by Chuck Wendig
Sinjir runs long fingers through his dark muss of hair with one hand while sipping the bitter caf with the other. It’s got a hard afterburner kick to it, like drinking a mug of vaporator sludge. “We need to get to Jakku.”
“That just became a whole lot harder,” Leia says.
“Explain to me again—what exactly happened?”
“Mon’s opponent in the upcoming election, he knew. Wartol knew about the Empire, and worse, he knew that we knew. Our window to get you to Jakku was very small already. And him making that public just closed it.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Han interjects, “this just became officially political. You go zipping off to that dirtworld, it’ll look like an act of war on behalf of the New Republic before the Senate had time to do squat about it.”
“You mean like, oh, say, Kashyyyk?” It’s a barb, Sinjir knows, but he means for it to sting. He grows weary of double standards. As weary as he grows of politics. And of nearly everything at this point.
“Don’t look at me. I say you still go.”
“Han,” Leia cautions.
“I know, I know. But it’s what I’d do. And what you’d do, too.”
Sinjir groans and takes a long, stiff sniff of the caf underneath his nose. “None of this explains who sent those guards to meet us at the platform, does it? And who told the Orishen senator about all this?”
“It wasn’t you, was it?” Leia asks. She’s serious.
He retorts the same way she did: “Do you truly believe me so duplicitous, Princess?” Before she can answer, he cuts in: “Never mind. Don’t answer that. No. Of course not. It was not me, nor was it Temmin.” He declines to remind everyone here that once upon a time, Temmin did betray them at the Akivan palace, and he is young and a bit of a firebrand…but no! That’s impossible. “We had an answer. We had a way to Jakku. There was no need to complicate the solution we already had for our problem.”
Then it hits him.
It wasn’t just that Senator Wartol knew something he shouldn’t. It was that someone knew everything that went on here.
Which means—
Oh, drat.
Sinjir says with a vicious scowl, “The walls have ears.”
“Huh?” Han asks.
But Leia understands. Her eyes go as big as battle stations and she thrusts a finger to her lips before offering a gentle nod to Sinjir.
“I’ll be back,” Sinjir says. “Time to pay our mutual slicer friend a visit.” His heart races as he exits the apartment, one name waiting on the back of his tongue, unwilling to be spoken but present just the same.
Conder…
—
Chancellor Mon Mothma is bone-weary already, and the day is young. With her one good hand, she smooths the fabric of her white gown.
“Are we good?” she asks the woman nearby.
That woman—Tracene Kane from HoloNet News—stands at the fore of the platform. She looks to a chubby Sullustan nearby who clucks in Sullustese as he crouches down, connecting cables from the hovering cam to the holoprojector platform. Mon has elected not to speak in front of a crowd—stars forbid that someone out there boo her or harangue her from the audience, only furthering the assured descent in her approval numbers. Better here, where she can control the environment. And HNN likes the exclusive, especially in an age when they will no longer be the only player. Other networks have begun springing up to compete. Which is the earmark of a healthy democracy, Mon believes.
Many voices competing, not one voice dominating.
Though, she wonders, if Wartol wins the chancellorship, then what? Will it be his voice that dominates? Or is she demonizing her opponent too much? Surely he wants the best for the galaxy, even as they disagree on how best to accomplish that uneasy feat.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Mon says.
“My pleasure,” Tracene answers. “I was…out in the field for a while. Covering the war.”
“Why did you return to cover politics?”
The journalist hesitates. “I couldn’t look at war any longer.”
“You and me both.” Mon sighs. “It feels like we’ve always been at war. I aim to stop that, but to do so…well, not to put too fine a point on it, but that means the only way out is through. We must end the Empire to bring peace. And to end the Empire, first we must endure politics.” Suddenly, she smirks. “Be cautious, Miss Kane: War may seem like a pleasant dream when you look too long into the abyssal eye of the political machine.”
“Noted,” Kane says, returning her own small smile. “Birt, are we ready?”
The Sullustan cam operator grunts as he stands, then gives a thumbs-up. His face flaps lift to show a gummy grin.
