BY CHUCK WENDIG 24 страница

I am going to kill Gallius Rax.

Sloane leaves the room, rifle in her hand.

—

Brentin…

Norra fights against the crowd. They’re panicked. They should be. She is, too. From somewhere, she hears someone weeping. Then more blasterfire. She tries to imagine what happened and what is happening even still, but she can’t get her head around it—to see these captives held up on a well-deserved pedestal only to turn around and attack is incomprehensible.

Brentin…

Her husband is part of it. He tried to assassinate the chancellor. Who else would he have attacked if she hadn’t stopped him?

And where did he go?

She has to find him.

To stop him, yes. But also to understand what happened. To look in his eyes once more and try to find out if the man who did this thing is still her husband—or if her husband is even there at all.

Brentin, why?

She fights her way across the plaza. Looking for her husband. But also looking for her son. Temmin knew. He tried to warn her.

Now where is he?

Get higher.

She’s a pilot. She needs height, like a falcon scouting for prey. She pushes her way through to the Old Gather-House, then laps a couple of steps, almost running out of breath as she does. She sees a body in the hall—an Ottegan senator. Eyes as glassy and dead as a droid’s. That means more captives were here, too, doesn’t it? Of course they were. They weren’t all on stage. Some of them were probably here. Watching. Waiting.

Norra moves on. Nothing to be done here.

She finds her way to one of the now empty terraces. The crowd has already started to disperse below, and the guards are locking down the plaza. Good. Hopefully they’ll catch as many of these people as they can.

Someone needs to get answers.

And then, Norra sees him.

Brentin Wexley—to the far right of the plaza. He’s crossing one of the skybridges, heading in the direction of the landing platforms.

Norra grits her teeth and moves in that direction.

—

“Stop. ”

Temmin stands behind his father as the man flees to the end of the skybridge—beyond, hundreds of landing platforms ring the far side of Hanna City, and beyond them waits the sea.

His father, pistol still in hand, freezes.

Temmin has no weapon. He’s alone, too. Bones is gone, left back in the crowd to distract the guards so that Temmin could flee.

Slowly, Brentin turns around.

“Tem, ” Dad says. It sounds like Dad. His voice wavers.

“Mom was right. You aren’t you. ”

“I am. But…” His father’s words die on the vine before bearing fruit. He just stands there. Then he slowly raises the pistol. Almost as if he doesn’t want to. As if something is lifting his arm—an invisible string tugging on his wrist. Or maybe Temmin is just imagining that. Maybe Dad wants to kill him. Either way, Temmin stands there. Chin up and out. Trying not to cry and failing miserably because he feels his cheeks tighten and his eyes go wet. He has no weapon to point, so instead he points an accusing finger.

“You killed people. ”

“Don’t say that. ”

“You did. You’re the Empire. Were you always? Was it all just a lie? Playing the good guy so we didn’t know how bad you were? ”

“No. No! I was…I never…”

“Shoot me. Go ahead. You shot me once. ”

The gun wavers.

Brentin fights against it. The struggle is plain on his face—like he’s battling himself. The pistol shakes violently in his hand as the arm bends at the elbow, slowly pointing the gun…

At his own head.

“No! ” Temmin cries, bolting hard across the open space. He leaps, tackling his father as the blaster goes off. The gun clatters against the empty bridge. Brentin stares up at him with empty eyes—

No, no, no, don’t die—

Those eyes blink. The shot missed. Temmin got there in time and now, Brentin is alive.

His father cries out and pistons a fist into Temmin’s stomach. He shoves the boy off him and then flees, leaving his son behind gasping for air and sobbing there on the skybridge. Dad…

—

The guard with a cresting wave of blond hair and a little scar on the bottom of his chin stands there, staring down. Yupe Tashu, once-adviser to Emperor Palpatine, looks up, his chin slick with his own spit.

“Hello, guard, ” Tashu says, mush-mouthed.

The guard drops the gate keeping Tashu imprisoned.

