuilding like a meteor—it
crashes into the sideof anold office building,erupting in a ground-shakingboom.The third TIE—their
savior—shrieksoverhead.Sinjir, panting, says: “I
think your mother foundherride.”Temmin nods, checking
himself over tomake surehe’s all there.Mom really
is one starcracker pilot.Notimetothinkaboutthat—or her—right now.Insteadhesays:“Webettergo. They’re gonna swarmusinnotime.”
—
Norra finds herselfthinkingaboutwasps.Here, in Akiva, there
exists a wasp: the
redjacket. The length andwidth of the tip of one’sthumb, the redjacketwaspis a scourge. They aremean, vicious creatures.They sting. Their stingerssuck up blood. They takethe blood to feed theiryoung and use it to buildtheir signature rust-rednests. Mostly, you findthem out in the jungles,thoughonceinawhilethey
stray from their comfortand you find a nest underan overhang or a rooftop(at which point thecommonsolutionis just toburn thewhole thingwithacanofenginesolventandaflick-tiplighter,makingahomemadeflamethrower).Thingis,thosewaspsfly
acertainway.Individually,they’rehardasanythingtocatch or kill, because they
fly up, down, left, right.Theycanzipforward,thenstop in midair and hoverbefore zipping back theother way. (And usuallythat’s when they go in forthe sting—and one stickfrom a redjacket’s stingercan leave your whole armnumbforanhour.)Flying a TIE fighter
reminds Norra of thosewasps.
It’s incredible. Suchmaneuverability. She cando just as the wasps do:thrust forward, thenretroboost to a stop, thenstreak to the left or theright. On a lark she givesthe whole thing a spin—literally corkscrewing theshipasshefliesitoverthecity that was once herhome.Of course, the trade-off
isthis:TheTIEisasuicideship, isn’t it? To get thespeed andmaneuverability, theEmpire sacrificed safetyandsanityintherestofthedesign. Thewhole thing isbrittle likeabird skeleton.Doesn’t even have anejector seat. It’s not just afighter.In dire situations, it
doubles as the pilot’s
grave.Still,Norraisn’tthinking
about that when she takesout the other TIE fightermenacing the rooftop ofthe comm station. Hertwinlasercannonstearthewing panel off and as itcrashes,disintegrating,shethinks:That’s what you get for
messingwithmyboy.
Norra whoops,exhilarated.Now for the task at
hand.Ahead, through thesun-
glitter haze hanging overthe city, she spies themassive citadel that is thesatrap’spalace.Gaudyandopulent.All its towers andparapetssplayedoutintheasymmetry of an insanebeing.(Everysatrapbuilds
something else onto thepalace, it seems—regardless of how well itmatches the design of therest. The result issomethingaltogethermorechaotic than intended.Beautiful, too, in itsstrange,slapdashway.)Around thecenterdome
and tower sits a ring, andaround that ring areparked the familiar fins of
Imperialshuttles.Thosearehertargets.Below her, her screen
blinks,thenflashesgreen.Two bogeys on her tail.
Another pair of TIEfighters, joining the fray.She thinks: It’s flashinggreen because it doesn’tknow they’re enemies,does it? It reads theirsignatureasfriendly.
Shehopes they readherasfriendly,too.But she learns quickly
therealityofthatsituationas both of the evil-eyesbehind her open fire—muscle memory precedesproper thought (for herhands are fast even whenher brain is slow) and sheagain spins the fighterthroughtheair,spiralingitforward and then up as
laser bolts pepper the airaround her. G-forces putpressure on her templeslike a crushing vise and itfeels likeher legsandgutsare somewhere still downabout a thousand metersbelow,andeverythingfeelslike it’s going to be tornapart—The blood rushes back
intoherhead(orisitoutofit?shecan’treallytell)and
when she again rights theTIE, her two pursuers arenow thepursued—thepairflyingdeadaheadofher.She feels a surge of
excitement. Her panic isburiedbeneathit.Then Norra pulls the
triggers on her twin flightsticks.Greenlaserscutthrough
openairandrendthe first
TIE into shrapnel. Thebulk of the destroyedfighter lists into the other.Aflash.Agreatshudderingconcussion of air and fireas her enemies spiraldownward and disappearinto the city in one finaldetonation.She flies through the
fadingfire.Andagainsetshersights
onthepalaceahead.
—
There, on the screen heldverticalinAdea’shand.Anincoming TIE. An enemycombatant flying it.Heading right toward thepalace.Raeunderstandsitspurpose. It can’t doanythingtothepalace.Thewallsaretoothick.Butonepartisexposed:Theirships.
Those shuttles are theirlifeline.It’s too late to get their
own ships back in the air.Andtheyhavenodefenses,nocannons,no—Wait.She snatches the
holoscreen out of Adea’shand and punches up thecontrols for one of thethree ground-to-orbit
turbolaser cannons theyset up across Akiva’scapitalcity.Herassistant’seyesgowide.“Admiral, the turbolaser
isn’tmeantforthis—”“It’souronlychance.”“It’spointed rightat the
palace.”Rae looks at the
calculatedtrajectory.It’snotideal.
Butit’llhavetodo.Shefires.
—
OneminuteNorraisflyingalong, her path safe,secure, assured. And thenthe air lights up withblinding light andsomethingshearstherightwing panel off her ownTIE, and suddenly—she’s
lostallcontrol.No,notallofit.She’s spinning, once
more winding through theair, this time in anuncontrolled spiral, butshe does have somecontrol.Justalittle.Justenough.She holds the flight
sticks firm, locking oneagainst the other, fighting
against the spin.Herheadis dizzy. Everything’s goneloopy.Her guts churn andshewantstopuke.Steady.Steady.The distant thought
reachesher:I’mgoingtodie.This is it. The
culmination of all she’sdoneandallsheis.Part of her feels proud.
I’ve accomplished somuch,shethinks.But then another
warring thought intrudeslike a rude visitor: But Ihaven’t accomplished somuch. I have failed myson. And I failed myhusband. Brentin,Temmin,Iloveyou.She aims the spinning
TIE right at the palace.Dead ahead is the landing
ring.Theshuttles.Ayacht.They’relinedupjustright.Maybe, maybe I can
takethemoutwithme…A stray, idle thought as
the palace rushes forwardtogreether.I surewish these things
hadanejectorseat.
Thepalaceshakeswiththeimpact. The lights flicker.Dust streams down fromthe ceilings, where cracks
appear in the smoothstone. Rae moves fastthrough the building.Runningnow,notwalking.Someone calls after her.Adea. But then anothervoice:Pandion,too.Ahead:the staircase and doorwayto the landing ring. Astaircase in lapis blue andcopper, ancient andelegant, beautiful in itsconstruction—but Rae is
blindtoallofthat.All she sees is her pilot,
Morna Kee, staggeringdown the steps. A lineacrossherbrowblackenedwith soot and dribblingblood. Rae catches her asshe comesdown. “Are you—?”“I’m fine,” Morna says.
“Don’tgoupthere.”“I need to assess,”
Sloanehisses, thenhurriespasther.Again, Pandion’s voice
behindher.Stayback,youprig,shethinks.She throws open the
door. Sunlight. Bleachingeverythingout.The smokecatches in her nose andclings there like aninfection. A merciful windrisesthen,pushingsomeofthe billowing black away,
and she sees the damagedone:Three shuttles, in
various states ofdestruction. Crassus’syacht is not here—it tookoffagainandwenttoorbit,an act for which she issuddenly thankful—but atthe end of the row sits acharredlumpofslag:A TIE fighter. One of
theirown.Asuicideattack.
Easy enough to see itspaththroughthewreckage.ItcutadiagonallineacrossthethreeImperialshuttles:smashing the back end ofthe first, themiddleof thesecond, the nose andcockpit of the third.Effectivelydestroyingeach,renderingthemuseless.A sound reaches her
ears:Adullroar.
She thinks:What couldthatbe?Rae steps through the
smoke, past the wreckage.The landing ring shiftsbeneath her feet and themetalofoneoftheshuttlesgroansandbangs,buttheneverything is still oncemore. She shouldn’t gofarther,andyetshedoes—herfeeturgingherforwardwithout her explicit
consent.At the edge, an old
copper railing dustedwithemeraldpatina.Shepressesupagainstit.The roar is the crowd
below.Athin,wancrowd—But one that is
strengthening even as shelooksdown.From other streets,
Akivans move toward the
palace. And that othersound she heard? Rocks.They’re throwing rocksagainstthepalace.Noneofthem can hit her here—she’s a hundred metersabove them. They looksmalltoherasacrowd,butas a mass: They’regrowing. Like a spreadingcancer.She turns around to
behold the wreckage once
moreandsherealizes:Thatdidit.Thefiresoftheirshuttles
burninglitthefuse.Now the bomb is
counting down—the bombof riot, rebellion,insurgency. It is at theirdoorsteps. Soon it’ll beclimbing up the walls. Ithits her all at once: Thiswas engineered. This was
orchestrated by someone,maybe one of our own.Maybesomeoneinsidethesatrapy. Someone haskickedoverthepileofdirttowatch all the little antsspillout.And then, another
thought:We are trapped here
now.The ring shifts again.
She jukes forward, catchesherself on the railing.Hands catch her elbow,pull her back. Morna.“Admiral. Please. Backinside. Look.” Her pilotpoints. Across theway, onthe rooftop of the oldcapitol building—the onewith the rusted tower theytook out with the shuttle’scannons upon arrivinghere—sheseesafewpeople
climbingupthere.Citizens,probably. Trying to get alook.Orashot.“Yes,” Rae says. “You’re
right.Backinside.”
—
Outside the cantina doorsand windows, a smallcrowd surges, movingdownthestreetandtowardthepalace.Sinjircatchesa
flash of white armor—thecrowd carries a strugglingstormtrooperpast.Itworked,didn’tit?It worked better than
we even imagined. TheTIE fighters destroyed theantenna at the commstation, andhe feared thatthe message hadn’t goneout long enough. But then—explosions at the palace.Norra must’ve succeeded.
That and the doctoredpropaganda they sent out.It worked. The city isresponding. Reacting. Allthat pent-up rage? Thecork has popped.Everything’s foaming overnow.It’snotjustfromthisonemoment.Notjustfromthe occupation. TheImperials have long toyedwith planets like this one.Though never formally
occupying them, theyimposed tariffs and taxeson law-abidingestablishments whileletting the black marketsandcriminal syndicatesgoabout their business aslongas they tithedback tothe Empire. That was oneofthestrikingthingsaboutseeing the Imperialsfighting alongside SuratNuat’s thugs: It exposed
that alliance bold-facedly,revealing what everyonealways suspected but feweverreallyknew.Across the oka-wood
bar, theMon Cal with thedroid arm slides across abottle of something thatglows green like industrialslimewaste. Sinjir giveshim an arched eyebrowand Pok just shoves itforward another few
centimeters as if to say,Don’task,justdrink.Well, that squid-faced
fellow hasn’t been wrongyet.Sinjir takes the bottle
and heads to the table,whereTemminsitsnexttohis droid. Mister Boneswasherewhentheyarrived—Pok’sPlacebeingthego-tomeeting spot for the lotof them after the
operation’s conclusion—and the droid looked evenrougher. Scuffed up. Hismetal scored in places.Severalofhislittleosseousaccoutrements have gone(which also means hisbony jangle is no longerpresent). Otherwise thedroidlooksprettygoodforhaving cannonballedthrough the frontwindshieldofaroaringTIE
fighter.Still, Temmin sits, chin
on his folded arms,stewing. Eyes narrowed.The tip of one thumb sitsthrust in the kid’s mouthashechewsthenail.Sinjir plunks down the
bottle. Takes a sip, andimmediatelymakes a face.Atastefillshismouththatissomehowbothbitterandsweet. Too bitter and too
sweet. And the liquid isthick.Almostgummy.It’sawfulstuff.His mouth goes a little
numb.Huh. He takes another
sip anyway. Looks aroundidly:The cantina ismostlyempty.Justa fewoldsaltsin the back, drinking theirdrinks.Togetherbut aloneat the same time,
somehow. Most of thecrowdisoutside.“You drink that stuff?”
Temmin says, not liftinghischin.“IsupposeIdo.Notthat
Iknowwhat‘thisstuff’is.”“Plooey-sap. Comes
fromoneofthetreesinthejungle.”Sinjir scrunches up his
nose. “Well, it tastes like
I’m licking the undersideofaleakydroid,butIseemcompelledtokeepdrinkingit.”“Morepowertoyou.”“You’reworried.”“Worried?Aboutwhat?”Duh.“Yourmother.”“Whatever, Mom’s fine.
And if she’s not, y’know.Whatever.”“Yes, you said that
already.‘Whatever.’ ”Now Temmin lifts his
chin.Hislipsliftinasneer.“What? You don’t believeme?”“I believe every boy
worries about his motherjust as every motherworries abouther boy.Mymother used to whip myback with switches shepulledfromthetreeinourfrontyard.Ihatedher.But
I loved her and worriedafter her just the samebecause that’s how sonsandmothershappentobe.It is just one of the manytruthsoftheuniverse.”“Well,” Temmin sniffs,
“mymotherabandonedmeto go fight in some dumbwar. So, trust me: I don’tcare.Idon’tcare.”Mister Bones echoes:
“HEDOESNOTCARE.”
“Ifyousayso.”“Isayso.I.Do.Not.Care
—” Temmin’s eyes flit tothedoor.Sinjir cranes his neck
and sees Jas walk in. Hergaze finds them and shecomes over. But there’ssomething in herapproach. The slightesthesitation. Her bodylanguage screams: I havebad news and I do not
want to deliver it. Thenthe way she looks atTemminasshestepsup…Oh. Oh, my. Sinjir
realizes what it is evenbeforeshesaysit.“Temmin,” she says.
“Yourmothersucceededinhermission.Butshedidn’tmakeit.Norraisgone.”
—
Panic at the summit. Acacophony of competingvoiceslikearoostfullofill-kept birds. They all standaround the grand diningtable, yelling at oneanother about what to donext. Holoscreens are castabout the table, projectingdata at various stations.Data showing surgingcrowds. Revealing theirown casualties. Offering
predictions of what comesnext.“Howmany TIEs do we
have left?” Pandion barks.“Answerme,Admiral.HowmanyareleftonAkiva?”Adea eases the base of
one of the holoprojectordisks toward Rae, and onit,acasualtyreport.SloaneturnsittowardValco.“We lost five in that
attack. Two at the roof ofthe comm station thatserved as the origin pointfor the rebel propaganda,andtwofromwhoeverwasinthatstolenTIE.Thatlastfighter is the fifth.We losthalf.”“Half,” Pandion says
withahuff.“Weonlyhavefive short-range fightersstationedacrossthecity?”“Correct.”
“Andhowmanytroops?”“A single company,
besides what’s here in thepalace.”“A hundred, hundred
fifty stormtroopers? That’sit?”“And their attendant
officers.Anothertwentyorso.”“So, one hundred and
twenty Imperials fora city
of—howmany?”Here, Shale speaks:
“Aboutamillion.”Pandion asks the
inevitable question: “Whydon’t we have more,Admiral? Why are we notbetterprotected?”Truth is, he already
knows the answer to thisquestion. They all do.Negotiating this summit
into existence was quick,but took a hero’s effort—sleepless nights, countlesscommuniqués, ceaselessbickering.Theyexactedouteach little detail, down tothe food they would beserved and the types offabricstheydesiredintheirbedsheets.Theyknowwhythe city isn’t locked downwith whole battalions ofstormtroopers, and yet,
Pandion asks the questionbecausehewantstowhittleher authority down tosplinters—she thestick,hethe knife. So, she answershim:“We couldn’t have this
look like a totaloccupation. The risk waslow—”“The risk is now
considerably higher,wouldn’tyousay?Weneed
more ships. We need tobring the Star Destroyersback.Recallthemfromtheneighboring system,Admiral. Return them toorbit.Wewillreturntoourships and make ourescape.”Shalestandsand throws
her hands in the air—anunusual gesture for her,this physical act ofexasperation.“Howdoyou
intend to make thatescape?We have no shipsof our own here. We areboxedintothispalacebyapopulation that has beenlongabusedbythesatrapy—”Now it’s Satrap Isstra’s
turn to speak up. Gone ishis strident, fawningobedience. Present now: ataste of venom on histongue. His handsome,
smiling face twists into amaskofdesperation.“No!”he says. “You cannotmound this weight uponmy back. I am not yourpack beast here to carryyour sins. I imposed thetaxes the Empiredemanded. I have been aloyal ally, implementingany program you wanted,and what do I get for it?”His voice goes suddenly
high-pitched. A plaintivewhine. “Youshotahole inthesideofmypalace!Thatturret took off theeasternmost tower—atower that has stood tallover this palace for twothousandyears.”A lie. Sloane knows that
the tower the turbolaserdestroyed was relativelynew—built by one of theWithrafisps in the last two
centuries. The design ofthat tower—the specklingof red brick spiraling upthe side, theonion-shapeddome—matches thearchitectureofthatperiod.Not millennia before.Sloane pounds the tablewith her fist. The satrap’sjawshuts.“IwillnotordertheStar
Destroyerstoreturn.”Mouths gape. Crassus
says:“Wegettovote.”“Ashasbeennoted,”Rae
says, “decisions like theseare best left to a singularauthority, not a votingbody. I am theacting fleetadmiral and I decidewhattodowiththoseships.”Pandion counters: “You
will bring them in. Youmust. From there we canbring in a shuttle, and theTIE fighters will give us
enough cover. We mustshowstrength.Wewillnotmerely sneak out and fleelike scared ryukyu hares—we do not run from thefire.Wemustfaceit.Then,weusetheStarDestroyersto dispatch bombers andwe teach this city what itmeans to rise up againsttheGalacticEmpire.”“Rightnow,”Shale says,
“theNewRepublic—”
“The Rebel Alliance,”Pandion says, correctingher.“TheNewRepublic,”she
reasserts, “does not knowwhat to make of thissituation. They have notsentafleetbecausetheydonot know what awaitsthem. And they do notwanttodestabilizeaworldthat could end up as theirally. As such, they wait.
Cautious. Hesitant to playtoo strong a hand. Theyhave made big gains, butthey are cautious gains.They are not playing areckless game, and soneithershouldwe,Valco.”“You craven, sniveling,
soft-bellied—”“We will use Crassus’s
yacht toescape,”Raesays,disrupting the tiredargument between the
moff and the general.“Thatisourwayout.”“What?” Crassus says.
His face goes red as angerrises to his cheeks. “Whatdidyousay?Iwillsupportno such thing. That is myprecious ship—the GoldenHarp. I do not consent tothis.”“And I do not care. You
are not a true Imperial.You are a moneylender. A
banker. There are otherslikeyou.Anditwouldtakeonly an Imperial writ todrain your accounts oftheirgoldthewayaswarmof redjacket wasps woulddrain theblood from theirprey. Stand in my way,Arsin, and I will executeyoumyself.”Pandion whistles. “Look
whohasfoundherteeth.”Crassus pales, the blood
drainingfromhisface.“I…youwouldn’t.”“I would. I will.” She
drawsherblaster,pointsit.“Doyouconsent?”“I…” She fires the
blaster. Just above hishead. He flinches, handsupandgesticulatingwildlyas he babbles: “Yes! Yes.Bythestars,yes.”“Good. Make the call.
Summon your GoldenHarp.”Crassus nods,
swallowinghard.Andwiththat, the rest of the roomgoes back to tearing intoone another. Pandion,though, for his part, givesSloane a small, curioussmile. She cannot dissectit. What lies behind thatlittle grin, Sloane cannotsay. Isheproud?Proudof
her for asserting herauthority, or proud ofhimself for pushing her tothis point? Is he simplyamused at her efforts?That smile worries hermorethanascowl.Adea leans up,whispers
inherear:“We have a new
problem.”Rae thinks:Not another
one.“Whatnow?”sheasksinalowvoice.“You should see for
yourself.”
Starsstretchedintospears,spears flung through theopen black past theMillennium Falcon as itpunches a hole throughhyperspace.
Han Solo scratches atthe weeks-long beardgrowththat’scomeupoverhis cheeks. It itches evenstill,andhemakesfacesashescratches.Chewie growls at him
andpoints.“Yeah,yeah,nowIreally
am some scruffyscoundrel. I grow this facepelt long enough, maybethey’ll think I’m you.” He
givestheWookieeasmirk,and Chewie rumbles aresponse. “Okay, relax,bigguy, nobody’s going toconfuse me with you.You’re like a walking treecoveredinhair.”Chewieleansbackinthe
copilot seat, and thestreaking starlines reflectin his eyes. He’s bored.And a boredWookiee is adangerous thing. Last
system they were in—OrdMantell out here in theMid Rim—Chewie got tomessing around with theFalcon’s navigationsystem, trying to chasedown a glitch that hadbeen screwing up thehyperspacedrive.He fixedit, so great. But then theguns stopped working—which,ofcourse,theyonlydiscoveredwhentheywere
ambushed by a trio ofKrish marauder-ships.Theygotsomeseriouscharon their vector plates andhoverpads—almost didn’tgetoutofthere.Still. It’s nice, in a way,
being out here with justChewie. He misses Leiaand Luke—even Lando,thoughhe’dneversay thatout loud—somethingfierce, but being out here
with his old pal remindshim of his younger days.Him,theWookiee,andtheFalcon.No responsibilitiesbesides protecting theirown tails—and, of course,getting rich. (Which, asmall voice reminds him,neverhappened.)“Allright,comingupout
of hyperspace,” he says,reachingforthethrottletodisengage.Andasheeases
it back, the starlinesshorten and there’s thatdizzyingmoment. The onethat’s never gone away nomatter how many jumpsthey’vemade, theone thatmakes him feel like hisbrain has been hurledthrough space while hisguts are a dozen parsecsbehind. Then the planetswells into view ahead ofthem:
Dasoor.Another on the list of
lawless places: an unrulyworld thick with thieves,run by gangs (who are inturnrunbyacrimecartel),andpoweredbyslaves.ToovileevenforSolo in
his younger days. Thieveshecantruckwith.Slaves—well, that sets the coals inhis stomach to a hot,volcanicburn.
Chewie warbles andgrowls, and Han answershim: “Plan’s the same asit’s been.” Same as it wason Ord Mantell, AndoPrime, Kara-bin, and allthe rest. He affixes thecyberneticimplantoverhiseye—atelescopingheliodorlens that, in fact, doesn’twork and is totally fake.That plus the scruff andthe ugly aviator cap he
donsseemlikeenoughofadisguise to make sure thepeople down there don’tknow him at first glance.When Chewie roars inprotest, he nods. “I know,pal,Iknow.I’dratherhaveyoutherewithme,too,butif there’s one thing that’sgonna give us away, it’s asmuggler walking aroundwith one of the few dozenliberatedWookiees.Butwe
gotta find the Empire’ssupply lines, and thatmeans me going downthere all by my lonesomeand kicking up some dustand seeing what it smellslike.Youjust…staycloseinthe Falcon in case thingsgotogarbage.”The most recent
whispers are that theEmpire—after losing someof its traditional supply
lines and ships over thelastcoupleofmonths—hasbeen tightening ranksaround some of thecriminalorganizationstheyquietly supported duringthe last decades. Han’sbeen going down, askingquestions, getting into theoccasional(fine,morethanoccasional) bar fight, andseeing if anything shakesout.
Sofar,ithasn’t.Chewiebarksasharpyip
and Han agrees: “Yeah, Ihope Wedge is having abetter time with hismission, too. Let’s getplanetsideand—”The comm crackles.
Above it, a shimmeringbluehologramappears.Han laughs and Chewie
waves.
“Well,” he says. “Lookwhat’s come crawling upoutofthespacewaves.”Thewomanprojectedby
hologram puts a cocky tilttoherhips.“Heythere,youoldscoundrel.”“Old?” He feigns
distaste. “Imra, that hurtsme.Thathurtsmerightinmyheart.”Heputsonthatwinning smile. “I’ll nevergetold.”
“Think Leiawill feel thesameway?”“Now,that’salowblow.”“You could ditch the
princess, you know. Shakeoff the costume of a law-abiding,upstandingcitizenand come back to therogue’slife.”“Imra, did you call just
to taunt me, or you gotsomethingforme?”
“We’ve got anopportunity with a verysmallwindow.”ChewiegurglesandHan
agrees: “Imra, like yousaid:I’moutofthatlife,sowhatever it is you’rebringingtome—”She disappears and a
newholo-imagepopsup:aplanet.Chewie, agitated, stands
androars,shakinghisfistsand knocking loose thestabilizer bar above hishead—theFalconsuddenlyshakes and shudders, andHan has to quickly reachupandresetthestabilizers.He’s about to tell his oldfriendtocalmdown,relax,whatever it is that has thebigfellaworkedupis—Thenithitshim.Theplanet.
It’sKashyyyk.It’sChewie’shome.A planet whose
Wookieesare still in thrallto the Empire. Chewbaccawas once a slave like theothers: shackled, half-starved and half-mad, hisfurmatted,he’dworkedtocut down the beautifulwroshyr trees for lumberand farm food that wasonce theirs, in order to
feed the Imperial army.Wookieeswereusedacrossthe galaxy, too, shippedawaytoserveasslavelaborin mines and in buildingstructures like the DeathStars. Sometimes, theyevenusedthepoorfurballsas science experiments:ripping them open to testout medicines andweapons.“Chewie, it’s all right,
pal,it’sallright.”Hanpatshis friendon theshoulder,helps him back into thechair. The Wookiee’smuscles ripple under hisfur, and his lips curl backto reveal his teeth. Hisbreath comes in raggedgasps. To Imra, Han says:“Whaddyamean,awindowofopportunity?”“The Wookiee planet’s
still on lockdown. The
Empire doesn’t want togive it up, but their ranksare cut. Normally, shipscomeinandcomeoutandthey trade stormtroopersandofficers,buttheactualweight of their presencenever changes. Exceptnow, for a time, it’s gonnachange.”“Idon’tfollow.”“They’re gonna do…who
cansay?Achangingofthe
guards or something. Orthey need ships for someotherplanetorsomeother—Ireallydon’tknow,Solo.The details are fuzzy, butwhat we do know is, theshipsthatareleavingwon’timmediately be replaced.Which means we have afewdays.”“When?”“Now.”
