BY CHUCK WENDIG 22 страница

He seems to brighten for a moment. “I’m sure Temmin will join us. ”

“At the last minute, no doubt. ”

“He’s so much older now, ” Brentin says as she hands him a pair of shined brown boots. As he buckles the tops, he adds, “I regret missing…all of that. Him growing up. You joining the Rebellion in my stead. Gods, the Rebellion isn’t even a thing anymore. ” Then he looks up at her from the bed and his eyes are clear and bright but lined with trouble when he says: “I love you, and I’m sorry I missed all of it. Are we okay? ”

She’s frozen. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out of her. All this time she’s been waiting for a moment just like this one. Some tiny glimmer of who he was. Some semblance of recognition regarding what came and then passed. And now, here it is. Laid out before her, as if on a serving tray, and all she can do is stare at it and gape. Her heart feels like an animal in a net. Her vision clouds from behind tears she quickly blinks away.

Then it all snaps into focus.

They’re going to be okay.

She tells him as much, stroking his cheek. “We’re going to be okay. We may not be now, but that’s okay. Because we’ll get there. All of us. ”

He offers a small smile and nods. “Okay. I believe you. ”

Norra stoops to kiss her husband. He’s shaking just a little. Or maybe it’s her shaking. Or both of them. The kiss is soft and slow. It isn’t one of the romantic, passionate kisses of their youth—stolen under one of the market tents as rain pounded the ground and everyone huddled there to stay dry. It is a wiser, stranger, altogether more hesitant kiss. But it’s all the sweeter, too.

“We have to go soon, ” she says, kissing him again—this time, more quickly. Just a peck.

“I’m sure Temmin will meet us there, ” he says, repeating himself from before. Almost mechanically so. Norra flinches at it, but it’s probably nothing. She clutches his hand and gives it a squeeze.

“It would surprise me if he didn’t. ”

—

Temmin kicks out again—his feet slam against the inside of the box. The crate rattles and the frame shakes, but the box is made of some kind of heavy, compressed wood. It’s not budging. And it doesn’t help that his whole body feels like it’s been worked over by a drunken Besalisk boxer—four arms punching him like he’s just some sack of kodari-rice. That stun blast hit him hard, left him hurting.

My father shot me.

What does that even mean? Why would he do that?

Temmin stays still, snaps his fingers idly as he tries to imagine why Brentin would do that to him. Maybe, just maybe, Dad did it because he was trying to protect his son. He didn’t kill Temmin, after all. Maybe he knows something. Maybe he did a bad thing in service of a good thing…

Or maybe, it’s not his father at all. Could it be someone else? Someone masquerading as Brentin Wexley?

Temmin almost hopes that’s the case. It would make this easier.

Again he growls and renews his struggle against the box. Bam, bam, bam. The box shakes and shifts. But it’s no good.

Something’s wrong. Something’s going on. Something—

Something is shaking.

Beneath him, a faint vibration rises.

Someone is coming.

“Hey! ” he shouts, slamming his heel against the underside of the box’s magna-sealed lid. “Hey! I’m in here! Help! Help! ”

No more sounds. Quiet stretches out.

And then he hears a weapon warming up: the slow thrum to power. The box shakes, and sparks rain down on him. Temmin screams, covering his eyes with his forearm, scrunching up into himself as the top of the box is burned through with a bright vibroblade and flung aside…

“I HAVE DISCOVERED YOU, ” comes the mechanized warble of Mister Bones. “THIS WAS THE LONGEST AND MOST PROTRACTED GAME OF HIDE-AND-SEEK, MASTER TEMMIN. BUT AGAIN I AM THE VICTOR. SHALL WE PLAY AGAIN? ”

Temmin springs up out of the box and hugs his skeletal droid. “It is so good to see you, Bones. ”

“IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU HAPPY. ”

“I’m not happy. My father shot me. ”

“THAT IS UNFORTUNATE, MASTER TEMMIN. I WILL SCATTER HIS ATOMS IN RETURN. ”

“Not yet. First things first, we need to get to Mom. ”

“ROGER-ROGER. WE WILL FIND MASTER TEMMIN’S MOM. ”

“She needs to know that something is going on. ” And I don’t know what it is. But Temmin aims to find out.

