Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(100)

“Are we going to play?”

“We will. But first I need you to understand not just how the pieces move, but why they move. Not just how to play, but why we play.” Palpatine smiles. “Listen closely.”

And then Palpatine explains the game.

“In the game of Shah-tezh,” Palpatine tells the young man, Galli, “the board is called the demesne, and each piece upon the demesne has its own special role and its own special maneuvers. Each player is afforded one of each kind.” With an arthritic claw, the Emperor twists a piece that looks like a too-thin man in a strange, pillarlike hat. “The Vizier can only move along the diagonal, but has no limit to how far he may travel.” With the side of a yellowed nail he taps another piece: a hulking, hooded figure with something that might be a long rifle or a long blade—the abstraction of the carving makes it hard to tell. As the nail goes click click click against it, Palpatine says: “This is the Knight. He is versatile and can move two steps in any direction at all. Limited distance, but freedom of movement.”

He goes on like that for a while, describing piece after piece: the Outcast, the Dowager, the Disciple, the Counselor, the Beast, the Craft. He describes how they move, what role they serve, even a little bit of the history (later iterations of the game, he said, removed the Outcast, for the Outcast was “too anarchic a piece” and the players sought a “more stable game”).

Galli follows along, unsure of what he’s supposed to be learning. But he pays great attention, never blinking, never turning his gaze away lest it all disappear the moment he does.

“Each piece exists in service to one other piece—” And here the teacher grabs the final figure off the board, the robed piece that looks not unlike Palpatine himself. “The Imperator. All the pieces of the demesne are here to protect the Imperator. If the Imperator falls, the game is over. That is true no matter how many pieces remain on the board. Do you see?”

“I see.”

“Tell me then what that means.”

Galli swallows. He concentrates very hard to suss out the message—the lesson that the Emperor is trying to teach him. He clears his throat and says, “It means that without the Imperator, the demesne cannot survive.”

A smile creeps across the Emperor’s face like a centipede crawling on a cracked wall. “Good. Good. That is true. That is insightful.” The smile suddenly falls away. The man’s face twists up in a scowl of disappointment. With venom, the old man asserts: “But it is not quite right. It is not merely that the demesne cannot survive. It is that those remaining behind do not deserve to survive.” His voice is laced with anger, the volume rising and the words coming faster as he continues: “They have one role. That role is to protect the Imperator. If an Empire cannot protect its Emperor then that Empire must be deemed a failure. It collapses not only because its central figure is gone, but because it must not be allowed to remain!”

By the end of the old man’s tirade, Galli tries to speak—and cannot. He tries to breathe—and cannot. He reaches for his neck and paws at his throat, a high-pitched keen the only sound escaping his mouth. His face pulses and throbs. His vision begins to go dark.

This is it. This is me dying. I have failed the lesson.

Palpatine waves his hand, and the pressure closing Galli’s throat is gone as fast as it came. The young man gasps and tries not to cry.

Palpatine reaches out and takes Galli’s hand with a grasp that is alarmingly gentle. The man’s skin is papery and thin. It’s almost sharp, too, as if running your hands along his flesh in the wrong direction will slice your own like a razor.

“It angers me,” Palpatine says sadly, “to think of an Empire that fails its Emperor. But one must admit that it is possible. And in that possibility, it is wise to play the very long game. It is time I look to the unforgivable outcome and plan for that. You are part of that plan.”

“How?”

“You, my son, are the Contingency.”

“What is that?”

“There are unforeseen costs that must be paid. You may have to be the one who pays those costs, Galli. Which means it is time now to join the Empire. You will serve me in whatever way I require, and if all goes well you will remain the Contingency. If you fail me, then I will find another, for this role is one of great purpose and destiny. Will you be what I require?”

“I will.”

That smile returns. “Most excellent.”

“But I do not know how.”

“Ah. That will come in time. For now: Do you like opera?”





The redheaded boy sits on a ship without viewports so he cannot see the endless dunes or the raging war going on above them. All he can see right now is the other children: two dozen of them lining benches on each side of the transport ship, all of them in white, all of them staring at the young child as if he’s a gobbet of meat and they’re a pack of slavering yenavores.

They are hungry and feral and he tries not to tremble.

But the boy trembles harder, instead.

The door to the transport bay opens, and a man steps in—the boy knows this man: Counselor Rax.

The man comes and stands before the boy, looking down.

“Hello, Armitage.”

“Sir,” the redheaded boy says in a small voice. “Hello.”