Aftermath (Star Wars: Aftermath, #1)

by Chuck Wendig

The confusion in the boy’s shining eyes is clear: He doesn’t understand what’s happening. But Rorak does. He’s heard tales of the Clone Wars—tales spoken by his own father. He knows how war goes. It’s not many wars, but just one, drawn out again and again, cut up into slices so it seems more manageable. For a long time he’s told his son not the truth but the idealized hope: One day the Empire will fall and things will be different for when you have children. And that may still come to pass. But now a stronger, sharper truth is required: “Jak—the battle isn’t over. The battle is just starting.” He holds his son close. Then he puts a hunk of statue in the boy’s hand. And he picks one up himself.

A scoundrel like Solo could convince a Jawa to buy a bag of sand.

But let me also remind you that we have enough ordnance on the Vigilance to turn you not only to scrap but rather, to a fine particulate matter. Like dust, cast across the dark.

War is not a state of being. It is meant to be a temporary chaos between periods of peace. Some want it to be the course of things: a default fact of existence. But I will not let that be so.”

“Democracy is not in need of defense. People are. And it’s why we’ll keep that ten percent. A peacekeeping force. The rest of our efforts will go toward training the militaries of other worlds. We will be a true Galactic alliance, and not a false one with an authoritarian sun at its center.”

We are not fighting the Empire just to become the Empire. This is not a power grab, and that’s what I want to show the galaxy. I want them to know that we trust them, as the Republic has always trusted them. If we’re going to ask anybody to fight for us, they need to know what they’re fighting for. And they will fight for a unified, democratic galaxy. Not one that merely pretends to be as it’s squeezed tighter in an unyielding fist. We must yield.

“This isn’t some kind of inspirational story. Some scrappy, ragtag underdog tale, some pugilistic match where we’re the goodhearted gladiator who brings down the oppressive regime that put him in the arena. They get to have that narrative. We are the ones who enslaved whole worlds full of alien inhabitants. We are the ones who built something called a Death Star under the leadership of a decrepit old goblin who believed in the ‘dark side’ of some ancient, insane religion.”

The Empire hurt people close to me. Family. Friends. A girl I loved, once. And I’m not alone. All of us in the New Republic, we all have stories like that.” He coughs. His eyes water. “We’re the harvest of all the horrible seeds you planted.”

Moments of uncomfortable silence spread out like something noxious spilling across the floor.

“That was a battle droid.” “I know.” “They’re the most inept fighting unit in…perhaps the history of the galaxy. And trust me, stormtroopers are basically just overturned mop buckets with guns, especially these days.”

The droid gives a robot thumbs-up. “Bones!” Temmin says, throwing his arms around the droid. “I PERFORMED VIOLENCE,” the droid warbles. Jas wonders if that’s pride she hears in the thing’s discordant voice. “ROGER-ROGER.”

The Empire is just a skin we wear, you see. A shell. It’s not just about law and order. It’s about total control. We will always come back for it. No matter how hard you work to beat us back, we are an infection inside the galaxy’s bones. And we will always surge forth when you least expect it.”

The Bith—the peace-loving, oratay-sipping Bith—stand up. The old man has a blaster rifle he yanks out from under his chair, and next thing Norra knows he screams a babble of profanity in his native tongue before firing futile laser bolts at the screaming Imperial fighter. The Bith woman, she shakes her fist and joins in the tirade.

The droid stands up. Servomotors whir as it regards its repaired arm—an arm that’s not so much an arm as it is an astromech leg. It spins the leg around, slow at first, then faster and faster until it’s just a blur. “THIS IS NOT MY ARM.” “I know, Bones. Sorry.” “THIS IS AN ASTROMECH LEG.” “No, no, I know.” “ASTROMECHS ARE INFERIOR. THEY ARE BEEPING BOOPING TRASH CANS. I AM MADE INFERIOR BY THE INCLUSION OF THIS NON-ARM.”

The stormtroopers drop. “HELLO MAY I COME IN,” Mister Bones intones. Sinjir sighs. “I think you said that part a little late.” “ROGER-ROGER.”

Chewie growls at him and points. “Yeah, yeah, now I really am some scruffy scoundrel. I grow this face pelt long enough, maybe they’ll think I’m you.”

