They pick Brentin up and push him down next to her. Behind her back, the magnacuffs are uncomfortably tight.
Rax awaits her, already off the shuttle. Troopers have lined up on either side of him. And Brendol Hux is here, too: the man behind Arkanis. Hux was helping to train the next generation of stormtroopers. She, with the aid of the bounty hunter Mercurial Swift, helped to extract Brendol and his son from Arkanis before it fell to the Republic. He’s now on Rax’s own Shadow Council. The man’s a blustering ass, and she sees that he’s let himself go: A gut strains at his belt. His hair is a mess. His eyes look tired.
Those eyes look to the margins of the hangar, from left to right, and it’s then that Sloane sees that others have joined them, too—
Along each wall of the hangar are children. Two dozen of them, roughly. They are young—some early in their teenage years, others not yet that age. They all wear plain white uniforms. Like nightclothes.
Rax smiles. “Troopers, weapons down, please. We’re all friends.”
The stormtroopers lower their blasters.
But Rax says, “No, no, all the way down. To the floor.”
The troopers give one another brief looks of confusion, but do as asked: They stoop, laying the weapons upon the ground.
Rax walks up to her. Looking her over. “Do you see how the troopers have marked their armor? Painted it. Carved it up. Burned it with hot metal. They have transcended mere service. They are not just soldiers. They are something altogether more tribal, more ferocious, less human, all animal.” He sighs. “But I still don’t know that it’s enough.”
“What have you done with my Empire?” she asks, desperate.
He grins. “Ah. Let me show you.”
Gallius Rax’s hand rises in the air, forming a fist. He snaps his fingers once—
The lights in the hangar go out. Sloane’s heart jumps into her throat.
Her eyes are slow to adjust, but her ears hear the sounds of the fracas. She thinks to run, to duck, to flinch, to flee, but she can’t imagine where she would even go or what she would do. All she does instead is tighten her body and lower herself to the smallest profile she can—hunkering down so that her chin is tucked between her knees.
Blasterfire lances the dark, now. But that doesn’t last long. After which there are thumps, thuds, crunches—and grunts of pain.
Silence, now, stretches out for one beat, two, three—
Until it is ended by another snap of the fingers.
The lights come on. Again her eyes have to adjust. Everything goes from bleeding black to overwhelming white, and as her vision reconstitutes she sees the floor is littered with bodies.
The bodies belong to stormtroopers. All dead, by the look of it.
Standing over them are the children. Many hold sharp, crude knives with handles swaddled in dark tape, the blades made of black, dull steel. Some knives are buried in the backs of trooper necks—shoved elegantly, perfectly up under the helmet into the brain stem. Some are under the troopers’ arms, where another gap in armor waits and makes them vulnerable. A few of the children hold blasters, too. Rifles venting smoke.
One of those children is a tall girl with her hair shorn to the scalp. Her face is a dead, emotionless mask. Brendol Hux, in contrast, is smiling. It is the smile of a child—giddy, broad, as if he’s just seeing outer space for the first time, or just had his first taste of sweet-taff. Has she ever seen him smile before? It is a terror to behold.
What was it Rax said to her back on the Ravager? Back when he commanded her to rescue Brendol from Arkanis? The Empire must be fertile and young. Children are crucial to our success. Many of our officers are old. We need that kind of vitality. That brand of energy you get with the young. The Empire needs children.
Sloane fails to repress a shudder. She dearly wants to vomit, but she dare not give Gallius Rax the satisfaction.
The counselor, for his part, offers slow, measured applause. “Behold, Sloane,” he says. “The future of my Empire. I hope you enjoyed the show. You’ll soon see that this is only just the beginning.”
She has no words. Brentin is speechless, as well, having fallen back on his tailbone, slumping against the still body of the trooper that was guarding him. His mouth is open and slack. His eyes are wrenched wide with horror. And that’s when Brendol, finally composing himself, steps forward and whispers something in Rax’s ear.
Now it is the counselor’s turn to smirk.
“The final battle is coming,” he says. “I’d like you to see it. The both of you. You are witnesses from both the old Empire and the conquering rebels. I have a seat for you reserved. Brendol, you and the children escort these two to their seats, will you? Seems I have a speech to give.”
—
Finally, it has come to pass.