The Force Awakens (Star Wars)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Flame had joined smoke in enveloping the wreck of the TIE fighter. Built more robustly than the typical ship of its class, the Special Forces craft had survived the crash landing, although hardly intact. Debris from the impact was scattered over a wide area. Careful not to cut himself on twisted shards of metal and still-hot composite, he pushed through the heat and haze until he reached the cockpit. It lay crushed and open to the desert air. Trying to shield his eyes against the smoke, Finn moved in closer. Something—there was something sticking out of the wreckage. An arm.

  Ignoring the heat and the licking flames, Finn reached in until he could get a grip on it. First one hand, then both, then pull—and it came free in his hands. No arm, no body: just Poe’s jacket. Frustrated, he threw it aside and tried to enter the ruined cockpit. Increasing smoke and heat made it impossible for him to even see, much less work his way inside.

  “Poe!”

  He felt his legs start to go out from under him. But they hadn’t buckled; the ground had. Looking down, he saw sand beginning to slide beneath him. His feet were already half covered. He was sinking. In front of him, the ruins of the ship began to slide into the hollow in which it had come to rest. Sand was crawling up the wings and reaching for the open cockpit. If he didn’t get away from the quicksand, it was clear he was going to join the TIE fighter in premature internment. He began backpedaling frantically, yelling at the disappearing vessel.

  “POE!”

  Going. Down, down into the sand, to a depth that could not be imagined. Maybe just below the surface, he thought as he scrambled to find safe footing. Maybe much, much deeper.

  The more the sand covered the fighter, the faster the vessel sank, until in a few moments it was completely gone. Joining it was most of the debris that the hard landing had thrown aside. There was nothing. Nothing to show that—

  A violent explosion erupted almost beneath his feet, sending him staggering backward. For an instant, the substantial fireball that blew skyward flared an angry black and red before dissipating into the atmosphere. Regaining his footing, he stumbled forward. In place of the vanished TIE fighter there was some scattered debris and fused sand. Nothing more, and certainly no sign of another human being. Unlike the fighter, in the case of his companion there were no surviving fragments.

  Drained of energy and overwhelmed, he started kicking at the sand, as if exposing a lower layer might reveal something, anything, familiar or encouraging. But each kick exposed only more sand. Looking around wildly, he saw only the silent dunes. It was as if nothing had ever touched this place; certainly not the hand of civilization.

  He had escaped. He had survived. He had landed intact and apparently unharmed. And by the looks of things, he was just as dead as if none of it had ever happened. He inhaled deeply, then screamed at the empty planet, knowing as he did so that there was no one around to hear him.

  “I DON’T…KNOW WHAT…TO DO!”

  V

  IT SEEMED IMPOSSIBLE that the day could grow any hotter. This being a day filled with one impossibility after another, however, Finn felt no surprise as the heat continued to intensify. Squinting into the glare, he saw nothing in front of him but sand. Sand interrupted by the occasional salt flat followed by more sand. Nothing but sand off to his left, sand off to his right, sand behind…

  A shape was coming toward him, sharp outlines resolving themselves out of a distant mirage. Nor was it silent. A rising, unsteady whine accompanied the rapidly expanding vision. A vehicle! Some kind of craft out here, in this blasted nothingness, and it was coming straight toward him! Staggering, he raised his arms and began yelling as loudly as his parched throat would permit.

  “Hey! Here! Over here! Hey!” At this point he didn’t care who was in the vehicle, not even if it was occupied by followers of the First Order. Anything, anyone, as long as they could spare some water.

  The speeder was large, battered, and packed with an assortment of scoundrels representing several different species—none of them noted for their compassion. Yelling down at him and making rude gestures, they rocketed on past without so much as slowing down, leaving in their wake only dry dust and derisive laughter.

  “Thank you!” To the vocal sarcasm he added a mock bow. “Oh, yes, kind fellow travelers, thank you so very much! Thanks a lot!” He continued muttering under his breath, utilizing words and phrases from a half dozen worlds that would have seen him busted in rank had he employed them in the presence of an officer.

