Poe Dameron

by Lucasfilm Press

  Smugglers?

  Poe leaned back in his chair. He hadn’t considered the possibility. But the information revealed the fork in the road in front of him. The pounding in his chest grew louder, drumming through his veins into his ears and head. Was this what he wanted? Like he had said, he wanted adventure—a chance to fly free and leave Yavin 4 behind. But was throwing his lot in with smugglers the best way to get there? To achieve what he’d dreamt of? A chance at a life not mired in the ordinary and mundane?

  He’d met his fair share of unsavory characters before—bounty hunters, arms dealers, and other smugglers. They’d wander through Gully’s from time to time. But those were fleeting encounters—and Poe could always keep his distance. This was very different. If he threw his lot in with this group, he wouldn’t just be in the same room as a band of criminals—he would be a criminal, too. What would Shara Bey think of that?

  This would not be the kind of thing Poe could backtrack from. Joining forces with a group of smugglers would mean he’d never see Yavin 4, L’ulo, or his father again. But it was the only opening that pointed toward the freedom Poe hungered for. Maybe he could make it a temporary stay? Find his way off the moon, then strike out on his own. The rationalization calmed Poe a bit. He still felt a pang of sadness at the idea of leaving, but it was soon replaced by a determination and desire he’d only grazed over in the past few months.

  “I’m in,” Poe said with a quick nod. “Take me to the ship and we’ll be out of here faster than the Millennium Falcon.”

  Poe’s face grew hot as his boast was met not with cheers from his new comrades—but another round of laughter.

  Gully’s was quite different a few hours later, as Kes Dameron and L’ulo L’ampar entered. The bar still reeked of stale ale and smoke, still pulsed with the same melodious drone, but the crowd had thinned, and the energy of the place—if there was such a thing—had calcified. The few remaining customers were sluggish and distant, feeling the effects of their beverages or the weight of their bad decisions. Kes made a beeline for the bar.

  “Where is he?” Kes said as he leaned over the bar, his face centimeters from the Devaronian bartender’s. “Where’s Poe?”

  Fontis raised his hands in mock defense, a slight smile on his face.

  “Kes Dameron, now, now, you can’t just come in here full of bluster like this,” he said, baring his sharp teeth.

  Before Fontis could continue, Kes grabbed him by his tunic and started to drag him over the bar. The slithery bartender’s voice rose in pitch the closer he got to being off his feet.

  “Wait, wait, what are you doing?” Fontis said. As Kes got closer to pulling Fontis over, L’ulo closed in, his hands on Kes’s shoulders.

  “Put him down, Kes,” L’ulo said, his voice relaxed but not without presence. “This isn’t the way to get answers.”

  Kes paused a second before complying. Fontis dusted himself off and looked up at the two men.

  “Well, that’s no way to start a friendly conversation, don’t you think?”

  “Cut to it, Fontis,” L’ulo said. “Where is he?”

  After his encounter with Poe, L’ulo had felt aimless—like a cloud of guilt was hanging over him. Yes, he’d been honest with the boy. Poe Dameron deserved as much, he’d thought in the moment. Why not give him a little nudge to set things in motion? Isn’t that what Shara Bey would have wanted? But as he watched the boy—man—he loved like a son run into the dank, dark Yavin 4 night, he knew he’d overstepped, and that guilt propelled him in the other direction: to Kes Dameron’s farm, hat in hand.

  They’d scoured the relatively small Yavin 4 settlement—focusing on the docks and surrounding areas. It was only a matter of time before they honed in on Gully’s. L’ulo felt in his gut that Poe had ended up there.

  “You need to keep a better handle on your spawn, Kes,” Fontis hissed. “If you did, you and your Duros police friend wouldn’t need to come here and disrupt my business.”

  “Answer the question,” Kes said, spittle flying out of his mouth. “Where is my son?”

  Fontis raised his fists to defend himself. Though he’d seen his fair share of barroom scraps, he wouldn’t stand a chance against a former Pathfinder like Kes, and he knew it. Like much of what Fontis did, it was all for show.

