by Chuck Wendig
“Yes.” A pause. “That will come. For now: numbers.”
“The numbers are sixty-one, thirty-nine.”
“I assume I’m the lower number. Unless some grand inversion has happened and no one told me.”
“Correct. You’re at thirty-nine percent Senate approval at present polling. But polling is notoriously unreliable—”
“Senators are notoriously unreliable, too, and yet they form the bedrock of our democratic system. I will do better.”
And yet how can she? She’s losing. Day by day, her numbers wane, perhaps understandably. Liberation Day came and, with it, the attack on Chandrila. When the dust settled and the corpses were counted, she came out of surgery to find many friends and colleagues dead. And soon after began the accusations: She was too soft, militarily, and couldn’t protect Chandrila when it needed to be defended. (Never mind the fact that the type of attack orchestrated against them was so far beyond comprehension and so subversive that ten navies couldn’t have stopped it.) All that was made worse by the fact that she invited Grand Admiral Sloane planetside for the day’s events. Which to many meant she was culpable in what happened.
Even still, the true shape of that plot against them is hard to see in full. Was Sloane a part of it, or just a pawn? Was Sloane really once the Operator? Did she betray them, or was she herself betrayed? Where did Tashu go? Where did Sloane go? Endless questions. Few answers.
It hardly matters, now.
The Empire has fled to some corner of the galaxy, and even with all her resources Mon hasn’t been able to figure out where. And that makes her look weak. Her failures are a fattening meal for a hawk like her opponent in the coming election.
Tolwar Wartol: her opponent, and an Orishen. A tough, strange species, the Orishen. Two parents yield two children—one apiece—and upon giving birth, those parents die to give their progeny life, thus ensuring that the number of Orishen that exist now is a number that does not grow. (How they ever came to any number at all remains a mystery, one that none of the Orishen seem ready or able to answer.) They were a pacifistic species, once. Agricultural, mostly. Their world, Orish, was lush; though Mon has never been there, she’s walked through virtual holoscapes serving as an archival memory of that world and found their planet to be a pastoral haven. At least, until the Empire came. The Empire enslaved the Orishen. They worked the inhabitants hard for food. Strip-mined the surface. Drained the soil of nutrients.
Then one day, the Orishen fought back. Over years they’d hoarded bits of pesticide and fertilizer.
They made a bomb. And they used it.
That bomb destroyed those Imperials on Orish. It also poisoned the world: the ground, the water, even the atmosphere.
Now few Orishen are left. Thousands at best, no longer living on their world but above it, in a skeletal framework of tubes and stations.
Tolwar Wartol is one of those survivors. She’s read his memoir. He was a chemist, once, and helped to make the chemical weapon that would destroy their world. In the book he tells stories of the beauty of his world, ruined. How the bodies clogged the streams. How they had to build massive tombs for those of their own they lost. And he also tells the story about the day that the Empire fled—they abandoned Orish and its people, because what was once of value to them had been ruined. Wartol described that day as a “triumph.” And proof of what must be done to combat the Empire.
Wartol brings that survivor spirit to his politics: He offers the galaxy a well-earned assurance that he above others knows what sacrifice is and what must be done to preserve life and freedom.
He is charismatic. He is full of anger. His anger is righteous—
But is it right?
Either way, he commands every HoloNet news cycle. Attacking Mon at each turn. As he should, she supposes, if he really wants to win.
But she wants to win, too.
“I intend to continue on as chancellor,” Mon says. “But I’m not yet sure how we win. So, adviser—advise me. Let’s hear it. How do we win the election? How do I convince the Senate to vote for me over him?”
Auxi takes a seat on the other side of the desk. She purses her lips, hmming as she thinks out loud. “You’re ostensibly doing the right things already. You’re apportioning resources and infrastructure for worlds afflicted by the Empire—and afflicted by the vacuum of leadership now that the Empire has been pushed back. You’ve kept the military strong despite the loss of Imperial threat, but you’ve also made sure that the New Republic military isn’t too strong, so it doesn’t look like you’re trying to enforce your will on a weakened galaxy. Kashyyyk—”
“Kashyyyk.” Mon says that word with the weight of a heavy stone dropped into clear, still waters. “Kashyyyk is…complicated. The Senate resisted us getting involved there, and then Leia went and got us involved anyway. Given our friendship—”
“It looks like you approved the clandestine action.”
