Empire's End: Aftermath (Star Wars)

by Chuck Wendig

  To Sinjir and Temmin, Leia says: “You could wait, you know. In fact, I’m advising you to wait. The chancellor will try to move quickly with this, I suspect. Let it play out.”

  “No,” Temmin says—the word is sharp and abrupt. He’s upset by the idea, that much is clear. “That battle could go on forever. It’ll be like a siege! And what if the New Republic doesn’t win?”

  “Thanks for your confidence,” Leia says, eyebrows arched.

  Solo sits back down. “Kid’s right.”

  “And just the same, flying through a blockade will be a lot easier when you’re not the only ship trying to do it.”

  “She’s got a point, too,” Solo says.

  The boy’s face tightens into a stubborn mask. He wants this and he wants it now. Sinjir can’t blame him. The boy—really, a young man at this point—has been through considerable trauma. The events on Akiva, on Kashyyyk, and here on Chandrila with his own father? Sinjir considers himself a bulwark of unsentimentality (Conder…), but even that would rattle his cage. Temmin wants this. Temmin needs this.

  And Sinjir needs it, too.

  He misses Jas.

  Sinjir fits with her. Like a painting ripped in half, then taped back together again. When he first saw her on the Endor moon, her about to retreat, him covered in Endor dirt and the blood of his fellow Imperials, he saw something in her eyes that just made sense. Absurd, beautiful sense. It’s not romantic, of course. It’s something far deeper. Something in their bones. It’s not that they’re all that alike, either. Maybe it’s better because they’re not all that alike.

  He’d do anything for her.

  Including run an Imperial blockade in a rickety, rag-dog freighter.

  He tells them as much: “I fear you won’t dissuade us, Princess. Our destiny is a fixed point. We are going to Jakku. Will you stop us?”

  Leia sighs. “Officially, I have to try.”

  Blast it.

  “But,” she adds, “if you have not noticed, I am very, very pregnant. I don’t think I realized you could be this pregnant. As such, I consider it entirely possible—likely, even!—that tomorrow morning I won’t be up early because tonight will be characteristically sleepless. Which means if you try to escape in the Falcon before dawn, I might miss the chance to stand in your way. Which would be a shame. So please, do me the favor and leave later in the day?”

  Sinjir grins at her. Message received, Your Highness.

  But the bigger smile comes from Solo. His face is damn near cut in half by the grin that spreads. It’s like he’s proud of her.

  He leans in and kisses her cheek.

  And that, Sinjir decides, is that. In the morning: Jakku calls.

  —

  Temmin pushes along a couple of crates on a grav-lift. Up over the landing platform he spies the edge of the sea and the searing laser line of morning sunlight burning along it. From the other side of the platform comes a familiar face: Sinjir. The ex-Imperial crosses the platform, walking in long, sleepy strides and yawning as he does.

  They join up and walk side by side toward Hangar 34.

  Sinjir yawns again. “It’s disgustingly early.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “Of course.”

  “Really?”

  “If by sleep you mean sat up in bed, reading a book and sipping tea? Then yes, I slept.”

  Temmin gives him a look. “And by tea you mean rum.”

  “Pssh. No. I’m out of rum. This was proper Chandrilan raava.”

  “You always find something new to drink, don’t you?”

  “Variety is a vital component of a happy life.”

  “Are you drunk right now?”

  “I am a professional. I do not get ‘drunk.’ I get ‘pickled.’ ”

  Temmin gives him another look—this one so fierce he likes to imagine blaster bolts coming from his eyes and knocking that smug look off Sinjir’s face.

  The onetime loyalty officer rolls his eyes. “Come now, I stopped partaking around midnight. Then I gathered supplies and…” His words drift.

  “And what?”

  “And we have company.”

  Ahead, the hangar bay awaits. In it, a ship hides under a massive blue tarp, a ship shaped a good bit like the Millennium Falcon. Crossing in front of that ship are two Senate Guards. Red helmets. White plumage.

  Batons at their side, hands waiting—as if ready to draw them.

  More footsteps reach Temmin’s ears. He looks left and right—

  More guards. Two coming up on each side.

