BY CHUCK WENDIG 6 страница

The boy looks like a dirt-cheeked rube shoved into an ill-fitting academy uniform. His hair is dark, his skin is pale. Those eyes, though. A familiar arrogance shines there. Each a black hole swallowing the light.

One thing stands out: One of the boy’s hands is facing outward, and Sloane sees something across his palm. A marking of some kind. A tattoo?

Or a brand?

This holographic image by itself does nothing to illuminate who Rax is. And yet it stirs in her a strange kind of hope: In this act of “excavation” she has found a rather curious fossil, hasn’t she? If this is him, if this is Gallius Rax, then the mystery of his presence becomes one she can solve. He becomes a beast she can kill.

(Not literally, of course. Or so she hopes. )

What next, then, for this mystery? She has a bit of thread in her hands—how shall she pull it? Four of the men in the image glowing before her are dead. Palpatine is gone. Yularen died on the Death Star, Rancit perished in a Rebel attack (though she’s heard rumors that Vader executed him for treason), and Screed was killed by pirates off the Iktari Circle.

Which leaves one left alive.

It is time, she thinks, to pay Mas Amedda a visit.

Erno watches the kid do it. The little dum-dum doesn’t even know he’s being watched. Kid creeps up to the wall like a scuttling spider under the cover of night, then takes the stencil to the pale brick and pulls out the light painter—he shakes it a few times and gives it a hit, and then it pulses an image onto the side of the P& S (Peace & Security) station.

An iconic image of a bad, bad man.

Maybe not even a man. Maybe a machine.

VADER LIVES, it says. That, stenciled underneath the all-too-familiar artist rendering of the helmeted thug.

The kid turns, grinning like he got away with it. He didn’t.

Erno steps into the halo of light from the street-orb overhead, and he clears his throat so the kid in the dark hood and cloak looks up. Another one of these Acolyte idiots. Erno whistles. “Nice art. A real original. ”

The kid doesn’t say anything. He stands there, quaking in his bare feet. He’s young, dumb, scared. Erno sighs and levels his blaster. “C’mon, you little roach-rat, turn around, turn around. Let’s get these binders on. ”

Pouting, the boy turns and Erno slaps on a pair of binders, then hauls him around front and in through the doors of the station.

The new hire at the front desk, a pretty Pantoran named Kiza, says, “Hey, Detective, ” and he gives her a wink and a nod even though she’d probably never have anything to do with a scruffy thick-neck like him. Erno drags the kid through the station and past the desks and the holoscreens and the peace officers and into one of the back rooms. He gives the kid a light shove and the boy lands hard in a chair.

The boy hisses something at him. It isn’t in a language he understands, and he doesn’t care to ask about it.

“Uh-huh, sure, sure. Whatever, kid. ” Erno sits down across from the boy, and pops a cut square of rubber-root in his mouth, giving it a good chew. It tastes like the underside of a boot but gives his mouth something to do, and better this than the stimsticks he used to smoke.

He gets the boy’s measure fast. Human punk, maybe fourteen, maybe fifteen. Pale like the others (they pretend they’re nocturnal). Black hood, black cloak. This one doesn’t have a mask, though. A lot of these Acolyte freaks, they put together these masks—hammering together plastoid, metal, wood, goggles, ventilators, whatever—and wear them as they harangue the locals. It’s all pathetic, paltry stuff. Vandalism, mostly.

“Vader lives, ” Erno says, chawing on the rubber-root. “Vader lives, you say. Last I heard, he went up with the Death Star. Whoom. He’s dead. If he was ever even alive. Empire’s falling apart, and it wouldn’t be if he were still around, don’t you think? ”

“Death isn’t the end. ”

“Last I checked, it’s pretty much the final stop, kid. ”

The boy grins. His teeth are white, too white. His tongue snakes along them, and for a moment Erno feels his guts clench. His instincts are telling him something’s wrong here, but he doesn’t know what.

No, this kid’s just getting to you. It’s late. You been on duty for too long now. Get this moron booked, then head home.

