The Force Awakens (Star Wars)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Behind him, the renegade trooper unleashed blast after blast, triggering explosions in a frenzy of random damage that could only panic and confuse those on the vast vessel above them. A brace of cannons loomed ahead—but the trooper seemed content to fire indiscriminately at their surroundings. That needed to change, Poe knew, or they would never get the chance to jump to lightspeed.

  “Dammit, a target is coming to you. My right, your left. You see it?”

  Targeting controls brought the major weapons emplacement into bold view on one of the trooper’s screens. “Hold on. I see it.” He readied himself, then unleashed fire at the precise moment when aptitude interlocked with instrumentation.

  The whole gun emplacement erupted in a rapidly shrinking fireball. Debris spun around them as Poe took them through the devastation, the fighter’s shields warding off whatever he could not directly avoid.

  Unable to restrain himself, the trooper let out a yell that echoed around the cockpit. “Yes! Did you see that?”

  Poe whipped the TIE fighter around to the side of the Finalizer. “Told ya you could do it! What’s your name?”

  “FN-2187.”

  “FN-whaa?”

  “That’s the only name they ever gave me.”

  The longing in the trooper’s voice was all too human. That, and something more. Something that had driven him, among his hundreds, his thousands of colleagues, to step outside the comfort zone of training and regimentation, something that had ignited some exceptional spark of individualism within him. Poe knew that spark was present in the man behind him, and he now made it his task to see that it did not fade away. But where to start?

  “If that’s the name they gave you, then I ain’t using it. ‘FN,’ huh? I’m calling you Finn. That all right with you?”

  Behind him, the trooper considered. A delighted smile spread slowly across his face. “Yeah, ‘Finn.’ I like that! But now you’re one up on me.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I don’t know your name. If you tell me it’s RS-736 or something like that, I’m going to be seriously confused.”

  The pilot had to laugh. “I’m Poe. Poe Dameron.”

  “Good to meet you, Poe!”

  “Good to meet you, Finn!” Settling on a line of attack, he prepared to dive once more into the heart of the Star Destroyer, a bug attacking a bantha.

  But it was a bug with a very nasty bite.

  —

  On the main bridge of the Finalizer, General Hux peered over the shoulder of Lieutenant Mitaka. While there could be no single central command station on a vessel as enormous as the Star Destroyer, Mitaka’s console approximated such a position as effectively as anything could.

  Hux could hardly believe what he had been told. Not only had the prisoner escaped, he had managed to find his way to an operational hangar, slip aboard an outfitted and ready-to-fly fighter, and blast his way free. And not just any fighter, but a Special Forces TIE fighter. If the proof had not been right in front of him, making a treacherous nuisance of itself as the ship’s perceptors strove to keep track of the stolen fighter, Hux would not have believed such a thing possible.

  A very slight shudder ran through the deck. Mitaka’s voice was even, but Hux could tell that the dark-haired lieutenant was shaken by what he was seeing. “They’ve taken out an entire bank of defensive weaponry. And they continue to attack. They’re not running.”

  Hux didn’t understand. It was beyond comprehension. Prisoners ran from prisons, they didn’t stick around to assault their jailers. The action smacked of an unshakeable wish to commit suicide. What he knew of the escaped prisoner strongly suggested a desire to live. What had happened to change him? Or, Hux thought, was the profile that had been drawn up by the psytechs simply wrong?

  Formal profile or not, of one thing he was now certain: They had badly underestimated what had seemed to be a Resistance pilot on the verge of physical and emotional collapse.

  “Engage the ventral cannons,” Hux ordered.

  “Bringing them online,” Mitaka said.

  No matter how close a flight path the escaped pilot took, Hux knew that sensors would prevent the guns from firing adjacent to the ship’s structure itself. Exceptional pilot that he was, the escaped prisoner would know that. Probably he was counting on it, which was why he continued to fly so close to the destroyer’s surface instead of bolting for empty space. Now Hux was counting on the pilot sustaining the same strategy. The longer he remained within the destroyer’s sphere of armed influence, the more forces could be brought against him, and the less chance he would have to make a second, more permanent escape.