“And because Leia’s efforts there were a success, I cannot disavow.”
Auxi thrusts up a finger as if testing the wind for its direction. “Do not be so quick to disavow. Yes, some within the Senate have naught good to say about that, but it did bump your approval rating—no small thing after Liberation Day. Kashyyyk was a win for us.”
“A win earned by defying the will of the Senate.”
“Leadership can mean defiance.”
“Palpatine was defiant.”
“So was Leia. And you’re not Palpatine.”
Leia. Another complication. It’s political, yes—her friend went against her explicitly, but of course that is a blade that cuts both ways, isn’t it? Mon defied her, too. She couldn’t get it done with Kashyyyk. Couldn’t convince the Senate. Then again: Did she really try? She was hoping to handle the newly reformed Senate gently, gingerly, so as not to feel like she was pushing or pulling them. But perhaps leadership required a bit more of Leia’s brand of defiance.
Leia. A political complication, but also an emotional one. They betrayed each other, a little at least. It hurts Mon’s heart.
Auxi says, “We need to find an angle for you. Crime is an angle. The Empire goes away, and crime is up in its wake. The syndicates are struggling for dominance. We could go heavy on crime. Become the ‘law-and-order’ candidate without leaning too autocratic. Or if we played up the Kashyyyk angle with Leia by your side again…”
And then, as if on cue—
One of the chancellor’s protocol droids pops its head in through the door. Metal face coated in white matte enamel. The droid, R-K77, chimes in a crisp Chandrilan accent:
“Chancellor, you have an urgent meeting request.”
Of course. Everyone’s desires are always urgent, aren’t they?
“From whom?”
“Princess Leia Organa of the Alderaan sector.”
Her ears must be burning.
Mon asks, “Did she say what it was regarding?”
“No, Chancellor,” the droid says. “Only that it was of the utmost importance. She said to tell you it was a Code K-One-Zero.”
That was a Rebel Alliance code: Disengage and regroup. Last time they used that code, it was the signal that came out of Hoth when the Empire attacked their base.
“Send a reply. Tell her I’m on my way.”
Temmin sits on a cushioned bench. Sinjir paces in front of him.
“She’ll be fine,” Sinjir is saying to Temmin. “Your mother has Jas with her. They’re both tough. Tougher than you and me put together, boy. You needn’t worry about her. They’ll be better than fine. You watch—the two of them will tear the Empire out of the sky with their bare hands. I’m not worried and you should not be worried, either.”
Sinjir is lying. The boy can tell that much. Usually, the ex-Imperial keeps all his emotions neatly vacu-sealed behind a cool, disdainful veneer. But that veneer is cracked. Worry bleeds out. A tremor of fear hums in his every word—each syllable like a nerve freshly plucked.
The two of them sit in a room. Only now
does Temmin even realize what this room is: It’s a nursery. Or the start of one. He’s been staring at a round, white egglike orb against the far wall now for the better part of ten minutes, not even seeing it. More like seeing through it. But then it clicks that he’s looking at an infancy cradle. That cradle will serve as a bubble of safety for the coming child. Above it is a holo-port, ready to project—well, he guesses a mobile or other soothing images and sounds. An ocean lapping at the shore, or rain on a jungle canopy.
Princess Leia’s baby, he knows, will have a good life. The best life. A family kept together, a father and mother who love him…
Temmin doesn’t remember being a baby, but he remembers seeing his old crib in storage after Dad was captured and Mom left for the Rebellion. His cradle was in the old unfancy Akivan style: mesh sides, dark wood, curved slats at the bottom so it could rock back and forth. Netting over the top, too, to keep out the waves of ya-ya flies that came after every storm.
No ya-ya flies here. No old, creaky crib.
And no mother, either. No Norra.