Chewie raises his headbackandhowls.“Now?” Han leans
forward in his chair,suddenly agitated. “Like,today?”“Almost. Clock is about
to start ticking in thenextday-cycle.”“The Alliance—the New
Republic, whatever theyare—they got me on this
thing. I’ve got aresponsibility. I can’t justchangetheplanandgooffhalf-cocked….”And heknows what the NewRepublic will say. Theyhaveastrategy.Theywon’tdivert attention toKashyyyk, not yet. He’sasked.Morethanonce.Chewieisgivinghimthis
look. Not even making asound. The Wookiee’s
chestisrisingandfalling.And it hits Han: The
words coming out of hismouth don’t sound likehim. Being out here,though, with Chewie, it’smadehimfeellikeheusedto. They’d just go places.Do whatever they wanted.Followtheirnosestodrinkandcontrabandandstacksof credits and whatevergood or bad deeds came
along.A fire lights in Han’s
belly.It’s time to do this. He
tells Imra: “You owe mebig, you remember that?”From that time he pulledthatStarDestroyeroffhertail(andgothimselfraidedin theprocess). “Don’t sayyoudon’tremember—”“I remember, I
remember, it’s why I’mhere. You said if I everheard anything aboutWookiee-world to tell you.HereIam,tellingyou.”“That’s not enough,” he
growls. “You gotta domore.”She hesitates. “How
muchmore?”“Get everybody. Every
right-thinking scamp,
scoundrel, slicer, smuggler—anybodywho owesme afavor. Anybody who hatestheEmpirelikewedo.”“That’snotas longa list
asyou’dlike.”“Fine. Offer them
immunity. If they wanttheir records clear, let ’emknow theNewRepublic isaddingnamestoalist.Fullpardons.”
“Isthattrue?”“Sureis,”helies.It’snot
true. He’s never heard it.But he’ll make it true.Somehow. He turns toChewbacca:“Hey,pal.Youstill know how to contactthe other refugees?Roshyk, Hrrgn, Kirratha,and them?” Group of ahalf-dozen Wookiees whoescaped Kessel and gotaway from the Empire
when nobody else could.Group of the meanest,hairiest brutes. They’remercenariesnow,andtheydon’t have much care inthemwhenitcomestothepolitics of the NewRepublic, but they damnsure will care aboutliberatingtheirhome.Chewienods andgrowls
inassent.“Good.Get’emtogether.
And,Imra,yougettherest.Tell them to meet usoutside Warrin Station.Like,now.Hell,yesterday.Wedon’tneedtheAllianceortheRepublic.Wedothisourway.”TheWookiee pumps his
longarmsintriumph.Imragivesherword,and
thenshe’sgone.“Wedon’thaveanyplan,
pal,”hesays.TheWookieegrowls.“We’remakingthisupas
wego.”Chewie nods and
ululates.“Good. It’s like the old
days,buddy.”Chewie grabs him with
thosebigarmsand shakeshimlikeacupofdice.Han grins and laughs
and tries not to getcrushed. “C’mon, Chewie.Set new coordinates. It’stimetogetyouhome.”
Wedge staggers down thehallway of the satrap’spalace. Pain pulls at himlike heavy chains. Fatigue
is sucking at him, and nomatterhowfasthisheartisbeating, no matter howmuch adrenaline he feelscoursing through him, hisbones still tell him onething: Give up, lie down,givein.The power failed only
minutes ago—and when itdid,hisshacklesfellofflikethey were a child’s toys.Nowhe’sfree.
Orclosetoit.Voices nearby. Alarmed
voices. Followed by thesound of marching,clattering feet.Stormtroopers. Wedgewinces and tucks himselfinto the nearest alcove—anarrow space with aceramic pot that serves ashometooneoftheplanet’sjungle orchids. Hesqueezesinnexttothepot
and tries to still hisbreathing.Footstepscloser,closer.The chatter of troopers:
“Theadmiral thinks itwassomekindofdistraction.”The other: “Or maybe
they just don’t want us toleave.”“Whoisthey?”“Doesitevenmatter?”Theirvoices,loudernow.
Untilthey’rewalkingpast.Walking past, until they
stop. And they stop rightby the alcove. Only ahandfulofstepsawayfromWedge hiding in theshadowsof this interstitialspace. He tenses hismuscles. Readies himselffortheattack—No. It won’t work. He’s
toohurt.Onanyotherday,ifhewerehealthy,hecould
take out a pair of thesebucketheads. Slam theirhelmetstogether,graboneof theirblaster rifles,headfor the door. But they’lloverpower him in thisstate. They’ll put the hurtonhim.Instead, he remains.
Quietasthestars.The stormtroopers look
around. They comm in:“Nothing on the third
floor. Moving to thefourth.”Theykeeponwalking.Wedge lets out a gentle
sigh of relief as theirfootstepsrecede.His muscles ache. His
leg almost gives out—hisknee buckling suddenly,andwhenitsnapsbackperreflex, he nudges theceramicpot.
It rattles and wobbles.Echoinginthehall.Thefootstepsstop.No,no,no.Oneofthetroopersasks
the other: “You hearsomething?”“Backthere.”They start to approach
oncemore.Looks like I have no
choice. It’s fight or get
found. Survive at any costor get thrown back intoshackles. He tenses up,plantinghisfeetinthebestfighting stance he canmanage—and his footpresses back on that potagain.Thepot slidesback,the grinding of stoneagainststone.And when it does, the
wall in the alcove behindhimopensup.
A thin, narrow door. Asecretpassage.It’snowornever.Wedge
slidespastthepot intothedarknessoftheopenspace.The footsteps come closerand on the other side,Wedgeseesastonebuttonjutting from the wall. Heslamsitwiththeheelofhishand and the door closesbehind him—just as hecatches a glimpse ofwhite
armor.
—
Temmin sits, shaking. Hefeels woozy. Clammy andgut-sick.HetriestokeepittogetherwhenJastellshimthat his mother’s TIEfighter—theonethatsavedhislifeonlyanhourbefore—crashed into the satrap’spalace.
They try toconsolehim.Even Bones puts a metalclaw on his shoulder. Buthe brushes them all off.Tellsthemhe’llbefine.Heblinksbacktearsand
turns away so they can’tsee.He faces thewall, jawlocked tight, handstrembling underneath thetable.The thing is,he’salways
known this day was
coming. His mother, outthere in the galaxysomewhere. Fighting forthe rebels. Making supplyruns through Imperialterritory. Every day hedidn’t speak to her (whichwasmost days) was a dayhe knew she might bedead.Hership,floatingoutthere. Her body, stillstrapped into the seat ofwhateverhunkajunkscrap-
boat the rebels had sittinginsomedingyhangar.Thatthought sometimes cametohimasnightmares.Herchasingafterhim,hereyesdead, her mouth hangingopen.OrImperialscomingto his door to tell himthey’d killed her. Or acoffin showing up at hisdooronedaywithherinit.And now that day is
come. Just after they’d
madecontactoncemore.As Jas goes on about
how the mission isn’tscrapped, about how theystill have todo the job, allTemmincandoisnavigatetheall-too-familiarfeelingschurning inside him like astorm-tossedsea.Anger is the king of
thoseseas.Angeratherforleaving him and givingherself toa cause thatwas
always more importantthan him. And anger athimselfforbeingsoselfish,and for not making betteruseofthetimehehadwithher when she was here.Anger for everybody, infact:angeratSinjirandJasfor dragging them bothintothis,angeratSuratforbeing Surat, anger for theNew Republic and theGalacticEmpireand—
The sound of chair legsskiddingagainstthefloor.He turns as the others
gasp.A woman sits down at
the chair at the endof thetable, and pulls back theveilthatobscuresherface.“Mom,” he says, his
voicesmall,sosmall.Herside is scrapedup—
andher face isdirtyanda
littlebloody,too.“You…crashed,” Jas
says.Norra shrugs. “Turns
out, TIE fighters have anejectorseatafterall.”Temmin scrambles up
over the table, knockingSinjir’splooey-sapbottletothe ground. He barelynotices. All he cares aboutright now is throwing his
arms around his mother.Shereturnsthehug.It lasts a long while,
though he suddenlyrealizesnotlongenough.
—
The power outage, Raethinks. When the TIEfighter slammed into thepalace, taking out theirshuttles, the power
flickered on and off for afew seconds. Andapparently, that’s all ittook.Because now, their
prisoner is gone. WedgeAntilles is loose in thepalace. The magnacuffssecuring him failed whenthepowerdid.And an oldbuilding like this doesn’thave backup reserves. Nooff-site battery, no
supplementarygenerator.“This is not good,” Rae
says,statingtheobvious.“We’ll find him,” Adea
says,thoughhervoicedoesnotconveyconfidence.“I’llputthetroopsonit.”“Good,” Rae says. Adea
leaves the room and theadmiral picks up the headof the medical droid.Dispatched by Antilles,
probably.This adds up to one
more problem. A big one.This entire summit hasbeen problems couplingwith other problems tobegetwholenewproblems.A mating tangle of errorsand cock-ups. Fraggedfromsundowntosunup.She was told that this
was a bad idea. But Raeinsisted. She cleaved to
that idea, the one oftspokenbyCountDenetriusVidian: Forget the oldway. She embraced thatidea time and time again,because the old way hadearnedtheEmpirenothingbut its unintendedobsolescence. A new wayforward, she decided, waswhat would heal theEmpire and save thegalaxy. That’s what would
secure a proper peacebefore chaos grew,renewed, from the seedscast about by thedestruction of the secondDeathStar.But now she’s not so
sure. Perhaps the old wayis the only way. Assertivecontrol. Authoritarianstrength.Thesteelfistinablackglove.Sloanefocuses.
She has to find Antilles.Again.
—
The passage is wideenough for one person—astark difference from thegrand hallways of thepalace, hallways largeenough to accommodate alineofguards,maybeevenacoupleofspeeders ifyou
could fit them through thedoor. This is smaller.Intimate.Apassageforthesatrap—or the satrap’sguests.It’s allnew tohim, even
now. Wedge isn’t exactlypart of the upper crustiesof the galaxy. He grew upgetting his hands dirty atthefueldepotandworkinglocal farms in his sparetime. But just the same, it
makesakindofsense,thispassage: Certainly thesatrapwouldwantawaytomove unseen throughoutthepalace.Unburdenedbyadvisers or dignitarieswanting this, that, or theother thing. And WedgealwaysheardthatthecitiesofAkivawere riddledwithsecret passages, bothaboveground and beneathit.
Thebigquestionis:Nowwhat?He’sstoppedtocatchhis
breath long enough.As heslides down the passage,blue crystalline lights riseto a slow glow as heapproaches. And when hemovespast, theydimoncemore. Lighting his waythree meters at a time. Abeautiful,ifeerie,effect.Sometimes he passes
small slits through whichproper light shines—thelightofthehotdayoutsidethe palace’s cool walls.Thoseglimpsesoflightfeellike freedom. It gives himhope, but it’s agonizing,too.“Soclose,”hemuttersto
himself.But then—he turns a
sharp corner and sees. Abeam of light with great
substance.Shiningthroughan old window, the glasswarpedwithtime.It’snotabigwindow.But it’s big enough. He
could fit through it. If hebreaksit,hecouldclamberthrough to the other sideand—He looks through the
distortedpaneandseesthedrop.
Three stories up. Andnot three stories like insome small Corellianschoolhouse, but threepalace stories. It’s fifteen,twenty meters to theground.Maybe climbing would
beanoption.Or, if there’sone window here, theremight be others fartherdown. If the passagecontinueson…
The realization settlesintohisbones.He could leave. He
might be able to make itwork. But then what? Hegoesoutintothecity.Hurt.Maybehemakes it,maybehe doesn’t. Maybe theyrecapture him in an hour,or ten,oraftera fewdays.What will he change? Theoccupation has happened.Something big is going on
here in this palace, rightnow. Running awaymightsavehislife.But would it save the
NewRepublic?No.Hisonlychanceisto
stayhere.Toremaininthepalace and learn what’shappening—or, at the veryleast, find a way to sendout a communication toAckbarandtheothers.
Helooksoutthewindowonelasttime.So.Close.Then he keeps on
moving.
—
Norra takes a moment toappreciate the reunion.She’s tired, after all, andfrankly just wants to soakitallin.Herbodyachesall
the way down to themarrow of her bones.Every time she blinks, shepicturesthepalacerushingup to meet her. Sheremembers her handsreaching out to braceherself against the console(a dumb idea, because didshe somehow think thatwould soften the crash?).Herpalmmashedbuttons.Oneofthosebuttonswas
theejector.Next thing she knew—
she was up and out, theTIE smashing into androlling across the threeshuttles. Her chutedeployedlate,toolate,anda hard wind whipped upand yanked her to theright. Then she was downon the ground, draggedacross it—thesleeveofherarm torn to tatters, her
skin roughed up andscrapedraw.So, for a moment, she
takes the hug and thesmilesfromthetwopeoplewho are relative strangerstoherbutwhonowfeelatleastalittlebitlikefriends,if not family: the bountyhunter and the ex-Imperial.Even her son’s crazy-
eyed droid says: “I AM
GLAD YOUR EXISTENCEHAS NOT BEENREDUCED TOSCATTERED ATOMS,MASTER TEMMIN’SMOM.”She laughs. They all do.
She pulls Temmin to herside and puts her armaround his waist as hestandsnexttoher.“I’mgladI’malive, too,”
she says. But she feels it:
Themomentisover.Ithasto be. She darkens herbrow and says with graveseriousness: “But we stillhavework to do.We havetogetintothepalaceandIthinkIknowhow.”
It is Jak’s thirteenthbirthday.The young boy—no, the
young man—needs abirthday present. Not thathe has anyone around to
buy it for him. But he’ssure his father would’vewanted him to have theverybest.He walks through the
shatteredconduitsof1313:Coruscant’smostinfamousunderworld level, adungeon so deep that theworld above has forgottenabout it. He walks past apair of pale, wan Er’Kitscraping fungus from the
walls and greedily suckingthe spongy mess. Hepasses by a spider-armedXextopullingwiresoutofadentedpanel,feedingtheminto a charger full ofplump, buzzing batteries—the alien chatters irritablyas Jak walks past: awarning not to attempt toplunderthespoilsofstolenelectricity. And there, pastthat,aroundthebend—
A pair of guards. Arough-looking ale-belliedhuman with food stuck inhis beard, and a bigger,evenfatterKerkoidan.TheKerkstaresoutpastapairofblood-pinktusks.AsJakapproaches, the Kerkshows the blaster at hiship. In Basic, the alienmutters: “Keep moving,rat.”“I’m no rat,” Jak says,
summoning courage. “I’mabuyer.”The Kerk pulls the
blaster—it’s not a realthreat yet. His movementis slow, languid, themotion of a confidentbully.“Isaid—”Jak fumbles with the
card.It’smatteblack.Theinkonitisred—and
itglows.“Here,”Jaksays.The human’s eyes go
wide.“Akidwithacard.”“I’m no kid. It’s my
birthday.”“Happy birthday,
skidstain,” the Kerk says.“Allright,youcangoin.”The bearded man raps
onthedoor.Ithissesopen.Inside, the one Jak
seeks: the horned Iktotchiscumlord, Talvee Chawin,aka the Thorn. Namedmaybebecausehe’sgotonehorn broken, and thesecond horn loops downaroundunderhischin,andthen barbs outward likethe warning thorn of apoisonousplant.But maybe because he’s
beenathorninthesideoftheEmpire.
“You,” the Thorn says.“You’rethekid.”“I’m not…” Oh, never
mind.“Yeah,it’sme.”“Ididn’tthinkyou’dever
show.”“Yourfriendgavemethe
card.”“But what cause does a
boy like you have to useit?”TheIktotchicrimelordsteps up from around his
half-circle couch andapproaches the boy. Helicks the air. “You don’tbelong down here. Youbelongupthere.”“I do. You’re…right. But
rightnowupthere doesn’tbelongtome.”A smile curls at the
crime lord’s lips. “Itbelongstothem.”TheEmpire.
Jak continues: “I savedyour woman from policecustody.”“She’s not my woman.
NobodyownsLazula.”“Sheworksforyou.”“Sheworkswithme.”“Fine.Whatever.Isaved
her.Shegavemethecard.NowhereIam.”“Thecard, the card.”He
puffs and pops his pale
lips. “Yes. It’s almost as ifyou knew what you weredoing, saving her.” Heturns one of his dark eyestoward Jak. “One evenwonders if you set her upinthefirstplace.”Onthis,Jakstayssilent.
Hetriesnottoquakeinhisboots.But then the scumlord
claps his big handstogether and waggles his
pointed fingers. “Eitherway, I admire your take-charge attitude. You givemethecard,I’llgiveyouabirthdaypresent.But it’sapresent that comes with aprice tag, as all presentsdo. This price is not justanother year added ontoyour life—the usual pricefor another year on thisworld—but somethingbigger.Longer.Adifferent
life.Alifewithme.”“I…”“You can go. Think
about it. Talk to yourfamily. Ask your housegods. But that is mycondition. Lazula alreadytold me what you want,andIknowwhatIwantasrecompense.”“I have no family.” He
has only a jar of ash with
his father’s name on it.And as for house gods…they never had those.Dadnever believed. “I savedLazula. That should beenough.”“It’s enough for me not
to gut you like a pipe-weasel.”“…oh.”“Yes. Oh. You want the
weapon you seek, you join
theteam.”“I’min.”Those two words,
spoken without hesitation—a lack of hesitation thatsurprisesevenhim.The Iktotchi smiles.
“Good.Thenyoushallhaveyourweapon.Why do youneed it? What is yourplan?”I’m going to knock out
all the power to Coco-Town. But he doesn’t saythat. He doesn’t explainhowtheAnklebiterBrigade—kids younger than himfighting for the rebels—knowallthebolt-holesandtunnels in that part of thecity. How they know onesuchaccessporthidden inthe back of old, defunctDex’s Diner—and how ifoneweretosneakintoand
through that tunnel, onecouldtheoreticallyplantanEMP device underneaththe Imperial front lines,knocking out their power.Their eyes. Their ears.Theircannons.All he says is, “It’s my
birthday, but really, it’s apresent for the Empire. Acake I’m baking them.”Andwhenthepowerisallout and they’re fumbling
around in the dark, I’mgoing to pop up out ofnowhereandputablastershot right in CommanderOrkinKaw’sback.Thenhewill finally have hisvengeanceagainstthemanwho took his father fromhim. Because the battle—this war—still rages. AndCoruscantisnotyetwon.
Adea hurries along thelong hallway, her feetechoing on the tile floors.She stares down at the
screeninherhand,pullingup maps of the satrap’spalace, trying to figureoutwhere the captive mayhave gone. Ahead, aquartet of stormtroopersintersects her, then keepsmoving down aperpendicular hallway. Totheside,afewservinggirlshide in an alcove,watching, waiting,frightened.
In the quiet, if shelistens, Adea can hear thesounds of the crowdoutside. A dull rush, likeblood in the ears. Shewonders how long it’ll bebefore someone breachesthe walls. Maybe evenclamberingupthroughthebroken tower, the oneshattered by the laserturret.No time to worry about
that.Focus on the present
problem,shethinks.The palace map hovers
in the air before her, asmall holograph. Shesplays her fingers out andthemap grows larger, andshe touches an area tozoom in. The captive pilothad to have left the roomand then—? No ductworkto speak of. Everything is
openandobvious.Bighallsand staircases. Theproblem isn’t thateverything is open, theproblem is that the palaceis so large. It would takeher a full day just to walkevery centimeter of it—up,down,allaround.Hecouldbehidinganywhere.Andwhat’sthis?Here.A
fragment of a passagebehind the walls.
Flickering. A secretpassage. Or the start ofone.Adea realizes: They’re
dealingwithanincompletemap. The satrap hasfurnishedthemwithamapthat fails to show theclandestinepassages—Movement from her
right.Someone runs fast,
catcheshershoulder,spinsheraround—Shecriesoutasthesmall
blaster she keeps in theholsterrightat thebaseofherspineissnatchedaway.Thecaptivestandsonlya
meteraway,withherpistolin his hand. CaptainWedgeAntilles.His hair amuss.Eyesunfocused.Hispallor is the color of ash,greasy and slick with
sweat.“That holoscreen,” he
says.“Ineedit.”“No,” she says. Lifting
her chin. Trying to looktough.“See thisblaster? Ineed
thatscreen.AndIneedyouto open comm channels.You can do that, can’tyou?”Hermouth forms a flat,
resoluteline.“No.”“You’relying.”“WhatifIam?”He laughs. Exasperated.
Tired. He’s in pain. Hesays, “I want you to thinkabout this really hard. Allthis? The Empire? It’sover. This is the end. YouhelpmeandIwon’t forgetthat. Nobody here has toknow. Say I overpowered
you. You don’t look like asoldier. Or an officer. Dothe smart thing. Help me.Givemethatscreen.”Hesitantly,shenods.Whimpering, she leans
forward,startstohandhimthescreen.Hereachesforit.Adea sneers, and turns
the screen toward him,sliding her thumb along
the side to jack up thebrightness all the way sothat the projector lightsshine right in his eyes.Heshieldsthem,cryingout—Adea doesn’t run. She
thinks:Thisismymoment.Icapturehim.Iearnfavorwith Sloane and theothers. I fix her mistake.I’mahero.She lunches in, knees
him in the gut.Her hands
lash out, catch his wrist,and she gives it a twist—she’s practiced in self-defense, having trained intheImperialmartialarts:acombination of Zavat,echani, and good-old-fashioned ICE—ImperialCombat Exercises, thesame training that everystormtrooper and officergets.Theblasterdropsoutofthepilot’shand.
But Wedge, he’s fast.Even in his condition.Hisother hand stabs out,catches the droppedblaster. She drives herhead forward, catchinghim right in thenosewiththeflatofherskull—Crunch.Hecriesout.Theblastergoesoff.And pain fires through
her.Adeastaggersback.Inherleftleg,aholefromtheblaster smokes. Wisps ofsmoke coil upward fromthe wound. Her whole leggoes numb and shetumblestothefloor.The rebel scum says:
“I’msorry.Iam.”Then he scoops up the
holoscreenandhobblesoff.Adea cries out, calling
for help, screaming thatthe interloper ishere.Andthen she just crumples upand cries because shefailed. Her chance to doright by the Empire hasgonesoverywrong.
—
Jas stands at the doorwayto Temmin’s shop. Thejourney here was not an
easy one, though itshould’ve been. Akivansstreampast.Someofthemare carrying signs. On thewayhere,shesawaneffigyof the satrap. Out there,right now: a clumsyscarecrow that looks likethedark Imperial enforcerDarthVader.Someonesetsit on fire and it burns.Black smoke rising fromunderneath, fire
consuming the Sith lordscarecrow.This city is a keg of
cordylleum about to goboom.She didn’t make this
happen, but she and theothers definitelymeasuredout the fuse and handedoutmatches.Partofherisproud:This
isheroperatingatamuch
higher level. This is Jaswielding an entire citypopulation as a weaponagainst her target. She’sused to manipulatingpeople, but this? This ismagnified. This issomething sublime. Theother side of it is, she’s soused to working alone.Auntie Sugi always had acrew,nottomentionasoftspot for the downtrodden.
Farmers and slaves andfools.Jas always figured that
for weakness. Maybe itwasn’t.She looks behind her.
Insidetheshop,NorraandSinjir work together. Theboy,Temmin,hadtomakea side trip: He said hedidn’tkeephismapsintheshop, just in case. Had togotohis“hidey-holenook-
and-cubby”(hiswords,nothers) to get them. So heandhis lunatic droidwentoff.I’musingthesepeopleto
accomplish my goals.That’swhatthisis,isn’tit?They’re not her crew.They’re tools, same as anyhydrospanner or Harriswrench. That’s what shetells herself to hardenagainst their loss. Because
smart credits say thatsomeonewon’tsurvivethismission. They alreadyalmostlostNorra.Anotherwillfall.She tries to ignore how
thatmakesherfeel.Shetriestoignorethatit
makesher feelanythingatall.This is a job. You hold
no allegiance to the New
Republic or to thisparticular pack of freaksanddeviants.Theyarenotyour people. You are nottheirpeople.Get theworkdone,getpaid,getout.That’s what her head
tellsher.But why does her heart
tellhersomethingelse?
—
“Here we go,” Norra says,bringing up a box andplunking it down on thetable.Sinjir leans over, sees
what she’s bringing up,then backpedals away.“That is an entire box ofthermaldetonators.”“Ididn’tthinktheywere
snowglobes.”“Can I trust you not to
blow us up? You handlethose things like adockworkerdroppingoff acase of potted banthameat.”Shelaughs.Hefrownsas
shesizeshimupandsays:“You weren’t a soldier,wereyou?”“All are soldiers in
servicetoEmpire,”hesayswryly.
“Uh-huh. Imean, front-line soldier. Gun up.Taking blaster fire. Look—thermal detonators don’tgo off until you activatethem.” She picks up thebox and gives it a shake.He winces, waiting to beblown to his constituentmolecules. “They don’t goboom if you jostle them. Icould kick one and itwouldn’t go off. Until you
prime them, these thingsare basically just shinyrocks.”He clears his throat.
“You’llforgivemeifIstayafewmetersawayfromthatbox of ‘shiny rocks’ at alltimes,then.”“Just trust me: We’re
safe.” But now she stopsandfoldsherarms.Hecanseeshe’sgotsomethingonhermind.
“Goon.Sayit.Unburdenyoursoul.”“I…”“Spillit,Norra.”“Youcantrustme.CanI
trustyou?”“With thermal
detonators?”“Withmylife.”“Oh. That.” He arches
his eyebrow so high, heexpects it’shoveringabove
his hairline. “You meanbecause I was anImperial.”“The Empire doesn’t do
betrayal very well. Itspeople are loyal becausetheyknowwhathappensifthey’re not. I’m yourenemy. And you’re mine.That kind of thing isn’teasytoshake.”He snaps his fingers.
“See there? You’re right,
but you’re also wrong.Those loyal to the Empireare loyal because theyknow what will happen tothemiftheybetrayit.Thatmuch is true. And do youknow why that is, NorraWexley? That’s because ofme. Iwas a loyaltyofficer.Are you aware of theresponsibilities of anImperialloyaltyofficer?”“IconfessthatI’mnot.”
“Oh,it’satrulycharmingrole. I was trained to sniffout weakness in mycohorts. I learned how toreadbodylanguage,howtodetect lies, how to usepeople against oneanother, all in order todiscover where my ownpeople had committedtrespasses against theEmpire. Anything fromsmall breaches of conduct
to outright treacheryagainst the throne. I wasthe shadow they couldn’tshake. You put me in abase or battle station oroffice and they knew theywereonnotice.I’dscareupwhat they’d done like ahunter flushing prey fromthe brush. And I’d hurtthem to earn a confessionandcorrecttheerrors.Oh,itwasn’t justphysicalpain
I caused, though that wascertainlyapartofit.Itwasemotional pain. Can I tellyouastory?”“Temmin’s not yet
returned,so—haveatit.”He leans back against a
table.Ashe tells thestory,his long nimble fingersgesture along with it.“Most of the people I hurtwere people I didn’tmuchcarefor.Somewerebrutes,
others were cowards, andall of them were people Iwas happy to hobble onbehalfoftheEmperor.Butthatwasn’talwaysthecase.Take, for example, youngGunneryOfficerRiloTang.Rilo:aneagerofficer.Eyesbrightlikepolishedcredits.A beautiful man. Prettylikea sunrise.Sweet likeajifcake. And sneaky like amonkey-lizard.”
