Star Wars: The New Rebellion

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

  “Ben,” he whispered. “Another Death Star?”

  But he expected no answer. Ben’s comforting presence had left him before the Jedi Academy, before Grand Admiral Thrawn.

  Luke closed his eyes, feeling for the location of the disturbance. He found a great emptiness where a moment before there had been life. The residue of pain, the deeply held surprise, the shock of betrayal, remained like an echo of a shout over a canyon rim.

  “Master Skywalker?” The voice belonged to one of his most promising students, Eelysa, a young woman from Coruscant. “Master Skywalker?”

  He waved his right hand at her. His back hurt from the force of his landing, his chest ached from the lack of oxygen, and his heart ached from the magnitude of the loss. Somewhere in the distance, Artoo whistled, a mournful sound.

  He had to sit up, to show them everything was all right, even though it wasn’t.

  “Master Skywalker?”

  Her voice merged and blended with the echoes in his head. He opened his eyes. In the shade of his shaking hand, he saw Leia’s face, scorched and blood-covered. He reached toward her, and then she was gone.

  It is the future you see.

  The destruction did not come from Coruscant. He would know if Leia died. Or Han. Or the children.

  He would know.

  Artoo whistled again, impatient this time.

  “Find Artoo,” he said. His voice sounded haunted, shaky, preoccupied, like Ben’s had after the destruction of Alderaan.

  Feet snapped twigs around him as three students left in search of Artoo.

  Or as they ran from Luke and his sudden, startling loss of control.

  “What happened, Master Skywalker?” Eelysa was crouched beside him, her small, slender body hunched against an unseen enemy. She had been a surprise, a native of Coruscant, born after the Emperor’s death, her Force abilities untainted by the poisons around her. She was young. So very, very young.

  “A million people died a moment ago, all in great pain, and with great suddenness.” He pushed himself up on his elbows. A vast evil had returned to the galaxy. That much he knew.

  And it threatened Leia.

  He knew that too.

  For now, the days of teaching were over. He and Artoo had to leave immediately for Coruscant.

  Leia Organa Solo, Chief of State of the New Republic, adjusted the belt on her long white gown. She took a deep breath. Mon Mothma placed a hand on her arm. Leia smiled distractedly at her, much as she had as a young senator, facing Palpatine and his followers in the Imperial Senate.

  She let the breath out. That was the emotion she was feeling, something she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager. A sense of loss, of defeat, of the life changing without her permission or control.

  Mon Mothma closed the golden carved door and turned the lock. They were in a small dressing room that had been added during Palpatine’s days as Emperor, a room just outside the Senate Assembly Chamber. The room had been used as a secret communications area, but it masqueraded as a dressing room. The walls were gold leaf and delicate. A mirror covered one panel, floor to ceiling, reflecting both Leia and Mon Mothma. In some ways, Mon Mothma looked like an older, calmer version of Leia, although her short hair was now streaked with silver. Tiny lines webbed her skin, lines that had been there since her devastating illness at the hands of Carida’s Ambassador Furgan six years before.

  “What is it?” Mon Mothma said.

  Leia shook her head. She smoothed her damp hands on her skirts. She didn’t look much different from the girl who had walked into the Imperial Senate filled with hope and idealism, Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, the youngest senator, the one who believed that persuasion and reason would save the Old Republic. The one who lost her idealism the moment she stared into Senator Palpatine’s ruined face.

  “They’re members of the New Republic now, Leia,” Mon Mothma said. “They were elected fairly.”

  “This is wrong. This is how it all started before.” Leia had had this same conversation with Han since the elections. Several planets had petitioned the Senate to allow former Imperials to serve as political representatives. The argument was that some of the best politicians had kept their peoples alive by working with the Empire, as minor functionaries. They were petty bureaucrats who saved dozens of Rebel lives by overlooking strange troop movements, or unusual faces in the crowds. Leia had opposed the petitions from the beginning, but the arguments in Chamber had been fierce. M’yet Luure, the powerful senator from Exodeen, had finally reminded her that even she had once served the Empire in her role as Imperial senator. She had retorted that she was serving the Rebellion even then. M’yet had smiled, revealing six rows of uneven teeth. These people were serving the Rebellion too, he had said, in their own way.

