Resistance Reborn (Star Wars)

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  “Thank you, Commander,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips.

  “For what?”

  “It seems you have everything in hand.”

  Poe flushed, abashed. “I didn’t mean to overstep—”

  “No, no. You misunderstand.” Her smile spread. “I’m grateful.”

  “Oh.” Now it was Poe’s turn to grin. “I’m just doing my job.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “So you are, Commander Dameron. So you are.”

  She turned to leave, but he stopped her. “Leia.”

  She looked up.

  “What you said, about the First Order being on Ryloth. Do you think it’s safe for you and Rieekan and the others to stay?”

  She shook her head wryly. “No. But there is no ‘somewhere safe’ for us anymore. We’ll stay as long as we can, monitor the missions and give tactical support.”

  “And if the First Order finds you?”

  She patted his arm. “Then we do what we always do,” she said. “Fight.” And then she was walking away.

  He let her leave, but something nagged at him, left him unsettled. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost Leia, what any of them would do. But he had his mission, and the best he could do for her was complete it. Still…

  He shook off the disquieting feeling and went to find Charth. They had work to do before they could crash a birthday party in Coronet City.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING in there?”

  Monti froze, heart thudding in his chest. He forced himself to stay calm and purposefully pressed the button that closed Officer Bratt’s interior office door as if he was meant to be there.

  “I asked you a question,” Yama said. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  The door whispered shut under Monti’s direction, and only then did he turn to face his co-worker. “Winshur asked me to tidy up for him while he was gone.” He was having a hard time keeping his voice from shaking.

  Yama was standing in the center of the foyer, her hands full of packing material. He recognized the shipping supplies that the Records Department kept in the storage room. She must have been down in the basement retrieving it when he had returned from his cantina meeting to find Winshur’s office empty, the man himself still at lunch as the stranger had assured him he would be and, in a stroke of luck, Yama absent, too. But now she was back, an accusing look on her face. He brushed past her to sit at his desk. He made himself move deliberately, settling himself in his chair as if his mouth wasn’t dry and he didn’t feel faint.

  “Why are you sweating?” she asked.

  He wiped his palm across his brow. Great suns, he was sweating. He clutched at the cloth he kept in his pocket, the one for shining his boots, and dabbed his forehead. “I’m sick, if you must know,” he said, thinking quickly. “I think I ate some bad squid at lunch.” He folded the cloth and tucked it back in his pocket. He folded his hands on his desk. “But why are you asking me all these questions? You’re not my boss.”

  Yama’s eyes cut to Winshur’s closed door. She clearly suspected something.

  “You expect me to believe Officer Bratt’s office needed tidying? I was in there before he left. It was spotless.”

  Monti blanched. He could try to bluff some more, channel some outrage and perhaps cow the girl into leaving him alone. Or he could try to allay her suspicions through friendliness. After all, he and Yama had always been friendly. He had been sympathetic when Winshur had yelled at her, treated her like an incompetent child. He’d never spoken up for her or anything. That would be a bit too much. But he had felt sorry for her. He had certainly considered helping her when Winshur gave her some of the more tedious assignments. He never had. But he’d thought about it.

  But Yama never gave him the choice. “I know what you did.”

  “W-what?”

  “You stole his datapad.”

  Monti considered vomiting. “T-that’s ridiculous,” he stuttered. “Why would I do that?”

  Her eyes narrowed. She was still holding her packing supplies, and Monti thought she looked a bit absurd standing there like that. Except, of course, for that look on her face.

  “I don’t know why you stole it,” she said, “but I’m going to report you.”

  “Yama!” He bolted to his feet. She dropped the supplies to reveal that she had a box knife in her hand, the blade out.

  “Whoa!” he said, raising his hands. “Calm down. I didn’t steal anything.” He jerked his chin toward the closed door. “Go look for yourself. The datapad’s right where Winshur left it on his desk.”