“Idon’tfollow.”“Hewasathief,yousee.”“Whatdidhesteal?”Sinjir laughs and cocks
his head. “Well, that’s thething.Nothingparticularlyimportant. It was acompulsion of his, Isuspect. Grabby handspicking up anything thatwasn’tnaileddown.Mostlyhe stole the personal
effects of others. Sillythings. Holopics and IDtagsand—bythestars,onetimeIrememberhestoleaprivate’s pair of shoes.Whydothat?”Norra narrows her eyes.
“I’daskthesame.Why?”“Best guess given his
psych profile? Parentsoften sent their troubledchildren to the Imperialacademies.Anactmeantto
be corrective, as theyassumed we could shapetheirsloppy,insubordinateprogeny into somethingresembling a propergalacticcitizen.Therealitywas often that those typeswashed out. Forcibly so.The Empire wanted itsown heroes, not its ownfreak show. I suspect Rilowaslikethat.”“What happened to
him?”“We warned him. I
warned him. Again andagain.Andthenonedayhestole something from amoff—a ring. A ring themoff said was personal tohim, meaningful, but Irealized had encodedinformation in itsscrollwork, though that’s astory foranotherday.So Iwas forced to…deal with
Rilo in order to solicit hisconfession.”There. That look on
Norra’s face.Upuntilnowshe’dbeen following alongwith curiosity, butsuddenly: That look fallsaway like bark off a deadtree. What’s left is a cold,emptystare.Oneofhorror.“You killed him,” she
says.
“No. Oh, no, no. Youmisread me. I wasn’t theexecutioner. I was theconfessor. The secretpolice. I found theevidence, and thensomeone else signed thewarrant and someone elsebeyond that pushed youout of the air lock. Orhanged you or put you infront of a firing squad, or,or, or. But to elicit that
confession, I had to breakmany bones on thisbeautiful boy’s body. Idon’t know if they killedhim. I heard rumors heended up working thetrash compactors. Whatmatters is that his facewouldneverlookthesame.His beauty, his vigor?Gone. And that was myfault.”“Youwereabadman.”
“Stillam,maybe,thoughI’mtryingtodobetter.Butthat’s not why I’m tellingyou this story. The reasonI’m telling you this is thatyou think you’re myenemy,andthat’snottrue,not at all. The Empire ismyenemy.TheEmpirehasalways been my enemy. Ihunted my own kind. Ihurt them. I was made todoubt them, to see the
weakness in them. And Isawsomuchweaknessandruination.Inthem.”Andinmyself. “They were myenemythenandremainmyenemy now. I’ve justscrappedtheuniform.”“So,you’rewithusnow?
You’rearebel?”That thought twists
inside of him. He is, isn’the? A rebel. He’s turnedlike milk past its time.
Gonetotheotherside.Andwhy? Because he almostdied there on Endor?Because looking at all thatwreckage jarred him?Changed him? What acurious reason to desertyour post. It can’t be thatsimple. It can’t be thatcomplete. He tells himselfthat it’s temporary. Thatthis crisis of consciencewillonedayresolveitself.
He lifts his chin andstares down his nose ather.Hesays:“I’mnotwiththem, but not with you,either.I’mwithme.”“Idon’ttrustpeoplewho
are only in it forthemselves.”He shrugs and offers a
sad smile. “Then youshouldn’ttrustme.”
—
Everything’s gonesupernova. JomBarell cansee that. TIE fightersblowing each other upoverhead. The city surgingallaroundhim.Hehidesinthe sliver-sized alleywaybetween twobuildings—anold kaffa shop and arotten-walled tenement—and watches it all unfold.The anger. The chanting.Rage at the Empire. Fury
for the satrapy.AnAkivanresurrection: rebirthbloomingbrightinthefiresofrevolution.Up until now, he had a
goal: Get to a commstation, find a way toreportin.Hecouldhackit,or force the Imperials togiveitup.But all these people
around him? This smallrebellion unfolding before
his very eyes? Well, thatputs him in the fightingspirit.He thinks back to that
turbolaser turret, blastingapart whoever was in thatrogue TIE fighter. Thatthing’sadanger.So, Jom changes his
orders. Time for a newtarget.Forgetthecommstation.
He plans on taking theturret.Single-handedly.Orthelikelierresult:He’lldietrying. But if he wasn’twilling to die for what hebelieves in, he wouldn’thave joined the RebelAlliance in the firstfraggingplace.
—
Temmin’sbacknow.Allof
them gather downstairs inthe shop’s cellar, and hehas the maps of the city’ssubterranean passagesspreadoutacrossa coupleofweaponscrates.“A flimsiplast map,”
Sinjirsays.“Howquaint.”Norra shushes him. She
admits it sounds a bitsharp,abit too…motherly.(And her feelings abouthim ricochet around the
room of her mind like astray blaster bolt. Shewants to trust him. Butsomething about him rubsherwrong.Couldhebetraythem?Would he?) Still, itworks. Sinjir quiets downandNorraleansin.“Look, this is our way
into the palace. Thetunnelsconnectallpartsofthe city. The access pointshave long been walled off
—”Temmin interrupts:
“Yeah, which also meansthey’ve walled off the wayintothepalace.”“Maybe not,” she says.
“Everybodyherehasheardthe rumors of how thesatrapssneakinandoutofthe palace. This might behow. And even if it iswalled off—that’s why webringthedetonators.”
Thebountyhunternods.“I like it.” Norra feels anodd surge of pride, there.Jas seems a hard one toplease. “It gets us off thestreets and out of thewayof the rebellion.Plusawayfrom the prying eyes ofboththeEmpireandanyofSurat’s men. This works.And that’s our doorwayin?”Jaspointstothesecretdoorbehindthevalachord.
“Yeah,” Temmin says.“ButIgottasay,Idon’tlikethisplan.Itsucks.Itsucksthe fumes from a brokenspeeder bike. It sucks thevapor from thehindquarters of a gassyeopie.Itsucks—”“Evocative,” Sinjir
interrupts. “You should’vebeenapoet.”“I’m just saying, look.
This map? It’s not gonna
be totally accurate. This ishundredsofyearsold.”Norra says, “But you’ve
exploredthearea.You’llbeour guide. I trust you,Temmin.” She offers awarm smile. To hersurprise,hegivesoneback.“Okay,yeah, Ihave,and
themaphasbeenwrongalot of the times. Plus, Ididn’t go that far. If we’regoing all the way to the
palace,wehave topassbytheolddroidfactory.”“Whichiswhereyougot
alotofyourdroidpartstosell.Right?”“…not exactly. I picked
scrapfromthegarbagepitsdown there. Holes full ofjunk from the factory. Inever went to the factoryitself.”Jasasks:“Whynot?”
He hesitates, but thensays:“Becauseit’shaunted.”Amomentwheretheyall
sharelooks.Sinjir cannot contain
himself and finally burstsout laughing. “Haunted?Bywhat?Droidghosts?”Norra elbows him hard
intheribs.Heoofs.“I don’t know,” Temmin
says. “Idon’tknow!That’sjust the story. That’s thestory ofwhy they sealed itall up. It was haunted, sothey sealed it all up. Youknow how many peoplehave gone missing downthere?”“They went missing
because theydidn’t have amap,” Norra says. “Theyprobablygotlost,Temmin.Or never went missing at
all andare justpartof thestories. Spooky storiesfrom some jungle scoutcampingtripdonotrealitymake. This is our best,fastestwaythere.”Jas turns to Temmin.
“Do you have a betterway?”sheasks.“Ido.”“And?”“We don’t go at all!
Listen. I get it. We allwanna do right by thegalaxy. But this isn’t ourjob. Well—” He points toJas. “Fine, it’s your job.But the rest of us? This isgoing to shakeoutwithorwithout our help. And…maybe the New Republicare the good guys, maybethey’renot.Maybenothingchanges here. Maybe iteven gets worse. We are
the Outer Rim. We’re thepart of the toilet bowlnobody wants to clean,okay?”Sinjir whistles. “And I
thoughtIwascynical.”Norra kneels before her
sonandtakeshishandsinhers. Her heart breaks tosee him like this. He iscynical. She understandsit.Sheknows it.Andshe’spretty sure it’s her fault.
Whichmeansit’sherjobtofixit.“Tem,”shesays.“Thisis
the kind of thing yourfather and I have foughtfor. We want to make abettergalaxy.Foryou.Foryour kids.” He winces atthat—and she remembersthat no teenager wants totalk about gettingmarriedand having a litter ofpuppies. “Please.Trustme
on this one. We’re doingtherightthing.Andwecanmake a difference. Even asmall group of people canchange the galaxy. It onlytakes one man to spit intheeyeofagiantandblindhim.Solet’sdoit.Let’sspitinthegiant’seye.”Jas speaks up and says,
“Yourmotherisright.Ifwedon’t act now, it’s likelythat the Imperials at that
palace will squirm out ofour grip. If that happens,we don’t get paid. Youwant to get paid, don’tyou?”Temminnods.“Ido.”Norra almost regrets
that.Thatwhatmoved theneedlewithhimwasn’therearnestpleabutrather,thepractical, greed-drivenentreaty put forth by thebounty hunter. But it
works.He’sin.
—
Thecallgoesout,andtheyfindWedge Antilles in theservile quarters in thebottomfloorof thepalace.Already here they’rebringing steel shuttersdown over any of thestained-glasswindowsand
fortifying the doors.Downatthislevel,theroarofthecrowd is a living thing—still muted, muffled, butwithariseandfallthatRaecanfeelinherbreastbone.She steps into the
bunkroom, with a trio ofstormtroopers behind her.Adea is not present—she’salready under the care ofthepalacedoctors.Antilles is facedown at
thebackoftheroom,dead.Hisarmissplayedout,hishand curled into anarthritic claw. A fewcentimeters away, theholoscreen he stole fromher assistant after he shother.Rae eases forward and
then she sees—his backgently rising and falling.He’s not dead, after all.Merely unconscious. The
pain and injury, too greatforhim.Good.Thatmeansthis particular breachbegan and ended beforethe others of the summitcouldfindout.She signals the
stormtroopers to gatherAntillesup.“Take the captive back
upstairs.Useactualchainsthistime.Surelythesatrapcan conjure up some in
this archaic palace.” Thenshe snaps her fingers.“Handmethatholoscreen.IshouldreturnittoAdea.”Just because she’s injureddoesn’t mean she can’twork.Raeneedsher.The stormtrooper hands
overtheholoscreen.Andherbloodgoescold.Onit,acommunications
screen. He hacked their
channelandsecuredaline.And it’s open to a rebelfrequency.Antilles sent out a
summonstowar.
The red-headed boy withthe cleft lip stands therewiththeotherkids.Kidsofall shapes and sizes, allages and alien races.Mostof them are younger than
him, and the younger thekid, the more attentionthat kid gets from thewannabes who gatheraround, looking to adopt.All of them, shipped herefrom various parts of thegalaxy.Theboyleansovertothe
tail-head girl next to him,and he says: “We’re nevergonnagohomewithanyofthesepeople.”
“Shutup,Iggs,”shesays.“You’re being a hugebummer.”He shrugs. “I know it
and you know it, Streaks.They want the kidlings.Theyoungones.We’retooold.”“We’renotthatold,”she
whispers. “And besides,we’reheroes.”“Heroes?” He rolls his
eyes. “C’mon. They don’tknow that and if they didthey wouldn’t see it thatway.”“WeweretheAnklebiter
Brigade from Coco-Town.Thatmeanssomething.”“Itmeanstwothings:zip
and squat. People don’teven know what we did.You think people careabout a buncha orphanswhohid in the sewers and
messed with thebucketheads and otherImperials? I dunno if younoticed, but we aren’t onCoruscant anymore. Andevenifwewere—sowhat?”They got scooped up andbroughthere.Takenoutofharm’s way, so they weretold. But Iggs and Streaks—they were the harm’sway. They and the otherorphans were doing rebel
work. Striking from theshadows. Hiding inalleyways and shippingcontainers. They broughtdown a whole Imperialfrigate—one resupplyingtheEmpire’sfrontlines.“Theycare.Wedidmore
than that. We passedmessages.Toldthemabouttroopmovements.Wegavethem intel, Iggs. How doyouthinktherebelsretook
Coco-Town?Thatwasus.”He waves her off. “I
know that.Youknow that.Butthesepeoplewillneverknow.Ornevercare.”Her face sinks. “You
think?”Suddenly he feels bad.
He squeezesherarm. “Wealwaysgoteachother.Andtheothers.”Now the lady with the
green skin and the otherolder woman—the“maven,” the onewho hasbeen talking to orphansand the wannabe parentsabout this or that—comecloser.Iggshearsthegreenlady talking to a pair ofwell-to-do humans, pink-skins in fancy clothes.They’re talking about howimportantitistotrytogetthe galaxy “back to
normal,”abouthowalotofpoor kids have beendisplaced because theirparents went to war orwere casualties in thisconflict or that battle andit’s time to put familiesfront and center again.And mostly Iggs, he juststands theremaking faces,rolling his eyes. All whileStreaks stands there,vibratingvisibly.
“Maybethey’llcomeandinterview us,” she says.“Maybewe’llgohomewithsomeone today.” He hearsthehopeinhervoice.Likeshe wants to say: Maybewe can have parentsagain.“Theywon’tcometotalk
to us. We look like dirtyurchins.”“Theymight!”
“Theywon’t.”But sure enough, here
they come.The green ladyandthemaven.Theadultshunker down and greenlady says to the both ofthem:“Whatareyournames?”They tell her. He’s Iggs,
she’sStreaks.The woman can’t quite
contain her amusement. A
little smirk on her face.Laugh it up, Iggs thinks.Shemakes small talk withthe kids. Just dumb stuff.Their favorite flavor ofmilk shake, if they hopetheGrav-BallPennantwillstart up again this year,stuff like that. A smallcrowd ofwannabe parentsgather now—wealthyNabootypesintheirfineryand fanciness. Iggs only
feelsmorelikeastainonanicetablecloth.“Whathappenedtoyour
parents?”thewomanasks.Iggs freezes. He doesn’t
want to think about it oreven say it. He tries toblock out thememories ofseeinghistwofatherslyingtherelikethat…Streaks, though, she
jumps right in: “My
parents were rebels. TheirtransportwasattackedjustpastTanisandI’marebel,too,meandIggsherewerepartofacrewofkidscalledtheAnklebiterBrig…”Ugh.No.He feelsoutof
place. A piece of trash lefton a nice shelf. So whilethey’re talking to Streaks,he ducks away behind atent—he starts looking forways outta here. Already
hestartsformingaplaninhishead.Findthesewers—they gotta go somewhere.Worktheirwaybacktothecenter of Theed. Find aspaceport. Catch a ridebacktotheaction.Backtothe hot war of Coruscant.Home to Coco-Town,where the AnklebiterBrigadecanrideagainandhelptherebels.There. A grate. That’ll
do. Doesn’t look bolteddown. It’s all gilded andpretty—like everything inthiscityofmuseums.Iggs ducks back around
the side of the tent. He’sabouttoyelltoStreaksthatit’stimetogo,timetobustout of here and forget allthis getting adoptednonsense, but he turnsaroundandshe’sgone.No.Not gone. There, a few
meters away. Talking to anice-looking couple, aclean pair of pink-skinswith good hair and shinyteeth. She looks happy.Theylookhappy.Iggsthinks,goodforher,
goodforher.Then, because nobody’s
paying attention, he slinksoff alone. He finds thatdrain grate, pops it, andducks down into the
darkness. It’s time to gohome. It’s time to go backtothefight.
The case is light. Thoughhe’s moved it before, itsurprises him again: thecratewiththeblackcarbon
locks looks like it shouldweigh a ton. And onemightexpectaweaponlikethis(er,whatever“this”is)would be heavy. But itisn’t. It’s light as air.Hollowasaballoon.As the othersmove into
the passageway leadinginto the catacombsbeneath the city, TemminliftshisendandBonesliftsthe other (the droid helps
not because the crate isheavy, but rather becauseit’scumbersome).They get it inside the
door.Temmin looks at his
shop, says a small andsilentgood-bye,thenshutsit. Ahead, Sinjir snaps onthe illumi-droids: littlefloatinglanterns,eachwitha trio of tentacle armsdangling beneath. Arms
that dead-end in pincergrips.Thelightfromthedroids
ismottled,greasy.(They’redirty and dinged up.) Butit’senough.Norra and Sinjir forge
ahead. Temmin starts tofollow, but Jas catches hisarm first. “This crate,” shesays.“Surat’s weapon,” he
says.Hetriestosayitwithsomeauthority, like,Yeah,this is Surat’s, and I stoleit.Whatofit?“It’snotaweapon.”“What?Yesitis.”“Maybe it can be. But it
isn’tliterallyaweapon.”“Idon’tunderstand,how
didyou—”He touchesoneof the carbon locks, and itsprings open. His eyes
widen. “What?What. I’vebeen trying to open thesefordays.Fordays!”“Ipickedthem.”“You…you just picked
them. Do you have magicfingers?Areyousomekindofwizard?”“I have talents. And I
used them while I wasdown here repairing mygun before I helped your
mother claim one of thoseTIE fighters for herself.”Shegesturestowardit.“Goon.Popit.”He does. Like a kid on
his naming day, he ripsinto this present withgreedy gusto. Soon as thelid lifts, a blue glowemerges.He has to squintagainst it, it’s so bright.Thenhe sees. It’s a box ofdatacubes.
“Data cubes?” he asks.“That’s it? It’s not aweaponatall!”“It’s not. It’s something
farbetter:information.”“Surat was protecting
information?”“I don’t know about
what.Butifwegetthroughthis,I’llhelpyoufigureoutwhat that information is.And then together we can
sellit.”Ah. There it is. There’s
her angle. He knew therehad to be one. He cluckshis tongue. “And I assumeyou get a cut. For yourbenevolence and wisdomand your connections towhatever market wouldbuythis—”“Sixty–forty.”“Oh, whoa, hey, that’s
notfair—”“I’llgiveyouthesixty.”Oh.Hehesitates.Ahead,
the light recedes as theotherswalkon, the illumi-droidsbobblingafterthem.Hismother calls: “Areyoucoming?”“Deal,”hetellsJas, then
shakesherhand.“Deal.”“We’recoming!”heyells.
Underhisbreath,headds:“Soimpatient.”
—
Sinjir is used to tightspaces. The Empire wasnot known for its roomyarchitecture.Itwasfondofaustere pragmatism (thatterm,austerepragmatism,or sometimes pragmaticausterity, found its way
atop many Imperialbrochuresandpropagandatracts), and so kept itshallways low and narrow.Stormtroopers wereliterally supposed to bewithin the same range ofheight and weight in partbecauseofexactlythat—hewasn’tjokingwhenhesaidhe was too tall to be astormtrooper.The catacombs, as such,
do not give himclaustrophobia.Notstrictlyspeaking. No, the anxietyin his chest is fromsomething else: the waythey wind around. It’s notenough that themazeasksthem to go right, left, orstraight. Instead somepassages go up, othersdown,andothersyetwindaround in a spiral. Onepathway will be dry as
dust,andthesmellcomingout of it will be ofpulverized bone. Anotherpathwaywillbewet,heady,almost fungal. They walkthrough puddles and overcrumbling stone andmortar. Sometimes theillumi-droids highlight awall as they pass, and thewall shows off filthyhandprintsstreakedacrossthe rock, or instead shows
something in a languagefar off from Basic. Somecurse, perhaps, someprofanity.Orperhapssomethreat.Occasionally, sounds
windtheirwaythroughthelabyrinth, too. Scraping.Scuffing. A hiss. Once: Apair of green eyes satshining in the darknesslikeglowingcrystals.Whentheirlightreachedit,Sinjir
saw itwas just a fengla—apale,hairlessvermin.Highhaunches and crookedincisors.Itspitsandhissesbefore scurrying off, clawsclicking.They walk for a while.
Stopping sometimes tocheck the map. Then theycontinue on. Walkingunderneathdrippingwater—lingering rainwater,Temminassuresthem,not,
like, the bodily excretionsofsomeIthoriandoinghisbusiness up above. Theycrossalong,narrowbridge—only halfway across itdoes Sinjir realize that itmatches the battle droid,becausethethingismostlybones. Larger bones. Nothuman. Bound up withrustedwire.Itswaysoverachasm, and Sinjirremembers the great rift
below him as he dangledthere in Surat Nuat’sdungeon. A dungeon thatmust connect up to thecity’sundergroundspace.Soon, they start to see
droid pieces. And blasterscoringonthewalls.Sinjireven thinks he seesscarring from lightsaberblades:Thiswasthesiteofan old battle during theCloneWars.WhentheJedi
were populous and not ontheedgeofextinction.Temmin says, “We’re
coming up on the junkpits.”Themap says asmuch,
Sinjirthinks.And then he watches
Temmin. He hadn’t been,notreally.Theboyseemedfine,ifabitshookupfromall of this.He canpretend
he’s hard against it, butbetween almost gettingkilled by a Sullustangangster and losing hismother, it’s tobeexpectedthattheboyisoffhiskilter.Something else is going
on,though.It’s in the way the boy
looks around. And fidgets.He’s nervous. Like he’shidingsomething.Temminhasasecret.
Sinjir hangs back, andurges Jas to hang backwithhim.“What is it?”sheasks in
alowvoice.“Weneedtotalk.”“Mm,”shesays,nodding
like this was inevitable. “Iknew this would come.Andyes,Iconcede.”“You concede what,
exactly?”
“Youaresatisfying.”“I…don’t follow.
Satisfying? I don’t knowwhat that means. I doknow that it soundsawfully…milquetoast.Drinking a cup of proteinslurry when you’re trulyhungry is satisfying. Andyet,disgusting.”Jas gives him a
frustrated look. “I meanthat I find you capable.
You interest me. And so,yes, when all this is over,wemaycouple.”“Couple.Like—”Hisface
goes suspiciously andsurprisingly red. “Like youandme?Together?”“That is indeed what I
mean.”Helaughs.“Oh.”“If you’regoing to laugh
about it,” she says,
suddenlystung. “Thenyoucantakemyinvitationandstick it in your exhaustport.”“No, I just mean…I’m
notinto…this.”“This?” Her scowl
deepens and her teethbare.“Aliens?”“Women.”“Oh.Oh.”“Yes,oh.”
“Oh.”Moments pass. The
awkwardness betweenthemisalivingthing—likea cloud of flies you can’tignorenomatterhowhardyou try. Eventually sheblurtsout: “Youwanted tospeak to me aboutsomething else,apparently?”“Ah. Yes. The boy.
Temmin.”
“He’s clearly too youngforyou.”“Wouldyoustop?That’s
not what I mean. Listen.He’slyingtous.”“Everybody is lying all
thetime,Sinjir.IrecognizethatyourformerroleintheEmpire makes youexcessively paranoid, but—”“The map,” he says,
finally. “It’s about themap.”“Whataboutit?”“Temmin told us the
map had changed. That itwaswrong.”He sees the realization
hither.It landsonhertheway a fly lands onsomeone’s nose. “But ithasn’t been wrong,” shesays.“It’sbeenright.”
“Exactly.”“He’shidingsomething.”
Her brow darkens.“Something down here hedoesn’t want us to see,perhaps.”“A stash, maybe. A
trove.”“Could be. Keep your
eyespeeled.”“Youtoo.”
—
The junk pits: massivecraters dug out of thecatacombs.Thestonebrickgives way to natural rock,opening into chamberswide and deep that househeaps and mounds of oldscrap.Droidparts,mostly,and a great deal of itlargely unrecognizable orunusable. The good stuff
likely picked over andpulled out—by my son,Norrathinks.Shestandsbyit, looking
around. She kicks a stoneforward. It pings off whatlooks like a half-meltedprotocol droid arm. Otherparts clang and clatter,sliding down—amomentary avalanche ofscrap-scree. All of itechoes. Temmin sidles up
nexttoher.“Theregoesusbeingquiet,”hesays.“We’re alone down
here.”“Youhope.”She rolls her eyes.
“Wherearetheothertwo?”MisterBonesstandsaboutthree meters back stillcradling the crate ofthermal detonators whilehumming. But the other
twoaren’there.“They’re back a way.
Talking. I saw the lightfromtheirdroid.”“Hm.” She wrinkles her
brow. “Temmin, do youtrustSinjir?”“Idunno.Why?”“He’s an Imperial. He
hurtpeopleforaliving.”“You trust the bounty
hunter but not the
Imperial?”She shrugs. “A bounty
hunter lives by a certaincode.Theywanttogetpaidand this mission gets herpaid.Itrustherasfarasallthat.”“But Sinjir, not so
much.”“I…don’tknow.Iwantto
trusthim.”“Hegotusthisfar.”
“That’strue.”“He hasn’t fragged us
overyet.”“Language,”shechides.“Sorry.”“And you’re right. But
wecouldbewalkingintoatrap.”Temmin tenses up and
looks away. She sees nowshe’s given him cause toworry. “They aren’t
family,” he says. “We’refamily.”“We are. But I’m sure
we’ll be fine. It’ll all beokay.”“Yeah.” He thrusts his
tongueinthepocketofhischeek and idly nudges astonewithhisshoe.“Mom,I’msorry.”“Forwhat?”He dithers a bit. “For…
beingarealsleemotoyou.Itwasn’tright.Ijust…”Hisnostrilsflareashedrawsadeepbreath.“Imissedyou.AndImissDad.AndIwasmadthatyouleftandtheneven madder that maybeyou died and I…I don’thavewhatyouhave.Idon’thave the…courage, I don’thave that fire in my heartfor the New Republic likeyou.Ijust…”
Sheputsherarmaroundhim. “It’s okay. You’re akid, Tem. You got enoughto worry about. Don’tworry about this. I loveyou.”“Iloveyou,too.”A flutter in her chest.
She knows he loves her.Buttohearit?Itmakesallthedifference.From behind them, Jas
calls:“Arewestopping?”Norra answers: “No.
Justwaitingforthepairofyoutocatchup.”Theykeepon.
—
It’s time, Sinjir thinks, topry.Theywalk past the junk
pits, toward the directionofwhatthemapsaysisthe
old droid factory. Or itsentrance,at least.Temminsaysthey’llhavetogorightpastthefrontofit—thoughthankfullynotinside.Astheypassbyawallof
glowing fungus—the stonebeneath their feet looseand slippery, slick withspongy moss—Sinjircatches up with Temminand his B1 battle droid,Bones.
“That droid of yours,”Sinjir says. “He’ssomething.”Temmin looks up. A
dubious brow raised.“Yeah.Iknow.”“You find him down
here?”“Uh-huh. In one of the
pits.”Thebattledroidsaunters
alongside. Singing a quiet
(well, not that quiet) littlesong: “DOO DEE DOODOOBAHBAHBAHDOODOO.”“He’s obviously no
longer standard-issue,”Sinjir says. “You’ve donesomemodifications.”“Thanks,DarthObvious.