With that, Mon Mothma steps into the circle.
Moments pass. She steadies herself, and tries very hard to stop her left hand from shaking. The platform glows blue around the edges.
Tracene gives her a gentle nod.
Words spring up in front of her, the words of her speech in a slow-moving crawl—it is a speech too hastily written, she knows. Usually, she would take as much time as she could on any speech that goes out this far and this wide. But time is a luxury now, and she has to get ahead of this thing before it becomes a scandal hung around her neck like a heavy weight.
“Yesterday, I became aware of the possibility that the Galactic Empire had retreated to a planet in the Inner Rim, near the Unknown Regions: a planet of relative insignificance known as Jakku.” Already she curses herself; should she be saying that about any system in the galaxy? ‘Insignificant’? A bloom of embarrassment rises to her cheeks, and it only confirms that she is off her game and has been off her game since coming out of critical care here on Chandrila. She pushes past her doubts, because what choice does she have? Keep talking, Mon.
“Our military has already begun efforts to confirm this information. We have launched a ship, the Oculus, under the command of Ensign Ardin Deltura, an expert who similarly helped us discover the threat on Akiva. We believe his efforts will confirm what our initial scouting showed: that much of the Imperial fleet is now in space above the planet Jakku. It remains to be seen, however, if this also includes a ground occupation of the planet or is something else that is not wholly understood.”
Uncertainty plagues her. She hates using the military as a lever. And yet at the same time she now fears that she was too hasty in relieving herself of certain powers. Certainly this would be much easier if the allocation of military resources did not rely on politics. Ah, but isn’t that exactly how Palpatine felt? The Senate stood in the way of progress. So he manipulated the Senate, overwhelmed it, and inevitably abolished it. No. She is doing the right thing. Politics is meant to be turbulent. It is meant to be slow and steady—elastic, too, so that the system bends but does not break.
“I would not normally divulge such information publicly, but my hand has been forced—further, it is safe to assume the Empire is aware of our probes testing the margins of their occupation. Which means we must act quickly to seize what advantage we have. As such, I am calling the Senate to an emergency session tonight, where I will resolve that we must mobilize our armed services to war against the Galactic Empire in the skies above Jakku—and perhaps even upon its surface. It is with a heavy heart that I call us to war once more, but I am vigilant that the threat of the Empire must not stand in the way of our safety and our sanity. I know that the Senate will stand with me. And when they do, I am confident that this will be the end of the Empire.”
The chancellor gives a curt nod and steps out of the circle.
Tracene gives Birt, the cam operator, the signal. He cuts the feed.
The circle goes dark.
“You did fine,” Tracene says.
“You must have sensed my apprehension.”
“No.”
She’s lying, Mon thinks. But so it goes. It is rare that she receives the straight truth from anybody anymore.
“It’s just—it must be hard, being
you. Under siege from every direction.”
“Yes,” Mon says. “It is hard. But we persevere. Like the Rebel Alliance before us, like the New Republic now. We persevere.”
—
The man with bronze skin and a scruffy, sand-colored beard seems taken aback by the guest at his door.
“Oh” is all he says.
“Hello, Conder,” Sinjir says as greeting. He chills his voice, putting some ice into it. Just to ensure that it is clear he is not here on a mission of mercy. Also to make it clear that he has no feelings here at all, lest anyone believe him somehow sentimental.
“Sinjir.”
“May I come in?”
“And if I said no?”
“Then I would pout so powerfully, my mopishness would take corporeal form and kick the door down.”
Conder’s warm eyes light up as his face softens. “Same old Sinjir. Sure. Come on in.”
Inside, the man’s apartment is the epitome of austerity. Sinjir’s fingerprints are long gone—he, too, prefers spartan living, but still likes a little splash of color now and again: the bloody blush of a hai-ka flower bouquet or the rich cerulean of a saltwater octo-fish tank. Conder has gone back to décor that is black, white, and gray. The only flash the domicile offers is a punctuation of brushed-chrome cabinet handles or silvra-stone tile. He would have done well as an interior decorator in the halls of the Empire.
