BY CHUCK WENDIG 23 страница

The vice admiral growls in his ear: “My name is Vice Admiral Domm Korgale. You should get to know that name, villain. I’m going to be the one to deliver you into the Empire’s embrace. You will make a most excellent bargaining chip at the table. You alone will buy me a seat. ”

“Tooska chai mani, ” Solo says—a Huttese curse that’s about the worst he can muster. Something about the man’s mother and a Tusken Raider chief. “Don’t you get it? You lost. You’re not the other side in a war, fella. You’re criminals. ”

“Then as criminals, you won’t mind if I spare you but execute your friends? Here and now? ” Korgale twirls his fingers in the air, and the stormtroopers press blaster barrels against the backs of the heads of those pressed against the wall.

“It’s been fun, everyone, ” Sinjir says, cheek smashed against the wall.

Jom and Jas stay silent, struggling futilely against their captors.

Chewie rumbles a low growl.

“I know, pal. We tried. ”

From across the room, one of the comm officers calls over: “Sir! We have an incoming ship dropping out of hyperspace—”

“What? ” Korgale says. Then his voice lifts: “I asked for reinforcements. Perhaps now that Orlan is dead, they’ve listened. ”

“It’s not one of ours. It’s a freighter. Old Corellian make—”

Han’s eyes jolt open. He looks to Chewie as she says the rest:

“A YT-1300. ”

He mouths the words to his copilot: The Falcon?

But who the hell is piloting it? Wexley?

“The craft is hailing us, ” the comm officer says.

“Put it through, ” Korgale says, “but then launch a contingent of TIE fighters. We must take no chances. ”

Over the comm comes a voice that lifts Han Solo’s heart the same time as it sinks it:

“This is Leia Organa of the New Republic. You will stand down your ships or you will be destroyed. ”

Korgale’s paunch shudders as he offers one stiff laugh. “One craft? She thinks she can take down three Star Destroyers with one rattletrap freighter? Is she daft? Let the TIE fighters cut her to pieces. She’s not even a pilot. She’s a politician. ”

Han grins ear-to-ear. “You’ve never seen a politician like this before. ” But in the back of his mind, he can’t help but wonder:

How does she plan on doing this alone?

—

Evaan Verlaine gives her a look. No, not a look—but rather, that look. An all-too-familiar arched eyebrow and smug smirk and a gaze pregnant with the question: What have you gotten us into this time, Princess?

Leia isn’t quite sure. For a moment, she feels overexposed: a tooth without its enamel, a ship without its armor, like she alone is dangling out in space on a tether. Maybe this wasn’t a very good idea…

Dead ahead, the Dominion begins spitting TIE fighters into the black.

“Leia, we’re about to have company, ” Evaan says. She doesn’t mean the TIE fighters. Sensors indicate incoming ships.

A dozen stars behind the Falcon zoom close—stars that aren’t stars at all. Ships. Starfighters. X-wings.

She actually flinches as they swoop down out of hyperspace and zip past the Falcon on all sides, their cannons flashing. A TIE fighter rockets forth going the other direction, fire belching from its top just before it implodes. Over Leia’s comms comes the voice of Wedge Antilles:

“This is PhantomLeader, ” says Wedge Antilles. “Phantom Squadron’s got your back, General Organa. Let’s save the day and bring it home. ”

—

Korgale sucks in a small intake of breath: a moment of weakness that Solo detects. A moment of fear. Han likes that moment.

He likes the moment that comes next even better.

Because Korgale snarls, “A dozen X-wings and a crippled freighter is all they’ve brought? We have three Star Destroyers. Call the Vitiator and the Neutralizer. Time to eliminate this cloud of flies before—”

Another ship comes into view.

What follows is the moment Solo truly enjoys, as the vice admiral makes a tiny little whimper sound. Like vermin caught in a trap.