“What’s your name? ”

“Oblivion. ”

He snorts with derisive laughter. “Oh. That’s a nice name. That a family name? ” The loser doesn’t say anything, he just sits there, chest rising and falling like a cornered, feral animal. “Look, kid. I got you for vandalism. You can spend a couple nights down in the hole. But I’m feeling friendly. I’m feeling generous. You roll over on a couple of your Acolyte buddies—you are an Acolyte of the Beyond, right? —and I’ll get you out of here with a stern finger-wagging and not much else. Hm? ”

Still the boy says nothing.

Erno sighs.

“What’s the deal with you pouty little thugs, anyway? You’re, what, a buncha suck-ups for the Empire? ”

“Not the Empire. Something greater than the Empire. ”

“Vader. ”

The boy grins.

“Not Palpatine? ”

Again the boy says nothing. That grin only widens.

Makes sense, Erno figures. Who would think that old withered twig was worth a measure of twisted hero worship? Vader at least looked like a tough guy. Imposing, dangerous, a real bad bag of tricks.

“You don’t have a mask? ” Erno asks.

“I don’t. ”

“Why not? The mask is more of the Vader thing, huh? Trying to look like him? You know he was a bad guy, right? ”

“Are you a decent man? ” the boy asks. “A ‘good guy’? ”

Hardly, Erno thinks. His wife has left him for a pair of artists in the Teeno Village district. His neighbors think he’s a slob. Even the fish in his fishtank give him a dubious look every morning when he leaves for work.

“I asked about your mask. ”

The boy shifts in his seat. “You have to earn your mask. ”

“Oh. Ho ho. You haven’t earned it yet? ”

The kid looks up at the ceiling, then around the room at the bare walls. “This building is very old. ”

“Yeah. So? ”

“I know what’s downstairs. ”

What’s downstairs…? The museum next door uses the shared basement with the P& S building. The detectives keep evidence locked up down there, and the museum uses the same lockup to keep a bunch of old musty, dusty artifacts and the like.

Erno’s about to pick this apart because really, why does this snot-dribbling punk care? Maybe it’s a clue. Maybe the kid’s parents work for the museum. Could be a—

But then someone comes in the room.

It’s a security officer, Spob Rydel, hat in hand. “Erno, you oughta see this. ”

Ennnhhh, I’m busy, Rydel, he thinks, but fine, fine, if one of the security ops guys wants him to see something, so be it. He takes the kid’s wrists and brings them to the tabletop before slapping a button underneath the surface—the table goes magnetic, and the kid’s binder cuffs thud hard to the tabletop as the magnetic field pulls them down.

Then he’s up and back through the station, and the holoscreens are turning to CCI—the Coronet City Info channel—one by one.

It takes Erno a second to gauge what he’s even seeing. Holofeeds from various areas around the city all show similar scenes: Downtown, in Diadem Square, a horde of hooded and cloaked figures are mobbing storefronts and leaping on top of the air-tuks to pull the speeders down to the ground; on the 1-line of the mag-lev subway, they swarm aboard as soon as the train stops at the Juni Street Station; down by the casinos, they rush those coming out and going in, dark cloaks fluttering in the night.

They carry sticks.

Sticks painted red.

They have masks.

Some kind of concerted attack. A riot. Or worse.

Already the officers here are mobilizing—streaming out the door or heading up the stairs to the speeder pad on the roof.

“It’s the kriffin’ Acolytes, ” Rydel says. “Ain’t you got one in the back room there? Bring his narrow can out here. Let’s kick it around a little. ”

Yeah. Yeah, Erno thinks. He stomps to the back room he was in, throws the door wide and—

The kid is gone.

Just then: The lights flicker once, then twice, then go out.

Erno is in darkness. Thankfully, a few seconds later the emergency lights come up—they line the floor and the ceiling, casting everything in a red glow. He curses under his breath and heads back out into the main room, and already most of the building has cleared out. It’s him, Rydel, a couple of other detectives like Shreen and Mursey, and—

Wait, wasn’t Kiza here? Where the hell’d she go?

He’s about to say something to Rydel, but then a blaster shot threads the air, clipping the officer square in the forehead. Rydel falls backward. Two more blasts and Shreen and Mursey fall—Shreen flips backward over her desk, and Mursey just slumps forward against a hydro-cooler.

Erno fumbles at his back for his own blaster—

But he’s too slow.