  No need to concern himself with anything like that anymore, he knew. He was no longer a trooper in the service of the First Order. Should he ever again find himself among its adherents, the last thing he would have to worry about was censure for the use of bad language.

  Where was he? This wandering among and between dunes was taking him nowhere. He needed a goal, a destination. His gaze rose. To find that, he needed to acquire a more thorough view of his surroundings.

  There are physical tasks more daunting than climbing a steep sand dune, but few that are as frustrating. One step sliding backward for every two up, and that assuming the climber didn’t lose his footing and roll all the way back down to the bottom of the sand hill. Determined to make it to the top, Finn kept fighting, legs churning, until at last he stood on the crest of the small, sandy mountain. His first glimpse of his surroundings was as disheartening as he had feared: more sand, piled into slightly lower dunes. But in the distance off to his left, was that…could it be…

  Yes! A settlement! What kind he did not know, but a settlement would have water and food and shelter from the sun. If he was exceptionally lucky, it might even be the destination of the cacophonous crowd that had callously passed him in the speeder. He wouldn’t mind meeting a few of those boastful travelers again—after he had refreshed himself and regained his strength, of course. He started carefully down the far side of the dune he had so painfully ascended. At least now he had a destination.

  He was not yet willing to allow himself any hope.

  —

  The three-dimensional imagery was mundane: standard-issue trooper personal history and training records. Nonetheless, Hux reviewed it carefully. When analyzing a psychological profile in search of an anomaly, one looked for small clues. A bit of correspondence, a favored quote, even the posture of the individual in question: Any of these might suffice to point to an explanation for the trooper’s inexplicable behavior. He did not expect to find a picture of FN-2187 holding up a sign that read “I am going to go berserk and free a prisoner and steal a TIE fighter.” If there were any indications of mental imbalance or Resistance sympathies in the trooper’s records, Hux expected they would be subtle, not blatant.

  But so far, there was nothing. Nothing to suggest that FN-2187 might one day go rogue. Nothing to indicate he was anything other than a representative of his kind, no different from his comrades. Nothing to distinguish him as a person, as a soldier, as an exception.

  When he thought about it, Hux mused, the fact that FN-2187 came across as mind-numbingly ordinary was more unsettling than if his history had been full of semi-traitorous rants and near psychotic episodes. It suggested that the ranks might harbor others like him. They could not be permitted to know what he had done. Psytechs were already hard at work counseling those who had come into contact with him, whether through unremarkable everyday interaction or in the course of his violent flight. The whole incident had to be tamped down, obscured, and buried lest the germ of an infection spread through the ranks.

  If there was one thing a competent fighting force did not need, Hux knew, it was unforeseen outbursts of individuality.

  Light from the holos reflected off the chrome-clad figure standing beside him.

  “Nothing noteworthy,” Phasma said. “FN-2187 was assigned to my division, received some additional specialty training, was evaluated, and sent to reconditioning.”

  Hux shook his head slowly as he continued to sc
rutinize the records. If anything stood out in the history of stormtrooper FN-2187, it was his exceptional banality. “No prior signs of nonconformity. Not so much as talking back to a superior. He appears so ordinary as to be invisible.”

  “This was his first offense.” Phasma betrayed nothing other than professional interest in the episode or in the man. “It is his only offense.”

  Entering the room, Kylo Ren moved to join them. “Finding the flaw in your training methods won’t help recover the droid.” Although his mask concealed his facial expression, the rage simmering below his calm demeanor was almost palpable.

  “And yet, there are larger concerns,” Hux insisted. It was evident from both Hux’s tone and body language that he held no love for the newcomer. The feeling was mutual; neither took pains to hide his contempt.

  “Not for me.”

  Typical Ren, Hux thought. Self-centered, arrogant, indifferent to the interests of others.

