BY CHUCK WENDIG 13 страница

She clears her mind.

And then she tries to feel the tree.

She does this at least once a day.

Leia has never felt the tree.

Not for lack of trying! She sits here. She empties herself of breath, and then she tries to free herself of thought. Just like Luke taught her to. That part works fine most of the time. But he said it was possible to feel the lifeforce of things with the Force.

She swore to him that she just doesn’t have it. It being that mystical, intangible power that her brother possesses and (this thought comes with a set of chills grappling up her spine) that her father—her birth father—possessed, too.

Luke continues to swear that, with time, she will come to feel the Force just as he does. He explained that it was how she felt his pain back during Cloud City—him hanging there, wearied and beaten and about to fall into the roiling clouds below. He said he’d teach her.

And he did teach her. Some things, at least.

Then? He left.

Just like Han left.

Luke…

She finds her mind wandering to him now. Her thoughts reach for her wayward brother like a living thing, like branches seeking the sun. I need you here. I need your help. Luke sometimes had a farm boy’s naï veté, yes, but right now she feels she could use a little of that.

Her mind is a tangle of thoughts. The complexities of politics, the love of (and anger over) Han, the loss of Luke, and above all else the ever-persistent worry about the life she carries—

Her skin tingles. Her mind feels suddenly unmoored from the rest of her. Leia feels dizzy enough to fall over.

Oh.

Oh, my!

There! There it is. Washing over her and through her—an awareness unlike any she’s ever felt before. A pulsing glow, flickering and strong.

It’s not the plant. It’s not Luke. It’s not even Han.

It’s her child.

This isn’t just a mother’s recognition of the life inside—that, she already knows. She’s already well aware of the bump and tumble of that little person she carries. (And she already knows about the heartburn, and the pre-breakfast nausea, and the post-breakfast nausea, and the post-post-breakfast hunger…)

This goes beyond all that. This is something separate from her. It isn’t a physical feeling. It is all around her. It suffuses her like the perfume from a jungle of flowers. As such, she is suddenly aware of her child’s mind and spirit: She senses pluck and wit and steel blood and a keen mind and by the blood of Alderaan is this one going to be a fighter!

Wait.

He?

It’s a boy.

It’s a boy.

Her hands fly in front of her mouth as she both laughs and cries at the same time. This, she thinks, is the light side that Luke always goes on about—the promise of light, the promise of a new life…

And then, the black edging of the dark side encircles her bliss like a noose. Because what rides swift on the heels of hope but fear—a fear that stretches out far and wide like a growing shadow. Fear of having a child in an unstable galaxy. Fear of whether or not Han is alive—or Luke, too. Will the child grow up with a father? An uncle? A mentor? What is her legacy and what will her boy’s legacy be?

Her breath catches in her chest. She has to force herself to breathe.

Clear your mind. Clear it all. Focus, Leia. Focus.

Are those her thoughts?

Or are they Luke’s?

—

The Empire cares little for the fripperies of life, preferring instead to put a cold gray veneer on just about everything, but Gallius Rax grew up in a dead place, and so putting in this garden here on the upper echelons of the Ravager gives him a source of solace.

From behind him, Rae Sloane clears her throat.

He does not turn. He suspects she has brought a blaster. Sloane does not trust him, but he suspects she feels trapped by her options. The one option that makes the most sense—the one that would demonstrate strength that few others would deny—would be to burn a hole in his back.

Fleet Admiral Rax hopes now to change that.

“You despise me, ” he says, staring at the stalk of a red-tongued kubari flower—its petals have many layers, each folded against the next. The prettiest, most crimson petals in fact remain hidden from view.

“No, ” she says. A lie, certainly. “Of course not. I respect you. ”

“You can respect me and despise me at the same time. I felt much the same way about our former Emperor. He was mighty and deserving of praise. He was also a monster, and one who made mistakes. ”

That would’ve been heresy if Palpatine were still alive.

Still might be, if those words were uttered to the wrong person.