There’s Kiza. Kiza, of all the people. She has a standard sec-issued blaster pointed up and at him. The kid in black is nowhere to be seen.

“Kiza, I don’t…I don’t get what’s happening here, doll. ”

“I’m not your doll. ” Her voice trembles as she speaks.

“What…what is this? ”

She slowly crosses the space between them. Winding her way through the sea of desks, through the red-lit half dark. “This is a revolution. This is the revenge of the darkness. This is oblivion. ”

“Borkin’ hell, ” Erno says. “You’re…you’re one of them. ”

He figures, she’s not trained. She’s scared—he can hear that much in her voice. So he goes for his blaster anyway. He’s old, but she’s not a cop. His hand finds his blaster and his arm extends—

The air lights up next to him. The world thrums as a red beam of light whisks upward through open space—

A searing line of pain across his wrist.

And then, the hand that held the blaster is gone. It thumps against one of the desks, still clutching the blaster. He watches it fall and tumble away. It’s an absurd thing to see, your own hand coming off like that.

Next to him, it’s the kid in the cloak.

He has a red-bladed lightsaber in his hand.

“I told you I knew what was in the basement, ” he seethes.

“That’s the blade we’ve been looking for? ” Kiza asks him.

The Acolyte gives an over-eager nod.

Then—wham.

Kiza clubs Erno in the side of the head. The world spins away from him as he tumbles to the floor. She bends down and whispers in his ear: “Vader lives. And so do you. Tell everyone the Acolytes are coming, doll. ”

The bar is a little seaside joint off Junari Point—a few klicks outside Hanna City proper. It’s not much to look at: a round bar of dark wood under a wind-ruffled tent. Bulabirds strut about the pebbles-and-sand, their star-tipped beaks overturning rocks to look for their next meal to come skittering out. The ocean slides in and out with less of the crash-and-clamor of proper waves, and more the hiss-and-whisper of a calm lake lapping at its shore. The night is cool. The spitting rain is done, leaving behind a breeze.

Sinjir sits, staring into a white mug of black liquid. Steam rising around him, warming his chin.

Tonight the bar has a few other patrons. Other Chandrilans—over there, an angler with a firm chin staring down at her pint of fizzing something-or-other. On the other side, a young man in a fancy, breezy shirt glaring at his holoscreen with grave disinterest. The bartender—a tall woman with her white-blond hair pulled back in a complex braid that loops around her neck like a collar—eases past, asking: “Everything good? ”

He gives a small nod. As she passes, he sees her gaze turn up. She spies someone coming. Someone behind Sinjir. He’s about to tense up—

And then, half a second later, an arm slides around his neck on the right side—and on his left, a scruffy and familiar head appears on his shoulder. Sandy beard scratching his collarbone.

“Well, hello, ” Sinjir says, arching an eyebrow.

The man’s free hand snakes over Sinjir’s right shoulder and grabs the mug, then pulls it to his head so he can sniff it.

“This is caf, ” the man says with a frown.

“What? ” Sinjir says, feigning shock. “Caf? Well, I didn’t order this. I must burn this place down in protest. It is the only recourse. ”

The man—Conder Kyl—rolls his eyes. “You’re very dramatic. I’m just surprised you’re drinking this and not, say, Kowakian rum or, I don’t know, hull stripper. ”

“I’m trying to stay awake to see you. Hence, the caf. ” He holds up the mug and leers over its lip. “Oh, and I’ll have you know that Hull Stripper was my nickname at the Imperial officers’ academy. ”

“I don’t doubt that. ” Conder leans in to kiss Sinjir’s cheek.

Alarm bells go off inside his head. Reflexively, he pulls his face to the side. He scoots his stool a few centimeters away from the man.

“That can’t be good, ” Conder says. “You done with me so soon? ”

“Now who’s being dramatic? ”

“So what is it, then? ”

“I told you. I don’t like…this. ”

“This? ”

“This! This. The…public thing. ”

Conder hip-bumps a stool closer to Sinjir, then plops down on it. His elbow plants on the bar and he leans against his hand, his face twisting into a dubious, bemused mask. “You do know where you are, right? You’re safe here, Rath Velus. We’re safe here. Chandrila is…pretty open. ”

Conder exists on that perfect line between pretty and manly. He’s got a barrel chest and big arms, a laser-shorn scalp, and that patchy, spiky beard of his. But he’s also got long, theatrical lashes and pouty lips. And skin as smooth and tan as a statue carved of Nimarian korabaster. Even his voice: It’s gravelly, but it has a lilt to it, too. It is rough but beautiful music.