OrisitEmperorPalpable?Next you’ll tell me whichend of a blaster is theshooty-shooty one, or why
I wouldn’t do so hot in aWookiee arm-wrestlingleague.”“Youcan’tout-snarkme,
boy, so don’t even try. I’mjust saying—how exactlydidyouprogramthatdroidto be so…that.” Hegestures to the droid, whostops singing long enoughtodoahighkick.Temminsighs.As if this
line of questioning bores
him and yet he mustpersevere. “Bones isprimedwith a high-octanecocktailofprograms.Someheuristic combat droidprograms, some martialarts vids, the moves ofsome Clone Wars cyborggeneral, and also, thebody-mapped maneuversof a troupe of la-leydancersfromRyloth.”Dancers. That explains
some things, actually. Theoccasionally graceful waythe droidmoves, but also:thehummingandsinging.“Crafty,”Sinjirsays.“That’sme.”“What else is down
here?”“I dunno. Your guess is
asgoodasmine.”That answer: It reads
true. Temmin doesn’t
appear to be lying, but asSinjir just noted: The boyis crafty. “Is theresomething down here youdon’t want us to see,Temmin?”“What?Areyouaccusing
meofsomething?”“Ijustwantyoutoknow
we’re not going to…plunderyourwares.”“I don’t have any wares
downheretoplunder.”Sinjir sniffs. “I thought
perhapsyoudidn’twantusgettingtothedroidfactorytreasure before you did.But that means it’ssomethingelse.”“…what’s something
else?”“You’re hiding
something, Temmin. I cansenseit.”
There! There it is.Temmin’s wholeexpression shifts justslightly—there’s a flickeron his face like adisruptioninahologram,asignthatSinjirisright.Theboy is hiding something.“I…I’mnot—”Ahead, Jas says: “The
factory.”Shepointstotheside.
To Temmin, Sinjir says:“To be continued.” Thenthey jog to catch up, thelittle illumi-droid burblingameterbehind.Here, the passageway
opens up. The droidfactory entrance is a widemouth framed by metalarches, two booths, an oldcorroded sign that says:SUPPORT THECONFEDERACY OF
INDEPENDENT SYSTEMS!Another sign says: BUY ADROID FROM THESEPARATIST ALLIANCE! Athirdhangingfromabove—at an angle, since one ofthe bolts has come free—says, RALLY AGAINSTREPUBLIC OPPRESSION. Onthat one, some of thelettersaresorustedthey’veessentiallygonemissing.Norra says: “This, from
the days when theSeparatists brought thewar to the Outer Rim inthelateryearsoftheCloneWars.”“How’d they get the
droids out?” Jas says.“They didn’t march themthroughthese…sewers.”Temmin shifts his
weight nervously. Sinjirwatcheshim.Theboysays:“Used to be a telescoping
platform. They’d raise thedroids up for delivery andshipswouldpick themup.It’s all destroyed, sealedover. I thought once youcould get down here fromthere,butit’stoowrecked.”He scratches his head.“Can we go? This placegivesmethehypers.”A small technique for
rooting out truth is tomake the subject—Sinjir
actually thinks the wordvictimbuthetriestoshovethat kind of thinking backin the dark hole fromwhence it came—uncomfortable. Put themoff balance. Do that, theymake mistakes. They saythings they don’t mean tosay.Andso, that isSinjir’splanofthemoment.He picks up a hunk of
stone. “It’s not haunted,”
hesays.“Look.”Sinjir wings the stone
toward the gate. It bongsoffoneof thebooths.Rustflakes rain and the stonedrops.“Don’t!” Temmin
cautions.“There’s nothing to
worry about, the factoryisn’t—”Inside, deep within the
bowels of the factory,something howls. Amechanized sound. Nothuman. Maybe notaltogetherrobotic,either.“The gates,” Jas says.
“This place should besealedup.”“But it’s not,” Norra
adds.“Everything’sopen.”Another wail. And a
third after that. Closer
now.“I HAVE A BAD
FEELING ABOUT THIS,”MisterBonessays.“We need to go,”
Temminsays.From inside the old
factory,asuddenscrambleof sound—metal onmetal.Like footsteps. Comingtoward them, and closinginfast.
“Run!”Sinjiryells.
Hisrednostrilsflare.Airinand out. Ackbar longs forwater.Hehasasmalltankhere—a bacta healing tank
retrofitted with waterpossessing thesalinityandpH balance of hishomeworld, MonCalamari. Sometimes hegoes into it and just…floats.Buthehaslittletimeforsuchmoments.Maybe one day. But not
today.The message from
Captain Antilles playsagain and again in his
mind. It came in on anImperial channel, of allthings. Ackbar wasn’t therecipient, but saw it soonafter. Wedge lookedragged, injured. Hismessage before hecollapsed and thecommunications endedwasbrief.Toobrief.High-level Imperial meeting.Blockade on…Akiva.Palace at Myrra. Now is
the—Andthenitwasover.He tells the others—
Agate, Madine, MonMothma,EnsignDeltura—that Antilles was right.Ackbar presumes to finishthecaptain’sstatement:“Now is the time.
Prepare a small fleet, buthaveothershipsinreserve,fueled up with full
loadouts.Agate,Iwantyouto lead the charge. Beready for anything. If thisis the Empire, you can besuretheywillnotgoeasily.Andtheyareoverlyfondoftrickingusintodoingwhattheywant.”
—
It’s like inverting apyramid and carrying it,
point down, on your back.All that weight. The sharppeak between yourshoulder blades. Built ofbricks of blame. A terribleanduncomfortableburden.Sloaneisfeelingitnow.The others are driven
now by panic, rage,opportunity. Pandion,tryingtowinnowherdownto particulate matter.Shale, the doomsayer who
thinkstheymustsurrendernow or die soon. Tashu,interjectingnowandagainwith some parable orpabulumaboutthewisdomofthedarksideandifonlythey followed its teachingsandoh,Palpatinesaidthis,the old Sith writings saidthat.Crassuswants tobuytheirwayout.He’swavingaround his metaphoricalcreditspurse thinking that
the Empire can bribe itsway free of New Republicpersecution. Best of luckwiththat,Raethinks.The satrap, at least,
remains quiet. He sits inthecorner,staringdownathis hands. The writing isonthewallforthatone.Heknows the Empire willabandon him. He will beleft with a city that seekshis head on a pitchfork so
theycanwaveitaroundforalltosee.In the other corner of
the dining room—as theyhave never yet made it tothe meeting room neartheir quarters on thistroubledandturbulentday—stands Adea, her legalready bound up in afoam-layer cast printed bythe medical droid. Theassistant hobbles over and
Rae thinks: I must keepher close. She has shownmore steel than most oftheseso-calledImperials.“The yacht?” Rae asks
her, ignoring theshoutsofvitriol from the rest of theroom.“Hadtostopforfuelone
system over. But inhyperspace now.Will landsoonafter.Expectedwithinthehour.”
Rae tenses up. “That’slonger than expected. Idon’t know if I can keepthese animals at bay untilthen.”Theymighttearmyheadoff, too. “Any chanceCrassus is delaying itbehindourbacks?”“Possible, but can’t see
why. He’s eager to leave.Truth is, those big uglybarges are—” Here Adeawincesinabitofpainand
shifts her weight. “Theyguzzle fuel like it’s freedrinks at the Death StarCommissary.”Sloanespentplentyofnightsdrinkingatthe commissary with hercomrades. A pang ofnostalgia plucks herstrings.Rae turns to the room.
Shemakeshervoicelouderthan everyone else’s.“Shale.Howlongbeforewe
canexpectarebelfleet?”The woman scrunches
up her face and frowns.“Hard to say, Admiral.They’ll send something,probably soon. Onesuspects it’ll be areasonably sized fleet.Expect them within thehour if they’re feelingaggressive. Three ifcautious.”That’s cutting it awfully
close. “Our own StarDestroyers.It’stimetocallthem back. Our ruse isover.”Shale objects: “Admiral,
if we bring them back, wehave no guarantee thatthosethreeDestroyerswillsurvive the ensuing battle—”“Caution I admire.
Cowardice I do not.Though our TIE regiment
is reduced somewhat, ourDestroyers are more thancapable of cutting down arebel fleet.Especially ifweare ready for the fight. Idon’t want to make ourescape into space just asthe rebel scum comedropping out ofhyperspace.” To Adea, shesays: “Call them back.Now.”“Yes, Admiral.” Adea
leans in. “Also, youhaveacall.”Sloane mouths the
question:Who?She tilts her screen
towardtheadmiralsothatthe rest of the roomwon’tbeabletoseeit.Rae sees a face she
recognizes, though itbelongs to someone towhom she has never been
introduced.The Sullustan gangster,
SuratNuat.Butwhy?
Time, broken out into themoments between triggerpulls.Jasdropstoherkneeandfacesthecominghorde
astheothersflee.Thelongrifle in her hand. Eyeagainst its scope. Downthere,towardtheentrance,theypourout.A flash of corroded
metal. Piston legs. Dentedchest plates. Long, gangly,many-jointed limbs.Droids, she thinks. Mad,lunatic droids. Eachdifferent from the last.Glowing eyes. Mechanized
wails.They rush down the
passageway. Some thirtymeters off. Surgingforward like feral things,like the bristle-backedboarwolves of Endor.Running on all fours. Upthe walls. Skittering alongthe crumbling ceiling likespiders.Boom.Boom.Boom.
The slugthrowerlaunches round afterround.They drop, one by one.
Shetakesthelegsoutfromthe first—it crashes down,neck breaking as it hits. Aspark as a shot punchesthrough themetal skull ofone, and it tumbles intoanotherofitsswarm.Theyshriek and screech. Shefiresagain,andoneoftheir
skulls pops off, clangingagainstthewallwithaloudecho—That’swhenshesees.They’re not droids.
They’re something else.Creatures. Black-eyedthings, noseless. Mouthsopen, showcasing apincushionofwildneedle-teeth. The thing that losesitsskullplatedashestotheside,grabsit,andreaffixes
it before joining therushingthronganew.Twenty-fivemeters.Boom.Twenty.Eighteen.Closer,closer.There’s too many, she
thinks. A dozen here, andmore pouring out of thefactory. A whole tribe ofthese things. A hive. Butshe has the slugs. She can
do this. But there, AuntSugi’s voice whisperinginsideherear:Youhave toknowwhen
torun,girl.That, a message to Jas
onlyweeksbeforeJastookher advice. Maybe howSugi meant it, maybe not.Butsheranawayfromherhome planet. A terribleplace. A strange place,Iridonia. Brutal and
unforgiving.Fifteenmeters.Bothherheartsbeatfast
in tandem, outracing thespeed with which she canpullthetrigger.Twelvemeters.Boom.They shriek and click
andswarm.Ahandathershoulder—
a voice, numb and almost
lostunderneaththeringingofherears.It’stheboy.“We have to go,” he’s
saying.“There’stoomany.”“I can do this!” she
roars.Butshecan’t.Sheknows
shecan’t.Youhave toknowwhen
torun,girl.Nowisthetimetorun.
—
The stories were true,Temmin realizes—from acertainpointofview.Whatcame spilling out of thatold droid factory weren’tghosts. The place wasn’thaunted by specters orForcewraiths.And it isn’t haunted by
old,malfunctioningdroids,either.
It’stheUugteen.When he goes back to
getJas,he seesone—whatthey thought were droidswere just the Uugteenwearing droid parts likearmor. The pale, feralthings—near-humans, butfar enough to still bemonsters—usually keep tothe jungles and canyons.Sometimes, though, theyfind caves to live in. The
catacombs beneath Myrraaren’t just caves, herealizes.They’re a whole cave
system. Maybe theyconnect out elsewhere—tothe Canyon of Akar, oreven all the way to thecoastline far south. Thispackhasbeen livingdownhereforalongtime,hasn’tit? It doesn’t even matternow. Because he and his
friends are besieged.Chased. And themonstersaregaininggroundfast.Jas turns suddenly—she
fires a shot at a half-collapsed stone beamhanging above thepassageway. One shot, itcracks. Starts to splinter.Two shots, those cracksspread. But the pack isalmost upon them.Gibbering and screaming
like men on fire. AgainTemmin tries to pull heralong—But she takes one last
shot. The beam crashesdown.Waterstreamsalongwithit.Itcrushesthefrontlineofthemonsters.Itslowsthemdown.Foramoment.They run once more,
rounding a corner.Here it
goes up—and he knowsthat they’re nearing theground underneath theRoyal District. Anotherhalf-hour walk and they’llbe at—or beneath—thesatrap’spalace.Mister Bones skids to a
halt.Hesetsdowntheboxof detonators. Hisastromech arm spins up,blurring the air. His otherarm snaps back, revealing
the vibroblade. Bonesmakes sounds like theUugteen—threateninghowls, barks, gargledblasts of mechanicaldistortion.Temmin yells at him,
tellsthedroidnowisn’tthetime.But Bones is
programmed to protectTemmin. That is theprogramming that
overrides all else. Fierce,loyal,psychotic.The Uugteen swarm up
overthebrokenbeam.Temmin hears his
mothercallingforhim.Hetries to tellBones tomove—evenpullingonthebattledroid’sarm.Buthedoesn’tbudge.Then he looks down.
Near the droid’s feet. The
boxofdetonators.Theboxofdetonators.“I’vegotaplan!”heyells
at Bones. “Come on, comeon!”He grabs one of the
detonators out of the box.Just one. Then he pops itopen, spins the top to itsshortest fuse, and flings itback into the box fromwhence it came. Then he
yells: “Run! Everybodyrun!”Temmin bolts forward,
hislegsstraining—allpartsof him tensing up as hewaves everyone away.Bones sprints alongside ofhim, the droid’s feetsmashing hard into thebrick. The battle droidyells:“ALLWILLGOBOOM.”
Six seconds. TheUugteenswarm.Five seconds. Norra
waves her son and theotherson.Fourseconds.Thedroid-
clad monsters rush up tothebox.Three seconds. Jas
pivots, fires her rifle overTemmin’sshoulder.Two seconds. Bones
cackles.One second. Temmin
winces and dives to thegroundas—
—
He lifts his face from theground. His head pulsesliketheengineofanidlingspeeder bike. Temminpushes himself up on hishands,dust and rockybits
raining down from hishair. He flinches just intime to see Jas leapforward and jam the buttof her gun into thefaceplate of one of theUugteen—a protocol droidface painted inwhat lookslikeblood,themaskrentinhalfwitha jaggedripso itlooks to be somenightmarish mouth—andthe thing pinwheels and
goes down. Bones stompsonitagainandagain.Temminthinks, Itdidn’t
work. The plan didn’twork,But then he braces
himself against the walland pulls himself up. Jasoffers him a hand and hetakes it. Two of theUugteen lie on the brokenfloor—here the floor iscrooked, sporadic tile. All
ofitshattered.Thetunnelissealed.“Stragglers,” Jas says,
gesturing toward the twomonsters.Upclose,hecansee their pale fleshunderneath the armor—revealed between thejoints, like the flesh of akrillcrab when you turn itover to get at its meat.“Youokay?”
Henods,numbly.“That was a good idea,”
Jas says, and then shequick-steps out of thewayas Norra launches herselfat Temmin, wrapping herarmsaroundhim.“It was a good idea,”
Norra says. She kisses hisbrow. Idlyhe thinks,Eventhough I’m dirty. That’swhatamotherdoes.
“Thanks,” he says, thathigh-pitched tone stillmovingfromeartoear,hishead still pounding likeheavy rain on an old fueldrum.Sinjir steps up, dusting
off his officer’s uniform.“Let’s not all crack open acaseoffizzydrinksjustyet.I’ll casually remindyouallthattheboyjustdetonatedour key into the satrap’s
palace.”Yes, Temmin thinks.
Now we’ll have to turnback around. Andeverything will be fineagain.“We can’t go back,” Jas
says.“Guess it’s over,”
Temminsayswithashrug.He tries not to play it tooeagerly. “This’ll all…it’ll all
shakeout.We’llfindawaybackuptothesurface,and—”Sinjir lifts his head.
“Way up to the surface?Canyou findus awayoutnearby?”“Absofragginglutely,”
Temminsays.“Language,” his mother
says.“Sorry. But yeah, um,
hold on…” He unrolls themap, his heart beating akilometer a minute in hischest. We’re in the clear.Hissecondthoughtsabouteverything no longermatter. “Here. Close by.Five minutes and we’rethere—should take us upright into the old BankingClanbuilding.”“Not us,” Sinjir says.
“Me.”
That earns him somequizzicallooks.“I’m dressed for the
occasion of duplicity,” hesays, demonstrating hisofficer’s uniform with anopen-handed gesture. “I’llfind away up and out. I’llcontact the Imperials atthe palace—I should beable to find the frequency,because, oh, that’s right, IwasanImperialwithhigh-
level clearance. And thenI’ll get them to open thedoorforus.”Jasfrowns.“Andhowdo
youplantodothat?”“That is the brilliant
part. I’ll tell them thetunnels are their one safewayoutofthepalace.”
Jawasstink.That’s something Adwin
Charu didn’t expect. Mostof this planet has that hotsand scent to it—like theinside of hismother’s clay
ovenbeforesheputdoughinto it. Like everything’sbaking. But soon as hestepped inside thissandcrawler, the odor hithim like a fist. A musky,animal smell. Andsuddenly he’s forced towonderifeachJawaisjusta fraternity of wet ratsgathering together underbrown robes and a blackfaceveil.
They hiss and jabber athim. And he tells themagain,likehe’sbeentellingthemforthelasthalfhour:“I don’twant any of this.This—” He sweeps hisarms in a broad gesture,indicating the dimly litheaps of junk all aroundhim. “—is allworthless tome and my company. Ineedtoseetherealgoods.”He enunciates words like
he’s speaking to someonehard of hearing. As if it’sdoing any good at all—these stubborn little stinkmonsters don’t seem tohear him, or understandhim, or maybe they justdon’t care. But he knowsthe stories: They sell thedross to the rubes, butevery sandcrawler has areal collection, too.Valuablegoods to those in
theknow.Adwin has a job here.
And it’s not to come backto his boss with anarmloadofmalfunctioninggarbage.The Jawas click and
whisper.“Ineeddroids,weapons,
miningtools.Iknow thesesandcrawlers are oldmining vehicles. You stole
them.Leastyoucoulddois—”From behind him,
someoneclearshisthroat.Adwinglancesback,sees
a man standing there.Angular fellow. Leatheryskin. Pinched eyes.Amusedsmile.“Ahoy there,” the man
says.“Uh-huh,” Adwin
answers. “Fine. If you’llexcuse me?” Irritated, headds: “I hope to be donehere soon, provided thesethingscomply.”“You’renot fromaround
here, are you?” the mansays, still grinning like heknowssomething.Hestepsin out of the bright desertsun,brushessomedustoffhis long jacket. “Not alocal.”
“No. How did youknow?”The man chuckles: a
rheumy, growly laugh.“You’re too clean, forstarters. Spend some timehere,yougetdustallupinyour fingernails and nosehairs. Sand in your boots.But theother thing is, yougotta know how to handlethe Jawas. These littlescavengers, they work on
rapport. You buysomethingnow,somethingsmall, thenyoucomebackand then you buy bigger.And eventually, after adozenorsovisits,youstarttoseewhattheyreallyhaveonoffer.Therealgoods.”Adwin scowls. He
doesn’t have the patiencefor this. “I don’t have theluxury of time. My bosswon’t allow it.” He sighs.
This is worthless, then. “Isuppose I’ll have to takemychancesin…what’sthattown?Behindus?”“Mos Pelgo,” the man
says.“Yes. Well. There or
Espa, I suppose.” Adwinsighs. He begins to pushpast the man. The manextendstheflatofhishand—he doesn’t touch Adwin,butdoesblockhiswayout.
“Now, hold on, friend. Ihappentohavetherapportyou need with these littlefellas. I’d be happy tovouchforyou.”Adwinnarrowshis eyes.
“Youwould?”“Surething.”“Andwhywould you do
that?” He squints harder,suspicion twisting his faceinto an uncertain sneer.
“What’stheprice?”The man laughs again.
“No price, no price. Justhospitality.”This planet: back-end
water-farming bumpkins.Fine. Adwin can use that.He’s comfortableexploiting the naïveté ofothers. “Yes. Yes. Thatwould be excellent. Thankyou—ahh?Yourname?”
“CobbVanth.”“MisterVanth—”“Cobb,please.”“Ah. Cobb. Shall we,
then?”The man steps forward,
scratching at his stubbledface. He starts talking tothe Jawas. They gabble athimintheirrat-tongueandhe says, “Uh-huh, no, Iknow, but I come bearing
credits and so does he.”Cobb turns to Adwin andgives a wink. The Jawaswhisperandbabble.“Okay,then.“Come on,” Cobb says,
and they follow a pair ofthelittlehoodedweirdostoanother door in the backnext to an upside-downgonk droid. The doorhisses open, then shutsagain behind them. Lights
clickon.Brighterherethanin the other room. Andsureenough:Thesearethegoods.A protocol droid. A pair
of astromechs. A rack ofweapons—Imperial-issue,by the looks of it. Againstthe far wall: a series ofpanelsfromwhatlookslikea Hutt sail barge, plus afewotherHutteseartifacts—some charred, others
twisted.Allofit,wreckage.“Perfect, perfect,
perfect,” Adwin says,clapping his hands. Heimmediately heads over toa shelf and starts lookingthrough bins, boxes, wirecrates.Cobbpokesaround,too, though Adwin mostlyloses track of him untilCobbsays:“You’re with that new
miningcompany.”
Adwin turns. “Hm? Oh.Yes.”“TheRedKeyCompany,
isn’tit?”“That’s the one. How’d
youknow?”“Ihaveawayof sussing
things out. I know thatthings are changing. Notjustinthegalaxy,buthereat home, too. The Huttsstill haven’t shaken out
who’s next up to fillJabba’s throne—if you cancall that flat slab of his athrone. Seems like thismight be a new day forTatooine.”“Yes, we certainly hope
so,” Adwin idly responds,mostly ignoring the man’ssmall-talk prattle. He’shappy Cobb got him inhere but now wishes theman would just leave him
alone.Adwinspiesalarge,long
boxonthefloor.Hewhipsoff the ratty cloth that’scoveringitand—Oh,my.From the box, he
withdrawsahelmet.Pittedand pocked, as if withsomekindofacid.Butstill—he raps his knuckles onit.TheMandaloriansknew
howtomakearmor,didn’tthey? “Look at this,” hesays, holding it up.“Mandalorian battlearmor. Whole box.Complete set, by the looksofit.Beenthroughhellandback. I thinkmy boss willappreciatethis.”“I actually think Imight
take that home with me,”Cobbsays.“I think not,” Adwin
says, turning around, thehelmet tucked under hisarm.Theblasterathishipsuddenly feels heavy,pendulous. Eager to bedrawn. A strangesensation, that. Adwinfeelslikehe’sreallygettinginto the spirit of thisplanet. He’s never had toshootamanbefore.Maybethatdayistoday.
An exhilarating feeling,
oddly.Cobb grins, crosses his
arms. “What are youthinking, company man?See, Icouldreallyuse thatarmor. I figure being anewly appointed lawman—”“Self-appointed,Ithink,”
Adwinsays.But Cobb doesn’t take
thebait. “Beinga lawman,
I could use someprotection against thosecorrupt types who mightthink to seize theopportunity here on myplanet. That armor ismine.”Adwin smirks. He takes
his thumb and pulls backhis tunic, revealing theblaster.“Cobb—”“SheriffVance,toyou.”
“Oh.” Adwin laughs.“Sheriff,I’dhatetohavetodrawthisblaster—”CobbVance’shandisup
in a flash—there’s theshriek from his ownblaster, and it punches acauterized hole cleanthrough Adwin’s shoulderonhisrightside.Hishandgoes limp, lifeless. Thehelmet clatters out of hisother hand. He backs
against the shelf, terror-struck.“You,youmonster…”Cobb shrugs. “Oh, now.
I’m nomonster. Noworsethan your boss, thatWeequay dung-muncher,Lorgan Movellan. I knowhis scam. I know all thescams.AfraidtheRepublicisbackandgonnaputtheirboot down on all thelowlifes and scum-lickers,
thesyndicatesaretryingtofind new ways to appearlegit. And with the Huttsfighting one another forcontrol, bunch of theselittle quote-unquotemining companies areswooping in with bruteslikeyourbossat thehelm.A new age of miningbarons.Won’tfly.I’mherenow. Me and others likeme. Bringing the law to
thislawlessplace.Andthatstarts with me shootingyou and taking that armoroutfromunderyou.”Adwin whimpers.
“Pleasedon’tkillme.”“Oh,I’mnot.I’mleaving
youalivesoyoucangotellyour boss that he’d bestpack up and hit thehyperspace lanes out ofthis sector, lest he wantsme coming for him in my
new—well,newtome—suitofarmor.”“I will,” Adwin says,
sinking to the floor. Hewatches Cobb pick up thebox of armor beforeheadingtothedoor.On his way out, Cobb
says: “Next time youwanna pretend to be agunfighter, best to shootfirst,talklater.Byenow.”
Whap.The rock crashes hard
against the stormtrooper’shelmet. The helmet spins
and visibility is lost. JomBarrel dances around tothefrontofthearmor-cladImperial and gives a hardkickupward—thetoeofhisboot catches thestormtrooper’s blasterhand. The hand snapsback.Theblasterleavesthegripandspiralsforward.Jom catches it and fires
three bolts into thestormtrooper’schest.
Thebodydropsatoptheotherthreetroopers.Jom’s one broken arm
stilldanglesathisside.Not bad for a birdwith
abustedwing,hethinks.Hestartstoclimbupthe
ladder that leadsup to theturbolaser ground-to-orbitturret, but as it turns out,climbing up the ladder isthehardestpart.Hehasto
lean into it. Take it slow.Haul himself up with onegood arm, thestormtrooper’sblasterrifleboltedontohisback.It’s a miserable
endeavor.Lots of grunts and
growls.It takeswhat seems like
a galactic epoch, butsomehow he manages to
get to the top andpop thehatch. He starts to climbinside—“Don’t move,” comes a
voice.A young Imperial
gunneryofficer inhis littleofficer’shatstandsthere.Asmall Imperial blasterpointed.Thathand shakesjustso.Jomsighs.Heclimbsall
thewaythrough—“Slowly!”as the Imperialwarnshim—andliftshisonehanduptoplacate.“Bothhands,”theofficer
says. He’s a fresh-facednobody. Cheeks likemarshmallows.Scaredeyeslikelivestockabouttomeetits maker. The kid standsin front of the gunneryconsole—throughtheglass,Jom can see the twin
turbolaser barrels aimedheavenward.“One’s broken,” Jom
says.“Isaid…bothhands.”Jom growls. Fragging
kid. He winces as he liftshisbrokenarm.White-hotpain arcs across bothshoulders. He bares histeeth and stares throughwatering, wincing eyes.
