BY CHUCK WENDIG 12 страница

“As simple as chasing birds with a hammer, ” Sinjir mutters.

“Everyone hush, ” Jas says. “Temmin, did you build my thing or not? ”

“Yeah, yeah. ” He fishes around in his pocket and holds up a pair of devices in the palm of his hand. One looks like a round from a slugthrower, but it’s been modified—the shell casing crimps around a circuit bulb, and the tip of that bulb has four little prongs. Like insect mandibles. The second device is round, no bigger than a button, with a little zigzag antenna sticking out.

“It’s a bug, ” Temmin says, sounding impressed with himself.

“This planet has enough bugs without us adding more to it, ” Sinjir grouses. “And before anyone corrects me, yes, I know, it’s a listening bug and not a real bug and—oh, never mind. Good job, Jas. Now what? ”

“We can’t get eyes on, so we need to get ears on. I load this into my rifle and fire it right at his manse. Then—” She grabs the second device. “This jury-rigged earpiece with which to listen in. ”

“Clever, ” Sinjir says. “Still not sure what I’m doing here. ”

Jas hands him the earpiece. “You’re going to do the listening. ”

“Joy. ” He makes a face as he takes it and screws it into his ear.

The bounty hunter unslings the slugthrower from her back. Norra again grabs the binocs and focuses them at the compound.

A herd of animals have come up alongside the invisible perimeter—long-limbed, long-necked leathery things, these beasts. They number in the dozens. Some stop to nip at the tufts of ki-a-ki bushes, while the others bat at one another with bony protuberances atop their narrow snouts. Norra is pretty sure they’re morak. Big things, but herbivores. Though she’d hate to get stomped under those long legs—legs that end in claw-tipped feet.

Jas pulls the slugthrower close and uses her thumb to pop open a bipod at the end of the barrel, giving it stability. She tugs the scope tight against her eye. Norra watches her through the grass—the way Jas draws a breath deep, then slowly exhales it until no breath remains and she is still…

It’s surprisingly close to what Luke taught Leia, isn’t it?

Shut out the world. Be mindful, but empty.

Like a cup to be filled up.

(Of course, Jas does this in order to kill people more efficiently. )

The bounty hunter’s finger coils around the trigger.

But then—

The morak all look up at the same time. A gesture of alarm.

Norra reaches out and touches Jas’s shoulder. “Wait. ”

“What is it? ” Jas asks.

“Something’s up. ”

Sinjir plucks the earpiece out of his ear, scowling at it. “This thing is fritzing out. It’s making this…high-pitched whine. Wretched sound. ”

Down below, the morak begin to move. All of them at once, a herd movement. They go from walking to galloping, their long bony legs launching them forward with a swiftness that surprises Norra.

The animals are headed toward the hill where the crew is waiting.

Closer, closer.

The ground begins to vibrate beneath them.

It’s too steep, surely. They can’t—

The animals reach the bottom of the hill and begin to scramble up the side of it. Their clawed feet make great haste, and now Norra knows what those claws are for. Dust spirals behind them.

They’re coming right for us.

“We have to move, ” Norra cries. “Move! ”

She and the others spring up out of hiding and turn tail, bolting through the grass. The morak crest the hill, bleating and blowing mucus from their snouts. The ground rumbles as the herd stampedes.

The grass slices at Norra’s arms, but she can’t waste time caring. Everyone moves fast—everyone except Bones, who sits somewhere under cover, and is hopefully resilient enough to suffer the knocks and blows of the morak. She’s not even sure where they should go. Run straight? Turn to the side? The morak are coming right up behind them—

One lopes past Norra in a lumbering gallop, swiping at her with its long neck—the thing is twice her height and she just barely darts out of its way even as others come up behind her. Ahead, though she can’t see it, the far side of the hill awaits. What then? Run down it, trying not to fall? Duck and pray the charging morak go over the edge?

The bounty hunter runs next to her, and when one morak comes behind her, Jas jabs at it with the barrel of her slugthrower—and the beast roves drunkenly toward Norra. It clips her and she staggers—

Her legs go out from under her—

There’s Temmin, grabbing her by the belt to keep her from falling. It’s just enough to help her get her legs back under her. Norra is about to thank her son—

She doesn’t get the chance.

