Star Wars

by Charles Soule

  The symbolism was obvious, and intentionally so. With the Nihil…all was light and life. Outside…cold, empty death.

  “What do I see?” Marchion Ro said, his voice quiet, a breath, not a scream. The crowd hushed to hear it. “What does your eye see for the Nihil?”

  “WHATEVER WE WANT!” came the answering roar, immediate, every voice lifted—hungry and certain and joyful.

  Marchion looked at Pan Eyta and nodded. This was the Dowutin’s show. The gigantic being adjusted the lapels of his leather suit, stylishly cut, its pale turquoise color chosen to set off his yellow skin.

  “That’s right,” Pan said. “Whatever we want. Just like in Ab Dalis. We killed that convoy dead. We ripped those ships down to the bones and took everything they had, and now everyone who fought alongside me there gets a share, through the Rule of Three. With the Nihil, everyone eats.”

  Pan Eyta pointed out off the platform, into the strange wilderness of No-Space, where the emptiness was interrupted only by the fleet of ships that had carried the Nihil to this place. Marchion Ro cast his eyes across the vessels. No two exactly alike, and all reflecting the taste and cultures of their owners to some degree. They did all share a certain brutalist aesthetic, and the glowing, green half-spheres that were the Path engines, the navigational miracle provided to the organization by Marchion and his father.

  The Nihil’s ships, large or small, looked like armored, spiked fists, coming to pound you into nothing and harvest your corpse. No curves where a straight line would do. Sharp edges, a lack of overall symmetry. The smaller, fighterlike Strikeships, larger Cloudships and Stormships, all the way up to the three corvette-sized vessels of the Tempest Runners. Kassav had the New Elite, Pan Eyta flew his Elegencia, and Lourna Dee…she called her ship the Lourna Dee.

  Much larger, imposing, looming behind the rest of the Nihil fleet with a silhouette like a marine predator, was Marchion Ro’s flying palace and fortress, its empty, echoing corridors the only home he had—the Gaze Electric.

  “That’s why we all came here today,” Pan Eyta said. “That’s why we’re celebrating. We fly together and we die together, and when we come back…we reap the rewards.”

  Pan gestured toward Lourna Dee and Kassav.

  “I also gotta give my gratitude to my fellow bosses here. Ab Dalis was a job that came through my Tempest, but both Lourna Dee and Kassav gave support with their crews. They’ll all get their piece, too.”

  He reached to the table and lifted a massive goblet of spiced wine, showing it to the crowd, then turning to Marchion Ro.

  “And here’s to the Eye of the Nihil, who gave us the Paths to make it all happen. Couldn’t have done it without him.”

  Pan Eyta tilted his head back, lifted his mask, and drained the goblet, wine splashing to the floor. The crowd roared its approval, and Marchion Ro held up an acknowledging hand to the cheering Nihil.

  “But you know…” Pan said, setting down his goblet, “we could have done better. There were six freighters in that convoy, and we only took five.”

  He affected a dissatisfied air, shaking his huge head.

  “We lost one in the attack. One of them blew up just as we were ripping it open, and whatever it had for us…now it’s just hot dust.”

  He arced out his arm, sweeping it across the Great Hall.

  “Where’s the Storm who was in charge of the crew assigned to that freighter?”

  A ripple across the assembly as heads turned, looking to see who would own up to the mistake. A few long moments passed, but eventually the pressure grew too great, and a man stood. Part of Lourna Dee’s Tempest, by the minimalist clothing he wore. His species was hard to identify, but his mask had big, curling horns running down over the ears, little white slits for eyes, and the ever-present filter assembly over his nose and mouth, the better to survive the various chemical weapons the Nihil often used in their raids. He had three jagged white stripes on his tunic, signifying his rank within the organization.

  “Huh,” Pan Eyta said, turning to Lourna Dee. “Looks like he’s one of yours, Lourna. You mind if I…”

  “Be my guest,” Lourna said, her voice without affect—she never revealed much of what was going on behind her eyes, ice-blue and ice-cold. “His name is Zagyar.”