He’s also one of the best slicers the New Republic has on deck. Not many systems Kyl can’t cut to ribbons if he sets his mind to it. That’s how he and Sinjir met—two jobs back, hunting Moff Gorgon, the crew needed someone to break into an interrogator droid’s head, and Temmin wasn’t up to the task. They brought in Conder Kyl.

Conder, whom Sinjir just publicly rebuked.

“It’s not that, ” Sinjir says. “Not exactly. The Empire…” Well, he’s explained this all before, hasn’t he? Conder knows the deal. The Empire cared little about any sexual or romantic entanglements, provided they didn’t have to see it. No matter what your peccadilloes, the manual of decorum made it clear that you kept all of that behind closed doors. (Especially if it violated any of the Empire’s family initiatives—they wanted breeders above all else. ) Worse, Sinjir knew all too well that affection was a weakness. Relationships were a rope to tie around your throat—a rope all too easy to tug and choke. First thing he did when investigating one of his own for disloyalty was find out whom they were bedding. It was always a vital weak spot—as vital and as weak as stabbing a thumb into a person’s windpipe or pumping a fist into his kidneys. Knowing who loved whom was a path to exploitation and control. “Affection exposes us. I don’t want us exposed. And look, people are staring. ”

The angler continues to stare down into her drink. The young man in his fancy shirt keeps gazing at his datapad. The bartender stands off to the side, polishing glasses.

“Oh, yeah, ” Conder says. “I feel completely dissected. ”

“Well, what do you know? ” Sinjir sips his caf loudly.

From behind them, footsteps against the pebbles. Bulabirds chatter and hop as two other customers step up to the bar. Sinjir has seen them here before: Both are pilots for the New Republic. The first is a long-nosed Chandrilan with a faint scar across his brow. The other a slump-shouldered woman with pocked cheeks and a permanent scowl screwed to her ugly mug.

Mister Browscar steps up to the other side of Sinjir, raps his knuckles on the bar, and calls to the bartender: “A balmgruyt. Now. ”

“Two, ” Miss Scowlface says, slapping the bar.

As the bartender fetches their drinks, Browscar looks over and glowers long and hard at Sinjir. “I don’t like your kind, ” he says.

Sinjir applauds. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much for proving my point. See, Conder? These pilots do not approve of our lifestyle. ”

Scowlface pokes her head up over Browscar’s shoulder and her eyes narrow. She sticks her chin out. “We don’t like Imperials around here. ”

So disappointing.

“That’s your problem? ” Sinjir blusters.

“He’s not an Imperial, ” Conder says, standing up. “He’s on our side. ”

“Well, ” Sinjir corrects, “let’s not go that far—”

“He’s a kriffing Imp is what he is. ” Browscar leans forward, baring his teeth. Sinjir can smell the spirits on his breath; the man’s already lit up like a laser battery. “A blackarmor, corner-turning cur who’ll cut our throats if we let him. We don’t like his kind. We don’t care for Imp-lovers, either. ”

“I get it, ” Sinjir says, faking a sip from his mug of caf, a mug he fully intends to break over this man’s fool head. “I do. For a long time, the Galactic Empire has run roughshod over every system and station—from the warm gooey center of the Core to the coldest fringes of the Outer Rim. But the Empire is breaking apart and now all us bad guys are showing up at your door with a shrug and a smile and asking to be forgiven. And we probably don’t deserve it, yet here we are. That presents a problem for you because now the question is: Will you prove that you’re truly the champions of the galaxy? Are you the good guys who can forgive, or are you just as bad as—”

Bam. Sinjir’s head snaps back from the hit. It’s got power behind it, but it’s as inelegant and imprecise as a stampeding nerf—his brain rattles, but he doesn’t taste blood. He licks his lips to be sure. Nope.

His hand curls around the mug. The caf is still hot.

It’ll leave a lovely burn across the man’s scalp.

