Aftermath: Star Wars Page 16

  Norra wants to keep fighting him, but she bites her tongue. He’s as stubborn as she is. Pushing him is like punching a wall. She’ll only break her hand trying.

  Sinjir says to the boy, “That was your droid, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was a battle droid.”

  “I know.”

  “They’re the most inept fighting unit in…perhaps the history of the galaxy. And trust me, stormtroopers are basically just overturned mop buckets with guns, especially these days.”

  “Do not sell the stormtroopers short,” Jas snaps. “In number, they are dangerous.”

  “So are swamp buffalo,” Sinjir says. “It doesn’t mean they’re particularly effective. Battle droids, even less so. Kudos to you, young man. Turning one of them into a…bona fide war machine?” Sinjir softly applauds. “Though I think it’s wise to prepare for the eventuality that they overwhelmed him. He’s a battle droid, not a technological miracle.”

  “Yeah, well.” Temmin stands there, looking surly, sipping his drink. “You don’t know borcat scat from dewback dung, pal. Mister Bones is programmed with…well, just trust me. Mister Bones will be just fine.” Norra watches her son—the way he stands with his fists balled up. His brow furrowed. He’s angry. Like she was…and maybe still is, she admits to herself. But then his eyes narrow and he looks down at the table. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing,” Sinjir says.

  “It’s a map,” Temmin says. And Norra swells with small pride. A pride that grows as Temmin adds: “What’s this? The satrap’s palace?”

  “By all the damned stars,” Sinjir says. “Like mother, like son.”

  The boy frowns at that. Norra feels stung.

  Jas Emari then jumps in with both feet: “Right now, at that palace—provided we have not missed our opportunity—a secret meeting is taking place. At this meeting are a small number of very important individuals within the Imperial ranks. Movers and shakers. High bounty values.” She lists those individuals: Moff Valco Pandion, Admiral Rae Sloane, Adviser Yupe Tashu, General Jylia Shale, and the bounty hunter’s original target, the banker and slaver: Arsin Crassus.

  “That’s it,” Norra says, snapping her fingers. Part of her feels like she should’ve figured this out already, but then another part of her—a realistic side or maybe just the cynical side—says she’s just some pilot, how would she have known? Still. “It all adds up. The Star Destroyers. The blockade. The comm blackout. They’re protecting this meeting. And Wedge…”

  The Zabrak raises an eyebrow. “What is a ‘Wedge’?”

  “Wedge Antilles,” Sinjir says. “Right? Pilot for the Rebel Alliance?”

  Norra nods. “Yes. How did you know?”

  The man hesitates. “I’m…a rebel, too.”

  That strikes her as odd. He is dressed a bit like one. But something about him feels off, somehow. Still—the rebellion is home to all kinds.

  Norra continues: “They must have him. Wedge. He was probably scouting the Outer Rim and ran afoul of…whatever this is.”

  “He’s probably still alive,” Jas says. “Which means you have an opportunity. Help me. We will strike a blow for your New Republic. We will undo the efforts of the Empire, cutting their hamstrings just as they’re relearning how to stand. You will rescue your friend.”

  Again, duty swarms Norra. The chance to do right. But the opposing feeling rises true, too—for once, she just wants to keep her head down, her chin to her chest, and duck all incoming fire. She doesn’t want to fly into the belly of the beast. Not this time.

  “No,” she says, staring down below her darkening brow. “The best way forward is to get off this planet. Soon as we get into comm range, we alert the Republic, they send in ships and troops and—”

  The bounty hunter interrupts: “Wrong. By then the meeting will have concluded—if it hasn’t already. And your friend will either be gone or dead. The way forward is now. The work is ours to do.”

  “I’m in,” Temmin says. “But I want a cut.”

  “Young man,” Sinjir says, chuckling. “Let’s not overreach. We dutifully saved your little can from getting kicked—”

  “Fine,” Jas Emari says to the boy. “You can have half of his cut.” She tilts her thorny head, gesturing toward Sinjir.

  Sinjir objects: “Hey!”

