Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(72)

All eyes fall to Rethalow.

The Frong remains quiet. Jom drives an elbow into the senator’s side. “Go on, barnacle. Tell them what you told me.”

“Our votes were bought,” the Frong says in Basic, the words coming out so quickly that at first it barely registers with Sinjir. “Three of us, anyway. Me, Ek, and Wieedo.”

“We know Ek and Wieedo got payouts,” Solo says. Admittedly, they didn’t know that, but now the assumption is a safe one. “What did you get?”

“A…a trade deal,” the Frong stammers.

A trade deal?

Sinjir leans in. “And the other two? Nim Tar and Sorka? What did they get for their vote?”

“Threatened. Th-they were threatened. Nim Tar’s child was taken. And Senator Sorka’s jerba, too.”

Sinjir throws a look to the others. “Jerba? Help me out, please.”

It’s Solo who answers. “Kind of a…smooth-haired animal. You can ride ’em, milk ’em, eat ’em. There’s a whole subculture of breeders—I once smuggled a mated pair off Tatooine for a private seller. Personally, I think they’re uglier than the back end of a shaved bantha, but that’s me.”

Sorka gave up her vote because her prize animal was taken, Sinjir thinks. How charming. Democracy is well and truly fragile, isn’t it?

Sinjir asks Rethalow, “Who did this, Senator?”

“I…mustn’t say.”

Jom looks like he’s about to drive another elbow into the Frong’s ribs, but Sinjir leans in and stops him with a gentle hand and a shake of his head. Then he kneels down in front of Rethalow.

“Senator,” Sinjir says, his voice calm and slow even though his mind is a hurricane whipped with fears over Conder. “I need your help here. A friend of mine remains missing and I believe whoever has solicited your vote is responsible. They offered you a trade deal?”

Hesitantly, the Frong nods. Its tubules curl inward with fear. “Th-the New Republic hasn’t yet secured the Outer Rim. Frong is v-vulnerable. By giving my vote, I’m earning protection for my planet and my people. You see? Do you see? The New Republic c-can’t afford to extend its protection to us, not yet, not yet, and until then we have no navy, no fleet…!”

It’s not a trade deal. It’s a protection scheme.

That means—

“Criminals,” Sinjir says. “You’ve given your vote over to criminals.”

“Y-yes.”

“Who?”

“I…”

Still it withholds. And why wouldn’t the senator? The Frong knows who has the power here. Sinjir needs power. He needs leverage.

So, he lies. A little.

“I’m close with the chancellor. I am an adviser of hers. I can assure you that we will extend New Republic protections to your world immediately. We won’t leave you to the darkness. That is, if you comply. If you give me what I need to know, we will help you. If you fail, this is the end. You will no longer be a member of the Senate. Your world will be fed to the monsters and we will offer little more than a sad wave goodbye. You will be shamed for how you failed them. Which is not your fault. But this situation cannot go unrectified, and so either you help us, or that’s it. The door closes and we have nothing but exile for you.”

It’s all calculated. Sinjir doesn’t know a great deal about the Frong—their world is in a fringe system with a dim star and they have little to offer the galaxy except some fruit, some spice, and clean water. But he does know that the Frong are insular and clannish. They are tight-knit, coming from practically incestuous bloodlines. When he says words like shame and exile—those are concepts the Frong know intimately. And it registers on Rethalow’s face, too: Its eyes dilate tighter as Sinjir speaks.

“I’ll…tell you.”

“Who did this, Senator? And where are they?”

“I don’t know where. I don’t! But I know who. Black Sun and the Red Key Company have formed an alliance. They’ve…partnered.”

Two syndicates. Venerable Black Sun and the upstart Red Key. If the two of them are allying, it’s a sign of things to come. Sensible, in a way. If the New Republic wins a final victory, then it behooves the syndicates to shore up their assets and form alliances against the looming threat of a government that will not tolerate their illicit activities.

Then it hits him. Sinjir understands. If the New Republic wins a final victory at Jakku, the Empire is done. The longer the war rages, the better the chances that the syndicates will survive—they can feed on the chaos and use that time to bolster their efforts. That’s what this is. The vote to delay the war isn’t about politics at all. It’s about the syndicates staying in the game.

He stands up. “Thank you, Senator. Let’s get you to safety.” He means it, too. If the Black Sun and Red Key guess that one of their senators is compromised, they’ll put a laser bolt through one of his eyes. His mind races—the others are talking to him, saying who-knows-what, but he’s not listening. He’s trying to think of a way to find Conder, to find Nim Tar’s child and Sorka’s stupid show-jerba. Would their abductors remain here on Nakadia? They would remain close, surely. Both to watch the vote and to ensure that the Senators vote the way they’re supposed to. Which means they’d be on the planet’s surface or out in space—