  “What is going on?” Temmin asks in a low voice.

  “Just keep walking,” Sinjir says.

  “Leia send these guys?”

  “I hope not. Or we miscalculated in trusting her. Hand on your hip.”

  He means: hand on your blaster. Temmin has a small pistol hanging there under the hem of his shirt. His fingers feel along the holster, drifting to the grip. These are Senate Guards and he hopes this is all aboveboard, but everything seemed okay on Liberation Day, too. Until it wasn’t.

  “Stop there, sir,” one of the guards ahead says, one hand out peacefully—but the other idly fingering that baton at his hip.

  It’s a threat. Subtle. But a threat just the same.

  “Do you know who we are?” Sinjir asks, chin up, nose down. He has engaged full-bore haughty-prig mode. “Well. Do you?”

  “You are Sinjir Rath Velus and that is Temmin Wexley.”

  “Oh.” The ex-Imperial looks like someone popped his bubble. “Yes, that’s us, then. What is this all about?”

  The lead guard stares out over a smashed-flat nose with steely eyes. “You’re to turn around and return to your quarters.”

  “We have business with our ship,” Temmin says. “So move.”

  The guard’s hand tightens around the baton. “The ship in that hangar belongs to General Solo.”

  “He’s not a general anymore. And he’s letting us borrow it. Her.”

  “Be that as it may, we have strict orders, and those orders are to ask you to turn around and go on your way.”

  “You asked,” Sinjir says. “And we decline. Like the boy said: Move.”

  “Sir, I don’t want this to get ugly.”

  “Have you seen your face, guardsman? Too late to wish for pretty.”

  Temmin feels the other guards—all four of them—encroach tighter behind them even as those in front grab their batons.

  “Sir, we have orders—”

  “Whose orders?” Temmin asks. “Who’s keeping us here?”

  “The chancellor herself.”

  Sinjir and Temmin look to each other. Both of their faces war with the question, Is this real? They’re both suspicious.

  Temmin steps up, shirt pulled up, blaster revealed. “Guard, you better move now or me and my friend here—”

  “Will leave peacefully,” Sinjir says, pulling Temmin back sharply. He protests, but Sinjir shushes him and continues: “We didn’t mean to step out of line, and please assure the chancellor we are returning to our quarters.”

  Temmin tries to pull out of Sinjir’s grip, but the man’s eyes meet his. There’s an intensity there—and a message. That message is, Let it go.

  The boy grits his teeth. He wants to charge past them…

  But he doesn’t. He lets it go.

  As they hurry away, Temmin hisses: “What was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Sinjir says. “But we’re going to find out.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Where else? We have no other friends here. We have to see Leia.”

  —

  “Leia.”

  Her name, spoken in the dark.

  Luke. She reaches for him but doesn’t find him.

  The dark, now lit with stars. One by one, like eyes opening. Comforting at first, then sinister as she worries, Who is out there, who is watching us? Hands reach for her, hands of shadow, lifting her up, reaching for her throat, her wrists, her stomach—

&nb
sp; Inside, the child kicks. She feels her baby turning inside, right-side up and upside down, struggling to find his bearings, trying so hard to find his way free of her. It’s not time, she thinks. Just a little longer.

  “Leia.”

  Luke, she wants to cry out. But her words won’t come. Her mouth is sealed, a hand pressed over it. One by one, stars go dark again, winking out of existence as if by a hand slowly closing over them—

  “Leia!”

  She gasps and wakes. Han. It’s just Han. He’s by the side of the bed, rousing her, gently shaking her shoulder.

  The dream recedes like a wave going back to sea.

  “Hi,” she says, her mouth tacky, her eyes full of sleep. Her middle twists, too—it’s not the baby. It’s some unseen fear uncoiling. The remnants of the dream haunt her—but they break apart like a sand castle as she sits up and clears her head, doing as Luke taught her to do.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Be mindful of the world, the galaxy, and your place within it. Everything will be okay. The Force will be your guide.

  “You sleep like the dead these days,” he says.

