The numbers of the New Republic fleet are superior. She can see that from here. Perhaps Rax stoked the proper ferocity in his troopers, and maybe, just maybe, his people can coordinate a proper pushback. Hodnar Borrum is one of the smartest ground war strategists, and the troops trust him. But if she’s correct, Randd is the man in charge of the skies—and though the grand moff is a capable leader, he does not have the courage or the inventiveness to win a fight of this magnitude.
Sloane wishes suddenly to be up there. That is her place: commanding those ships, ruling the heavens, destroying any who dare defile them. The Ravager casts a massive shadow, and she knows that whoever is in command of that ship is wrong for the job. It should be her. She could save the Empire with the Ravager. If she had a chance to get to it…
Such ego, she thinks. Perhaps the firepower of that SSD will afford them the chance to save the day. The Empire may win this battle.
But even if it does—at what cost?
And what else does Rax have up his sleeve?
What is the show? Who is the audience?
The stone trembles. Dust streams from the cavern ceiling, and scree streams from the smooth boreholes that populate Niima’s temple. Norra looks to Jas, worried. “Do I want to know?”
It’s Bones that answers. The droid tilts his skullish head toward the ceiling and he hms. “I AM INTIMATELY FAMILIAR WITH THE SOUND OF VIOLENCE AND THAT IS THE SOUND OF VIOLENCE.”
“War,” Jas says. “Now we’re really in the thick of it.”
Could it be that the New Republic has finally brought its fleet here? Norra isn’t sure what to think about that. She wondered if it was going to be like Kashyyyk—an Empire-controlled planet left to suffer due to the hesitant whims of a nervous voting body. “It’ll complicate things,” she says.
Jas shrugs. “At this point, I’m not sure it can get any more complicated, Norra.”
With that said, the two of them finish putting on their Imperial officer uniforms. Norra in noncom black, Jas in the standard gray. Norra’s outfit indicates her role as a prison administrator, whereas the bounty hunter’s bars serve to show her ranking as an army staff sergeant.
Bones asks: “DO I GET A UNIFORM?”
“I don’t think they have anything in your size,” Norra answers.
“Maybe if we collapse you down, you can be a mouse droid.”
Norra laughs. It feels good to laugh—even if it’s short-lived. Even that small moment of mirth makes her feel better. Like they can do anything. A little part of her thinks that they can pull this off. Yes, it’s dangerous. And completely foolish. Probably a suicide mission. And yet what choice do they have? She still wants Sloane, but Brentin is now the priority. It’s no longer a mission of vengeance but rather one of rescue.
Niima, to their great surprise, has chosen to help them. (Though, really, her aid is not driven by kindness, but rather revenge. Turns out, the Hutt overlord cares little for being perforated by blasterfire.) She’s furnished them with an (old-make) Imperial shuttle, a couple of (dusty, moth-nibbled) uniforms, and (hopefully solid) high-ranking codes.
“Are we ready?” Jas asks.
“I don’t know that there is such a thing as ready.”
“Hey,” Jas says, offering a steadying hand. The worry on Norra’s face must be broadcasting loud and clear. “We’re doing the right thing. We’re paying our debts. We’re finishing the job. There’s no greater honor.”
“Jas, I know you’ve given up a lot to be here. This isn’t what you do, and you put your life on hold to do it. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you. You’ve taken up a cause that isn’t yours and—”
“Stop. It is my cause because I’ve made it my cause. My aunt was a bounty hunter and she used to help people. She’d abandon jobs to save some group of farmers or help free a bunch of Wookiees—and when I was young, I heard all those stories and I thought she was na?ve. I said I’d never be like her. But here I am. And you know what I realized? She had it right. The job isn’t anything. The job is just a job. And those debts don’t mean as much as these debts—the ones between you and me, the ones between…” She seems almost flustered now, like she’s exposing too much of herself and can’t find the words. “The ones between regular people and the whole damn galaxy. Crewing with you has changed me, Norra Wexley. And I owe you for that.”
She offers a hand. Norra takes it. They pull each other into an embrace. Norra says over the bounty hunter’s shoulder: “This sounds suspiciously like one of those talks you give before you die.”
“I don’t know that we’re going to die, but we’re about to head into the dragon’s den and we’re doing it on a world now smashed between two warring forces. I think it’s best to assume we may not make it.”
“Good pep talk.”
“Could be worse. I could be Sinjir.”
“Gods, I miss him. And I miss my son.”
“I miss them, too. So let’s stop chatting and do the work.”
Together they leave this small grotto and head back toward where the shuttle awaits. As they get closer, Jas spins around suddenly, clamping a hand over Norra’s mouth and hissing for her to shush.
What the—?
Emari touches a finger to Norra’s ear. A sign to listen.
So she listens.