Aftermath: Star Wars

by Chuck Wendig

  “I know.” He looks up. “Hey, here’s our ride.”

  A ship drifts down, its twin engines pivoting and firing against the ground to slow its ascent. It’s an SS-54 assault ship. On the side is the scratched-up painting of a little tooka doll holding a sharp knife. The words that were above it are mostly gone, except for two:

  PLAY NICE.

  It settles down, and once it does, three people step off. Jas is first off the ship, craning her neck and cracking her knuckles. Sinjir follows after. He’s still got that rough-hewn edge. His scruff has grown out a bit more. Though that Imperial vibe still hangs about him like a miasma.

  Last off, a man with thick muttonchops that connect to a bushy mustache. Arm in a cast, blaster at his side. Helmet palmed in his hand.

  He steps off and heads right for Norra, hand out.

  “Norra Wexley, I’m guessing?” he asks.

  “Jom Barell,” she says, shaking his hand. “A pleasure to meet you finally. I just want to say again I appreciate you fighting the fight on Myrra. I had thought all of you SpecForce guys and girls died that day. I’m happy I was wrong and thanks for taking the initiative.”

  Temmin walks past and mutters: “Though you almost killed us.”

  “Your boy?” he asks.

  “My boy,” she says.

  Temmin gives Jas a hug. Then gives Sinjir a punch to the arm.

  Norra calls after: “Temmin, I think you’re forgetting something.”

  “Oh! Yeah.” He sticks both fingers in his mouth and whistles. “Yo. Bones! Let’s roll.”

  From far off the field, Mister Bones jerks his head up. The droid, which Temmin and Norra rebuilt together from scrap in Esmelle and Shirene’s basement over the last week—a “family project,” she said—waves. In one hand, a flower. In the other, a blaster.

  “ROGER-ROGER!”

  The battle droid jogs past, leaving small craters in the landing field. Which tells Norra they still have a little work to do on his pneumatics.

  Jas and Sinjir come up to her.

  Jas says: “So, we ready to hunt some Imperial war criminals?”

  “Oh, I guess,” Sinjir says, pouting. “I like to pretend we’re going to be hunting down dangerous prey, but most likely we’re going to be chasing a bunch of pudgy Imperial accountants across backwater worlds.”

  “Duty calls,” Norra says. “I’m glad you all answered it with me. I didn’t think you’d go for it. Ackbar suggested we all work together again and…I thought he was crazy.”

  “There’s money,” Jas says with a shrug.

  “And there’s drink,” Sinjir adds.

  Jom frowns. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Come on. The job awaits.”

  Norra smiles.

  Temmin stands on the ramp of Jas’s ship. He waves. She waves back and heads aboard, ready to see where the next adventure takes them.

  “What’s your name? Your rank?” Olia asks.

  The man at the head of the prisoner procession seems taken aback. “I’m Corporal Argell. Camerand Argell. M…ma’am. You are?”

  But she doesn’t answer. Instead she demands:

  “What is this?” She gestures to the lineup of prisoners. Imperials still in uniform, partly: stormtroopers in their underclothes, officers in their grays and blacks. Not a big group: just a dozen or so.

  “I feel like…that’s obvious. Prisoners.” He continues, looking nervously over to Lug the Trandoshan, standing there with the camera. “We captured a small holdout garrison down on Coruscant. They’re going to be stationed here at one of the camps and Commander Rohr thought it prudent to parade this lot about a bit given the…the, ahhh, the triumph of the day and all that.” He blinks. “Am I on camera?”

  “You are,” she says, “and this isn’t right. Take these men to where they belong. They’re not cattle. They’re not a prize!”

  “But we should be proud of winning this war…”

  “Nobody should be proud of war, Corporal. Nobody. This isn’t a thing we do because we like winning. Because of what glory it is to subjugate anybody. We do it because we want to be on the right side of things. This…” She fritters her hands in the air, trying (and failing, somewhat) to contain her anger. “This kind of thing is what the Empire would do. March their prisoners around—a display to rile the blood of the faithful. We don’t do that. We have to be better than that. Nod if you understand me.”