—

The door to the shuttle remains closed.

Sloane needs a moment.

Behind her she has four of her own people, and that’s it. She has two Royal Guards—neither were Palpatine’s original guards, but the menacing red cloaks and hood-helmets remain the same. She has the pilot, Ensign Karz Damascus. And she has her own attaché, Adea Rite.

Trusted, necessary Adea. So trusted and so necessary that Sloane almost didn’t want her to come. Just in case.

Even now, she says to Adea: “This could be a setup. ”

“I don’t believe that it is, ” Adea answers.

“Rax could be testing us. ”

“Rax is always testing. So let’s pass his test. ”

Sloane scowls. “He may have sent us here to fail. ”

“What sense would that make? Then you would just tell the New Republic who he was. You could give up Imperial assets. Him putting you in their hands would be foolish if he believed this to be a danger. ”

She’s right, of course. Sloane knows this. She’s thought this out. Just the same, she fears what will happen. The tendons in her neck are pulled taut as a tow cable. Something isn’t right. None of this is right.

You’re just afraid. You’re that girl again on Ganthel, surrounded by enemies. Don’t run this time, Rae. This is the time to stand and fight.

“They might just take us into custody soon as we step off this shuttle, ” she says to Adea.

The girl nods. Her eyes show a glimmer of fear at that, too. “They might. But Admiral Rax believes them to be foolishly optimistic enough not to. Let us trust in his assessment just this once. ”

“Yes. ” What choice do they have, anyway? To the pilot, Sloane says, “Open the door, lower the ramp. ”

And he does. The door lifts. The ramp descends in twin plumes of steam—like the breath from a rancor’s nostrils.

The brightness of the day reaches her eyes and she winces against it, shielding her face as she steps off. She expects a flurry of movement—guards coming for her, blasters up, staves crossing.

But instead, she steps forward and is met by Chancellor Mon Mothma. A tall woman with a wine-stem neck and hair the color of copper-stone. The chancellor dips her head. “Admiral Sloane. Thank you for this. ”

“Chancellor. ” She’ll give that woman no more than that.

Behind Mothma is the rank and file: soldiers, guards, and of course various New Republic generals and admirals. Ackbar isn’t here, to her surprise. Nor is the Alderaanian traitor, Leia Organa. She wonders why—then it hits her. They aren’t here just in case this is a trap. If this shuttle were rigged to explode, then certainly—

Her chest tightens.

What if it is rigged?

It would take out the chancellor. And a wave of soldiers and officers.

And her. It could be what Rax wanted all along. It could be—

No, no, no. That’s absurd. She had the shuttle checked. And surely they did prelim scans before they let her land, too, looking for any kind of explosive residue or unusual chemical signatures.

“We have quite a day planned, ” the chancellor says, jostling Sloane out of her grim reverie. “We have a celebration ongoing, and then at dinnertime you and I will retire to begin our talks. ”

Sloane braces. “I did not come here to have a party, Chancellor. I would prefer to move straight to business. ”

“Your attaché said your presence here deserved pomp and circumstance as is the way of one sovereign entity greeting another. ”

Sloane shoots Adea a look. The girl made a mistake and she will be chastised for it. Now, however, is not the time. Instead, Sloane turns, forces a smile: “Yes. Perhaps she is right. We are all owed a moment of leisure. Thank you for hosting these talks, Chancellor. Shall we begin? ”

The transport eases in through the mouth of the hangar bay, settling into the belly of the Star Destroyer Dominion. Jorrin Turnbull—or, rather, Sinjir Rath Velus, once again borrowing the identity of an Imperial agent who died on the Endor moon—eases back on the throttle, his teeth gritting so hard he’s afraid they might be ground to a fine white powder.

“This is a terrible plan, ” he says to Han Solo—Solo, who crouches down so as not to be seen. Han Solo, the jerk. The very handsome, very charismatic jerk. “And I hate you very much. ”

“Relax. This is going to work. ”

The transport thuds dully against the hangar bay—Sinjir isn’t much of a pilot, and his landing is clumsier than a drunken dragonsnake the way it just sort of flops down. But nobody cares, blessedly, and in moments the ship is surrounded by a whole bloody battalion of stormtroopers. Oh, and what’s this? Here comes Admiral Orlan himself. Well, then. Orlan must be eager to collect his prize: the prize of the rebel hero, Han Solo.

