BY CHUCK WENDIG 1 страница

Star Wars: Aftermath: Life Debt is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

ISBN 9781101966938

ebook ISBN 9781101966945

randomhousebooks. com

Book design by Christopher M. Zucker, adapted for eBook

Cover art and design: Scott Biel

v4. 1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chronology

Epigraph

Prologue

Prelude: Jakku, Three Decades Ago

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Interlude: Velusia

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Interlude: Coronet City, Corellia

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Interlude: The Annihilator

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Two

Interlude: The Alderaan Flotilla

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Interlude: Takodana

Chapter Fifteen

Part Three

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Interlude: Tatooine

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Part Four

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Interlude: The City of Binjai-Tin, Nag Ubdur

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Part Five

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Interlude: Darropolis, Hosnian Prime

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Interlude: Ryloth

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Epilogue: Three Decades Ago

Dedication

By Chuck Wendig

About the Author

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….

The Empire is in chaos. As the old order crumbles, the fledgling New Republic seeks a swift end to the galactic conflict. Many Imperial leaders have fled from their posts, hoping to escape justice in the farthest corners of known space.

Pursuing these Imperial deserters are Norra Wexley and her team of unlikely allies. As more and more officers are arrested, planets once crushed beneath the Empire’s heel now have hope for the future. And no hope is greater than that of the Wookiees of Kashyyyk. Heroes of the Rebellion Han Solo and Chewbacca have gathered a team of smugglers and scoundrels to free Kashyyyk from its Imperial slavers once and for all.

Meanwhile, the remnants of the Empire—now under the control of Grand Admiral Rae Sloane and her powerful, secret adviser—prepare to unleash a terrifying counterstrike. If successful, the New Republic may never recover, and anarchy will be loosed upon the galaxy in its greatest time of need…

The boy runs. His footsteps echo across the hard, unforgiving ground. His feet have no shoes—they are wrapped in ratty bindings, the same bindings Mersa Topol uses to mend the wounds of those miners and scavengers who come to the anchorite nurse for succor. As such, the ground is rough beneath him. It bites through the thin cloth. It abrades. But he does not bleed, because his feet are tough even if many think him weak.

Clouds of dust kick up with every step. Scree hisses across rock.

The boy is chasing something: a pair of streaking contrails bisecting the dead sky. It comes from a ship that flew overhead, a strange ship like he had never seen. It gleamed black. Clean like shined, polished glass. He was out scrubbing solar arrays when he saw it pass overhead. One of the other orphan boys, Brev, said, “Look at the pretty ship, Galli. ”

Narawal, the girl with one dead eye, drew back her cracked and bleeding lips, responding with: “It won’t stay pretty for long. Nothing stays pretty here. ” That, she says with some authority.

The boy had to see. He had to see the pretty ship before Jakku ruined it. Before the stone winds scoured its hull, before the sun baked off its color. Anchorite Kolob told him to stay behind, finish his chores, but the boy would have none of that. He was compelled, as if by destiny.

He ran. For one klick, then another, until his legs ached so hard they felt like clumps of cured, dried meat hanging from his hips. But now here he is, atop the Plaintive Hand plateau—an outcropping of bent, flat rock that the anchorites say is a holy place, a place the Consecrated Eremite considered home thousands of years before, when Jakku was supposedly a verdant, living place.

Out there, down in the valley, he spies the ship. Sun trapped in its perfect steel, the bright and blinding bands stark even in the light of day.

He thinks: I could stop here. In fact, he should stop here. The boy knows he should turn tail and go home, back to the habit house, back to his work and his contemplations and to the other orphans.

And yet he remains compelled. As if something invisible is tugging him along—an unseen thread bound to his throat, leading him like a leash-and-collar. I will get a little closer. I won’t be missed.

The boy creeps down the narrow switchback path leading into the valley. At the bottom, all that separates him from the ship are dozens of rocky outcroppings: spires of crooked red stone jutting up out of the sand like broken, bloodied teeth. He moves from stone to stone, hiding behind each. Trying to stay silent, silent like the skittermice that cross the desert when night falls and the ground cools.

The ship roams into view. This is a ship that does not belong here. A dark mirror, long and lean, with swept-back wings and crimson windows. It sits, as silent and as patient as a perching raptor—like the vicious vworkka, the birds that swoop and eat the little skittermice.

