Poe Dameron

by Lucasfilm Press

  Kijimi City rested atop a plateau tucked next to the massive Mount Izukika, where the monastery could be found. Built a thousand years before, the city was often raided and overthrown by various factions. The monks themselves were long gone, but their buildings and signature remained. Poe looked at Zorii and made a quick motion with his hand. It was time to head in.

  They’d been in Kijimi for a little over a month, by Poe’s count, and he still felt unhinged and out of place. From what Poe could tell—through his own explorations and research—Kijimi had once been a spiritual center, the landscape of the capital city littered with abandoned relics and temples. But those days were over. Kijimi was now a hotbed for criminals, a safe haven for those looking to skirt the eye of the New Republic and continue their illicit activities.

  There was only so much the New Republic, years after the Battles of Endor and Jakku, could do. The leadership was stretched thin, and the struggle to tamp down any remaining Imperial Remnants took the wind out of the first few years of the new galactic government. They just weren’t able to stem the tide of the underworld, which created a wave of apathy in the galaxy when it came to the new regime. Kijimi—cold, frigid, remote, and mountainous—had become an ideal headquarters for an organization that dealt primarily in the shadows and gray areas of the galaxy, and for anyone looking to lay low and get off the grid. There was no central government or ruling body in Kijimi, which was—for all intents and purposes—an anarchy that had achieved some level of social stability, as everyone’s own criminal self-interests kept the civilization afloat.

  Upon arriving, and after getting his first taste for life on the cold, barren planet, Poe found himself wondering just how long this criminal paradise could last. How long the New Republic would seemingly turn a blind eye toward an entire planet dedicated to bending and breaking whatever laws got in its way.

  Poe was still troubled by Zorii’s quick, biting scoff when he had asked her about it.

  “It’s only going to get stronger,” Zorii had said. “The New Republic doesn’t care about what goes on here, and Kijimi can tell. They don’t have the firepower to pacify worlds on the fringe, or places that aren’t cosmopolitan or of strategic value. That will come back to haunt them.”

  “Kind of weird that a planet like Kijimi is decorated with so many religious structures,” Poe said, trying to break the silence between him and Zorii as they approached the monastery. Whatever tempers had flared during their confrontation on Zeva’s ship had settled into a professional distance, only made more awkward by what Poe had seen in the battle room and the subsequent argument with Zorii a few weeks back. Zorii wasn’t just his friend on this journey, she was the next in line to run the entire operation. This was, in every aspect, Zorii’s life, more than Poe had even realized. Did Poe feel the same way? He wondered if there was a chance for them to retrieve even a fragment of the friendship—the relationship—they’d once had. And if not, where did that leave Poe Dameron?

  “Criminals are a cowardly, superstitious lot. But you know that,” Zorii said, not meeting Poe’s eyes, her tone flat and unfriendly. “Smugglers and mercenaries might believe in the gray areas of life, but they also tend to regard monuments like this with a strange reverence.”

  “Spice Runners are complicated people,” Poe said innocently, a desperate attempt to regain the rapport he knew, deep inside, would never return.

  “You’re one of us. Don’t try to distance yourself,” Zorii snapped, turning to face Poe. “Whether you like it or not, Poe Dameron, you’ve made your bones with the Spice Runners. You belong to us.”

  Poe’s anxious thoughts were disrupted by the soft trill of the droid’s voice.

  “I can’t imagine there’s a better view of Kijimi City than this one,” EV-6B6 exclaimed as she tried to keep up with Poe and Zorii on their approach to the monastery.

  “Eevee, pipe down, okay?” Poe said in a harsh whisper. “We’re trying to stay incognito.”

  “I’m just appreciating the scenery,” EV-6B6 said, sounding puzzled by Poe’s snippy command. “But I’ll keep my enthusiasm at a lower volume if it makes you feel better, Master Poe.”

  The droid’s melodic voice sent Poe back to one of his first days on Kijimi—following Zorii through the capital city’s famed Thieves Quarter, both of them wearing baggy, layered clothing that masked their faces and intentions. They were lugging what was left of EV-6B6, but Zorii refused to explain why. A droid burial? Poe had wondered as they wove through the cobblestone streets of Kijimi City, strange looks and whispered threats creating a tense, anxious soundtrack to their every step.

  The small workshop appeared out of thin air, and Zorii pulled Poe down the stairs and into the cramped, warm space with unexpected force. The bag loaded with EV-6B6’s remains clunked and clanged as Poe dragged it toward a long wooden table. A diminutive, rodent-like being popped up from behind the table. He looked to Zorii, who pointed at Poe.

  “Babu Frik, I’d like you to meet my friend Poe Dameron,” Zorii said. “And that bag holds the droid I mentioned to you.”

  Babu nodded as Poe approached him.

  “Poe-Poe, hey hey!” he said. “Zorii friend is mine friend, yeah.”

