BY CHUCK WENDIG 14 страница

Of course, over time Sinjir learned the foolishness of that, because as it turned out human beings were fairly horrible. Full of treachery! Just brimming with the stuff. He came to believe that the Empire’s corruption was precisely because it was xenophobic. It afforded no one any other voice, and so man and machine ruled the Empire together while the rest of the galaxy—despite being predominantly nonhuman in origin—suffered, powerless while under the twisting heel of the Imperial boot.

Whatever the case, Sinjir’s training as a loyalty officer gave him little opportunity to, ahem, extract information from nonhumans. He was acutely aware of the physiological pain points of the human animal.

Aliens, not so much.

And so when presented with a Siniteen, it took him some time.

The Siniteen frame is similar to that of most human beings, with the exception of the cranium. There, the alien’s head is large. Twice that of the average person’s skull, and, well, squishy. The human head is protected by that precious mantle of bone, but the Siniteen head seems like little more than a leather sack full of meat. The creature’s brain is so immense that it literally strains against the inside of the wrinkling skin.

No way to know then if Golas Aram’s attitude was typical of the species, but the Siniteen cared little for the sanctity of his body. Sinjir threatened to pull the alien apart like a warm sweet roll, but Aram was not forthcoming. The threat failed to land. Aram’s legs were already ruined, and he traveled around on a hovering repulsor chair.

Sinjir decided to go back to his own instincts, then. This he learned from practice and not the ISB Loyalty Manual, but sometimes it was valuable just to let someone talk. And so he talked at some length with Aram. About the droids. His compound. His ship. The planet Irudiru. Anything and everything. Aram didn’t want to talk and remained belligerent the whole way. He infused even the stiffest rebuke with alarming ego.

My droids are custom-built, hand-programmed in a way that no one else in the galaxy could duplicate.

My compound was designed to be impenetrable! You primates were beneficiaries of luck is all that it was.

Irudiru? Better here than anywhere else in the galaxy—seems every other system is choking on the fat and stupidity of a torpid, indolent population. Fools, fools, everywhere!

Golas Aram thought very little of the rest of the galaxy.

And quite a lot of himself. In particular, his intellect. He cared very little about his body, true. But he cared a great deal about his mind.

That, then, is the approach Sinjir takes. He tells Aram: “I wonder, Golas, what would happen if I took, say, a knife—or something long and sharp like this bit here? ” He snatches a small antenna off the top of one of Temmin’s crates of random parts here in the main hold of the Halo. He twirls it about, then tap-tap-taps it against the Siniteen’s head. “And I wonder, what if I pressed it through the folds? Or inserted it through one of your earholes? An urgent push and then a pop as it sticks into your brain. ”

He teases it around the Siniteen’s earhole. Working it just inside.

“What? What are you doing? You ape. Stop it! ”

Sinjir slides the antenna deeper. Pushing. Aram cries out.

“It would be a terrible thing. I’m just some clumsy, graceless primate, right? I would have no idea what I was even accomplishing. One wonders if it would have a deleterious effect on your own intelligence, hm? I might even suggest it could turn you as lack-witted as someone like me. All that genius stored up—if I popped that balloon, would it come leaking out? ”

There. Fear in his eyes. Bright and alive like light reflecting off rippling water. Every person is a lock, and Sinjir is adept at finding the key—the one that undoes them, unbundles them, opens them up so that all within is fresh for the taking.

It is a moment that has in the past given him great joy.

Not this time.

Instead, he pushes out of the hold and steps out of the ship. To the others gathered in the morning light of Irudiru he says: “He’s ready. Go ask him whatever. ” Then he staggers forward through the thirstgrass, failing to feel the pain of its blades.

—

The sun is over the horizon now. Gone are its gilded fingers splaying across the grass; it’s just a throbbing white ball in the sky. Sinjir sits outside on a stack of boxes, staring off at nothing.

Someone blots out the sun. It’s Solo.

“You did it, ” the smuggler says.

“Aram? I know. ”

“He gave us everything we needed. ” Solo has a ragged, feral grin. He’s excited. Raring to go like a hound straining at its leash.

