Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(29)
“My no go somewhere, either.”
“Maybe we can go nowhere together?”
“Dat bombad idea!”
“Oh.” Mapo dips his chin to his chest. “Sorry.”
But Jar Jar laughs. “No. Bombad. My smilin! Wesa be pallos, pallo.” The Gungan pats the boy on the head.
Mapo doesn’t know what’s going on, but bombad must mean “good,” somehow, so he goes with it. “Can you teach me to be a clown, too?”
“Bein clownin is bombad, too. My teachin yousa, pallo. Wesa maken the whole galaxy smilin, huh?”
“Sounds good to me, Jar Jar. And thanks.”
Jar Jar gives him a thumbs-up and a big grin. Pallos, indeed.
Night on Chandrila. Wind eases in through the windows, the curtains blowing, the breeze bringing the smell of sea brine and late-summer mist.
“Look,” Solo says, the holographic star map floating in the space amid him, Temmin, and Sinjir. “Jakku’s a dirtworld, so that’s good. You won’t need to find a spaceport. The trick is getting past the blockade and landing somewhere they can’t see you.” He swipes the air and the hologram goes away. “I don’t have any good maps of Jakku, but I can tell you most of that place is just dunes and rocks. But the buttes and plateaus lead into canyons, and canyons are a fine place to lose the Empire.” He smirks. “Trust me, I know. Any bolt-hole you can find: Take it.”
Sinjir watches the smuggler. A smuggler, or a hero of the Rebellion? Does it even matter anymore? He’s about to be a father. That’s his role, now.
And it’s driving him nuts, by the look of it. Sinjir’s seen something similar: Back in the Empire, you’d have officers stationed in faraway places, remote locations, distant bases. Some of them had that glint in their eyes, the wild stare of a tooka-cat someone tried to domesticate—it’s the spark of dissatisfaction with your own captivity. Like you’re trapped. Always imagining a different life.
It’s important to see that spark, and to know it can turn into a full-on steel-melting fire if you aren’t careful. Sinjir always knew to look for those around him with that flash in their eye. It was always they who would betray the Empire. Their wildness made them dangerous.
Solo’s like that. That wildness—some combination of foolhardiness and happy lawlessness—is there behind his stare. He longs for adventure. Craves it like some poor souls crave a smear of spice on the tongue. (Or a drink on the lips, he thinks.) And in this way, it makes sense suddenly that Solo fit so well inside the Rebellion. The Rebel Alliance was just a formalized coalition of criminals seeking to undermine their government, rebels angry at their captivity—caged, as they were, by a lack of choices. (Though maybe that’s Sinjir’s lingering Imperial side talking.) All this is why Sinjir could never be a father. Solo will eventually find comfort in his captivity, but Sinjir would never find such peace. Settling down just isn’t one of his skills. It’s why he had to be rid of Conder.
(Conder…)
His mind suddenly wanders, his heart flutters, and he curses himself.
Solo confirms what Sinjir already suspects when the pirate says: “Now, I told you, you can take the Falcon…but you’d be a good sight better if you let me captain it. You don’t know her like I do. She’s…finicky.”
“I flew it back from Kashyyyk, y’know,” Temmin says.
“Not it. Her. Give the Falcon some respect, kid.”
“Fine, yeah, okay. I just mean: I can fly it. Her.”
Right now, it’s just the three of them in Leia’s apartment overlooking the coast. Ten steps to their right and they’d be out on the balcony, gazing out over the Silver Sea, the stars scattered across the night sky like a million eyes gazing back. I’d kill to be out there right now with a jorum of skee in my hand, a little ice in the glass, and nobody to bother me.
(Conder…)
Foul, traitorous brain! Quit your meandering.
He has to bring himself back to the task at hand. Jakku. Norra. Jas. Fine, yes, the droid, too. And Solo’s helping them.
He’s helping them without Leia knowing, too.
She’s gone. Probably all night. The princess is with the chancellor and a spare few others, trying to determine the best course of action for the Empire and Jakku. That path, however, is a political one. Temmin and Sinjir have no time for politics. By the time the political machine growls to life and churns out a solution to their problem, Norra and Jas will be dead. So will Sinjir and Temmin. All of life in the galaxy will be dead because politics is slower than a mud-stuck AT-AT.
The plan is simple: Fly in with the Falcon, fast and furious.
The plan is also very stupid.
Sinjir says, “Might I offer a contrary suggestion: How about we don’t immediately fly a recognizable rebel ship into a starfield filled with the vessels of an enemy fleet. Instead, let me suggest sweet, sweet subterfuge. Those ships are being supplied somehow. We discover their supply line, we sneak aboard a cargo ship or shuttle—costumed in the guise of freight—and we let them deliver us to the surface like a present for a king.”
“You want us to hide in a box,” Temmin says, scowling.
“Well. When you put it that way, it sounds rather dreadful. But yes, we could hide in a box.” He’s about to ask Solo again if maybe, just maybe the smuggler has a bottle of Corellian rum hidden somewhere in this domicile— The front door opens. The droid, T-2LC, steps inside with a servo-whine. And following after is Princess Leia.