  Leia had disputed that claim. They had served the Empire and not fought against it, had merely looked the other way. But M’yet’s argument was powerful, and because of it, the Senate had approved the petition. Leia had modified the election law with the help of her backers—no former stormtroopers could hold office, no Imperial of rank, no former Imperial governor—in short, no Imperial with access to power in the Empire could serve the New Republic. But still she felt this law was wrong.

  “They’re going to destroy all we’ve worked for,” she said to Mon Mothma.

  “You don’t know that,” Mon Mothma said softly.

  Her words echoed Han’s. Leia clenched her fists. “I do know that,” she said. “Since we formed the New Republic, we have always known that our leaders have the same goals. We have the same philosophy of life. We have always worked in the same directions.”

  Mon Mothma’s grip on Leia’s arm loosened. “We have always fought the Empire. But the Empire is gone now. Only bands remain. Someday we must move beyond the Rebellion and into true government. Part of that, Leia, is accepting those who lived under the Empire but did not serve it.”

  Leia shook her head. “It’s too soon.”

  “Actually,” Mon Mothma said, “I think it isn’t soon enough.”

  Leia tugged at her skirt. She had even worn her hair in the long-outdated style, braids wrapped around her ears, in defiance of the new Senate members—as a sign that Chief of State Leia Organa Solo was once Leia Organa, princess, senator, and Rebel leader. Han had kissed her roughly before she left their apartments and had grinned at her. Well, Your Worship, does this mean I get to go back to being a scoundrel?

  She had laughingly pushed him away, but his words echoed even as Mon Mothma spoke. Perhaps Leia was the problem. Perhaps she was not willing to move forward.

  Perhaps she was the one unwilling to let go of the past.

  “All right,” she said, straightening, a leader once more. “Let’s get on with this.”

  Mon Mothma did not move toward the door. “One more thing,” she said. “Remember that whatever tone you set at the opening remarks of this Senate will be the focus of the debate for years to come.”

  “I know,” Leia said. She reached for the door when a wave of deep cold smashed into her. She froze. Voices screamed—hundreds, no—thousands of voices, so faint she could barely hear them. Then she saw a face form on the golden door, a white face with black, empty eyes. The face was concave, almost skeletal, like the death masks she had seen in a museum on Alderaan in her youth. Only, unlike them, this one moved. It smiled, and the cold grew deeper.

  Then the voices ceased, and Leia collapsed against the door.

  Mon Mothma hurried to her side, and grabbed Leia, staggering as she attempted to support her weight. “Leia?”

  Leia was still cold. Colder than she had ever been on Hoth. Her teeth were chattering. She reached with her limited Force training and found her children in the apartments, just as they should have been.

  “Luke,” she whispered. Leia freed herself from Mon Mothma’s hold, and headed toward the old communications control. She contacted Yavin
4, only to be told Luke was in his X-wing.

  “Leia, what is it?” Mon Mothma asked.

  Leia didn’t answer. She waited to be patched into Luke’s X-wing. Soon his voice filled the room. “Leia?” he asked, as if he had been worried too.

  “I’m fine, Luke,” she said, relief filling her.

  “I’m coming to you. Wait for me.”

  But she couldn’t wait. She had to know. “You felt it too, didn’t you? What was that?”

  “Alderaan,” he whispered, and that was all she needed to know.

  The image of Alderaan filled her mind, Alderaan as she had last seen it on the Death Star, beautiful and serene, in the seconds before it was smashed to bits.

  “No!” she said. “Luke?”

  “I’ll be there soon, Leia,” he said, and signed off. She wasn’t ready for him to disappear so soon. She needed him. Something awful had happened, like the destruction of Alderaan.

  And she had felt it.

  “What happened, Leia?” Mon Mothma put her arms around Leia. Leia’s shivering had stopped.