The comms come alive with the sound of Admiral Ackbar’s voice: “This is New Republic Fleet Admiral Ackbar, commanding the Mon Cala cruiser Home One. Surrender or be destroyed. ”

Korgale paces. Nostrils flaring. Cheeks puffing out. He speaks to no one but himself as he runs through the motions: “We…we can’t surrender. We must mount a vigorous defense. G5-623 is our world, and it’s still three ships against their one—”

Chewbacca is apparently done with it. All of it. The Wookiee roars, swinging his head around and connecting with the helmet of the stormtrooper holding the hairy beast against the wall. The trooper cries out and tumbles to the floor and the Wookiee kicks away from the wall, charging toward Korgale. The other stormtroopers turn, rifles up.

They’re gonna shoot Chewie.

Han gets underneath the trooper closest to him and slams the man up and forward—he careers into the next. Sinjir ducks and darts out with his foot, hooking it behind another Imperial’s knee and dropping him. Jom and Jas take out the last together, each crushing the trooper between them—when he falls, they stomp and kick until he’s still.

Chewie completes his trajectory.

He hits Korgale like a crashing ship.

The man bleats and falls. The Wookiee roars in triumph.

Outside, on the viewscreen, the X-wings swoop and pivot even as the Vitiator moves closer and the Neutralizer moves in beyond that. One of the Phantom Squadron ships is shredded by a trio of TIE fighters on its tail even as the Falcon cuts in and takes them out—a few seconds too late.

Solo knows that Korgale was right: They do have three Star Destroyers. The odds are still against them. It’s like a long game of sabacc. When the chips are down and you have squat for cards, what can you do?

You even the odds.

And the way Han likes to even the odds is by cheating.

Jas, panting, stands next to him, her hair plastered down on her thorny head-horns. “What’s our next move, Solo? ”

“Won’t be long before we’ve got stormtroopers all over this bridge, ” he says. “We need to take control of this bridge and lock it down, but first that means we gotta find a way to get these binders off—”

Chewie yawps, then bares his teeth as he wrenches his arms apart. The shackles snap like they were made of brittle candy instead of steel.

“That works, ” Solo says.

Chewie moves to help Solo and the others with their cuffs. Jom says, “I got the door, ” and then heads over to lock it down. Sinjir and Jas reapply the cuffs to the knocked-out stormtroopers. But one person is missing:

Korgale. He’s nowhere on the bridge. That pig wriggled away.

No time to worry about that now.

“Let’s figure out how to fly a Star Destroyer, ” Solo says, clapping his hands. “Time to properly even the odds. And somebody get on that comm, make sure those X-wings don’t try to blow us up in the process! ”

The battle rages for a time. Wedge’s Phantom Squadron—comprised of a scattered remnant of washouts, burnouts, and capable freaks—deftly cuts apart the swarms of TIE fighters, though they lose a few. The Falcon flies true and soon Leia feels like the ship is a part of her. There are even moments when she can feel the battle unfolding around her in space—invisibly, as if all of it is a warm stream in which she has dipped her hand. The Force, she knows, is guiding her. A little bit, at least.

Luke will be happy.

Eventually, the compromised Dominion begins firing on the others, and the Vitiator breaks in half in a sharp knife slash of light before the vacuum of space crushes what remains.

“Your deranged plan worked, ” Evaan says, smirking.

“Then maybe it wasn’t so deranged. ”

“Oh, no, it was full-bore moonbat, Princess. They always say it’s Han who has the good luck, but I’m starting to think it’s you. ”

The Force was with me today, she thinks. But better yet, my friends were here. And in this galaxy, maybe that’s all one truly needs.

Ackbar’s voice fills the air: “The Vitiator is down and we are receiving a full surrender from the crew of the Neutralizer. ”

“Well done, Admiral. And thanks for coming when I called. ” Leia called him after she called Wedge. It was a gamble, of course; Ackbar could’ve stopped her. But he came. And because of that, she knows this will cost him. It will cost her, too, and Wedge as well. As it should. This happened outside politics. No vote made this happen. Nobody sanctioned putting these ships and these people at risk. Even Ackbar working with a skeleton crew on board his own ship and Wedge calling on a stable of forgotten pilots—many thought to be already out to pasture—won’t pass easy muster with Mon Mothma. But that is a problem for Future Leia. Right now, the Leia of the Present is very pleased with herself.

And it’s time to see her husband. She brings the Falcon in for an easy landing inside one of the Dominion’s hangar bays. A few stormtroopers offer casual resistance, fruitlessly firing their blasters.