“Very glad to have been of service. ”

“You’re Imperial. ”

“Ex. ”

“I don’t like Imperials. ”

“Join the club. Even Imperials don’t like Imperials. ”

“You did good. Get yourself cleaned up. Me and Norra are going to head into Kai Pompos, do a quick supply run. Then we’re off to the races. ”

Sinjir offers a weak thumbs-up. Yay.

Solo is gone. Soon replaced by Jas as she comes off the ship, bantering with Jom Barell—oh, joy, he’s back. The two of them came down off the plateau last night just as he was about to be overrun by a pack of commando droids. Ones apparently set to cook off like fireworks. Jas and Jom saved him. Sinjir supposes he should be grateful. And he is. Maybe.

Eventually, Jas gives him a wink. “You okay? ” she asks.

“Golden, ” he responds, summoning a liar’s smile.

Then she and Barell are gone. Off to do whatever it is they do. Probably thump like engine pistons.

“Hey, Sinjir, ” says Temmin, coming up from behind him.

“Hello, boy. ”

“You don’t look so hot. ”

“That’s rude. ”

“No, I mean—” Temmin laughs, nervously. “You seem like something’s bothering you. ”

“Something’s always bothering me. The sun. The air. Other people. Nosy younglings who pop by with rude questions. ”

“I don’t know what crawled up your exhaust port and died, but fine, I’m outta here. See ya, Sinjir. ”

“Wait. ”

The boy pauses and looks back. “What? ”

“Back on Chandrila. Looking in on Yupe Tashu. That bothered you. ”

“Yeah, sure. ”

“Why? ”

“I dunno. Woulda bothered anybody. ”

“Mm-mm, I don’t buy that answer. It hit you like a fast little meteorite fragment—pop, right between the eyes. ”

Temmin kicks a few stones, then says: “Okay. You tell me what’s bothering you, I’ll tell you what bothered me. ”

“A little tit for tat, hm? Fine. I don’t want to be who I am anymore. I want to be someone different. ”

“You are. You’re one of the good guys now. ”

“And, as one of those good guys, I just threatened another sentient being with the act of sticking an antenna through his ear and into his brain. ”

“So why’d you do it, then? ”

Sinjir scowls like he’s tasting something foul. “Because history demands distasteful things be done to preserve it. Because being good sometimes means still being bad. Because it’s who I am and if I didn’t do it, we’d probably still be sitting here scratching ourselves wondering whatever could we do? I am here for a reason. I am a tool that fulfills a very exclusive function. What good am I if I don’t fill it? ”

“You’re good in a lot of ways. ”

“Such as? ”

“Uhh. ”

“Right. Your turn. ”

“No, wait, I feel bad, you’re really good at—”

“Too late. Buzzer is buzzing. Alarm is alarming. Your turn, I said. You. Me. Yupe Tashu. You were upset. Why? ”

“Because. ”

“Because is not an answer. It’s an empty word. ”

“Because of my father! ”

Sinjir cocks an eyebrow. “What about him? ”

“He’s…maybe out there, too. In a cell just like that one. I think, who knows what happened to him? What happened to his mind? It made me worry that he might be broken, too. And if I ever find him, maybe he won’t even recognize me. Maybe even if we find him, he’ll still be lost. Y’know? ”

“I do know. Quite profound, actually. ”

“It is? ”

“For a nosy youngling. ”

“For the record, you’re good at this kind of stuff. Talking to people. ”

“Oh, gross. I’d rather be good at torturing them. ”

“Jerk. ”

“Twit. ”

Temmin laughs. “Thanks, Sinjir. I feel better. ”

For a time, so does Sinjir. He’d never say as much out loud, of course. He tries to enjoy the respite from his own foul mood, because he wonders: What comes now?

The Falcon slices through hyperspace.

“You look nervous, ” Han says to Norra, sitting in the copilot’s chair—a chair that has a very deep seat and is lower to the floor than the other. A chair worn most often by a much bigger individual.

Like, say, a Wookiee.

“I’m not nervous, ” she says.

She’s nervous.