In the back, behind the sealed door separating the cockpit of the transport from the hold, comes the sound. It’s a sound Sinjir has been hearing during the whole flight from the surface of Kashyyyk—a susurrus of shifting and clicking. Each time he hears it, he flinches.

“You ready? ” Solo asks.

“No. Not for this. ” He blanches. His guts feel like water. His skin prickles. “I should’ve known this was a bad plan as soon as you told me what ‘captives’ we’d be transporting. You’re a dangerous man. ”

Solo shrugs.

Outside, a thumping. A stormtrooper pounding on the side of the transport. Over the comm, the voice of Lieutenant Yoff: “Open. ”

“Here goes, ” Solo says.

“Yes, ” Sinjir says grimly, then opens the door.

Sinjir winces and waits.

He flips the exterior hatch-port cam on, though he really doesn’t want to see. But it’s like looking at a speeder crash: It’s hard to look away.

On the screen, Orlan seems confused at the lack of anything happening. (Though surely by now he’s hearing the sounds. Those terrible sounds. ) Instead of flinching away like a smart person, the fool actually leans in. It happens so fast, Orlan doesn’t even get to scream.

He reels back, clutching his eyes as if something was flung into them. Hairs, Sinjir knows. Flung from the legs and thorax of the massive webweaver spider that now pounces on Orlan.

The spider is not alone: Others join it, leaping and scuttling forth, bristly legs pinning stormtroopers to the deck of the bay. Glistening chelicerae click and chitter as fangs emerge and punch holes clean through white armor. The screams of troopers dissolve into gargling bleats as they flail and fall. The spiders scuttle and shriek and pounce.

The admiral tries to run. Sinjir watches him out the front window of the shuttle. But Orlan, he’s blinded. And the spider does not care to relinquish its prey. It knocks him down and—

Two fangs crunch through the officer’s skull.

“Spiders, ” Sinjir grouses. “Why exactly are we using spiders, again? ”

Solo shrugs. “Wookiees said it would work. Wasn’t too much of a thing to secure this gaggle, and—well, look. ” He spreads his arms out to behold the bedlam. Stormtroopers fruitlessly fire their blasters as officers flee. Spiders fling themselves bodily against them. Screams and flailing ensue. “All right, this distraction won’t last long. Let’s do this. ”

He slides into the cockpit and mans the weapons controls. The sides of the shuttle bang as the laser cannons flanking the cockpit emerge.

Ahead, a pair of ship-sized turrets wait to take out any trespassing crafts. And next to them sit the hangar bay shield generators.

Han pulls the trigger once, twice, three times—

Red light screams above the bodies of the spider-pinned stormtroopers, and both the turrets and the shield generators explode in a rain of white light. Parts of them rain down in a clatter.

Sinjir signals to the comm:

“Halo, door’s open. No need to knock. ”

“Come on, ” Solo says.

“I’m not going out there. ”

“Yes, you are. ”

“There are spiders out there. Not little spiders. Spiders as big as my grandmother. And while my grandmother was a fairly small woman, she was still considerably larger than any other spider ever. ”

“They’re occupied. ”

“Occupied? ”

“Eating stormtroopers. ”

“Did I mention I hate you? ”

“Maybe once or twice. ”

Sinjir growls, then gets up—they pop the door between the cockpit and the transport hold. His breath catches in his chest and won’t release because spiders, spiders, there are so many spiders. Willing his legs to carry him outside the transport feels like a truly heroic act. Yet somehow he manages—and sure enough, there is one of those webweavers.

It rises on its two hind legs. Its hairs bristle. Green ichor drips from fangs that pop free of its mouthparts like sprung traps.

Solo shoots it in the face.

Something squirts out of the top of its head and it drops, twitching.

