Aftermath: Star Wars (18 page)

Bad dreams.

It’s one of the classics, one of the dreams that replays inside Norra’s head now and again—it’s her and her Y-wing and her astromech, R5-G4, and they’re in the twisting bowels of the Death Star again. She breaks off from the main conduit, drawing a handful of TIEs after her like flies on a gorth’s tail. She can’t swat them, can’t bat them away, can’t outfly them. And suddenly there are more ahead of her, and the inside of the battle station is a maze looping back on itself, and from somewhere she feels the concussive shock of the power source going up, and then everything starts to fall apart around her, and the fire fills the space behind her, and then it’s there at the front, too, rushing up to greet her—

She wakes up bathed in sweat. Like she always does, no matter how warm or cold the air. Norra checks her watch. She has, of course, been asleep for less than an hour. After rescuing her son from the clutches of that vile gangster, she’s still got the feeling—like they’re being chased. Heart pounding, muscles tight, jaw set, adrenaline cooking through her like liquid blaster fire. Sleep was a bad idea.

Norra heads downstairs to get some tea. She expects that everyone is still asleep—and here she reminds herself to thank her sister, Esmelle, for letting this crew of curious strangers stay the night—but as she descends, she hears voices coming from the kitchen.

There, gathered around a small table, are the two curious strangers: Jas Emari and Sinjir Rath Velus. They’ve set aside Esmelle’s hydrodome (where she grows small herbs, like heartweed and sinthan seed) and have set out across the small table a series of odd objects: a saltcellar, a series of herb vials, a napkin dispenser, a bunch of quicksticks and fruit knives.

She enters, and the two of them straighten up.

Like children who have done wrong.

Hm.

“What’s all this?” Norra asks.

“Nothing,” Jas says.

“Just…playing a game,” the other one, Sinjir, says with a smile. A strange couple, these two. She, a cold-faced, curt-tongued Zabrak. He’s a tall drink of milk: a bit rangy, scruffy, the smell of wine or brandy leaving his pores. He’s got a big, duplicitous grin. She’s got eyes like cut stones.

Norra mumbles something and then taps the button on the side of the kettle. From the upper cabinet she selects a gesha tea, measures some into a cup. The other two are staring holes in her back.

The kettle whistles, and she pours. Ghosts of steam rise around her.

Then she turns and says, “That looks like a map.”

“It’s not,” Sinjir says, still smiling.

“It is,” the Zabrak says at almost the same time.

“Will you tell me what it is?” Norra asks.

“No,” the other two both answer in unison. Jas and Sinjir give each other a look. A bit quizzical, a bit amused, that shared look.

Norra leans over. Scrutinizes their arrangement. “This, the napkin dispenser. It’s bigger than everything else. So it’s meant to represent something big. The satrap’s palace, I’m guessing. Which lines up with the rest—here’s the old capitol building, here’s the Avenue of the Satrapy, here’s the narrow Withrafisp Road—this was once a secret road, I’m told, to sneak satraps in and out of the palace, but it’s been public since I was a girl.”

“Nope,” Sinjir says, feigning total sincerity. “Sorry. Thank you, though, for playing. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

“Shut up,” Jas says to him. Then to Norra: “Yes. You’re right. Did you grow up here?”

Norra nods. “I did.”

“You’re…” Jas gives her a look-over. “A rebel?”

“Am I that obvious?”

The Zabrak shrugs. “No. But I’m no fool. You had no problem shooting at stormtroopers last night. And yet you don’t look like another criminal.
Or
just another local. You…dress like a rebel. The utilitarian vest. The utility belt. Those boots.” She squints. “Pilot?”

Norra laughs. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“I’m a bounty hunter,” Jas says. “I’m here collecting a bounty for the New Republic. I think I could use your help.”

“Wait one star-burned second,” Sinjir protests, waving both hands. “You’re cutting me in for a meager twenty-five percent, and now you’re going to water down the bounty even more by bringing her in?”

The bounty hunter says, “I’m hoping she’ll do it because it’s the right thing and because it is an attack on the Empire. Not because of credits.”