  Poe had heard Zorii mention Babu from time to time. The first time, Poe had felt a pang of jealousy. Later it had become clear Babu was just a friend, but he hadn’t expected this. Babu Frik, as he’d learn, was Anzellan and one of the best techs on the Outer Rim, not to mention one of the most loyal members of the Spice Runners of Kijimi.

  “Zorii say droid gone, but never Babu see droid he not bring back,” Babu Frik said with a raspy chuckle.

  “How’d…how did you know?” Poe asked, looking at Zorii.

  She responded with a warm smile.

  “You wear everything on your sleeve, Poe,” she said. “I heard you trying to fix Eevee, even if you didn’t think anyone was listening.”

  He leaned his face into hers, hesitatingly at first—because it felt like so much time had passed since the last moment like this—then more naturally, as if they were back on Sorgan, just two teenagers learning about the galaxy and each other. She welcomed it, returning the kiss with a passion he hadn’t expected. But a tiny throat clearing interrupted them.

  “Babu here, remember me,” Babu said, banging a tool on a shattered droid arm, the clanging sound bringing them back to reality. “Not invite you here for the kissy-kissy, no-no.”

  Poe and Zorii stifled laughs, their faces reddening. Babu’s interruption brought Poe back to why they were there—why Zorii had brought him there. He looked down at the bag of droid parts that had once been EV-6B6.

  Zorii was right. He’d spent the better part of his first few nights on the frigid planet attempting, with little if any success, to piece together the droid he never thought he’d even liked. But the truth was, he’d come to appreciate her cheerful, optimistic perspective on life—and Zeva Bliss’s sudden, unexpected order to silence her had rankled Poe. He’d carefully collected as much of EV-6B6 as he could before they boarded Zeva’s ship, unsure of what his plans were. When he’d repeatedly failed to piece her together, he figured that was that. He’d been surprised by his own sadness. He didn’t even like droids. Did he?

  “Gimme to see,” Babu Frik said as he motioned for Poe to bring EV-6B6’s remains to him. “Need know what droid is like.”

  Poe carefully spread the pieces and parts over the long, worn wooden table. Babu Frik shook his head without saying a word, just emitting a low growl that said plenty. Poe knew it was bad. A direct, up-close blaster shot to EV-6B6’s midsection couldn’t be an easy fix.

  Poe turned to look at Zorii, who was staring intently as the droidsmith got to work—roughly sorting through boxes of tools, positioning the droid’s various parts into something that resembled what the droid once looked like, muttering under his breath. Poe felt a wave of warmth toward Zorii in that moment. He imagined her watching his futile efforts to rebuild EV-6B6 and realized that, despite her distant
and defensive behavior toward Poe over the past few months, she still cared. The kiss was physical proof of that, but the gesture—bringing Poe to Babu’s workshop—said even more. She looked up to see him watching her and responded with a surprised but welcome smile.

  It would be a memory Poe would hold on to for years to come.

  But it was also forever tainted by another set of remembrances—of Zorii and Zeva. Visions that revealed more truth than Poe ever wanted to know about the world of the Spice Runners of Kijimi.

  Zorii urged Poe and EV-6B6 forward, closer to the monastery—and to their destination. The words shook Poe out of his trance, and back to the task at hand.

  “Snap out of it. We don’t have time to waste,” she said, her tone distant and harsh. “Move.”

  They all did, in unison, for a moment—but then she raised a hand to signal them to freeze.

  “Do we need to go over the plan?” she asked, clearly frustrated. “Again?”

  Had it been a few months back, Poe would have balked at the slight—but this was Zorii now. The wide-eyed and eager teen had been swiftly replaced by a strong, focused, and driven woman. Poe understood. This was all Zorii cared about. But he didn’t have to like it.

  “I think we’re all set,” Poe said, his tone snippy. He waited for her to shrug and turn around before he continued behind her.

  The immediate plan, at least in Poe’s mind, had a lot to do with the Spice Runners as a whole—a subject he’d gotten to know a lot about during his brief stay in Kijimi City. Now that he and Zorii had, for lack of a better term, graduated to full membership, he’d become privy to more about the organization and the world it sprang from.

  Kijimi was unlike anything Poe had ever imagined—dark, dangerous, and subzero in both temperature and feeling. It was a thieves’ planet run by thieves’ rules, where anything went as long as you stole it fairly—which was a moving target, in and of itself. Every corner seemed packed and fraught with possibility—a deal, double cross, or threat. The planet’s icy weather made for endless nights and brief, fleeting bursts of daylight, which only served to showcase the grime and cracks that made up the world’s aging, ancient infrastructure. Poe couldn’t shake the unease he felt walking the streets of the capital city, even when accompanied by Zorii—who was treated with a fearful reverence Poe found almost equally unnerving. This was not just a place the Spice Runners called home—it was a planet ruled and run by the Spice Runners’ laws and traditions.

  Zorii slipped slightly on an icy embankment, her knees scraping on the jagged rock. Poe rushed to her side, extending a hand. She winced as she got to her feet, only recognizing the gesture with a curt nod.

