Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(76)

Sinjir stalks the half dark. He draws his own blaster. Some bent-necked Ithorian comes charging up—but Sinjir’s arm is already up, his finger is already tightening. The Ithorian goes from two eyes to three as a searing hole opens in the center of his head.

I am the brightest beam of light.

The storm of violence roils. A shelf crashes down against another. Jom is on the floor, tackled by a smash-faced Iotran—the two wrestle against his rifle, thrashing about. Ahead, Solo runs and guns, ducking and darting, his blaster spitting plasma.

Bright spears of red crisscross in front of Sinjir, carving scorching lines in his vision. Motion comes from his right—Sinjir does not even pause to regard it. His movement is automatic, driving the butt end of his rifle hard to that side—it crashes into the throat of some one-eyed pirate with a little head and a big gut. The man yowls and gargles past his own crushed trachea. Sinjir shoots him in the chest, then kicks him away before continuing through the warehouse space.

I am the brightest beam of light.

And that light now shines on Conder Kyl. Everything focuses on that point: Conder at the far end of the warehouse, kneeling on the floor, his head down, hands bound behind him. Beyond him, another figure: a child in a metal cage, a child with a bobbling wobbling head atop a white stalk neck. Nim Tar’s child, abducted and kept close. No sign of the jerba, but Sinjir can’t give one hot damn about that. Truth be told, he cares nothing for the child, either. The only one he cares about is Conder.

A massive Herglic stands by the slicer, rubbery mitt grabbing the back of Conder’s head—the monster wrenches his head backward, and now Sinjir can see Conder’s bruised, nose-broken face. The Herglic’s massive maw opens and roars a threat—Come closer and I’ll break his neck—and Sinjir knows the beast can do it. Will do it. But only if Sinjir is slow.

And Sinjir is very fast.

I am the brightest beam of light.

Even as the brute finishes his threat, Sinjir is already firing his blaster.

The blaster was never his specialty. Uddra told him, You are the weapon; no blaster will ever do the damage you can do when you’re up close. But he isn’t close, not now, and this is the only tool he has. He has to shoot true. He has to come correct.

The plasma bolt spears the air.

The Herglic tightens his grip—

Don’t you hurt him, don’t you dare hurt him—

Conder cries out, his eyes going wide—

No, no, no—

The plasma bolt punches through the Herglic’s roaring mouth and out the back of his head. The Herglic moans, the bleating cry of a dying aiwha, and drops backward like a stack of crates.

Conder topples over to the side. Unmoving.

I am the brightest beam of light.

Brightest, yes. But was he the fastest?

The blaster rifle clatters—

Sinjir’s footsteps echo in time with his own pounding heart. He drops to his knees, sliding forward to scoop Conder up, cradling him. The slicer’s head flops lifelessly to the side and Sinjir feels his eyes burning hot tears—

I wasn’t the fastest. I was too slow.

Then Conder’s one eye wrenches open. He gasps. Sinjir gasps with him. “Conder. You’re okay? Tell me you’re okay. Tell me you’re okay.” He’s used to pulling information out of people one fingernail at a time; now he just wants the most basic data: Are you okay, Conder, are you okay?

“Took you long enough,” Conder says, woozily smiling.

Sinjir stoops and kisses him. His long-fingered hands pull the other man’s scruffy face into his own. The moment lasts forever.

And it still doesn’t last long enough. Because now here’s Han, and he’s got a hand on Sinjir’s shoulder—

“We’re not done yet, remember.”

Sinjir remembers. He stares deep into Conder’s eyes. “I’m going to get you free. I know you’re hurt. But we need your help. Can you slice?”

“With you by my side, I can do anything.”





The Nakadian chamber house isn’t like the one on Chandrila—the Chandrilan chamber had an epic sweep to it, with endless scalloped balconies atop endless balconies, as far as the eyes could see. The one here on Nakadia is smaller, more humble. It’s wood, not stone. Simple chairs in wooden boxes. Nothing is sculpted, nothing ornate. The seats are not merely before her, but all around her in what feels like a whirling cyclone of faces looking down upon her. Judging her, she suspects.

The speech Mon Mothma gives ahead of the vote is essentially the same as she gave back on Chandrila a week before, but it is shorter, and it is angrier. The anger is real because she fears that no matter what she says, it won’t matter. She fears she is screaming into a void.

We have to vote yes.

We have to end the Empire.

We mustn’t be hesitant. Not now. Not so close to its conclusion.

And she adds in one last barb, a line she knows she will one day regret because it does not sound like her—the threat, the bluster, the venom—but she says it anyway: “Those who vote no: Recognize that you are marked. You will be marked as cowards at best and traitors at worst.”

She does not like the way she sounds, even though she knows the words are sincere. I sound like a dictator. She sounds like Palpatine.

The chancellor leaves the circular stage by going down a set of spiraling steps. At the bottom, she nearly collapses against the railing, she’s so tired, so bone-weary. After righting herself, she ends up in the small office afforded to her, an office underground whose window is literally pressed up against the soil: In the rich tilth she sees the lightning shape of forked roots and the turning tunnels of crawling worms.