by Chuck Wendig
From beyond that door—the sound of comm chatter. And voices through helmet speakers. “Stormtroopers,” he says, his voice low.
He tries to remember what happened, how he even got here. It’s like trying to catch clouds with pinching fingers. But then the memory starts to resolve. He was down in the catacombs. Not far in. Just sitting. He’d just argued with his mother. He turned to go back and…
She stuck something in his neck.
His mother starts to say something but he whispers: “You brought me here!”
Alarm in her eyes. “I had to.”
“Oh. You just had to?”
“We need to leave this planet, Tem.”
“Where’s Mister Bones? Where even are we?”
“Your droid?” she asks, sounding almost irritated. “I don’t know. We are on a ship. On the outskirts—near the Akar Road.” Gods, how far did she bring him? All the way out here? Near the canyons and old temple complexes? Panic seizes him. My shop. My goods. My droids. “That’s the pilot.” She gestures to the dead man. “He was going to take us out of here. The place was crawling with stormtroopers, so I snuck us on board and found him here, already dead. The stormtroopers came back in—I don’t know why. A second sweep. Looking for contraband, maybe.”
They’re looking for us, he thinks.
“We need to take the ship and escape,” Mom says. “We can do this. Together. I’ll need you to be my navigator—we don’t have an astromech.” She must see the look in his eyes because she says: “I’ll guide you.”
She gives his hand a squeeze.
He seethes: “I can’t leave here. This is my home.”
“We have a new home now.”
“You don’t get to just kidnap me and—”
“I can because I am your mother.”
A thousand angry rebuttals run through his head like ring-dogs chasing their own banded tails. But now isn’t the time.
“I…have a plan,” he says. It’s not a lie. Not really.
“I’m listening.”
“Stay here. Follow my signal.”
She starts to protest, but he darts out from behind the crates. Temmin hurries up to the cabin door. Next to it on the wall: a panel. He casts a look to his mother, who gives him a quizzical stare.
I’m sorry are the two words he mouths to her, silently.
Her eyes go wide as she figures it out.
I have a plan, it’s just not one you’re gonna like.
He quickly punches a few buttons on the wall panel. He overrides the cargo bay’s pneumatic hinges—the ones that would open the bay door and ramp slowly, settling it against the ground as gently as a mother resting her baby in the cradle. Temmin doesn’t have time for that. He pops the pistons with a screaming hiss and the bay ramp drops with a resounding gong.
Outside—a cracked, shattered landing pad. Roots and shoots pushing up through the plastocrete. Jungle and city beyond.
And stormtroopers.
A whole squad of stormtroopers.
They seem taken by surprise. They aren’t lined up, ready for battle. They’re out there milling around, standing about, poking through the underbrush and cracking open crates.
That gives Temmin one shot.
He yells, running forward, slamming his shoulder into the pallet full of crates. With a quick shove of his knee, he jams the button on the pallet handle and the thing suddenly pops up off the ground, hovering a few centimeters above the bay floor. His mother rushes for him.
But she’s too slow.
Temmin hurries forward, pushing the hovering crate stack out the bay door with his shoulder. He hides behind it, shielding himself from the sudden fusillade of blaster fire. His mother calls after him, but all he can think is: This was a stupid, stupid idea.
—
“Do we have a problem?” Surat Nuat asks.
Sinjir crossed the gambling floor, shoving past dice throwers and card holders until he was standing in front of the Sullustan gangster. And now that gangster stands there, regarding him with one good eye. Sinjir feels suddenly dissected, like a winged insect pulled apart by a cruel child’s plucking fingers. The feeling is only made more intense by the clatter of blasters raised in his direction and ready to fire.
Gasps all around. The music stops. Eyes watch.
He feels his new Twi’lek “friend” trembling behind him.
Sinjir clears his throat and smiles.
“Not at all,” Sinjir says. “No problems here. A polite entreaty, if you will. May I appeal to your…” What word will satisfy this self-important thug? What will tickle the Sullustan’s ego, an ego sure to be as plump and bloated as a sun-cooked shaak carcass. “To your limitless grace, your many-faced wisdom, your eternal might?”