A sound hits them, a sonic hum. Suddenly, the morak are squawking and turning sharply away, the herd splitting in twain as if by an invisible wedge. Norra thinks, Thank the stars for whatever is doing that.

But then something lands in the grass in front of them—the thing rolls a few times like a flung rock. It beeps three times in succession. Then:

An implosive sound—foomp. The air lights up around them, a hard pulse of bright light. It concusses the air, too, hitting her like a thunderclap. Norra is suddenly blind and deaf, her ears ringing, her vision washed away in a tide of searing white. She fumbles for the blaster at her side—she whips it out, and it’s suddenly rocked out of her hand, clattering away.

A shape emerges in front of her as the white light begins to recede: a person-shape. Norra thinks: Aram has us. We thought we were watching him, but he was watching us.

She leans forward, starts to stand.

“Don’t move, ” comes a voice. Quiet, but urgent.

Norra asks as her eyes adjust, “Who is that? Who’s there? ”

The figure steps forward. She spies two blasters held aloft, one in each hand, and one pointed right at her. “Name’s Han Solo. Captain of the Millennium Falcon. Who the hell are you? ”

The little cantina here is less a bar and more a ragtag collection of debris and detritus. The crew sits under mesh netting in an alcove formed by old junk: the war-scorched foot of an AT-AT walker; a stack of tire treads looped end-over-end; crates whose lids are pulled back just enough to reveal the haunted dead eyes of forgotten, deactivated droids.

They sit and they watch the man known as Han Solo.

When they saw him on that plateau, he was barely recognizable. The scruffy beard made it hard enough, but then he was dressed in a set of ratty rags: rags, Jas realized later, that matched the color of the thirstgrass. Smart. His hair is longer, too. Shaggier. Unkempt.

Here, now, Jas recognizes in him that smuggler’s lean—an easy swagger that the man doesn’t have to try to manifest. It’s just part of who he is. Part of that bona fide Han Solo charm. He’s certainly handsome. A boyish rogue. Jas would, given half an invitation, mount him like a turret. Though here her mind wanders to Jom. That coward, she thinks. She tries to make her fury at the old commando burn hotter than it does. She fails, and misses Jom Barell regardless.

Solo sits back, arm over an empty chair. There’s something else there, something beyond his swagger and his charm, and her shared looks with Sinjir tell her that he sees it, too: Solo is on edge. He’s wary, but a smuggler is always wary. This is different.

Han Solo is angry.

And not just at them, she thinks.

The Bith bartender shuffles up, his one leg little more than a crudely fashioned metal prosthetic, and pops glasses in front of all of them. Korva. The stuff Sinjir was talking about. The smell coming off the glasses is enough to fry an astromech’s circuits. The vapor blurs the air above the liquid. The Bith sets one down in front of Temmin, and Jas watches Norra rescue the glass before the boy can grab it. He pouts in response.

When the Bith is gone, Solo regards them.

“Who are you, and what do you want with Golas Aram? ”

The crew shares uncomfortable looks.

It’s Norra who speaks up: “We’re not interested in Aram. We were looking for you. ”

It takes a moment for that to register on his face. He laughs, then, though no mirth dwells in the sound. “Well, congratulations, lady, you found me. You can collect your prize at the door. ” He clears his throat. “On your way out, if you get my meaning. ”

“You are our prize, ” Jas says.

His hand is no longer on top of the table.

She knows he’s going for his blaster. The others don’t get it. They don’t understand that he’ll clear them with his DL-44 before they even think to unsnap their own holsters. Probably a good idea to get ahead of that.

“We’re not bounty hunters, ” Jas says, holding up both hands, palms out. A sign of acquiescence and surrender.

Sinjir wrinkles his brow. “Jas, you, ahhh. You are a bounty hunter. ”

“Shut up, Sinjir. ”

Han’s gaze flits from each to each. “Who sent you? ”

“You know who, ” Norra says.