  Hesitantly, he nods. “Of course. Ma’am.”

  “Good. Good. Go on now. Tell your commander plans changed.”

  Argell swallows visibly and gives an awkward wave to the camera. Then he snakes back the way he came, bringing the line of prisoners with him. Olia stands there, fuming.

  Tracene approaches. The camera is still on.

  She puts a hand on the Pantoran’s shoulder. A small gesture, but enough: Olia lets out a captive breath.

  “That was something, too. You’re actually good at this.”

  Olia smiles stiffly. “We just need to do better. All of us. If we’re going to keep this up, we need to do it right.”

  “Are you worried that the New Republic will get it wrong? That these things—the protestor, the orphans, the parade of prisoners—are warning signs? Will the New Republic survive?”

  Olia turns. She lifts her chin. She speaks with authority.

  “This is democracy,” she says. “It is strange. And it is messy. It’s not about getting it right. It’s about trying to get it right. Yes, it’s a bit chaotic. Certainly we will get some things wrong. The Empire? They cared nothing for democracy. They valued order above everything else. They wanted to be right so badly that anybody who even hinted at getting it wrong or doing it differently was branded the enemy and thrown in a dark prison somewhere. They destroyed other voices so that only their own remained. That is not us. We will not always get it right. We will never have it perfect. But we will listen. To the countless voices crying out across the galaxy, we have opened our ears, and we will always listen. That is how democracy survives. That is how it thrives. Look. There.”

  She points.

  And now, a new procession:

  Senators. A hundred of them, maybe more. From systems all across the galaxy—even a few from the Outer Rim now. Marching toward the old Chandrila Senate house. Small crowds of citizens gathering, applauding, whistling. It’s just a start. A humble new beginning. But there it is.

  Olia smiles.

  “That is democracy. That is the New Republic. And if you’ll excuse me, we have a great deal of work to do. May the Force be with you, Tracene.”

  The newswoman smiles. “Knock ’em dead, Olia.”

  EPILOGUE

  Rae stands on the bridge of the Ravager. There, staring out the window at the glowing Vulpinus Nebula, is the fleet admiral.

  His hands behind his back. Humming a little. Something classical. Something from the Old Republic days. She listens a little: the Sestina of Imperator Vex, maybe.

  “Sir,” she says.

  He holds up his finger. A sign for patience. He continues humming, his head swaying, until it reaches a small crescendo. Then, without turning toward her, he lowers his finger and says:

  “Yes, Admiral Sloane?”

  “Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  “You may always speak frankly with me.” He turns to face her. His countenance is cold. His stare, scrutinizing. Like she’s wet, fresh meat and he’s picking her apart to look for the tastiest bits. “Please.”

  “The summit. On Akiva.”

  “Dreadful thing.”

  “It did not go as planned.” She hesitates. “Though now I’m not so sure. Did you…plan for it to go that way?”

  He smiles. “Explain.”

  “I’ve…been thinking. Everything happened so fast. Faster than it should have. Faster than any timeline predicted. And I wondered: Did we have someone in our midst who summoned the rebels? I went and I looked and I found…communications. From an encrypted channel on this very ship. Sent out to wh
at appears to be a rebel frequency.”

  “Enlighten me. Why would I have cause to do that?”

  She hesitates. “I’ve been thinking about that. I would guess…to eliminate competition.”

  “An interesting theory.”

  “I’m more interested if it’s an accurate one, Admiral.”

  He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. “It was a test.”

  “I could have died there. On Akiva. Or been taken captive.”

  “But that did not happen. You were not captured. And you remain alive. You are my best and my brightest, and that is why you passed this test. I need people like you.”

  This, a question she hates to ask: “And if I hadn’t survived?”

  “Then my assessment of you would’ve been wrong. You would not have been my best and my brightest. It’s like the others. Pandion, Shale, and so forth. They were weak. Sick animals that had to be culled from the herd. They did not pass the test and now they are no burden to us.”

  She tries to repress a shiver.