“Here to kill me? ” Tashu asks, then his words dissolve into mad laughter. His laughter becomes coughing, his body racked with spasms until he’s left curled into a ball. He gasps for air and then says: “I heard blasterfire. ”

“You heard correctly. But you are not a target. ”

“Then what am I? ”

“A free man. ”

More laughter rises out of him, and more lung-spasms after. “The darkness has saved me. Long have I pleaded with it. ”

“You may go. There is a ship waiting. Docking Platform E-22. ”

“And the other guests? Shale and Crassus and Pandion? ”

“Pandion died, you fool. And now the others have joined him. ”

Tashu stands on quaking bird legs. “You murdered them? ”

“I did. ”

“Why? ”

“Because I was told to. Just as I was told to free you. ”

“And who told you this, guard? ”

“Our new emperor. You are to serve him now. ”

Tashu’s lip quivers. Palpatine was his everything. To serve someone else feels treasonous beyond the pale. The void awaits those who betray Palpatine—that much has always been clear. The void awaits traitors.

“I only serve Palpatine. ”

“Emperor Rax serves Palpatine, too. Now go. ”

Tashu nods. “Yes. Yes. It makes sense. It’s part of a plan, isn’t it? A plan I couldn’t see? Sidious always had a plan…”

He cackles one last time, then hurries past the guard lest the strange man change his mind at the last moment. I am free at last.

—

Blast it! Norra is lost. The Old Gather-House is a maze. She thought she could cut through the center and come out on the seaside facing the landing platforms, but this is an old building—some of it is new, yes, but much of it was where the first settlers on Chandrila gathered to sleep, to eat, to meet. They lived whole lives here, and this building was not all built at once but rather one strata at a time—and now, Norra is wandering its channels, sure she’s doubling back on herself. Didn’t she just see that light panel? That crack in the wall? That same painting of the first polis meeting?

She spins around, finds a door—she hasn’t tried this one, yet, has she? Norra hits the panel next to it with the heel of her hand—

It shushes open.

And Norra nearly runs into somebody.

“You, ” Norra says.

“You, ” Admiral Sloane says.

Norra straight punches her in the face.

Sloane is rocked, but recovers quickly even as a line of blood crawls from her nose like a fleeing worm. The admiral licks at the blood, then brings up a blaster rifle, firing it—

But Norra rolls to the other side of the door even as the air around her heats up, laser bolts popping craters in the far wall.

This is it. This is her chance. All her anger and fear refines to a laser focus. Because of course Sloane is here. That monster did all of this. What Brentin did on stage was not his own action—it was Sloane. She’s the puppet master pulling strings. A sudden sinkhole of regret opens up inside Norra’s gut, because if she had just done her job and killed this woman when she had a chance, none of this would’ve happened.

At least she can finish what she started.

Sloane comes through the door, rifle out. Norra drives her knee under the blaster—and the barrel of it whips back and catches Sloane in the face. The woman blinks, then ducks low and hard charges into Norra. Wham. It’s like getting hit by a grav-train. The movement carries her against the far wall and her skull snaps back into the mortar, blasting new fireworks behind her eyes. Again she sees Sloane point the rifle—

Norra catches the barrel with her hands and points it away. Pop, pop, pop, more bolts take chunks out of the wall. Dust streams and flecks of stone rain into her hair and her eyes. She has no focus and she feels dizzied, so all she can do is harness her anger and use brute force—

A loud, guttural cry is ripped out of her as Norra yanks the rifle from Sloane’s grasp—it gives way with such force it falls from her own hands, spinning away on the stone floor. She lunges after it.

But she can’t reach it. Sloane catches Norra’s collar and pulls her back just as her fingers find the cold steel of the rifle barrel. The Imperial whirls Norra hard into the wall, then drives a flurry of hard punches into her side. One after another after another. Norra tries to fight against it, but she’s not practiced at this, not at hand-to-hand, and this woman attacks with the tenacity of an orbital strike.

“I remember you, ” Sloane seethes. “You should be dead. ”

“So…should…you, ” Norra gasps, then whips her head to the side, ratcheting her skull against the other woman’s chin. It gives her room to move, room to breathe, room to feel like she’s not about to die.

She doesn’t rest long.