There. That wariness, that anger, that edge: It softens and dulls, just for a moment. Like a mask sliding away, showing his true face. He says what he surely already knows: “Leia. ”

“Your last transmission ended abruptly. She thinks something happened to you. ”

“It did. I was on my way here and crossed paths with a slave-hauler run by the Dodath Raiders. Without Chewie in the copilot’s seat I missed that they were coming up on me fast, and they fired on me and took out my comm array. Again. ”

“You could’ve found a way to contact her. ”

He hesitates.

Norra fills in the blank: “You didn’t want her to come after you. ”

“Of course not. I got my things to take care of and she has her things and then, when all that shakes out, I’ll go back. ”

“You have things to take care of back home, too. ” A moment passes between him and Norra with that exchange. She struck a nerve. Jas wonders if the woman is playing a dangerous game. Solo is angry, and anger is irrational. Here is a man backed into a corner. Pinned down by his debts.

Norra says: “We’ll help you find your Wookiee. ”

“He’s not my Wookiee. Nobody owns Chewbacca, you can be sure of that, sister. ” And once again, that war plays out across his face. A softness and a sadness give way to fresh anger. Han suddenly takes his glass and pitches it over the small wall of junk. Somewhere in the distance, a faint sound of glass breaking: ksssh! “I screwed up and now Chewie is gone. ”

His guard drops. He breaks down. Solo tells the story.

—

“A little something came across our dash. An opportunity. And no, before you go looking at me like that, not a smuggler’s opportunity, but a real one. The kind that matters.

“Chewie and me, we’ve been kicking around now for a long time. He’s my partner. He’s not just some sidekick. He’s not a pet. And he’s damn sure not my slave. It’s equal between us. We always split everything, you understand? We split our share of every job. We split our share of the injuries, too. And sometimes we take on…each other’s burdens.

“He’s a Wookiee, right? Kashyyyk, that’s where he comes from, that’s his home. But it’s not his anymore. I’ve been there. I’ve seen what the Empire has done. They ripped down the trees. They put cuffs and collars on all the Wookiees. Some of them they cut open. Others they ship off to work the worst jobs the Empire has on offer. They took his home from him. I can’t abide that. I don’t have a home anymore besides the Falcon, but him? He does. And he deserves to go home. He has a family, too, you know.

“I saved him, at least that’s what he says, the big fuzzy fool, but really, he saved me. I was on a bad path, and Chewie, he put me straight. Saved my shanks more than once, too. He said it was part of some life debt—he has a word for it, but if I try to say it in his tongue I’ll probably strain something. Even if I can’t say it, I know what it means. It means that he owes his life to me.

“But that’s a hot cup of bantha spit, is what it is. He doesn’t owe me. I owe him. I got a debt to Chewie to get him his home back. So when this chance came up, I leapt at it. The rebels, or the Republic, or whatever they want to call themselves? They didn’t want any part of it. I made it clear, we need to make Kashyyyk a priority, but they waved me off. Not strategically significant, they said. Not yet. Soon. Blah blah. Bureaucracy and strategy and war planning? They made me a general but I didn’t know a thing about any of that. I don’t follow what’s on some…schematic. I follow what’s in here. In my gut. My gut always knows the way.

“Or so I thought. I leapt at the chance but didn’t look first. Imra, the smuggler who presented this little gift-wrapped opportunity—turns out, she was on the wrong side of things. The Empire must’ve had something on her, and she set up this trap for me. Not just for me. For all of us. I called in favors, brought a bunch of smugglers to a space not far from Warrin Station, and worse, I called in a few other Wookiee refugees, too. Ones I knew would want to scrap with the Empire. Ones who would want to go home.

“We all got in one place—half a dozen ships of people willing to work for me, and okay, yeah, maybe I promised them a pardon even though I didn’t know if I could make that magic happen. I mean, I’m no Jedi. I can’t just wiggle my pinkie and make someone dance. But there we all were. I sent Chewie to board a gunship captained by this Wookiee pirate, Kirratha. Next thing I know, we’re blown. Two Star Destroyers, plus a swarm of Imperial starfighters. They’re all over us. Cutting us apart. They shot out Kirratha’s engines, hobbling her on the spot—with Chewie still on board. Some ships they wiped off the map. Others they nabbed with tractor beam. And I…

“I beat stardust and got the hell out of there. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought that my best bet of getting Chewie and the others back would be from inside the cockpit of the Falcon and not stuck in some cell on board a Star Destroyer. But now I know: I was a coward. I should’ve sucked it up, found a way out from on board. I didn’t share the burden like I was supposed to. And now Chewie’s out there shouldering it all on his own.