  “Officer Bratt,” she corrected him. “You should call him Officer Bratt.” She moved toward the door, blade still in her hand and eyes never leaving him. He kept his hands raised, taking her threat seriously. Monti had never been a fighter. In fact, he abhorred violence. It was one of the things that had convinced him to give the list to the Collective to begin with. He was not so foolish that he didn’t see the irony in a man who proclaimed his aversion to violence joining the First Order, but he hadn’t joined the stormtroopers now, had he? He worked in an office. He processed records and contracts and archives. He was a datapusher.

  Yama had opened the door and peered inside, no doubt seeing the datapad right where Monti had placed it moments ago. She pulled the door shut.

  “It wasn’t there when I looked before,” she said. “Before I went to the supply basement. I checked to see if Officer Bratt needed his desk material replenished and the datapad wasn’t there.”

  “You must have overlooked it,” Monti said, trying to sound sympathetic. “It was definitely there.”

  She seemed to consider his words. He let himself relax a bit, lowering his hands. Yes, he would just convince her that she was mistaken.

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?” she growled.

  He blinked.

  “You think I don’t know what I saw?”

  “I…uh…Yama.” Her name came out as a plea. He thought to tell her everything. Convince her that he’d done the right thing, that Winshur was rotten, that perhaps the whole First Order was rotten, and she didn’t need to protect Winshur or it.

  “Why are you defending him?” he blurted.

  Yama drew in a breath, her hand tightening around the box cutter.

  “He hates you,” Monti hissed. “He thinks you’re nothing. Trash. Worse than trash. He would throw you out with the garbage if he could.”

  She flinched, and he knew he’d hit a nerve.

  He came around the desk now, hands raised again, eyes focused on her. He had been scared before, bumbling in his shock, but now he knew how to fix the problem. The truth that neither of them could deny.

  “He won’t believe you.”

  Her mouth opened, as if she meant to protest, but then she snapped it shut.

  He dropped his hands to his sides. “So go on. Report what you think you saw. Tell Winshur whatever you want. I’ll deny it…and then you’ll have nothing.”

  Yama’s lips pressed down in a thin line, her brow wrinkling. She didn’t say anything, just stared daggers at him, because what could she say? He was right, and they both knew it.

  A chime went off down at the end of the far corridor, drawing their attention. Footsteps could be heard, coming up the hallway. They both stared, waiting, like shaaks in line at the slaughter. Yama still held her blade in a death grip. Monti pulled himself up, back straight and chest out. He could feel the sweat gathering at the back of his neck, but he ignored it.

  Winshur Bratt entered the outer office. He had his hands in his pockets, and his head was down. He was muttering quietly to himself, clearly preoccupied. He didn’t notice them until he was a handful of meters away, and then he jerked his head up suddenly, a small gasp of surprise escaping his lips.

  “What are you two doing?” he shouted, breathlessly. His eyes w
ent to Yama with a laser focus, and when he spoke, his voice practically dripped with contempt. “Yama.” He said her name as if it pained him. “Why are these supplies on the floor in the middle of the room?”

  The girl just stared, unable to answer.

  “And what are you holding? Is that a knife?”

  Yama lifted the blade up helplessly.

  “A box cutter,” Winshur said, a touch of relief in his voice. “Well, whatever you were doing, get it done. And pick these things up. They’re blocking my path.”

  “Officer Bratt…” Yama’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Monti watched her, motionless.

  “And then get me those reports I asked for before lunch. Honestly, Yama, if you can’t—”

  “Officer Bratt,” she said again, louder, cutting him off.

  A visible chill rippled across Bratt’s shoulders. “What?” he said, voice slick with annoyance.

  The girl looked over at him, eyes huge. Seconds ticked by, and still she didn’t speak.

  Winshur grunted, sounding exasperated. He looked away from Yama, and for the first time his eyes seemed to catch on Monti.

  “Why are you standing there?” he asked. “And…are you sweating?”