  “You’ll still get passage off this planet,” the Zabrak woman says. She gives a haughty little flip—the ax-blade slice of hair between her thorns suddenly falls to the side of her scalp. “And the bounty is significant enough that even a fraction will buy you enough otherworldly liquors to keep you pickled until the New Republic once more becomes the Old Republic. Take the deal or leave it.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Norra says.

  “I could use your help. I bet your friend could, as well.”

  Norra hesitates. It’s like being a kid again and jumping off one of the waterfalls in Akar Canyon. She literally has to hold her breath before she says: “I’m in. But I want passage off this planet, too.”

  “Done,” Jas says. “Now I think we should—”

  Wham wham wham.

  The whole house shakes. Someone’s at the door. As Jas pulls her blaster, the memory once more comes rushing back to meet Norra, coming at her as fast as the silver water after jumping off one of those waterfalls—that sound, fists pounding on the door. The sound of Imperials coming to take her husband away.

  Around the table sit three figures of flesh and blood and two holograms. Those present: Admiral Ackbar, Commander Kyrsta Agate, and Captain Saff Melor. The two holograms: General Crix Madine, and the newly appointed chancellor of the New Republic, Mon Mothma. All of them look tired and worried. Ackbar suspects he appears much the same. Everything feels to him on a pivot—balanced on the blade of a knife. Like it could go one way. Or with the barest breeze, it could fall back to the other side. A razor’s edge of possibility, good and bad.

  “Are we sure we can trust this informant?” Madine says. He scratches at his prodigious white beard. The lines in his face, seen even here in hologram, appear deeper than ever.

  “So far,” Agate answers, “all signs point to yes.”

  Ackbar interjects: “But we also must recognize the Empire’s ability to play the long game. Our victory over Endor was fortunate, but the Empire orchestrated that trap with great patience.”

  “Send in a fleet,” Melor says. The Cerean captain carries a certain haughtiness with him. His head—tall and ridged, a frustrated and dubious brow that extends upward to demonstrate excess incredulity. “Two light cruisers, a contingent of fighters from Gold Squadron, and see what’s there. If there’s a fight, the fleet will be ready for it.”

  Mon Mothma speaks: “We must be cautious. Inroads to the Outer Rim are slow. Further, this is a time of relative peace, but that peace rests uncomfortably on very unstable ground. An incursion of that magnitude could be seen as overly aggressive. We must be seen as friends, not intruders. Occupying the airspace over Akiva could be trouble.”

  Melor shakes his head. “Chancellor—and congratulations, by the way—Akiva is, with all due respect, no feather in anyone’s cap. It is a marginal planet at best, and the satrapy is in the Empire’s pocket. They produce resources we do not require and the old droid factory beneath the city has been out of use for decades. As such, Akiva offers us very little strategic advantage or concern—”

  “But the people there are our concern,” Mon Mothma says. Ackbar detects that her hackles have been raised. Melor does that, sometimes. He’s from a military family and though he carries some of that Cerean intellectual arrogance, his aggression is well known. Mon continues: “And we have intelligence that suggests our messaging has gotten through there. The people are ready for a change. The New Republic is that change.”

  Melor starts to speak, but once more, Ackbar interjects: “I am in accord with the chancellor here. This is a fragile peace. And we must be wary of any
ruse set before us. General Madine, do you think you could put together a strike team? Small. Five to seven Republic soldiers.”

  “I think that’s doable. You want them on the ground?”

  “Mm-hmm,” Ackbar says. “A suborbital landing squad. Special forces. Drop from high atmosphere. We need reports from on the ground. This seems the most opportune way to do it. Small but effective. Can we all agree on that?” Nods all around except from Melor—the captain frowns, puckering his lips as if he’s about to object. But then he sighs and nods, as well. “Good. Let’s get this in motion. I want boots on the ground in six hours. Sooner if we can manage it. Thank you, all.”

  Jas wings the door open. Blaster up.

  A droid stands there in the early-morning rain.

  It’s a B1 battle droid. The B1 battle droid—the bodyguard Temmin calls Mister Bones. Rain hits the servomotor in its exposed skull, sparking and turning to steam as it does. Temmin rushes past Jas.