  “Zagyar!” Pan Eyta cried, pointing at the man. “Bring the rest of your crew up here. The Clouds and Strikes.”

  Zagyar nodded at the group sitting at his table, and they stood as well. Seven men and women, all masked, all different except that they shared the white, slitted eyes of their leader. The Clouds had two of the jagged stripes somewhere on their clothing, and the Strikes, just one. They walked forward as a group, the other Nihil parting to let them through, to stand before Pan Eyta and the others.

  “What happened, Zagyar?” he said. “Why did we lose a sixth of what we went out there to get?”

  The Storm, to his credit, didn’t try to dissemble. He just answered, plain and clean. No embellishing or hiding the truth. Marchion Ro respected that.

  “One of my Strikes, kid named Blit, miscalculated her harpoon shot. Hit one of the freighter’s fuel tanks. That’s all it took. Boom.”

  “I thought it was something like that. Is she here, that Strike?”

  “No. Blit died in the explosion. Most of my crew did. I’ve only got these seven left. Couple Clouds and five Strikes.”

  Zagyar gestured at his people.

  “I see,” Pan said. “But someone has to pay for that mistake. Everyone lost when that happened. I lost.”

  He pointed down at Marchion Ro, still seated at his own table, a meter or two below the Tempest Runners.

  “The Eye lost. It needs to be made right. For the Nihil.”

  Zagyar, again, showed no fear or anger—just responded, clear and honest. Marchion Ro could see how the man had become a Storm, and that was not an easy thing to do. You rose in rank in the Nihil by succeeding, and by doing whatever it took to make sure other people didn’t.

  “The Strike who screwed up paid with her life. Seems like that’s something.”

  “It’s something…but that Strike isn’t here. You and your crew are all responsible. One of you could’ve given Blit better guidance, could’ve helped her. You didn’t, and there has to be a price, and someone has to pay it. I’ll let you decide.”

  Zagyar hesitated, looking at his crew, one after the other, the masks making it impossible to know what they were thinking.

  A chant began, at the back of the hall and rapidly moving forward, until every one of the Nihil was saying the same three words.

  “Pay the price!”

  “Pay the price!”

  “Pay the price!”

  Zagyar’s crew tensed. Looked at each other, quick little furtive glances, not knowing who would be the first to move. Blasters were forbidden in the Great Hall, but they all had their blades, and hands were reaching toward hilts.

  “PAY THE PRICE!”

  Marchion Ro turned his head, looking toward the edge of the platform, where a line of glowing blue-white lights marked the border between light and life, and freezing void. He hated the little pageants Pan and Lourna and Kassav put on, pitting Clouds and Strikes and Storms against one another.

  The Nihil all worked under the same banner, and all used the Paths Marchion gave them, but that was as far as it went. They were chaos. Everyone out for himself, each Tempest ready to undercut the others. Any Nihil would slit another’s throat at the slightest provocation or opportunity for profit.

  The Paths could take the Nihil anywhere in the galaxy, but they refused to see it. The only one who could see the potential of the organization was, inevitably, the Eye. But the Eye was not in control. Each Tempest had its own boss, its Runner, and Marchion Ro had no real influence over what any of them did. He got his share of the payouts of any jobs that used his Paths, by the Rul
e of Three…but that was all.

  The Eye could see…but the Eye couldn’t act.

  Sounds of struggle came to Marchion Ro’s ears, but he didn’t turn to look. Someone was paying the price.

  He watched—all the Nihil watched—as one of Zagyar’s crew was dragged to the edge of the platform, screaming and pleading about how unfair it all was, how loyal they were. Marchion Ro didn’t know who had been chosen. Maybe Zagyar himself. It didn’t matter. The lesson was clear.

  Every Nihil was expected to contribute. Either you made the organization richer, or you made it stronger. And one way to make something stronger…was by removing what was weak.

  A body drifted away into the void of No-Space, still moving. Not for long.

  Pan Eyta turned back to the Nihil. He spread his arms, taking them all in, while gesturing simultaneously at the feast tables and fountains filled with various intoxicants, and death sticks and piles of uppowder and downfire.