The boy scurries from stone to stone until he is close. Close enough to smell the ozone coming off it. Close enough to feel the warmth of the sun radiating from its hull. A heat haze rises above it, warping the air.

Nothing moves. No sound comes from inside.

I have seen enough. I should go.

The boy remains rooted despite this thought.

Finally, a shudder and a hiss. A ramp descends from the ship’s smooth underbelly. Vapor gases off into the heated air.

A figure eases down the ramp. The boy almost laughs—this someone must certainly be lost given the way that he is dressed. A long purple cloak drags behind him. A tall hat sits poised upon the man’s head. Then the boy thinks: Some of the anchorites wear heavy robes like this, don’t they? They say it tests them. It is sacred to learn how to withstand the heat. It is necessary, they say, to shun pain and learn to live beyond its margins.

Maybe this man is an anchorite. Though the anchorites avoid pretty, precious things, don’t they? No material entanglements, they say. This ship, the boy believes, certainly qualifies as a material entanglement.

As do the droids that follow swiftly thereafter. Six of them. Each upright on legs shining like black, sun-blasted glass. Antennas rise from insectile heads, and the man in the purple robe waves them on without a word. Mouthpieces vocalize a series of tones and clicks just before they step out onto the hard, sand-scoured rock. The boy watches as they place down black boxes—boxes that connect to one another with beams of green light, beams bright enough to see even in the day, beams that connect to one another and form a kind of frame.

The man eases slowly down the ramp, his cloak whispering against the metal like sand blown across sheets of tin. “This is it. This is the space. Mark it and begin excavation. I will return. ”

One of the droids says, “Yes, Adviser Tashu. ”

There is a moment when the boy realizes that an opportunity has presented itself. He hates this world. He does not belong here. As the man in the purple robe returns up the ramp, he thinks: This is my chance. My chance to leave this place and never return. For a moment, he is frozen. Paralyzed by indecision. Affixed by the fear of uncertainty—he has no idea where this ship will go, or who that man is, or what they will do if they find him.

But he knows this place is dead.

The ramp begins to rise.

And the boy, Galli, thinks: I must hurry. And hurry he does. Fast and quiet like the skittermice. He bounds across the sand in his bare feet and catches the lip of the ramp as it closes. Galli tucks his body up and in, crawling into the dark moments before the ship begins to take off.

Leia paces.

The Chandrilan sun burns a bright line around her drawn shades. In the center of the room sits a blue glass holoplatform—it remains quiet. She comes here every day at the same time waiting for a transmission. She should’ve heard from Han by now. He’s days past their scheduled talk and—

The platform flickers to life.

“Leia, ” says a shimmering hologram as it resolves from erratic voxels into the form of her husband.

“Han, ” she says, stepping close into transmission range. “I miss you. ”

“I miss you, too. ”

The way he says it, though—something’s wrong. There’s a dark edge to his voice. In it she senses desperation. No, not just that. Anger lurks there, too. The anger isn’t pointed at her. Even from here her feelings reach out and find him, and she senses an anger turning inward, like a knife twisted toward one’s own belly. He’s mad at himself.

She knows what he’s about to tell her.

“I still haven’t found him, ” Han says. Chewbacca is missing. Two months back, Han told her that he had a shot to do what the New Republic wouldn’t: liberate Chewie’s home planet of Kashyyyk from the chains of the Empire. She told him to wait, to think about it, but he said the time was now and that an old smuggler had info—a woman named Imra whom Leia told him not to trust.

Turns out, she was right.

“You still in the Outer Rim? ” Leia asks.

“Edges of Wild Space. I have a few leads, but it’s not looking good. ”

She pleads with him: “Come home, Han. I’m working on the Senate. If we can get them to vote, we can push on Kashyyyk—and maybe find Chewbacca and the others in the process. Testimony from a general like yourself will help to sway them—”

“It didn’t sway them before. ”

“So we try again. ”

The hologram shakes its head. “That’s not who I am. I’m not a general. I’m just some pirate. ”

“Don’t say that. Everyone here knows how you led the Alliance team on Endor. They know you as a general, not as a—”

“Leia, I resigned my commission. ”

“What? ”

“I have to do this my way. This is on me, Leia. I have my job to do and you have yours. You take care of the Republic. I’ll find Chewie. ”

“No, no, no, don’t you do this. I’ll come to you. Tell me where you are. Tell me what you need. ”

A slow, sad smile spreads across the face of his flickering transmission. “Leia, they need you there. I need you there, too. I’ll be all right. I’ll find Chewie. And then I’ll come home. ”

“You promise? ”

“I pro—”

But the hologram suddenly shakes—Han turns his head sharply, as if surprised. “Han! ” she calls.