  “Something terrible,” Leia said. She reached out, touched the cool gold door, straightened, and stood. “There’s death in that chamber, Mon Mothma.”

  “Leia—”

  “Luke is coming here. He felt something too.”

  “Then trust him,” Mon Mothma said. “He’d know if you were in immediate danger.”

  But he hadn’t known. He had been as relieved to hear from her as she had been to hear from him. Her mouth was dry. “Send someone for Han, would you?”

  Mon Mothma nodded. “I suppose you want to put off the opening session.”

  More than anything. But Leia straightened her shoulders, rubbed her cold hands together, and checked her braids a final time. “No,” she said. “You were right. I have to be careful of the message I send. I’m going in. But let’s double the guards this afternoon, and step up security on Coruscant. Also, get Admiral Ackbar to scan for anything unusual in nearby space.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Mon Mothma asked.

  Alderaan flashed before Leia’s vision at the moment of explosion, a flare of brilliant, horrible light. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe a Death Star, or a Sun Crusher. Something that could destroy us all.”

  Three

  Han sat in the back corner of the smoke-filled room. He hadn’t been in this casino since he won the planet Dathomir in a game of sabacc before he married Leia. The casino had changed hands at least fifteen times since then—now it was calling itself the Crystal Jewel, a misnomer if he’d ever heard one—but it looked no different. The air smelled of damp decay mixed with smoke and alcohol. A mediocre band played Tatooine blues with a decided disinterest. All around him, conversation rose and fell with the fortunes at the sabacc tables.

  He clutched a pale blue Gizer ale, which he had snatched off a servo droid. Han’s companion, Jarril, had disappeared a few moments ago, searching for the bar. Han wasn’t sure if Jarril would be back.

  Han was watching the sabacc game at the nearest table, where a Gotal was betting all it owned. As it slid the chips across the table, it shed piles of gray hair. Most Gotals had learned to control their shedding. This one had to be extremely nervous.

  Its companions didn’t seem to notice. The Brubb, a large brown reptile, was scratching its knobby hide, leaving scales all over the floor, its tail knocking the mechanical base of a nearby servo droid. The two-armed Ssty was counting her cards, her claws making indentations in each. The tiny Tin-Tin Dwarf stood on its chair, its rat-like features focused on the pile in the center of the table.

  The dealer droids had been upgraded since Han’s last visit. This dealer was bolted to the ceiling, but unlike its predecessors, it could slide down to table height and knock aside an unruly player. The dealer had done just that after Jarril left, and had riveted Han’s attention. He had never seen such an aggressive droid before. Although he had to admit, they were needed in a place like this.

  “The line was incredible.” Jarril slipped back into his chair at the table. He had two drinks, both bright green. Neither looked appealing.

  Han wrapped his hands around his Gizer ale. “I’d’ve waited if I’d known you were buying.”

  Jarril shrugged. He was a small man with narrow shoulders, and a face scarred from years of harsh living. Han had always envied Jarril’s hands, though. They were smuggler’s hands, with long, thin, tapered fingers, perfect for piloting, blasting, and those forms of gambling that required dexterity. “More for me,” Jarril said.

  The smuggler’s credo. Han grinned. It’d been too long since he’d been in a place like this. He probably wouldn’t even have answered Jarril’s contact if it hadn’t been for Leia. She had looked like that sharp-tongued princess he’d rescued back when he’d been an equally sharp-tongued scoundrel. Sometimes he missed that part of himself more than he cared to admit.

  Han slid his chair back so that it hit the wall. He wore a blaster at his hip, having learned almost before he could walk that no sane man entered a place like this without protection. Besides, he didn’t really know the reason behind Jarril’s visit.

  “I don’t believe you came to Coruscant just to buy me a drink,” Han said. He didn’t bother to mention that the Jarril of old would never have bought anyone anything. A lot had changed about his old colleague, including the price of the man’s clothes. Jarril used to wear shirts until they fell off him. This one was made of a dyed green gaberwool, a singularly ugly garment despite its obvious newness.

  “I didn’t,” Jarril said. He downed one green drink, coughed, wiped his mouth, and grinned. His teeth glowed for a moment before he licked the liquid off them. “I came to tell you about an opportunity.”

