“That cruiser comes equipped with dozens of these—drones?” Zorii continued. “They’re automated but can adapt—”
Before Zorii could finish her sentence, the Claw was rocked by another volley of laser fire. Vigilch slammed into the main console, a low moan emanating from him as he stood up. He placed a hand on Poe’s shoulder to steady himself.
The Pykes had once controlled almost all of the galaxy’s raw spice, a staggering accomplishment. But after the Clone Wars and the Galactic Civil War, their influence had sputtered—opening the door for smaller, more vicious groups to try to claim territory. These new fringe groups posed a threat not only to the fading Pyke Syndicate but to the Spice Runners of Kijimi, as well. That meant taking out Ledesmar—who’d been enslaved by the Pykes and somehow managed to escape with many of the organization’s deepest secrets and prime equipment—would be a boon for the Spice Runners.
“Boy, can you handle this?” Vigilch asked, his concern genuine. “Can you get us through these ships?”
“Viggy, don’t worry, I got this,” Poe said, nodding confidently but very much aware that the sheen of sweat on his forehead sent a different message. He turned to Zorii, who sat in her usual copilot’s spot. “Try to scatter the fire. Shoot where you think they’re going to be instead of where they are, all right?”
“On it,” she said.
Ledesmar’s strategy was simple—take the weapons and confidential information she’d siphoned off her captors and strike out on her own. In their current state, the Pyke Syndicate couldn’t risk another rising star sucking more of their air. For the Spice Runners, it was less complicated: new competitors had to be dealt with swiftly.
But intel was also valuable, and Ledesmar reportedly had plenty of that. Tomasso, the man who’d served as the main point of contact between Vigilch’s crew and the mysterious, shadowy leader behind the Spice Runners, Zeva, had made that abundantly clear. Take her out if they had to, he’d warned, but Zeva would greatly prefer Ledesmar be brought back alive—along with whatever valuable information she held close.
It was that knowledge—collected over years of enslavement—that had helped Ledesmar escape and find her way to the Moraysian fleet of ships, which looked slapdash and beat-up on the outside but boasted power and speed that belied their gnarly exteriors. The command ship loomed large—a clear and present target. But as they had moved closer to the cruiser, the swarm hit, and Poe finally understood what Tomasso had said when he warned, “The fleet can be deceptive. Be ready for anything, Poe Dameron.”
Tomasso’s absence hung over the group, even though Poe knew the aging pirate preferred to leave the field missions to Vigilch’s command. Tomasso had become almost ubiquitous on their small slice of Sorgan, settling in with the crew after the incident with the Zualjinn. He wasn’t always there—often disappearing for hours without word—but his influence was ever present. From certain angles, Tomasso looked like he might topple over and die at any second. Other times, Poe felt a great strength radiating from the man. It made sense that he’d be deceptive even in repose—a thief, con artist, and pirate his entire life, a creature built on changing colors. A man wearing an armor of lies.
Vigilch, usually quick to assume the role of leader, deferred to the older man immediately. The lanky, shadowy Gen Tri would often sit with him for hours—their voices hushed and hurried. If anyone got close, they’d go silent and part ways. Tomasso steered clear of Marinda Gan for no clear reason Poe could discern. The young Twi’lek was boisterous and loud, true, but she was part of the team, Poe thought, and he couldn’t figure out why the older man would isolate her.
While they were on Sorgan, as the runts of the team, Zorii and Poe got most of the thankless tasks—oiling blasters, charging packs, cooking meals, standing watch—while the rest of the group focused on combat training and strategizing. The time spent doing mindless, repetitive chores gave Poe the opportunity to think—about what he’d done, abandoning Yavin 4 and his family, but mostly about what lay ahead. The adventures he’d have with these people he was starting to consider friends. It was that mirage-like vision that kept him going, a sense of freedom and escape he couldn’t explain or quantify but brought him great joy. That reminded him, in some way, of his mother. He wanted to explore. To be free and see what was out there on his own terms. To take chances and to be the person making the call when those things came up. He loved his father and L’ulo. He loved Yavin 4, despite how he’d come to resent it. But it was time to do something else, whether Kes Dameron wanted him to or not. His parents had fought back the Galactic Empire. They’d been essential pieces in a rebellion that toppled an iron claw that gripped the entire known galaxy. It was time for Poe to figure out what his role would be. But was it really there, among criminals? Did the adventure and thrill erase the harsh truth—that he was not just consorting with spice runners but had become one? He knew it didn’t. He also knew his father would agree.
