He finishes the refrain: “Then farmers would fly.”
Sloane pitches forward into the breach, moving fast. Everything has been coming to this moment and she’s like a compressed spring coming unsprung—like she’s been saving up all that hatred and all that rage, tamping it down deep, so deep that it’s ready to burst out like a scalding geyser. The rage and the hate end at the front of her fist.
Rax isn’t a boxer. He hasn’t had to fight his own fight since forever—maybe since never. He doesn’t see the hit coming.
The fist clubs him in the nose. It gives way with a pop.
He goes down, and she drops atop him, snarling.
—
At the computer, Brentin’s fingers move hesitantly over the keys. He hits one button and the holoscreen flashes angrily, a pulse of red light filling the room. Brentin curses and closes his eyes, refocusing.
The ground quakes again, sending her heart into her throat. Norra sees the percentage dwindling. Now it’s down to 47.
“We should’ve given her the blaster,” Brentin says suddenly.
“What?”
“Sloane. She’s alone. And unarmed.”
Norra bares her teeth at him, then gestures at him with the weapon. “Brentin, I don’t even know which part is you and which part is the chip in your head. Until we get it out, I’ll never know. Just turn this thing off.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, staring down at the keys, his fingers moving frantically. “I’m so sorry for everything.”
“Now isn’t the time.”
“Now might be the only time, Norra. I want you to know, the man who did those things on Chandrila—it wasn’t me.”
“…I know. But I also don’t know which man you are now.”
“I’m me. It’s not the chip.”
“So why are you with her?” Norra seethes. “She’s the enemy, Brentin. The one you promised to fight against with tooth and claw when you joined the Rebellion. And now here you are, traveling with her? Maybe that chip in your head scrambled your brain, but she’s not your wife.”
“She isn’t with the Empire anymore.”
“Oh. That’s comforting. I’m sure that erases everything she’s done.”
“It doesn’t. I know it doesn’t. But…” Her husband utters a wordless moan that devolves into a frustrated growl. The screen suddenly flashes red again and he squeezes both of his hands into fists. “I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t, okay? All I know is, even if I wasn’t in control of myself, I did a bad thing and I want to fix it. Sloane wanted the same thing, I think, and we found ourselves together here with common purpose—”
“?‘Together.’ That’s great.”
“Not like that,” he pleads. “Please. I love you. I’m here for you. And for Tem. I wanted to do something right to counteract the wrong I’d done. Being on Jakku, it felt good. It felt like justice.”
“What do you want to do, Brentin? Go in after her?”
“She needs our help. She’s not as bad as you think she is.”
“And she’s still not any good.”
“There’s a greater evil in there—”
“Then let her fight it by herself.”
—
Anger and hatred are blinding. Sloane realizes that too late. When she unleashed them, it was like a white flash. It was satisfying and warm. But it blinded her. Rax took the hit and went down, but it was way too easy. Soon as she’s on top of him, she sees that glint in his eyes—clever and wary—and she knows she’s just been lured into making yet another mistake.
His fist pistons into her side. Right where the ribs never healed, right where Norra shot her back on Chandrila. And the fist—it doesn’t hit like a set of hard knuckles. It has a peak to it. A sharpness. Pain hits her there like a lightning strike and she howls. Her eyes are closed for half a second—
And then her head rocks backward as he lurches upward, slamming his forehead into her lower jaw, bam. Her teeth dig into her lip. Blood fills her mouth and she falls off him. Stars dance and light smears across her vision. She gags on her own fluids as she crab-walks backward, anguish washing over her like a tide of acid.
Rax is back on his feet and marching toward her. Sloane tries to stand but he drives the nose of his boot into her side. The same side. Something gives way. A bone. A rib. She cries out and slumps.
He has something in his hand. Rax gives it a little twirl—
A carving of some kind. A hooded figure.