  “Here,” he continues, pointing out at the glowing red bands of the Vulpinus Nebula—the swooping whorls of crimson clouds and the stars beyond them. “Look out there. That is no longer our galaxy.”

  “Admiral, we have not lost yet.”

  “Oh, but we have. I see the dismay in your eyes, but this is no cause for despair, Admiral Sloane. This is how it must be. The Empire became this…ugly, inelegant machine. Crude and inefficient. We needed to be broken into pieces. We needed to get rid of those who want to see that old machine churning ineluctably forward. It’s time for something better. Something new. An Empire worthy of the galaxy it will rule.”

  Sloane doesn’t know what to feel. Right now it’s some strange mix of terror, disgust, but also? Hope.

  Did he try to betray her?

  Or was it truly a test he expected her to pass?

  All she manages to say right now is: “Of course, Admiral.”

  “Now, if you will excuse me? I have thinking to do.”

  He gently touches her shoulder—a seemingly warm gesture, until he uses it to turn her around and send Sloane on her way.

  To Tracy for taking me to see my first Star Wars movie (The Empire Strikes Back at a drive-in theater!).

  To Mom for buying me all those sweet Kenner toys.

  To Michelle and to Ben for going along on this crazy speeder ride with me and making it ten times as awesome as it already is.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The writer is like Han Solo: captain of the ship but lost without a crew to man it. And so I must acknowledge those folks who have helped make this book happen: Shelly Shapiro, Jen Heddle, Gary Whitta, Jason Fry, David Keck, Pablo Hidalgo, and my agent, Stacia Decker. Thanks, too, to some of my writer pals who keep me sane: folks like Kevin Hearne, Delilah S. Dawson, Stephen Blackmoore, Ty Franck, Adam Christopher, Julie Hutchings, Mur Lafferty, J. C. Hutchins, and Sam Sykes. Thanks finally to the Star Wars fan community for having fun with me on Twitter (GeekGirlDiva, I’m lookin’ at you).

  Thanks, in fact, to all of Twitter because without social media, I don’t think I would have ever gotten to write this book.

  *clinks my glass of blue milk against yours*

  BY CHUCK WENDIG

  STAR WARS

  Aftermath

  THE HEARTLAND TRILOGY

  Under the Empyrean Sky

  Blightborn

  The Harvest

  MIRIAM BLACK

  Blackbirds

  Mockingbird

  The Cormorant

  Zer0es

  The Blue Blazes

  The Kick-Ass Writer

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHUCK WENDIG is a novelist, screenwriter, and game designer. He’s the author of many novels, including Blackbirds, Atlanta Burns, Zer0es, and the YA Heartland series. He is co-writer of the short film Pandemic and the Emmy-nominated digital narrative Collapsus. He currently lives in the forests of Pennsyltucky with wife, son, and red dog.

  terribleminds.com

  Find Chuck Wendig on Facebook

  @ChuckWendig

  The rain on Haidoral Prime dropped in warm sheets from a shining sky. It smelled like vinegar, clung to the molded curves of modular industrial buildings and to litter-strewn streets, and coated skin like a sheen of acrid sweat.

  After thirty straight standard hours, it was losing its novelty for the soldiers of Twilight Company.

  Three figures crept along a deserted avenue under a torn and dripping canopy. The lean, compact man in the lead was dressed in faded gray fatigues and a hodgepodge of armor pads crudely stenciled with the starbird symbol of the Rebel Alliance. Matted dark hair dripped beneath his visored helmet, sending crawling trails of rainwater down his dusky face.

  His name was Hazram Namir, though he’d gone by others. He silently cursed urban warfare and Haidoral Prime and whichever laws of atmospheric science made it rain. The thought of sleep flashed into his mind and broke against a wall of stubbornness. He gestured with a rifle thicker than his arm toward the nearest intersection, then quickened his pace.

  Somewhere in the distance a swift series of blaster shots resounded, followed by shouts and silence.

  The figure closest behind Namir—a tall man with graying hair and a face puckered with scar tissue—bounded across the street to take up a position opposite. The third figure, a massive form huddled in a tarp like a hooded cloak, remained behind.

