Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(18)

“Leadership can mean defiance.”

“Palpatine was defiant.”

“So was Leia. And you’re not Palpatine.”

Leia. Another complication. It’s political, yes—her friend went against her explicitly, but of course that is a blade that cuts both ways, isn’t it? Mon defied her, too. She couldn’t get it done with Kashyyyk. Couldn’t convince the Senate. Then again: Did she really try? She was hoping to handle the newly reformed Senate gently, gingerly, so as not to feel like she was pushing or pulling them. But perhaps leadership required a bit more of Leia’s brand of defiance.

Leia. A political complication, but also an emotional one. They betrayed each other, a little at least. It hurts Mon’s heart.

Auxi says, “We need to find an angle for you. Crime is an angle. The Empire goes away, and crime is up in its wake. The syndicates are struggling for dominance. We could go heavy on crime. Become the ‘law-and-order’ candidate without leaning too autocratic. Or if we played up the Kashyyyk angle with Leia by your side again…”

And then, as if on cue—

One of the chancellor’s protocol droids pops its head in through the door. Metal face coated in white matte enamel. The droid, R-K77, chimes in a crisp Chandrilan accent:

“Chancellor, you have an urgent meeting request.”

Of course. Everyone’s desires are always urgent, aren’t they?

“From whom?”

“Princess Leia Organa of the Alderaan sector.”

Her ears must be burning.

Mon asks, “Did she say what it was regarding?”

“No, Chancellor,” the droid says. “Only that it was of the utmost importance. She said to tell you it was a Code K-One-Zero.”

That was a Rebel Alliance code: Disengage and regroup. Last time they used that code, it was the signal that came out of Hoth when the Empire attacked their base.

“Send a reply. Tell her I’m on my way.”





Temmin sits on a cushioned bench. Sinjir paces in front of him.

“She’ll be fine,” Sinjir is saying to Temmin. “Your mother has Jas with her. They’re both tough. Tougher than you and me put together, boy. You needn’t worry about her. They’ll be better than fine. You watch—the two of them will tear the Empire out of the sky with their bare hands. I’m not worried and you should not be worried, either.”

Sinjir is lying. The boy can tell that much. Usually, the ex-Imperial keeps all his emotions neatly vacu-sealed behind a cool, disdainful veneer. But that veneer is cracked. Worry bleeds out. A tremor of fear hums in his every word—each syllable like a nerve freshly plucked.

The two of them sit in a room. Only now does Temmin even realize what this room is: It’s a nursery. Or the start of one. He’s been staring at a round, white egglike orb against the far wall now for the better part of ten minutes, not even seeing it. More like seeing through it. But then it clicks that he’s looking at an infancy cradle. That cradle will serve as a bubble of safety for the coming child. Above it is a holo-port, ready to project—well, he guesses a mobile or other soothing images and sounds. An ocean lapping at the shore, or rain on a jungle canopy.

Princess Leia’s baby, he knows, will have a good life. The best life. A family kept together, a father and mother who love him…

Temmin doesn’t remember being a baby, but he remembers seeing his old crib in storage after Dad was captured and Mom left for the Rebellion. His cradle was in the old unfancy Akivan style: mesh sides, dark wood, curved slats at the bottom so it could rock back and forth. Netting over the top, too, to keep out the waves of ya-ya flies that came after every storm.

No ya-ya flies here. No old, creaky crib.

And no mother, either. No Norra.

“We have to go back for her,” he says through gritted teeth. It’s already been eight hours. Eight hours since Mom, Jas, and Bones jettisoned themselves toward Jakku. Eight hours since the Moth jumped into hyperspace, narrowly avoiding death by torpedo. Anything could happen in eight hours. The Empire may have shot them down. Or found and captured them. Or maybe they died on impact. Temmin bites his lip. He tastes blood.

“We will,” Sinjir says. “We’ll find a way.”

But just as Temmin hears worry in his friend’s voice—he also hears doubt. He’s about to call that out when the door opens. A familiar face shows itself: Han Solo. Leia’s husband. Captain of the infamous Millennium Falcon. Not long ago, Leia hired the crew to find Solo. They found him, all right, and ended up helping him get back his copilot, Chewbacca, on Kashyyyk.

Solo has a couple of fruits, one in each hand. He offers one to Sinjir, then tosses the other to Temmin. The boy catches it, just barely.

“Jogan fruit,” Han says, looking uncomfortable. “I, ahh, bought a bunch so it’s fine. Eat ’em. I don’t think Leia wants them.” Moments like this, moments of real emotion, seem to bother the smuggler. He’s like Sinjir that way. Most of him seems to be hidden away behind a wall of blustery ego and cocky pride. “Two of you don’t look so good. If you need something, I can get the droid to—”

“What I need is my mother back,” Temmin says, leaping to his feet. He gets in Solo’s face. “I need you to take us back to Jakku. C’mon. Let’s go. We get the Falcon and we charge in there, cannons blazing—”