Aftermath: Star Wars Read Online Free PDF Page B

snout, if I’m being honest—is why, right now, your head is filling with mucus and your eyes are filling with tears.”
    “You rebel scum,” the oaf gargles.
    “That’s funny. Really, very funny.”
You idiot. You think I’m one of them when really, I’m one of you.
“I want to know what’s going on.”
    “What’s going on is that the Empire is here and you’re—”
    He twists. The man screams. “Spare me the sales pitch. Details. Why are you here? With stormtroopers, no less.”
    “I don’t know—”
    Another twist. Another scream.
    “
I swear I don’t know!
Something’s going on, though. It’s ramped up fast. I…we came down off of the
Vigilance
and then the comms blackout and the blockade—”
    Sinjir gives a look to Pok. “You know anything about comms being out? Or a blockade?”
    The bartender shrugs.
    Sinjir sighs, then jams a fist in the oaf’s face.
    The sloppy officer’s head racks back and consciousness leaves him. Sinjir lets him drop. Then, to Pok: “Somebody’s going to want to clean this up. Ah. Good luck with that?”
    And then, whistling, he traipses out the front of the cantina.

A blurry image.
    A sound:
whap, whap, whap.
    The blurry image shakes. It gets blurrier for a second, and then focuses the other way, lurching inelegantly toward clarity.
    The image resolves. Standing there are two women. One, a human. Tall, thin, professional. Dark hair coiffed up like a wave about to break. A necklace around her neck that looks like a flock of birds chained together—it catches the light of the sun. Her smile is big, broad, practiced.
    The other woman is smaller. Pantoran. Blue skin. Golden hair pulled back in a simple, practical braid. She wears a dress to match: Some might call it practical and unpretentious, others might say it is drab, dull, or even unsophisticated. Her only jewelry is a pair of silver bracelets. Her smile is also practiced, but nervous, too.
    Behind them: the humble skyline of the capital, Hanna City.
    The first woman, Tracene Kane, says to the Trandoshan behind the camera: “How’s it look, Lug?”
    A growl-hiss from behind the camera. “It looked bad. I hit it. Now it looks good.”
    Tracene gives the other woman—Olia Choko—an apologetic shrug. “Old tech. Doesn’t always comply.”
    “It’s your first broadcast,” Olia says. “It’s understandable.”
    “This day is a first for both of us, I think.” Tracene laughs—it’s a laugh that sounds almost too big to be real. Maybe it’s who she is. Or maybe it, like her smile, is born of effort and orchestration. “So here’s how this is going to go. I’ll begin the interview, and I’ll do a brief intro—blah blah blah, first day of the new Galactic Senate, it’s a new dawn for the galaxy, and then right to you: Olia Choko, public relations representative for Mon Mothma and the new Senate. We’ll get right into it.”
    “Great,” Olia says. She takes a deep breath. “Just great.”
    “You look nervous.”
    “I’m…a little nervous.”
    “You’ll be fine. You’re pretty. You’re alien. You’ll trend well.”
    “Oh!” Olia says, thrusting up a finger. “You’re going to get a shot of what’s behind us, right? Hanna City reflects the Senate’s humble new beginnings—we’re here for the people of the galaxy, all the hardworking people. And Mon Mothma is from here, so—”
    Tracene puts a hand on Olia’s shoulder. “We got this.”
    “Oh! But, uh. Don’t forget, too, to get a shot of the art installation in the city circle—it’s a bunch of stormtrooper helmets painted different colors, marked with different symbols like flowers and starbursts and Alliance sigils. It’s by the artist—”
    Tracene gives Olia’s arm a squeeze. “I said
we got this.
We have the footage. You’re the last link in the chain. We talk to you. Then the Senate walks in. Nothing will go wrong. You good?”
    Olia hesitates. The smile on her face is strained. She looks like a panicked