“We have to go back for her,” he says through gritted teeth. It’s already been eight hours. Eight hours since Mom, Jas, and Bones jettisoned themselves toward Jakku. Eight hours since the Moth jumped into hyperspace, narrowly avoiding death by torpedo. Anything could happen in eight hours. The Empire may have shot them down. Or found and captured them. Or maybe they died on impact. Temmin bites his lip. He tastes blood.
“We will,” Sinjir says. “We’ll find a way.”
But just as Temmin hears worry in his friend’s voice—he also hears doubt. He’s about to call that out when the door opens. A familiar face shows itself: Han Solo. Leia’s husband. Captain of the infamous Millennium Falcon. Not long ago, Leia hired the crew to find Solo. They found him, all right, and ended up helping him get back his copilot, Chewbacca, on Kashyyyk.
Solo has a couple of fruits, one in each hand. He offers one to Sinjir, then tosses the other to Temmin. The boy catches it, just barely.
“Jogan fruit,” Han says, looking uncomfortable. “I, ahh, bought a bunch so it’s fine. Eat ’em. I don’t think Leia wants them.” Moments like this, moments of real emotion, seem to bother the smuggler. He’s like Sinjir that way. Most of him seems to be hidden away behind a wall of blustery ego and cocky pride. “Two of you don’t look so good. If you need something, I can get the droid to—”
“What I need is my mother back,” Temmin says, leaping to his feet. He gets in Solo’s face. “I need you to take us back to Jakku. C’mon. Let’s go. We get the Falcon and we charge in there, cannons blazing—”
“Whoa, kid, whoa. Cool your heels. I’m lucky, but I’m not that lucky. We go barreling in there, we’re dead, all of us. Won’t be any good to your mom if the Falcon is our casket.”
“And what good is it if that planet becomes her tomb?”
Han’s mouth works like he’s going to say something but his brain can’t figure out what. “I got a family coming. And there’s a procedure here—”
“Procedure?” Temmin laughs, but it isn’t a happy sound. “Where was your love of procedure when you went off trying to save Kashyyyk? When you got Chewbacca captured? And last I checked, my mom and the rest of us were more than happy to spit in the eye of the New Republic when it came to doing what you wanted to do.”
Solo screws his face up. Like he’s about to be angry.
Then he says, suddenly:
“You want to do this, fine. Han Solo pays his debts.”
“Helping you cost us a lot and I don’t think you apprecia—wait, uh, what?” Temmin blinks. “What did you just say?”
Lowering his voice, Han answers, “I said, you’re not wrong. I owe you. And…Leia’s gonna kill me, but the Falcon’s the fastest ship I know, and maybe, just maybe if we hit that planet blockade hard, they won’t even see us coming. I might be able to get us down to Jakku—we’ll lose a couple tail feathers along the way, but nothing a bundle of bonding tape won’t fix. The Falcon’s seen worse. If I could just get Chewie…”
“You’re serious.”
“Kid, I don’t joke around about this kind of stuff.”
Temmin’s heart rises—then sinks just as fast. “You can’t.”
“Nobody tells Han Solo what he can’t do.”
“You’re going to be a father. I can’t…you can’t.” A child needs his father, doesn’t he?
A battle unfolds on Solo’s face. A whole war. Like he knows what Temmin’s saying is true, but also like Solo knows who he is and what he does and for better or for worse, this is what he wants to do. “Leia will understand, she’s like me, she does what—”
But whatever promise or plan Solo is poised to make, he loses the chance to say it when the door opens and Princess Leia comes into the room, flanked by the chancellor. They enter in a way that both fills the space with their presence and steals the oxygen at the same time. Even a cocky smuggler like Solo seems smaller, humbled in their shadow.
Senate Guards threaten to come in, as well, but the chancellor stops them short with a stiff shake of her head. “No. We will be alone.”
Han takes the initiative and steps out of the room, pushing the guards back. His hand touches Leia’s as he leaves—a sweet, lingering grip. Temmin remembers when his parents were like that. So long ago, now.
Mon Mothma closes the door as Han and the guards exit.
The chancellor’s face is a strange thing. Temmin can’t decipher what’s going on there. Is that fear in her eyes? But a tug of a smile?