Norra launches herself bodily at the woman. The Imperial meets her with fists up, absorbing every blow Norra throws, so instead Norra goes for the dirty play—she stabs out with a foot and catches the Imperial admiral in the knee. The leg goes backward and Sloane cries out—

Yet even that doesn’t end it. Whap. Norra’s head rocks and she tastes blood as her lip splits under an assaulting fist. Another hit closes her eye behind fast-swelling bruise-flesh. She throws her own clumsy fist and Sloane ducks it, pumping a return fist into Norra’s gut.

Oof. She gags and staggers. Sloane grabs her by a hank of her ashen hair and bangs Norra’s head into the wall once, twice, three times. Wham, wham, wham. Every time, she feels her brain rattle in her skull, sharp shocks of light flashing as her teeth clack and her tongue tastes fresh blood—

I’m losing. I’m dying. I failed.

“Stop right there! ” a voice echoes down the hall. A woman’s voice, and then the sound of blasterfire fills her ears. Norra drops, sliding against the wall as Sloane bolts and Senate Guards hurry after, firing their weapons.

—

Sloane curses under her breath. She wasted too much time scrapping with that pilot—that woman is meaningless, and yet she stopped to fight her? Why? Anger taunted her. Distracted her. Now she’s on the run from guards in a building whose layout is labyrinthine. Her nose might be broken. One of her teeth is loose. Worst of all, she tried snatching the blaster rifle on the way past—but it spun out of her grip as the guards fired on her.

And then, out of the gloom comes one ray of light.

She heads through a door and finds her way forward—

A skybridge leads out to the landing platforms. The platforms fill the distance, topping tall towers along the shore. Beneath them wait sand and stone and sea. Leaving this planet won’t be easy, and at this point she’s sure there will be some kind of blockade in orbit—they’ll be combing every mote of stardust for a sign of her. And if they capture her? They’ll throw her in a lightless pit. She will never again see her Empire, and Rax will be left to kick it farther into hell. But she has to try. If she leaves now, she may be able to seize on the chaos—they’ll still be looking for her here, not there.

She hurries across the skybridge, pulling off her Imperial gray jacket as she runs, revealing the white undershirt beneath. The wind takes the jacket as she reaches the end of the bridge. It flutters away.

A voice, then, carried on the wind.

Someone calls for her.

Adea?

A foolish moment as she turns and looks to see who it is—

It’s that woman again. The damnable pilot. Norra something-or-other.

Norra has the rifle.

She fires.

Sloane turns to run as the first bolt flashes past her ear—she can hear the hiss-crackle as it goes by. The second digs a furrow out of the ground.

The third blast doesn’t miss.

Her back arches as the shot takes her. Sloane spins like a child’s top, the clouds above her, then the sea, and then she’s falling off the skybridge—her arms out, her fingers searching the sky for something to hold but finding nothing at all. Darkness draws her down, down, down.

Morning comes to Kashyyyk.

Jas sits at the top of the world, her legs dangling off a platform, her feet swinging like a child’s as she scoops some kind of goop out of a bowl with her bare hands and into her mouth. A Wookiee breakfast, Solo said. Made of kabatha guts. She asked him just what a “kabatha” was, and his response: Don’t ask, just eat. So, she eats.

Jas is used to eating whatever she can get her hands on. The job being the job, it means she can’t always get her mouth around a proper meal. Protein cubes, polystarch, veg-meat: Whatever she can eat, she eats. (Once she ate barnacles off the side of a hachi farmer’s spelt silo. )

Behind her, Wookiees move and work and settle in. They waste no time, those big rugs. They climb the wroshyr like it’s no feat at all—they dig their claws into the wood and move like lightning traveling up and down the bark. They jump from branches, they duck in and out of knotholes, they swing from one tree to the next. It’s quite a thing to behold.

Once in a while she looks down to remind herself how far up she’s come. The ground isn’t even visible from here. It’s hidden beneath the mist—mist that, right now, blazes with the fire of the morning sun.

She hears Solo—he’s talking to Leia, to Chewie, and she considers getting up and joining them. Then someone plunks down next to her:

Sinjir.