His father. What was Kes Dameron doing? What did he think? The idea—the fact, Poe knew—that his father was spending every waking hour worrying and searching for his son pained Poe. Had the NRSB figured out Poe’s ruse? Poe wasn’t sure he’d ever find out, or see his father or L’ulo again. The idea didn’t sit well with him, and it had begun to ache more, like an unattended toothache, as time passed. It wasn’t a coincidence that this painful longing for home—which Poe tried to suppress with enthusiasm for the future—grew as his menial chores increased. After a week or so, it began to grate on him. His interlude showing Zorii how to fly helped ease his impatience temporarily, but soon enough the feeling returned.
“So this is the life of a spice runner?” Poe had asked at one point as he and Zorii made their way through another Sorgan swamp. He pulled his foot back, brown-green slime coating his pants like a second skin. “Getting eaten alive by whatever bugs live on this hunk of sludge, sweating through the only shirt I own, and mopping the ship every day because Vigilch can’t keep his dinner down after a night of drinking?”
Zorii shook her head.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she asked, her face smeared with dirt. She’d turned back slightly to look at Poe. She seemed more exhausted than upset—tired of having the same back and forth with him. “There’s a way of doing things here. With the Spice Runners. A structure and hierarchy. We work together to get what we want. Some do tasks you think of as ‘important.’ Others, like us, have to do the rest. It’s how we prove ourselves, Poe. It’s how we show Tomasso and Vigilch and the rest of the people in charge that we deserve more responsibility and power. We earn our place, we don’t inherit it.”
Poe shrugged.
“No, I don’t get it, okay?” he said. “I showed what I can do. I got us out of a big jam. Instead of getting handed coordinates to the next thing, I get handed a bucket and a shovel. If I wanted to scoop up garbage and clean up after people, I—”
“Could’ve done it on Yavin Four. Yes, I get it,” Zorii said, walking farther away from Poe, her back to him. She’d heard this sob story too many times. “But you made your choice. You’re here now, and it’s not going to be easy to go back to your quiet farm life now, is it? You have a taste for adventure. I can see it in your eyes—even here. When you’re on that ship, you come alive. You’ll never lose that.”
“What is your story?” Poe asked, the question escaping before he could really decide if he wanted to ask it again. “You know almost everything about me—I’m an open datafile. But what about you, Zorii? I keep asking. What made you want to join the Spice Runners? Live this life? I mean, this doesn’t strike me as a passing hobby for you.”
The joke—meant to soften Poe’s probing question—didn’t land. Zorii froze and faced him, her expression cold.
“That’s a story for another time,” she said, her words delivered in a practiced monotone, as if read from a well-worn script. She turned and continued their trek. “Don’t ask me again.”
Poe opened his mouth to respond but found no words. He
waited a moment before following Zorii farther into the swampy darkness.
The Ragged Claw was rocked by another onslaught of firepower, jarring Poe from his brief daydream. He checked his terminal. Zorii had knocked out a dozen or so of the tiny drones, but it seemed like more were coming from the Moraysian cruiser—angry insects bursting out of their hives, blood in their eyes.
“We have to get to that cruiser,” Vigilch said, straining to keep his voice steady. “What are you thinking, Dameron?”
Poe noticed the subtle shift. No longer was he “pup” or “boy.” Over the past month, he’d proven enough to their leader that Vigilch was willing to use his name, albeit begrudgingly. Poe tried to stifle a smile, even as laser fire rained down on them.