“I don’t feel like the same old,” Sinjir says. “Maybe just old.”
“You are not old. Neither of us is.”
“Fine. Older, then. And definitely not the same.”
“You seem the same to me.”
“Well, I feel different,” Sinjir snaps. Oh, my, this isn’t going as expected. Not that he should’ve expected anything else, he supposes. “I need you. Your help, I mean.” By all the bloody, stupid stars, untangle your tongue, Rath Velus. “It’s not even me that needs your help, so don’t get any damn ideas. It’s the princess. She needs you.”
“She could’ve called me herself.”
“Yes. But this is sensitive.”
Conder leans up against the counter. “You want to sit? Have a drink?”
I would like that very much.
“No!” Sinjir answers sharply, too sharply, despite the contrary thought doing loops in his heart. “No, I would not like a drink.”
“Then maybe you really are a different Sinjir. Not one here to kill me, I hope? Chip stuck in the back of your head?” Conder was one of the ones who helped decipher that little riddle for the New Republic. It’s why Sinjir is here, now, to see him.
“I believe we have a bug. In Leia’s domicile.”
Conder hrms and scuffs a heel against the ground. “This about what’s going on? The Empire at Jakku?” Suddenly he stands up straight. “Oh, Sin. Tell me you’re not somehow involved in all that.”
“Two of my people are there. Norra and Jas. On the ground. Under the Empire’s boot. This may be related to all that. I…don’t know, yet.”
“They’re my people, too.” Conder reaches out to touch Sinjir’s arm—
But Sinjir pulls away.
“Will you help?” he asks Conder.
“On one condition.”
“There are no conditions. You’ll not hold me hostage with emotional blackmail. Either you will help or you won’t.”
Conder sighs. “I just want to know why you left me.”
“Because we were done.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“Obviously, I did fool you.”
The slicer chews on that. “Yes. Indeed you did, at that.” He’s angry, now. Good. Be mad, you fool. Don’t be so daft as to fall for a villain such as me. “I’ll help you. I assume you mean now?”
“I mean yesterday, but it’s too late for that, so now will have to do.”
—
“You’re mad,” Wedge says.
“And you’re doing busywork,” Temmin snaps.
Captain Antilles looks down at the datapad in his hand. It’s true. He is doing busywork. But what else is he supposed to do at this point? Behind the two of them, the hangar bustles with activity. Though they have not yet gotten the call to battle, they were told to be ready when it came. That means fueling up. That means loading munitions. Cross-checks abound. Some of these starfighters—X-wings, Y-wings, A-wings, and even that prototype T-70 in the back—will end up on various capital ships before the New Republic fleet flings itself through hyperspace into the theater of war, where the Empire’s own malevolent forces gather.
Of course, Wedge thinks, I won’t be going along. None of Phantom Squadron will. The pilots in his nascent squadron are washouts and weirdos to the last: his favorite kind of crew. Reminds him of the days—not that long ago!—in the Rebel Alliance when you took whatever bush pilots and womp rat hunters you could find, and you stuck them in battle-scarred fighters. You went to war with the pilots you had. Now things are more formalized—more training, more boxes to check, more politics.
And he fizzled on that last part.
Going out to Kashyyyk with Leia and Ackbar was the first outing of Phantom Squadron—
And the last.
But what was the choice? Abandon Han and Leia? Let Kashyyyk fall to the bombs dropped by those Star Destroyers? Sometimes doing the right thing didn’t mean following orders. Following orders would’ve meant never betraying the Empire in the first place. Never joining the Rebel Alliance. But that’s tricky, isn’t it? That transition from a ragtag bunch of dissidents and mutineers to a proper government is a hard one. Many of them still have rebel hearts beating in their chests—it’s in them to question orders, to fight back when something doesn’t seem right. Even if it’s coming from someone you trust. People trusted Palpatine, once.
Doesn’t matter now. In public, Wedge got a medal. In private, he got reamed out. And Phantom Squadron was shut down.
