Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(58)

“It’s not that easy.”

Jom turns on him and thrusts a callused finger up into the ex-Imperial’s face. “It is that easy. It’s always that easy.”

“Not this time,” Sinjir says, his tone dire. “Surrounding that planet is the entire Imperial remnant. One imagines it’s like Akiva—a total occupation. Except this is ten times worse than Akiva. A hundred times. Jom, we don’t even know if Jas and Norra are alive down there. What we do know is, if we have any shot here, that means hitting the Empire hard as we can. And to do that, we need a resolution to engage them. We need to finish this war.”

“I’m afraid that’s above my pay grade, Sinjir.”

“But it isn’t. I have a plan.”

Jom scratches his unshorn face—the mustache and chops he used to keep neatly trimmed have grown into a scraggly shrub on his cheeks and chin. “You have a plan. This ought to be rich.”

“It is. You work for the Senate now, correct?”

“Nngh. I work the security pool, yeah.”

“Good. How do you feel about Nakadia this time of year?”





Senator Tolwar Wartol’s yacht is a Ganoidian tri-deck cruiser. Spare in its design, it is far from a luxury craft. Everything is hard angles and flat surfaces. The front end of the ship looks like a set of steps. Most of the vessel is boxy in some parts, knife-like in others. Presently it sits docked at the Senate hangar—it is one of the last ships remaining, the rest already having gone on to Nakadia, where the Senate will now convene. The cruiser’s engines are cycling, and harbor crew perform all the proper cross-checks. A droid disconnects a fueling hose from the tail port.

Wartol does not expect her, and so it is the perfect time to strike. Before the ramp can be raised, Mon Mothma marches forward—a diligent woman of purpose flanked by two plume-helmeted guards—and storms right on board the ship. Wartol’s own guards, all Orishen, attempt to stand in her way, crossing pikes in front of her. She sneers at them, undaunted.

“Do you think that’s wise? One suspects the senator will be disappointed to learn that his guards cost him a measure of popularity because they turned the chancellor of the New Republic away through the threat of violence.” Frankly, she suspects that at this point turning her away might earn him a bump in popularity. But the bluff works—their nose-slits twitch and pucker as they pull their pikes away.

She steps aboard.

Wartol stands nearby in a sitting area, and it gives her a bit of joy to find him startled by her presence. He turns quickly away from the viewport, like a naughty child caught spying on a neighbor. He regains his composure a moment later, and the victory is small, but right now Mon Mothma takes whatever edge she can get.

“Chancellor,” he says. His voice is a booming drum in the well of his chest. It has a rich vibrato to it, a doomed music. “Apologies, I was lost in thought. And I did not expect you.”

“Odd, given that I have been trying to pin you to a meeting for the last week.” She smiles stiffly.

“Things, as you know, have been rather busy.”

“You’re not busy now. I will join you on your trip to Nakadia. We can enjoy the journey together, Senator. Does that sound all right?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Her icy smile is unswerving. “Not an easy one.”

With a gesture of his long-fingered hand, his own guards disappear from the room. She dismisses her own protectors accordingly.

The sitting room is spare: Everything is as boxy inside the ship as it is outside. The chairs are hard enamel. The viewports are tall and topped with telescoping steel shutters. The floor is cold. The room contains no fabric, no softness, nothing to endear you to it. It is as unwelcoming as a brick.

Like Wartol, in a way.

Still, she sits when he offers her a chair. It isn’t comfortable, exactly, but she admits that the rigidity of it suits her.

Wartol takes his seat across from her. He lifts a bowl off a nearby table—as he hands it to her, hard, osseous little sockets rattle around inside it. They look like knucklebones. In each is a bit of yellow flesh, dried and dusted. It’s food…she thinks.

“Nektods,” he says. “Little pod-creatures that form on the sides of our ships, filtering in whatever micro-fauna they can eat. They survive the vacuum of space. They are quite tough, but you marinate them and roast them slowly over low heat, and they become a snack.”

Mon has politely eaten the food of countless species—decorum demands it, and she does not disappoint here, either. She takes one of the bony bits and turns it over in her hand again and again. He instructs her to place it to her lips and suck the meat out of its center, which she does. She expects it to taste…well, bad. Fishy or mealy or fungal. But it is oddly refreshing. A citrus tang and salty wave hit her tongue.

He eats one, too. Wartol does not look at his food as he eats, though. The X-shaped irises of his deep-set eyes stare at Mon, as if dissecting her. The corneas drift and pulse. It’s almost hypnotizing. His regal, deep voice and his kaleidoscopic eyes give her a sense of why he’s so popular. That, and he carries the invisible mantle of leadership. It fits him well.

He could win this thing, you know…What would you do if he did? Where would you go? What role would you serve, Mon?

Outside: The clang of the fueling hose decoupled from the ship jars her from her poisonous thoughts.