  “Now enjoy yourselves, my friends,” he said. “You’ve earned this.”

  He stepped down from the table as the Nihil resumed their celebrations. If any of them harbored misgivings about what had just occurred, they kept it hidden, behind masks and fistfuls of food and sniffs of powder. Music kicked up—loud, with a sound like sheets of metal being hammered in complex polyrhythms.

  “We need to talk,” Marchion Ro said, looking at the three Tempest Runners.

  Kassav frowned. “It’s a party, Marchion. Didn’t you hear Pan? Lots to celebrate. Why don’t you just relax?”

  Marchion Ro stared at the man for a full three seconds.

  “There’s business to discuss,” he said. “It’s important, and I want to talk about it while we’re all in the same place, and before you three get too drunk to think.”

  The Tempest Runners looked at one another, none of them happy.

  Lourna Dee shrugged. “Fine, Marchion, fine. Let’s go on back.”

  Marchion Ro stepped down off the raised platform and walked toward the far end of the platform, the Tempest Runners falling in at his side. Nihil at all levels reached out to them, offering hands in greeting, desperate to make some connection with the organization’s leadership.

  The group reached a small structure built at the far end of the Great Hall; it housed the air lock and docking mechanisms, as well as a small complex of rooms that offered privacy, when required. Two droid sentries guarded its entrance, and bowed their heads as Marchion and the Tempest Runners passed. The droids were well over two meters tall, matte-black, and in lieu of even rudimentary features, the three lightning bolts of the Nihil glowed on their faceplates in sharp blue-white. They carried no weapons, and needed none. Their limbs and bodies were studded with sharp spikes, their hands set in fists made of heavy alloys that could smash bone and tissue into pulp.

  Inside, once the entry portal had sealed, Marchion turned to face Kassav, Lourna Dee, and Pan Eyta, each solely responsible for and with complete authority over a Tempest, one of the three great divisions of the Nihil.

  “Good party,” Kassav said.

  Kassav was always the first to talk. Predictable as the sunrise. Either he hated silence, or he was pathologically focused on ensuring no one ever forgot he was there.

  Marchion Ro pulled off his mask, reaching up and running a hand through his long, dark hair, untangling it. The energy in the room changed, even though the Tempest Runners had seen Marchion unmasked many times. His appearance tended to have a particular effect on those around him—slate-gray skin, wholly black eyes, a certain angular leanness to his physique…for many of the galaxy’s species, the features of Marchion’s people meant predator, on some deep instinctive level.

  “Is it a good party, Kassav?” Marchion said. “All I saw was a big party. Numbers. Lots of new faces out there. From all three of your Tempests.”

  “We always need new blood,” Pan Eyta said. His voice was so low, some of his syllables dropped into subsonic ranges, giving him a wavery, resonant tone. “Strikes find other people to join, and when they get enough of a group under them, they move up to become a Cloud. If they make their name, they get to be a Storm. That’s the way it works, since always. You know this. Been like that since back when your father was the Eye.”

  Marchion Ro was more than a little certain that one of the three people standing before him had murdered his father—Asgar Ro. Custodian of the Paths and Eye of the Nihil until Marchion inherited the position and all that went with it on Asgar’s death. But he didn’t know which of the Tempest Runners had done the killing, and he was just the Eye. They were the bosses and had a thousand soldiers each. He only had one real ally, and she wouldn’t be much good in a fight.

  “I know the way it works, Pan,” Marchion said. “But the Paths aren’t a limitless resource. Too many people means we can get spread too thin. We need to slow things down.”

  “No one’s gonna like that,” Lourna Dee said. “We don’t slow down. We’re the Nihil.”

  Marchion placed his index finger on his helmet.

  “The Paths come from me. So now I’m saying we need to be a little careful about the next stage. That’s all.”

  “Is this about the Republic again?” Pan Eyta said. “We’ve been over that. We know they’re opening that station, that Starlight Beacon thing, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be coming after us. They think we’re small time. They’ve never bothered us before, and they don’t even have a military. How would they get us, anyway? We’ve got your Paths, right?”