Two more spiders come scurrying up behind it—Sinjir fumbles for his own blaster, but it doesn’t matter. Spears of laser light rip into them as the roar of the Halo’s engines fill the bay. The gunship blasts forward, coming in close behind the transport, its turbines turning fast as it lands with a bone-jarring bang. In moments, the others are rushing off the Halo—Jas, Jom, and of course Chewbacca. Weapons drawn and already firing. Spiders bowl over, squirting fluid. Stormtroopers tumble and fall.

“Come on! ” Solo waves them forward and whoops. “Let’s steal ourselves a Star Destroyer. ”

Sinji stifles a groan.

“Don’t worry. ” Han smirks. “I’ve done this before. What could go wrong? ”

—

The logistics of this plan defy reality, Sinjir knows.

A Star Destroyer is home to thousands. This one is running light, admittedly, so its numbers are in the hundreds. But their one moment of arachnid distraction earns them precious little time—and piloting a Star Destroyer isn’t exactly the same thing as weaving a gunship or a freighter through a nest of TIE fighters. Admittedly, Sinjir has never piloted a Star Destroyer, but he wagers it’s a lot like trying to saddle and ride a stampeding trog-beast.

So, he’s pretty sure this won’t work. Though as they fight through the hallways and channels of the Destroyer, working their way toward the bridge of the ship, he starts to feel uncharacteristically optimistic. Fighting alongside Solo means some of the smuggler’s trademark luck seems to rub off, like a curiously pleasant smell. Jas takes down troopers left and right with her slugthrower. Jom is altogether more brutal—he and the Wookiee get right in there, scrapping bodily with their foes, flinging white-armored incompetents left and right and often into one another.

And then, as if by miracle—or by the Force or whatever bizarre cosmic authority governs the weave and weft of the galaxy—they are on the bridge and Solo is waving around a pair of blasters saying:

“This is a robbery. We’re going to need this Star Destroyer. ”

And for a moment, all looks bright and shining. The comm officers and ensigns start to stand, hands up. An older, paunchy officer with vice admiral bars on his chest hesitates before finally standing up.

Sinjir thinks: My word, we’ve done it.

But the thought of victory comes just a moment too early.

The door behind them blasts open—and more stormtroopers pour onto the bridge. The fight Sinjir thought was over suddenly follows them inside: Jom gets his blaster shot out of his hands and so lurches forward while swinging a fist, but the commando catches the end of a rifle to the throat and he falls. Jas replaces him—her rifle is too long to fire easily in such a tight fray, but she swings it like a club. Sinjir does his own work, too—he gets behind one trooper and stabs the flat of his hand just under the poor dolt’s helmet. The tips of his fingers drive hard into the trooper’s neck, and it has the expected result—the Imperial soldier’s fingers fly open on reflex, and the rifle he’s carrying clatters to the ground.

Ha ha, he thinks. Our luck holds true once—

A jarring hit from behind. Sinjir’s teeth clack together over his tongue. He tastes blood and sees stars-going-supernova behind his eyes as he drops, face forward, onto the floor.

A stormtrooper steps over him and kicks him in the ribs. Oof.

Through blurry eyes, he sees troopers swarming Solo, taking his blaster. Chewie, too—and the Wookiee roars in protest.

It’s over, he thinks.

He watches as the stormtroopers slam Solo against a console. A pair of troopers stun Chewie as the Wookiee storms forward. A boot finds Sinjir’s neck and presses down.

Luck, it seems, is a finite resource, after all.

Liberation Day has begun.

Right now, a parade marches down the center of Hanna City—a line of musical clamor and bright colors. Holographic dancers march alongside a very real Chandrilan band: oompahs from bladder-pipes, booms from the tumble-drums, the clapping of hands and the stomping of marching feet.

Even from where Wedge Antilles sits—up on a balcony overlooking the day’s events—he hears it. He smells food, too: a dozen odors commingling in his nose thanks to food vendors scattered throughout the city. Durmic spice and chando peppers, vent-grilled blackbeaks and pickled blackbeak eggs, baked sour-tarts and crispy mallow-dainties.

He should be down there. Not eating or watching the parade. No. He should be working. Flying sorties. Keeping an eye on things. But they told him to take it easy. He helped plan, they said, so now it was time to relax and enjoy the day. And yet he can’t. He wants to stay busy.

Wedge wants to do his damn job.