“There.”“Now…onyourknees.”“You’reyoung.”“Wh…what?”“Young. Like a baby
whilk calf—don’t know awhilk?Igrewuponafarm.Long-legged critters. Meattastesstringy,butthemilkis good, and their hidesmakeforfineleather.Theirbabies are clumsy,
fumbling things. Knock-kneed and dumb as a boxof retainer bolts. You’rejustababy.”“I am not,” the officer
insists, gesturing againwiththeblaster.“Uh-huh. Lemme guess
how it’s been. Your topofficers are mostly gonenow.Alotofthemwentupwith theDeathStaror theensuing battles. Some got
sold out by governors. Sonow the officer pool iseither guys like you whoare really young anduntested, or really old andare being brought back infrom the pasture becausetheygotnobodyelse.”“Iamnotuntested.”“Not anymore, you’re
not. Because I’m testingyou. Here’s my test: Youcanrunoryoucandie.I’d
not fault you for running.You wouldn’t be the firstImperial to abandon hispost. Some of you arefinallyfiguringoutyoulostthe war and you’re justclinging to debris. It’sokay.Youcango,andtheywon’t ever find you.” Jomsteps sideways, circling abitclosertotheofficerandthe gunnery consolebehindhim.“Goahead.”
“I…”“Nojudgmenthere,pal.”The officer lowers the
gun, takes one ginger stepforward. Like someoneeasingacrossthesurfaceofa frozen lake, movingslowly lest thewhole thingcrack and shatter anddump them into thehoarfrostdepths.Jom thinks: Well, that
wentbetterthanexpected.But then a look crosses
the young officer’s face—another flash of fear, butthis time it’s different. Agreater fear. A fear of hisown people and whatthey’lldotohimifheruns.The officer makes a
decision in that moment.He raises theblasteranew—but by the time it’s up,Jom is already charging
forward like a bull. Heslams into the Imperial,liftingbothofthemofftheground and slamming theyoungofficerbackontotheconsole. The young officergoesstill,androllsoffontothe ground. He curls up,moaning.Jom takes the blaster
pistol, picks up the kid,and shoves him in afootlocker trunk toward
theback.“Shouldamadeadifferent choice, kid,” Jomsays, then slams the trunkdown. Inside, the officeryellsandweeps.Jom winces and sits at
theconsole.He pulls up radar—one
ship.Incoming.He taps on it, and data
cascades across a trio of
screens in front of him—it’s a yacht. A Ryuni-Tantine Vita-Liner. Fancyship, if a little old, for therichestinthegalaxy—whatJom and his friends usedto call the “upper-atmos,”because on his world,Juntar, the richest of therich used to live up in thesky in these floatingmansionswhile the rest ofthe world toiled on the
farmsandinthedirt-citiesbelow. The yacht is froman older day—Clone Warsera.Adayofgreaterpompandcircumstance.It’s got a trajectory
towardthepalace.He checks its signature,
because somehow, it’smade it through theblockade—and sureenough, the code thatflasheschecksout:
It’s an Imperial code.Which makes that anImperialship.Jom chuckles and spins
up the cannons. He pullsout the manual controlsandtilts the twobarrelsofthe massive turret towardtheyacht—theshipcomingin lowand slowout of theclouds,itssidegleaminginthe sun like a sheen ofliquid light.Jomgrinsand
winks. “Bye-bye, littleship.”He pulls the twin
triggers.Nothinghappens.Pull, pull, pull. Click,
click,click.Nothing.“Fraggit!” he bellows.
Slamming the officer intothe console must havedamaged…something.
He watches the yachtease toward the palace.Safe as a star-whale in anempty ocean. No, no, no.He has to fix this thing.And he has to fix it now.Because he’s taking outthat ship, one way oranother.
The very simple plan isthis:They find their way to
the entrance into the
satrap’spalace.It’sobviousenough: It’s not sealedwith some inelegantcrumbleofrockandstone,but rather with the finestbrick. Blood-red bricksembedded with flecks oflucryte—a semipreciousstone that glitters andflashes when light touchesit.Uponthebrickisasigninornatescript:SEALEDBYTHE AUTHORITY OF THE
SATRAPYOFMYRRA,AKIVA.Then, they move down
the hall, just around thebend.Andtheretheywait.The officers will come
past.Likelywithahandfulof stormtroopers orpalaceguards in tow. And oncepast, they will have asurprisewaiting.Norra’s not sure about
this. She hunkers downbehind a pile of mossyrubble and leans backtoward Jas. “You’re surethiswillwork?”“No,” Jas says. “I’m
never sure. But this is ourbestbet.”“We won’t be able to
takethemall.”“Amongthefourofus,I
trust in our abilities.
Particularly with my skillsand the droid’sprogramming, we will bejustfine.”ToTemmin,Norra says:
“Areyouokay?”He nods. But he’s not
okay. She can see that.Something is botheringhim. He tries wearing aconfident,evencockymask—givingherthatwrysmileof his. But it’s false. She’s
his mother, so she knows.Somethingiseatingathim—chewinghimupfromtheinsideout.He’safraid,maybe.But is that all? He’s
usually so fearless. Thisfeelslikesomethingelse.Notimetofindoutnow.Shehearssomething.To
her son and the bountyhunter, she raises a finger
to her lips and thenmouthsthewords:They’recoming.Moments pass. And as
they do, confusion andthenhorrorsettleintoher,becausewhatshe’shearingisn’t from the direction ofthesealedportal. It’s fromthe other direction. It’scomingfrombehindthem.A faint shudder to the
ground.Footsteps.Coming
closerandcloser.“TheUugteen,”Jassays,
and jacks a slug into herrifle.“No,” Norra says. “I
know that sound.” It’s notthemadscrambleof thosewretched things—theUugteen swarmed withscrape of metal andmachine wails. This is ameasured step.The clatterof armor, not of
repurposed droid limbs.“Stormtroopers!” Norrasays.And down the long,
cragged passage behindthem, she sees the firstflashofwhitearmor.Aredlaserboltpuncturestheairjust above their heads—aspray of stone and debris.Norra fires back, and thensuddenly the air ispeppered with streaks of
light. “Fall back!” Norrasays.They have only one
fallbackposition.Back toward the sealed
gateway into the palace: adeadend.Butwhat choicedo they
have? They pull backaround the corner, and asthey do, she tries to get aquick count of what’s
coming—a dozen or morestormtroopers. A toughfight, but maybe doable.Maybe.Theyroundthecorner—Just as the gateway
detonates. Crimson bricksclatter against the wall asthe explosion eradicatesthebarrier.Throughthedarkhazeof
smoke and dust, more
flashesofwhite.Stormtroopers pouring
infromthatend,too.Nowthey’re trapped on bothsides, caught like a ratbetweentwocats—It hits her, then. A
sinking feeling as sherealizes:Sinjirsoldthemout.They’re caught at the
corner, hunkering down
next to one another, sheand Temmin firing in onedirection, Jas and thedroid—Bones with ablasterinhisclawlikegrip,too—firingintheother.Avoicecutsthroughthe
hellstorm—“Put your weapons
down.”Awoman’svoice.The lookonJas’s face is
a lightning strike of sheer
rage—a mask of fury andmurderous determination.“Eatslugs!”shebarks,andraises her long-barreledrifle again.ButNorraputsa hand on her shoulder.Jas looks—a confusingstare. Pleading in its ownway. Let me kill them, itsays.But Norra shakes her
head and drops herweapon.
“Norra,”Jassays.“You can’t claim that
bountyifyou’redead,”sheanswers.“I’m so sorry,” Temmin
says.The woman’s voice calls
out again: “Weaponsdown. Stand up with yourhandsup.Moveslowly.”Jas curses in a tongue
Norra doesn’t know, then
lays her rifle down.Temmin’s blaster isalready down and he tellsBonestodothesame.Theystand,handsup.Stormtroopers emerge
through the haze. A dozenon each side of them. Toomany to take, evenwith askilled bounty hunter andpsychopathic battle droidon their side. Norra’sinsidestwistup.
Through thestormtroopers on thepalace side, a woman—theonewhocommandedthemtolaydowntheirweapons,it seems—walks throughhersoldiersandtowardthefore.Herhandsareclaspedbehind her back. Thewoman has dark eyes andskin,andherfaceispursedintoadissectingstare.Herbackhasanarchtoit,and
her posture is one ofauthorityandconfidence.An admiral, by the bars
acrossherchest.“I’m Admiral Rae
Sloane,” the woman says.“You are under arrest forconspiring against theGalactic Empire, longmayitreign.”Jas curses again in an
unknowntongue:“A-keea’
tolo, fah-roo kah.” Thenshespitsontheground.“You’ll never get away
with this,” Norra says.“The end of the Empire ishere.The comet is comingthatwill smash the rest ofyourruletodust.”“Yes, well. The comet
has not struck us yet,NorraWexley.Come.Forashort—very short—while,youget tobeguestsof the
satrapyofAkiva.”
—
Jom liesdownunderneaththe console. Wires danglein his face like the face-tentacles of a Quarrendentist. He ties off onewire, then pairs anothertwotogether.Itsparksandhe curses. He fightsdesperately to bypass the
trigger mechanism—whichmustbebroken—andallowfiringcontroltorouterightto the console itself. Heignores thepinprickburnsonhisfaceandtriesathirdwire—Above him, he hears a
hum. The console is backon.Thatdidit.Yes!Hebitestheinsideofhis
cheek to distract from thepain as he hauls himselfback to standing, then heagain aims the cannons—now the yacht has landedatthepalace.Well,no,notexactly—it can’t land, notnow.The landing ring is amess. Even from here hecan see that the wholething leans at a bad angleand looks as fragile as ahouse of pazaak cards. So
the yacht hovers, burningfuel and staying aloft justnearby.Itgiveshimaclearshot.He takes it. Jom finds
the button to which hererouted the firingmechanism—abuttononceusedjust toturnthe lightsonandoffinsidetheturret—and smashes it with histhumb.
Nothinghappens.He roars in frustration
andpressesitagain.The console lights up
bright,thentoobright,andthen sparks crackle out ofthe sides and seams andthen the whole thing goesdark.
—
Norra is forced to her
knees on the palace floor.A beautiful floor: acerulean blue like she’snever seen before shotthrough with veins ofcopper and bronze. It hasthe look of seawatercatchingsunlight,andpartofherwantstostaredownat it forever and ever,pretending that none ofthis ishappening.But it ishappening. Sinjir has sold
them out. They arecaptives.Theirmissionhasfailed and they will beimprisonedorexecuted.Despiteherbestdesires,
Norraisn’tthetypetoturnaway from what’s coming,nomatterhowterrible.She lifts her chin and
meetsit,scowling.Next to her, Temmin
and Jas kneel, too. The
droid remains standing,warily pivoting his headaround,lookingatallthosewhosurroundthem—everytime his skull turns on itsaxis, she hears its littleservomotorswhine.She thinks:The droid is
scattered. Upset.Unpredictable.Shewhisperstoherson:
“Controlyourdroid.”
But Temmin just looksashen.Hesaysnothing.The admiral paces
alongside them.At the topof a set of grand stepsstand others of import:Norraseesatall, fox-facedman in a dark moff’suniform and a smaller,olderwoman.Thatmustbethe general: Jylia Shale.Behind them, a round-bellied,rubicundmanwith
awispybeardandanotherindividual in a tall,pompoushat.Thatonehasastrangelybeatificsmile.Rae gives a nod to
someone.Throughthecrowd,they
bringSinjir.His eye is swollen shut.
His nose, plugged withblood, and the bridge of itlooksscabbedover,maybe
evenbroken.Sinjir’shandsareboundbehindhisback.They shove him forwardand he lands hard againsthisshoulderwithanoof.“Sinjir,” Norra says. “I
don’tunderstand.”Stormtroopers approach
withmagnacuffs.“LET ME FREE,
MASTER TEMMIN,”Bones says, his astromech
armstartingaslowwhir.Temmin,inasmallvoice
says:“No,Bones.No.”A trooper grabs roughly
for Norra’s arms, yankingthemback. The cuffs snaparound her wrist. Theygrab for Jas, too, and shefights a little—yanking hershoulders away andgrowling like a feral beast—but that small act ofdefiance isn’t enough. The
shackles hum and snaparoundherwrists.Temmin, though: He
standsup.“Temmin,” Norra says.
“Son,thisisn’tthetime.”But he ignores her and
steps forward. Strangerstill,nobodystopshim.“Let me go,” he says.
“Me, my mother, and thedroid.”
Jas says, “Oh, no.Temmin,no.”The sound in her voice:
disappointment. Norradoesn’t get it at first, butthenTemminsays:“That’sthedeal.Honorthedeal.”Rae holds up a small
holoscreen. She taps abutton and a projectionemits. There stands aflickeringbluehologramofa Sullustan with one eye.
She knows who that is.ThatisSuratNuat.“Your deal was with
him,”Sloane says, and theSullustansmiles.The projection of Surat
speaks: “Regrettably, boy,theEmpire has negotiatedtheir own deal. And theyhavechangedtheirterms.”“No!” Temmin says.
“You said we could go
free.”“Temmin,” Norra says,
andshehearstheterrorinher voice. This can’t betrue.Hecouldn’thave.Hewouldn’t…“Temmin, whatisgoingon?”Heshootsheralook:sad
andpanicked.“I’msorry.”From the floor, Sinjir
groans.“Hesoldusout.”“I wanted to stay here,”
Temmin says. “I didn’twant to leave. This is myhome! I had to give Suratsomething or he’d kill us.Mom,please.”Then to theadmiral: “No! This wasn’twhatwesaid.Thedealwasforme,mymom,mydroid—weallgettogo.”“Youmay go,”Rae says.
“Theothersremain.Unlessyou’d like to stay behind,as well? I’m flexible on
how tight we tie thisnoose.”Suratchuckles.Jas looksat theboyand
says, “You’d make a goodbountyhunter,kid.”“He’d make an even
better Imperial,” Sinjirsays.Temmin, rattled now
beyond measure, wheelsonhis droid. “Bones! Save
us!”Andthedroiduttersamechanized war whoopandleapsup—The battle droid never
hadachance.Laserfire cuts the metal
man down in midair. TheB1droidscreamsandlandshard on his ground, sohard he shatters the blue-and-bronzetile.Hislegsgooutfromunderhimandheslams onto his side as
Temmin races to him.Stormtroopers shove theboy out of the way andthenholdhimback.Norratries to get to her feet buttheyholdherthere.She watches with
inevitability as Sloanestepsovertothedroid.Shedrawsherblasterandfiresroundafter round into themachine’shead.After the sixth shot, it
pops off and spins away,smoking.The droid’s limbs go
still, clunking to theground.Temminweeps.“As was our deal, you
maygo,”Sloanesaystotheboy. To the stormtroopersholding him, “Escort himoutofthepalace.Bywayoftheroof,ifyouplease.”
No!Norra launches herself
upandstartstoruntowardTemmin.A flash of white behind
herasastormtrooperstepsin and clubs her in theback with the butt of hisblasterrifle.Shegoesdownamid broken droid parts.Sinjir lies nearby—shecries out as they carryTemmin away, the boy
kickingandscreamingandcallingforhismother.
WhathaveIdone?Thatthoughtrunsonan
endless loop insideTemmin’s head. Guilt cuts
through him like thevibroblade at the end ofMister Bones’s arm—thememory of the droid’sdestruction joinshisguiltythought. That, his mothercryingforhim,thelookonthefacesofJasandSinjir…At the time, it seemed
like the right move. Heknew he never wanted toleave Myrra, but thatmeant making peace with
Surat or finding his owntonguecutoutofhishead.SohewentandmadeacalltoSurat—andtheSullustangangster took the deal.Temminexcuseditthattheex-Imperialandthebountyhunterwoulddothesame.They’dsellhisskinsoonassomeone offered enoughcredits—hesaidtohimself,They don’t have anyscruples.Theydon’thavea
code.But it turns out he was
theonewithoutscruples.Temmin is the one
withoutacode.He hoped against hope
that it would all fall apartandhewouldn’thavetogothrough with it—that itwould all work itself outand the snare he’d tiedaround his own stupid leg
wouldjust…untieitself,theknots going loose as thewhole situation resolveditself without his plancomingtofruition,butnowhere he is—dragged upsteps by a pair ofstormtroopers. His heelskicking against the hardstairs, his hand trying tocatch ahold of something,anything—a railing, a lightfixture,adoorhandle.
Ahead,anotherstaircase—Temmin darts his hand
out, catches the lip of asmallfountainpressedintothe wall. He curls hisfingers around the stoneand pulls himself free.Bothstormtrooperscryoutin alarm and come afterhim.He stabs out a kick,
catchesoneinthechest.
The stormtrooperoofs—butcaptureshisfoot.Thenthe Imperial pistons a fistinto Temmin’s stomach.Theairgoesoutofhim.Anache runs through him—downhislegs,uphisarms.Again they pick himup.
Carrying him up thesecond set of steps andthrough a set of red doors—out onto the roof.Temmin coughs, blinking
back tears. He hears itnow: the sound ofchanting. Yelling. Thecrowd.“No, no, please,” he
pleads with them as theyhaulhimtowardtheroof’sedge. The twostormtroopers liftTemminover their heads. He cansee the crowd now.Massive.They’restreamingin from all directions.
Signs. Effigies. Rocks,bricks, bottles thrown.Akivans. Protesting thesatrapy. Protesting theEmpire.Temminmissedit.He thought everyone justwantedtokeeptheirheadsdown.Likehim.I’monthewrongsideofthisthing.Mom,I’msosorry.“Time to join your
friends,” one of thestormtroopers says. He
doesn’t even know whichone. All he knows is hescreams as they pitch himover the edge of the roof.Temminfalls.
—
Theyachtfloatsintheheathaze above the satrap’spalace.Its frontendhangsforwardlikeafalcon’sbeakdipped in bronze; black
windows between bonypipes of red and gold; twowingsthatangledownandlift upward at the end,appearinglikethehandsofa plaintive, supplicantmonk. The yacht drifts sothatitfacesitssidetowardthepalace, getting close tothecorneroftherooftopasits gangplank extends outhorizontally,droppingonlyat the last minute toward
therooftoformaramp.From the street, a few
rocks fruitlessly pelt theundersideoftheship.Stormtroopers move to
the edge and fire theirblasters downindiscriminately into thecrowd.Norra thinks: You only
dig the Empire’s gravewith actions like that.
Becauseeveryonesees.TheEmpire is a thug, a bully.It’s no better than SuratNuat, orBlack Sun, or thesyndicate of Hutts. TheEmpirepretends it’saboutlaw and order, but at theend of the day, it’s aboutdressing up oppression inthecostumeofjustice.The admiral must
understand it, too. Shecatches up to the
stormtroopers and pullsthem back, rebuking themloudly.Ahead of Norra, the
other esteemed guests ofthe Empire—their targets,the ones they hoped andfailed to stop—board theship. The fox-faced man,theoneshebelievesisMoffPandion, gives them adismissive look. As ifthey’re greasy swamp clay
stuck to the underside ofhisboot.Amessthatmustbe scraped off and flungaway.Then he, too, ascends
theramp.Norra looks to Jas and
Sinjir. Both of themstanding there, handsbound behind their back.Each hedged in bystormtroopers so thatthere’s no way to run and
nowheretogoiftheydid.Then the door opens
again, and Norra finallysees:It’sCaptainAntilles.Her
heart breaks. His injurieshavehimintheirgrip.Hishair is spackled to hisforehead with sweat. Hispallor is the color offireplace ash. He’sstrapped down to ahovering table ushered
forward by a pair ofstormtroopers and a 2-1Bmedicaldroid.As he passes, his eyes
flutter open and he seesher.“Pilot,”hesays.“Captain,”sheresponds.He gives her a weak
smile as they push himontotheyacht.Norra looks to Sinjir.
“What’sgoingtohappento
us?”“Well.” The ex-Imperial
sighs. “I will probablystand trial. Jas willprobablydie.You,Icannotsay. Prison. Execution.Perhaps you’ll join yourrebel friendandbepartofapeacesettlement.”“I’m sorry about all of
this.”“Not your fault,” Jas
says.“Hewas her son,” Sinjir
notes,staringatthemwithhisonegoodeye.Theotherremainsswollenshut.“Herblood in his veins. I canreserve a little bit ofjudgment for her. I thinkI’veearnedthatluxury.”Jasstarts toprotest,but
Norra interrupts: “He’sright. You can lay theblame at my feet. I just
hope,despiteitall,mysonisokay.”Sinjir smirks. “Norra, I
don’t think any of us isokay.”“Norra, Temmin is a
survivor,” Jas says. “Hehas what it takes. Ifanybodywillmakeitoutofthisalive,itwillbehim.”
—
Temminisdead.He’ssureof it.Hecould
not have survived. Andnow, this feeling, thisstrange and impossiblefeeling—he’s floating.Drifting across what feelslike the calm waters ofFarsigo Bay in the south.He and his mother andfather used to go theresometimes on vacation.There they’d fish or sail
spray-boats or try to scareupsomeofthosegleamingkorlappii shells—the onesthat caught the sun justright and gave off arainbowoflight.He doesn’t hear the
water.Orsmellitsbrine.And Temmin doesn’t
muchbelieveinanafterlifeanyway.Theboyopenshiseyes.
He is floating. Buoyed.Carriedonthehandsofthecrowd.They caught him.By all
the stars and all thesatellites, they caughtme.He laughs: a mad cacklethatsoundsnotunlikethatofhiscrazydroid.Thenhe remembers:his
mother. And Jas. AndSinjir.
He doesn’t have muchtime.He lifts his head and
rollsoffthecarpetofhandsthat’s been carrying him,andhedropsdownintothecrowd itself. For amoment, he’s lost—it’shard togethisbearings inthis sea of people. Thethrong overwhelms. Butthenhe spinsandsees themassivepalacewallsrising
up.I have to get back up
there.Hestartstopushhisway
throughthecrowd.Rockspelt thewallsand
rebound. He sees peopletrying to climb up—aRodianscales thewallanddangles from a balcony. Apairofhumans try tohelpeach other up. And
Temmin thinks:That’smyway.He hasn’t played with
his friends in a while.Hasn’t been the street raturchinforafewyearsnow.But he still knows how toshimmyupadrainpipe,orclamber up a wire-meshgrate, or find handholdswhere none seem to exist.He doesn’t have time tofigureoutthebestwayup.
Instead, all he can do isclimbwiththeothers.
—
As they load the finalpassengers—the prisonerstaken from the catacombsbeneath the palace—thesatrap catches up anddropstohisknees.“Please,please, please. You musttake me with you. I am
besieged! They areclimbing the walls likemonkey-lizards. They willtearmeasunder.”Sloaneputsherhandon
his shoulder. “You’vedonetheEmpireagreatservice,SatrapIsstra.”The smile on his face
spreads like butter. Hebelieves he is being saved.His chest rises and sinkswith relief. “Thank you.
Thank you, Admiral. Youaretookind.”“But we no longer
requireyouraid.”“Wh…what?”
Bewilderment crosses hisface. He doesn’t know ifhe’s being punished,rewarded, put out topasture, or what. “I don’t—”She gives a nod. Two
stormtroopers grab Isstraanddraghimback towardthedoorway.Hekicksandyellslikeapetulantchild.“Youcannotdothis!”he
cries, froth forming at thecorners of his mouth likeso much flotsam. “I havebeengood toyou!Guards!Guards!”Two of his palace
guardsmen come rushingthroughthedoor.
Theyarecutdownbythestormtroopers’ blasterrifles. Dead before theyeven had the chance toprotect their erstwhileleader.The satrap bleats like a
throat-cut stock animal.The troopers toss him tothe ground and he crawlsbetween the corpses of hisguards,weeping.Sloane steps aboard the
yacht.
—
Thecrowdroars.Temmin’sfingers barely hold on,crammedintoatightcrackrunningupthepalacewall.His muscles ache. Hehasn’t done this for awhile.Heliftshimselfup—Justasthecrowdsurges.
They pull back from the
walls. Someone lobssomething against thepalacedoors.Whatwasthat—The building rocks. A
thermal detonator blastbuckles the doors. Thefingers on Temmin’s lefthand slip out of theirmooring—He dangles, one arm
straining, his feet
scrambling to find anykind of ledge to bolsterhimself.The crowd surges again.
They swarm against theinjured door. Pushing in.Some four-armed Besaliskcomes bounding throughthe mob with a massiveforgehammer,andchargesthedoor.No time toworryabout
that.
Temmin screamsthrough clamped teeth ashe reaches up and regainshis handhold. The boycontinueshisascent.
—
Mornasits in thecaptain’schair of the yacht. Raeenters, sits next to her.“Cushy,”shetellsthepilot.Morna nods. “No
kidding, Admiral.Everything gleams. Andthesechairs…IfeellikeI’mstillsinkingintothem.”“Don’tgetusedtothem.
ComfortisnotanImperialpriority.” At that, Raeoffers a faint smile. “Anyproblems with Crassus’spilot?”“He fought me, but I
made him recognize theEmpire’s authority and I
assuredhimhewould stillbepaidforhistime.”“He’s locked up, isn’t
he?”“Inoneofthebedrooms,
yes.”Adea, too, is in one of
the bedrooms. Raeexhorted her assistant togoliedown,forstars’sake:The woman has beenimpeccable inheraid, and
braveinherdefenseoftheEmpire. Rae told her torestup.Sheputherinoneof the cabins next toCaptain Antilles and hisguard.“Excellent.Areweready
to depart this execrableplanet?”“Weare,Admiral.AndI
justgotthereportthattheStar Destroyers havereturned to orbit from
hyperspace. We havecoverage from theVigilance, the Vanquish,andtheAscent.”“Then let’s bid farewell
to this sweat-slick steambath.”Mornanods.Shepowers
theenginesup.The yacht begins to
move.
—
Theyachtbeginstomove.Temmin scrambles over
theedgeof thepalaceroofand sees the gangplankpullingbackand theyachteasingawayfromtheedge.I’mtoolate.He looks around, eyes
dartingquickly.There.The satrap. Blubbering
between the bodies of two
of his own guard retinue.Their vibro-pikes lie off totheside.This is stupid, Temmin
thinks, hurrying over andkickingoneofthepikesupinto his hands.This is theworstidea,hethinksasheturns and runs full-tilttoward the edge of theroof.Iama laser-brainedmoon-calfwho isgoing todie,hedecidesasheplants
the tip of the pike downhard anduses it to launchhimselfoffthepalaceroof.I’mdead.Ican’tmakethis.I have made a huge
mistake.The pike is out of his
hands. Temmin’s armspinwheel throughopenairastheyachtdrifts.Thesideoftheshipcomesupfast—
Heslamsintoit.Wham.His hands reach for a
hold. But they don’t findone.Hehears thepatheticsqueak as he paws at themetalandstartstofall.Butthen—Hestopsfalling.His hand catches one of
the decorated pipesoutlining one of thewindows.Temminclutches
it tight, and brings hisother hand up and pullshimself up. There’s amoment of triumph—aflutter in his chest as hethinks,Imade it! I totallymadeit!Andthentheyachtstarts
toliftupandherealizes:Why did I do this? I’m
goingtodie!The ground beneath
starts to shrink as theyachtascends.
