Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(35)

Uncertainty plagues her. She hates using the military as a lever. And yet at the same time she now fears that she was too hasty in relieving herself of certain powers. Certainly this would be much easier if the allocation of military resources did not rely on politics. Ah, but isn’t that exactly how Palpatine felt? The Senate stood in the way of progress. So he manipulated the Senate, overwhelmed it, and inevitably abolished it. No. She is doing the right thing. Politics is meant to be turbulent. It is meant to be slow and steady—elastic, too, so that the system bends but does not break.

“I would not normally divulge such information publicly, but my hand has been forced—further, it is safe to assume the Empire is aware of our probes testing the margins of their occupation. Which means we must act quickly to seize what advantage we have. As such, I am calling the Senate to an emergency session tonight, where I will resolve that we must mobilize our armed services to war against the Galactic Empire in the skies above Jakku—and perhaps even upon its surface. It is with a heavy heart that I call us to war once more, but I am vigilant that the threat of the Empire must not stand in the way of our safety and our sanity. I know that the Senate will stand with me. And when they do, I am confident that this will be the end of the Empire.”

The chancellor gives a curt nod and steps out of the circle.

Tracene gives Birt, the cam operator, the signal. He cuts the feed.

The circle goes dark.

“You did fine,” Tracene says.

“You must have sensed my apprehension.”

“No.”

She’s lying, Mon thinks. But so it goes. It is rare that she receives the straight truth from anybody anymore.

“It’s just—it must be hard, being you. Under siege from every direction.”

“Yes,” Mon says. “It is hard. But we persevere. Like the Rebel Alliance before us, like the New Republic now. We persevere.”

—

The man with bronze skin and a scruffy, sand-colored beard seems taken aback by the guest at his door.

“Oh” is all he says.

“Hello, Conder,” Sinjir says as greeting. He chills his voice, putting some ice into it. Just to ensure that it is clear he is not here on a mission of mercy. Also to make it clear that he has no feelings here at all, lest anyone believe him somehow sentimental.

“Sinjir.”

“May I come in?”

“And if I said no?”

“Then I would pout so powerfully, my mopishness would take corporeal form and kick the door down.”

Conder’s warm eyes light up as his face softens. “Same old Sinjir. Sure. Come on in.”

Inside, the man’s apartment is the epitome of austerity. Sinjir’s fingerprints are long gone—he, too, prefers spartan living, but still likes a little splash of color now and again: the bloody blush of a hai-ka flower bouquet or the rich cerulean of a saltwater octo-fish tank. Conder has gone back to décor that is black, white, and gray. The only flash the domicile offers is a punctuation of brushed-chrome cabinet handles or silvra-stone tile. He would have done well as an interior decorator in the halls of the Empire.

“I don’t feel like the same old,” Sinjir says. “Maybe just old.”

“You are not old. Neither of us is.”

“Fine. Older, then. And definitely not the same.”

“You seem the same to me.”

“Well, I feel different,” Sinjir snaps. Oh, my, this isn’t going as expected. Not that he should’ve expected anything else, he supposes. “I need you. Your help, I mean.” By all the bloody, stupid stars, untangle your tongue, Rath Velus. “It’s not even me that needs your help, so don’t get any damn ideas. It’s the princess. She needs you.”

“She could’ve called me herself.”

“Yes. But this is sensitive.”

Conder leans up against the counter. “You want to sit? Have a drink?”

I would like that very much.

“No!” Sinjir answers sharply, too sharply, despite the contrary thought doing loops in his heart. “No, I would not like a drink.”

“Then maybe you really are a different Sinjir. Not one here to kill me, I hope? Chip stuck in the back of your head?” Conder was one of the ones who helped decipher that little riddle for the New Republic. It’s why Sinjir is here, now, to see him.

“I believe we have a bug. In Leia’s domicile.”

Conder hrms and scuffs a heel against the ground. “This about what’s going on? The Empire at Jakku?” Suddenly he stands up straight. “Oh, Sin. Tell me you’re not somehow involved in all that.”

“Two of my people are there. Norra and Jas. On the ground. Under the Empire’s boot. This may be related to all that. I…don’t know, yet.”

“They’re my people, too.” Conder reaches out to touch Sinjir’s arm— But Sinjir pulls away.

“Will you help?” he asks Conder.

“On one condition.”

“There are no conditions. You’ll not hold me hostage with emotional blackmail. Either you will help or you won’t.”

Conder sighs. “I just want to know why you left me.”

“Because we were done.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“Obviously, I did fool you.”