  The droid, painted red and black, laughs maniacally: a warped, mechanized sound. It raises its one arm (the other is now missing), and all the little animal bones that dangle from it rattle and clack.

  The droid gives a robot thumbs-up.

  “Bones!” Temmin says, throwing his arms around the droid.

  “I PERFORMED VIOLENCE,” the droid warbles. Jas wonders if that’s pride she hears in the thing’s discordant voice. “ROGER-ROGER.”

  Then a shower of sparks erupts from its head. Its eyes go dark.

  It falls to the side like a felled tree.

  Temmin makes a sad sound in the back of his throat. Sinjir peeks past and says: “I think that thing has seen better days, boy.”

  “Quiet,” the kid snaps. “You’ll hurt his feelings. He just needs work. Help me get him inside.”

  —

  “It’s night, you know,” comes a voice.

  Wedge, magnetically shackled to the table, startles awake. The dream he was in—a dream of being out in space in a broken fighter, the oxygen failing, his astromech blown to slag, the ship drifting through the void—falls apart in his hands like wet sand gone suddenly dry.

  The voice. It’s coming from the strange man—the man whose age is hard to tell, the one with the dark striations that aren’t quite wrinkles. With the beady eyes and serpent’s smile.

  The one who cuts Wedge with the knife.

  Right now, though, he sees no knife. Just the man clasping his hands within the bundled, puffy sleeves of his robe.

  “You here for more torture? I won’t break.”

  The man’s spooky smile never wavers. “I know. I can see that. I can see your vitality will never waver.” He thrusts up a finger, as if having an epiphany. But the epiphany is not his own—rather, he seems to wish to deliver one. “Did you know that Sith Lords could sometimes drain the Force energy from their captives? Siphoning life from them and using it to strengthen their connection to the dark side? Extending their own lives, as well, so that they could live for centuries beyond their intended expiration?”

  “You fancy yourself some kind of wizard?”

  The man tut-tut-tuts. “Hardly. I am Tashu. Merely a historian. An eager student of the old ways. And, until recently, an adviser to Palpatine.”

  “My friend Luke told me some things about him.”

  Tashu’s grin broadens. Showing off his too-white teeth.

  “Yes, I imagine he did. Seen through the lens of a confused, naïve boy, most assuredly.” His fingers pluck at the air like a spider testing its webs. “I know I won’t break you physically.”

  “So why come here at all?”

  “To keep you from sleeping well. And to help break you mentally. It may not yield us any information. But I like to practice.”

  “I’m a pilot. I’m used to not sleeping.”

  “Yes, but you’re not used to hopelessness. Look around. You’re locked away. Tortured without function. The Empire even now is resurging here in this very palace. Your New Republic has a moment to breathe and gain its footing—but we have a war machine. We have the blessings of the dark side. And even if your people continue to march forward, reclaiming system after system—we will be waiting. In some form or another. The Empire is just a skin we wear, you see. A shell. It’s not just about law and order. It’s about total control. We will always come back for it. No matter how hard you work to beat us back, we are an infection inside the galaxy’s bones. And we will always surge forth when you least expect it.”

  “You’re wrong,” Wedge says, gritting his teeth. “The galaxy is home to good people. There’s more of us than there are of you.”

  “It’s not about numbers or percentages. It’s about faith. The few of us have infinitely more faith than the many of you.”

  “I have faith in the New Republic.”

  Tashu chuckles. “And that faith will be tested.”

  “Your face will be tested when I kick in your teeth.”

  “There it is,” Tashu says, snapping his fingers so hard it sounds like a bird’s neck breaking. “A vital spike of anger and hate. Born of the hopelessness I’ve planted in you. A terrible little seed. I can’t wait for it to grow its wretched tree and bear its ugly fruit.”

  Lightning flashes, and the fight continues. On the roof of the old holoplex, against the backdrop of a bright, gaudy, ever-shifting billboard of advertisements, two men battle. They’ve been here for so long now, all sense of time has escaped them. They’re tired. Bedraggled. Soaked by the rains that came through and have gone again.

  But they keep going at it.