  The Dowutin adjusted his suit again—that polished turquoise leather. Pan was particular in his tastes. Everything was well chosen, from his clothes to the food he ate to the music he listened to. The Nihil in his Tempest tended to be the same way. From the beginning, Pan had chosen his first Strikes, and they had chosen theirs, and like called to like.

  Each of the Tempests reflected its Runner—Pan’s people were precise…planners. Kassav’s group was chaotic and impulsive, all of his Strikes and Clouds and Storms chasing the next score, the next insane story they could brag about while so high on smash they could barely talk. Lourna Dee’s group was subtle, introverted, keeping their intentions close until the result was achieved. Also, in general, her people were the cruelest among all the Nihil.

  “It’s not just the Starlight Beacon, it’s that Legacy Run thing in Hetzal,” Marchion said. “These Emergences are causing disasters all over the Rim. My people in the Republic tell me they’re digging in hard. They’ve set up an investigation—even pulled in the Jedi.”

  “Jedi,” Kassav said, baring his sharp little teeth. “I’ve always wanted to kill one. That’d be a story to tell.”

  Marchion knew Kassav had never faced a Jedi. Neither had Marchion Ro, but his family had a history with them, and he had grown up hearing stories. Even a few could destabilize or destroy the grandest aspiration. They could…tap into something. It wasn’t just the Force. It was their Order itself. It gave them a confidence, a structure, a willingness to make choices to serve the larger purpose of spreading light in the galaxy. It made them bold, and made them strong. He was not afraid of the Jedi—but only a fool wouldn’t consider them a serious threat.

  “You’re welcome to try to kill as many Jedi as you want, Kassav,” Marchion said. “Just give us the name of the Storm you think should take your place as Tempest Runner after you’re dead.”

  He waited before speaking again, letting his gaze shift to each of them in turn, letting his cold, dark eyes do most of the work. The silence turned to tension, and Marchion just kept watching, daring any of them to challenge him again. They didn’t. They wouldn’t. Not openly, anyway. He knew any one of these three would cut off his head in an instant if they knew how to access the Paths directly, but he kept that secret close.

  “Here’s what I’m worried about,” Marchion said. “All three of you run your operations pretty ind
ependently, and you have crews doing raids all over the Outer Rim. Chancellor Soh put a hyperspace blockade in place, and it gets bigger with every Emergence. The Nihil are just about the only ships that can travel these days, because we have the Paths. What if the Republic comes across a Nihil crew and figures out we can do what we do? Or the Jedi? We don’t want the Order on us, or the Republic Defense Coalition.”

  He shook his head.

  “I know the Republic doesn’t have a standing military. Doesn’t matter. We aren’t big enough to take them on, even if it’s just an RDC task force. They’d wipe us out. I say we need to lie low. No new operations for the time being. No more Paths. If your people give you grief, tell them the Eye sees something special in the future, something big. A new initiative.”

  “Does the Eye, in fact, see that?” Lourna Dee asked. “A new initiative, I mean.”

  “I’m always thinking of the next thing, Lourna,” he said. “You know that.”

  Kassav and Pan Eyta exchanged a glance.

  “Just doesn’t sound like us,” Kassav said.

  “I call the vote,” Marchion said.

  “Then I vote this is a big pile of bantha droppings,” Kassav said. “The Nihil don’t stop. We need to keep riding that storm.”

  “You know,” Pan Eyta said. “I think I agree with Marchion. I say we take a little break. Just for a while. Maybe we should take a little time to plan, strategize—figure out how we operate if the Republic’s gonna be poking around in our territory.”

  “Pff,” said Kassav. “Of course. You and your people just got fat off that job in Ab Dalis, so you don’t need to eat for a while. What about the rest of us?”

  “Maybe you should’ve given me more of your people to help, Kassav,” Pan said. “One little Cloud worth of crew was all you could spare? Please. Anyway, I don’t mind a little break. Maybe I’ll take a vacation. Get tickets to the opera on Cato Neimoidia.”