—
Soclose,Raethinks,easingback into the copilot’schair.Almostthere.Thisentiretriphasbeen
a failure. She realizes thatnow.But failurecannotbetheendofit.Failurehastobe illuminating: an
instructionmanualwrittenin scar tissue.What, then,are the lessons of this?Whathasbeenlearnedandwhatcanbebuilt fromthewreckage?One: Consensuswill not
beeasy.Anditmayinfactbe difficult enough that itisnotworthpursuing.Two: The Empire is
fractured. That is not newinformation, but it has
been clarified here. And anewdimension is revealedto her, as a result: Manyinside the Empire do notwant to heal thosefractures but rather, wanttousethedivisionfortheirowndesigns.Three: If the Empire is
to survive, then theymust—A red blip on Morna’s
screen.Thepilotfrowns.
“Whatisit?”Raeasks.“Could be a bird,” the
pilotsays.“Though,ifitis,it’s a very big bird.” Sheshakes her head andclarifies: “Something’s onthehull.”Raenods.“I’llsendsome
mentolookintoit.”
—
Sinjir kneels next to the
others. His face feels likepounded dough. Therethey wait in this opulentroom toward the back ofthe yacht, kneeling likeslaves in a plush room ofcouchesandtables.Thefatbanker,Crassus,sitsinthecorner, smoking spice outofalongobsidianpipe.Hisslave women in theirbeastly masks buff andtrimthenailsofhisplump,
desiccated feet, cutting thecallusesoffhisawfultoes.On the one side of
Crassus sits Jylia Shale. Ageneral.Sinjirknowsher—or, rather, knows of her.Dependingonwhoyoutalkto inside theEmpire, she’seitheralegendoratraitor.A conqueror or a cur. Shehas a pair of red-cloakedImperial Guardsmen withher.
On the other side ofCrassus: the purple-robedadviser. Sinjir doesn’trememberthatone’sname,though he’s fairly sure Jastold him. One ofPalpatine’s inner circle,most likely. An acolyte ofthe Sith side of the Force,though certainly not aproper practitioner of it.Essentially,acultist.AcrossfromSinjir:
Pandion sits, stock-straight.Staringatthem.No. Staring at him, at
Sinjir.“I know I’mhandsome,”
Sinjir says—anunintentional growl in theback of his throat as hespeaks. A rattle frominjury,notrage.Pandion only chuckles—
it looks like he’s about tosay something, but then asmall contingent ofstormtroopers hurriespast, toward themiddleofthe ship. They lookalarmed.Pandiontriesnottoflinch,butithappens.Sinjir sayswitha smirk:
“Something’s wrong, isn’tit?”“Stillyourlips,traitor,or
I’llcutthemoff.”
—
Gonna die, gonna die,gonna die. Temmin holdson with every ounce ofwillpower he can. Alreadywispsofcloudsarepassingby.Theairgrowscold.Theshipstartstoshudderwithturbulence. He starts tothink:Maybe I can crawldownunderneaththeship.Usemymultitool topopa
maintenance hatch, climbinto the belly of the shipand—The window above him
popsopenwithahiss.A stormtrooper’s head
pokesout.“Hey!”That’s as good an
invitation as Temmin’sgoingtoget.Hereachesup,hookshis
hand behind thestormtrooper’shelmet,andyanks the Imperial soldierout through the openspace.The trooper’s scream is
loudatfirst,andthenfadesashefalls.Temmin crawls up
insidetheopenwindow.He belly-flops to the
floor, panting. He shakes
the blood flow back intohisarms.He’sinahallwayfullofdoors.Cabinsfortheyacht.He standsup,dustshimself off.Then someonetapshimontheshoulder.Uh-oh.He turns. There stand
two more stormtroopers,riflesup.Andbehindthemcomea
pair of red-helmeted
Imperial Guards. Theircloaks sweeping the floorbehindthem.“Hey, guys,” Temmin
says, giving a fake laugh.“Is this not the twelvethirty space-bus to theOrdwallianClusterCasino?No?Ooh.Awkward!”Heturnsandruns.
—
“Fragging frag it!” JomBarell snarls, his face red.Nothing he’s done hasmade this thingwork, andnow his target is fleeingtowardorbit.He stands for a few
moments.Chestrisingandfalling.Calm down, he tells
himself.Think.Buthedoesn’tthinkand
hedoesn’tcalmdown.He roars in rage and
brings his good fist downon the console again andagain, because whateverchance he had has beensquandered, and the effortundertaken to capture thisturret in the first placedidn’t do a damn thing tohelptheNewRepublicand—With the last hit, the
console suddenly glowsbright.“Whatthe…”Outside thewindow, the
twin cannons adjust,trackingthetarget.Thewhole turret shakes
as it fires, filling thecockpit with the bright,demoniclightofturbolaserblasts.
—
It’s going well. Too well.Sloane feels the twist ofdread in her gut, and thattwist only tightens whenMornaturnsandsayswithafrown:“We have a problem,
Admiral.”Ofcoursewedo.“Whatisit,pilot?”“A rebel fleet. Coming
intospaceaboveAkiva.”
Perfectly atrocioustiming.“Howbig?”“Big enough to be a
problem.”“Let’s just get us to the
Vigilance safe, Morna.Thenwecan—”Again, the pilot’s screen
startsflashing.“Whatnow?”Raesnaps.Morna’s eyes light up
with panic and confusion.“One of our turrets. Fromthe ground. It’s trackingus.It’saboutto—”The ship rocks and
shudders.Rae’sheadsnapsback and she tumbles outof her chair. Everythinggoesdark.
—
Lasersscorchtheairabove
Temmin’s head—he runs,ducks, and dives onto hisbelly to avoid gettingcooked. He rolls over andputs his hands up tosurrender—He can see they’re not
goingtolethim.The stormtroopers raise
theriflesagain.And the wall next to
themsuddenlydisappears.
Theshipjoltshardtotherightasabrightflashtearsthrough it, ripping it openfrom underneath. Takingthewall,thefloor,and theImperialsaway—what’sleftof them spirals away outtheopenhole.Windkeenslike a mournful beast.Temmin feels it start topull at him as the wholehallway depressurizes: Hegrabs out with a hand as
the yacht starts to dip,catching one of the cabindoor handles. Fixturesstartpoppingoffthewalls,vacuumed out into theswirling clouds. At bothends of the hall, pressuredoorsstarttoclose,sealingoff the middle portion oftheyacht.Temmin kicks open the
cabin door, pulling awayfrom the hungry winds
tryingtosuckhimoutintothe void. He throwshimselfinside.
—
Emergency klaxons blare.The panel dash on theshuttleislitupinanarrayof panicked flashes. Raehaulsherselfback into thechair. Morna never lefthers. Her arms are
extendedoutward,andthetendons in her neck standtautlikebridgecables.Shefights to keep the yachtaloft—it starts to dip butshe pulls back and sheagainliftsitsnose.“Status!” Sloane
demands.“Kinda busy, Admiral,”
Morna hisses through herteeth.
Rae wants to chastiseher, but the pilot is right.She instead pulls up thescreen, sees the damagewas straight to themiddleunderside of the yacht.Near to where the first-floor cabins are. Bothhalves of the ship aresealing off with pressuredoors,whichmeansthey’renot dead yet and nobodyhastoabandonship.Butit
does mean that the fronthalfof theyacht—inwhichRae sits right now—isseparate and in factinaccessible to the backhalf.Andthemiddleoftheshipisano-being’s-land.The ship bounces and
judders like it’s about tocome apart.Mornawarns:“The atmosphere is roughup here. Could tear usapart. Almost to orbit.
Almostthere.”“Keep it together,” Rae
demands.If anybody can do this:
Mornacan.
—
Thelightsbuzzandflicker.They go fromdarkness, tored emergency lighting,back to full lights—thenback to darkness once
more.Jas doesn’t know what
happened,butbestguessisthat they took a hit. Fromwhere, she cannot say.She’ssurprisedthey’restillaloft. Good thing this is apretty big ship, but evenstill, they’re all lucky thatthe whole thing didn’t getsheared in half with bothpieces plunging toplanetside.
Panic has filled theImperial ranks now.Murmuring and fritteringabout. Crassus whiningabout his yacht. Theadviser, Yupe Tashu,praying in some hereticaltongue to beseechwhatever Dark Force hecalls upon in times ofcrisis. Shale simply leansforward,headbetweenherlegs. Like she might be
sick. She’s a general—usedto, in part, being on theground. Or in a cloisteredwar room somewhere.She’s not a soldier, or atleasthasn’tbeenforyears.Jas,forherpart,justsits
still.Like Pandion, who
seems to have a real hatefor Sinjir. It’s there in theway he stares at the otherman.Blackeyeslikeapair
of blaster barrels ready tofire.A stormtrooper enters.
“We’re cut off from thefront of the ship. Pressuredoorshavesealedusoff.”Pandion, without
turning his gaze fromSinjir, picks up hiscommunicator and speaksinto it: “Admiral Sloane,areyouthere?”
His comm crackles. Hervoice emerges: broken,staticky,butthere.“Moff Pandion. We’re
presentlyoccupied.”“Should we expect to
die? This ship has escapepods,doesitnot?”Sloane’s voice returns:
“We’re safe. Almost inorbit.Patience.”Jas doesn’t knowwhat’s
goingon.But chaos has sunk its
teethintothesituation.Andinchaos,therelurks
opportunity.
“They’re coming in!”Borgin Kaa cries to hisyoung girlfriend: thedancer Linara. She giveshim a look of panic as hegestures toward the front
doorofhisluxurydomicilewhere a line of sparks isdrawing its way up theouter edge of themagnalocked portal. Thesparks burn bright andease upward with thespeed and perfection of aconfident,practicedhand.The older man fumbles
aroundthefoyertableandfinds a ceramic vase fromthe Vinzor Legacy. It’s an
artifact many millenniaold,datingbacktotheOldRepublic. Or so he’s told.All he cares—or cared—about is that it’s worthsomething. The way it’sshot through with bluelacite. Like gleamingcerulean spiderwebs.Blazingblue.Hehatestodoit,buthe
palmsthevase.It’saweapon,hethinks.
Not an ancient, valuableartifact.His heart hammers in
hischest.Did he take his tincture
thismorning?Didheforget?Ishegoingtodie?No! I’ve lived this long.
I’m on the list. Cloud Cityhas become quite thedestinationtoprocurerare
implants: new oculars,custom-tailored hands,whole new organ systemsfor whatever human oralien can pay. He needs anew heart. He was on thelist—still is, he hopes. Butthen the rebel villains hadtomuckeverythingupandtheEmpiresteppedinandtook over this sector andnowall those implantsareonhold.
The Imperials will fixthis. The Emperor hasassured the galaxy ofpeace.The embers dance
around the final curve ofthedoor,thendowntothefloor.The portal hisses and
slidesopen.Through the smoke he
sees the shapes of the
trespassers—Linara criesout,andBorgingruntsandheaves the vase hard. Ithitstothesideofthedoor,missing. It doesn’t evenbreak. The thing just goesthud and lands on thefloor.Apparently the Vinzors
knewhowtomakeavase.Figures storm in,
blasters up. Two of themhe doesn’t recognize: a
Devaronian woman and alanky, clanking PAD—apersonal assistant droid—on whose tarnished silverfaceplate someone haspaintedablackskull.The other two he does
recognize: the localmiscreant, Kars Tal-Korla—aka,theScourgeofCloudCity.Hardnottorecognizehim. He’s on every posterand cautionary holovid
here in the city! TheEmpire wants him bad,and now here he is—liveinside Borgin’s ownapartment. Wearing histrademark armor: amismatchedpatchwork setof Mandalorian, Corellian,and even bits of Imperialtrooperthrowninforgoodmeasure.Next to him, though, is
therealsurprise:
JintarOarr—Fellow Onderonian.
Wealthy beyond measure.One of the residents herein the luxury levels ofCloud City alongsideBorgin.Afriend.Orwas,once.“You,” Borgin says,
pointing a thick finger atthe man. Jintar, thathandsome prig. Sharp-cut
beard. Eyes like grayclouds. Even the lines inhisfacelookdistinguished.ButasBorginthrustshis
accusing finger up, theDevaroniansteps in,grabshis finger, and bends itback. Pain arcs like ablaster bolt up to hiselbow. He howls in a waythat shames him—a piggy,high-pitched squeal, likethe sound one of those
Ugnaughts makes when ittumbles into themachines—andthenhedrops tohiskneesasshewithherotherhandjamsthebarrelofherblaster rifle against hisforehead.“Wait,” Jintar says. He
reaches for her wrist, andshe hisses at him like asnake. He stays his hand,but then says to her: “Letmetalktohim.”
Kars gives a nod. “Letthemspeak.Butwe’reonatimetablehere—somake itsnappy.” To the assistantdroid he barks: “Go findthataccesspanel.”Access panel? Borgin’s
gazefollowsthedroidasittottersoutofthefoyeranddown the hall—but beforehecanseewherethemetalman is going, theDevaronian grabs his chin
witharoughpullandturnshisfacetowardher.“Your friend would like
tospeakwithyou.”Jintar kneels. “Bor,” he
says. “Listen tome.We’vebeen lied to. Adelhard hassealedoffthewholesector.Massive blockades with aragtag Imperial remnant.But that’s not how theykeep control. They keepcontrolby lying tous.”He
takes a deep breath. “TheEmperor is dead, Bor. It’sbeenconfirmed.”“Lies,”Borginhisses.“Of
course,that’swhathistypewould have you believe!”He gestures with his chintowardtherebel,Kars.Thescruffy pirate in thepatchwork armor doesnothing but scowl andshake his head. “I’ve seenthe holovids. You have,
too. Palpatine is alive andwellonCoruscantand—”“He’s just a stand-in. A
proxy.Anactor.”“No.Morerebellies.”“We’ve done the
comparison.Thevidsdon’tmatch.This…personinthedark robes isn’t Palpatine.Different chin, differentgestures.Apoorfacsimile.”“You’reatraitor.”
Jintar’s face falls.Sadnessflashesinhiseyes.“No, Borgin. You’re thetraitor.”“TheEmpire’sbeengood
tous.”“It has. But it hasn’t
beengoodtoeveryoneelse.And the righteous folks ofthe galaxy will see that.Which means I’m callingon you to act.” Jintar’svoice softens. That man
couldcoaxaslakari-houndoff a rotten carcass. “Wecoulduseyourhelp.”Help. They want his
help?That’s not happening.
Borgin roars—he’s been ina few fights back in theday, back when he was ayoungminingbaronontheSevarcos moon. Sure, he’solder now, much older,andheavier,buthelurches
upward, slamming hisheadintoJintar’s—Starsexplodebehindhis
eyes. He falls back on histailbone. Someone reachesfor him, but he cries outandswatsthehandaway.Jintar is wincing, his
forehead already showingthe bloom of a futurebruise. Borgin, though,tastesblood.
It’stherebel’sturn.Karssteps into view. Blurry.Borgin blinks. The piratescratches at his stubbleand twirls thepistol athiship. “Let’s talk thisthrough. You’ve got anaccess panel in the back.It’s tied into the sameconduit as GovernorAdelhard’s chamber up onthe prime tower.We needthat panel opened. You
give us the code, we’ll behappy. You don’t give usthecode,we’llhavetodoitourselves.” Kars’s mouthsharpens into a wickedrazor-angle grin. “And wewon’tbehappy.”“Brutes! Bullies!
Criminals.”Kars sighs. “Okay, then.
Rorna?”He gives a nod, and the
Devaronianwomanpistonsa fist into Borgin’s side.Borgin bleats and flails—Jintar catches his handsandwrenchesthembehindhis back. He feels hishands being stuffed intosomething.A fabricbag.Asock, maybe. Then the ripofbondingtapecomingoffits roll as it winds aroundhiswrists.“Linara!” he cries.
“Linara,saveme!”Buthisgirlfriendmerely
looksdownathimthewaya disappointed motherlooks down at hertroublemaker child. Sheasks Kars: “Is thereanythingIcando?”Thepiratechuckles,then
tossesherarollofbondingtape. “Why not close upthat gassy vent of his hecallsamouth?”
Borginprotests:“Linara,I’ve been good to you.Welove each other.Don’t youdo this to me. I’ll punishyou!I’llpunishyourwholefamily! I’ll end their loansand stack debtors againstthemand—”She slaps the tape
againsthismouth.Andshedoesn’t stop there. Shewinds it around his headonce,twice,athirdtime.It
lookslikeshe’senjoyingit.“Mmph! Mmph.”
Translation: The Emperorwill have your heads forthis.Kars nods. From the
back of the domicile, thesound of a whirring drill.Kars lifts a wrist-comm tohismouth: “Tell Lobot wehavetodoitthehardway.”TheDevaroniansaysina
lower voice, “We couldtorture thecodeoutof therich man. It would be nosmall pleasure.” Said withaferalsmirk.Thepiratewavesheroff,
then away from his commhe says: “No. We havespecific instructions. Nosuchshenanigans.We’retokeep this clean,aboveboard. Blah blahblah, the Alliance doesn’t
do it ‘like that.’ ” Then,back to his wrist: “Yeah.Yeah, I’m listening. TellLobot to make sure he’sstanding by with theintrusion team. And get amessage toCalrissian.Tellhim we’re almost in andthat he can transfer thecredits—” He pauses. “No,you know what? Tell himwe’redoingthisonegratis.On the house. He and his
NewRepublicpalscanoweme a favor. Make sure toemphasize that. A bigfavor.”Scum.Scum!Jintar oncemore kneels
down. “You’re on thewrongsideofhistory,Bor.You never did understandthat the galaxy was morethanoneman.”
Andlikethat,thepaleblueskies of atmosphere giveway to the gradientdarkness of space—and
that gradient fades, too,becomingnotpartshadow,but all dark. Thecomforting void. Becausethat’s what it is, to Rae: acomforting emptiness. Itgives her pause. Thevastness. The endlessnessofitall.Tofeelsmall init,but also powerful enoughtomatterinitsmidst.At present, though, she
canfindnocomfort.
Because, aheadof them:Warragesintheblack.A brute-force battle. No
elegance, no aplomb. Onone side, a trio of StarDestroyers firing salvoaftersalvoofblasts.Thoseattacks met by theincoming rebel fleet: fiveships, each smaller thantheDestroyers,butno lesspotent. And between thetwo of them, a swarm of
ships like flocks of nightbirds. Trading fire. Someof them burning bright asthey spiral like thecrackling, wheelingfireworks set off bylaughingchildren.Shechewsherlip.“Howarewedoing?”she
asksMorna.The pilot answers:
“Limpingalong.”
“Sprinting or limping,justgetushome.”
—
Commander Agate isshaking.It’s normal. At least for
her. The battle here hasbegun, and in thebeginning of any battle,she shakes. It’s acombinationofjangledwar
nerves and the rush ofadrenaline hitting her likelightning overloading aship’s systems. For years,she tried to hide it. Shetook meds to still herhands. Tried to remainhidden and alone duringthe first moments of abattle. Because shecouldn’t have those withhersee.Theshakingwasasign of weakness. But
eventually she came torealize:Showing it off—and not
caring who cared—was asignofstrength.So now she trembles.
Andsheletsithappen.It’sanaturalpartofwhosheisasawarriorandaleaderofsoldiers.She calms herself by
staringoutattheblackand
then back again at thebattlemap holographicallyprojected above the table.Allthepiecesmovingalongas they must. A chaoticdance, but one given overto a kind of precious,specialorder.Now,though:anewblip.She taps the air, zooms
inonthisuninvitedguest.A yacht? Uninvited and
unexpected.Imperial? Or some
unluckyAkivanlandbaronwho thought to make ahasty escape during…anunfolding space battle?That’s either an idiot or agenius piloting that thing.AgateasksEnsignTargada—a gruff Klatooinian withahighbrowandafrowningmouth, an ex-slave who isloudly loyal to the New
Republic—to track thatship’scourse.“It’sheadedforthatStar
Destroyer,”hesays.AnImperial,then.Shootitdown?She hesitates. Things
movemoreslowlythanonewould think—big capitalships firing fusillade afterfusillade at one anotherwhile the fighters swoop
andspinamongthestars—andcarefulthinkingcanbea strength of its own. Buthesitation can fast becomealiability.Targada echoes her
question:“Concentratefireontheyacht?”“No,” she says sharply.
“It’s damaged. Itmayplayhost to a target of high-value intelligence.Destroying it means
destroying information wemay need.” She cursesunder her breath. In anideal world, they’d swoopin and capture. But thebattlewon’t allow for sucha precision maneuver.“Let’sremovetheiroptionsfor landing. ConcentratefireonthatStarDestroyer.Iftheydon’thaveaplacetoland, they become quickerpickings.”
—
The strange man throttlesTemmin. He’s ruddy-cheeked,withawartynoseand pock-cratered cheeks.The man wears a pilot’sleathers.“What’s happening?” he
asks. The lights flick onandoff. “What’shappenedto my ship, you littleurchin?”
Temmin shoves himback.“Get!Off!”The man snarls. “You’d
better tell me whathappened. Did you dosomething? Are you aninsurgent? A rebelterrorist?Scum.Scum!”ThenherushesTemmin.Temmin cries out and
throwsapunch.Theman’snosepopslikeablisterand
hegoesdown,whimpering.“Myship.Myship!”Theboyhasno time for
this.He looks around, his
eyes having a hard timeadjusting when the lightskeepstrobinglikethat.Thepilotstartscrawlingforthedoor, and Temmin movesandkneelsdowninfrontofhim. “Out that cabindoor,it’s death. You hear me?
Death.”“You don’t know that. I
needtogettothecockpit!Ican fly this ship.Me.Onlyme! I’m a good pilot.Or…was.Once.”“Thenwe need to get to
the cabin. The pressuredoorsaresealed,younerf-wit. You know this ship?Tell me how to get…somewhere,anywhere.”
The man groans as hestands. His joints andbones creak and pop.“Move the…move that bedback. There should be amaintenance hatch underthere. But I don’t have atooltoopenit.”Is nobody ever
prepared? Temmin rollshis eyes and pops themultitool off his belt. Hestarts to move the bed.
Sure enough: a flat hatchsealed with flanser-bolts.They’ll take time. He getstowork.
—
Pandion stands. Norrawatches him take slowsteps toward Sinjir, onwhomhe seems singularlyfocused. “You were anImperial, once,” Pandion
says. “A loyalty officer. Isthatright?”“That isaccurate,”Sinjir
says.“Ironic, then. That your
own loyalty was inquestion.”“Notreally.Iwastaught
early on inmy training toseetheweaknessinothers.Itwasonlyamatteroftimebefore I saw theweakness
in the whole of theEmpire.” Sinjir grins pastbloodyteeth.“Lookcloselyand you see the wholething is shot throughwithcracksandfractures.”Pandion walks closer. A
slow, measured step. Acrueltyflashinginhiseyes,pulsingandflaringlikethelights overhead. “The onlyweakness in theEmpire ismenlikeyou.Menwhoare
not committed enough.Menwho betray the causebecause of a failing insidethem. Bruised hearts anddiminished minds. TheEmpire is made strongerwhenfoolslikeyoufall.”Even with his hands
behind his back, Sinjirmanagesashrug.“Seems to me,” he says,
“that the weakness in theEmpire is inmen likeyou,
Moff Pandion. Paltry,ineffectualidiots.Menwhowant to be leaders morethan they want to actuallylead. And besides, what isamoff, anyway?Ameagersector head. Even thename sounds weak. Moff.Moff. It’s the sound a dogmakesasitregurgitatesitsdinner—”Whap. Pandion
backhandsSinjir.
A line of blood snakesdown the ex-Imperial’schinfromhislip.Sinjirlicksitaway.“Moff, moff, moff,” he
saysagain,mocking.Norra warns him:
“Sinjir,don’t—”Butit’stoolate.Pandion
is on him again, this timehauling Sinjir up by thecollarofhisstolenofficer’s
uniform.Hehitshimonce,twice, a third time andSinjir’sheadrocksbackonhisshoulders.“Stop!” Norra cries.
“Stop.”Pandion hisses at her.
“Shutup,scum.”Sinjir seizes the
opportunity. He spits atooth—one of his own—atMoff Pandion’s face. It
bounds off the spacebetween the Imperial’seyes, and as he blinks insurprise, Sinjir head-buttshim.Crack.Pandion staggers back.
Twin streams of bloodtrickle down his nose. Hisfacetwistsuplikeaterribleknot. “You. Traitor.” Hewipesbloodfromhisnose,then draws his blaster.
“You won’t make it totrial.”Jas speaks up: “Let me
doit.”Pandion squints.
“What?”“I’ll do it. For the right
price.”“Price? After you’ve
throwninwiththislot?”“The bounty on your
head was too good,
Pandion. But I’m surethere’s more than enoughcredits to compensateme.Looking at this yachtalone, Icanseewe’reonabankingship.Surelyyou’rewilling to pay me morethantheNewRepublicwastocaptureyou.”“Captureme?”“It was all about you.
You have a very highbounty.”
He sneer-smirks. “Yes. Ishouldhaveexpected that.Howhighwasthebounty?”“Tenthousandcredits.”“Should’vebeenhigher,”
hesnits.“Still.I’llgiveyoutwenty thousand fromArsin Crassus’s coin purseto execute this traitor.Right here, right now.Whatsayyou?”Crassus stands, blustery
andblithering:“What?Youcan’t. I didn’t make thatoffer!”“And yet I take it on
good faith you wouldn’twant todeny theEmpire,”Moff Pandion says. Heturns the blaster towardCrassus.“Right?”“Ah…absolutely. What’s
mineisyours.”Pandion chuckles.
“Good.” He spins theblaster around andapproaches Jas Emari,extending theweaponout.“Hereyougo,Zabrak.Takeit. It’s yours. Oh. What’sthat? Your hands arebound?” He clucks histongue. “What a shame.Guesswedon’thaveadeal.Because the Empiredoesn’t do deals withbountyhuntersanymore.”
Hewheelsbackwiththeblasterandmovestostrikeher.Norracriesout.But Jas is fast. Her
hands—they’re free.Somehow. She catches hishand and twists his wrist.Pandion cries out and shesnatches the blaster fromhim and wheels himaround, pointing the guntohishead.
“Nobodyshoot,orItakeoffthetopofhisheadwithhis own blaster,” Jaswarns. Jyliamaintainsherseat, and Crassus keepsstanding. StormtroopersandImperialGuardspointweapons, but Pandionwavesthemoff,saying:“No.No.Wait.Putthem
down.Letherspeak.”Norra thinks: How did
shegetfree?
ButthenSinjirstepsup.The shackles fall off hiswrists,too.Suddenly a voice calls
from beneath her. Sheturnsandlooks,seesapairofeyes lookingupthroughthe room-length vent thatruns along the seambetween the wall and thefloor. A little multitoolreaches out through thevent.Shehearsavoice:
“Mom,moveyourwristscloser.Icanpickthelock.”
