Resistance Reborn (Star Wars)

by Rebecca Roanhorse

He started to lower the cockpit transparisteel when Maz called his name. “Poe!”

  He turned.

  “Be the light, Poe.”

  WINSHUR BRATT HELD UP his Corellian work identification card for the First Order guard’s inspection. It was the third checkpoint that he had passed through that morning on his relatively short walk from his apartment in the newer part of Coronet City to the offices of the Corellian Engineering Corporation where he worked, but he didn’t mind. He always enjoyed the inevitable moment when the guard’s expression changed from mild superiority to chagrined humility as he belatedly realized that Winshur was An Important Person. The way the guard would straighten from his bored slouch, the sudden anxiety that would pale his face as he wondered if Winshur would find fault in his performance and report him to his supervisors. Today Winshur found that kind of elicited fear particularly soothing, a balm on what had otherwise been a less-than-ideal morning.

  Winshur had spent the early hours of the day sitting at his breakfast table and contemplating whether he should listen to the communication that had been waiting for him when he woke that morning. It had come from his hometown of Bela Vistal, which meant it could be from only one person—his mother. He had done his best to sever all ties to the town and people of his birth, but his mother still managed to find him, again and again. This time it had taken her six months, and in that six months he had accomplished so much. He’d secured a respectable job with the Corellian Engineering Corporation in middle management as head clerk in the Records Department, and he’d been able to keep that job when the First Order had come in and taken over the company, recommissioning it to build warships for the burgeoning power. So many of his co-workers had been eliminated after their re-employment interviews, but Winshur had not. In fact, his interviewer, a relentlessly ordered woman from Alsakan, had told him he was exactly the kind of citizen the First Order was looking for. He had felt immense pleasure at that. He had always known he was destined for more than Corellia, but to have someone like her tell him so? He had floated happily around the nearly deserted office for days.

  And then it had happened. Winshur had been called out of Records and moved into a position of prestige, as he so rightly deserved. He was now the First Order’s executive records officer on Corellia. Which, if he was honest, was essentially the same job he had before, but it did come with a new title, two assistants, and, eventually, a raise. At least he thought it might, once his superiors realized that he was a man of quality. And he did have his own office with a view into the massive ship bay that was part of the larger complex. No one could deny that meant something. He had wanted a window that overlooked the city, but had been told that was only for those of higher title. Rather than be disappointed, he had told himself that it was something to strive for, the next step on his climb to the top. Executive records officer was great, truly, but it was just the beginning. There was so much more to accomplish. He merely needed to find a way to impress his peers in the First Order, as he had done in his interview, and then, truly, there was nothing in the galaxy that could hold him back.

  Except, perhaps, his mother.

  He had finally deleted the communication from her, unopened. It was for the best. The sooner she realized he wanted nothing to do with her or anyone else in his past, the better. Besides, the First Order was the only family he needed now. He would prove himself worthy of their high regard soon enough.

  “Bratty?” came a voice from behind him.

  Winshur froze, horrified. His eyes met those of the guard who still held his ID, and the guard smirked slightly. Winshur felt his stomach drop and his face redden in humiliation, but he held his composure as he turned to face the person who had called him by the old nickname that he loathed.

  It was a woman, pale, short, and dark-haired, like himself. Blue-gray eyes crinkled in a friendly hello. “I thought I recognized you,” she said, voice bright. “I wasn’t sure in that fancy uniform but wow…” Her eyes traveled over him, no doubt noticing his fresh, well-oiled haircut and the precise creases in his trousers and jacket. Finally, her eyes rested on the badge on the left side of his chest.

  “You working for the First Order, Bratty?” she asked, a hint of both revulsion and admiration in her voice. Or at least he thought it was admiration. What else could it be? Jealousy, perhaps.

  He took in her dirty gray jumpsuit and heavy boots, the loop of her tool belt slung around her hips, the grease stains under her nails. A mechanic, surely. Someone working in the shipyards as so many Corellians did now. Which meant she, too, worked for the First Order, or more likely as a contractor under some mandatory contract. He had seen those contracts. Received and verified and filed them, as he did so many documents for the First Order. The terms were usually heavily biased toward the First Order, but it wasn’t like the Corellian contractors had much of a choice. These days they either worked for the First Order or they starved. The smart ones knew the future when they saw it and the rest fell along the way, like so many weeds to be pruned.

  But how did she know him, and by that abominable nickname? It was something the children had called him at the religious center in Bela Vistal, the one his mother had insisted he attend for most of his life until he was old enough to leave to find work in Coronet City. He had vivid memories of wanting to burn the low-slung whitewashed building down, all his classmates still inside. Including this mechanic, no doubt.

  “The name is Winshur,” he said crisply, letting his disdain hide some of his embarrassment. “It has always been Winshur.”

  “Sure, sure,” she said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal to her either way. “I’m Navah. Remember me?”

  He did now, placing that dark mass of curls and the impish face as one of his former classmates, but he’d never give her the satisfaction. “I cannot say that I do remember you, Navah. Bela Vistal was so long ago.”

  “Ah, but you knew I was from Bela Vistal,” she said, slyly.