  “He’s gone, all right? I don’t know where he went,” Fontis said. “Now leave. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

  Before Kes or L’ulo could respond, the saloon’s main door hissed open. A young, tall woman with short blond hair stepped in. Her uniform immediately gave her away: New Republic Security Bureau. But why was the NRSB there, on Yavin 4? Kes wondered. He wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

  “Kes Dameron?” the woman asked. She stepped toward them, not waiting for Kes to respond. “Sela Trune, NRSB. I was sent to Yavin Four on a special, highly confidential mission. A mission that—unfortunately—your son has gotten entangled in.”

  “What are you talking about?” L’ulo said, stepping between Kes and Trune. “What’s happening?”

  “Ever heard of the Spice Runners of Kijimi?” Trune asked.

  L’ulo felt a jolt run through him. Sela Trune hadn’t been blowing smoke. Not if it involved the Spice Runners. Though L’ulo was a member of Yavin 4’s Civilian Defense Force, he still did his best to stay apprised of what was going on in the greater galaxy. The Spice Runners of Kijimi were one of a handful of upstart organizations scratching and clawing their way toward recognition—and it wasn’t because they were warm and cuddly. No, the Spice Runners were cunning, calculating, and when needed, bloodthirsty—willing to solve their problems with an efficient blaster shot to the head, as opposed to a genteel conversation over tea.

  “What about them?” L’ulo asked.

  “They’re here, on Yavin Four,” Trune said, her speech rushed. She had somewhere else to be. “They pulled off a massive heist on Kellgar Seven, on the fringes of the Outer Rim. The kind of score that can set you up for life. But they ran into some trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Kes asked. He shook his head. He wasn’t sure what this had to do with Poe—or him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Trouble as in, their pilot was skimming from the top—sending bits and pieces of their big mother lode to his real employers—and the main competitors to the Spice Runners,” Trune said, pacing around the empty bar. Funny how the arrival of NRSB could clear a room full of people wallowing in the gray areas of criminal life. “The pilot—an Ishi Tib named Beke Mon’z—is dead. They figured him out. Or think they did.”

  “He was working for you,” L’ulo said. A statement, not a question.

  Trune responded with a dry smile.

  “You’re smart. I like that,” she said. “Yes. He was feeding us intel. Helping me get a better picture of who the Spice Runners are. But he was sloppy. My only hope is they think he was just a greedy mercenary instead of a double agent. Either way, they’re desperate for a pilot. And I think they zeroed in on your kid, who, from what I hear, isn’t bad up there.”

  “Poe? Where is he?” Kes said, forgetting Fontis and L’ulo were even there, turning to face this new player. “Where’s my son?”

  “That’s what I’m getting at. Your son is long gone, Dameron,” Trune said matter-of-factly. “And he’s in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  Poe’s eyes widened as the group approached the ship. The Yavin 4 docks were a hotbed of controlled chaos—ships landing, ships being unloaded, workers moving goods, pilots and crew wandering to find food or room and board. The Defense Force presence on the docks was minimal—the area was just too hard to patrol, and on a small moon like this one, staffing was already stretched thin. Zorii Wynn motioned toward the vessel.

  “This is the Ragged Claw,” she said with some pride.

  The Claw was an XS stock light freighter, a Corellian starship that could be used for a variety of things—warfare, smuggling, transport. Poe was familiar with the model, which had been around for generations. It
was a small ship, as such things went—but it was also inconspicuous. The kind of ship you wouldn’t look twice at, it was so common—and outdated.

  They walked around the Claw’s yellow-plated saucer and boarded, trying to keep a casual air about them. Poe thought he heard Vigilch grumble something to Marinda Gan but couldn’t be certain. He’d been a blend of nerves and excitement since their conversation at the bar, and he was still not sure if this was really happening. Was he really leaving Yavin 4? With a band of smugglers he’d just met? It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He turned to look at Zorii. Their eyes met and she offered him a brief, welcoming smile. She had some idea what he was going through, he thought. Or rather—he hoped.

  “You familiar with this kind of ship, boy?” Vigilch said, leading him into the Claw’s cramped cockpit.

  Poe nodded confidently.