Surat smacks his lips together. “You have an eloquence. Manners. I like that. Even if your crooked human nose is dark with excrement. So. Make your plea. But make it quickly.”
The thought runs laps in Sinjir’s mind: Just walk away. This does not involve you. She is no one. She does not matter. You don’t know each other! You had a moment, one singular moment. Moments do not tally to anything meaningful. Run away, like you are so good at doing.
But that woman? The Zabrak is watching him. And he might be imagining it, but—is that recognition in her eyes? A familiar scrutiny?
As if to confirm it, she gives him a small nod of her head.
To Surat, Sinjir says: “The woman. Is she yours to sell?”
“She is,” Surat confirms, pursing his lips in amusement.
“Then I would buy her. I would pay well for a first chance—”
“The process,” Surat interrupts, “for a prime candidate such as this, would be an auction. To maximize the effort and to ensure that all interested buyers have a chance.”
“I will then offer to pay extra to undercut them.”
Surat holds up a hand. “It does not matter. Because there shall be no auction for this one. We already have a buyer lined up. Unless you think you can equal the endless coffers of the Galactic Empire?”
Sinjir’s heart sinks in his chest like a stone in swamp mud. But he refuses to show the fear and disappointment on his face. Instead, he claps his hands and smiles big. “Then there must be some confusion—a muddled communication. You see, I am from the Galactic Empire. An emissary. I am loyalty officer Sinjir Rath Velus, last stationed at the Imperial shield base on Endor, and now here on Akiva as part of a…diplomatic mission. Did they not tell you I was coming? We used to have it so together before those rebel pigs blew up our favorite toy. I apologize, but I’m here now—”
“I have not yet informed the Empire of this prize,” Surat says.
“What? I don’t follow.”
“They do not know I have this one.” The gangster gestures toward the woman. “Perhaps you have a Jedi around somewhere who predicted my call? Or maybe you, loyalty officer Sinjir Rath Velus, are some kind of wizard in possession of great precognition?”
“Well, I am quite gifted.”
“Or maybe you are a rebel. Or just a con artist. Does it even matter?”
Sinjir swallows hard. He forces a smile and says: “I assure you—”
Surat scowls.
“Kill him!” the gangster barks.
Surat’s men start firing.
—
“We have a problem, Admiral,” Adea Rite says.
Sloane marches down the palace hall, the walls lined with gold-framed portraits of satraps past: the sluggy, jowly face of Satrap Mongo Hingo; the jaundiced, sickly countenance of Satrap Tin Withrafisp; the handsome, smoldering portrait of young Satrap Kade Hingo, a young lad governor who died too early (written history says by assassin but whispered history says by venereal disease). Sloane skids to a halt and says: “What kind of a problem? I’ll remind you that I am heading to a meeting that will make or break the back of the Empire and the galaxy it endeavors to rule.”
Oh, the look of fear that rises on the poor girl’s face…like a sun darkened by clouds. Sloane feels a
small pinprick of shame over that—whatever the problem is, it’s not likely to be the girl’s fault. Still, to her credit, she summons her courage after drawing a breath.
“Two rebel scout ships,” Adea says. Again to her credit, she says this quietly. Who knows if anyone could be listening?
“Where? Here? Above this planet?”
A small nod. “Yes. Tothwin claims both were rebel-designated A-wings.”
This is happening too soon.
“And what became of them?”
Not that it much matters.
Adea says: “Both were destroyed before they could return to hyperspace.”
Rae winces.
“Did the other Star Destroyers see?”
“I don’t think so. At least, they haven’t indicated such. The ships came in on the starboard side, away from the other two Destroyers. The distance between the Destroyers suggests they couldn’t have.”
That may buy them a bit more time—if the A-wings were able to return successfully and make a report, the swiftness of a rebel attack on their burgeoning blockade could be profound. But since the A-wings can’t return, the rebels won’t have any useful intel. It will give them pause. The A-wings could be dead from an Imperial attack, yes. Or a volatile oort cloud. Or an unexpected debris field. The rebel fleet will exercise caution.