“Be that as it may, ” she says, suddenly uncomfortable, “if you worry about me, please. Don’t. ”

“And yet I do. I know you’ve been to see Mas Amedda. I know you’ve been investigating me in a way that goes well beyond cursory checkups. And I would guess that right now, feeling cornered, you are reaching for that elegant chrome blaster you keep at your hip. But I ask you to wait. ”

In the reflection of the blast-glass enclosure, he sees her hand hovering near the weapon. So close.

To her credit, she denies nothing. Good. He likes her. He would hate to have that feeling diminished by something so weak as a common lie. Lies must be big, grand, full of purpose.

“Go on, ” she says.

Now, now he turns. His arms spread wide and welcoming. His mouth pulled tight in a cold rictus grin. “I want to tell you my plan. ”

Confusion flickers on her face like a short-circuiting holovid. “Why? Why now? You’ve kept me at arm’s length. ”

“Yes. Because I am distrustful by nature. And because the future of this Empire traipses delicately upon a wire. The chasm beneath it is deep and I don’t wish to shoulder it into the abyss by trusting the wrong people. ”

Sloane narrows her eyes. “You’re pulling strings, Admiral. I don’t know what they’re connected to or why you’re pulling them. I don’t even know who you are or where you come from. You are little more than a shadow—and yet you lead the Empire. ”

“Secretly. You’re the grand admiral here, I’ll remind you. ”

“In title, yes. And your leadership is not that secret. You’re out in the open more than you think. Word will get out. ”

“And when it does, I will confirm that I remain your most trusted adviser—a war hero who supports your own candidacy for Emperor. ”

“Who are you, Admiral? ”

Rax rolls his eyes. Such a brutal, worthless question. He doesn’t care to waste time on it. As if the identity of one man is really all that special? The beauty is in the total mechanism, not the parts pulled out of it.

Instead, he cuts to the quick.

“I plan on attacking Chandrila, ” he says.

The shock on her face—he won’t lie and say it doesn’t please him. It means she didn’t see that coming. If she didn’t, nobody will.

“For so long we’ve remained still, patient, waiting…” she says.

“And now it’s time to return to the galaxy and strike at the heart of the New Republic. Our attack will stagger them. ”

“The fleets hiding in the nebulae? Will you utilize them? ”

He offers another vicious smile, and she mistakes it as confirmation.

“When? ” she asks.

“Soon. All the pieces are almost in place. ”

“What pieces? ”

“In time, you’ll see. ”

Sloane bristles at that. “I need to know—”

“And I need you to trust. All will become clear in time. I want you with me through all of it, Grand Admiral Sloane. You are a vital resource. ” He says that last sentence as something he hopes is true. He will have to test her this one last time. Just as he was tested many times. “Do you trust me? ”

She hesitates. “I don’t know. ”

“An honest answer. Good. Tell no one of this little talk. I’ll let you know when it’s time. Be ready. ”

And with that, he walks past her, because the conversation is over.

It is a difficult thing being a creature without purpose.

The purpose of the man, Malakili, was once to give purpose to such creatures. He was always good with beasts. As a child in a Nar Shaddaa slum, he taught vicious gugverms to stop stealing from the food stores—and over time they became his pets, his friends, his protectors. Later, he would help tame and prepare a variety of beasts for the Hutt circuses: sand dragons and kill-wings and little womp rats in their little outfits. And then later, his precious joy, the rancors. Those, the monsters none could tame but he.

And now his last rancor, Pateesa, is dead.

Crushed by a lucky fool in black.

Worse, his employer is also gone—eradicated by that same lucky fool and his cruel friends. Malakili and the others were left in the palace after Jabba’s sail barge erupted in belching fire, all of them unsure as to what exactly to do now. A new Hutt would come to occupy the dais, they said. And so many stayed as the food dwindled and the water ran out. Soon those left began drifting away, too, off into the sands and away across the dunes. No Hutt was coming. The galaxy was changing. Could it be that the Hutts were fighting? Some underworld war pitting slug against slug?

Malakili was one of the last in the palace.

And then one day, he left, too.