It’s hard not to be. She’s admired this ship a great deal from afar—how could she not? This should be a clunky, junky freighter. But she’s seen it move. The way it whips and dips through the chaos of battle is a thing to behold—performance like that steals your breath just watching it. She in her Y-wing followed the Falcon—then piloted by Calrissian and his Sullustan copilot—into the mazelike innards of the second Death Star. It was a thing to marvel. A sight she will never forget.

That’s from the outside.

On the inside? She’s surprised this thing holds together. It’s got the structural integrity of a sack of spare parts. Nothing matches. Things dangle. Wires lie exposed. Panels don’t match their moorings. The console doesn’t even look original to the ship—it’s like her son built it in his workshop back on Akiva. Bits sit welded to other bits or, worse, are stuck together with wound-up wads of bonding tape and shellacked over with shiny epox.

Norra is afraid this thing might break into pieces right here in the middle of rocketing through hyperspace.

Solo, for his part, seems like he’s embraced the chaos of it. Sometimes an alarm goes off, or part of the dash goes dark—and then he pounds it with the side of his fist or jiggles the wires hanging underneath. Then it all comes back online. He smirks and winks.

Norra, in order to not talk about the orbital garbage fire in which they are currently traveling, says: “We sure Aram gave us good info? ”

“We’ll find out, won’t we? If his codes don’t check out, we’re going to have to get out of there fast as a blaster. ” He closes his eyes and pinches the flesh at the center of his brow. “You know what? It’ll work. It has to work. ” Because, she knows, this is their only shot.

Kashyyyk is a prison planet. A worldwide labor camp. The Empire, in its xenophobic monstrousness, saw fit to imprison and enslave the Wookiees there not because they offered a meaningful threat to the Emperor’s ascendancy—but because they were different, and because their massive, robust physiology would allow them to work long and hard in extreme conditions. Probably took rather epic effort to work a Wookiee to death. Not that the Empire wouldn’t try, she wagers.

At that, she fails to repress a shudder.

“It’ll work, ” she says. Because it has to work.

Solo reaches above him, sets the stabilizers with a few flips of a few switches. “We’re coming up on it. You ready for this? ”

No. “Yes. ”

“Dropping out of lightspeed. ”

He gives a quick tap to the nav computer screen, then eases back on the throttle. The long light-lines go from streaks to stars.

And there, ahead, is their destination.

Kashyyyk. A green, verdant planet. She spies snowcapped mountains and snaking rivers leading to oceans of dark water. But above all else are the forests. Even from here, the forests pop. The clouds swirling above the atmosphere have to swirl around and through the trees.

But look closer, and you see devastation: Patches of forest gone dark and gray. Rivers stemmed to a trickle. Black dots across the seas: Imperial undersea mining platforms, she guesses. White clouds swirl into hurricanes of black smoke. If she can see the destruction from all the way out here, in space, how bad is it on the ground? What have they done to this world?

All around the planet hangs the Imperial blockade. Dozens of ships: a pair of Star Destroyers, a handful of battleships, plus shuttle traffic and patrols of TIE starfighters.

“We should’ve come in an Imperial ship, ” she says.

Behind them, a blip on the scanners. Another craft dropping out of hyperspace. Her heart tightens in her chest even though she knows that ship: It’s the Halo, following behind. Jas is piloting it. The rest of the crew is with her, leaving Norra to accompany the smuggler.

“I said, it’ll be fine, ” Solo says. “We didn’t have time, anyway. ”

“Surely they know your ship. ”

“They do, but we got Aram’s Imperial codes, remember? Besides, they think the Falcon is destroyed. ”

“How’s that? ”

“After I lost Chewie, I hired a slicer to hack the Empire’s networks, see if I could find out anything. While in there, she did me a favor and ‘updated’ their records on me and the Falcon. I’m listed as dead, and this ship is listed as having gone kaboom. ”

She hesitates. “And our gunship? ”

“Like I said, your gunship is an SS-54. Fortunately for us, Imperial bureaucracy is an immovable object. Once upon a time, the Empire classified that ship as a ‘light freighter. ’ Would take mountains of paperwork and official approvals to get it redesignated in their databases, so? They don’t see a gunship. They see a freighter. ”

“That keeps our story, then. ”

“Sure does, lady. Sure does. ”

That story: They’re bringing parts and a repair crew down to the surface of Kashyyyk to do repairs on the prison known as Ashmead’s Lock at the behest of the prison’s designer, Golas Aram. Simple. Clean.