  The scarred man flashed a hand signal. Namir turned the corner onto the intersecting street. A dozen meters away, the sodden lumps of human bodies lay in the road. They wore tattered rain gear—sleek, lightweight wraps and sandals—and carried no weapons. Noncombatants.

  It’s a shame, Namir thought, but not a bad sign. The Empire didn’t shoot civilians when everything was under control.

  “Charmer—take a look?” Namir indicated the bodies. The scarred man strode over as Namir tapped his comlink. “Sector secure,” he said. “What’s on tap next?”

  The response came in a hiss of static through Namir’s earpiece—something about mop-up operations. Namir missed having a communications specialist on staff. Twilight Company’s last comm tech had been a drunk and a misanthrope, but she’d been magic with a transmitter and she’d written obscene poetry with Namir on late, dull nights. She and her idiot droid had died in the bombardment on Asyrphus.

  “Say again,” Namir tried. “Are we ready to load?”

  This time the answer came through clearly. “Support teams are crating up food and equipment,” the voice said. “If you’ve got a lead on medical supplies, we’d love more for the Thunderstrike. Otherwise, get to the rendezvous—we only have a few hours before reinforcements show.”

  “Tell support to grab hygiene items this time,” Namir said. “Anyone who says they’re luxuries needs to smell the barracks.”

  There was another burst of static, and maybe a laugh. “I’ll let them know. Stay safe.”

  Charmer was finishing his study of the bodies, checking each for a heartbeat and identification. He shook his head, silent, as he straightened.

  “Atrocity.” The hulking figure wrapped in the tarp had finally approached. His voice was deep and resonant. Two meaty, four-fingered hands kept the tarp clasped at his shoulders, while a second pair of hands loosely carried a massive blaster cannon at waist level. “How can anyone born of flesh do this?”

  Charmer bit his lip. Namir shrugged. “Could’ve been combat droids, for all we know.”

  “Unlikely,” the hulking figure said. “But if so, responsibility belongs to the governor.” He knelt beside one of the corpses and reached out to lid its eyes. Each of his hands was as large as the dead man’s head.

  “Come on, Gadren,” Namir said. “Someone will find them.”

  Gadren stayed kneeling. Charmer opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. Namir wondered whether to push the point and, if so, how hard.

  Then the wall next to him exploded, and he stopped worrying about Gadren.

&
nbsp; Fire and metal shards and grease and insulation pelted his spine. He couldn’t hear and couldn’t guess how he ended up in the middle of the road among the bodies, one leg bent beneath him. Something tacky was stuck to his chin and his helmet’s visor was cracked; he had enough presence of mind to feel lucky he hadn’t lost an eye.

  Suddenly he was moving again. He was upright, and hands—Charmer’s hands—were dragging him backward, clasping him below the shoulders. He snarled the native curses of his homeworld as a red storm of particle bolts flashed among the fire and debris. By the time he’d pushed Charmer away and wobbled onto his feet, he’d traced the bolts to their source.

  Four Imperial stormtroopers stood at the mouth of an alley up the street. Their deathly pale armor gleamed in the rain, and the black eyepieces of their helmets gaped like pits. Their weapons shone with oil and machined care, as if the squad had stepped fully formed out of a mold.

  Namir tore his gaze from the enemy long enough to see that his back was to a storefront window filled with video screens. He raised his blaster rifle, fired at the display, then climbed in among the shards. Charmer followed. The storefront wouldn’t give them cover for long—certainly not if the stormtroopers fired another rocket—but it would have to be enough.

  “Check for a way up top,” Namir yelled, and his voice sounded faint and tinny. He couldn’t hear the storm of blaster bolts at all. “We need covering fire!” Not looking to see if Charmer obeyed, he dropped to the floor as the stormtroopers adjusted their aim to the store.

  He couldn’t spot Gadren, either. He ordered the alien into position anyway, hoping he was alive and that the comlinks still worked. He lined his rifle under his chin, fired twice in the direction of the stormtroopers, and was rewarded with a moment of peace.