He thought maybe to tame the glorious monstrosity at the bottom of the Great Pit of Carkoon (and, failing that, to throw himself into its maw), but the mighty Sarlacc was injured. Burning wreckage from the sail barge had rained upon it. Already its body—considerably more massive than the mouth exposed from the sliding sands—had been partially unburied, its stoma-tubes slit open, its digesting innards pillaged by industrious Jawas. They pulled out weapons and armor, droids and tools. And skeletons, of course.

The creature of Carkoon had a pure purpose, to wait and to eat, and now it was left to thrash and wail in the grip of pillagers. Malakili wept at another life without purpose.

He wandered, as many do. He felt like a scrap of cloth or a wad of trash blown across the desert, pushed this way and pulled that way. Rolling without destination. Without meaning.

And now, he thinks, I am going to die.

The Red Key thugs found him wandering toward Mos Pelgo. They gave chase, but he is older and slower than he used to be. One hit him from behind and now?

Now his face is pressed into the hot sand. A boot pushes on his neck, and the bones in his back grind. One of the Red Key Raiders—men who claim to work for the new mining conglomerate, a conglomerate even naï ve Malakili knows to be just a front for a criminal syndicate—rips off his leather hood and presses a blaster into the back of his skull. They rip his satchel from his shoulder and empty it onto the sand. His waterskin finds its way into one of the thug’s hands, who parts the leather from in front of his face and drinks what little is left. The rest of Malakili’s belongings decorate the dirt: a lucky braid of bantha fur and teeth; a small water shiv made of dewback bone; a few droid gears and shiny chits to give to the Jawas or to pay off the grunting Tuskens.

A man who introduces himself as Bivvam Gorge rasps in Malakili’s ear: “What else you got, wanderer? These sands are Red Key sands and Lorgan Movellan is taking his cut. Wouldn’t want his cut to be your ears, or your tongue, would you? ” The second thug chuckles through a respirator.

As if to demonstrate, the first thug stabs a gleaming hunting knife down into the ground. It hits the sand with a hiss.

Above them, the shriek of a blaster bolt—

And then, the thug hits the sand, too. He topples like a vaporator knocked flat by a stomping bantha. His head turns toward Malakili as smoke rises from a patch of burned hair and skin on the far side of his skull. The thug’s mouth works soundlessly. Then his eyes go dim.

Suddenly, the air erupts with blaster fire. The second thug gargles rage through his respirator, but even this is short lived. He staggers backward, arms flailing, the rifle dropping out of his hand.

That thug joins his friend. The suns will claim him.

Malakili does not move.

Whoever is coming is worse than these two, and so it seems better to play dead. That, a trick he learned from many of the beasts he trained. Prey knows that the best costume from a predator is the already-dead.

Please let me be, please let me be, please…

But why? To what purpose? To be saved—to be spared—is a privilege that should belong to one with purpose.

Footsteps approach. Boots thumping on the sand.

“You can get up. ” A voice. Male. Gruff, plain, clear.

Another voice: a woman’s voice, “Relax. We’re not raiders. ”

“We’re law. ”

Law? On Tatooine? No such thing. The Hutts were the law. Jabba was law. But now, with Jabba dead…

Malakili rolls over and sits up.

There, a man in Mandalorian armor, the suit of it pocked and pitted and streaked with scars. Armor that looks eerily familiar, and Malakili’s innards clench at the sight of it. A carbine hangs at the man’s side.

Next to him stands a tall woman. Head-tails which means she’s Twi’lek—though one of those head-tails is mangled, its end puckered with scar tissue. At her hips hang twin pistols.

“I’m Issa-Or, ” she says, a sneer to her lips.

