The Force Awakens (Star Wars)

by Alan Dean Foster

  In another part of the vessel, safely sealed off behind the blast doors that slammed shut immediately following the breach of hull integrity caused by the Falcon’s unorthodox departure, a battered and infuriated Bala-Tik took time out from bemoaning the loss of his men and equipment to activate a deep-space contact via the freighter’s still-functional communications system. Caught in the Falcon’s explosive departure, his own vessel was in no condition to pursue. Neither was that belonging to the Kanjiklub. But…others might be. If he couldn’t collect what Solo owed him, there remained the possibility of a reward for information.

  Contact established, he spoke into the pickup. “My name is Bala-Tik. I am a Guavian trader. My personal history is available for general assessment by any who care to research it. My reputation is verifiable. I am letting it be known that the individual Han Solo is likely in possession of the droid that is the subject of a search by the First Order. And that it and Solo together with an unknown number of allies are presently aboard the vessel known as the Millennium Falcon: destination unknown. I hereby lay claim to any reward that has been established for information leading to recovery of said droid by the First Order.”

  He closed the contact. It was out there now: what he knew, and his claim. He could do no more. And until he could either get his own vessel up and running or pay for someone to come out to this hulk of a freighter and pick him up, he was stuck here.

  With, he reminded himself uneasily as the sound of a distant banging and tearing of metal reached him, an unknown number of surviving rathtars.

  X

  THE INFORMATION ARRIVED at the Resistance base on D’Qar coded and encrypted. Ordinary transmissions were simply ported directly to the relevant parties. Those intended for general distribution were not even encoded. But when something of specific importance intended for a highly restricted audience came in, it loaded at only one location. Sometimes something as simple as mere physical separation provided the best security.

  Lieutenant Brance saw the telltale come to life on his workstation. It took scarcely a second for it to flip from red to yellow and then to green as the transmission was received, decrypted, and reduced to a comprehensible hard copy. Pulling it, he scanned the message. His eyes widened.

  Leaving the station, he took off on foot, down one tunnel, into another corridor, ignoring everyone else as he searched for the message’s recipient. This time of day he was confident he knew where to find her. The passages through which he ran were crammed with all manner of equipment: Sometimes carefully installed, other times slapped together in haste, it was nonetheless all functional. Despite the crowding, Brance knew there was not nearly enough of it. There was never enough. The indigenous growths that pushed their way into the tunnels were only a reflection of the camouflaging forest above the base. Mindless and unthinking though it might be, the native plant life was in its own way an active participant in the Resistance.

  He found the general where he expected her to be, conversing quietly with Captain Snap Wexley and an attendant droid. Leia Organa wore a dark vest over a simple blue-gray jumpsuit that was devoid of any indication of rank. Folded sleeves halted at mid-forearm. The color of her boots matched her vest, and a belt of some dark material was threaded neatly through a silvery buckle. Save for a single longer braid, General Organa’s gray hair was bound up in a ring that outlined her head. Despite her lack of uniform, no one would mistake the petite woman for anything but what she was: a princess and a general.

  All three looked up at his arrival and he passed her the hard copy. He knew that if the general wished to keep the information restricted, she would have said so the instant he had handed it over and would have already dismissed Wexley.

  After giving her a moment to scan the content, Brance said, “General, as you can see from the details in this recent transmission, the community on Jakku was wiped out. First Order stormtroopers.” Brance glanced at Wexley. “Lor San Tekka was killed.”

  She did not respond, but instead continued to study the readout. There was additional information: time of the attack, duration, number of assailants, descriptions of the weaponry they had employed—all of it incidental to the sobering consequences. The tactics team would break down the details and note anything useful.

  What really mattered was what wasn’t there.

  “If they get to Luke first, we don’t have a chance,” she murmured. A new thought forced her to ask, “Anything else? Anything I’m not seeing here? What about Poe Dameron?”

  “They found his X-wing destroyed. Angle and depth of the blaster marks suggest it was blown up while still on the ground. Definitely First Order: The locals don’t have access to that kind of weaponry.” His expression tightened. “There’s no indication he survived. It looks like we’ve lost him.”

  Leia’s expression tightened. If they continued to lose fighters like Dameron, the Resistance would have no hope against the First Order. She forced herself to continue reading through the other half of the detailed report. “There’s no mention of Beebee-Ate.”

  Brance nodded at the readout again. “No, General. He wasn’t recovered. Our people on Jakku who prepared the report say that he likely perished along with the X-wing.”

  She looked up. “Never underestimate a droid, Lieutenant.” She looked to her right. “While some of them are specialized to an extreme degree—say, in linguistic capabilities—others may converse in simple mechanical languages but possess hidden skills. Beebee-Ate is such an example. In the absence of identifiable remains, we may retain hope.” She fixed him with a gaze that had withered the less resilient. “Or are you ready to give up now?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said zealously.

  General Organa turned to the droid in attendance. In sharp contrast to one arm that was a dull red, the bipedal machine’s reflective golden torso gleamed from a recent cleaning.