“Ever since, I’ve been tearing up the galaxy looking for him. Every two-bit Imperial officer I could find told me what I wanted to know or got his teeth knocked out of his head. Finally, I figured out where they took him.

“They took him back to Kashyyyk. They took him home. ”

—

His eyes shine. His lip purses and twitches even as he fidgets and scratches at his beard. It’s then that Jas gets it.

Solo is angry.

But he’s angry with himself.

“So why Golas Aram? ” Norra asks. “Why are you out here? ”

The smuggler hesitates. He’s still not sure if he can trust them, maybe. Jas gets it. Trust is hard. It feels like falling.

Finally, Solo says, “Story goes, Chewie found himself on board a prison transport. A ship bound for a place called Ashmead’s Lock: a prison on the far side of Kashyyyk. Don’t know much about it except who built it. ”

“Golas Aram, ” Jas says.

“Right. I’ve been watching him. Then you bunch come along, damn near mucking everything up. If I hadn’t summoned that herd of morak, you woulda fired that tracking bug on his house. But Golas? He’s paranoid. Real paranoid. He does routine sweeps. He’d have found that bug before nightfall and sent out tracker droids to hunt you—and by proxy, me—down. ” He kicks his chair out and stands up, arms out. “So, you found me. Great. Now go away. Tell Leia…well, tell her what you want, but I can’t have her thinking she needs to fix this. I can’t have her in danger. Just tell her I’m okay and I’ll be home soon. ”

“When? ” Norra asks.

“Just tell her I’ll be home on time. ”

With that, Solo pushes past them and heads out of the junk alcove.

“Well! ” Sinjir says. “That solves that. Time to celebrate. ” He blasts the glass of korva down his throat and has a small spasm as it hits him. He coughs so hard he has to wipe his watering eyes. “Oh, this stuff is uniformly terrible. It may—” He urps. “It may be poison. ”

The rest of them sit quietly, unsure what to do.

Norra says, finally: “I think we need to—”

From close by, the sudden sounds of a scuffle arise. The noise is short—a cry of alarm, a hard thwack, and a subsequent thud.

They rush out of the alcove. Just around the corner, near the korva still, lies a body. Han Solo’s body.

Mister Bones stands astride the smuggler’s supine form.

“I SUBDUED THE TARGET WITH VIOLENCE, ” the battle droid chirps, his words punctuated by bursts of sharp static. “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. VICTORY FOR ALL. ”

Leia hears voices through the door. She leans in and listens, and as she listens, she finds herself growing furious.

Ackbar: “Alliances across the galaxy are patchwork. Too many systems stand alone and are falling between the widening fissure between our power and the Empire’s own influence. We are not growing swiftly enough to match their decline. We are not bridging that gap. ”

Mon Mothma: “This is why we must concentrate our efforts helping those worlds that offer a likelier chance of joining the New Republic in order to have a voice in the Senate. ”

One of Mon’s advisers, Hostis Ij: “Our resource reserves are stretched thin, Chancellor! But there remains one simple way of obtaining new lines of food, fuel, and other vital supplies—”

Mon’s other chief adviser, Auxi Kray Korbin: “Oh, please, let me guess: A stronger military? Tell us. How will a more robust military help? ”

Hostis: “If we step up recruitment, we will have more soldiers to secure supply lines once possessed by the Empire—such resources are out there in the wind, and who knows who will possess them. ”

More bluster and clamor. It’s time to step in.

Leia palms the door panel, and the door hisses open.