He winces as he pulls away from the balcony. His leg and hip ache. Less today than yesterday, though. That’s something.

At his table, a blinking light indicates an incoming message.

He hobbles over, sets it to play.

Leia’s face appears. It’s a recorded message, not live.

As she speaks, his blood goes cold. Then it goes hot.

“Captain Antilles. I’ve gone and done something foolish. I’ve jumped ahead to a meeting point just outside the Kashyyyk system. I’m in the Millennium Falcon and have Evaan Verlaine as my copilot. We will soon make our way into Kashyyyk orbit. If we are alone, I expect that the Empire will win the day and take me as a prisoner. A very important prisoner, and one that would represent a great loss to the New Republic. Unless, of course, someone might want to intervene? I could use some company out here, Captain. Care to join us? ”

And then her face shimmers and is gone.

Oh, Leia, what are you doing?

His heart pounds in his chest like a pulse cannon.

Wedge throws on his coat and grabs his cane.

—

Every free moment she has, Sloane gives Adea the look. The one that says, this parade, this music, this noise and clamor—it’s all your fault. To her credit, Adea looks starkly chastened. As she should.

Meanwhile, Sloane is strapped in for this unpleasant ride. The Empire is no stranger to celebrations. Parades are a necessity to keep the populace docile. Yes, yes, citizens, eat your sweet treats and enjoy the show. But Imperial parades are restrained affairs. They put forth processions of officers and troopers. Bands play the known marches. Suitable, patriotic marches. Such celebrations are short and simple.

This, however, is a sloppy, egregious affair.

Right now, half-dressed acrobats are passing beneath Sloane’s balcony seat—they’re flipping and flopping about on poles, jumping back and forth from grav-bounce to grav-bounce, holographic streamers trailing behind. It is clownish and bizarre. Then, thrumming by on a hovering stage, comes a martial demonstration from the Mon Cala—admittedly impressive given that they are essentially an underwater race of squid people. Trailing after them is yet another band, this one playing the execrable ear-horror “music” of the Gabdorins.

Sitting to her right is the chancellor. Adea is to her left.

Her guards are present by the door—though the room is home to thrice as many New Republic soldiers.

“It’s something, isn’t it? ” Mon Mothma says, and it occurs to Sloane—the woman really means it. She is earnest. Many politicians put forward false faces, and that rarely settles well with Sloane. But the chancellor’s…authenticity, for lack of a better word, also unsettles her.

“It is. Something. ”

“Let’s talk for a moment. I want to lay it all on the table before the official talks begin, before we have a scribe-of-record and the messy work of figuring out the parameters of our treaty. ”

I will lay it all out for you, Sloane thinks. I believe your way of life is naï ve. I fear you will bring chaos to the galaxy. I think the only messy work here will be cleaning up the dung heap you’ve built by conjuring this terrible vacuum of power. We kept order. You will keep only disarray.

She speaks no such truth, of course.

Instead, Sloane simply says: “I would rather sit back and enjoy the show, if you don’t mind. ” It’s a lie. It’s very difficult to enjoy Gabdorin music, which sounds not unlike a chorus of animals caught in various sharp-toothed traps struggling and failing to find freedom.

But the chancellor is persistent. “The show is part of it. The galaxy is a myriad, wonderful place. It is home to such wild miscellany. Present here is individuality. Something the Empire, I feel, has missed. If there is to be any kind of treaty, it is vital we preserve what makes life in this galaxy special. It is critical we preserve all of what you will see on display. All ways of existence. All the choices for all of us. ”

“Oh, absolutely, ” Sloane lies. Every molecule of her body is straining not to taunt the chancellor with the news that soon, an attack will be incoming, and all the ships in the Empire’s fleet will make short work of this world—and that the New Republic will fall to its knees. Individuality is a fine crusade if you’re an idiot. Joining the collective and supporting the greater good through Imperial control—that takes true grit and real wisdom. She cannot say those things, so, instead, she picks a different scab. “I don’t see your Alderaanian princess here. ”

That scores a direct hit. The chancellor shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Leia is ill today, I’m afraid. ”

“A shame. I often feel that she and I were matched—by the fates, I mean—against each other. She and I, dueling across the holo-waves. I would have liked to have met her in person. ”

“Yes. She is the voice and the face of the New Republic. ”

“As I am of my Empire. ”

Just then the door behind them opens. A man stands there with dark hair and a rust-red Republic flight suit. He leans on his cane and then looks to Sloane—it takes their eyes meeting to realize who she’s even looking at.