As if on cue, the comm crackles:

“This is Star Destroyer Dominion. You are in illegal approach of Imperial territory G5-623. Identify yourselves and transmit clearance codes or you will be marked as a trespasser and in violation of Galactic Code. ”

Han clears his throat and gives a nervous smile to Norra—possibly meant to reassure her? —before speaking. “This is light freighter Conveyance, accompanied by light freighter, uhh, the Swan. Stand by for code transmission. ”

He gives the nod, and Norra uploads the codes.

Silence on the other end.

“They’re not buying it, ” she says.

“They’re buying it. ”

More silence.

“They’re not buying it. ”

“They haven’t charged up their weapons—”

A burst of static across the comm, then: “What is your purpose on the surface of Imperial territory G5-623, Conveyance? ”

“We’re, ahh, we were sent to do repairs on an old prison. We were sent by Golas Aram at the request of the Empire. We have technical parts and the crew to install them. Uh. Sir. ”

More silence. Norra hears only the blood rushing in her ears.

“Not today, ” returns the voice. “Turn your ships around and please exit Imperial space. ”

Han’s brow furrows with frustration. He gets back on the comm: “I apologize, I don’t understand, sir. The code clearance—”

“The planet is on lockdown, freighter Conveyance. No one in, no one out, by order of Emperor Palpatine himself. ”

Palpatine. Norra sits forward in her pilot’s seat. Chills run roughshod over her skin, and she can’t shake them off. Could he be alive? After all this?

Solo whispers to her: “He’s dead. Relax. ” Then, back on the comm: “Sir, I apologize. I was to understand that the Emperor did not survive. ”

“Then you understand poorly. The Emperor is alive and well. Imperial territory G5-623 is under quarantine. I repeat: Turn around or we will be forced to open fire. ”

Panic traps both of them in its grip. Han and Norra look at each other. His eyes are wild. He’s like a caged animal desperate to chew its way through the enclosure. He reaches for the weapons systems—

Norra catches his hand. “What are you doing? ”

“What do you mean, what am I doing? We’re gonna blast our way through this. You know. The old-fashioned way of doing things. ”

“They’ve got two Star Destroyers there. ”

“Oh, hey, thanks for that update. By the way, the Falcon’s punched its way through a lot worse. We’ll make it to the surface. ”

“And what then? ”

“Then we head to the coordinates Aram gave us. ”

“With half the Empire on our tails! ”

“I don’t mind those odds, sister! ”

She grabs for the comm and speaks into it, desperate for a solution—except it’s not the Imperials she hails. Instead, she routes her comm through to the Halo. Jas answers.

“Norra, I don’t think they’re interested. ”

“I know. Get Sinjir. ”

The shuffling of fabric, then Sinjir’s voice crackles over the dash. “You called? ”

“I need something. A code. Imperial. Emergency, um, high ranking, something, anything, that will get us planetside. ”

“Oh. Ahh. Damn, it’s been a while—oh! Tell them it’s a triple-9, 327. That’s a classified work order code. ”

She flips the comm back.

“Star Destroyer Dominion, ” she says. “This is the Conveyance. I’m told to try one last time, sir—we are here at the demand of Grand Admiral Rae Sloane and Imperial Adviser Yupe Tashu. ” It’s a wild shot in the dark—her plucking two names of powerful people, two of whom she has personally encountered, and hoping those names have enough power. “We are here to service Ashmead’s Lock, a prison that contains high-value prisoners. Prisoners assigned to this prison by the Emperor himself. Sir. We have a work order. Triple-9, 327. ” She repeats it.

Even as she speaks the words, she knows how little a chance it gives them. So, what then? Blast their way through, apparently.

Which she is pretty sure will be a death sentence.

“Hold, ” comes the voice.

