Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(16)

“Coruscant is still occupied.”

“Coruscant is irrelevant! The Empire there is a shadow. They’ve no fleet. They’ve no weapons manufacturers or starship builders. Their bank has been plundered and those credits are now New Republic credits, which means they are ours to allot. The Senate elected me as head of this committee, so it is our time to do our job and not be held at arm’s length by a distracted chancellor. My home, the Spire, is in need of funds direly—”

It’s the Ithorian senator’s turn to scoff. Oko-Po turns her big bright eyes toward Ek and shakes her bent, stooped head. Through the translation device around her neck, she says: “The Spire is a wealth factory. You’re rolling in credits, Ek.”

“The illusion of wealth!” Ek says, erupting. “We are trying to demonstrate and project financial strength, but I assure you we are weakened by the disruption this war has wreaked on the galaxy. And I’ll remind you that just as you are Senator Oko-Po, I am Senator Ek.”

Nower Jebel holds up both of his hands in a placating gesture. “Please, please, we should all endeavor to keep civil—”

“Stop.”

That word comes from of the mouth of the chancellor’s Togruta adviser, Auxi Kray Korbin.

Everyone does as she commands. Auxi stands and puffs out her chest, her chin lifting so she can—even at her diminutive height—seem to be looking down on them. The adviser says: “The chancellor has made herself clear. This meeting is over. We will see you all on Nakadia.”

She waves her hand dismissively—the gesture one makes when sweeping dust off a forgotten shelf.

As Ek leaves, he speaks loudly to the Abednedo, Senator Bushar. His words are meant to be heard, and he even looks over his shoulder as he says them: “I wonder if Tolwar Wartol would be so rude…”

His words linger like a bad smell as they all filter out the door.

All except for one.

Sondiv Sella.

The councilman represents Hosnian Prime. They have a senator, Yuprin Arlo, but Sella serves to help wrangle the different committees and subcommittees. He is new, but his help has been profound. Currently, he stands there, a small, strange smile on his face.

Auxi bites the air when she says: “I said the meeting was over.”

He offers a self-effacing chuckle. “Oh. I—I just wanted to ask the chancellor how she was doing. I know she was in the medcenter for an extended critical care period and I thought—”

“I’m fine,” Mon says, summoning a smile. “My arm is not yet at one hundred percent, but with my therapy exercises, it improves a little every day. They offered me a mechanical limb—but I said I wanted to try to keep mine for a little while longer.” She thinks but does not say that she fears what it means to have a prosthesis. Mon knows it is an unfair assessment, but something about having a metal arm would make her feel less than she is, now. Inhuman. Unliving. Her mind conjures the implacable mask of the Empire’s cruelest enforcer, Darth Vader, and she shudders. “But I am well. I appreciate you asking. You might be the only one who has.”

“I know it’s hard out there right now,” Sella says, a little hesitant, as if he’s sure he might at any moment overstep his bounds. He continues: “I was a cargo pilot, you know. For the Rebellion. I looked up to you as a leader then, and I don’t blame you for Liberation Day now.”

“I wish others shared that sentiment.”

“They do. And they will.” He nods, stiffly. “I don’t have a vote to give you, but Arlo does, and I agree with him. I’d like to offer my help to you in whatever way I can. I’ll try to usher the committees along to fruition and say a few good words on your behalf. For the election.”

“Oh,” she chirps sardonically. “Is there an election coming up?”

He laughs, though a bit nervously as if he’s not sure if this is a joke or not. As if maybe the attack those months ago did not merely injure her arm and shoulder but perhaps scrambled her poor brain, as well. “I…”

“I was making a joke. Something I’m not very good at.”

“Of course.” He forces an awkward smile.

“Thank you, Councilman.”

“Thank you, Chancellor.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Auxi lets out a frustrated breath and pours two mugs of Deychin tea. Floral steam rises. Mon lets it bathe her chin and cheeks and closes her eyes for a moment, relishing the momentary peace.

“I could put brandy in it,” Auxi says.

“Tempting. Sorely tempting. But no,” Mon says with a sigh. “Last thing I need is for Ek to storm back in here and smell that on my breath.”

“He’s a pompous bombast. History will make him marginal.”

Mon sips the tea. “He’s hard in the bag for Senator Wartol.”

“Don’t worry about Wartol. In a few months, he, too, will be marginal.”

“Oh, I rather doubt that. How are his numbers?”

Auxi gives her a look. No, not a look, but rather the look: a look dripping with such incredulity, it could fill a cup to overflowing. “You don’t really want to play that game right now, do you?”

“I do.”

“As your adviser, I strongly advise you to sit and drink your tea. And I also advise you to find a second adviser. Hostis…” Her words trail off, broken by a fracture of grief. The chancellor knows that her two advisers did not get along very well professionally, often fighting fiercely from two diametrically opposed points of view. But at the end of the day, they were friends. They drank together. They ate together. Their families did the same. Then his life was cut short by an assassin’s blaster on that fate-dark day. “Hostis is gone, and we need someone like him. We need his voice.”