  “Not feeling well, sir,” Monti said, and this time it was true enough.

  “An illness?” Winshur immediately held a hand over his mouth and took a step back. Then he seemed to reconsider and hurried forward, giving Monti a wide berth.

  “Go home,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t want you getting me sick.” He opened his door, quickly disappearing behind the safety of the barrier. And just as quickly as he had come, he was gone.

  His two employees still stood where he had found them.

  “Go on, then,” Monti said cruelly. “Go tell him. If you can even get the words out.”

  When she didn’t move, he shrugged. Went around to his desk and collected his things, including his leather satchel. Monti pulled the strap over his head and adjusted it across his chest. Gave her a small bow before he walked resolutely out of the office, knowing that whether she reported him or not, he was never coming back.

  SHRIV AND HIS TEAM were the first to leave Ryloth. They had reconfigured into a mix of squadrons, and he had now affectionately started to refer to his own as Dross Squadron. Pacer Agoyo had bristled at the name, but the rest of the team had taken to it easily enough.

  Stronghammer had laughed. “Might as well call us garbage,” he said.

  “Garbage sounds so uncouth,” Shriv said as he settled into the captain’s chair in the transport ship they were taking. “If there’s anything I am, it’s couth.”

  “What does that even mean?” Zay asked as she took the seat next to him.

  “I don’t know, but I’m committed now.”

  Zay rolled her eyes. She’d been doing a lot of that lately and Shriv wasn’t impressed. Was this human puberty? He’d asked her that once and she’d punched him in the arm, hard. Totally unnecessary, but he didn’t ask again.

  There would be six of them on the team. Pacer had been an obvious choice since his sister was part of the Scrapper Guild, and Shriv had hopes that she would help them get onto the planet and wherever they needed to go. Zay came along because they were Inferno Squad. Plus, Shriv was her uncle, wasn’t he? And he had a responsibility. Stronghammer because Pacer had said the guild recruited big men like him to be Cutters, and if they were going to sell themselves as a work crew, they needed light-footed Riggers like Pacer and Zay as well as big men. Shriv fit somewhere in between, Pacer told him, as did the other two team members, a wife-and-wife longhaul cargo team from Mygeeto. One of the women, Wesson Dove, was small and compact, pale skin and deep blue eyes, indigo hair cut short. She was a former member of Phantom Squadron, and that would have been good enough for Shriv, even if her business partner and wife, Raidah Doon, wasn’t a former athlete and champion stormsailer. Raidah was long and lean, skin light brown and a thick dark braid of hair trailing down her back, a physical contrast to her partner. But Pacer thought that Shriv and the two women were in the physical range required and could pass as Hazmats.

  “Hazmats?” Shriv asked dubiously. “What’s a Hazmat? That doesn’t sound good.”

  “We only need to pass long enough to get into the facility and take a few ships,” Zay had piped up. “We can totally handle whatever it is for that long.”

  Shriv supposed he could, but he wasn’t thrilled. However, his comfort was low on the priority list. The plan was that with six pilots, they could fly six ships back, the transport included, and tow a few more if they needed.

  The team had said their farewells quickly and left Ryloth behind, passing out of the atmosphere and into space. Once the view out of the cockpit was a solid mass of black, pinpricks of distant stars notwithstanding, Shriv turned to Zay, who was seated next to him.

  “You got coordinates on this Bracca?” he asked her.

  “Locked and loaded,” she answered.

  “Locked and loaded,” he snorted. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Wesson,” she said, throwing a nod back toward the cargo hauler.

  Someone shifted in a seat behind him, huffing noisily. “I’m the only one who’s been to Bracca.” It was Pacer, sounding less than happy. “Shouldn’t I sit in the navigator’s seat?”

  Shriv considered ignoring the kid, but decided some rules needed to be understood if he was going to make Dross Squadron work. First rule, he was the boss. “If I wanted you in the seat, I would’ve asked,” he said.