  “The Supreme Leader made it explicit that the Resistance not acquire the map to Skywalker. Capture the droid if we can. Destroy it if we must.”

  Ren paused to consider the general’s words. “A simple enough task, or so it would seem. Find one droid. Just how capable are your soldiers, General?”

  Hux turned away from the trooper’s holofile. He respected Ren and his abilities, but he was not afraid of him. One did not rise to the rank of general in the forces of the First Order by showing fear.

  “I won’t have you questioning my methods.”

  “What methods would those be, General? Those that allow a single common trooper to free an important prisoner from confinement, escort him to an operating hangar, and assist him in fighting his way to freedom? What methods teach such expertise? Obviously, at least some of your troops are skilled at high treason. Perhaps Leader Snoke should consider using an army of clones.”

  It was with great difficulty that Hux restrained himself. “My men receive exceptional instruction. They are programmed from birth to be loyal to one another, to their officers, and to the Order. The appearance of a single abnormality does not give you the right to question methods that have been refined through long—”

  Ren interrupted the general’s impassioned defense. “Keeping the map out of the hands of the Resistance shouldn’t be a problem, then. Yes?”

  “Again, this map. Which for all I know may or may not even exist.”

  Ren’s voice darkened to a degree that caused Phasma to take a step backward. “I do not think I care for your implication, General. You would be wise to keep such thoughts to yourself. You would be wise not to think them.”

  Hux held his ground. “My duty is to fight for the First Order with every iota of information, every scrap of material, and every functioning trooper at my command. That was in the oath I took. That is the oath I have sworn to uphold.” His gaze did not flinch from the mask. “There was nothing in it about accommodating the ancillary interests of individuals, no matter how high their rank or how exalted their perceived importance. Careful, Ren, that your personal interests do not interfere with direct orders from Leader Snoke.”

  If Kylo Ren was affronted by the general’s boldness, he did not show it. As if nothing untoward had passed between them, he continued. “Have you and your techs reviewed the close-in scans of the area where the stolen TIE fighter was forced down? That region is home to only one settlement of consequence: Niima Outpost. If the droid is still functioning, it would instinctively try to hide there.”

  Glad of the opportunity to change the subject as well as to report something positive, Hux replied in a more amenable tone of voice. “I concur. Furthermore, we found the traitor’s armor. It was strung out along a single trail in the desert, where it had been abandoned. While the viewable footprints were interspersed among the dunes, they form a consistent pattern heading toward Niima.” He smiled thinly at Ren. “A strike team is already en route.”

  “Good. I am pleased to see that you are personally in charge of this, General. Of retrieving the droid—preferably unharmed.”

  Before Hux could object again, Ren turned and departed back the way he had come. If he felt the hate flowing in his direction from the senior officer behind him, he chose not to respond to it.

  —

  Jakku’s sun had burnt him, dehydrated him, and tormented him—but it had not beaten him. Not yet. What was a little sunburn, Finn told himself, to someone who had defied the First Order, freed its prisoner, and wreaked havoc on a Star Destroyer? That was what his brain said.

  His body begged to differ, shouting its displeasure at its recent treatment and threatening to collapse at any moment as he finally stumbled into Niima Outpost. Old ship parts towered around him; relics of better times, heralds of space travel past. Merchants and traders eyed him speculatively. Finn carried nothing of value save his organs, and judging by his exterior, his insides were not likely to be in very valuable condition, either. Some scavengers pointed and joked. Others, having suffered similarly from blowing sand and grit and sun, expressed murmured sympathy. That was all the help the stranger was offered. Niima Outpost did not coddle the weak.

  Something flat, fat, and ugly was drinking from an open water trough. Gaping at it, Finn could not imagine what such a creature could possibly offer that would induce someone to provide it with drink. It looked neither friendly nor edible. He didn’t care. It was the water he was interested in, and it was to the water he ran.