  “See-Threepio, you’ve heard the information from Jakku. Locate Beebee-Ate immediately— you know what to do.”

  Nodding slightly and gesturing with the red arm, the protocol droid responded without hesitation. “Yes, General! Of course! The tracking system. Oh dear, this is a calamity!”

  —

  In another room, Korr Sella, Leia’s personal envoy, awaited the general’s arrival. The young woman wore her hair back in a severe bun and her dark green uniform contrasted notably with the general’s more subdued attire, as did the badge that identified her as a commander. As usual, Leia did not waste time on small talk.

  “You need to go to the Senate right away. Tell them I insist that they take action against the First Order. The longer they bicker and delay, the stronger the Order becomes.” She leaned toward the other woman. “If they fail to take action soon, the Order will have grown so strong the Senate will be unable to do anything. It won’t matter what they think.”

  Sella indicated her understanding. “With all respect: Do you think the senators will listen?”

  “I don’t know.” Leia bit down on her lower lip. “So much time has passed. There was a time when they were at least willing to listen. And of course, the Senate’s makeup has changed. Some of those who were always willing to pay attention to me have retired. Some of those who have replaced them have their own agendas.” She smiled ruefully. “Not all senators think I’m crazy. Or maybe they do. I don’t care what they think about me as long as they take action.”

  The emissary nodded. “I’ll do all I can to ensure the Resistance gets the hearing we deserve. But why don’t you go yourself, General? An appeal of this nature is always more effective when delivered firsthand.”

  Leia’s smile thinned. “I might make it to the Senate, yes. I might even be able to deliver my speech. But I would never, never get out of the Hosnian system alive. I would have a terrible ‘accident,’ or become the victim of some ‘deranged’ radical. Or I would eat something that didn’t agree with me. Or encounter someone who didn’t agr
ee with me.” She composed herself. “I have total confidence in you, Sella. I know you will deliver our message to the full extent of your considerable abilities.”

  The emissary smiled back, grateful for the confidence the general was expressing.

  —

  In a little-used conference room, C-3PO leaned into the shadows to murmur anxiously.

  “I’ve never needed your help more than now—Artoo.”

  The squat droid he was addressing sat quietly in minimum maintenance mode, without so much as a single telltale blinking.

  “How can I have committed such a devastating oversight?” the protocol droid continued. “When we sent Beebee-Ate off, it was my responsibility to perform his final checkout. Which I did, in most excellent and approved fashion. Except—except…” If a droid could have fallen to wailing, C-3PO would have done so on the spot. “I forgot to activate his long-range tracking mode! I must have assumed he would always be in the presence of that pilot and that therefore there would be no need. I deserve to have my memory wiped. Oh, Artoo, what am I to do? I wish you’d finally wake up, I need you now.”

  Only an occasional beep sounded from the smaller droid, indicative of his present dormancy.

  “What would your advice be? No doubt you’d have an opinion about sending a general alert to all our associate droids, in the hope that one of them might encounter Beebee-Ate or his ident signal.” Two hands, one gold and one red, rose slightly in realization. “Why, that’s brilliant! I will do just that. Artoo, you’re a genius!”

  Pivoting, he rushed off to implement the concept, leaving behind a very quiet droid.

  —

  The fleet of Star Destroyers stood off the white world. Spectacular and isolated, with a mean surface temperature varying from merely cold to permanently arctic, the planet had been altered: its mountains tunneled into, its glaciers hacked, and its valleys modified until it no longer resembled its original naturally eroded form. Those who had remade it had renamed it.

  Starkiller Base.

  Hollowed out of one snow-covered mountain was a central control facility. At its heart was a great assembly chamber that held hundreds of workstations and their attendant seats. At present, it was occupied by only three figures. One was Kylo Ren. The second was General Hux, who wore his particular mask internally.

  Seated on the raised platform that was the focus of the chamber was the blue-tinted holo of Supreme Leader Snoke. Tall and gaunt, he was humanoid but not human. The hood of the dark robe he wore was down, leaving visible a pink, pale face so aged it verged on translucence. Poorly reconstructed, the broken nose added to the asymmetry of the damaged visage. So did the position of the left eye, which was situated lower than the right. Beneath wispy gray eyebrows, they were a startling cobalt blue. Long since healed over, old cuts and wounds marred the chin and forehead, the latter scar being particularly noteworthy.

  Seated in shadow, the tall, slender form loomed over the other two men. Other than the face, only long, spindly fingers showed from beneath the dark robe. “The droid will soon be in the hands of the Resistance,” Snoke declaimed, his voice deep, soothing, and very much that of someone in complete control, “giving the enemy the means to locate Skywalker and bring to their cause a most powerful ally. If Skywalker returns, the new Jedi will rise.”

  Ren sat impassive, neither commenting nor visibly betraying his thoughts.

  Hux dipped his head by way of apology and took a step toward the dais. “Supreme Leader, I take full responsibility for th—”

  Snoke cut him off. “Your apologies are not a strategy, General. We are here now. It is what happens next that matters.”