The Falcon’s turrets make short work of them.

And with that, Evaan says, “I’ll leave you to it. Give Han a kiss for me. Unless he still has that beard. Because really? Ugh. ”

Leia laughs. She steps off the ship.

The door at the end of the hangar bay whisks open.

A man stands framed by the light behind him. He steps forward, but she already knows who it is: It is her husband, Han Solo. One blaster in each hand. Suddenly, there’s movement from the side as one of the stormtroopers clambers up over a crate, his rifle aimed right at her—

Solo’s pistols flash fast and the trooper falls.

Han walks toward her. She leans against the Falcon, smiling.

“Your Worshipfulness, ” he yells, seeing her.

“Hello, scoundrel, ” she calls back in return.

“Making me walk the whole hangar, huh? ”

“I like watching you walk. ”

“You okay? ” he asks.

“I am now. I’m very angry at you, ” she says.

“Hey. I’m angry with you. Making me rescue you like this? ”

Incredulous, she says, “You? Rescue me? This was me rescuing you, you hotheaded, thick-skulled ruffian. ”

He smirks.

“I love you. ”

She rolls her eyes. “Just kiss me already, you dolt. ”

He does. They swoop each other up in an embrace so tight, it feels to her that for a moment they are not only together, but they are one being that will never again be separate. As they pull away, his hand moves to her midriff and holds steady there. “How’s our baby? ”

“He’s fine. ”

“He? Oh, he’s a he now? I told you it’d be a boy. Didn’t I? We’re gonna need to think of a name for the little bandit—”

“Don’t you dare say he’s going to be a bandit. He’ll be an angel. ”

“Nothing wrong with bandits. ”

“Nothing wrong with angels. ”

“Kiss me again, ” he says.

And she does.

Norra gazes out over a sea of people. Thousands of them have gathered here in the plaza to see Chancellor Mon Mothma speak and to hear the stories of those liberated from the prison on Kashyyyk. Next to Norra stands Brentin—she grabs for his hand and gives it a little squeeze, and finds his palm slick with sweat. He looks pale. He bites at his lip and stares out over the crowd, but not at the crowd—rather, he’s gazing out at a fixed point in the precise middle of nowhere. She fears she looks the same. A host of emotions runs through her: anxiety at having to speak in front of a crowd, the certainty that when she does she will probably throw up all over her formal naval attire, and finally, worry over Temmin because he’s still not here and that means he may truly be angry with her.

It’s not just them on the stage. The chancellor has stepped out in front of dozens of those liberated from Golas Aram’s strange prison ship. And other officials have come, too: senators, generals, admirals. She doesn’t see Ackbar present, but she does see Commodore Agate, whose face wears that trademark pride and sorrow, both born of war. Norra thinks that she sees General Madine on the end—and next to him, the senator from Chandrila, Durm Harmodius.

Quite the company she’s keeping (after all, she is a deserter).

If she looks over the sea of faces, the plaza is ringed in by the white clifflike buildings of the Hanna City center, and beyond that, the sea. Dead ahead is a series of dark lines: balconies, climbing the Old Gather-House like a ladder, all reserved for diplomats, senators, and other emissaries so they can view the day’s celebrations.

At the very top, she sees the balcony reserved for the Imperial monster, Admiral Rae Sloane. Norra tries not to think about her. She tries not to think about any of it. Not that woman, not Temmin, not how she feels like she needs to run away before she pukes.

Mon Mothma steps up, flanked by her two advisers: the Togruta, Auxi Kray Korbin, and the Chandrilan man, Hostis Ij.

On each side and over the heads of the crowd float cam droids: holo-lenses extended, some snapping static shots with blue flashes, others capturing events as they unfold. Norra tries not to look at those.

Mon Mothma steps up to an old stone podium—it’s chalky and white, crumbling around the edges but still surviving the ages.

“Hello, Chandrila. Hello, New Republic. And greetings to the galaxy beyond. I am Chancellor Mon Mothma—”

Applause erupts.

—

The applause roars, and Temmin yells over it to the guard blocking his way into the plaza: “I need to see my mom! She’s on stage! ”

Behind him, Mister Bones sways back and forth, impatient.