“Hello, Temmin Wexley,” she says. “You will forgive me if I cut right to the chase, but time is precious. I want to know what you saw above Jakku. Tell me what you told Leia.” Soon as they came off the Moth after landing on Chandrila, Leia was the first person they saw. And the only person, too—they went straight to her because who else would they tell? The princess has been their patron through all of this: Their hunt for Sloane was off the books, just like their hunt for Solo, just like freeing Kashyyyk. He’s not sure he’s really supposed to be talking to the chancellor about this stuff.
Mon Mothma is important. Her being here makes him feel very small. Temmin flashes a panicked glance to Sinjir, then to Leia. The ex-Imperial shrugs, and the princess gives a subtle nod indicating tacit approval.
“The Empire is on Jakku,” he says, plain as he can make it.
“What does that mean?”
“I mean…there’s a whole lot of ships there in orbit.”
“How many and what kind?”
“At least one Super Star Destroyer. A couple dozen Star Destroyers, too, and that’s just what we could see—the far side of the planet may have had more. TIE fighters were everywhere and…” A knot forms in his throat. He swallows it. “We got out but my mother is still there. And my droid!”
“Along with one of our crew,” Sinjir interjects. “Jas Emari. A bounty hunter. I like very few people, but I quite like her and Norra, so we want to go and get them back, if you please.” Under his breath, he says: “Though we don’t have to bring the droid back, necessarily.”
Shut up, Sinjir.
“This situation is…fraught,” Mon Mothma says.
Sinjir scoffs. “Fraught? Yes, I bloody well imagine it is fraught. You’ve been looking for the Empire, haven’t you? Well! Ta-da, we did it. We found them. And as a reward, I’d like you to send all your little ships and all your precious troops in to blow them into cinders and dust while me and the boy here rescue our crew. Correction: our family.”
“Your presence there—your mission—was unauthorized.”
Leia steps in, her chin up, her eyes flashing. “I already told you they were there on my authority.”
“Your authority is not the Senate’s authority,” the chancellor retorts.
“Be glad it isn’t, because presently the Senate is too timid to authorize a handkerchief for a noisy sneeze. Kashyyyk, I’ll remind you, was a success, and we did it without your help.”
“Hunting
down Grand Admiral Sloane is the purview of the New Republic, not an Alderaanian princess and her friends—” The tension between the two of them is like a tightening cable. But suddenly the chancellor puts some slack in it. She lets out a deep breath when she says: “Leia. I’m sorry. You were right and you’re still right. Freeing the Wookiees was the just thing to do. And if the Empire is really there on this planet…”
“This is what we’ve been waiting for,” Leia asserts. Her tone, too, becomes more conciliatory, as if she’s pleading with the chancellor. “This may be it. The end of the war. I know that you don’t condone military action for the sake of it, but it was military action that destroyed two of their battle stations. It was our military that freed Akiva, and overtook Kuat. We have to take this seriously. If this is true, we have to attack.”
“Wait,” Temmin says. “Attack?” All of him tenses. Images from the space above Jakku flash inside his head once again: TIE fighters swarming everywhere, his innards gone cold, his blood gone hot, his mother rocketing away in an escape pod. If war comes to Jakku, she’ll be even more vulnerable, even more in danger. War: That’s what Sinjir meant—Send all your little ships, all your precious troops. Oh, no.
But no one answers his question. His fear lies unassuaged.
The chancellor nods to Leia. “Yes, but we have to do this right. We don’t even know what this is yet. Why this planet? How much of a fight are we to expect? We want this to be the Empire’s last stand. Not ours.”
“Whatever we need to do, let us know,” Leia says.
Sinjir adds: “Yes. We’re ready.”
The chancellor stiffens. Gone is the slack in her cable. Once more, the cold, undeterred mask settles over her face. “Good. Stay ready. This will need to pass muster with the Senate—I cannot authorize an action so consequential without their approval, but after Liberation Day I suspect they may be eager for a last taste of Imperial blood. Still—I must have data. I cannot take mere suspicions to them or they’ll bury me. That is the primary mission: Get the facts. In the meantime: Tell no one. What we talked about here does not leave this room. Are we clear on that?”