  He pressed his lips together, annoyed. A small mistake he should not have made.

  The checkpoint guard cleared his throat.

  “Is there a problem?” Winshur asked, irritated, as he whipped back around to face the man. He expected more smirking, but the guard had a serious look on his face and his tone was respectful.

  “No problem, sir,” the guard said, sliding Winshur’s ID free from his handheld datapad. “Your security clearance is in order for entry into Building Two. You may pass at your convenience.”

  “Oh?” Winshur stood straighter. “Well, of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  The guard gave him a quizzical look as he handed his card back. Winshur had said too much, acted like a novice instead of an executive records officer. And in front of this Navah person. He was ashamed. He slipped his identification into the pocket of his neatly pressed jacket, that bore the symbol of the First Order on his chest where his Corellian Engineering Corporation logo had once been, and gave the guard a curt nod. But before he could walk away the woman leaned in close.

  “Deeper into the creature’s maw, eh, Bratty?” Navah whispered. “Well, I guess we do what we must to survive the occupation. Just remember who’s got your back.” She squeezed his arm through his jacket, and he flinched. Who had his back? It certainly wasn’t anyone from Bela Vistal.

  He thought about reporting Navah to someone, but what would be the charge? She had squeezed his arm, so perhaps he could claim she assaulted him. But if he did, no doubt she would say she knew him, perhaps even that they were childhood friends. He shuddered at the thought.

  The guard cleared his throat meaningfully. Winshur could hear the checkpoint line behind him getting restless. Someone wondered loudly what was taking so long.

  “Do you need an escort to Building Two, sir?” the guard asked. The question was polite enough—but was that a hint of mockery in his voice? Winshur thought it was.

  “No need,�
� Winshur said dismissively. “I know the way.”

  He stepped around the guard with a tight smile and hurried on his way. He didn’t bother to say goodbye to that woman Navah, but then why would he? She was no one.

  * * *

  —

  The rest of the walk to his office was uneventful. The halls were busy but everyone was focused on their own work and paid Winshur no mind. He did make brief eye contact with a tall gray-haired man who strode by surrounded by a deployment of stormtroopers in their thrillingly intimidating armor. The man looked very important and Winshur had given him a sharp nod as he passed, as one would to a peer. The man must not have seen him, though, because he did not return the gesture. Well, Winshur would have to make more of an effort next time.

  He opened the heavy door to his office with another swipe of his identification card and entered. Once through, he tapped the control button that held the door open. His office itself was not very large, but it was better than the cubicle he had occupied before his promotion. One wall contained a long, high window out into the ship bay. If he stood on his toes, he could see the busy production floor below, but he rarely did that. He had no interests in ships or the people and droids who built them. The other walls of his office were taken up by filing shelves holding magnetic tapes and holographic recordings. They crowded his office like expectant ladies waiting for his particular attention. Each record had to be reviewed, approved, assigned a location, and ultimately signed off on by him. He had thought to delegate some of the work, and he still might, but for now he liked to remain hands-on. He dared not leave anything to his current staff, of which he had exactly two. One was a First Order cadet named Monti Calay, fresh from some Corellian town Winshur had never heard of. He was competent enough but strange. He kept his dark curly hair cut appropriately short and his uniform was impeccable, much like Winshur’s, but he kept asking Winshur to come to lunch or to join him for a drink at one of the local cantinas after work, as if he didn’t understand that there should be a deep and unassailable separation between management and staff. Winshur had not made up his mind about Monti Calay yet.

  His other employee, well, he definitely had an opinion about her.

  First of all, Yama was young. Winshur wasn’t exactly old by Corellian standards, or any standards really. He had been born the year after the Battle of Yavin, a child of a prosperous if overly devout Bela Vistal middle class family. But this one, this girl, was a decade younger than him, at least. She had obviously been plucked from the streets of Coronet City for some reason beyond Winshur’s ken. A secret talent or political connection was dubious, so perhaps she had captured the merciful attention of some officer and been given a future with the First Order that would have otherwise been beyond her grasp. However, such kindness had clearly been a mistake. It wasn’t just the girl’s appearance that made her unsuitable, but also her behavior. Her manners were rough and often nonexistent, she fidgeted relentlessly while waiting for orders, and she frequently gave him incredulous looks when he asked her to simply do her job. He wasn’t sure why she had been assigned to him by his superiors, but he was not in a position to have her removed from his service. However, he kept copious notes on her every fault so that if the opportunity to review her record ever arose, he would be prepared. Still, he found it difficult to spend any time around her without getting annoyed.

  Winshur removed his outer jacket and hung it from the hook on the wall closest to the door. Next, he removed his gloves, taking a moment to brush a naked hand across the fabric, straightening any wrinkles that might have attempted to form since his last grooming. He hung his cap on the hook next to it and placed his gloves on the small shelf below. He tugged his black tunic smooth and, removing a white cloth from his flared pocket, wiped his high boots to a shine. He slipped the cloth back in his pocket. Only then did he turn to face the work of the day.