“Plaza’s full, ” the guard says as the crowd dies down. “You are going to have to wait. ”

“I can’t wait. This is important. ”

“I’m sure it is. ” Here, the guard steps forward, pushing Temmin back a little. “And even still, it’s going to have to wait, kid. ”

“I’m not a—” Never mind that. “People may be in danger. ” That is an assessment he makes, though he doesn’t really know that it’s true. He does know that something is up, though. And danger is usually the outcome of this kind of mystery. “Please. ”

“Danger, huh? ” The guard pulls a baton off his leg. Its white tip sparks blue. It’s a shock-lance. He thrusts it toward Temmin—not to hit him, but to threaten him with it. “Step back, kid. Or I’ll use—”

A whine of servomotors fills the air as Mister Bones dances forward, grabbing the guard’s arm and twisting it upward—the shock-lance jabs hard under the man’s golden helmet. The man cries out, stuttering, as he falls. His heels twitch and jump against the ground, though the rest of him is still.

“Uh-oh, ” Temmin says.

“THREAT TO MASTER TEMMIN NEUTRALIZED. ”

“At least you didn’t kill him. ” From behind them, shouts reach Temmin’s ears—and sure enough, here comes a trio of guards. Two with shock-lances, one with a blaster. “Come on, Bones! ”

—

Mon Mothma speaks:

“—the citizens on this stage represent the best the galaxy has to offer. Many of them are the original architects of the Rebellion, an Alliance of right-minded, freedom-seeking worlds who wanted all of us liberated from the leash-and-collar of an Empire that subjugated countless systems, maintaining order through brute force and callous autocracy. That time is over and the Empire’s edge has gone dull. ”

More applause.

Out there in the crowd, Norra sees movement. Her pilot’s eye is trained to see such things: In the deep black of space, it’s vital to know what light is a star and what is an enemy ship coming out of lightspeed. Here, it’s like seeing a tremor in the gathered throng: She can’t quite make out what’s happening, but she spies the jostled bodies and the turning heads.

The chancellor continues: “Slowly but surely, the Empire is being pushed back—planet by planet, system by system. Its time is dwindling, and where it crumbles, the New Republic rises from the ruin to collect the pieces and rebuild what they had damaged. And note that I say damaged, not destroyed—the Empire left us reeling, yes, but what they did was not permanent. The way is not shut. The path forward is clear and it is ours. ”

There. Someone is cutting through the crowd. She spies the golden helmets of the Senate Guard following after—

Wait. It’s not someone cutting through the crowd.

It’s two people.

One of them isn’t a person. It’s a droid. A droid she recognizes.

Mister Bones. Oh no. No, no, no. Not now. Temmin, what have you done? Now she sees him, too—the tousle of hair in a topknot. He looks to her. Their eyes meet. He’s yelling something and waving his arms about, but it doesn’t matter. The applause is thunderous again, a vibrant roar that swallows all other sound.

—

Sloane stares out over the balcony’s edge, her elbows down, her chin resting on steepled fingers. The chancellor goes on and on. Freedom this, democracy that, never once acknowledging that the greatest threat the galaxy faces is not from Imperial order but from its absence.

All she can do is hope that the attack will soon commence. She knows Rax will be watching—this entire monkey show is being broadcast across the HoloNet. Her jaw tightens and she prays he has this under control.

Commence attack already, she wishes. As if her thoughts can be broadcast through time and through space. The time is now.

—

“We have lost many along the way, but today is not a look back at what we’ve sacrificed but a look forward to the future, ” Mon Mothma says. “A future that we now possess thanks to those liberated from the Imperial black-site prison: heroes like Garel’s once-governor, Jonda Jae-Talwar; the surgeon consul of Hosnian Prime, Plas Lelkot, who helped hide Imperial refugees in his own châ teau; the radio operator Brentin Wexley from Akiva, who single-handedly transmitted our message across the Outer Rim and whose own wife, Norra, led the team to rescue him and all these others…”

Norra hears her name but it’s a distant sound, a noise lost to the weight of deep water. All she can do is watch her son struggle against the tide of people. She snaps out of it and turns to Brentin to tell him—

But what she sees makes no sense. Brentin has his arm up and extended out.