—
Out the frontof the yacht,a TIE fighter spiralstoward them, fire jettingfrom its one side into theunforgivingmaw of space.Morna yanks back on theflight stick, moves theflyingbrickoutof theway
just in time. Their ownship shudders as the TIEexplodessomewhereoutofsight.Ahead, a pair of TIEs
chasearebelX-wing.Theyswoop and dip. Beyondthem: the Star DestroyerVigilance. Not far now,Raethinks.She brings up Tothwin
onthecomm.
Hisnervousfaceappearsonscreen.“We’re coming in,” Rae
says.“BayG2D1.”“Of course, Admiral.
We’re taking a lot ofdamageandtheshields—”Morna leans over.
“We’re coming in hot. Ican’tslowthisthingdown.Somethingisfritzed.”Rae adds: “Have
extinguisher droids onhand,we’recomingin—”From one of the rebel
frigates, a massive blastarcs through space,striking the Vigilance. Aburst of fire and debrisfromthebridge.Tothwin’simage dissolves and thelinkisgone.“Admiral?” Morna asks.
“We can’t land there. TheVigilance—”
“Remains for themoment. The plan is thesame.”“Admiral, I strongly
advise—”“I have a plan. Take us
in.“Same bay. The
Vigilance remains, and Ihaveaplan.”
—
Tension in the room runsso high that, should a pindrop,everyonemight startfiring their blasters. Jasstands with Pandion’sblaster held to his temple,her other hand clampedaround his neck. Norra isup now, shaking off hershackles. Sinjir is helpingTemmin crawl up throughamaintenancehatchinthemiddle of the floor. Norra
rushes over andpickshimup and gives him a long,crushinghug.Pandion jeers: “How
touching. But what now,bounty hunter? You’ve gotone weapon among you,and a dozen pointed inyourdirection.”“That one weapon is
pointed at yourhead,” shesays.
“Ah,yes.Butthenwhat,exactly?Welandand…youcontinue this threat?Eventually you’ll meetsomeonewho doesn’t careifIliveordie.”“I’d say we’ve already
metseveral.”He scoffs. “This charade
istemporary.Whatisyourplan?”She wears a feral grin
and licks her lips. “I havenoplan.WhatIdohave isyour blaster and myfriends and luck on ourside.Plus:We’reverygoodat improvising, as you canwellsee.”“You’llpayforthis.”“No,”shesays.“We’llget
paidforthis.”
—
Raestrapsin.The Star Destroyer
looms closer and closer.Bay G2D1 awaits coveredwith the faint blueshimmer of the shields.Shields that she believesare failing, which meanssoon, theVigilancewillbenomore.To Morna, she says: “I
trustyounottokillus.”
The pilot nods. “That’stheplan.”Shewincesasshebrings
the yacht in through thefront of the bay. Rae feelsthe speed now, seeseverything zooming up tothemfast,toofast,andthedeckrushesup—The yacht hits it hard.
Pain goes through her—anache through her wristsand neck as the g-forces
threaten to rip herasunder. The yacht landshard, and as the lightsagaingooutallshehearsisthe grinding of metal onmetal as the whole thingshifts sideways, skiddingfast and loose across theImperial Star Destroyer’sbay.
Fzzt.Fzzt.Sparks in the dark.
Circuits pop and fizzle.Panels swing, hanging by
loose wires. A haze ofsmoke fills the air. Smellsduel for supremacy: thestinkofhotmetal,theodorof melting plastic. A thirdstench:electricozone.Light comes in from
outside. Garish, bright,artificiallight.Norra groans and lifts
her chest off the unevenground. She tries to figureout what happened, but it
doesn’t take her long torealize, because she’s beenin this situation toomanytimesbefore:Wecrash-landed.Underneath her,
Temminliesunmoving.Oh,no.“Temmin.Temmin!”She
pulls him up and hesuddenly draws a sharpbreath, his eyes fluttering
open.Shelaughsandpullshimclose.“Ow,”hesays.“Sorry.”“No.I’msorry.”“Not now,” she says.
“Later.Nowwehaveto—”Someonemovesthrough
the space. Norra’s eyesadjust and she sees Jasstalkingthroughtheruinedroom, emerging from a
whorl of black smoke. Shestands over a body, pointstheblasterdown,andfires.The blue pulse from a
stun chargewarbles in theair.Whoever is lying there
shuddersandgoesslack.Jas looks over. Sees
Norra—she reaches out ahand and helps her up,then Temmin. To the boy,
the bounty hunter says:“You’relate.”“Jas, I’m so sorry, I
didn’tmean—”“Stopthere.We’refine.”From behind them, a
cough and sputter beforeSinjir says: “Yes, please.I’mnotdeadbutImayyetchoke on your ranksentimentality. I cannotsay for sure exactly what
happened, but I’d putconsiderable credits downon a bet that says weshouldnotdally.”“You talk a lot for not
dallying,”Jassays.“And you certainly do
love an unnecessary retort—”Norra interrupts:“Focus
up, crew. What’s ourstatus?”
“We crashed,” Jas says.“Obviously.” She gestureswith her foot by way of agentle kick. “That bodybelongs to Adviser YupeTashu.Nowstunned.Ialsosecured Jylia Shale, thegeneral.” She points, andNorra can make out acrumpled shape. “Beyondher is Crassus. He didn’tmake it. Along with mostofthesestormtroopers.”
One starts to stir, andshe fires a stun blast athim. He thumps backdowntothegroundwithagurgledgroan.“AndPandion?”“Gone.”Norranods.“Comeon.”They step toward the
back of the room, andtogether they push on ascrap of metal—that’s
where the light’s comingin, and collectively theypeel back part of the hull.Enough for them to slipthrough.Out there, the bay
entrance—a rectanglelookingoutintospace.Andonto a space battle: NewRepublic ships launch afusillade from theircannons. The darkness islitupwiththevigorofwar.
Inhere:anImperialStarDestroyer bay. Alarms gooff.The entire ship rumbles
andvibrates.A TIE interceptor
screams past the bayentrance, chased by a pairof arrowhead-shaped A-wings. Norra thinks: Iwant to be out there. Anodd feeling. A scaredfeeling. But eager and
hungryforitjustthesame.“Look,” Temmin says.
Shefollowshimpointing—At the other end of the
bay,alineofLambda-classshuttles and a pair of TIEfighters. One of theshuttles lifts up off theground.“You.” Norra points to
Jas. “Take the others. Getyour bounties and haul
themonboardoneofthoseshuttles. You can fly it,right?”Jasnods.“Notaswellas
you, I wager, but yes. I’mcapable.”“Capable,” Sinjir says.
“There’sthatwordagain.”“You help her, Sinjir.
Temmin, I need you to dosomething real important.Areyoulistening?”
“O…okay.Saytheword.”“Go back inside that
yacht.FindCaptainWedgeAntilles. You hear me?Findhimandgethimout.”Please let him be okay.Afterallthis…Temmin asks: “Mom,
whatareyoudoing?”“I’mgoingtotakeoneof
thoseTIE fighters and I’mgoing after whoever that
is.” She points to theshuttle as it roars towardthem, its cannons firing—she pulls the others downbehindthewreckageoftheyacht as the laser blastsstitch a line of cratersalongthedockingbayfloorbefore the shuttle racestowardtheexitandoffintospace.Norra wastes no time
becausethereisnotimeto
waste.She’s up on her feet,
hard-charging toward theTIEfighters.Shehearsherson calling forher—askinghernottoleave,askinghernottodie,tellinghertoletit go. But she knows shecan’t. She knows who sheis andwhat shedoes.Andthis is it. It is time to flyoncemore.
Once again, the almostlunatic freedomof theTIEfighter. Norra plunges thesmall Imperial ship into
the maelstrom of battle.Cannon fire is tearingpasther in both directions,laser blasts crisscrossingthevoidinfrontofher.Shehunts the stars for herprey, and just as she seesthe Lambda-class signaloutthereinthedark,anX-wing comes diving fromaboveherlikearaptorbirdandsherealizes:I’m inanImperialship.
The Jedi are known forhaving the Force—shedoesn’t know what that isor if it’s even a real thing(though Skywalkercertainlymakesitlooklikeit’s no myth), but sheknows she doesn’t have it.Just the same, she haswhat she has, which is anuncannyabilitytojustturnher brain off. Stop hermindfromchattering.Stop
thinkingaboutdetails.Stop thinking and just
feel.TheX-wingcomesdown
on her and she reactswithout thinking, bringingthe TIE fighter up wherethe X-wing goes in theopposite direction. Then aY-wingisinhersights,andshe has to juke the TIEback and forth, starboardto port and back again, in
order to avoid theincomingblasts.Shequicklyfumbleswith
the communicator andsignals to rebel comms:“This isNorraWexley,callsign Gold Nine. I havetaken command of thisTIE. Repeat: I have takencommandofthisTIE.”Inside her head she
adds:Pleasedon’tkillme.
—
Commander Agate standson the bridge of the oldAlderaanian frigate, theSunspire. Out there, shewatches the battle unfold.It’s easy to stare at it andbe lost—not lost becauseyou don’t know what’shappening,butsuckedintoit,drawntoitlikeawingedthing toward a plasma
torch. Hypnotized, in away. Idly, she realizes:We’rewinningthisbattle.Which means they’re
winningthiswar.There, though, a new
question haunts Agate inthebackofhermind:Whatthen?Behindher,EnsignUray
stands. The blue-skinnedPantoran says: “We are
winning this engagement,Commander.”“Winningdoesnotmean
won. Keep up thepressure.”“Yes, Commander.
There’s something else.” Apause, then: “There’s apilot out there in a TIEfighter. Claiming to be…well, one of ours. FromGoldSquadron.”
“Thatseemsunlikely.”“And yet it’s what she
claims.”Sheponders.Couldbea
trap. But to what end? AsingleTIEfightercoulddowhat? They are suicidemachines, but why thisruse?Herguttwinges,tellsher
whichwaytogo.“Give her support. Get
heronthecomm.Let’sseewhat’sgoingon.”
—
Plugging in hyperspacecoordinates is no easy featduringaspacebattle.Getitwrong and put the ship inthe wrong space and theonly place you’ll end upwith great speed is thegrave. (Though here Rae
admits:Ifeversheistodie,it should be out here, inspace.Born from stardust,returned to stardust. Shecareslittleforsuchpoetry,but this appeals to her,somehow.)“Almostthere,”Raesays.
“Keepusflying,Morna.”Herpilotnods.Inside her heart, Rae
regrets the loss of those
they left behind. Adea inparticular. Whether thewomanisaliveordead,shecannot say. Adea certainlydeserveslife,butifdeathisher end, then it was anobleone in service to thegreatGalacticEmpire.The door to the cockpit
hissesopen.Which is curious,
because she and MornaKee are the only two on
this shuttle—or so shehadthought.She wheels around,
knowingalreadywhoshe’llsee.Pandion.He’s got a blaster in his
hand. A line of blood isdrying upon a long cutcrossinghisbrow.Hisnoseappears broken. Hismouth, bloody, and the
rest of his uniform looksdirty,dusty,intatters.“Yousurvived,”shesays.“I did,” he says with a
curioussmile.Asmilethatquickly dies on his face.“Let me tell you how thiswillgo.You’regoingtotheRavager.Youwill takemetothatStarDestroyer,andthenIwilltakecontrolofitin return. It ismine, now,Admiral. Not yours. The
last great weapon of theEmpire is in my controlbecause you are incapableofwieldingit.”The shuttle quickly
ducks a hail of incomingblasts.Raesteadiesherselfon her chair. Pandionremains standing, leering,scowling.“You fool,” she says.
“Youeager,egotisticalfool.Grand Moff. Pfah. You
have so much, so wrong.TheRavagerisnotthelastweapon. Nor do I evencontrol it. There is…another.”His face twitches. “You
don’tmean…”“I do mean. He’s not
dead.”“Butyousaidhewas.”“Ilied.”Sheshrugs.“This was…all his plan.
Wasn’tit?Ishould’veseenit. I fell for a trap.We allfell for your trap. Youbetrayer. You foul,wretchedbetrayer.”Panic seizes her. She
thinks: No, it wasn’tsupposed to happen likethis. But then the moreterrible realization hitsher:Butwhatifitwas?Whatifthiswastheplan
allalong?
Suddenly the shipshudders. Morna, withouttaking her eyes off theconsole, says: “We havecompany. It’s a lone TIEfighter. It’s firing at us!And rebel ships, too.Incoming.”Rae scowls. “New plan,
then. You might want tobuckle in, Valco. This isgoingtobeabumpyride.”
—
It feelsgood tobeuphereagain. The TIE fightermakes Norra feel like shecouldthreadaneedle.Andthere, ahead: the shuttle.She takes a few shots,though the shuttle’sdeflector shields hold. Butthey won’t for long.Especially with thesquadron of Y-wings
coming in behind her forsupport. But then, just asshe’sgottheshuttle inhersights—TIEs. Swarming like
wasps. They’re on to her.She no longer flags asImperial to them andthey’re taking their shots.Shepullsaway,leadsthreeofthemoff—they’reonherlikemagnets,followingherevery swoop and turn, her
everyrollandlurch,soshedraws them back towardtheY-wings.The rebel fighters, dead
ahead.Intothecommshesays:
“Stayontarget.”It looks like a suicide
mission.Agameofchickenwith her own people, herown ships. But they knowwhat she’sdoing.This isa
practiced move. One theImperialsneverexpect.At the last minute, she
pulls up, and the Y-wingsopenfire.The TIEs, dispatched in
gassy plumes of quick-burnfire.Nowbacktothatshuttle.It takesher amoment—
the shuttle has deviatedfromitscourse.
There. There. Headingtowardanotherof theStarDestroyers. The shuttleswerves toward themassive Imperial ship.Norra lines up herweapons.Andshestartstofire.
—
Pandion has chosen toremainstanding.
Whichisasexpected.Hewon’t sit. He won’t risklookingweak.Raethinks:Itwillbehis
downfall. “That’s yourDestroyer. The Vanquish.I’mgoingtotakeit.”He laughs. “I think you
overestimateyour—”Raemovesfast,grabbing
the flight stick out ofMorna’sgrip.Shepushesit
hard to the right and theshipgoesintoaquickspin.Pandion loses his
footing. Morna quicklyrights the ship, and whenthe moff reclaims hisbalance, Rae is up out ofher seat. Shepistonsa fistinto his middle, thenwrestles the blaster out ofhishand.She fires a shot into his
belly,thenkickshimoutof
thecockpit.The door seals behind,
and her fingers dance onthe keypad next to it toensure the seal holds. Hewails on the other side.Pounding.The ship shudders with
blasts from that TIEfighter.“Let’s give them what
theywant,”Raesays.“Let’s
give them this ship. Let’sgive them Pandion. Let’sgivethemashow.”Mornanods.She begins the
detachment sequencewhileRaepunchestheself-destruct codes into thehyperdrivematrix.
—
Itallhappenssoslow,and
yet so fast.Norra fires theTIE’s cannons at theenginesof the shuttle.Shewearstheshieldsdownlikea kid scratching the paintoff one of his toys—andthenshescoresadirecthit.The engines flare brightblueand sheexpects themtogodark.But they don’t. They do
theopposite.They erupt in
crepuscularraysandNorrahastoshieldhereyes.Theshuttle suddenly lists left,driftingnot likea shipbutratherlikeapieceofspacedebris—and she realizeslate, too late, It’s going toblow.And blow, it does. The
entire shuttle shuddersand detonates. Fireblossoms into open space.Norra tries to move the
TIEoutoftheway,jerkingon the controls tomaneuverhardand fast tostarboard—butfirefillsherwindow and everythingshakes.Sparkshissupoutoftheconsoleanddownonher head and she thinks,Thisisit,it’sover—At least I went doing
whatIwantedtodo.At least I went down
fighting.
At least Temmin knowsIlovehim.Iloveyou,Temmin—Andthenshe’sgone.
This is a dead place,CorwinBallastthinks.Out there—it’s nothing.
Nowhere, stretched wideandmadeinfinite.Thedrycrust of desert. The
whippingtailsofdust.Pastthat: dunes. Mounds ofsand, red as fire. Theyseem to run on foreverunderneath the cloudlesssky.Behind him: raggedy,
ratty tents. Propped up byscraps of rusted pole andrebar, some of it kinkedwithanarthriticbent.Thewindthreatenstopickitallupandcarryitaway,butit
never does. These tentshavebeenhere forso longthey’reapartoftheworld.Justlikethepeople.Corwin steps out of his
speeder—a limping junkerheboughtfromacoupleofanchorites outside ofTuanul. (He gave themmore than he owed.Charity. What does itmatter now, anyway?)Then he descends among
the scavengers, thecastoffs, the dregs of thegalaxy’s populace. All ofthem dust-cheeked.Scarred, too—branded bytheroughnessofthisplace.Around-facedbrutewithacrown of wispy black hairandafatbodywreathedinrags steps in front of him,licking his chapped lipsandchuckling.“Whathavewehere—”
But Corwin knows theplay. He’s no fool. Notanymore. He hooks histhumb around the buttonloopofhis jacket and tugsitback,showingoffalean,mean, vent-barreledHyCorlaserrepeater.Seeing it, the rag-man
grunts and wanders off insearchofprey thatdoesn’tsting or bite. Corwin, forhis part, searches out the
bar.It’snotmuch to lookat.
The bar has been weldedtogether out of scrap, thewhole thing warped andcrookedand shaped intoarough half circle, all of itunderneath the cap-top ofa 323 Rakhmannconcussion-miner. Dustand sand hiss against thecanopyofthinmetal.Corwinpullsuparusted
stoolnext toasocket-eyedskull-face: one of theUthuthma, with swaddlesof chain forming a scarfand obscuring its toothymaw.Thealien chattersathim in its language:“Matheen wa-sha wa-shotah.” A statement or aquestion, Corwin doesn’tknow. All he does is winkand give the stranger athumbs-up.TheUthuthma
keeps staring with thosedead empty holes itreportedly calls eyes. Aloud, gurgling throat-clearfrom behind the bar, andCorwin turns to see thetender—Bigfella.Musclegoneto
fat.Nose like a fallen tree.Wholerightsideofhisfaceis peppered with scars,some of them lumpy withbits of scree and stone.
One bit of gravel is biggerthan the pad on Corwin’sthumb and sticks in theman’scheekthewayarockpokes up out of dry, deadground. “Whaddyahaving?”“Whaddyagot?”“Nothing but one thing:
Knockback Nectar, theycallit.”“If you only have one
thing, then why ask mewhatI’mhaving?”The bartender shrugs
andsnorts.“Peopleliketheillusion of choice. Givesthem comfort in thesestrangetimes.”“Then I will have that,
mygoodman.”“Good man,” the
bartender mutters, thenpours from an old oil can
into a smaller oil can andplonks it down in front ofCorwin. The so-callednectar is the color ofhydraulic fluid. And bitsfloatinit.Spongy,bobbingbits.“Whatisthis?”“Knockback Nectar, I
toldyoualready.”“No,Imean,whatisit?”“Ugh.Huh.Youknow, I
don’task.Theyjustbringitto me. Something aboutscraping the lichen rocksfromthedeadbuttesdownin the south. I hear telltheypickleitinfuelbarrelsorsomesuch.”“It’llgetmedrunk?”“It’ll get a space slug
drunk.”Corwin tips it back. It
tastes like sour spitwith a
motor oil aftertaste.Doesn’t take long beforehisgumsstarttofeelnumbandhisteethbuzz.Allrighty,then.The Uthuthma babbles
at him again: “Matheenbachee.Iss-tata-hwhiss.”“May the Force be with
you,too,”Corwinsays.Hisvoice is stripped raw afterone sip of the Knockback.
Thewordswheezeout.Helaughs: It’s a mad,desolate, empty sound.Likethislittleenclave.Likethiswholeplanet.“You’re not from here,”
thetendersays.“Whatgaveitaway?”“Not many folks from
here. Most folks…just enduphere. Jettisoned like somuch worthless cargo.
Droppedlikewaste.”Corwin shrugs and
chuckles and sips hispoison.“You’re a strange fella.
Youlookingforwork?”“Could be. What’s
around?”“Haw. Pfft. Not much.
Most of the mining is onthefarside,andeventhat’spretty meager. We do get
magnitehere,andbezorite,and there’s talk of somenewkesiumgaswellsgoingup near Cratertown, butthat might just be rumor.You got the scavengerpacks. You got the WheelRaces north of here. Youcouldsayyourvowsandbeananchoritebut,naw,notyou.AndI’dsayyoucouldbe a bartender, but turnsoutthatjob’staken.”
“I’ll think about it,thanks.”The tender keeps on
him:“Sohow’dyouenduphere?”“Ididn’t‘enduphere.’ ”“Not from here. Didn’t
end up here. How’d youcome to be sitting atErgel’sBar,then?”“YouErgel?”“I’mErgel.”
“Well, Ergel, I camehere.”“Youcamehere?Ofyour
ownfreewillandsuch?”“Ofmyownfreewilland
such.”Ergel stands there and
stares for a good tenseconds, then bursts outlaughing. A big, booming,gurgling laugh like he’schoking on his own lung-
meats in the process. Hisjowls shake and his bellybounces back and forth.“Galaxy’sabigplace, fella.Wide open as a nexu’sfang-lined maw. The starsareendless.Theworldsarecountable, but not by onehand and not by ahundred. You got planetsand outposts and stationsand spaceships and—”More laughing. “You came
here?”Corwinnods.“Idid.”“Why?Ihave toknow.I
havetoknowwhatdrivesamantothis.”“Matheen vis-vis tho
hwa-seen,” the Uthuthmasays.“Shutup,Gazwin,”Ergel
grumbles. “Let the manfinish.” Then to Corwin:“Ignore the skull-face. I
gottaknow.”Here, Corwin blinks a
few times. And every timehedoes, he sees it happenagain right there in hishometown, right inMabornonMordal:His little girl lying there
intheopenstreet.Theshallowriseandfall
ofherchest.The Imperials
entrenched at one end oftown. The rebels on theother.Corwin’sthere,offtothe
side, hiding behind cratesof vittles with his wife,Lynnta,andsuddenlyshe’sup and running for thelittle girl, and then he’srunning after her, hard-charging, screaming,reaching—Laserfire.Crossingboth
directions.Lynnta’s head snapping
hardtheoneway—Thenshe’sdown.Corwinleaps—But something burns
intohisside.Cuts throughhim.Hehearsthesizzleofit. Feels his system gothroughshock:likeabombdetonating underwater.Boom.
Thenhe’sout.When he wakes up
weekslateronabactadripon a crawler outside oftown, his family is gone.Already buried. Andneither side won its war,andboth sideswenthomelickingtheirwounds.“War,”Corwinsays.“I’m
tiredofwar.”“You don’t look like an
Imperial.Youwerearebel,Ibet.”“No, no rebel, either.
Justaman trying tomakedowithhisfamily.”“You brought your
familyhere?”“Idid,”Corwinsays,but
he doesn’t explain that hebrought them only in hisheart—and in the picturehe’sgotstuffedinhisboot.
“Wanted to take them asfar away from the fightingas I could. A place wherethewarwill never findus.Thefarthest-flungnowhererock I could findona starmap.”“Well, you found it,
buddy.Youdon’tgetmorenowhere than here. Warain’t got no reason to rolluponthisrock.”“Youpromise?”
“If the war comes here,I’ll buy you all theKnockback Nectars youwant.”“Deal.”“Thisisadeadplace,you
know.”“Iknow.”ThatworksforCorwin.A
deadplace forhim:amangonedead.
Andthen,she’sback.Norra cries out in the
darkness, and then lightrushes in. Everything feels
electric.Herbodyisbright,too bright, everythingvibrating and burning andshe’s scrambling up andsomething’s on her arm—shestartstoyankatit,andsomethinginhernoseandmouth and she pulls atthat, too. Gagging.Coughing. Suddenlysomeone is there.Holdingher.Pinningherarms.Letme go, she wants to say.
She tries to say it but hervoiceisascratchy,garglingmess. All she hears is avoice:“Shh. Mom. Shhh. It’s
okay. It’s okay.” Temmin.Oh, by all the gods of allthe stars, it’s her son. Heholds her close. She holdshimback.Sheseesnow:She’s ina
white room. Blue skiesoutside. A medical droid
standing off to the side,readytoact.Temmin kisses her
cheek.Shekisseshisbrowwithchappedlips.Norracries.
—
Days later, when she hasher voice back, she sits inthe lounge of the medicalbuilding here in Hanna
City. Out of the glass shecanseethecitythere—andbeyond it, the windsweptmeadows. Chandrila hasbeenapeacefulplace,longseparate from the war. Itseems an artifact out oftime—a souvenir fromsomeotherera.She sits there with two
others:AdmiralAckbar.
And Captain WedgeAntilles.Wedge looksbetter than
she does, though maybenotbymuch.He’swalkingwith a cane right now,thoughhesaysthatshouldchangesoon.Ackbar, for his part,
lookstired.But he looks happy to
seeher,too.
“You’requitesomething,Norra,”Ackbarsays.“Idon’tknowaboutthat,
sir,” she says.Her voice isstillscratchy.Shestillfeelsedgy, touchy. Ever sincethedroidwokeher up outofthatcomawithwhateverthat chemical concoctionwas—she feels like anovercharged battery. Likeshe wants to get up andrun, leap, dance. But her
bodycan’tdothosethings:Shefeelsraw,sore,astiredasanoldmusk-hound.AckbarandWedgeshare
a look. Wedge nods.Ackbar produces a smallbox.“Thisisforyou.”Shegivesaquizzicallook
and takes it. Norrahesitates butWedge urgesheron:“Openit,Norra.”Inside:amedal.
“I already have mine,”she says, “this must be amistake.”“Onecanearnmorethan
a single medal,” Ackbarsays, somewhat gruffly.But his lips twist into astrangesmile.“Youreffortson Akiva have hadtremendouseffect.”“I…hardlyseehow…”“Humility is well and
good but facts perseverebeyond the shadow ofone’sownfeelings,”Ackbarsays. “You saved CaptainAntilles. You helped uscapture two high-valueImperial targets—GeneralJyliaShale,andPalpatine’sadviser Yupe Tashu—andconfirm the deaths of twoothers:MoffValcoPandionand slaver Arsin Crassus.”The way Ackbar says that
word slaver—it drips withrageandcondescension.“Admiral Sloane,”Norra
says.“Whatofher?”Wedge sighs. “We got
herattaché,AdeaRite.Butthe admiral herself gotaway. It’swhyyou’vebeenhere for the lastmonth, ina coma. She blew theshuttleandgotaway inanescape pod.” Norrarealizes: Of course. The
front cockpit of thoseLambda-class shuttlesbecomes the escape craft.She finishes the story forhim:“Letme guess. She took
that escape craft right totheStarDestroyer—”“Andtheytookthatship
tolightspeed.Yes.”She scowls.