  Two new boxes of records had been placed on his desk that had not been there yesterday when he’d left. He approached the boxes warily and peered inside. Each one held a disorganized pile of what looked like palm-sized black metal boxes. He reached in, turning a few over with careful fingers. No labels. He looked more closely at the storage boxes themselves. No labels on those, either. He could feel a small scream rising in his throat. Who would dare dump these here without any identifying features? As if he didn’t know.

  “Yama,” he called, and then a little louder, “Yama!”

  A scurrying sound from the outer office and then, breathless, as if she had been running, Yama entered through his open office door.

  “Yeah?” she asked. “I mean, yes, Executive Records Officer Bratt, sir! What do you want?”

  Winshur’s anger flared, but he made himself take three deep breaths, just as he had learned at the religious center of his youth, before he turned and spoke. “Did you leave these boxes on my desk?” he asked, admiring how calm his voice sounded.

  The girl was wearing her black cadet uniform, but the buckle on her belt was clearly tarnished, and she had slung it too low. It sat at a jaunty angle across her hips instead of tightly at her waist. Was she attempting to make her uniform fashionable? Surely not. And her hair! Regulation required her tight curls to be oiled and slicked back against her head, but today her orange hair was parted down the middle and tied back in two identical puffs.

  “Your hair is not regulation,” Winshur said.

  “What?” The girl raised a hand to her hair. “Oh yeah, sorry. Was running a bit late this morning and didn’t have time to change it up. But it’s neat and off my face, right, so it will do.”

  “It will not do.”

  Yama opened her mouth as if to protest, but she must have caught the censure in Winshur’s stare and thought better.

  “Sorry,” she said, lowering her head.

  Winshur smiled slightly. He took a step forward and rested a heavy hand on the girl’s shoulder. She flinched slightly, which made him smile a bit more. “Look around you, Yama,” he said. “Do you understand where you are?”

  She didn’t meet his eyes, but she nodded morosely.

  “I don’t think you do.” He lifted his hand off her shoulder and paced around his desk, gearing up for his favorite speech. It had been a few weeks since he’d had to lecture the girl on the importance of order, on the vital role each and every one of them played in maintaining the impeccable reputation of the First Order here on Corellia, on how their presentation must be above reproach at all times. Clearly it had been too long.

  “All creatures are ruled by the strongest among them,” he said, settling in his chair. “It is the way of nature. The strong survive and the weak are crushed. Now, how do we identify the strong among us? Is it only the largest? The most muscular? No, Yama. It is the ones with the most discipline. The ones that can master their own base instincts and project”—he slammed a hand down on his desk, and she jumped—“power.” He sat back and adjusted his cuff. “Do you want to be one of the powerful or do you want to be crushed by your weakness?”

  She mumbled something he couldn’t quite hear.

  “Speak up,” he said, exasperated. “You certainly won’t project power by muttering to yourself.”

  “I want to be powerful,” she said, her voice just a fraction higher than before.

  “Yes. As you should. But you won’t do it by breaking the rules. Now, tighten your belt. That’s right. And pull your hair back.”

  Yama finished tightening her belt and smoothed a hand over her hair. “I-I’ll need a brush.”

  Winshur sighed. “I suppose you will. Well, it can’t be helped today, then, but please don’t leave the offices and let anyone see you.”

  “It won’t happen again,” she promised.

  “I should hope not.” He folded his hands across his desk in a way that he thought looked benevolently paternal. “I can’t always waste my time trying to teach you, Yama. I have import
ant work to do.”

  She nodded again, still not meeting his eyes. Well, good that she feared him. She should. But he’d thought she would have a bit more backbone than this. Another layer of disappointment.

  “You’re dismissed,” he said, torn between disgust and a mild admiration at how effectively he had handled the situation. He really was leadership material. If his superiors could see how he had taken this wayward girl in hand, surely they would be impressed.

  “Oh, and take these boxes with you, Yama. Find out where they came from and organize the tapes within. I want them labeled—origin, date, and they all need a provenance. I won’t have people saying I am not doing my job,” he said, emphasizing the “my” just enough to make her hunch her shoulders in shame. He clapped his hands together. “Go!”

  The girl scurried forward to take the boxes. She balanced one on top of the other and slid her arms under the bottom box to pick them both up at the same time. The load was clearly too bulky to carry all at once, but Winshur just watched her struggle. He could have suggested she make two trips or even, stars forbid, help her. But he did not.

  He watched her take one awkward step, and then another, toward the door. And then, with a bitter flash of unsurprise, he watched the girl shriek as she dropped both boxes on the floor. Black tapes skidded across the polished stone. He felt one come to rest against the tip of his shoe under the desk, and he delicately toed it back in her direction.

  Yama crawled around on hands and knees retrieving the escaped records. He could hear what sounded distinctly like hot breathy sobs as she did so, but he still made no move to help her. How would she ever learn not to be weak if people fixed all her problems for her? No, he was doing her a favor, teaching her one small lesson today in what would be a lifetime of lessons she must learn if she intended to rise to anything beyond a common Corellian street girl.

  It was the same lesson in humiliation he had learned from his classmates back in Bela Vistal, the same that all children learned. They either let it break them or used it to forge them into someone stronger, someone more worthy of power.