He scoots to the edge, then pulls back. “Mother of moons, why are you sitting here? And why are you eating…that? ”

“Why do you still have that mustache? ”

“I quite like it. ”

“It looks like an animal lay down to die on your lip. ”

“You’re really too blunt for your own good, you know. ”

She winks, then keeps eating.

The ex-Imperial settles in next to her, though not so close that his legs drape over the edge. “You staying? ” he asks her.

“Here? No. ”

The Wookiees have been liberated from their inhibitor chips, and the three Star Destroyers bombing the planet have been put out of commission—one destroyed utterly—but the Imperials here will still have some fight in them. Dozens of settlements dot the surface, and smaller outposts mark the margins. Even now, Chewbacca is prepping teams of Wookiees to survey the damage and the Imperial holdouts.

“Solo and Leia are staying for a time, ” Sinjir says.

“They’re invested. I’m not. We did the job. Now the job is over. ”

“We did good, you know. ”

“I know. ”

“It feels good to have done good. ”

“I know that, too. ”

He leans in, eyes narrowed to suspicious lines. “So why do I get the sense that you’re holding back on me? ”

“I’m not holding anything back. ” But his scrutiny picks her apart, like a child plucking the legs off a beetle. “Fine, I’m holding something back. ”

“Spit it out. ”

“But I’m eating it, ” she says around a mouthful of goop.

“Not the food, the secret thing. ”

“Oh. ” She swallows. It’s like pushing a clot of wet concrete down her throat. Jas smacks her lips a few times before saying: “I’m leaving. ”

“Leaving what? ”

“The team. The crew. Whatever you call us. ”

“You’re breaking up the band. ” He tsks.

“I am breaking up the band. ”

He sighs. “I was thinking about doing the same, honestly. ”

“Why? ”

“Oh, you first, Emari. ”

“I have to get back to work. ”

“The job calls? ”

“My debts call. ” Not even my debts, she thinks. Sugi’s. And the deal with Rynscar haunts her, suddenly. They’ll want my head if I don’t pay. “I’ve been away from that for too long. I’ll see if the NR has jobs. If not, someone will. It’s a zoo out there and someone needs to catch the animals. ”

“If you’ll still work for the NR, why not just stay with Norra? ”

Jas shrugs. “She has her husband, her son. I feel like if she keeps doing what she’s doing, then it’ll be more of this—” She sweeps her arms to encompass not just the planet Kashyyyk but also what they did here: liberation with no cost to anyone but themselves. “And less of the get-paid-for-work business. If the NR won’t have me—the scum and villainy of the world is still thick with rivalries. I’ll get paid one way or the other. ”

“I’ll miss you. ”

“Don’t be mawkish. It doesn’t suit you. Your turn. Why leave? ”

“I…feel good about what we did. ”

“That’s an odd answer. ”

“Well, I want to keep the feeling! I don’t want to complicate it. If I stay with this fancy new government, eventually they’re going to want me to do things I’m trying not to do. I am, quite frankly, tired of following orders. ”

“Fair. ” She arches an eyebrow. “What then? Travel the space lanes, having adventures? Settle down with your boy toy and a couple of purra-birds as pets? ”

“Both? Neither? ” Another sigh. “I really don’t know. ”

“You are takask wallask ti dan. A man without a star. ”

“Oh, please. Some old saying. Go on now, tell me what it means. ”

“My aunt used to say it. She ran a crew of her own, and whenever she had to replace someone, or use someone for one purpose or another, she always said she looked for takask wallask ti dan—a man without a star. Someone without a home, without purpose. ”

“That’s depressing. ”

“But is it true? ”

He harrumphs, then idly twists his mustache. She bats his hand away from it and he frowns.