  Aware that he had just been spared an unknown but certainly unpleasant fate, the redheaded officer spoke up immediately. “I do have a proposition. The weapon. We have it. It is ready. I believe the time has come to use it.”

  “Against?”

  “The Republic. Or what its fractious proponents choose to call the Republic. Their center of government, its entire system. In the chaos that will follow, the Resistance will have no choice but to investigate an attack of such devastating scale. They will throw all their resources into trying to discover its source. So they have no choice but to investigate fully, and in so doing…”

  “Reveal themselves.” Snoke was clearly pleased.

  “And if they don’t…we’ve destroyed them.”

  “Yes,” Snoke said in satisfaction. “Extreme. Audacious. I agree that the time for such measures has come. Go. Oversee the necessary preparations.”

  “Yes, Supreme Leader.” Bowing stiffly, Hux turned and exited the chamber. He took long strides, walking briskly, clearly pleased with himself.

  Snoke and Ren silently watched the general go.

  When next Snoke spoke there was an intimacy in his voice, a familiarity that stood in sharp contrast to the commanding tone he had used with Hux.

  “I have never had a student with such promise—before you.”

  Ren straightened. “It is your teachings that make me strong, Supreme Leader.”

  Snoke demurred. “It is far more than that. It is where you are from. What you are made of. The dark side—and the light. The finest sculptor cannot fashion a masterpiece from poor materials. He must have something pure, something strong, something unbreakable, with which to work. I have—you.” He paused, reminiscing.

  “Kylo Ren, I watched the Galactic Empire rise, and then fall. The gullible prattle on about the triumph of truth and justice, of individualism and free will. As if such things were solid and real instead of simple subjective judgments. The historians have it all wrong. It was neither poor strategy nor arrogance that brought down the Empire. You know too well what did.”

  Ren nodded once. “Sentiment.”

  “Yes. Such a simple thing. Such a foolish error of judgment. A momentary lapse in an otherwise exemplary life. Had Lord Vader not succumbed to emotion at the crucial moment—had the father killed the son—the Empire would have prevailed. And there would be no threat of Skywalker’s return today.”

  “I am immune to the light,” Ren assured him confidently. “By the grace of your training, I will not be seduced.”

  “Your self-belief is commendable, Kylo Ren, but do not let it blind you. No one knows the limits of his own power until it has been tested to the utmost, as yours has not been. That day may yet come. There has been an awakening in the Force. Have you felt it?”

  Ren nodded. “Yes.”

  “The elements align, Kylo Ren. You alone are caught in the winds of the storm. Your bond is not just to Vader, but to Skywalker himself. Leia…”

  “There is no need for concern.” Despite the Supreme Leader’s cautioning, Ren’s assurance remained unbounded. “Together we will destroy the Resistance—and the last Jedi.”

  “Perhaps,” Snoke conceded. “It has come to our notice that the droid we seek is aboard the Millennium Falcon, once again in the hands of your father, Han Solo. Even you, master of the Knights of Ren, have never faced such a test.”

  Ren considered his reply carefully. “It does not matter. He means nothing to me. My allegiance is with you. No one will stand in our way.”

  Snoke nodded. “We shall see. We shall see.”

  It was a dismissal. Turning, wholly preoccupied now, Ren followed General Hux in exiting the vast chamber. When he was gone, a grotesque smile twisted across Snoke’s countenance. Then it vanished—along with the rest of the holo of the Supreme Leader.

  —

  I don’t know what to do.

  Stumbling down the sand flat that wound between towering dunes, the dazed pilot fought to recall who he was, struggled to remember why he presently found himself staggering through what appeared to be an empty desert. His head hurt, and not just from the effort of trying to remember. Reaching up with one hand, he winced as his fingers took the measure of a lump
on his forehead that had swollen to the size of a ponnelx egg.

  He’d hit his head. Hard. It seemed to him that probably meant something. But what? A concurrence…no, that wasn’t it. Concussion? Yes! He’d suffered a concussion. How had that happened?

  As is often the case with a jolt to the brain case, recent events came flooding back to him in a rush.

  Capture. Interrogation. He’d stolen a ship with… with…

  He looked around and began calling the name he remembered.

  “Finn! Finn!”

  Then he recalled that the renegade stormtrooper who had helped him escape had ejected from their stolen TIE fighter as it had plunged out of control toward the surface of…Jakku. That was it. He was on Jakku. As for the absent Finn, there was no response to the pilot’s anxious shouts. Depending on the angle and speed of ejection, his new friend could have come down anywhere, Poe knew.

  His name. That was his name. Poe Dameron, and he was a pilot in the Resistance. But if he was a Resistance pilot, where was his flight jacket?

  Probably still pinned in the TIE fighter he had only just managed to set down in one piece. He remembered the crash now. Remembered recovering consciousness just in time to set down more or less intact, trying to get out of the cockpit before something blew, his jacket caught and holding him back, struggling out of it and then tumbling clear onto the sand—all of it recalled through the haze of his concussion.

  He was alive on the surface of Jakku. Alive and alone. There was no way of telling if Finn had been as fortunate. More important, where was BB-8?