My destiny is to see you die, she thinks.
And then, from the other plateau, a roar of fury. Out there, Niima the Hutt bellows and slithers swiftly across the desert floor toward them. The turbolasers don’t fire as she crosses the expanse. (That confirms Rax controls them—the turrets didn’t autotarget him or his shuttles.) Niima shrieks in proto-Huttese, the translation box offering its interpretation in loud mechanized monotone: “COUNSELOR. WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING OUT HERE IN THE—”
But Rax simply holds up his finger and loops it in an almost lazy, dismissive gesture. The troopers turn toward the Hutt, rifles up, and begin firing. Red lasers spear the night, sizzling and pocking as they pelt the Hutt and the slaves who ride her. The slug roars. Slaves fall.
But she doesn’t stop.
Niima suddenly changes course, heads toward one of the shuttles. Wailing in pain and rage, the Hutt moves with terrifying speed toward the closest shuttle, and she hits it like a charging beast. Her head gets under the ship and lifts—Sloane audibly gasps as the shuttle flips onto its side, the wing snapping as the troopers continue firing upon her.
Now the Hutt is coming this way. And Sloane thinks, This is it, this is my way out. She begins to eye the troopers, assessing which she should take— Niima slumps, sliding forward. Her last Hutt-slave, the one who originally draped the speaker around the worm’s neck (or, rather, lack of neck), hits the sand running, ululating— One shot between his eyes drops him.
And again all is still.
“Nasty business, dealing with traitors,” Rax says.
“It is,” Sloane says. “As you’ll see.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is.” She feels her body moving in time with her heartbeat—rocking side-to-side, bobbing up and down in case she has to run, attack, punch, kick, anything. She flits her gaze to Brentin. In it she attempts to convey a clear message: Be ready for anything. She looks to the stormtroopers again—no, not to all of them. Just to one. The one closest. That trooper stands there, his helmet crisscrossed with angry carved hashes filled with the accumulated rustred dirt of Jakku. To this trooper she says: “I am Grand Admiral Rae Sloane. I command you to capture Counselor Gallius Rax on the charge of treason against the throne.”
That trooper flinches—but doesn’t budge.
“They aren’t yours to command,” Rax says plainly. “A noble effort. And I’m sad you think that what I’ve done is treason. Don’t you see, Sloane? I’ve given the Empire a place again. A purpose.”
“It’s come to this, then? Death on a dead world. You’ve driven us all to the edge of the galaxy. To the edge of everything.”
“As I say: There is a purpose.”
She sneers. “But let me guess? I’ll never see it.”
“To the contrary. I’m taking you back. Alive.”
“Why?”
A slow, self-satisfied smile spreads across his face. “A show must have its audience, dear Sloane.” He turns to Brentin. “But whoever he is, he can go.”
The troopers raise their rifles—
Brentin cries out as fingers curl around triggers—
Sloane steps in front of him. “No. No. He comes with me.”
Rax laughs. “But why?”
Because if anybody can help me, it’s him. He saved her once. He’s helped her countless times already. If they kill him now, any utility he may yet possess will be gone.
Not that she can say that to Rax.
“He’s a rebel, if you’ll believe that. He had a chip in his head, a chip you helped put there. Don’t you want him to see what your seeds have grown? You want an audience? A witness? Then let him see what you’ve wrought.”
“Oh. Hm. A rebel, you say?” Her enemy pauses to think, and she watches him come to some silent conclusion. “I can use him, too.” To the troopers, Rax says: “Get them on board. We’ll take them back to base.”
The troopers gather her arms behind her and shove her forward, past Gallius. As she passes, she spits on his uniform—summoning that much moisture is a nearly heroic effort, but the result is as desired: Her saliva is laced with the filth of this planet and it stains the white accordingly.
He says: “This world has transformed us all, it seems.”
“You have no idea,” she says as they push her toward the shuttle.
“Welcome to Jakku, Rae Sloane. Welcome to Jakku.”
Already the morning sun is a searing presence, oppressive, like a boot on the back of the neck. Jas watches Norra stalk the wreckage—she moves through the debris of the caravan like a ghost. Her wailing is done. She spent that time last night, howling and raging. Now she’s a gutted thing. Probably thought it couldn’t get any worse. Then they saw Brentin.
And then they saw Brentin taken away again.