Han gives her a look. “They’re not gonna buy it. ”

“I know. ”

“When they don’t buy it, I’m gonna blast our way onto that planet. ”

“I know that, too. ”

“Better buckle up, then. It’s about to get—”

Crackle. “Conveyance, this is Dominion. You are clear to land. ”

The breath that leaves Norra’s chest leaves her shaking. “You were saying, Captain Solo? About to get what? ”

“Don’t get cocky, lady. Nobody likes a preening peacock. Let’s get planetside before they change their mind. ”

—

The call comes across her holoscreen in the middle of a meeting with the Shadow Council—Brendol Hux is at one end of the table bellowing at Randd, the former red-cheeked and with a vein throbbing across his brow, the latter standing stiff as a flagpole and looking rather bored.

Sloane’s device pings with the call from a Star Destroyer—

The Dominion, in the Kashyyyk system.

“If you’ll excuse me, ” she says, and the men all stop and give her a quizzical, irritated look. Idiots. She steps out of the room and into one of the Ravager’s austere steel hallways.

She takes the call.

On her screen, Rear Admiral Urian Orlan appears. He’s a plastic-cheeked, bird-nosed little man. She never much cared for him. He was a hesitant commander, one of the weakest she knew, and yet he accelerated past her in years previous—ironically given command of a Star Destroyer named Dominion. Orlan has dominion over very little except his hair, which is so perfectly placed against his brow she suspects it’s fake.

“This is a courtesy call, ” he says.

“Not courteous enough to defer to my authority, ” she says. “Here, let me help you: Greetings, Grand Admiral Sloane. It is my most distinct pleasure to be speaking to you today, sir. Try that on for size, Urian. ”

He licks his lips and says: “Yes. Of course, Grand Admiral. It is a pleasure. ” The truth is, G5-623 is one of those Imperial territories that has not yet properly fallen in line with the rest. Like Anoat, they’re still telling the myth that Palpatine is alive and well—that he’s not merely some demonic ghost commanding an Empire from beyond the grave, but he escaped the exploding Death Star by improbable, even miraculous means. They remain fairly self-sufficient—so much so that this remnant has holed up there, protecting itself overmuch from outside influence.

“What is it, Urian? ”

“I was wondering about the prison. ”

“What prison would that be? ”

“Ashmead’s Lock. Here on G5-623. ”

“I’m not familiar with it. ”

His nose twitches. “Are you quite sure? ”

“Do you think me a fool or a liar? ”

“I do not. Of course. It’s just—we had two ships. We turned them away, but they insisted they had code clearance from, well, you. ”

“Describe these ships to me. ”

He does, sending rudimentary schematics to her screen.

Two light freighters—a YT-1300, and an SS-54. The latter is really a gunship misdiagnosed as a freighter. It’s not for carrying parts.

She’s dealt with two ships of those models before. It’s an unusual combination—too unlikely to be a coincidence.

Could it be? The Millennium Falcon and the ship belonging to the bounty hunter—the Halo, is it? That’s the same crew that slipped from her grip on Akiva. The same crew, in fact, that’s been hunting down Imperials, often getting to them before she could. (At least Mercurial dispatched that last one right out from under them. ) And the Falcon belongs to General Solo. Robbing the New Republic of someone like him isn’t militarily significant, but the damage it would do to their morale…though, it could also provoke them into a fight for which they aren’t yet ready.

Whatever the case, the incursion cannot stand.

“Sir? ” Admiral Orlan asks.

“Send a team to investigate, ” she tells him. “Report back. ”

He hesitates. The chain of command is no longer what it used to be. Orlan is a man of different masters. Why even call her, then? Perhaps to stay just enough on her good side in case he’s forced to make a choice.

“I’ll have to check with Grand Moff Tolruck. If he approves—”

“Tell him he will approve or he will see a visit from me. ”

“Yes. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. ”

And then Admiral Urian Orlan is gone.

She turns around—

And finds she’s not alone.

Admiral Rax stands there. Silent as a specter. His black-gloved hands are clasped in front of him.

“Everything all right? ” he asks.

She might as well tell him. He probably already knows. So Sloane spills the story. His face registers no surprise.