  A voice sounded behind him: unmistakable, controlled, and plainly displeased. “Is it the Resistance pilot?”

  Hux turned to face Kylo Ren. Unable to see past the metallic mask, unable to perceive eyes or mouth, one had to rely on subtle changes in voice and tone to try to descry the tall man’s mood. Hux knew immediately that mood equaled if not exceeded his own consternation.

  “Yes, and he had help.” Though Hux was loath to admit it, he had no choice. “One of our own. We’re checking the registers now to identify which stormtrooper it was.”

  While the all-concealing mask made it difficult to tell the focus of Ren’s attention, it was plainly not on the general. “FN-2187.”

  It unnerved Hux that Kylo Ren had managed to ascertain the identity of the rogue trooper before the ship’s own command staff. But then, Ren had access to a great many aspects of knowledge from which ordinary mortals like himself were excluded, Hux knew. He would have inquired further, but the taller figure had already turned and headed off. Ren’s indifference was far more unsettling than would have been anything as common as a straightforward insult. Shaking off the encounter, Hux turned his attention back to the lieutenant’s console.

  “Ventral cannons hot,” the lieutenant reported.

  “Fire,” Hux commanded.

  —

  One detonation followed another as the Finalizer’s weapons systems struggled to isolate the darting TIE fighter from the debris among which it danced. Poe was constantly changing his flight path, never doing anything predictable, utilizing the destruction he and his companion had already wrought to confuse the predictors that were an integral part of the big guns’ operating systems. Though more debris provided more cover, Poe knew he couldn’t keep up such maneuvering forever. Ultimately, the damage he and Finn had caused would be reduced to fragments, and then to powder, by the efforts of the destroyer’s weapons. Bereft of anywhere to hide, the TIE fighter would eventually catch a powerful laser pulse. That would be the end of the game. Before that happened, they had to get clear.

  No doubt every gunner, every weapons system operator on the destroyer, was just waiting for the stolen fighter to break outsystem preparatory to making a jump to lightspeed. Their attention would be focused in those directions, away from the ship and toward the great darkness. The last thing they would expect someone escaping from the vicinity of the planet Jakku to do would be to—head for Jakku.

  As he sent the TIE fighter roaring toward the desert world below, a hand reached forward and down to rap him on the shoulder. “Wait—this isn’t right! Where are you going?” Behind them, a few desultory blasts erupted from the Star Destroyer’s weapons. It would take very little time for the great ship to bring all its power to bear on the fleeing fighter. But very little time was all a pilot like Poe needed.

  “You mean, where are we going. Back to Jakku, that’s where.” As if, he thought, the brown and yellow globe expanding rapidly in front of them wasn’t indication enough. But he could sympathize with Finn’s confusion. What they were doing made no sense. Always, he knew, the best way to avoid predictability. Even if it was a little mad.

  “What? Jakku? No, no, no! Poe, we gotta get outta this system!” The TIE fighter rocked crazily as one near-miss after another reached them
from the destroyer and Poe fought to confuse any automatic trackers. Finn’s voice grew calmer, but only slightly. “Oh, okay, I got it. We’re gonna go sub-atmosphere, circle the planet, and strike for lightspeed on the other side, out of the big guy’s range, right? Right? Tell me I’m right, Poe.”

  Poe didn’t bother to shake his head, focusing on the fighter’s wonderfully responsive controls. “I got to get to my droid before the First Order does!”

  Finn gaped at the back of the pilot’s head. “Your droid? What does a droid have to do with escaping?”

  “It’s not about escaping. This whole business isn’t about escaping.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” Feeling slightly numb, Finn slumped back in his seat. “You must really, really, really like this droid.”