Regardless, that leaves her with a new problem:
Does she tell the others? She could attempt to supersede their authority. Neither Shale nor Pandion is an admiral. Neither technically possess the authority to command fleet movements like Sloane does. But each is still in command of a Star Destroyer, and the rules these days are not so clear on who truly has proper authority to do anything at all.
If she tries to run an endgame around them…
They will try to run one around her, as well. A coup, perhaps.
Then the meeting will become a different game altogether.
She bites back a curse.
“Right,” she says, then thanks the assistant.
Sloane marches toward the first fateful meeting of the summit.
—
“What’s the problem in—hey!”
Norra wheels toward the voice and sees that it belongs to a stormtrooper—one of three standing there at the door between the bay and the bulk of the ship. The three step in, blaster rifles up and ready.
Temmin, why did you have to run?
A smaller voice inside her answers: Because you gave him no choice.
Outside the ship, past the bay door where she can’t see, Norra hears the sounds of battle: Blaster rifles. Men yelling in alarm.
“There!” one of the stormtroopers says, spotting her.
The three turn toward her, pointing and gesturing with their weapons.
“Freeze.”
The third says, “Stand up.”
Slowly, Norra stands. The blaster at her hip feels heavy, as if burdened with great purpose and great risk. Her hand itches to reach down, pull it out, take her chances—her blood roars in her ears, a river of fear and anger. It rushes back to her, them kicking down her family’s door, the Imperials dragging her husband out of her son’s bedroom, the stormtrooper slamming her in the head with the end of his rifle.
She thinks: You’re fast. The bucketheads are slow. Take the shot.
One of the troopers turns back toward the bay. He startles, taken by surprise, and for a moment she doesn’t know why. “Look out—!” he starts to say, and then blaster fire pins him to the wall. The other two pivot, blasters up and firing, but it’s too late for them, too—
A speeder bike bolts in through the bay doors and drifts as it enters, its back end sliding hard and clipping the two stormtroopers in the knees. They cry out as the speeder wipes them out, knocking them to the floor.
Temmin lifts the brim of his new helmet with his thumb.
“Let’s go!” he says. “Go go go go.”
Norra takes a deep breath and hops on the back of the speeder as Temmin twists his grip forward. The vehicle takes off like a proton rocket.
—
“We have a—” Rae starts to say.
Pandion answers: “A problem, yes, I should say so. I have heard that Captain Antilles is not yet responding to any of our…efforts.”
Tashu, having arrived late wearing a strange red metal mask, one that appeared quite demonic, spins the mask (now facedown on the table) with his hand. “Do not worry, Moff Pandion. My technique takes time, but I have been trained by the best. The ancient Sith art of—”
“It’s grand moff,” Pandion says, “and I may remind you here that the Sith are all dead and you carry none of their magic with you.”
“The problem,” Rae says, putting some fire in her voice, “is that the Vigilance encountered two rebel A-wing scouts. We dispatched both—”
Arsin Crassus stands up. The man, already white as ground-down bone powder, goes almost translucent. Panic coils around his voice, tightening as he stammers: “The rebels will come for us. We must end this meeting immediately, as I am no warrior, but merely a merchant—”
“Sit down,” Rae says.
Crassus hesitates, rubbing thumbs against fingers. A nervous habit.
Pandion says: “Don’t be a coward, Crassus. Sit.”
Crassus sits, then. Though, Sloane notes, only when Pandion says to.
“I have a plan,” she says. “Though it may seem unconventional.”
Jylia Shale leans forward. “We’re listening.”
“I want to move the Star Destroyers to hyperspace. Not far. But out of both optic and far-sweep sensor range.”
“That will leave us exposed!” Crassus says.