  Cupped hands dipped, drew the dingy liquid to his mouth, and held it there for him to sip. It felt wonderful against his lips. It tasted awful going down his throat. He spat, revolted. It was the turn of his body, however, to override his brain. Fighting down the urge to gag, he drank. The unsightly lump of four-legged flesh, which he would later learn was called a happabore, eyed him owlishly but otherwise ignored him. For all Finn knew or cared, the squat quadruped found him equally disgusting.

  —

  As Rey knelt beside BB-8, the excitable droid beeped madly.

  “Easy, easy—you’re going to drain your cells!” She patted the curving metal flank beside her. “You’re welcome for not selling you.” She saw no reason to add that she had come very, very near to doing exactly that. “Okay, stop thanking me. Now as to this other matter: You’re going to have to calm down and speak slowly.” More frantic beeping caused her to reply irritably. “That’s not sufficient information, Beebee-Ate. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me who you’re waiting for.”

  The droid paused. Thinking? she wondered. Or as she had warned it, running low on power? When it finally did speak again, her exasperation was palpable.

  “Can you trust me? What do you think?” She started to rise, frustrated and not a little angry. “Tell me or don’t tell me. I don’t have time for games.”

  The droid moved closer, bumping her gently. She made a brief show of ignoring its entreaties before bending once more. “Yes, yes, I understand. You’re waiting for your master. Who? Say again?” The droid repeated the name. “Poe.” She shrugged diffidently. “The name means nothing to me. Should it?”

  Unable to properly voice his own frustration, BB-8 settled for spinning several times on his axis. When he stopped, he began to explain. Despite her studied indifference, Rey found herself listening closely to the steady stream of carefully composed beeps and squeals.

  “Yes, I know what the Rebellion was, and yes, I’ve heard of the Resistance.” Her expression grew more serious as the droid continued. “The First Order. They’re horrible. Rumor has it an attack squadron of theirs destroyed a sacred village right close to here, over near Kelvin Ravine.” BB-8’s next series of beeps caused the mask of indifference to fall from her face. She stared at the spherical droid in disbelief.

  “You were there?”

  She would have queried the droid further if not for the interruption. She recognized the approaching pair as two of Plutt’s thugs. Halting, they
towered over her: twin masses of mobile meat swathed in cheap desert clothing, even their faces completely covered. Plutt wouldn’t send such as these to deliver a polite message. With a glance at BB-8, the nearest was quick to confirm her suspicions.

  “Plutt wants droid. We take droid. Female don’t interfere.”

  “The droid is mine,” she shot back. “I didn’t sell him. Plutt knows that.”

  “You right,” agreed the other thug. “Plutt knows that. You didn’t sell. So he take.” His companion was already pulling a sack over BB-8. When Rey moved to stop him, the other speaker grabbed her arm.

  —

  Finn didn’t know if the happabore was tired of sharing his space with the biped or was simply being friendly when it pushed him over. So indistinct was the gesture that Finn couldn’t tell if it was a deliberate butt or just an amiable nuzzle. Whatever the creature’s motivation, it knocked him right off his feet.

  This new perspective gave him an excellent view of the confrontation that had started up in the nearby marketplace. He frowned. The young woman who was being accosted by two far larger individuals was fighting back. Rising, he impulsively moved to help her. However, the nearer he drew, the less concern he felt.

  Despite the difference in size between the girl and her assailants, it was looking as if she was not in need of any outside assistance.

  A twist and flip, and suddenly the brute who had been holding her arm found himself on the ground. When his companion rushed to assist his downed associate, he found himself on the wrong end of a ferocious assortment of kicks, punches, and blows delivered by the staff the girl was wielding. In short order, both ruffians found themselves prone and unconscious.

  Impressed but still wanting to lend a hand, Finn took it upon himself to pull the half-closed sack off the property that was the apparent source of the dispute. What he saw was nothing like what he expected. From a distance he had been unable to tell, but this close there was no mistaking the identity of the spherical mechanical.