  The older one—thick, slovenly, his body encased in loose rust-red armor, his head swaddled in rain-sodden wraps—circles. Both of his hands up in clublike fists. A line of blood snakes from his nose, and he licks it away, then grins like a drunk.

  “We can quit this charade anytime, mate,” Dengar growls. “We can sit down, have a proper pint somewhere, talk over the agreement.”

  “No agreement,” says the other man—the one who calls himself Mercurial Swift. He’s young. Agile. No armor at all. Dark hair now plastered to his pale brow. In his hands, a pair of batons. He gives them a twirl. “You gotta give this up, Dengar. You’re reaching past the stars on this one. A fool’s crusade—”

  At that, Dengar rushes in again. Swinging fists like hammers. Like he doesn’t just want to punch the younger, faster man, but wants to pulp him like a fruit for his morning juice. Mercurial catches a fist to his collarbone, and pain shoots up his neck and down his arm. One of his batons clatters against the rooftop, splashing into a puddle.

  Mercurial cartwheels the other way. When Dengar moves to follow, the younger bounty hunter ducks, and pistons the end of his baton in the gap between Dengar’s armor plates—right into his ribs.

  The older thug howls and staggers back, clutching his side.

  His smile is somehow a scowl at the same time. “Join me. You’re good. You’re fast. But dumb. Real dumb. Just look at you. Green as fresh doaki spice. You need a…guiding hand.”

  “From you?” Mercurial asks with a coughing scoff. “I can’t see that happening, old man.” Another flash of lightning. No thunder. “Don’t you get it? I got into this gig because I like being alone. I like the rogue thing.” He laughs: a curiously melodic sound. “I didn’t become a bounty hunter so I could join a club, eh?”

  Dengar begins to circle again.

  Mercurial circles the other way. Toward his lost baton.

  “We’ve always been a club!” Dengar shouts.

  “Maybe that’s what’s been holding you back. Other hunters always scooping up the bounties before you. Beating you to the punch.” There. At Mercurial’s feet—the baton. He kicks it up into his hand.

  “Oh ho ho, you think I’ve lost a step, huh?”

  “Can’t lose a step you never had!”

  Dengar guffaws. “You little scrap-muncher. I was putting away bounties while you were still in your space diapers.”

  “What’s it say about you that you’re still i
n your space diapers?”

  “You don’t much like me, do you?”

  “You want it point-blank? You’re a strange, gross old man. Heart to the moon, truth on my sleeve? Nobody’s ever liked you.”

  There. That got him. Dengar’s like a crazy beast—you just have to wave the right bait in front of his nose to get him to charge. And charge he does, thundering forward like a starving pack animal.

  But then, at the last moment, he jukes left. The older bounty hunter dives across the roof and tucks into a roll. When he springs back up on the other side, he spins around—and his particle array gun is in his hand. Ready to scatter Mercurial’s atoms across the flashing billboard.

  Again, the fight pauses. Mercurial with his hands up. Dengar on one knee with the wide mouth of the array gun pointed.

  This time, they’re silent. Tension drawn out like strangling cord. Lightning flashes again. Dengar’s finger hovers near the trigger. The gun hums. Mercurial’s hands tighten around the batons.

  Something is about to break.

  Something has to break. Or Dengar’s going to shoot him.

  Mercurial’s eyes flash to a nearby rooftop. His eyes go wide. His jaw, slack. He summons the image in his mind and says:

  “Boba Fett?”

  Dengar wheels toward the rooftop, the gun barrel turning.

  And that is Mercurial’s opportunity. He flings one of the batons—it cracks Dengar on the top of his forehead as soon as he whips his head back around. As his skull snaps back, Mercurial is already leaping forward and driving a knee into the side of the old bounty hunter’s face. Then an elbow against his collarbone. A baton against his wrist. The gun drops.

  Mercurial picks it up and jams the barrel under Dengar’s chin.

  Just as fresh rain begins to fall. A spitting, flecking rain.

  Dengar winces. “You’re good.”

  “I’ve been told.”

  “That trick back there? Maybe I have lost a bloody step, mate.”

  Mercurial shrugs. “I used to be an actor and a dancer.”

  “No fooling?” Dengar croaks. “What turned you to this life?”