“You could come with me, ” she says. “Turns out, I could use a man without a star. ”

“I would make an excellent bounty hunter. ”

“Don’t get cocky. ”

“That’s like telling the rain not to fall. ” He puts his hands behind his head and lies back. “I would join you, but I don’t think your calling is my calling, either. Maybe my calling is drunken-but-lovable rake. Impossibly handsome Chandrilan layabout. Charming house-husband, worthless but for his chiseled cheekbones and his whiplash wit. ”

“Try it on. See if it fits. ”

“I may. ” He sits back up. “Is this goodbye, then? Are you leaving right from here? Or can I expect a ride? ”

“I’ll head back to Chandrila. I’m sure everyone will be all…” She makes a face. “Warm and fuzzy in the aftermath of Liberation Day. So if you want one last ride in the Halo, I’m offering. We can tell Norra together. ”

“Thank you, magnanimous bounty hunter. What about your boy toy? ” Sinjir gestures unsubtly with his head toward the commando, Jom Barell, working one platform away, helping pack up thermal detonators in a harness sling. “I think he came back to Irudiru for you and you alone. Broke rank and everything. ”

“We have to be done. We had fun. That has to be it. I need this bone to make a clean break. It’ll heal faster that way. ” For him, or for you? she asks herself. She sneers. “I don’t want some stray trailing after me. I don’t owe him. He made his choices and now I’m making mine. ”

“I really will miss you. ”

“Fine. I will…miss you, too. ”

He leans his head on her shoulder.

—

He knows why she’s come over, so he just gets it out of the way. Jom doesn’t even finish bolting shut the detonator box and he says over his shoulder: “I know, you’ve come to let me down gently. ”

“I don’t do anything gently, ” Jas says. He can’t tell if her tone is playful or not.

He turns and grabs a leaf-fiber rag, wiping his hands on it before tucking its corner in his pocket. “I want to tell you first that you were right. ”

“I know. ”

“Do you even know about what? ”

She shrugs. “I’m right about everything. ”

“Keep telling yourself that, Emari. ” He laughs. “No, you were right that I came to Irudiru chasing you. Then I came here and we fought. And they took me and they took my eye—”

“I don’t owe you that. Don’t put that on me. ”

He shakes his head. “I’m not. That’s the point. I stayed because it’s the right thing. I gave up my eye because it’s the right thing. ” Jom leans in now—she sees that he’s aged over this trip. Dark shadows cross his face. He looks weathered, like wind-whipped leather. But he grins just the same. “And you stayed because it’s the right thing, too. You’re a better person than you think, Jas Emari. ”

“Don’t make me kill you, Jom. ”

“All this is me saying, I get it. We’re done. It’s good. I’m staying behind with the Wookiees. See if I can’t help them. ”

“Good luck, Jom. ”

“You too. I’ll see you later, bounty hunter. ”

—

Leia knows she should worry. After all, here she is on a world not her own, a world still with one leg in an Imperial trap, and she’s pregnant. Her back hurts. She’s hungry all the time. What if something goes wrong? She knows she should be worried, and yet she isn’t. In fact, the only thing that worries her is just how little worry she has.

She feels good. Happy, even. She has Evaan standing by. She has Han. She has her baby boy growing inside her. The Wookiees have their world back—almost, at least. And she’s here because she listened to Luke. He told her to let go. To let the Force flow through her. She did. She’s here.

All is well.

Chewie comes up behind Han again, growling playfully as he gives her husband a big lung-crushing hug. Solo winces and pulls away, laughing. “You big lug, I know, I know, we did it. ” She’s never seen Chewie so happy. He has family here. Family they intend to help him find. And then she wonders: Will he stay? Now that the Wookiee has his home, will he remain behind on Kashyyyk? Han seems to think so. He told her last night as they slept under the stars, He has his family, and we’ll have ours. The Wookiee gurgles and lopes off toward Kirratha, where they’re loading crates into a handful of stolen LAIT ships. Then they’ll take them from city to city, settlement to settlement, assessing the Imperial presence as they go. Leia told Han that she could maybe call in the New Republic, and he said, proud as a cockbird, We don’t need them.

Maybe, she thinks, he’s right.

But then Wedge hobbles over, followed by Evaan. Evaan tells her, “Princess. You have to see this. ”

Wedge takes her to a transceiver and patches in a HoloNet feed.

It’s then she watches the Liberation Day events unfold in Hanna City. The liberated rebels turning on their rescuers. The chancellor, shot. Others, too: Madine, Agate, Hostis Ij. Some still alive, others dead—the data coming in tells a confusing story with conflicting reports. Chaos has seized the capital, that much is clear. Leia’s heart breaks as she watches. Further, she can’t help but feel that if she had stayed…she might have been one of those dead. Or maybe she could’ve helped stop it. A choice too late to make, with consequences that will forever remain unseen.