“If the rebels find nothing here, they’ll move along. They don’t have the time or the resources to monitor some backwater fringe territory such as this. But if they see a trio of Imperial Star Destroyers…”
Pandion leans back in his chair. Sneering. “Apparently, I’m at a table full of cowards. Let me posit an alternative solution, Admiral. You are in control of the Ravager fleet. Our last Super Star Destroyer, and you have it and—well, how many ships? We don’t even know. An unknown quantity, hidden away the way a greedy child hides his best toys.” Here he leans forward, pointing an accusing finger. “Perhaps it’s time to share, Admiral. Bring your fleet forward. Let’s not run with our tail tucked betwixt our legs. Let’s go the other way. Build up our presence. The rebels come poking around, they’ll find they have stirred a nest of vipers.”
“No,” General Shale says, giving the table a pound with her small, wrinkled fist. The old woman gives a firm shake to her head. “None of us is ready for that. This is a game of chatta-ragul. All the tokens are on the board, whether we like it or not. Minions, Scouts, Knights, all the way to the Pontiffs, the Alcazar, the Empress. You never move the Empress out unless you have no other choice. That was our failing with Palpatine’s grand battle station: The Death Star was our Empress. We moved it forward too quickly: a chatta-ragul gambit that failed spectacularly.”
“Speak plainly,” Pandion says. “This isn’t a game.”
“It is a game,” Jylia says, her jaw set. “It is a game with very high stakes where we must second-guess our opponent. The head of the New Republic fleet is Grand Admiral Ackbar. He is a genius tactician. A warrior of the mind. But he will not be quick to jump into this. One rebel missing, then two more on top: He will fear something is going on, that this could be yet another trap for him to blunder into. But without any information at all, he will be hesitant to send one more rebel to the grave. His next play will most likely be to send a drone ship.”
“Or a droid,” Rae says.
“Yes. Yes! A long-range probe. That is likely. Sent from a ship kept at a distance—close enough for scanner range, which means, if we have ships here? That droid will be wholly unnecessary. And that ship will be out of range of our weapons. It will jump to hyperspace, and Ackbar will mobilize his fleet. And then it is open war once more. A battle that we cannot afford to lose, be
cause, as I will remind you, we are expending resources at a greater rate than we produce them. We’ve lost ships, weapons factories, droid factories, spice mines, fuel depots. You want to risk more of it? We cannot afford to pay that debt.”
“Cowards,” Pandion rages, standing up so fast his chair almost knocks over behind him. “The Ravager is a powerful weapon, and Sloane is sitting on it like a fat nuna hen upon a nest of already hatched eggs.” He points to Crassus and Tashu. “This is a meeting where every voice counts, does it not? Then let me ask you two. How do you vote? Are we an Empire of curs and cuckoo hens? Clucking and whimpering in the dark? What say you?”
Crass gives a nod. “I say we bring that Super Star Destroyer forward. I say we attack.” He awkwardly thrusts a fist into the meat of his open hand.
Rae says, “Crassus has already admitted that he is no warrior. Just a merchant, wasn’t it, Arsin? You’re going to take his advice?”
Tashu speaks, jumping ahead of Pandion’s next outburst. “I will say this: The Sith are masters of deception. It is no cowardice to hide in the shadows and strike when your enemy passes. I agree with the admiral.”
Sloane nods. “That’s three to two. We move the Destroyers.”
“No,” Pandion says. “One of those ships is under my command. And I won’t move it. It stays.”
The defiance in his eyes flashes like starfire. This is happening earlier than Sloane expected—she always knew one of them, probably Valco Pandion, would test her. Fine. She marches around the side of the table and meets him nose-to-nose.
“I am the admiral of this naval fleet. You do not have the authority, self-proclaimed or not, to command one ship against the movement of its fellows. You do not have the authority to deny me in this.”
Pandion grins. “And what if I do, anyway?”
“Then the Vigilance will shoot your ship out of the sky. Its pieces will rain down upon us, and that is how the Empire will end. With us destroying one another, like rats driven mad by hunger, rats who eat one another instead of hunting down a proper meal.”
“I could take my ship. Flee to some distant system—”
“Flee?” she asks. “You want to run. So you’re the coward.”
From Pandion: a small intake of breath. A tiny little gasp.