  “Just seems like you’re playing favorites,” Pacer muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Zay, who had been ready to send them into lightspeed, opened her mouth as if to speak. “Belay that thought,” Shriv said, cutting her off. “And hold us steady.”

  He swiveled in his seat until he was facing Pacer and the rest of Dross Squadron. “What are we doing here? Hmmm? Are you having a pissing contest, Agoyo? Because I drank a liter of that damn Rylothian green juice they had back there and I guarantee you that if there’s a pissing contest about to go down, I’m going to win.”

  Pacer’s face clouded over with indignation; Wesson, sitting directly behind Pacer, frowned in disgust.

  “I was just saying—” the boy started.

  “Chain of command, Pacer,” Shriv said, tapping the back of his right hand against his open palm for emphasis. “You learn about it back at the academy?”

  The kid crossed his arms.

  Shriv narrowed his eyes. “Then practice it. I’m in charge. I make the decisions. You follow orders. Easy enough?”

  “He’s right, pilot,” Stronghammer said to the younger man.

  “You heard the man,” Shriv said, gesturing with a toss of his head toward Stronghammer. “I’m right. So have a seat.” He gestured to the third row, the back row of the shuttle. Actually, he could have been gesturing toward the cargo area just behind the passenger seating and that would have worked for him, too.

  Pacer made a show of moving back a row and trading seats with Wesson, who moved up to take his old seat.

  “What’s his problem?” Zay asked quietly, her dark eyebrows bunched in distress.

  “Who cares?” Shriv said lightly, turning back to the front of the ship. “You know how space babies are. Always trying to prove themselves.”

  Zay’s frown deepened. “What’s a ‘space baby’?”

  “Kids born offplanet, in space stations or on board ships. No foundation, nothing to keep their feet and minds on the ground. Makes them spacey.” He tapped a blue finger to his skull. “So, you know, space babies.”

  “How do you know he’s a space baby?”

  “I got a hunch.”

  Zay’s voice was quiet when she said, “I’m a space baby.”

  His voice was flat with amusement. “Yo
u don’t say.”

  “I was born aboard the Corvus.”

  Shriv chewed the inside of his cheek and kept his eyes forward. He could feel Zay watching him, possibly gearing up for another eye roll.

  “Well?” she finally asked.

  “I’m not saying it explains a lot of things about you, but…”

  And there it was. The eye roll.

  “It’s a joke,” Shriv said.

  “I’m not laughing.”

  Shriv shrugged. He liked to tease Zay, and at least she didn’t get her undergarments in a knot like that new kid back there.

  “Are we ready to go to Bracca?” she asked, still sounding annoyed. “Time’s wasting and you’re in a mood today.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He scratched at his jaw. “Punch it, kid. Let’s go liberate some New Republic ships.”

  Zay did as she was told, and the pinpricked darkness outside their window blurred to the rushing haze of lightspeed. After a moment Shriv leaned over. “Hey, Zay?”

  “Hmm?”

  “For the record, your parents would be proud, space baby or not.”

  “Hmm,” she said, sounding unconvinced.

  “Especially your mom, especially Iden.”

  The girl was quiet for a while. “I know.”

  “No, you don’t. Not really.”

  She was silent again and Shriv hoped it was enough of an apology, enough truth to show he meant it.

  “I miss her…and Dad,” she said finally.

  “Me, too.”

  And then they both ran out of words and instead focused on hurtling through space on their way to a world made of castaways and salvaged parts.

  * * *

  —

  They came out of lightspeed on the far side of Bracca. The planet spun below them, a murky ball streaked in shades of blues and grays, the edges of its distant sun glazing the northern pole.

  “It’s kind of pretty from up here,” Zay commented.

  Shriv snorted. “Sure, if you like depressing industrial space junk.”

  Stronghammer spoke up from behind them. “I hear there is a great being that they keep captive on the planet, and they feed it metal night and day and harvest the excrement for credits.”