In his hand is a small pistol: a three-shot hold-out blaster.

He points it right at Chancellor Mon Mothma.

Norra screams and grabs his arm, yanking it upward—

But it’s too late.

The blaster fires.

—

No!

Temmin sees his own father draw something—a matte-black pistol, small and concealable. As he points it at the chancellor, Temmin sees that his father is not alone. All the liberated captives have them.

His mother sees it, too. She grabs for the gun—

It goes off just as someone tackles Temmin. Pain coruscates through him as one of the batons jabs hard into his side. His teeth clack and his tongue feels thick. For a few moments, his body seems like nothing more than a sack of meat, and the guard flips him over—

Bones grabs the guard and flings him backward like he’s not much more than an old ratty poppet-doll.

Two more guards advance, and Bones meets them, blades out.

—

A flash of white cloth and the chancellor falls.

Norra twists Brentin’s arm upward so that he can’t fire another shot—and he spins to meet her. His face is a mask of horror. It’s as if he can’t believe what he just did. His mouth is open in a hopeless oh, eyes glistening with tears. He mouths, I’m sorry, then he drives a knee into her stomach—

“Brentin, ” she cries.

He slams the gun down on the back of her head and she drops.

Norra rolls over, groaning. The stage is chaos. She realizes now, only too late, how her husband is not alone in his act—the other captives also have pistols up and out, and they’re firing at those gathered on stage and into the crowd. Searing bolts cross open space. Someone falls near her—one of the chancellor’s own advisers, Hostis, drops hard on his side, a serpent of smoke rising from a cooked hole in his head. Norra strains to look around her. Brentin is nowhere. Panic is everywhere. One of the liberated steps in front of her—it’s the first one the chancellor mentioned, Jonda Jae-Talwar, a tall woman with white hair. Her face is a mask of unrecognizable rage as she fires into the crowd.

Norra grabs the woman’s leg and yanks hard. The traitor cries out and drops onto her back, the air blasting out of her lungs. It takes little effort to twist the pistol out of her grip—

On the woman’s face, an odd moment of clarity passes in front like a cloud clearing away from the sun. She says something, something that’s hard to hear over the sound of blasters and screams and thundering crowds. Something that might be, “What have I done? ”

Norra doesn’t know how to answer her.

The only answer she can supply is a straight fist to the woman’s nose. Jae-Talwar’s eyes flutter and she goes unconscious.

Norra gets up, then almost falls—a fresh starburst of pain radiates out from the base of her skull where Brentin hit her. Her vision goes double, then triple, then blurry once more. Ahead she sees a white crumpled shape: Mon Mothma, still on the ground. And ahead is Commodore Agate wrestling with one of the liberated, a Rodian man waving a pistol. Norra staggers toward them—

Flash. The pistol goes off. Agate’s head snaps back. She screams, rocking hard against the podium as the Rodian man lifts the gun, aiming to finish the job. Norra now recognizes him as Esdo, once a senator’s aide from Coruscant before ending up locked away in that prison ship—she rushes him, slamming him back. He falls. She kicks the gun away.

Agate is clutching at her face. Between the fingers, Norra sees the dark char and blistered skin. “Go, ” Agate hisses. “Get clear. ”

Norra nods. Ahead she sees the Togruta woman, Auxi, helping Mon Mothma up—she’s not dead, Norra thinks. A small bit of good news on this dire, dread day. The chancellor’s shoulder is wet with red.

Guards swarm the stage, firing stun blasts at the scattering liberated captives. Norra doesn’t see Brentin anywhere.

She needs to find him. Now.

—

The epiphany that Sloane experiences is not one she expects, nor is it one she desires. As she watches the events unfold down below her balcony, she realizes grimly: This is the attack Rax was planning.

His fingerprints are all over it. How, she doesn’t know. These rebels who returned from the prison have been…programmed in some way. Turned into traitors. Changed into killers.

It is genius.

And it disgusts her.