The man removes his helmet. His cheeks are lined with salt-and-pepper stubble. He winces against the double suns. “I’m Cobb Vanth. Lawman and de facto mayor of what used to be Mos Pelgo. ”

“Freetown, now, ” the Twi’lek says. “A place where good people can come if they’re willing to work. If they’re willing to stand tall against the syndicates. Against folks like Lorgan and Red Key. ”

Malakili nods as if he understands. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Cobb kneels down. “You look familiar to me. ”

“I am no one. ”

“Everybody’s someone, my friend. Thing about Freetown is, to live inside our walls means to be useful. Are you useful? ”

And here, Malakili’s spirits sink. He is not useful to anyone. He admits as much, his dry eyes going suddenly wet with tears. “I have no value to you. Kill me. My creature, Pateesa, is dead. All my beasts are gone—”

The Twi’lek says, “You a beastmaster? ”

Master. If only he deserved such a word. But he gives an uncertain nod. “I train beasts. Yes. ”

The two share a look. Vanth chuckles: a dry sound like rocks rolling together down the side of a cliff. “We got a couple unruly rontos that could use a steady hand. Can you handle that? There’d be payment. And a homestead for you if you care to claim it. ”

His sinking spirits are suddenly buoyant. Purpose dawns inside his heart bringing light to darkness once more. “I…can. ”

“There’s something else, ” Issa-Or says.

“Should we tell him? ”

“Why not? If anybody can help…”

Cobb leans in close and as he helps Malakili up, the man says in a low voice as if the sand might be listening: “You know much about Hutts? ”

“I know quite a bit. ”

“You think you could train one? ”

“I…they are sentient beings, not pets. ”

“Fine. Teach one, then. ”

“I could. I believe. But why? ”

Issa-Or grins. “Because we have one at Freetown. ”

“A baby, ” Cobb says, scratching his jaw. “Seems that Red Key was trying to sneak one in, install it onto the palace dais. We interrupted that little plan, and now we got this…slug, and not sure what to do with it. If you can help us with the rontos, maybe the Hutt, you’ve got a place at Freetown. How’s that sound, friend? ”

“It sounds…” Like purpose. “Most excellent. Thank you. ”

“You can thank me by doing your job. ”

“Let’s go, ” Issa-Or says. “Leave the corpses for the others to find. Let them see that law, true law, is spreading across the land. ”

Sinjir assured Norra that a glass of the korva would do it, and he was right. As soon as she eases the glass under Solo’s nose, the vapor hits him. The smuggler’s eyes bolt open and he stares back with a turbolaser intensity.

“Wuzza what the, ” he says, suddenly scrambling to stand. “Leia? ”

“No, ” Norra says. She’s alone with him in the main hold of the Halo. “It’s Lieu…it’s Norra Wexley. We’re on Irudiru. Remember? ”

He winces. His hand moves to rub the lump forming under his hairline. “Attacked by a droid. A…” He scrunches up his face in disbelief. “An old Clone Wars battle droid of all things. I must be hallucin…”

Movement from behind her. Mister Bones leans around the corner, poking his vulture’s-skull droid head out. Han paws at his side for one of his blasters, but Norra holds his wrist and moves to block the view of the droid.

“Go away, ” she spits at Bones. “Go! Shoo, you bag of bones. ”

“ROGER-ROGER, TEMMIN’S MOM. ”

The droid recedes.

Han growls: “That droid is yours? ”

“My son’s. ”

“Damn thing knocked me out cold! You bring that rickety clanker back here. I want to shoot its arms off. Then I want to beat it with its own arms. Then I want to take its head—”

Norra eases him back into the chair. “I apologize for the droid. We looked at your head—the injury is superficial. ”

“Great. Thanks, Doc. Now do as I said: Get out of here and let me get back to work. You’re slowing me down. ”

“We want to help. ”

“I don’t need your help, lady. ”

“You’re alone out here. I think you do. ”

He scowls at her and sits forward. “Why? Why help me? I don’t know you. I didn’t do anything for you. And I’m tired of owing people. ”

“We owe you. ”

“Not according to my tally, ” he says, tapping his temple. “I keep the ledgers up here and your name’s not in it, honey. ”

“We could’ve just shipped you back to Chandrila, you know. Tied you to a chair. But you’re a hero of the galaxy. You and your friends. You saved us all. This is how we pay you back. ” She stiffens. “Also, please don’t call me honey. ”

He stands up.