The metal shutters of the meeting room window are closed, though light from the bright Chandrilan day outside bleeds in at the edges like magma. All around them float various holoprojections: data-graphs, system maps, planet maps, schematics. It adds up to a galaxy in chaos. A galaxy whose allegiance is divided—not divided merely between the two warring sides of the New Republic and the Galactic Empire, but diced up finely into factions. Those factions will fight. They will fall to one another. They will form their own power structures. Warlords will lead them. As will despots, crime bosses, cult leaders. The galaxy will go from suffering the cruelty of the Empire’s order to being thrown into the maelstrom of disorder and madness. It will be an ugly time, Leia knows, if the New Republic cannot see its way clear through this labyrinthine tangle. A dark time.

As she steps into the room, all eyes fall to her.

They are surprised. Surprised even though she has a chair of her own in this room, a chair that presently sits empty between Mon Mothma and Admiral Ackbar. The chair sits empty because no one told her of this meeting. She was kept away on purpose.

“Leia, ” Mon Mothma says, standing up. “Welcome. Sit. ”

“I’ll stand. ” She hears the frostiness in her own voice. Leia thinks to control it, then decides against it. Let them be frozen out the way they are trying to freeze me out. “Having a meeting? ”

“Please understand, ” Mon says. “You’re going through a hard time. With your husband gone, and that unfortunate situation with that crew—”

“Yes. How unfortunate. ”

“I…you are of course welcome to sit, join us, offer your thoughts. ”

“I told her, ” Ackbar says, his voice a gruff gurgle.

Mon nods. “Of course. It was my mistake, Leia, for not inviting you. I simply thought you had a great deal on your mind already. ”

“Leia is more than just the face of our efforts across the galaxy, ” the admiral says, giving a little nod as if to agree with himself. “She is also a precious resource unto herself. Smart and savvy and a needed voice. ”

Ackbar, Leia realizes, is a good friend.

Mon is, too. She has to remind herself of that.

But Mon is a realist. Sometimes, that seems cold. And Leia is an idealist—her passions can run hot. They will remain friends through this, but that doesn’t mean Leia can’t—and shouldn’t—push back.

This is a delicate time for the New Republic. When Palpatine founded the Empire, he did so like a parasite: a creature growing inside the body of a stronger host until it could burst free from the skin and take control. The Empire emerged from this brutal chrysalis fully formed—and all it had to do was claim the resources that the winnowing Republic already possessed. Ships, weapons, soldiers, supplies. The New Republic has no such advantage. It must claw and scrape for every ship, every weapon, every scrap of food, and every willing soldier.

Mon wants this transition to be as peaceable as possible. That is, of course, a noble goal. And in late nights the chancellor confided in Leia that she is wisely struck by the fear of what happened the first time the parasite of Palpatine squirmed under the skin. How easy it was for him to prey on the anxieties of the galaxy. How simple it was for him to turn system against system by stoking the fires of xenophobia, anger, selfishness. (And here Luke’s voice echoes in her mind: The ways and tools of the dark side, Leia. ) How do you form an Empire? By stealing a Republic. And how do you steal a Republic? By convincing its people that they cannot govern themselves—that freedom is their enemy and that fear is their ally.

Palpatine was an able puppetmaster. He gave himself the power. He pulled on all the strings. And the galaxy danced to his whims.

Mon, thankfully, wants no such power.

And so she’s already begun ceding it. As chancellor she’s put up votes that have begun the path of demilitarization. That presents a sign of moral strength, but also sends up a signal of defensive vulnerability. (That means getting her to approve new military contracts—like the creation of the Starhawks—is like pulling the teeth from the mouth of an ornery tauntaun. ) As to defeating the scattered remains of the Empire, Mon seems of a mind to let that infection burn itself out. Strike when necessary, and otherwise sit back and let the antibodies of a free galaxy do the work.

That, Leia believes, misunderstands the infection. It won’t take much for the disease to again take hold. And sometimes, diseases evolve.

Worse, what does it say to those systems that need the New Republic right now? The Empire still enslaves whole worlds.

Like Kashyyyk, she thinks.

Kashyyyk: one planet where the New Republic is content to let the Empire burn itself out. That comes with an undercurrent of grim, overly pragmatic reality: The Wookiees are not a meaningful resource to the New Republic. Not militarily, not governmentally. Kashyyyk has resources, but none so dramatic that the New Republic is willing to sacrifice ships (and besides, the Empire has plundered most of those resources already).