Disappointment stabs her
inthegut.Wedge reaches out and
clasps her hands. “We’llfind her. We still tookdown two StarDestroyers.ItwasavictoryfortheNewRepublic.”She nods and forces a
smile. “Thank you,Captain.”“There’s something
else,”Ackbarsays.
“Sir?”“I have more work for
youifyouwantit.”“I…Idon’tknow,sir.My
son.I…”“Just hear me out, will
you?”Shenods.Shelistens.Andintheend,shesays
yes.
—
Akiva. Still hot. Stillmuggy. A storm camethrough the night before,andnowthelandingpadislittered with palm frondsand the fat, broad leavesand crinkly blue blossomsof the asuka trees. Theflowers lie matted againstthe ground, still pretty intheir way, but drownedlooking,too.Norra stands there, a
sackoverhershoulder.Temminstandswithher.
Hehasabagwithhim,too.ANewRepublicflagflies
over this landing pad, anda Corellian corvette roarsoverhead. Akiva: the firstOuter Rim planet toofficially have joined thecontingent of worldspledging themselves to theNewRepublic.Thesatrapssaw the Empire’s betrayal
—and the rage of thepeople of Myrra—anddecided that the only wayto save their skins andtheir rule was to give itover, in part, to theRepublic. (And Norrathanks the stars that thefirst order of businesswasroutingoutcorruptionandcrime—Surat fled, but therestofhisgangwentdown.Many in prison. The rest
went out in what theyprobably thought was ablaze of glory but whatinstead will likely end upas a bloody and brutalfootnote in Akiva’s historybooks.)“Are you sure about
this?”sheasks.“Yeah.I’msure.”“You can stay here. I
understand.”
“I don’t want to stayhere. I thought this placewashome.It’snot.”Shesmiles.“Itstillcould
be.”“You’re my home.
Wherever you go, that’swhereIlive.”Shepullshimclose.He says: “Do you think
we’llfindDadstill?”“It’spossible.Thosedata
cubesyoustolefromSurathad a lot of informationabout the Empire’scriminaldealings.”Jaswasthe one who translatedthem.LookslikeSuratmayhave been collecting thatinformationincaseheeverhad to bargain his way tofreedom with theburgeoning New Republic.Temminstealingthatfromhim bought him the only
chip he had to play. ThearchiveofferedabountyofinformationconnectingtheEmpire with several crimesyndicates across thegalaxy. “The Hutts andother syndicates operatedblack-site prisons for theEmpire. I’m hoping ourjourneys will take usthere.” The holocrons willin part inform their newmission. “But I also don’t
want to promise anything.Not like I did before. Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingtohappenoutthere.Youhavetoknowthat,Temmin.Butwe’lltry.Okay?We’lltry.”“I know.” He looks up.
“Hey,here’sourride.”A ship drifts down, its
twin engines pivoting andfiringagainstthegroundtoslow its ascent. It’s an SS-54assaultship.Ontheside
is the scratched-uppainting of a little tookadoll holding a sharp knife.Thewordsthatwereaboveit are mostly gone, exceptfortwo:PLAYNICE.Itsettlesdown,andonce
it does, three people stepoff.Jasisfirstofftheship,craning her neck andcracking her knuckles.Sinjir follows after. He’s
still got that rough-hewnedge.Hisscruffhasgrownout a bit more. Thoughthat Imperial vibe stillhangs about him like amiasma.Last off, a man with
thick muttonchops thatconnect to a bushymustache. Arm in a cast,blaster at his side.Helmetpalmedinhishand.He steps off and heads
rightforNorra,handout.“Norra Wexley, I’m
guessing?”heasks.“Jom Barell,” she says,
shaking his hand. “Apleasure to meet youfinally. I just want to sayagain I appreciate youfightingthefightonMyrra.I had thought all of youSpecForce guys and girlsdied that day. I’m happy Iwas wrong and thanks for
takingtheinitiative.”Temmin walks past and
mutters: “Though youalmostkilledus.”“Yourboy?”heasks.“Myboy,”shesays.TemmingivesJasahug.
Then gives Sinjir a punchtothearm.Norra calls after:
“Temmin, I think you’reforgettingsomething.”
“Oh! Yeah.” He sticksboth fingers in his mouthand whistles. “Yo. Bones!Let’sroll.”From far off the field,
Mister Bones jerks hisheadup.Thedroid,whichTemminandNorra rebuilttogether from scrap inEsmelle and Shirene’sbasement over the lastweek—a “family project,”she said—waves. In one
hand, a flower. In theother,ablaster.“ROGER-ROGER!”The battle droid jogs
past, leaving small cratersinthelandingfield.WhichtellsNorratheystillhavealittle work to do on hispneumatics.Jas and Sinjir come up
toher.Jas says: “So, we ready
tohuntsomeImperialwarcriminals?”“Oh,Iguess,”Sinjirsays,
pouting. “I like to pretendwe’re going to be huntingdown dangerous prey, butmost likely we’re going tobe chasing a bunch ofpudgy Imperialaccountants acrossbackwaterworlds.”“Duty calls,”Norra says.
“I’mgladyouallanswered
it with me. I didn’t thinkyou’d go for it. Ackbarsuggested we all worktogether again and…Ithoughthewascrazy.”“There’s money,” Jas
sayswithashrug.“And there’s drink,”
Sinjiradds.Jom frowns. “Oh, this is
going to be fun. Come on.Thejobawaits.”
Norrasmiles.Temmin stands on the
ramp of Jas’s ship. Hewaves.Shewavesbackandheadsaboard, ready toseewhere the next adventuretakesthem.
“What’s your name? Yourrank?”Oliaasks.The man at the head of
the prisoner processionseems taken aback. “I’mCorporalArgell.Camerand
Argell. M…ma’am. Youare?”But she doesn’t answer.
Insteadshedemands:“What is this?” She
gestures to the lineup ofprisoners.Imperialsstillinuniform, partly:stormtroopers in theirunderclothes, officers intheirgraysandblacks.Notabiggroup:justadozenorso.
“I feel like…that’sobvious. Prisoners.” Hecontinues, lookingnervously over to Lug theTrandoshan, standingtherewiththecamera.“Wecaptured a small holdoutgarrison down onCoruscant.They’regoingtobestationedhereatoneofthe camps andCommander Rohr thoughtit prudent to parade this
lot about a bit given the…the, ahhh, the triumph ofthe day and all that.” Heblinks.“AmIoncamera?”“Youare,”shesays,“and
this isn’t right. Take thesementowhere theybelong.They’re not cattle. They’renotaprize!”“Butweshouldbeproud
ofwinningthiswar…”“Nobody should be
proud of war, Corporal.Nobody. This isn’t a thingwe do because we likewinning. Because of whatglory it is to subjugateanybody.Wedoitbecausewewant tobeontherightside of things. This…” Shefritters her hands in theair, trying (and failing,somewhat) to contain heranger. “This kind of thingis what the Empire would
do. March their prisonersaround—a display to rilethe blood of the faithful.Wedon’tdothat.Wehavetobebetterthanthat.Nodifyouunderstandme.”Hesitantly, he nods. “Of
course.Ma’am.”“Good. Good. Go on
now.Tellyourcommanderplanschanged.”Argell swallows visibly
and gives an awkwardwave to the camera. Thenhesnakesback thewayhecame, bringing the line ofprisoners with him. Oliastandsthere,fuming.Traceneapproaches.The
cameraisstillon.She puts a hand on the
Pantoran’s shoulder. Asmall gesture, but enough:Olia lets out a captivebreath.
“That was something,too.You’reactuallygoodatthis.”Olia smiles stiffly. “We
just need to do better. Allofus.Ifwe’regoingtokeepthis up, we need to do itright.”“Are you worried that
theNewRepublicwillgetitwrong?Thatthesethings—theprotestor, theorphans,the parade of prisoners—
arewarningsigns?WilltheNewRepublicsurvive?”Olia turns. She lifts her
chin. She speaks withauthority.“This isdemocracy,” she
says. “It is strange. And itis messy. It’s not aboutgetting it right. It’s abouttrying to get it right. Yes,it’s a bit chaotic. Certainlywe will get some thingswrong. The Empire? They
cared nothing fordemocracy. They valuedorder above everythingelse. They wanted to berightsobadlythatanybodywhoevenhintedatgettingit wrong or doing itdifferently was brandedtheenemyandthrowninadark prison somewhere.They destroyed othervoices so that only theirown remained.That isnot
us.Wewill not always getitright.Wewillneverhaveit perfect. But we willlisten. To the countlessvoicescryingoutacrossthegalaxy,wehaveopenedourears, and we will alwayslisten. That is howdemocracy survives. Thatis how it thrives. Look.There.”Shepoints.And now, a new
procession:Senators. A hundred of
them, maybe more. Fromsystems all across thegalaxy—even a few fromthe Outer Rim now.Marching toward the oldChandrila Senate house.Small crowds of citizensgathering, applauding,whistling.It’sjustastart.Ahumble new beginning.Butthereitis.
Oliasmiles.“Thatisdemocracy.That
istheNewRepublic.Andifyou’llexcuseme,wehaveagreat deal of work to do.MaytheForcebewithyou,Tracene.”The newswoman smiles.
“Knock’emdead,Olia.”
EPILOGUE
Raestandsonthebridgeofthe Ravager. There,staring out the window atthe glowing VulpinusNebula, is the fleetadmiral.His hands behind his
back. Humming a little.Something classical.Something from the OldRepublic days. She listensa little: the Sestina ofImperatorVex,maybe.“Sir,”shesays.Heholdsuphisfinger.A
sign for patience. Hecontinues humming, hishead swaying, until itreaches a small crescendo.Then, without turning
toward her, he lowers hisfingerandsays:“Yes,AdmiralSloane?”“Something I’ve been
wantingtoaskyou.”“You may always speak
franklywithme.”Heturnsto face her. Hiscountenance is cold. Hisstare, scrutinizing. Likeshe’s wet, fresh meat andhe’s picking her apart to
look for the tastiest bits.“Please.”“Thesummit.OnAkiva.”“Dreadfulthing.”“It did not go as
planned.” She hesitates.“Though now I’m not sosure. Did you…plan for ittogothatway?”Hesmiles.“Explain.”“I’ve…been thinking.
Everything happened so
fast. Faster than it shouldhave. Faster than anytimeline predicted. And Iwondered: Did we havesomeoneinourmidstwhosummoned the rebels? Iwent and I looked and Ifound…communications.From an encryptedchannel on this very ship.Sentouttowhatappearstobearebelfrequency.”“Enlighten me. Why
would I have cause to dothat?”She hesitates. “I’ve been
thinking about that. Iwould guess…to eliminatecompetition.”“Aninterestingtheory.”“I’m more interested if
it’s an accurate one,Admiral.”He takes her hand and
givesitasqueeze.“Itwasa
test.”“Icouldhavediedthere.
On Akiva. Or been takencaptive.”“But that did not
happen. You were notcaptured. And you remainalive.Youaremybestandmy brightest, and that iswhyyoupassed this test. Ineedpeoplelikeyou.”This, a question she
hates to ask: “And if Ihadn’tsurvived?”“Thenmyassessmentof
you would’ve been wrong.You would not have beenmy best andmy brightest.It’s like the others.Pandion, Shale, and soforth.Theywereweak.Sickanimals that had to beculledfromtheherd.Theydid not pass the test andnowtheyarenoburdento
us.”She tries to repress a
shiver.“Here,” he continues,
pointingoutattheglowingred bands of the VulpinusNebula—the swoopingwhorls of crimson cloudsandthestarsbeyondthem.“Lookoutthere.Thatisnolongerourgalaxy.”“Admiral, we have not
lostyet.”“Oh, but we have. I see
the dismay in your eyes,but this is no cause fordespair, Admiral Sloane.Thisishowitmustbe.TheEmpire became this…ugly,inelegant machine. Crudeandinefficient.Weneededto be broken into pieces.We needed to get rid ofthosewhowanttoseethatold machine churning
ineluctably forward. It’stime for something better.Something new. AnEmpire worthy of thegalaxyitwillrule.”Sloane doesn’t know
whattofeel.Rightnowit’ssomestrangemixofterror,disgust,butalso?Hope.Didhetrytobetrayher?Orwas it truly a test he
expectedhertopass?
All she manages to sayright now is: “Of course,Admiral.”“Now, if youwill excuse
me?Ihavethinkingtodo.”He gently touches her
shoulder—a seeminglywarmgesture,untilheusesit to turn her around andsendSloaneonherway.
ToTracyfortakingmetoseemyfirstStarWars
movie(TheEmpireStrikesBackatadrive-in
theater!).
ToMomforbuyingmeallthosesweetKennertoys.
ToMichelleandtoBenforgoingalongonthiscrazy
speederridewithmeandmakingittentimesas
awesomeasitalreadyis.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ThewriterislikeHanSolo:captainoftheshipbutlostwithout a crew to man it.AndsoImustacknowledgethose folks who have
helped make this bookhappen: Shelly Shapiro,Jen Heddle, Gary Whitta,Jason Fry, David Keck,Pablo Hidalgo, and myagent, Stacia Decker.Thanks,too,tosomeofmywriter pals who keep mesane: folks like KevinHearne, Delilah S.Dawson, StephenBlackmoore, Ty Franck,Adam Christopher, Julie
Hutchings,MurLafferty,J.C. Hutchins, and SamSykes.ThanksfinallytotheStarWars fan communityfor having funwithmeonTwitter (GeekGirlDiva, I’mlookin’atyou).Thanks, in fact, to all of
Twitter because withoutsocialmedia, I don’t thinkIwouldhaveevergottentowritethisbook.*clinks my glass of blue
milkagainstyours*
BY CHUCK WENDIG
STAR WARS
Aftermath
THE HEARTLANDTRILOGY
Underthe
EmpyreanSkyBlightbornTheHarvest
MIRIAM BLACK
BlackbirdsMockingbirdTheCormorant
Zer0esTheBlueBlazes
TheKick-AssWriter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHUCK WENDIG is anovelist, screenwriter, andgame designer. He’s theauthor of many novels,including Blackbirds,AtlantaBurns,Zer0es,andthe YA Heartland series.Heisco-writeroftheshort
film Pandemic and theEmmy-nominated digitalnarrative Collapsus. Hecurrently lives in theforests of Pennsyltuckywith wife, son, and reddog.
terribleminds.com
FindChuckWendigonFacebook
@ChuckWendig
The rain on HaidoralPrime dropped in warmsheets from a shining sky.It smelled like vinegar,clungtothemoldedcurvesof modular industrialbuildings and to litter-strewn streets, and coatedskin like a sheen of acridsweat.After thirty straight
standard hours, it was
losing its novelty for thesoldiers of TwilightCompany.Threefigurescreptalong
adeserted avenueunder atorn and dripping canopy.The lean, compactman inthe lead was dressed infaded gray fatigues and ahodgepodgeofarmorpadscrudely stenciled with thestarbird symbol of theRebel Alliance. Matted
dark hair dripped beneathhisvisoredhelmet,sendingcrawlingtrailsofrainwaterdownhisduskyface.His name was Hazram
Namir, though he’d goneby others. He silentlycursed urban warfare andHaidoral Prime andwhichever laws ofatmospheric science madeit rain. The thought ofsleepflashedintohismind
andbrokeagainstawallofstubbornness.Hegesturedwithariflethickerthanhisarm toward the nearestintersection, thenquickenedhispace.Somewhere in the
distance a swift series ofblaster shots resounded,followed by shouts andsilence.Thefigureclosestbehind
Namir—a tall man with
graying hair and a facepuckeredwithscartissue—bounded across the streetto take up a positionopposite. The third figure,amassiveformhuddledina tarp likeahoodedcloak,remainedbehind.Thescarredmanflashed
a hand signal. Namirturnedthecornerontotheintersectingstreet.Adozenmeters away, the sodden
lumpsofhumanbodieslayin the road. They woretattered rain gear—sleek,lightweight wraps andsandals—and carried noweapons.Noncombatants.It’s a shame, Namir
thought, but not a badsign. The Empire didn’tshoot civilians wheneverything was undercontrol.“Charmer—takea look?”
Namir indicated thebodies. The scarred manstrode over as Namirtapped his comlink.“Sector secure,” he said.“What’sontapnext?”The response came in a
hiss of static throughNamir’s earpiece—something about mop-upoperations. Namir missedhaving a communicationsspecialistonstaff.Twilight
Company’s lastcommtechhad been a drunk and amisanthrope, but she’dbeen magic with atransmitter and she’dwritten obscene poetrywith Namir on late, dullnights. She and her idiotdroid had died in thebombardment onAsyrphus.“Sayagain,”Namirtried.
“Arewereadytoload?”
This time the answercame through clearly.“Supportteamsarecratingup food and equipment,”the voice said. “If you’vegot a lead on medicalsupplies, we’d love morefor the Thunderstrike.Otherwise, get to therendezvous—we only havea few hours beforereinforcementsshow.”“Tell support to grab
hygiene items this time,”Namir said. “Anyone whosays they’re luxuriesneedstosmellthebarracks.”Therewasanotherburst
of static, and maybe alaugh. “I’ll let them know.Staysafe.”Charmer was finishing
his study of the bodies,checking each for aheartbeat andidentification. He shook
his head, silent, as hestraightened.“Atrocity.” The hulking
figurewrapped in the tarphad finally approached.His voice was deep andresonant.Twomeaty,four-fingered hands kept thetarp clasped at hisshoulders, while a secondpair of hands looselycarried a massive blastercannon at waist level.
“How can anyone born offleshdothis?”Charmer bit his lip.
Namirshrugged.“Could’vebeencombatdroids,forallweknow.”“Unlikely,” the hulking
figure said. “But if so,responsibility belongs tothe governor.” He kneltbeside one of the corpsesand reached out to lid itseyes.Eachofhishandswas
as large as thedeadman’shead.“Come on, Gadren,”
Namirsaid. “Someonewillfindthem.”Gadren stayed kneeling.
Charmeropenedhismouthto speak, then shut it.Namir wondered whethertopushthepointand,ifso,howhard.Then the wall next to
him exploded, and hestopped worrying aboutGadren.Fire and metal shards
and grease and insulationpelted his spine. Hecouldn’t hear and couldn’tguess how he ended up inthe middle of the roadamong the bodies, one legbent beneath him.Somethingtackywasstucktohischinandhishelmet’s
visor was cracked; he hadenough presence of mindto feel luckyhehadn’t lostaneye.Suddenlyhewasmoving
again.Hewasupright,andhands—Charmer’s hands—were dragging himbackward, clasping himbelow the shoulders. Hesnarledthenativecursesofhis homeworld as a redstorm of particle bolts
flashedamongthefireanddebris. By the time he’dpushedCharmerawayandwobbledontohisfeet,he’dtraced the bolts to theirsource.Four Imperial
stormtroopersstoodat themouth of an alley up thestreet. Their deathly palearmorgleamedintherain,and the black eyepieces oftheir helmets gaped like
pits. Their weapons shonewith oil and machinedcare, as if the squad hadsteppedfullyformedoutofamold.Namirtorehisgazefrom
the enemy long enough tosee that his back was to astorefront window filledwith video screens. Heraised his blaster rifle,fired at the display, thenclimbed in among the
shards. Charmer followed.The storefront wouldn’tgive them cover for long—certainly not if thestormtroopers firedanother rocket—but itwouldhavetobeenough.“Checkforawayuptop,”
Namiryelled,andhisvoicesounded faint and tinny.Hecouldn’thearthestormof blaster bolts at all. “Weneed covering fire!” Not
looking to see if Charmerobeyed, he dropped to thefloor as the stormtroopersadjusted their aim to thestore.Hecouldn’tspotGadren,
either. He ordered thealienintopositionanyway,hoping he was alive andthat the comlinks stillworked. He lined his rifleunder his chin, fired twicein the direction of the
stormtroopers, and wasrewarded with a momentofpeace.“I need you on target,
Brand,”hegrowledintohislink. “I need you herenow.”If anyone answered, he
couldn’thearit.Now he glimpsed the
stormtrooper carrying themissile launcher. The
trooperwasstillreloading,which meant Namir hadhalf a minute at mostbefore the storefront cametumbling down on top ofhim. He took a few quickshots and saw one of theother troopers fall, thoughhe doubted he’d hit histarget. He guessedCharmer had found avantagepointafterall.Three stormtroopers
remained.Onewasmovingaway from the alley whiletheother stayed toprotectthe artilleryman. Namirshot wildly at the onemoving into the street,watched him skid and fallto a knee, and smiledgrimly. There wassomethingsatisfyingaboutseeing a trainedstormtrooper humiliatehimself. Namir’s own side
diditoftenenough.Jerky movements drew
Namir’s attention back tothe artilleryman. Behindthe stormtrooper stoodGadren, both sets of armsgrippingandliftinghisfoe.Human limbs flailed andthemissile launcher fell tothe ground. White armorseemed to crumple in thealien’s hands. Gadren’smakeshifthoodblewback,
exposing his head: abrown, bulbous,widemouthedmasstoppedwithadarkercrestofbone,like some amphibian’snightmareidol.Thesecondtrooper in thealley turnedto face Gadren and waspromptly slammed to thegroundwithhis comrade’sbody before Gadrencrushed them both,howlinginrageorgrief.
NamirtrustedGadrenasmuchashetrustedanyone,butthereweretimeswhenthealienterrifiedhim.The last stormtrooper
wasstilldowninthestreet.Namir fired until flameslicked a burnt and meltedhole in the man’s armor.Namir, Charmer, andGadren gathered backaround the bodies andassessed their own
injuries.Namir’s hearing was
coming back. The damageto his helmet extended farbeyond the visor—a crackextendedalongitslength—andhefoundashallowcutacross his forehead whenhetossedthehelmettothestreet. Charmer waspicking shards of shrapnelfromhisvestbutmadenocomplaints. Gadren was
shiveringinthewarmrain.“No Brand?” Gadren
asked.Namironlygrunted.Charmer laughed his
weird,hiccupinglaughandspoke. He swallowed thewords twice, three, fourtimes as he went, halfstuttering as he had eversince the fight onBlacktarCyst. “Keep piling bodies
like this,” he said, “we’llhavethebestvantagepointinthecity.”He gestured at Namir’s
last target, who had fallendirectly onto one of theciviliancorpses.“You’re a sick man,
Charmer,”Namirsaid,andswung an arm roughlyaround his comrade’sshoulders. “I’ll miss youwhentheybootyouout.”
Gadren grunted andsniffed behind them. Itmight have been dismay,butNamir chose to take itasmirth.
—
Officially, the city wasHaidoral AdministrativeCenter One, but localscalled it “Glitter” after thecrystalline mountains that
limned the horizon. InNamir’s experience, whatthe Galactic Empire didn’tname to inspire terror—itsstormtrooper legions, itsStar Destroyer battleships—ittriedtorenderasdrabas possible. This didn’tbother Namir, but hewasn’tamongtheresidentsof the planets and citiesbeinglabeled.Half a dozen Rebel
squadshadalreadyarrivedat the central plaza whenNamir’s teammarched in.The rain had condensedinto mist, and the plaza’stents and canopies offeredlittle shelter; nonetheless,menandwomeninraggedarmor squeezed into thedriest corners they couldfind, grumbling to oneanother or tending tominor wounds and
damaged equipment. Asvictory celebrations went,itwassubdued.Ithadbeena long fight for littlemorethan the promise of a fewfreshmeals.“Stop admiring
yourselves and dosomething useful,” Namirbarked, barely breakingstride. “Support teamscanuse a hand if you’re toogoodtoplaygreeter.”
He barely noticed thesquads stir in response.Instead, his attentionshifted to a womanemerging from theshadows of a speederstand. She was tall andthickly built, dressed inrugged pants and a bulkymaroon jacket. A scopedrifle was slung over hershoulder, and the armormesh of a retracted face
maskcoveredherneckandchin. Her skin was gentlycreased with age and asdark as a human’s couldbe, her hair was croppedclose toher scalp, and shedidn’tsomuchasglanceatNamirasshearrivedathissideandmatchedhispacethroughtheplaza.“You want to tell me
where you were?” Namirasked.
“You missed the secondfireteam.Itookcareofit,”Brandsaid.Namir kept his voice
cool.“Dropmeahintnexttime?”“You didn’t need the
distraction.”Namir laughed. “Love
you,too.”Brand cocked her head.
If she got the joke—and
Namir expected she did—she wasn’t amused. “Sowhatnow?”sheasked.“We’ve got eight hours
before we leave thesystem,” Namir said, andstoppedwithhisbacktoanoverturned kiosk. Heleaned against the metalframe and stared into themist. “Less if Imperialshipscomebefore then,orif the governor’s forces
regroup. After that, we’lldivvy up the supplieswiththerestofthebattlegroup.Probably keep an escortship or two for theThunderstrike before theotherssplitoff.”“And we abandon this
sector to the Empire,”Brandsaid.By this time Charmer
had wandered off, andGadren had joined the
circle with Namir andBrand.“Wewillreturn,”hesaidgravely.“Right,” Namir said,
smirking. “Something tolookforwardto.”He knew they were the
wrongwords at thewrongtime.Eighteenmonthsearlier,
the Rebel Alliance’s Sixty-First Mobile Infantry—
commonly known asTwilight Company—hadjoined the push into thegalactic Mid Rim. Theoperation was among thelargest the Rebellion hadever fielded against theEmpire, involvingthousands of starships,hundreds of battle groups,and dozens of worlds. InthewakeoftheRebellion’svictory against the
Empire’s planet-burningDeath Star battle station,High Command hadbelievedthetimewasrighttomovefromthefringesofImperial territory towarditspopulationcenters.Twilight Company had
fought in the factory-desertsofPhorsaGeddandtaken the Ducal Palace ofBamayar. It hadestablishedbeachheadsfor
rebel hovertanks anderected bases from tarpsand sheet metal. Namirhad seen soldiers loselimbs and go weekswithout proper treatment.He’d trained teams toconstruct makeshiftbayonets when blasterpowerpacksran low.He’dset fire to cities andwatchedtheEmpiredothesame. He’d left friends
behind on broken worlds,knowing he’d never seethemagain.On planet after planet,
Twilight had fought.Battles were won andbattles were lost, andNamir stopped keepingscore.Twilightremainedatthe Rebellion’s vanguard,forging ahead of the bulkof the armada, until wordcame down from High
Commandninemonthsin:The fleet wasoverextended.Therewastobe no further advance—only defense of the newlyclaimedterritories.Not long after that, the
retreatbegan.Twilight Company had
becometherearguardofamassive withdrawal. Itdeployed to worlds it hadhelped capture mere
months earlier andevacuated the bases it hadbuilt. It extracted theRebellion’s heroes andgenerals and pointed thewayhome.Itmarchedoverthe graves of its owndeadsoldiers. Some of thecompany lost hope. Somebecameangry.No one wanted to go
back.