  This was rich. An opportunity. For Han Solo, hero of the Alliance, husband, father, and family man. “I’ve got opportunities,” Han said, and immediately wondered what they were.

  “Yeah, sure.” Jarril pushed a strand of hair off his pocked forehead. “I gotta admit you stayed legit a lot longer than I woulda thought. I figured six months with the princess and you and Chewie would be back on the Falcon, heading for parts unknown.”

  “There’s enough to keep me busy here,” Han said.

  “Busy, maybe,” Jarril said. “But it’s a waste of talent if you ask me. You and Chewie were the best pirates I knew.”

  Han slid one hand to his blaster and rested his fingers against the trigger. “I haven’t been away that long, Jarril. I still don’t con easily. What do you want?”

  Jarril leaned close. His breath smelled of mint, ale, and cream candy. “There’s money out there, Han. More money than we ever dreamed of.”

  “I don’t know,” Han said. “I can dream of a lot.”

  “So can I.” Jarril’s voice was so soft Han could barely hear it over the band. “And I can’t spend all I got.”

  “Congratulations,” Han said. “You want me to propose a toast?”

  “You’re not interested, are you?” Jarril asked. He had a curiously intent look.

  “Maybe I would have been years ago, Jarril, but I’ve got a life now.”

  “Some life,” Jarril said. “Sitting around all day, watching the babies while the little woman runs her own private empire.”

  Han leaned forward and grabbed the collar of Jarril’s shirt in one quick, practiced movement. “Watch it, pal.”

  Jarril grimaced in a vain attempt to smile. His eyes shifted from Han’s face to his hidden hand and back again. Good. Han hadn’t lost any of his reputation during the time away. “Didn’t mean anything by it, Solo,” Jarril said. “Just making conversation, you know?”

  Han tightened his grip on Jarril’s shirt. “What do you want?”

  “I want help, Han.”

  Han let Jarril go. Jarril slammed back into his seat. He grabbed his second glass, gulped down the hideous green contents, and wiped his mouth. Han waited, finger still on the trigger. Smugglers never asked each other for help. Sometimes they conne
d their friends into assistance, but they never asked.

  Jarril had been conning him. It just hadn’t been working.

  Jarril licked his teeth, and took another glass off the passing servo droid.

  “Make it quick,” Han said. “The little lady expects me home, dinner done, when she arrives.” He tilted his chair back on two legs, his head resting against the wall. “I make a mean Smuggler’s Pie.”

  Jarril held up his hands. “I’m not kidding you, Han. About any of it. The money—”

  “You said you needed help.”

  “I think we all do.” Jarril lowered his voice again. “That money comes with a price. I never seen so much money in my life.”

  “I got it,” Han said. “You’re rich. That brings its own problems. I know. I’m not in the mood for whining.”

  “I’m not whining,” Jarril said, his voice rising in protest.

  “Sounds like it to me, pal.”

  “No, you don’t get it, Han. People are dying. Good people.”

  “I didn’t think you knew any good people, Jarril.”

  “I know you.”

  “Are you saying someone’s threatening me?”

  “No.” Jarril looked over his shoulder.

  “Leia?”

  “No!” Jarril scooted his chair closer. Han had to adjust the blaster angle. “Look, Han, anyone in the business with brains has made a fortune in the last few months. Everyone we know, and people you never met. Rich. Smuggler’s Run isn’t the same place anymore. There’s more credits in the Run than the Hutts could spend in a lifetime.”

  “So?”

  “So?” Jarril downed his last drink. “So it all seemed wonderful at first. Then a few Runners didn’t come back. Stand-up folks. Like you and Calrissian.”

  Han suppressed a smile. In the old days, he and Lando had been considered odd because they occasionally helped another smuggler in distress. “Where were these Runners when they failed to come back?”

  Jarril shrugged. “I didn’t think nothing of it at first until I realized that the folks who were in the business for the adventure and for the money were the ones disappearing. It made me think of you, old buddy.”