Just the same: The Empire did this. That much, she knows.

A hand falls on her shoulder. Her husband’s. He stands behind her, shell-shocked. “We just…we rescued those people. I…don’t…understand. ” He visibly swallows. It’s rare to see him rattled. This has done it.

“I have to go back. ”

It takes him a moment to find his focus. But soon he’s looking at her with clear eyes. He nods and says, “I know. ”

“I don’t want to. I want to stay here. With you. With Chewie. ”

“I know that, too. But I have to go, too. I have to come home. ”

“You could stay here. I’d understand. Help Chewie—”

“Chewie’s got this. He and the others have hard work ahead of them. My part is over, Leia. I want to be by your side through this. Whatever…this is. And whoever did this? They’ll pay. ”

“I’m going to go prep the Falcon, ” she says.

“I won’t be far behind. I have to say goodbye, first. ”

She cups his cheek, then kisses him. Sadness shines in her eyes. Not sadness for her. But sadness for him. Because this will be hard for him. She knows that. He won’t admit it. But saying goodbye might kill him.

Leia lets her hand linger on his face, and then she’s gone, heading toward their ships with Wedge in tow.

—

Chewie is there with Kirratha, picking up crates that it would take three of Han to lift. The Wookiee is as strong as these trees. Sometimes it feels like he’s damn near as tall, too.

It doesn’t take long for his copilot to see him there. Chewie and he have always been in sync. Okay, sure, sometimes Chewie goes one way and Han goes another but they always meet on the other side of things and at the end of every day, what needs to get done damn well gets done. They’re partners. Have been for most of the life that Han can (or cares to) remember.

Chewie grunts and growls.

“Ah, you’re doing fine, you big lunk. ”

Another growl. This one, a question.

“I, ahhh. ” Wow, this is harder than he thought. Han scuffs a heel and throws up his hands like he’s folding at the sabacc table. “I thought this day would come later, Chewie, but something’s happened and—”

The Wookiee steps up and nods, rumbling a soft response. Chewie understands. Even before Han says it, Chewie gets it. In sync yet again to no one’s surprise. Chewie knows that Han has to go. And what’s the first thing that the gargantuan hair-beast does? The Wookiee offers to come along right now. Han waves both hands and shakes his head as vigorously as he can, even waggling his finger up in his friend’s shaggy face.

“No. No! You have to stay here. We fought like hell for this and now…this is yours. Okay? All yours. This is home. You got people here and I want you to find them. You hear me? That’s my last demand. No arguments. ” Chewie rumbles but Han reiterates, more firmly this time: “I said no arguments. You be with your family. I have to go start mine. ”

A moment of silence stretches out between them and deep in the space between Han’s heart and his gut he wants to seize on the desire that lives there—he wants to tell Chewie, Just kidding, let’s go, pal, get on board the ship and let’s see what trouble we can cook up. Then they’ll race off together to Malastare or Warrin Station or back to that dusty Mos Eisley cantina to pick up some other wayward dust-farmer kid…and then when he gets home and his baby, his son is born, Chewie will be right there doing whatever needs doing because that’s who Chewie is.

But he doesn’t say any of that.

Chewie hugs him and purrs.

“I’ll be back. We’re not done, you and I. We’ll see each other again. I’m gonna be a father and no way my kid won’t have you in his life. ”

One more bark and yip as Chewie pets his head.

“Yeah, pal. I know. ” He sighs. “I love you, too. ”

This is nowhere.

At least, not anywhere Sloane can identify.

Out there is the consumptive void of space. No planets, no space stations, no other ships. Nothing and nowhere.

The little cargo ship is the only thing out here. Sloane cuts the engines. It drifts. The ship could be her tomb, she realizes.

Every breath she pulls through her chest feels like she’s inhaling broken glass. At least the bleeding has stopped. As she shifts in her seat, her pants peel away with a crackle as the tacky seal of dried blood breaks.