But then Conder’s hand finds his, and steadies it. “We can just go, ” the slicer says in his ear. A breathy whisper. Not scared. Simply confident.

The pilot stands. Browscar’s hands are squeezed into fists and he’s ready for the fight. The man is just itching for it. Sinjir echoes that itch—it crawls inside him like wires in his blood, hot and electric.

All Sinjir does, though, is nod. “Good night, gents. ”

Browscar and Scowlface seem taken aback as Sinjir and Conder lock arms and leave. The caf mug still on the bar, steaming.

—

Morning. Same beach, same sea, same bar.

Sinjir had gone, but now he’s back. He left Conder and a warm bed behind. A proper bookend to the night, he thought at the time—that before he drank more and passed out right there.

The smeary light of sunrise melts across Sinjir’s shut eyes. He smacks his lips and peels himself off the bar top. It makes a noticeable sound, like unwrapping a bandage from a sticky wound.

His mouth tastes of—

What is that? Ah. Yes. Tsiraki. A liquor born of fermented salakberry and pickling spices. Sour and sweet and totally terrible and also amazing.

He blinks sleep from his eyes. His head still feels wobbly. Which is good, because that means the hangover has not yet gotten its claws into him. A little hair of the garral then to keep him going and—

Ugh, but where oh where has that pesky bartender gone?

That’s grumpy-making.

It’s then, though, that he realizes someone is sitting next to him.

“Hello, you, ” he says.

“You brined yourself quite effectively, ” Jas Emari says. She’s on the stool next to him, picking her teeth with a narrow-bladed knife.

“Hm? Yes. Tsiraki. ”

She makes a face.

“Don’t judge until you’ve partaken, ” he mumbles.

“I have. It tastes like slug bile. ”

“You don’t drink. You’re not a connoisseur. ” But he yawns and stretches. “That’s why we make fine friends, though. You’re the no-nonsense get-it-done bounty hunter, and I’m the soggy-but-lovable agent provocateur. They should do a HoloNet show about us now that the Empire’s stranglehold over the media has all but fallen away. ”

“You’re mad at me, ” she says.

“What? No, ” he lies.

“Was it Jom? Are you really mad about him? ”

“Are we really doing this? Right now? ” But he can see by the steel in her gaze that the Zabrak is quite serious, indeed. “Blech. Fine. No, it’s not Jom. You do what you like when pantsless. It’s…” He doesn’t want to say it, so for a moment he just lets the words dissolve into a kind of throaty growl until he can finally articulate: “It’s the plan. Your plan at Slussen Canker’s fortress. You went ahead and played your little scheme and you told the boy but you didn’t tell me. ”

“I should have. I concede. ”

“I don’t like being in the dark. Not with you. It makes me squirrelly. And it’s not just that. It’s…I didn’t know. I had no idea you were pulling a fast one on us all. That sort of thing, I can usually see it long before it drops out of hyperspace. But somehow you kept it from me. The boy did, too. I’m either losing my touch or—”

“Or you trust us. ”

“I do. ”

“That bothers you. ”

“It does. ” Now it’s his turn to make a face. “Let me ask you something. ”

“Ask. ”

“Why do you do it? ”

“Do what? ”

“This. The team. The New Republic. ”

She cleans the tip of her blade with the pad of her thumb and shrugs. “I don’t know. Credits. Debts. ”

“I don’t quite believe you. ”

“So don’t. Why do you do it? ”

“I’m bored. ”

It’s her turn to say it: “Now I don’t quite believe you. ”

“Maybe we both have debts that credits alone cannot pay. ”

She shrugs. “Maybe we do. ”

He sniffs and winces. This conversation has gotten far too serious, far too dour. “How’d you find me, anyway? ”

“Conder told me. ”

“And how’d you find him? I didn’t know you knew. ”

She smirks. “I know everything. I’m good at my job. ” She twirls her blade and shoves it back into the sheath at her side. “Which reminds me, we have a job. Norra called. ”

“I thought we had a few days of R and R. ”

“This is your idea of R and R? ” she asks, gesturing toward the two figures at the other end of the bar. One of those figures is Browscar, who is belly-flopped across the bar top, flung there like a dead fish. Around his head are the broken remnants of a mug and the cooled puddle of liquid that was in it. The other is Scowlface, who lies supine in the sand, a bar towel held firm to her bloody nose. The woman moans.