“We don’t have any plan, pal,” he says. The Wookiee growls. “We’re making this up as we go.” Chewie nods and ululates. “Good. It’s like the old days, buddy.” Chewie grabs him with those big arms and shakes him like a cup of dice. Han grins and laughs and tries not to get crushed. “C’mon, Chewie. Set new coordinates. It’s time to get you home.”

Even her son’s crazy-eyed droid says: “I AM GLAD YOUR EXISTENCE HAS NOT BEEN REDUCED TO SCATTERED ATOMS, MASTER TEMMIN’S MOM.”

This is going to shake out with or without our help. And…maybe the New Republic are the good guys, maybe they’re not. Maybe nothing changes here. Maybe it even gets worse. We are the Outer Rim. We’re the part of the toilet bowl nobody wants to clean, okay?”

Sinjir hangs back, and urges Jas to hang back with him. “What is it?” she asks in a low voice. “We need to talk.” “Mm,” she says, nodding like this was inevitable. “I knew this would come. And yes, I concede.” “You concede what, exactly?” “You are satisfying.” “I…don’t follow. Satisfying? I don’t know what that means. I do know that it sounds awfully…milquetoast. Drinking a cup of protein slurry when you’re truly hungry is satisfying. And yet, disgusting.” Jas gives him a frustrated look. “I mean that I find you capable. You interest me. And so, yes, when all this is over, we may couple.” “Couple. Like—” His face goes suspiciously and surprisingly red. “Like you and me? Together?” “That is indeed what I mean.” He laughs. “Oh.” “If you’re going to laugh about it,” she says, suddenly stung. “Then you can take my invitation and stick it in your exhaust port.” “No, I just mean…I’m not into…this.” “This?” Her scowl deepens and her teeth bare. “Aliens?” “Women.” “Oh. Oh.” “Yes, oh.” “Oh.” Moments pass. The awkwardness between them is a living thing—like a cloud of flies you can’t ignore no matter how hard you try. Eventually she blurts out: “You wanted to speak to me about something else, apparently?” “Ah. Yes. The boy. Temmin.” “He’s clearly too young for you.”

He sees the realization hit her. It lands on her the way a fly lands on someone’s nose.

I’m just saying—how exactly did you program that droid to be so…that.” He gestures to the droid, who stops singing long enough to do a high kick.

And suddenly he’s forced to wonder if each Jawa is just a fraternity of wet rats gathering together under brown robes and a black face veil.

Three large rats in a trench coat. 😂

The Empire pretends it’s about law and order, but at the end of the day, it’s about dressing up oppression in the costume of justice.

This is stupid, Temmin thinks, hurrying over and kicking one of the pikes up into his hands. This is the worst idea, he thinks as he turns and runs full-tilt toward the edge of the roof. I am a laser-brained moon-calf who is going to die, he decides as he plants the tip of the pike down hard and uses it to launch himself off the palace roof.

He stands up, dusts himself off. Then someone taps him on the shoulder. Uh-oh. He turns. There stand two more stormtroopers, rifles up. And behind them come a pair of red-helmeted Imperial Guards. Their cloaks sweeping the floor behind them. “Hey, guys,” Temmin says, giving a fake laugh. “Is this not the twelve thirty space-bus to the Ordwallian Cluster Casino? No? Ooh. Awkward!” He turns and runs.

“You’re on the wrong side of history, Bor. You never did understand that the galaxy was more than one man.”

“You’ll pay for this.” “No,” she says. “We’ll get paid for this.”

“This is democracy,” she says. “It is strange. And it is messy. It’s not about getting it right. It’s about trying to get it right. Yes, it’s a bit chaotic. Certainly we will get some things wrong. The Empire? They cared nothing for democracy. They valued order above everything else. They wanted to be right so badly that anybody who even hinted at getting it wrong or doing it differently was branded the enemy and thrown in a dark prison somewhere. They destroyed other voices so that only their own remained. That is not us. We will not always get it right. We will never have it perfect. But we will listen. To the countless voices crying out across the galaxy, we have opened our ears, and we will always listen. That is how democracy survives. That is how it thrives.

Thanks, in fact, to all of Twitter because without social media, I don’t think I would have ever gotten to write this book. *clinks my glass of blue milk against yours*