She says as much to Adea standing behind her even as Sloane cannot tear her eyes away from the chaos below. “This is not war, ” she says, her voice drawn out and ragged. “This is not battle. This is something else. ” A test, says a small voice inside her. “This is not how we conduct ourselves. This is how they do it. Insurgency and terror. ”

These were not the events Sloane figured she would witness today. Where are the ships? Where is her fleet, scouring Chandrila with sacred Imperial fire? But here it is, and deal with it, she must.

Mothma left her and Adea up here with a guard contingent: treating Sloane like an honored guest, but still taking precautions. Sloane turns. Five New Republic guards remain. And two of her own—the red-cloaked Royal Guardsmen stand silent and still.

Adea hovers nearby. Trembling just slightly.

To the two Royal Guards, Sloane gives a gentle nod.

The guards of the New Republic have no chance. Those picked to serve Palpatine and wear the elite red cloaks are blank soldiers filled only with the knowledge of how to defend and how to kill. A swoosh of their cloaks and a spin of the blades and in less than ten seconds, the bodies of the fallen Republic guards litter the floor.

Sloane tells those redcloaks: “Go. Clear the way and secure my ship. Adea and I will be along shortly thereafter. ”

They say nothing. They do not even offer a nod.

They simply do as commanded.

“We need a plan, ” Sloane says to Adea.

“As you said, the guards will clear the way—”

“No, ” Sloane says with a sharp rebuke. “A larger plan. This aberration of an attack must not become our dominant mode of doing business, Adea. We must deal with Rax quickly. Mercilessly. If he is given time, he will spin this as only he can. He will attempt to convince the others that it was sensible, a necessary evil. ”

“What if they do? Surely the New Republic will be left reeling—”

Sloane turns and again looks out over the balcony. Now she sees guards swarming the stage. The chancellor is up and disappearing in a circle of protectors. So, Mon Mothma is alive. Good. That woman must not die. She must kneel in fealty—that is the only fate Sloane will accept for the foolish chancellor.

“Don’t be seduced by Rax, ” Sloane says, still watching below. Madness has seized the crowd beyond. “I was. Temporary idiocy on my part. I became complacent and now? This happened. We should’ve brought the fleet. We need to demonstrate martial ability. The Empire is a hammer striking down disorder, not a knife slipped between unsuspecting ribs. Rax must be arrested. And then executed. I will be the one to do it. ”

Adea says nothing.

The silence from her is deafening.

And then comes the second unwanted epiphany.

“Adea, ” Sloane says, turning toward her assistant. Her assistant stands there, one of the guards’ own blaster rifles in her hand. Its barrel points right at Sloane’s head. Adea isn’t trembling anymore. She is firm-footed and sure of her actions. Sloane sighs. Not her. Please, not her. “I’m too late, aren’t I? We were both fools, Adea. ”

“Rax is the way forward. The Empire must be willing to change. We must be willing to do anything to show the galaxy what it is to defy us. ”

“Don’t point that weapon at me, Adea. ”

“This was a test. He wanted you to embrace it. To see things his way. It didn’t have to be like this. You could have helped him rule. And I would be with you both, helping reshape the Empire and the galaxy beyond. ”

“I do not want the Empire reshaped by his hands. And I don’t want you reshaped by him, either. We worked well together, you and I. You trusted in my vision. Didn’t you? ” Now, though, she understands. Adea has been betraying her all along, hasn’t she? Giving intel on her to Rax. It’s how he knew where she was on Coruscant. How he knew about her meeting with Mas Amedda. About everything. Maybe there’s still hope. “Put that rifle down. I’ll give you no more chances, Adea. Put. It. Down. ”

But Adea does no such thing.

She is resolute.

She is his.

So be it.

Sloane feints left, then moves right. Adea isn’t combat-trained—the rifle follows Sloane’s first movement and fires. The blaster bolt tears through the space where Sloane was moments before.

Sloane drives a fist into Adea’s kidneys.

The girl cries out, tries to wheel on Sloane with the rifle—

Which is exactly the wrong thing to do. Sloane easily pivots the weapon out of the girl’s hands and fires a bolt point-blank into her chest.

Adea’s eyes go wide, and in them Sloane sees a young women she trusted. A woman she thought could’ve been her daughter in another lifetime.

Adea’s lips work soundlessly.

She falls.

Sloane takes a moment.

And in that moment, rage surges through her like acid.