His crewmates have gone on. None of them are pilots now. They’re all support crew. Koko runs fueling lines. Jethpur is an engine mechanic. Last he heard, Yarra gave it all up and she’s out somewhere on a fishing rig—one of the organic-led ones that cleave to the old Chandrilan ways of hauling fish up one at a time on lines of braided dyan-thread.
And here he is. Doing busywork. Managing a hangar.
“It’s necessary work, Snap,” he tells the young man.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Oh. Sorry. I…I thought you liked the nickname.”
“I did but now I don’t.” Temmin steps in front of him, arms crossed. “You like her.”
“What?”
“My mother. You like her.”
“I…” Wedge feels nervous, suddenly, thinking about her. His mouth dry as a new shirt, but the back of his neck goes suddenly slick with sweat. Norra. “Snap—sorry, Temmin—I was close with your mother, we were friends—”
“You were more than friends.” With every word, Temmin thrusts an accusing finger. Then he throws up his hands, exasperated. “And fine. I don’t care about that. But you care about her. So, she’s out there, Wedge. She needs our help. She’s trapped on a planet and we can go, right now, to save her. You have clearances. I know you do.”
Wedge barks an uneasy laugh. “I don’t have those clearances anymore, not after Kashyyyk. And your mother…” He sighs and sets the datapad down. “I do care about her. A lot. And part of why I care about her is that I know she’s tough as a handful of hexabolts. That planet won’t break her. The Empire won’t break her. And we’ll get her out.”
“So you’re just abandoning her.”
“I’m not. I swear. But I’m just one guy without a whole lot to say about any of it. What I can do is what I have to do. This isn’t just busywork. It’s making sure our ships and our pilots are ready to fly, because they need to hit that fleet like a fist. That’s how we get your mother back. We don’t just send you or me or the Falcon. We send the whole New Republic.”
Temmin sneers. “Glad to hear you’ve made yourself feel bet
ter about not doing a damn thing. I’ll see you, Wedge.”
“Snap—” Damnit. “Temmin! Wait.”
But the boy is already hard-charging away in long, angry strides.
—
Sinjir watches Conder through the window. The slicer asked them all to stay outside while he does his scan of Leia’s domicile. From the center of Conder’s palm rises a small, hand-machined probe droid—like a little wobbly ball with a nest of needled antennas coming off it at all angles. It hums and thrums and bobbles around the room, a green beam of light sweeping across every corner, every counter, every bit of bric-a-brac.
It’s not the probe droid that Sinjir is watching, though.
It’s Conder.
Conder is comfortable in his skin, and even more comfortable in his role. There’s just something enticing about seeing someone so capable, so confident. The hinge of Sinjir’s jaw tightens, like a trap eager to spring.
Look away, you daft clod.
He’s suddenly self-conscious about it. Sinjir isn’t exactly alone out here, is he? Leia, Han, and their insufferable protocol droid are with him.
“Mum,” T-2LC is saying as he hands over a digestive biscuit to the princess. “A small bite of bland food to calm your nerves—”
“I don’t need that, Elsie, but thank you.” Leia waves it away. Then, to Han: “I can’t believe I was so foolish. A listening device? In our home?”
“Relax.” Solo shrugs it off. “We don’t even know if that’s what happened yet. Maybe this is some kind of fluke.”
“No,” Sinjir says. “This is no fluke. Someone is listening in. It’s the only explanation.” Except for Temmin having betrayed us all.
“I confirmed with Mon,” Leia says. “Those guards that turned you away from the Falcon—she didn’t send them.”
Han nods. “That means Wartol did it.”
“Does he have that kind of power?” Sinjir asks. “He’s just a senator.”
“A senator running for the chancellorship. And,” Leia adds with a sigh, “currently pulling ahead with a rather robust lead.”
Solo throws up his hands. “Politics is mean business. I’d rather fall into a nest of starving gundarks than get caught up in those gears. Wartol has power in places we can’t see. He’s close with the Senate Guard, too.”