Aftermath: Star Wars (12 page)

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, because, 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.

I have you.

For now.

“Admiral,” he says, his tone suddenly changing. He even offers a wan smile and bows his head. “I am of course just playing the Imperial advocate. One must attempt to fully dissect the animal to understand it, and so I appreciate you letting me challenge you in this way. Do as you see fit.”

She nods. A temporary victory, she thinks. But Pandion is doing exactly what she wants to do with the fleet above Akiva: He’s retreating temporarily in the hope of fighting again another day. What was it Tashu said?
Hide in the shadows and strike when your enemy passes.

Seems we do have a problem, after all,
Sinjir thinks, ducking blaster fire and leaping up, running across gambling tables. He kicks a set of chits up into the air—the gambler, some degenerate nerf herder with a sweat-slick face, chases after his lost chits and gets blaster fire in the back for his trouble. Sinjir knocks a set of dice off another table, then nearly trips on a gambling wheel before taking a running leap—

He catches the bar top across his middle. The air goes out of his lungs. Blaster fire peppers the wood and sends bottles and glasses spinning to the ground, shattering. Sinjir
oof
s but still clambers up and over, holding his arms above his head to protect his skull from the falling barware.

Then everything goes quiet.

He thinks:
Is it over?

A shadow descends over him.

The bartender looks down. Greasy grin on his face. His chin still green and slimy with leaf-spit.

“You got a problem,” the bartender says.

Then the bartender drops a fist like a falling meteor. It hits Sinjir like a malfunctioning bay-door piston, and his eyes roll back in his head as everything goes slippery and he tumbles toward unconsciousness.

“We have a problem,” the driver says.

Young Pade sees the smoke over the hills long before he sees what’s making it. Though the boy can certainly take a guess.

He looks around at the other recruits—or potential recruits, anyway. They’re all whispering about it now. Murmuring and opening the windows on the transport and looking out.

The hoverbus driver—a bewhiskered, round-muzzled Nimbanel—looks back with eyes that look beady under its huge brow. The Nimbanel says to Pade and the other boys: “You…you tell them. You tell them I don’t work for the Empire. I’m just a driver! You all know that, right?”

“Go on, mister,” Pade says. “Just turn around and get us there.”

The Nimbanel mutters something mean under his breath.

One of the other boys—a pudge-bellied kid with dark, coarse hair and a speckling of moles on his cheeks—turns around and stares over the seat at Pade. “You think we’re done for?”

“I dunno,” Pade says with a shrug. “Wait and see, I figure.”

He puts on a tough face. It’s a lie, though. Because he’s scared, too.

The bus continues on, riding over the broken roads of Uyter. Hills rising up on either side—the grass once green, now bleached pale. And soon, tucked between those hills: the Imperial stormtrooper academy here.

It’s burning. Or, rather, it has burned. Half of it is torn open by the tearing hands of old fire, and now black smoke drifts from inside it.

On the ground, a dozen dead stormtroopers.

Among them: other men and women. Not Imperials. Simple vests and utility belts. They have rifles and blasters. All the boys on the bus lean out and stare. They, like Pade, have never seen weapons up close. Pitchforks and spanners and a few blunt instruments here and there. Mostly, they’re farm boys. Locals from the fringes. Some of them recruited by officers.

Some of them, like Pade, were simply…sent away.

Sent here.

To a place that is no longer a place.

The bus stops as one of the men—
one of the
rebels,
Pade thinks—steps in front of the vehicle. The door opens and the Nimbanel steps out. The boys stay seated, not sure what they should do.

Pade thinks to look tough. He gets off the bus.

The Nimbanel and the rebel, a man with a scruffy beard and a scar running across the side of his neck, are arguing. The Nimbanel is waving his hands saying, “No, no, these kids are not my responsibility. No! I won’t drive them back. I’m not paid for that—”

“Sir,” the rebel says, “as you can see, the Imperial academy is closed. This isn’t a place for kids anymore—”

And then he sees Pade standing there. The man turns away from the driver and looks down.

“Mister,” Pade says.

“Son,” the man says. “We’ll get you back on the bus and on your way home in two twitches of a nerf tail—”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“Just the same, home isn’t here.”

“Home isn’t anywhere, then. My parents kicked my can down the road and moved on when I wasn’t looking. Went off to be nomads somewhere. It’s the Imperial academy for me, or it’s nowhere.”

The rebel chews on that. He looks off at the hills. Then to the Nimbanel and the bus and back to Pade. “What’ll you do if you can’t go here?”

“I told you, go nowhere.” Pade leans, lowers his voice. “You kill the kids in that academy? Ones who were gonna be baby stormtroopers?”

“What? Stars, no.”

“What’d you do with them?”

“You sure stick your nose in it, don’t you, kid?”

“Maybe that’s why my parents fixed to get rid of me.”

The man sighs. He kneels down. “Some of those kids will go home. Some of them are heading out to the New Academy on Chandrila. If they’re of an age, we’ll take them and teach them how to be soldiers, if they care to join the cause. Otherwise, it’s back to their parents. Or to orphanages.”

Pade thrusts out his chin. “Then that’s where I wanna go, too. The New Academy.”

“Hm.” The man narrows his eyes. “All right. Here.” He dives in his pockets, pulls out a handful of credits, then turns and slaps them into the Nimbanel’s palm. To Pade he says: “Central City’s still in the Empire’s back pocket, so make sure he drives you to Riverbreaker. Shuttle’s leaving there tomorrow morning for Hanna City. Be on it.”

Pade nods. “Thanks, mister.”

“Other boys are welcome to catch that ride, too. You tell them.”

“I will.” Pade turns, then calls over his shoulder. “Thanks. May the Force be with you, mister.”

“You too, kid. You too.”