  “Count on it,” he said. “Are the laser cannons up to snuff? How’s the hyperdrive?”

  Vigilch scoffed. “Have you ever piloted something out of this system?”

  “Vigilch, do you have another pilot in your sheath?” Marinda Gan asked, her words dripping with disdain. “Or do you think we’ll be safer here, hunted and with a bounty on our heads, than on our way back home?”

  Vigilch shrugged.

  Poe slid into the pilot’s seat, facing the ship’s narrow viewport, which jutted from the ship like a sharp nose. Poe hadn’t lied to Vigilch. He knew about the freighter class—had studied it, like he’d studied many ships while pining away for a shot like this. He knew about the Ragged Claw’s armored hull, the kind of sublight engines it had. But could he fly it?

  “Only one way to find out,” he said under his breath.

  “What?” Zorii asked as she took the copilot’s seat. “Talking to yourself already?”

  “No, just getting situated,” Poe said, leaning forward and flicking through some of the prelaunch protocols. “Getting acquainted with the ship and all.”

  “You’ve never flown one of these, have you?” Zorii asked, a sharp smirk on her face. Her eyes seemed to be smiling, too—looking through Poe as if he was made of glass. He felt vulnerable. Like she was reading his mind—which he knew was impossible, but still. It made for a chilling sensation.

  “Not exactly,” he said, keeping his voice low so only she could hear. “But I can figure it out.”

  Zorii turned away and looked through the ship’s small cockpit window.

  “You’d better figure it out fast, Poe,” she said, not keeping her voice down. “We’ve got company.”

  She was right. Five armed NRSB officers were making their way through the docking area—trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably, their buttoned-up demeanor and wandering eyes giving them away even before their starched uniforms could. The standard dock people parted like bunkbugs scurrying for cover. They could sense trouble, too, and were not looking to stick around to see what came next.

  Poe felt a hand on his shoulder. Vigilch.

  “Get us out of here now, boy,” the Klatooinian said. “Or your tenure with the Spice Runners of Kijimi will be a short one.”

  Poe tried to speak but found himself unable to produce a sound.

  Spice Runners?

  His head felt light. For a moment, his vision went dark. No. That was not what he’d signed up for—was it?

  The Spice Runners of Kijimi.

  Poe had heard enough, listened in on his fair share of hushed conversations, to know the name—and what it meant. This was bad. He’d gone from consorting with a group of shady thieves to signing up with something much worse. What was he willing to sacrifice for his shot at adventure? Would it be worth it? He was going to find out one way or another. He was in too deep.

  “Are you listening, boy?” Vigilch spat, his voice rising in anger and volume. “Now. Get us out of here.”

  Poe swallowed hard and mentally walked through the steps to launch. He knew what to do, of that he had no doubt. He just hadn’t, well, done it before. Flying an A-wing was one thing—especially one he’d sat in and tinkered with since as far back as he could remember. The Ragged Claw was different—he was in someone else’s house and being asked to make dinner without really knowing where all the ingredients were. He knew he could cook, though. So it was time to turn on the heat.

  Then the shooting started.

  The blaster fire was sudden. It took Poe a second to realize what was going on. But the Spice Runners didn’t have his delay and immediately took their positions. Vigilch’s grip tightened on Poe’s shoulder.

  “Now, boy, now,” he seethed.

  Poe took a quick breath. He flipped the switch that engaged the ship’s thrusters, feeling the hum of the Ragged Claw’s deceptively powerful engines. Marinda Gan, Gen Tri, and Vigilch swayed as the ship lurched forward, still rattling from the barrage of blaster fire coming at them from the five officers on the ground.

  “We’re being fired on!” Marinda yelled over the rising sound of the ship’s engine.

  Before she could continue, the ship lurched forward again—this time with more purpose, and it wasn’t stopping.

  “What are you doing?” Zorii asked, scanning the controls from the copilot’s terminal. “We’re moving too fast for port traffic. We’re going to hit something.”

  “Just trust me,” Poe said as the ship careened past the firing NRSB officers, seeming to shrug off their blaster fire, and wove around a few smaller ships in mid-transit. “Trust me.”