“I can do this by myself. ”

No, you can’t. But she placates him anyway. “I’m sure you could. ”

“I work alone. ”

“Obviously. ”

His eyes pinch and his hand idly scratches at the beard growth along his jaw. “But I do need Chewie back. ”

Norra understands—he’s trying to ask for help, but he’s too callused, too gruff-and-tumble to really ask. She offers it again: “So, let us help. We can offer extra hands, extra guns. We’ll follow your lead. ”

“That might make it easier. ” He sizes her up with his eyes. “Might. But like you said: You need to follow my lead. ”

“Done. ”

“Fine. You can help me get Aram. ”

Norra stands up, too, offering her hand. “We’ll help you get Chewie back, too. ”

“Well, then. In for a credit, in for a crate. ” He takes her hand. “Welcome to Team Solo. Hope you can keep up, Norra. ”

Everything’s going according to plan.

That thrills Jas in no small way. The plan is everything. Designing one is like making a clock: all these little parts working together, turning, tugging, ticking. And at the end of the day, it either tells time or it doesn’t.

And this plan, it’s going along like clockwork.

She got to take out the pulse mines first—Jas took up the same place on the plateau overlooking Golas Aram’s compound, and she used the scope on her slugthrower to identify the electronic signatures from each of the mines. Then it was the simple act of pointing the gun, emptying herself of breath, and pulling the trigger.

The first one did what it was supposed to do:

It went bang.

And that sound was a signal to get the rest of the plan going.

Kilometers away, Temmin and Bones got to work on cutting the conduit from the wind farm that Solo had identified. That knocked out the fence and the turrets. And it’s allowed Sinjir to head down under the cover of night to Aram’s compound. She spies his shadow darting through the fence now.

To keep him on his toes, Jas pops off more mines ahead of him—the pulse mines detonate with buzzing explosions, leaving behind small craters and a crackling haze of ozone smoke in their wake.

He’s closing in on the compound—

Suddenly, from all around, shutters and doors open up. New shadows emerge, shapes that seem human but move with an inhuman stutter-step. Droids, she thinks, and that’s confirmed the moment they ignite fire-red vibroblades from their hands. She sees a dozen of these droids. Maybe more.

Advancing on Sinjir’s position.

And now, the clock is threatening to break.

Down there, outside the compound, the darkness is lit up by strange, glowing vibroblades. They draw glowing arcs through the air as they advance toward Sinjir—the ex-Imperial dashes behind an old motor-vator tiller, peeling off shots from his pistol. But it’s not enough.

That is where Jas comes in. Her slugthrower kicks and barks as she takes out one droid after the next. Hard to see in the dark, but she does her best. The droids offer a satisfying rain of sparks every time she peels the skull off one with a hot tanium-jacketed projectile.

She thinks: I got this.

Confidence, or rather overconfidence, is a blinding force. And it doesn’t help that she’s got one open eye pressed against the ring of the rifle scope. Which means she hears what’s coming one second too late.

Soon as the thirstgrass shakes and whispers, Jas quick rolls over onto her back and points her rifle up—but a thrumming vibroblade ignites in the darkness above her, whipping forward and slicing through the barrel of her slugthrower. It gets stuck there, buzzing and grinding, sparks flying, and the weight of the commando droid presses down against her.

She tries kicking the thing off her, but it’s like trying to kick an astromech with its legs grav-bolted to the floor. As she struggles uselessly, the droid’s second vibroblade lights up and plunges toward her.

Jas jerks her head to the side just as the blade sticks into the hardscrabble ground. Dust and debris sting her cheek.

The droid starts to spasm.

And glow.

Its mouthpiece offers a loud announcement:

“DESTRUCT SEQUENCE ENGAGED. ”

Oh, slag.

The commando droid shines like magma through a broken mantle of stone, and it’s vibrating so hard now that Jas feels like she, too, will rattle to pieces. She struggles to shove the thing off before it detonates—surely taking her with it, leaving her little more than a red streak in a smoking crater. In the distance, she hears Sinjir yelling for her.

I have my own problems, she thinks.

If she can just pivot the gun…

The barrel is broken, the vibroblade still stuck in it—but firing a round out will still make a mess of the droid, maybe. But she needs to aim it toward the thing’s head. Her muscles scream as she willfully turns the gun centimeter by miserable centimeter…

“DESTRUCTING IN THREE…”

She grits her teeth, turning the weapon—so close, so close.