  “He’s a BB unit. One of a kind. Orange and white. Utterly unique and utterly invaluable.”

  Finn’s voice rose anew. “I don’t care what color it is! I don’t care if it’s capable of invisibility! No droid can be that important!”

  Poe let out a private, knowing grunt. “This one is, pal.”

  “Okay,” Finn countered, “you say that it’s important. I’ll tell you what’s important, pal. Getting as far away from the First Order and its representatives as we can, as fast as we can! That’s what’s important. To me, anyway.” He lowered his voice. “I saved your life, Poe. At the very least, you owe me mine. We go back to Jakku, we die.”

  “That’s a chance we’ve got to take.” The pilot’s stance was unshakeable. “This isn’t about my life, or yours. I’m sorry, Finn, but there are far greater things at stake. Forces are in motion that must be dealt with. Unfortunately, I seem to be at the center of them. It’s a responsibility I can’t—I won’t—forgo. I’m sorry you’ve become caught up in the middle of it, but I can’t do anything about that.”

  “I don’t care how important this droid of yours is, or what you and it are involved in. For you and me, Jakku is another word for death.”

  Poe could not dispute Finn’s logic, so he ignored it—just as he had set aside reason when he had rushed into the village in a futile attempt to save the life of Lor San Tekka.

  Of course, he reminded himself, that hadn’t turned out so well, either. But he was being nothing if not truthful. He had sworn an oath to the Resistance, and he had no intention of breaking it now. No matter how bad the odds. He took a deep breath. Although it meant breaking protocol, Finn deserved to know.

  “My droid’s got a map that leads to Luke Skywalker.”

  It took Finn a moment—a long moment—for the full impact of the pilot’s declaration to hit home. “You gotta be kidding me! Skywalk— I never should have rescued you!”

  Even as he spoke, a burst from the destroyer intercepted Poe’s latest evasive effort. Sparks flew within the cockpit, followed by an eruption of acrid smoke and fumes. The fighter’s engines flared wildly, sending it out of control. And since it was headed straight toward the surface of Jakku, that was where it continued to race—out of control.

  Finn quit looking for something to shoot at because his instrumentation had gone completely dead. Coughing, fighting for breath, he yelled in the pilot’s direction. “All weapons systems are down! My controls are neutralized! You?”

  There was no reply, save for the now continuous shrilling of the fighter’s alarms. Finn waved at the increasingly dense smoke as he strained forward toward his new friend—and drew back in horror.

  Poe was not moving. His eyes were shut. Blood streamed down his face.

  “No—noooo! Poe!”

  No response came from the unconscious pilot. Eying him in the closed, smoky confines of the cockpit, his own eyes filling with tears in response to the increasingly bad air, Finn couldn’t even tell if the other man was still alive. The blackness of space was gone now, completely blotted out by the increasingly proximate surface of Jakku. Even if he could somehow take Poe’s place, Finn knew he could not safely set down an undamaged fighter, much less one in this condition.

  He did, however, figure out the location of his seat’s eject control. Equipped with a manual override in the event of total electronics failure, it was clearly marked. Gripping the handle, he wrenched on it as hard as he could. Neither the extra muscle nor additional adrenaline was necessary. The handle moved smoothly and without resistance. A moment later, he felt his body being ripped away from the TIE fighter. The universe spun wildly around him, and for a brief moment his sight was filled with alternating visions of yellow planet, black space, and white clouds.

  Then he passed out.

  —

  On the Finalizer command deck, General Hux had moved away from Mitaka’s station. Wandering from console to console, he proceeded to question a succession of technicians and fire-control officers. The anxiety that had been building in him but which he had managed to keep restrained was greatly lightened when one tech looked up at him to report.

  “They’ve been hit.”

  Hux’s expression did not change, but inside he felt considerable relief. He studied the tech’s console, his gaze flicking rapidly from one readout to the next. The details coming in appeared conclusive, but in this matter there was no room for mere ninety-nine percent certainty; no room for analytical equivocation.