“At least both of them are still breathing, ” Jas says.

“I’m not a murderer. ”

“What’d they do, anyway? ”

He sighs. “They were rude. ”

“C’mon, Sin. Let’s get to work. ”

Sloane comes up out of The Pit and steps outside, craning her neck and rolling her shoulders to get the tension out of them. How long was she in there, anyway? (The precise answer matters little, as the real answer is: way too long. So long that the lack of her presence on board the Ravager will be noticed by someone. ) What strikes her immediately is:

It’s dark.

That would be sensible on any other world, because it’s late—or at the least, really, really early—but the thing about Coruscant is, it’s a world that never sleeps. The power never goes out. The dark comes and the whole planet lights up. But here, in the Verity District, it’s dark-dark.

It’s also quiet.

The skin on her neck prickles. Something’s wrong.

She has to move. But where? Her plan was to find herself one of the departing subgrav trains—the Black Line would take her right to the Federal District, after all. But if there’s no power up here, what about down there? And finding a taxi won’t be an option…

Far down the block, three figures run between buildings. Ducking and darting until they’re out of sight. They’re not troopers—she doesn’t hear the familiar clatter of their boots and armor.

We’re under attack. The insurgents are here. Right now.

The only recourse is to get to her ship.

She hasn’t been in action for what feels like too long—but the blade of her instinct hasn’t gone dull. She feels suddenly hyperaware, and her mind goes through the cold, dispassionate calculations that are all too familiar: Stay away from open streets, move between buildings, keep your head down, get your blaster out. A grim realization crawls up inside her: This is what life on the throneworld is like now, isn’t it?

Sloane moves fast. Across the street. Sliding through the alley between a commissary and BRAC (base realignment and closure) building. Ducking behind a compacting trash machine as she checks her blaster, then she’s back up and moving. She winds around a med station, alongside a repair bay, under the black shadow of a communications array.

Whoom. Ahead, far ahead, the air lights up with a pulsing explosion—lightning crackles in its white-hot center, and then it’s gone. Alarms sound in its wake. Down a nearby street, an ISB transport roars past, heading toward the source of the explosion. Sloane thinks: I hope that wasn’t my landing platform. She takes a step forward, her eyes still adjusting to the white streaks pulsing across her vision. A sound behind her. She wheels—

Something clips her across the side of the head and she goes down. A boot presses on her hand and the chrome blaster slips from her grip. Another boot kicks her weapon away from her.

An absurd, defeatist part of her thinks: This is fine. The New Republic soldiers can take her in. Let it all be over. She will make a fine catch for some bush pilot or some hick commando—a guaranteed medal.

But a fire warms in her belly. Her heart goes supernova. This is my Empire, she thinks. She won’t leave it to these brutes. And she damn sure won’t let someone like Rax crash everything she’s worked for right into the heart of some star. No. Not tonight. Not if she can help it.

Sloane rolls toward her own pinned arm—causing no small pain—and reaches up with her free hand to grab at whoever is holding her there. Her fingers find the attacker’s belt and she pulls hard, yanking him down to the ground. It’s not even a New Republic soldier—she sees a dark dress and a blue-and-gold rag bundled around the arm. Local resistance.

The man, practically a boy, cries out for help. Other shapes move in toward her, but Sloane is up now in a crouch. Her body is coded with the memory of how to fight. Back in the Academy, she practiced and competed in NCB: Naval Corps Boxing. She was good. Never won the belt. But she always ranked.

And Sloane has kept up with it.

The first insurgent who comes at her does so with the inelegance of a drunken man groping for a kiss—she sidesteps him and jabs with a fist, catching him right in the eye. He flails and staggers backward as another one, this one in rough armor and a face-shield, steps in to fill the void. Sloane kicks out this one’s leg, and her enemy drops, so she drops with her enemy, catching the person’s arm as they fall. Sloane pivots herself into an armbar and yanks back on the insurgent’s wrist hard enough that the arm dislocates with a grungy crunch. The terrorist yells—and it’s a woman’s voice crying out in pain. Sloane kicks off the face-shield, then scoops it up and flings it at the next person coming in—