Norra feels the call of duty crawling over her like ants. She wants to find out more, wants to throw in and spit in the eye of the Empire,
but—

“I can’t,” she says, speaking through clenched jaw. “I really can’t. My son and I have to leave this planet. My first priority is taking him away—”

“Go save your friend,” Temmin says. “Antilles. Because I told you, I’m not going.” Temmin shuffles into the kitchen. “And by the way, I know you people think you’re not being loud, but you’re totally being loud.”

Norra catches his arm. “I’ll let someone else…save Captain Antilles. My job isn’t fighting this war anymore. My job is you.”

But he pulls away from her. He grabs a glass of blue milk from the cold-chest. “Did my droid come home yet? He should be here by now.”

Norra wants to keep fighting him, but she bites her tongue. He’s as stubborn as she is. Pushing him is like punching a wall. She’ll only break her hand trying.

Sinjir says to the boy, “That was your droid, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“That was a
battle droid
.”

“I
know.
”

“They’re the most inept fighting unit in…perhaps the history of the galaxy. And trust me, stormtroopers are basically just overturned mop buckets with guns, especially these days.”

“Do not sell the stormtroopers short,” Jas snaps. “In number, they are dangerous.”

“So are swamp buffalo,” Sinjir says. “It doesn’t mean they’re particularly effective. Battle droids, even less so. Kudos to you, young man. Turning one of them into a…bona fide war machine?” Sinjir softly applauds. “Though I think it’s wise to prepare for the eventuality that they overwhelmed him. He’s a battle droid, not a technological miracle.”

“Yeah, well.” Temmin stands there, looking surly, sipping his drink. “You don’t know borcat scat from dewback dung, pal. Mister Bones is programmed with…well, just trust me. Mister Bones will be
just fine.
” Norra watches her son—the way he stands with his fists balled up. His brow furrowed. He’s angry. Like she was…and maybe still is, she admits to herself. But then his eyes narrow and he looks down at the table. “What’s this?”

“Nothing,” Sinjir says.

“It’s a map,” Temmin says. And Norra swells with small pride. A pride that grows as Temmin adds: “What’s this? The satrap’s palace?”

“By all the damned stars,” Sinjir says. “Like mother, like son.”

The boy frowns at that. Norra feels stung.

Jas Emari then jumps in with both feet: “Right now, at that palace—provided we have not missed our opportunity—a secret meeting is taking place. At this meeting are a small number of very important individuals within the Imperial ranks. Movers and shakers. High bounty values.” She lists those individuals: Moff Valco Pandion, Admiral Rae Sloane, Adviser Yupe Tashu, General Jylia Shale, and the bounty hunter’s original target, the banker and slaver: Arsin Crassus.

“That’s it,” Norra says, snapping her fingers. Part of her feels like she should’ve figured this out already, but then another part of her—a realistic side or maybe just the cynical side—says she’s just some pilot, how would she have known? Still. “It all adds up. The Star Destroyers. The blockade. The comm blackout. They’re protecting this meeting. And Wedge…”

The Zabrak raises an eyebrow. “What is a ‘Wedge’?”

“Wedge Antilles,” Sinjir says. “Right? Pilot for the Rebel Alliance?”

Norra nods. “Yes. How did you know?”

The man hesitates. “I’m…a rebel, too.”

That strikes her as odd. He
is
dressed a bit like one. But something about him feels off, somehow. Still—the rebellion is home to all kinds.

Norra continues: “They must have him. Wedge. He was probably scouting the Outer Rim and ran afoul of…whatever this is.”

“He’s probably still alive,” Jas says. “Which means you have an opportunity. Help me. We will strike a blow for your New Republic. We will undo the efforts of the Empire, cutting their hamstrings just as they’re relearning how to stand. You will rescue your friend.”

Again, duty swarms Norra. The chance to do right. But the opposing feeling rises true, too—for once, she just wants to keep her head down, her chin to her chest, and duck all incoming fire. She doesn’t want to fly into the belly of the beast. Not this time.

“No,” she says, staring down below her darkening brow. “The best way forward is to get
off
this planet. Soon as we get into comm range, we alert the Republic, they send in ships and troops and—”

The bounty hunter interrupts: “Wrong. By then the meeting will have concluded—if it hasn’t already. And your friend will either be gone or dead. The way forward is now. The work is ours to do.”