  “What is going on?” Vigilch said as he toppled backward into the other two crew members.

  Poe ignored their leader. He had to focus. Had to push past everything—his fears, the blaster fire outside, his new allies. He wove the ship—which was pushing speeds not meant for ground-level travel—around the docking area, scraping and bumping the freighter toward open air in less than a minute.

  “They’re behind us,” Zorii said, her voice alarmed but not alarmist. “Three NRSB orbital jumpers.”

  “Good,” Poe said.

  “Good?” Zorii asked incredulously. “They’re on to us, Poe. I don’t know how familiar you are with this ship, but it’s not exactly the star of the fleet. Speed is not our strong suit.”

  “Orbital jumpers don’t have hyperdrives—once we get clear, we’re golden,” Poe said, pulling up on the ship’s throttle. The ship’s artificial gravity pushed him farther into his seat as the ship veered toward orbit around Yavin 4.

  “Zorii, handle the weapons while our pilot tries to get us out of here,” Vigilch barked.

  Poe clenched his jaw. He wanted to focus on what was in front of him—piloting the ship off Yavin 4—but he couldn’t help thinking about the bigger picture. For better or worse, he was on the wrong side.

  “On it,” Zorii said, swiveling her seat to scan the weapons terminal. “Laser cannons are locked. Just let me know when we should create an intergalactic incident.”

  “Fire,” Vigilch said. “Get us out of here, Dameron. Or else.”

  Poe nodded to himself. He felt his entire demeanor change. Felt himself push past his doubt and keep going, because the only other option was untenable. His movements gained strength and confidence. It was as if his entire being was making a decision—to leave Yavin 4, to repudiate what came before and carve a new path for himself, and deal with the consequences later. Either that or he’d be in a jam not even his father’s connections could get him out of.

  They were in orbit, speeding along with Yavin 4’s swampy atmosphere in the ship’s rear scopes. Poe caught sight of the jumpers, firing indiscriminately. He knew their laser cannons would sting like any bigger ship’s, but he also knew—just based on the short time he’d been flying the Claw—that the freighter was deceptively nimble. He wove through another barrage of fire, pulling the ship up—as if heading directly back to Yavin 4’s surface—only to wheel around.

  “What in blazes—”

  Vigilch’s curses crashed with similar obscenities and cries of surprise from the rest of th
e crew, not tethered to a terminal. Poe ignored them. He leveled the ship’s navigation and positioned it where he wanted it—right behind the jumpers.

  “Fire, Zorii,” Vigilch said.

  “Shoot to harm, not to kill,” Poe interjected. “There are good people on those ships.”

  “You have a lot to learn about being a Spice Runner, Poe Dameron,” Zorii said.

  Poe watched as the Ragged Claw blindsided the two ships, laser fire blanketing the unsuspecting NRSB vessels. Zorii was true to his request, sending firepower in or around the essential areas—just enough to disable them, not enough to destroy them—making sure to spare whoever was piloting the ships. He made a mental note. He might be able to trust the woman named Zorii Wynn. He’d need a few allies.

  But Poe didn’t get time to ponder his new status quo. Marinda Gan was behind him, her arm outstretched—pointing at a larger, more present problem.

  “Is that—is that what I think it is?”

  Poe told himself it couldn’t be true, but nonetheless a long shadow had fallen over the group and their small battered ship.

  The Hammerhead-class cruiser seemed to almost pivot at the sight of the Ragged Claw, as if the giant vessel was sentient and able to flinch. The long cruiser could easily outgun the Claw, and Poe and his new crewmates knew it. The message sliced through the static of space, crackling to life on Poe’s terminal.

  “This is the New Republic Security Bureau. You are harboring people wanted for questioning in regards to a crime committed on the surface of Yavin Four.” The voice sounded haggard and spent. “You are to disable your ship’s defenses immediately and prepare to be boarded and searched. If you do not reply shortly, we will begin occupation protocols.”

  “The more things change,” Gen Tri muttered, their ethereal voice jarring Poe out of his own anxiety spiral. “It seems the so-called New Republic is sounding much like the Empire it dethroned, no?”