“I’ve got a plan.”
Sela Trune leaned back in the chair of her makeshift office in the main Yavin 4 Civilian Defense base. She rubbed her forehead, trying in vain to expel the headache that had set up shop in her skull for the past…days? Weeks? She’d lost track. Just like she’d lost track of herself. She hadn’t planned on being on Yavin 4 this long. But little had gone as she’d hoped since her boots touched the dank ground of the moon’s surface. Her hunt for any thread that could lead her to the leadership behind the Spice Runners had brought her here, where a small part of the gang had sought refuge after an impressive haul. But she hadn’t moved fast enough. The small crew had managed to kidnap the son of a former rebel Pathfinder, using the boy to force their way off the moon and to who-knows-where. At least that was what they wanted her—and the New Republic—to believe.
Then…nothing. There’d been rumblings about a Spice Runners incident on Quintil but little that was quantifiable. Her team had found a member of the Spice Runners dead around the time Dameron’s son was supposedly kidnapped—the Ishi Tib named Beke Mon’z, who also happened to be one of Trune’s most valuable undercover assets—but little else. Trune still had visions of the small green figure, folded into himself. He had seemed more than dead. He had looked broken and defeated, as if death had been a final, merciful conclusion to a brutal life on the run. But Trune knew she was just speculating and trying to add details to a story that had few facts to support it. The reality was, she didn’t know for sure if the Spice Runners had figured out that the Ishi Tib had been funneling intelligence to her, or had killed the pilot for some other, more mundane reason. L’ulo L’ampar had seemed much more definitive in his view. Either way, she wasn’t surprised they’d resorted to murder. The Spice Runners were cold-blooded and hungry. They’d do anything if it meant getting a centimeter of real estate, a centimeter of power. While the arrival of the New Republic heralded an era of peace and democracy across the galaxy, Trune knew this was only partly true. There were areas the Republic could not reach, just as there were areas the Empire chose not to reach. Though, if Trune was being honest with herself, there seemed to be more of a problem under the New Republic. Much more of the galaxy was left to fend for itself—dark corners and distant planets and moons that dealt in the trades and violence that had outlasted many a regime.
Trune took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She tried not to dwell on the Spice Runners, tried to treat this like any other assignment, but she knew she was fooling no one. Not even herself. The hunt for the Spice Runners was the definition of personal. The rage that fueled her was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She remembered the call as if it had just happened. It had been a little over five years earlier. Trune had just left her home planet of Yungbrii—a cold, rocky, and mountainous spot in the Opalok system in the Mid Rim—to join the New Republic Security Bureau. She was eager to serve and do some good in a galaxy that had been drowning in corruption and was still reeling from the Galactic Empire. She’d hungered to leave the cold, sparsely populated, and rough world where she’d been raised to see what else was out there, to experience the worlds and galaxy she’d only dreamt of as a child.
It had been hard. She was close to her mother. Her father was stoic and distant but also had moments of warmth. They didn’t understand what their daughter wanted to do at such a young age. They were simple people. They worked their land, they helped their neighbors, they did service. The idea of their daughter leaving home—leaving the planet, even—was foreign and strange to them. Yungbriins were hardworking, not bogged down by the affairs of the worlds around them, unconcerned with galactic battles. But Trune wanted more. Saying goodbye to her parents, with the NRSB ship waiting in the background, had been difficult. But it had been even harder for Trune to crouch down and kiss her younger brother, Gaithel, goodbye. He was barely ten years old—but wise beyond his age. Smart, friendly, thoughtful. Gaithel was everything she was not and would never be. He was bursting with the hope and kindness she wanted to see across the galaxy. She would use him as her guiding light as she tried to bring some good to a universe that had longed for peace.