“Son of a—” he starts to say, but the image flickers again. “Under att—” But the words break up, and then the image dissolves and he’s gone.

She feels her middle clench up. No. Again Leia paces, hoping he’ll come back, hoping that the interrupted transmission returns again and he tells her it was all a false alarm. She waits for minutes, then for hours, and then until night falls. The holoplatform remains dead.

Her husband is out there. She doesn’t know where.

And he’s in trouble.

She has to find him. Good thing is, she knows just who to ask.

The grav-raft slides through the mist. Alongside stand massive stone spires, black as night and straight as spears. Vigilant sentinels, their tips are carved to look like howling faces. Below, far below, glow rivers of swimmy green light—the glowing fungus of Vorlag’s cavernous interior.

Jom Barell reaches out, grabbing a chain and pulling the raft along, hand-over-hand. These chains sit moored to octagonal eyebolts jutting out of each spire, connecting each of those dark sentinels to the next. The raft has no engines of its own, and so its motion through the mist is nearly silent except for the faint throb of its hoverpanels.

“I don’t like this, ” Jom says, his voice low.

“What’s to like? ” Sinjir Rath Velus asks, lying back across the flat of the raft, his arms crossed in front of him. “The mist is cold. The day is terrible. I’m sober as a protocol droid. ” He sits up suddenly. “Did you know the Death Star had a bar? Ugly, austere little place—really like all Imperial architecture, ugh—and the selection of spirits was hardly commendable. But if you knew Pilkey, the drink-slinger, he would give you some of his ‘special batch’—”

Norra Wexley interrupts him. “Everything is fine. Everything is going according to plan. ” The essence of the plan is the same as it always is: Sneak in, capture their Imperial prey, bring him to justice on Chandrila. Of course, normally they’re not sneaking into the mountaintop fortress of a galactic slaver to do it…

“Oh, yes, ” Jom answers in a sarcastic growl. “It’s the idiot’s array right here, isn’t it? Our girl in there better be doing her job. ”

“She’s not our girl, ” Sinjir says, snapping back. “She’s not even a girl, Barell. Jas is her own woman, and the kind who would gladly kick your tail off this raft for sprinkling your…mustache dander everywhere. ”

“What she is is a bounty hunter. ” Jom grunts as he pulls the raft forward to the next stone pillar. “And I don’t trust bounty hunters. ” Unconsciously his hand moves to his bushy mustache, which he quickly smooths down over his scowling mouth.

“Yes, we know. We also know that you don’t trust ex-Imperials. We know that because you tell us. Constantly. ”

Jom turns his shoulder and sneers. “Should I? Trust you? ”

“After all this time? You could start. ”

“Maybe you don’t understand what the Empire meant to people like me, and why the Rebellion—”

Norra again cuts them off. “We get it, Jom. We’re all on this boat together. In this case, literally. Look. ” She points.

To their starboard, a massive shape emerges from the mist above them—a black, mountainous shadow. The contours of a palace: spiraling towers and bulbous parapets. If they keep following the chain bolted to the rocks, they’ll begin to lift as they pull—up, up, up, to the front gates of this massive compound carved out of the top of a dormant volcano. It’s the home of Slussen Canker, aka Canker the Red, aka His Venomous Grace, Keeper of Men and Killer of Foes, the Prince and First Son of Vorlag, Master Scion Slussen Urla-fir Kal Kethin-wa Canker.

Murderer. Slaver. Scumfroth.

He’s not their target.

Their target is an ex-Imperial vice admiral. A man named Perwin Gedde. He fled the Empire, absconding with a considerable bucket of credits—enough to keep him fat and happy and firmly ensconced with a crime lord like Slussen Canker. High on spice. Serviced by slaves. Living the good life. Living the protected life here in a well-defended volcano-top fortress. So well defended that marching right up to the front gate would be highly inadvisable. The front gate is protected by two slavering hroth-beasts. And two phase-turrets. And a pair of hroth-keeper guards. And a portcullis made of crisscrossing lasers—

It doesn’t matter, because they’re not going that way, are they?