“Call Orlan back, ” Rax says. “Tell him we did approve the repairs on the prison. ”

“But we did no such thing. ”

“No, but we’re doing it now. ”

“The two ships? I believe they belong to known New Republic malefactors—the crew of Imperial hunters seems to have joined ranks with one of the Rebellion’s cultural heroes, General Solo. Taking them out—”

“…Is the wrong fight. ”

“How is that, exactly? ”

He rests a gentle hand on her shoulder—though it feels to her like it weighs a thousand kilograms. A light touch that could crush her. Placating and condescending, to boot. “Admiral Sloane, we do not want to goad them into a fight right now. We are on the cusp of making our attack on Chandrila. We don’t want to give them any sign that it’s coming—no preemptive attacks. We must appear weak. They must be bloated with overconfidence. ”

“This is wrong. ”

“Trust me. I have it all in hand. Which reminds me, the instruments are nearly all lined up and the music has been written. It is time to perform the song. Chandrila must fall, but first, I need your help. ”

She hesitates. It feels like she’s getting into bed with a viper. “How? ”

“I have a task. ”

He tells her what it is.

And when he does, she cannot help feeling like she’s being ushered toward another test—or worse, a trap.

“I’ll do it, ” she says. “And I’ll make sure Admiral Orlan knows that we did, in fact, approve of the work on G5-623. ”

“Good, ” he says, and reaches forward and kisses her brow. His lips are cold. Her whole body tenses up as he performs the gesture—a gesture made as if he is blessing her, somehow. She wants to vomit.

When he’s gone, she does indeed call Orlan.

But then she makes another call, because someone is going to go to the Kashyyyk system on her behalf. She will not let this opportunity escape her—it is her life preserver, and she will hold on tight.

Jas has a bad feeling about this.

She eases the Halo along, following the path set by the Falcon just ahead. It’s night, but even in the half dark, it’s easy to see:

This planet is sick.

The trees here are some of the biggest she’s ever seen. Bigger than some of the skytowers and complexes of Coruscant. But the trees are dead. Their massive trunks are splintering, and in those fissures shine the kaleidoscopic bioluminescence of spores and fungus, painting the trees in a diseased glow. The branches are skeletal things, reaching for the sky as if to drag the stars down to the ground and bury them in grave-dirt.

The Falcon winds through those dry, decrepit branches. The Halo follows close. It’s Jom who says it:

“There’s nothing here. Nothing and no one. ”

He’s right. No other ships. No lights beneath the dead canopies. Just that swimmy, contaminated glow.

The others gather behind her in the cockpit. She grunts at them to back up and back off, but of course, nobody listens to her.

They’re all too busy gaping.

Where are the Wookiees? The Imperials? Anything?

This is just one part of the planet, she knows—and Kashyyyk is a big planet. It has cities. This is as far flung from any of those cities as they’ll get, according to her (admittedly outdated) maps, but just the same—

This is where they’re supposed to be, and it is a lifeless place. What could the rest of the world look like?

“There, ” Temmin says, pointing over her shoulder. She swats his hand away but follows his finger regardless.

Jas can barely make it out, but way down on the surface she sees it: a faint shape of something big. A structure. Ashmead’s Lock. It must be. The coordinates Aram gave them are right on, then.

Solo and Norra must see it, too, because the Falcon swoops low. Jas turns the gunship’s engines vertical, bringing it in to hover.

As they descend, they move past crooked, busted platforms and rotten structures barely hanging on to the side of the trees. Jas flips on a narrow-band spotlight so they can see what they’re looking at. Ahead is an old gun emplacement: a massive bolt-thrower hanging loose from its mooring, swinging gently from tangled vines. It’s a Wookiee weapon. Like a bowcaster, but big enough to take down a craft or a small ship.

Then they pass another structure—not big enough to be a house. A guard station, maybe. It clings to the side of the tree, lashed there with fraying rope. A corpse hangs out of the doorway. A desiccated carcass, the hair on it gone dry as broom bristles. Mostly it’s just a pelt stuck to bones. A dead Wookiee, she thinks. A gun still dangling from its shoulder strap.