But then the call came. She’d been on duty for less than a month, still trying to find her way, feeling like a child pretending to be an adult. Despite that, Trune thought she was slowly getting some traction with her group. The work was hard, but she felt challenged—not overwhelmed. Basic training had been immersive, but she felt energized and eager to dive into her career.
Then the call.
She didn’t recognize the voice on the other end. She’d never know who the person was, because the message they delivered was so seismic, so destructive to her world, their identity was irrelevant. The exact words were lost, mired in the bloodied visuals and nightmare scenario that flooded her mind’s eye as the person spoke. Her parents were gone. Gaithel was gone. Gunned down in a firefight between a group of spice runners trying to find a hideout and her home planet’s meager defense force. The skirmish had been quick, the caller said. Trune may have been new then, but she was not a complete novice. She understood what the caller was doing. Trying to soften what was certainly a gigantic tragedy. Later, when she researched the incident on her own, off the clock, she learned the truth.
The skirmish had been anything but quick—more like a massacre. A group of spice runners—she’d later learn they were members of the Kijimi faction and included a Klatooinian named Vigilch—had sought refuge on the planet, on the run from New Republic ships and looking for a place to lay low. They were soon cornered, right on the Trune family farm, and used Trune’s mother and father as shields as they tried to escape. The gunfight was loud and bloody. Spice Runners, New Republic officers, and Trune’s own family died in the battle. As the dust settled, the Spice Runners managed to escape on a stolen ship—and a New Republic officer was forced to make a call no one should ever have to.
“Do you need some time off?” her supervisor had asked, her eyes welling with tears. “You should go back home. Spend time with people you know.”
But that held no interest for Trune. Everything was gone. She had no family. No home. No, she did not want time off. She wanted vengeance. And she wanted it fast.
But such things don’t come together easily, she knew. It was a project that materialized piece by piece as she moved up the ladder in the NRSB. Trune was not only innately talented, she was a quick study—and she climbed the ranks rapidly. She was often surrounded by colleagues and contemporaries a decade older or more. As she worked the case, she fostered connections, informants, spies, and leads that were strewn all over the known galaxy. Scoundrels and gangsters with mysterious loyalties and duplicitous natures that gave her a strong sense of who the Spice Runners of Kijimi were—and, more important, who was in charge. She didn’t have all the answers yet. But she would soon. Her spies had been cautiously feeding her intel that was painting a clearer picture by the moment, getting closer to the final bit of intelligence that could make sense of everything. And on that day, she would take a visceral pleasure in choking the life out of the murderous organization’s shadowy, vicious leader.
The chime at her door startled her momentarily. She stood up as the entrance to the office slid open to reveal Kes Dameron, looking
like he hadn’t slept in years, much less the past month.
“Dameron,” Trune said with a nod. “Good to see you.”
“You know what I’m going to ask you,” Dameron said with less force than he’d probably hoped.
“There’s no word,” Trune said, trying to soften her response just as the New Republic officer had done for her years before. “I will let you know once I hear anything, I promise.”
Trune noticed the man’s shoulders slump slightly. It wasn’t new to her. She’d seen this once-strong man fade into something else. Something lost and desperate. The strong jaw was coated with a thick beard now, the dark, piercing eyes saddled with purple bags underneath. The once flush face gaunt and stretched. He was slowly dying, and Trune was not being fully honest with him. But was the truth worth the life of this proud man? This hero who’d served the Rebellion in its darkest hour?
“Poe is in danger,” Dameron said, his jaw clenching as he stepped into the office. “Every minute we spend here, doing nothing—it brings him closer to death. He could be anywhere. He needs help. I know it. I can feel it.”
Trune felt a tug inside her. She’d managed to bury that part of her—the feeling, caring part—that showed weakness or empathy. It wouldn’t serve her in the career she’d chosen. But this man—who reminded her so much of not only her father but herself, in his stoic, driven demeanor—didn’t deserve to live in the darkness. No. Trune was tired of things that lurked in the shadows. It was on her to flush them out with the light.
Poe Dameron Page 9