They’re not taking the high road. They’re going low.

As Jom eases the raft down two more stone pillars, he reaches back with his hand and shows his open palm—a silent request that Norra refuses to fulfill. Instead she says, “I can handle this. You don’t have to do everything, you know. ”

She pulls the grappling spike and screws it into the tip of the concussive pistol. Jom watches her with narrow eyes as she takes aim at the massive rock. “Give the signal, ” she says.

Sinjir holds up an emergency beacon—the one that came with their ship, the Halo, for use in case it ever crashes—and he gives it three quick pulses. Red light flashes in quick succession.

Moments pass. Then, through the mist—

Three more red flashes in return. These come from the base of the rock mountain underneath the fortress. “Jas, you glorious spiky-headed freak, ” Sinjir says, cackling and clapping his hands.

Norra shushes him and fires the grappling spike toward the space where the three flashes lit up the mist. The gun is quiet enough. It barks out a paff! sound as it goes off. The cable looped under the raft whizzes and spins as the spike zips through the air.

In the distance: clink. Pay dirt.

Jom grabs the cable and pulls the raft now in a new direction—not toward the gates of the fortress but to its underbelly. Out there should be a breach in the mountain, which their intel marks as Slussen Canker’s hroth-beast feeding room. The awful things have wings and like to hunt in the air a few times a day—and that is their staging point. The mountain breach is open to the air, with a ledge beneath it, and the hroth-beasts are kept inside by another crackling laser portcullis. Except, right now, that portcullis is down thanks to Jas, who came here several days ago. The signal pulsing through the darkness is clear: The way is open.

“Told you she’d do us right, ” Sinjir whispers in Jom’s ear.

Jom’s only reply is a dubious grunt.

The raft eases through the mist. Ahead, the way into the mountain comes more clearly into view: It’s like a yawping mouth with stalactite and stalagmite fangs waiting to swallow them up. No red glow, though. The gate is down. The way is truly clear. Jom pulls the raft over, cinches the cable up, and loops it around one of the rocks. One by one they step off the raft and into the cavernous space.

The smell hits them hard. Along the wall are metal bins heaped high with dead things: birds plucked of feathers and missing their heads, gobbets of rotten meat from who-knows-what-animal, hoofed legs, quivering offal. Clouds of hungry gnats swarm in the air in the space above. This must be food for the hroth-beasts, Norra thinks. Given the red splatters along the dry rocky ground, she surmises that someone stands here and throws the meat out into the air—and the beasts go flying to catch it.

Sinjir says, “I am quite seriously considering throwing up. ”

“That smell, ” Jom says, making a face. “It’d knock a monkey-lizard sideways. ” He frowns. “Where’s Jas? ”

“She must be farther in, ” Norra says. “Come on. ”

The plan is simple enough: Jas Emari snuck in here days before under the auspices of being a bounty hunter looking for work. Which is true enough, and her reputation surely has preceded her by this point. Crime lords attract bounty hunters the same way these piles of carcass-meat attract flies: Hunters are hungry for work and crime bosses are quick to supply it.

She opened the gate for them. And now the work begins. They already have a layout of the fortress, thanks to the holo-cron supplied by (well, stolen from) Surat Nuat, the Akivan boss who had been keeping tabs on the connections between Imperials and the criminal underworld in case he one day needed the leverage. They’ve been mining that data cube for information—it served, in fact, as a springboard to launch their little team.

Once they leave the feeding room (an exit that cannot be quick enough for Norra’s nasal passages), it should be a short skip down a long tunnel to a lava tube that runs up the length of the fortress. Of course, the tube also leads down into the belly of this slow-simmering volcano, which means they should be careful not to fall. Climb up to the south tower, wait for Gedde to emerge from or head to his chambers—then bag him, tag him, and drag him. The goal is to get him onto the raft and out of the palace before anybody even notices. Then they’ll serve him up to the Republic Tribunal. Justice comes to the Empire. One war criminal at a time.

Then Temmin will bring in the ship and hopefully they exit the atmosphere before anyone even knows Gedde is gone.