  “And probably snore like a Gamorrean.” She blinks and regards him. He’s fully dressed. That means he’s been up for a while. She senses something coming off him: a restlessness, a fear of settling down that only leaves him more unsettled. An image forms clear in her mind: Chewbacca. Han misses his copilot. And why wouldn’t he? Those two have been together for so long, he should probably be married to that lovable hair-suit instead of her. “It’s early. You’re awake.” He’s always slept like a scoundrel: one eye open, ready for whatever may come. He said he used to sleep in fits and starts whenever he could grab a little shut-eye. And he has a hard time calling this place home. Home for him has always been the Falcon.

  Even still, he’s not a morning person. But since Kashyyyk, since saying goodbye to Chewie, this is how he’s been. He goes to bed after her. Wakes up before her. Like an animal in a cage, pacing, pacing.

  But today, a new feeling: He’s worried.

  “You need to see something,” Han says.

  “Can it wait?”

  “I don’t think it can, sweetheart.”

  —

  HoloNet News.

  It’s been a long night, and Mon Mothma thought they had gotten somewhere. If the Empire was on Jakku, she had to take careful, measured steps to see the shape of the threat that awaited them. That meant sending probe droids to scout. Maybe a ship built for stealth flown by one of their best pilots. It meant trying to see if they had anybody at all on Jakku who could report in—seeing what was going on in orbit didn’t give a sense of what was happening on the ground. Was it an occupation? Were they even on the surface? Could they be looking for something? Or someone?

  Now all the careful planning, all their consideration—

  Gone. Shattered.

  There, on the holoprojector, stands Tolwar Wartol. He, like other Orishen, has smooth skin peppered with uneven, asymmetrical, disconnected plates—the plates are smooth and catch the light like black mirrors. The HoloNet is presently replaying a speech he just gave here on Chandrila, down in the Eleutherian Plaza. His supporters gathered to hear him. He spoke with passion, his nose-slits flaring, his bisected lower jaw giving his mouth the look of a blooming flower whenever he hit the speech’s talking points.

  And oh, what a speech it was.

  Mon, Auxi, and Ackbar had all settled their plan and were—just before sunset—ready to break for the day and attempt to catch a few scant hours of sleep before putting actions in motion to study the Empire more. Then a call came in from Sondiv Sella: You need to turn on HoloNet News.

  The first thing Wartol said to the crowd—and to the civilized galaxy, thanks to the reach of the network—was this:

  “The Empire has been found.”

  With those words spoken, Mon’s heart froze in her chest.

  What? How? How could he know…?

  Presently, HoloNet News is repeating his speech. This is the third go-round. His name is trending. His popularity, surging.

  On the screen, Senator Wartol is saying:

  “Chancellor Mon Mothma has discovered where the bulk of the Imperial forces are hiding, and it is on a distant world near the Unknown Regions. A world called Jakku.” Then comes the accusation: “You did not know this information, and I did not know it, either. Because the chancellor has been sitting on that information—nesting upon it like a serpent hoarding precious treasure. Why didn’t she say anything? What did she plan to do with this knowledge? If the New Republic is to be free of corruption, offering a government that belongs to the galactic citizens, should there not be total transparency and accountability? Secrets separate us. I would seek to demolish that wall of secrets, my friends. We must be partners in this!”

  The crowd cheers. Joyous rhetoric from a man painting himself as the savior—everyone likes to be sold easy promises, don’t they?

  He goes on to outline his plans for the chancellorship: transparency, a strong central military, and policies that will ensure “everyone’s voice will be heard.” He continues on: “We see the Empire now and we must act. The chancellor wishes for us to sit on our hands. And every moment she waits, the Empire grows stronger, like an infection we thought had been beaten back—if we do not intensify the cure, the disease will return. It will attack once more, just as it attacked on Chandrila. Can we afford to pursue peace before the war is done? Can we afford such soft hands steering our nascent democracy? I think not, my friends…”

  “Turn it off,” the chancellor says.

  Auxi does.