But sacrifice is everything, isn’t it?

It means the willingness to leap into the void to save those who need saving. To save your friends.

“We argue, ” Leia says suddenly, “about whether it is the time to build up the military or to dampen its effect. And all the while we forget that we have the privilege of arguing from comfortable chairs many parsecs away. We argue about what’s prudent or what’s practical while people suffer. Do you know what people want to see from the New Republic? Do you, truly? ”

Mon cedes the floor. “Please. ”

“They want us to be heroes. ”

A moment passes where everyone chuckles uncomfortably. At least until they realize she’s quite serious.

Mon says: “I know. You’re not wrong. And you are a hero, and you helped us all be the heroes needed to get to this point. But such passion and idealism have to be tempered by reality. This is a government. It has a lot of moving pieces. ”

Leia stiffens. “And that is where we’ll fail. This isn’t a machine, Chancellor. When did we start to see this as a government and not a collection of people helping people? We’ve started seeing…territories and battle logistics and votes. We’ve stopped seeing hearts and minds and faces. The more we do that, the more we lose. Of ourselves. Of the galaxy. ”

“Running a galactic government is complex. ”

“Then I don’t want to run a galactic government! ” Her words come out louder than she means them to. All in the room seem startled by their intensity. Empty yourself. Center yourself. She must. But she can’t.

Mon says softly, “This is about Kashyyyk. About Han. ”

“We should have helped the Wookiees. ” Her voice trembles with rage and sorrow.

“I understand. ” Mon speaks like a mother to a tantruming child: slow, steady, and with a condescending tone. She’s talking down to me. My own friend is talking to me like I’m a youngling. “But as we discussed, we ran the numbers, we performed the simulations, and now is not the sensible time—”

“Sensible! ” Leia barks. “We’ve lost all sense, I fear. You’re right. I shouldn’t have come to this meeting. ”

Ackbar calls after her, but she doesn’t stop. Leia turns heel and marches back out of the meeting room.

If only she could slam the door, but it whishes gently shut behind her.

—

A transmission shimmers into being. There, projected above Rax’s desk, is the visage of a Bith. A drink-slinger from the distant planet of Irudiru. His appearance can only mean good news.

The Bith’s massive cranium turns left and right as if to make sure he’s alone. Satisfied, the bartender says: “They’re here. And they’re together. ”

A smile spreads across Rax’s face like a consuming fire. It warms him, this news. It’s taken too long to get here. So many puzzle pieces to nudge into place. And my, how those pieces were stubborn. Setting up a convincing mystery and threat is delicate work. One must commit to the theatrics but never overdo them; if any detected his shadowy hands above all of it, directing the stage, they would buck like an ill-saddled beast.

The Contingency continues, he thinks.

“Good, ” Gallius Rax says. “Continue monitoring. Credits will be forthcoming. ” Then he ends the transmission.

He wonders if Golas Aram is a piece deserving of a nudge or two. Patience, he chides himself. Let the mechanism work.

Part of that mechanism is Sloane.

She is one who has detected his shadow behind it all. That is a problem. Maybe one he can use to his advantage yet.

It is time to call her in.

Time, too, for one last test.

—

The room is white and mostly empty. The walls are padded. The windows are many, and the sunlight streaming in is bold and bright.

The only things in this room are Leia and a potted plant.

The plant is a sapling of the sanctuary trees of Endor, though some call it a serpent’s puzzle, named so after the way the dark branches weave together in a kind of organic knotwork.

She grew it from a seed—a small knobby acorn given to her by the little Ewok known as Wicket. She grew the plant in a pot of Chandrilan soil, and to her shock and delight, it took.

It has become a focus of her meditations, as suggested by Luke. She decided, after storming out of the meeting room, that it was best to come here. Best for her to focus on something that wasn’t the state of the galaxy, or the nascent New Republic, or that nagging feeling in the deep of her middle that Mon has betrayed her in some small but significant way.

She sits with it in the middle of the room.