Temmin. Her thoughts turn to her son. Poor, fatherless boy. He’s part of this team and not a day goes by without her fearing he shouldn’t be. He’s too young, she tells herself, even though he proves himself every day. He’s too precious, she thinks, which is more true than the other thing—now that she and her son are reunited, she is reminded how vulnerable he is. How vulnerable all of them are. Dragging him along for the ride seems entirely irresponsible of her as a parent, and yet a greedy, selfish part of her offers the cold reminder that the only other option would be to once more discard him. Leaving Temmin behind again would kill her. But what other choice would she have? Retire? Give up this life?

Why is that not an option for you? she asks herself.

Now is not the time to ponder it. They have work to do.

She heads toward the tunnel, Jom and Sinjir following close behind—

A lightning crackle rises behind them. Followed by a red glow.

The portcullis is back. A mesh of lasers, crackling against one another. The searing red cuts through the cable mooring the raft to the rock, and it suddenly drifts into the mist. “No! ” Jom cries out.

Ahead of them, the scuff of heels.

Figures and forms fill their escape. The fortress guards—thugs of varying size and breed, heads hidden behind rusted faceplates. Four of them stand there, blasters pointed. Jom draws. So does Sinjir. Norra’s about to reach for the pistol at her own hip—

A loud throat-clearing comes from behind the guards.

A Vorlaggn steps out. Skin like the cracked char on a piece of fire-cooked meat. Clear fluid suppurating from between those fissures, fluid he dabs at with a filthy brown rag. He blinks his three hollow-set eyes.

Slussen Canker.

His tongue clicks and clucks and when he speaks, his voice is wet and rheumy, as if the words must push their way past some kind of bubbling clot. “I see you thought to intrude upon the peace established by His Venomous Grace, Slussen Canker. Slussen does not like you here. Slussen finds your trespass very rude, in fact. ”

Norra thinks for a moment that this isn’t Slussen, then, but something Jas said pings the radar of her memory: The Vorlaggn speak in the third person, don’t they? Strange habit.

Jom keeps his pistol up. “We’re not here for you. ”

“We’re here for Gedde, ” Sinjir says. “Just toss him our way and we’ll stop intruding upon this lovely ordure pile you call a palace. Hm? ”

The Vorlaggn gurgles. “Slussen will give you nothing. Gedde? ”

From around the corner, their target emerges. The vice admiral himself. A man also said to have been in charge of one of the Empire’s more brutal biological weapons programs. Testing various ancient diseases on captive worlds, raining sickness from the battleships above.

He is thin everywhere but for the pale belly pooching out from his unbuttoned—and filthy—gray shirt. His skin is the sallow and pitted flesh of a spice addict. A man lost to his addiction.

Gedde is not alone.

He yanks someone hard toward him—

It’s Jas. He has her by the back of the neck, a pistol held to her temple. She wrenches her head away, but he wrenches it right back.

“Slussen has captured your bounty hunter. If you do not drop your weapons, Slussen will have your bounty hunter’s head perforated by blasterfire, and her brains will go to feed the hroth-beasts. ”

Sinjir sighs. “Blast it. ” His pistol clatters to the floor.

Norra gently unsnaps her holster and lets it fall.

Jom keeps his pistol up. “I don’t surrender my weapon. In SpecForces, we learn that our weapon is who we are. I can no more surrender it than I can surrender my own arm or my—”

The hand moves fast—Sinjir grabs the gun from the top and wrenches it out of Jom’s hand, flinging it against the wall. “They’ve got Jas, you oaf. ”

The guards creep into the room and fetch the weapons.

Gedde licks his lips and grins. “You rebel fools. We’ll sell you to the Empire and I’ll buy myself a full pardon—”

Irritated, Jas pulls away from him and bats the gun from her head. “I think you can stop pointing that at my skull now. ”

At first, Norra thinks: Here’s our chance. Jas is free. But her freedom came easy. Too easy. No fight at all except the irritation on her face. The realization hits her like a wall of wake turbulence: Jas betrayed them.

Jas steps away from Perwin Gedde, her hands tucked casually in her pockets. “Sorry, team, ” she says, that last word spoken with a special kind of sarcasm. “Can’t change my horns, can’t change my ink, can’t change who I am. ” She shrugs. “They offered a better bounty. In fact, this deal is a pretty good one—” She pulls out a datapad and tosses it to Norra.

Norra catches it.

With trembling fingers she lights the screen:

On it, she spies a bounty.