Wedge Antilles.

He’s the pilot she had laid out before her in the satrap’s palace on Akiva. The way he leans on his cane, she sees now that she truly broke him. An odd worm of guilt crawls through her heart. He was just a pawn in this game. She was, too, in a sense, and she regrets what happened to him.

The way he looks at her, he wishes his eyes were spears—each of them piercing clean through her chest. He doesn’t just want to kill her. He wants to end her. She doesn’t blame him. And at least that anger tells her that she helped break his body, but not his spirit.

Good for him. Fool though he may be for serving the Republic.

The chancellor excuses herself and hurries over to him. They speak in hushed tones. But the tension there is difficult to hide.

To Adea, Sloane whispers: “The chancellor appears rattled. ”

“She does, a little. ”

“Something that pilot said is upsetting her. ”

Mothma throws her a glance, then pulls the pilot back outside the room. Adea says, “I’m sure it’s nothing. ”

“They may know something. ”

“They couldn’t. ”

“Why? ”

“Because they’re not smart enough, ” Adea says.

Something about that sticks between Sloane’s teeth. Not smart enough. She prides herself on being smart. The smartest in the room. But a trickle of doubt begins to creep into her mind—

She has little time to ruminate upon it, though, because the chancellor comes back into the room. Mothma is now off kilter, though she’s straining not to show that to Sloane. “Apologies, ” the chancellor says.

“Is everything all right? ”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? ”

—

Gallius Rax watches the events in Hanna City.

He has no special access. He doesn’t need it. The chancellor controls the HoloNet, now, and is broadcasting her Liberation Day across the waves.

It is quite the show. A demonstration from an arrogant bird: Look how pretty my tail feathers are.

The parade ends and slowly they clear the Senate Plaza. A stage is elevated from the stone—it rises not with any new technology but by men who dutifully crank old wooden handles, turning ancient stone gears. Chandrila is an old world. Modern tastes clash with a long history.

If they’re bringing out the stage, then soon it will be time to fill it.

Which means it is also time to orchestrate the plan. He summons Grand Moff Randd to his chamber.

“Sir, ” Randd says, compliant and cold.

“Prepare the fleets to move on my command. ” Rax hands over a datapad. “When I give the say-so, direct them to these coordinates. All of them. Coordinate with Borrum, too. We’ll need everyone on the ground there with everything we have. Everything. ”

“But, sir, this isn’t—”

“I know. Just do it. ”

“Does Sloane know? ”

“She will. They all will. In fact, summon them. I wish to meet with my Shadow Council. ” He waves his hand. “Now go. ”

In the meantime, Rax turns his attention back to the events in Hanna City. It is time to watch his opera unfold.

I’ve failed.

Those two words race each other in the front of Han Solo’s mind like a couple of podracers jockeying for position.

He came out here, leaving Leia and the New Republic, for one reason, and that was to do what nobody else wanted to do: save Kashyyyk. Leaving Leia behind like that was hell on him. But she understood. She knows what it is to have a cause bigger than yourself. If anybody gets it, Leia does.

I’ve failed.

Even as the gruff vice admiral commands stormtroopers to pick him up—which they do, handily—he plays through the list of failures. He trusted Imra, but she was bad news and he was too dumb to see it. The Empire snapped up Chewie, and Han got away. And then he was close, so close, to fixing it all: They fought their way across half a planet and took out Lozen Tolruck just in time for him to bomb the planet to splinters and mud. And, he reminds himself woefully, Wookiee blood.

It’s all my fault.

The others are in shackles now: the bounty hunter, the commando, the ex-Imperial, and once again and worst of all, his copilot, Chewie. They were a good team. They did right by him. They did right by Chewie.

All of them are shoved forward, pressed against the wall. Solo included. Behind him, the vice admiral steps up. His breath smells like rot. The man stinks of sweat. These Imperials have really let themselves go.