  “Preposterous,” Ackbar announces, gruffer and louder than usual. It was only recently that the chancellor resumed even speaking to Ackbar—he and Leia both are still somewhat political pariahs for their actions on Kashyyyk. Though that effort secured the New Republic a much-needed win, it still painted them as iconoclasts—rebels, ironically. Now, though, she’s thankful to have Ackbar here. He remains a voice of stability and sanity. He goes on: “You had this information for less than a standard day. It would be impossible, not to mention unethical, to immediately tell the galaxy what has been discovered. Chaos would ensue.”

  “Chaos will ensue,” Auxi says. “Thanks to the senator from Orish.”

  “And none of this explains how he even knows,” Mon points out. She fears the worst: Someone close to her is the leak. But who? Auxi has been here nearly the whole time, taking only a few breaks to pick up food or check on her children or her tooka-cat. Could she be the leak? Certainly it wouldn’t be Ackbar. Though he did go against her with Kashyyyk. Could he slyly be supporting Senator Wartol’s bid for chancellor? That seems unlikely. The Mon Cala admiral is a warrior, yes, but a warrior committed to peace in their time. War is a means to an end, but the way Wartol talks, it is the persistent and never-ending means—he sees peace being maintained by a strong military and a willingness to deploy it freely, even after the Empire is gone. Mon wants a coalition of militaries, an alliance-driven pact of peace that systems could join to support one another when danger encroaches. Ackbar supports that dream.

  That leaves who?

  Leia? Han? No. The boy, Temmin, and the ex-Imperial?

  Could be. They certainly wanted to take swift action. The boy in particular may be suffering from the impetuousness and naïveté of youth. His mother is gone. His father, the foe who almost killed her. Certainly a young man like that could be drawn in by a figure like Wartol. She reminds herself to keep a wary eye there. Perhaps that boy should not be trusted.

  She tries to flex her fist again. Mon’s connection to her own fingers is soft and distant. As if they belong to someone else.

  She erupts suddenly, a fit of forced optimism: “This is all normal. These are the necessary bumps and scratches of a growing democracy. We should not expect politics to be neat and tidy and we are reminded of that today. Enough looking back. Now we look forward.”

  “We have to respond,” Auxi says.


  “And soon, I fear,” Ackbar adds.

  “It seems that even a few hours of sleep are no longer in our equation,” Mon says with a beleaguered sigh. “I shall begin working on my response immediately. Auxi, contact HoloNet News, have them ready for my statement. And Admiral—”

  “I will initiate the probe droid and scout immediately,” he says with a brusque nod.

  “Good. Let’s remain vigilant. We have a long day ahead of us, and I fear that traitors are afoot.”

  Everything moves fast as lightspeed.

  Fast until it stops, like a ship plowing into the side of an asteroid.

  —

  “It wasn’t the chancellor,” Leia tells them, taking a cup of tea from her protocol droid. “Thank you, Elsie.”

  Sinjir cocks an eye at her. He’s angry. Irrationally so, perhaps. He likes to keep things cool—he imagines his heart is less an organ beating blood into his body and more a collection of icicles hanging from the chin of some malevolent snow-beast—but he can keep that veneer no longer. He knows full well that running off like a soggy drunk adventurer into the crushing maw of the Empire’s fleet was not a wise decision, and a little part of him is thankful they’re not right now being blasted to bits by a Super Star Destroyer in the space above Jakku. But the rest of him seethes over the fact that Norra and Jas are still down there somewhere. Hopefully alive. And nobody coming for them the way they have come for others.

  Lucky perhaps that Temmin isn’t here. Sinjir sent the boy to see the pilot Wedge Antilles. Wedge might know how to get them to Jakku.

  “Then it was you,” Sinjir accuses. “You blocked us.”

  Leia gives him an incredulous look. “Do you truly believe me so duplicitous, Sinjir?”

  “Yes.” He frowns and shakes his head. “No. I don’t know! Someone sent those guards. They didn’t send themselves.”

  Han passes behind Sinjir with a cup of caf in his hand. “Mon can be a slippery one,” he says. “But this isn’t like her. Here, drink this.” He thrusts the cup into Sinjir’s hand. “You’re gonna need it.”

  “I’m going to need something considerably stronger.”

  “That comes later. If we win. Or if it goes the other way.”