Aftermath: Star Wars (11 page)

“We have a problem.”

Someone shakes Temmin awake. He gasps and sits up in the bed in the nook upstairs in their house. Thunder booms like cannon fire outside, like ships in the sky tearing one another apart—flashes of lightning like fire. It’s a mausim—an old Akivan word for one of the annual storms that rise up and signal the start of the wet season. The clouds turn black and tighten over the city like a noose. A mausim-storm can last for days, even weeks. Flooding the city with heavy rains. Heavy winds stopping traffic.

Temmin sniffs, rubs his eyes. It’s his father. He stoops down and kisses Temmin on the brow.

“Dad…whh…what’s going on.”

A voice from the door. Mom. “Brentin. What is it?”

Dad answers: “I’m sorry. I’m so—”

Downstairs, a pounding at the door.

Then another boom of thunder.

Brentin stoops, holds his son tight. “Temmin. I need you to be good to your mother. Promise me.”

Temmin blinks, still sleepy. “Dad, what are you talking about—”

Mom is there, now, standing by the bed, a concerned face revealed with every pulse of lightning. Downstairs—more pounding, and then their visitor seizes upon impatience as they break in. Mom cries out.

Brentin says to his son: “Promise. Me.”

“I…promise.”

His father gives him one last hug. “Norra. Help me with this—” He hurries to the window, a window covered with a slatted metal shutter. Meant to keep the storm out—should the wind break the glass, the shutter will react, the slats will slam shut, and the whole thing will vacuum-seal. The two of them go over, one on each side, pulling the levers that hold the shutters to the frame. Mom says:

“Brentin, what is going on?”

“They’re coming for me. Not for you. For me.”

Voices. The crackle of a comm. Footsteps. Suddenly others are in the room. The white armor of a pair of stormtroopers. The black outfit of some Imperial officer. Everyone is yelling. Blasters up. Dad is saying he’ll go peacefully. Temmin cries out. Mom gets in between the troopers and Dad, her hands up—one of them hits her in the head with the back of his rifle.

She cries out, goes down. Dad leaps, calling them all monsters, banging his fists against the one’s helmet—

A pulse from a blaster. Dad cries out and drops. They start dragging him out. Mom starts crawling after them on her hands and knees and the officer in black stays behind, stoops low, and shoves a datapad in front of her face. “The arrest warrant for Brentin Lore Wexley. Rebel scum.”

She claws at his boot and he shakes her free.

Temmin checks on his mother. She’s collapsed in a heap, crying. Grief and fear are tamped down underneath a sudden surge of anger. Temmin gets up, runs downstairs. Already they’ve got his father out the front door. Dragged out into the rain, into the street where water runs over their boots as they splash forth. Temmin bolts outside into the hard slashes of rain—everything feels like a nightmare, like this couldn’t be real, like the sky has cracked open and all the evils have come tumbling out. But it is real.

He calls out for them to stop. The officer turns and laughs as the two stormtroopers toss his father into the back of a bala-bala, one of the small speeders used to navigate the tight channels and streets of Myrra.

The officer pulls his pistol.

“Stop,” Temmin says, his voice more like an animal in pain than his own voice. “Please.”

The officer points the blaster.

“Do not meddle, boy. Your father is a criminal. Let justice be.”

“This isn’t justice.”

“Take a step and you’ll see what justice is.”

Temmin starts to take a step—

But a pair of hands catches him around the middle, yanking him up off his feet. Temmin kicks. Screams. His mother in his ear: “Temmin, no, shhh, not like this. Back inside. Back inside!”

“I’ll kill you!” he screams, though at who, he doesn’t even know. “I promise, I’ll kill you for this!”

“We have a problem.”

His mother, in his ear.

Whispering.

“Wuzza,” he blurts, his mouth tacky and dry.

“Shh,” she cautions him. “We’re in danger.”

He draws a deep breath. Temmin tries to get his bearings. Cargo bay. Small ship. Freighter, maybe. Corellian design. They’re behind a stack of carbon-shell crates on a pallet. A hoverpallet, by the look of it, though right now it’s powered down and set against the metal of the ship’s floor.

Then he spies it:

A body.

A dead man. Turned on his side. Half of his face a moon-skin of scars, cratered with old burns. His eyes are empty, have lost their luster.

To his left, the bay door. Large enough for a trio of these crates, side by side. To his right, the sealed door—should go to the rest of the ship. The bunk, the gunner station, the cockpit, the head.

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.”