  “Destroyed?”

  The tech’s response as he studied his instruments confirmed the general’s circumspection. “Disabled only, it would appear.”

  Hux leaned closer. “He could be trying to throw us off.”

  “If so,” the tech reported, “he’s going to grave extremes. Sensors show pieces of the fighter are becoming detached and flying off. Such actions could not be carried out by the operator of the fighter itself and must be the result of the craft having suffered serious damage.” He paused a moment, added, “I hew to my original opinion, sir. No one would choose to voluntarily engage in a descent such as the one the fighter is currently taking.”

  “Very well, then,” Hux conceded. “They are disabled, perhaps fatally so. Given that and what you can divine of their present vector, what is the projected location of touchdown?”

  Once more the technician analyzed his readouts. “The fighter is projected to crash somewhere in the Goazon Badlands. At this range and given the nature of the topography in question, it is impossible to predict the exact angle and velocity with which it will strike.”

  Hux nodded thoughtfully. “They were going back for the droid. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Otherwise they would have tried to hit lightspeed as soon as the pilot had had enough of teasing us.” He shrugged slightly. “It doesn’t matter now. Or at least it won’t once termination of this regrettable interruption is confirmed. Send a squad to the projected crash site and instruct them to scan not only the wreckage but the surrounding area. If they can’t find bodies, then have them vac the debris. I won’t accept that the pilot and the traitor are both dead until I have tangible biological proof.” His tone darkened only slightly, but it was enough to cause the tech to wish the senior officer would resume his wandering.

  “Biological traces are acceptable,” Hux murmured, “but a couple of skulls would be better.”

  —

  It felt to Finn as if it took him longer to escape from the confines of the encapsulated, ejected gunner’s seat than it had to travel from plunging fighter to planetary surface. The clips and buckles, braces and foam that were intended to set him down in one piece now seemed designed to prevent him from ever emerging onto his own two feet. There was a sequence that had to be followed—first this control, then this button, then slide this to unlock—before the gear could be convinced to let him go. Or rather, he thought frantically, to let go of him.

  Eventually he succeeded in freeing himself from the tangle of safety tackle. Staggering clear, he took in his surroundings. His spirits fell. He was alive, but if the environment in which he presently found hi
mself was anything to go by, not for long.

  The dusky dune field stretched in all directions, to every horizon. Somehow blue sky and sand now seemed more forbidding than the blackness of space. The warships that had largely been his home were sealed, environmentally controlled little worlds. Anything one needed was readily available, right at hand. Food, water, entertainment, sleeping facilities: All were no more than a few steps away. It was more than a little ironic that someone comfortable in the vastness of space should suddenly find himself suffering from a touch of agoraphobia.

  Glancing skyward, he expected to see a landing craft or two dropping out of the clouds in hot pursuit. But his gaze was rewarded only by the sight of a pair of native avians soaring southward. They looked, he decided uncomfortably, too big to be herbivores. At least they were not circling the spot where he had landed—or him. Yet.

  Something else manifested over the eastern dunes. Smoke. The wind had dropped off, allowing it to rise in a column instead of being blown sideways and dispersed. Otherwise he would have noticed it earlier, despite his distress. Someone was making a fire in this forsaken place, or…

  He started toward it, struggling in the remnants of his armor. Logic insisted no one could have survived the fighter’s crash without ejecting beforehand, as he had done. But logic also insisted that it was impossible to escape from a First Order spacecraft, and they had done that. Not that it would matter if he was found here, wandering alive among the dunes. Of one thing he was certain: His former colleagues would not understand, no matter how hard he tried to explain. No one fled the First Order and lived.

  The sand sucked at his feet as he stumbled toward the rising smoke. “Poe! Say something if you can hear me! Poe!” He did not expect a response, but he hoped for one.