Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(49)

“The messaging of our occupation here—” Obdur starts to say, but Rax cuts him off with a hissing shush. Obdur is an admirable lout, and truly, Rax appreciates the power of propaganda. It is a necessary and theatrical component of what they do, and Rax loves nothing more than he loves theater. But Obdur’s function dwindles. There is no more “message.” The value of propaganda is nearly zero. Unless it could be used to taunt the New Republic into attacking…

No. That would be too bold on the face of it. A magic trick is best performed when the audience doesn’t know it’s a trick at all.

It is decided. He will have Obdur killed. It’s no great loss. Obdur was a staunch ally of Sloane, and look how she turned out. (So disappointing.) Ending him must be done quietly, though. Rax will not bloody his own hands, not in this. Perhaps this is a test for Hux’s new recruits…

Speaking of Hux, the man looks worried. As usual. His broad shoulders curl inward—his posture has been wretched of late. This world is having its effect on him. And admittedly, Rax has been making inordinate demands of the man and his talents. Thing is, Gallius needs Hux. Not just now, but for what comes later. He must be preserved in sanity and in body. It may be time to confide in the man more completely.

Of course, that went poorly with Sloane.

A conundrum. One that will have to wait. For now, a different matter calls, one that demands he bloody his hands.

Rax leaves them before the meeting is over.

He heads downstairs, past the prefab training facility—where troopers gather and battle, encircled by their mates and cheered on by bloodthirsty officers. Betting is fast and furious. Their training is more brutal now. Survivalist, animalistic—as fits this vicious world. He has no time to watch them maul one another.

Rax heads deeper still.

It’s cooler down here in the sublevel. Pipes and conduits line the hallways, circumnavigating the base’s necessary mechanisms. He winds through the hallways and finds the door—the room beyond is mostly just storage of unimportant things: uniforms and manuals, mostly, both elements of a more refined Empire, an Empire that cannot endure.

In this room, a very old man waits. His hands are bound behind his back; his knees touch the floor. Like he’s praying. How appropriate.

“Anchorite Kolob,” Rax says.

The man lifts his head, his eyes narrowing to tired slits as he stares through the half dark of the room. Even from here, Rax can see how old he has become. Everything looks pinched and puckered. Deep lines and liver-dark blotches mark his face, his neck, his hands…

“Who is that? Who are you?” The voice is trembling and cracked.

“You don’t remember me,” Rax says.

“Should I?”

“Is your mind weakening? Or am I merely that forgettable?”

The anchorite sighs. “My mind is flint-sharp. It is capable of seeing all the suffering of the waking world, just as it is sure to remember the Eremite’s precepts on torment—”

“Don’t. I do not require your spiritual lectures. I require only that you see me. Do you know me?”

“I…” But Kolob’s eyes widen and focus. His mouth moves to form a smile as the memory forms—and then, appropriately, the smile falls away. “Ah. Yes. The boy who left. The boy at the margins. Galli, is that you?”

“It is, Kolob.”

The man’s shoulders sag. “It’s been you all along.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve been the one stealing our children.”

A small smile grows on Rax’s face. “And why would you say that?”

“Because you did it then, too. As a boy you wooed the other children away from the orphanage. Brev. Narawal. Kateena. They became wayward as you were wayward. Wild and rebellious.”

“No, not rebellious. I merely found purpose away from your foolish faith. And the children found that purpose, too.”

“And what became of them, Galli?”

I killed them to keep a secret. “They fulfilled their purpose.”

“And why are you stealing children now? It isn’t your Imperials coming for them. It’s thugs and hunters and scavs coming for them in the night. But it’s your hand I see directing them. Why hide it?”

Why hide it, indeed? “I am taking the children because they, too, will serve a purpose for me. They will be the first.”

“The first what?”

But that, Rax will not answer. Behind him, someone emerges from the shadows of the hallway: a man in a red mask, pointed and demonic, cast out of metal and fixed with hell-black rivets. That man is Yupe Tashu, once adviser to Emperor Palpatine and now an adviser to Counselor Rax.

Tashu says, “The anchorite’s faith has ties to the Force. To the light side. A thousand years ago, the anchorites of Jakku bound themselves to the Jedi. But now the dark side prevails.”

Tashu bows his head and hands Rax a long knife with a black blade.

“Look at you,” Kolob says. “A little savage who learned to sing. Knowing what fork to use makes you no less of a feral child. Here you are, come to show me how much you’ve grown, and yet I see you’ve grown not a whit. You speak of purpose. What is our purpose today, little Galli? Why bring me here? No. You don’t need to answer that. I see the purpose is now in your hand. Though after all this time, why?”