Aftermath: Star Wars Read Online Free PDF Page A

Republic is coming to help. Already we’ve captured dozens of Imperial capital ships and Destroyers—”
Now the image becomes three-dimensional footage of Imperials being led off a ship’s ramp in cuffs.
“And in the months since the destruction of the Empire’s dread battle station, we have already liberated countless planets in the name of the Alliance.”
A new image: rebels being greeted as saviors and liberators by a cheering crowd of—where is that? Naboo? Could be Naboo. Back to Leia:
“Be patient. Be strong. Fight back where you can. The Imperial war machine falls apart one gear, one gun, one stormtrooper at a time. The New Republic is coming. And we want your help to finish the fight.”
    One last flickering image:
    Alliance fighters with fireworks exploding in their wake.
    Another sight familiar to him—he watched the victorious rebels shooting off their fireworks far above the tops of the massive Endorian trees. Those strange rat-bear creatures cheering and hooting and chirping in the distance as Sinjir hunkered down, cold and alone and cowardly, in the brush.
    “It’s a new day,” the Twi’lek says, smiling big and broad with those tiny pointy teeth lined up in crooked, serrated rows.
    “One conqueror replaces another,” Sinjir says, lip tugged up in a characteristic sneer. But the look on his face fails to match the feeling in his heart, much the way the drink in front of him has a smell that doesn’t jive with its taste. In his heart, he feels a swell of…hope? Really? Hope and happiness and new promise? How disgusting. He licks his lips and says, “Still, let’s see it again, shall we?”
    The Twi’lek gives a giddy nod and goes to tap the button.
    A scuff of boots behind them. Pok, the bartender, grunts in alarm.
    A creaky black glove falls on Sinjir’s shoulder. Another lands on the Twi’lek’s shoulder, giving it a painful squeeze.
    Sinjir smells the oiled leather, the crisp linen, the official-issue detergent. The smell of Imperial
cleanliness.
    “What have we here?” comes a brutish growl of a voice—a guttural-tongued officer that Sinjir turns to find looks rather
sloppy.
Got a gut pushing out the belly of his gray uniform, so far out that one of the buttons has gone undone. His face is unshorn. Hair a bit of a muss.
    The other one next to him is considerably better kept—firm jaw, clear eyes, uniform pressed and washed. Smug grin—a smugness that isn’t practiced but (as Sinjir knows well) comes naturally.
    Behind them, a pair of stormtroopers.
    Now, that’s something. Stormtroopers. Here, on Akiva?
    Akiva has always had its Imperials, yes, but never stormtroopers. Those white-armored soldiers are for war and occupation. They don’t come here to drink and dance and disappear.
    Something has changed. Sinjir doesn’t yet know what. But curiosity scratches at the back of his head like a mole looking for grubs.
    “Me and my tail-headed friend here are just watching a little propaganda,” Sinjir says. “Nothing to cause anyone any alarm at all.”
    The Twi’lek sticks out his chin. Fear shines in his eyes, but something else, too—something Sinjir has seen in those he has tormented and tortured, those who think they won’t break:
courage.
    Courage. What a foolish thing.
    “Your time is
done,
” the Twi’lek growls in a shaky voice. “The Empire is over. The New Republic is coming and—”
    The oafish officer gives a hard, straight punch to the Twi’lek’s throat—the tail-head gurgles, clutching at his windpipe. The other one, the smug one, puts a steadying hand on Sinjir’s shoulder. A warning, unspoken but clear just the same:
Move and you join your friend.
    Someone barks—behind the bar, Pok grumbles and makes some mushy-mouthed warning of his own while pointing to a sign above his head. That sign, in Basic, reads: NO IMPERIALS.
    It’s actually that sign that has kept Sinjir here day and night for the last week. First because it means no one from the Empire