“…TWO…”

Her finger searches for the trigger.

“…ONE…”

No. I’m too late—

A laser lances through the air, cutting clean through its steel neck. The droid’s head tumbles off its shoulders. Searing metal bits seem to burn holes in the air as the mechanical skull rolls away into the grass.

The commando droid’s body slumps to the side.

That wasn’t the culmination of a self-destruct sequence.

Someone did that. Someone who steps up to Jas, standing over her and offering a hand. The rich baritone of Jom Barell’s voice reaches her:

“You know, Emari, I leave you alone for a second and you go make sweet with a droid. You’re lucky I’m the jealous type. ”

“Shut it, Barell. Fall in line—Sinjir needs our help. ” She pretends like it’s nothing at all that he’s come back—that he’s chosen loyalty to their little team. She’ll never tell him about the flutter in her chest at hearing his voice again. She’ll hardly acknowledge it herself, even though it feels like she has a flock of birds trapped inside her rib cage.

—

Inside the house, now. Inside Aram’s compound.

Outside in the dark lie the sparking bodies of Aram’s droids, and the smoldering craters of where the mines were.

Inside, though, there’s nothing.

Or, rather, no one.

“Blast it, ” Sinjir says, coming back through the house.

Jas warns him: “Be careful. We don’t know that he didn’t trap this place. ”

“Is he here or not? ” Jom Barell asks.

To which Sinjir responds: “No, he’s not here, and by the way, when the hell did you show up? ”

Barell grunts and shrugs.

“He’s gone, ” Sinjir says. “Half his computer systems are fried. His droid docks are empty—either we met the clanking monstrosities that were in there, or he’s got a whole gaggle of them marching with him somewhere. ”

“Where’d he go? ” Jom asks.

“I don’t exactly know, do I? My job is to ask questions, and it’s bloody hard asking questions of someone who isn’t here. ”

Jas says, “We know he has tunnels dug under this place. ” Han and Norra went down to intercept him in case he made it that far. She pulls up her comlink. “Solo? ” Nothing but a crackle. “Solo. Report in. ”

“Nnnn, ” comes a voice.

Sounds like the smuggler. And he doesn’t sound good.

“What happened? ” she asks.

“That…big-headed freak surprised me. Was…” Over the comm come more groans, followed by a fit of coughing. “Was riding a hoverchair, and the damn thing shocked the hell out of me when I reached for him. ”

“What happened to Norra? ”

“I don’t know where she is. Before Aram came through she said she was going to check something out and then—then I got suckered. ”

She has to remind herself: Aram really isn’t their mission. He’s Solo’s problem. And if Solo let him go, well, that’s that. Jas will tell Temmin to have Mister Bones bag and tag the smuggler, they’ll toss him in the back of the Halo and fly him back to Chandrila.

Just the same: Where is Norra?

As if on cue, another crackle as Norra’s voice comes over the comm: “I got him. ”

“You got who? Aram? ”

“I did. ”

“How? ”

“I followed one of the subtunnels out. It ended up at a small solar shuttle prepped on a platform. The nav computer was already loaded with a destination: Seems Aram has family on Saleucami. I hid. Aram hopped in, tried to take off. I stunned him. He’s heavy, though—I could use a fly-by. Bring the Halo in to pick up the prize? ”

Jas grins ear-to-ear. “You got it, boss. ”

The prime operator within all Imperial ranks was the human being. “Aliens” were by and large unwelcome within its labyrinthine order because aliens were seen as different. They were serfs and slaves or, at best, obstacles. They needed to be tamed, removed, or ignored.

At least, so spoke the propaganda.

Sinjir felt the tug of that prejudice himself from time to time, for it was so programmed into them that even near-humans were to receive a measure of distrust. Palpatine and his propaganda machine worked to drive that nail of bigotry deeper by demonstrating how the old Jedi thugs and the scumfroth rebels consisted of many more nonhumans than humans. You could trust a human, the Empire said; aliens would always betray you.