“I’m in,” Temmin says. “But I want a cut.”

“Young man,” Sinjir says, chuckling. “Let’s not
overreach.
We dutifully saved your little can from getting kicked—”

“Fine,” Jas Emari says to the boy. “You can have half of his cut.” She tilts her thorny head, gesturing toward Sinjir.

Sinjir objects: “Hey!”

“You’ll still get passage off this planet,” the Zabrak woman says. She gives a haughty little flip—the ax-blade slice of hair between her thorns suddenly falls to the side of her scalp. “And the bounty is significant enough that even a fraction will buy you enough otherworldly liquors to keep you pickled until the New Republic once more becomes the Old Republic. Take the deal or leave it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“I don’t know about this,” Norra says.

“I could use your help. I bet your friend could, as well.”

Norra hesitates. It’s like being a kid again and jumping off one of the waterfalls in Akar Canyon. She literally has to hold her breath before she says: “I’m in. But I want passage off this planet, too.”

“Done,” Jas says. “Now I think we should—”

Wham wham wham.

The whole house shakes. Someone’s at the door. As Jas pulls her blaster, the memory once more comes rushing back to meet Norra, coming at her as fast as the silver water after jumping off one of those waterfalls—that sound, fists pounding on the door. The sound of Imperials coming to take her husband away.

Around the table sit three figures of flesh and blood and two holograms. Those present: Admiral Ackbar, Commander Kyrsta Agate, and Captain Saff Melor. The two holograms: General Crix Madine, and the newly appointed chancellor of the New Republic, Mon Mothma. All of them look tired and worried. Ackbar suspects he appears much the same. Everything feels to him on a pivot—balanced on the blade of a knife. Like it could go one way. Or with the barest breeze, it could fall back to the other side. A razor’s edge of possibility, good and bad.

“Are we sure we can trust this informant?” Madine says. He scratches at his prodigious white beard. The lines in his face, seen even here in hologram, appear deeper than ever.

“So far,” Agate answers, “all signs point to yes.”

Ackbar interjects: “But we also must recognize the Empire’s ability to play the long game. Our victory over Endor was fortunate, but the Empire orchestrated that trap with great patience.”

“Send in a fleet,” Melor says. The Cerean captain carries a certain haughtiness with him. His head—tall and ridged, a frustrated and dubious brow that extends upward to demonstrate excess incredulity. “Two light cruisers, a contingent of fighters from Gold Squadron, and see what’s there. If there’s a fight, the fleet will be ready for it.”

Mon Mothma speaks: “We must be cautious. Inroads to the Outer Rim are slow. Further, this is a time of relative peace, but that peace rests uncomfortably on very unstable ground. An incursion of that magnitude could be seen as overly aggressive. We must be seen as friends, not intruders. Occupying the airspace over Akiva could be trouble.”

Melor shakes his head. “Chancellor—and congratulations, by the way—Akiva is, with all due respect, no feather in anyone’s cap. It is a marginal planet at best, and the satrapy is in the Empire’s pocket. They produce resources we do not require and the old droid factory beneath the city has been out of use for decades. As such, Akiva offers us very little strategic advantage
or
concern—”

“But the
people
there
are
our concern,” Mon Mothma says. Ackbar detects that her hackles have been raised. Melor does that, sometimes. He’s from a military family and though he carries some of that Cerean intellectual arrogance, his aggression is well known. Mon continues: “And we have intelligence that suggests our messaging has gotten through there. The people are ready for a change. The New Republic is that change.”

Melor starts to speak, but once more, Ackbar interjects: “I am in accord with the chancellor here. This is a fragile peace. And we must be wary of any ruse set before us. General Madine, do you think you could put together a strike team? Small. Five to seven Republic soldiers.”

“I think that’s doable. You want them on the ground?”

“Mm-hmm,” Ackbar says. “A suborbital landing squad. Special forces. Drop from high atmosphere. We need reports from on the ground. This seems the most opportune way to do it. Small but effective. Can we all agree on that?” Nods all around except from Melor—the captain frowns, puckering his lips as if he’s about to object. But then he sighs and nods, as well. “Good. Let’s get this in motion. I want boots on the ground in six hours. Sooner if we can manage it. Thank you, all.”