  “Sorry,” she said as they continued, not looking at him, focused on what lay ahead. “I…have a lot on my mind.”

  “I can imagine,” Poe said. He hadn’t meant it as a jab, but realized how Zorii might take it. “I mean, you’ve got a lot to worry about.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Poe said, raising his hands in surrender. “I just know you’ve had some added pressure, is all. I mean, my mom isn’t in charge of this whole operation, but I think if she—”

  “I’m not loyal to the Spice Runners because my mom is in charge, Poe,” Zorii said, her voice sounding defeated and tired. “All of us—including you—are sworn to stand by her, by what she’s done. It’s more than just a moneymaking enterprise.”

  Poe understood. He’d seen the belief in action in his brief time on Kijimi. The planet was a testament to the strength of the Spice Runners that they could not only run one of the deadliest criminal organizations in the galaxy but also unite its membership with a zealotry that encompassed an entire planet. But even the most stable criminal organizations had dissent, and the Spice Runners—under Zeva Bliss’s leadership—understood that not every satellite operation saw things in the same way she did. And while Zeva Bliss was patient, she was not a fool. If other smugglers and criminals wanted to tap into what the Spice Runners had going, they had to pay a toll, a fee—and they had to abide by the rules. Or else.

  “So, once we get there, what’s the idea?” Poe asked, trying to chip away at the strange silence that had formed. “Or are we just playing security detail?”

  “We’ll get our next orders when we arrive,” Zorii said. The words sounded evasive to Poe, but he chalked it up to Zorii’s natural defensiveness.

  “It’ll be a nice spice runner reunion, that’s for sure,” Poe quipped. Zorii ignored him.

  He was only half joking. He knew they were heading into something unique and potentially dangerous. Something had spurred Zeva Bliss to invite a wide selection of warlords, smugglers, slave traders, mercenaries, and chieftains to Kijimi for a summit. She’d described it as a chance to air grievances and compare notes, to work together to foster their growing, mutual criminal enterprises—for a price, of course. The meeting would serve as a peace offering in a business that was not known for dialogue or diplomacy. Zeva Bliss certainly wasn’t known for it.

  They continued to trudge forward, EV-6B6 a few paces behind, having more trouble with the terrain than Zorii or Poe but refusing to complain. Poe was glad the droid was back. He’d missed her more than he thought possible.

  “This seems like a big moment for Zeva,” Poe said, trying to keep pace with Zorii. “For all of us.”

  The reference to Spice Runners unity thawed Zorii’s mood for a moment. She turned her face to Poe, seeming almost happy—but something stopped her before she spoke.

  “It is,” she said slowly, squinting slightly, as if trying to see past some kind of defense Poe had set up between them. “Zeva Bliss has been working toward this for…for a very long time.”

  Poe felt a sharp pang of unease as the trio crept closer to the target. Something seemed wrong to Poe. Something just didn’t fit. Over the years, Zeva Bliss had made partnerships, expanding the reach of the Spice Runners of Kijimi, solidifying her role as head of the criminal organization. But at the same time, she’d made her fair share of enemies. And she had invited all of them to gather on Kijimi.

  “Huh,” Poe said to himself.

  Zorii looked back at him for a moment before continuing the course.

  The question hit Poe fully as they reached the far edge of the monastery, like a gust of wind colder than the frigid air of Kijimi that chilled his very soul.

  Why are we sneaking into our own meeting?

  Zeva Bliss strode into the monastery’s atrium-like war room, her long cape flowing behind her. She turned to her guards and made a quick motion with her hands. They spread out around the room, a few standing on each side of the table, their blasters motionless. They wouldn’t need their weapons now, she thought. The time for battle was over. This was something else.

  This was her moment—the Spice Runners’ moment. Her helmet heightened her vision and gave her a schematic look at the space—wide, open, uncluttered. But it wasn’t the technical that interested her now. It was the personal.

  The buzz of conversation had quieted to a low mutter as those in attendance began to take notice. The attendees were made up of allies, enemies, and acquaintances—the entire spectrum was present at this meeting. She could feel the tension, like a mist slowly thickening as she entered the space. Heads turned. Her heightened senses picked up slight scoffs and one or two quick tongue clicks. Her eyes—through her helmet’s long visor—scanned the room. It was like a recap of every backroom deal or threatening exchange she’d ever experienced, dating back to her earliest days as a young member of the small gang that would grow and evolve into the Spice Runners of Kijimi. This was her entire life, in one room—every scrum, every alliance, every betrayal, every murder—as if the gods wanted to give Zeva Bliss one final moment of introspection before she entered the next phase. It was fitting, she thought, as she took her seat at the head of the table. Almost too perfect.

  Before her was a mix of some of the deadliest smugglers and bounty hunters the g
alaxy had to offer. They’d come here on Zeva Bliss’s invitation, in hopes of bringing the various tentacles of organized crime together to forge a new path to subvert and sidestep the New Republic and to launch a golden era for their “business,” in a way they could only imagine under the harsh regime of the Empire.

  There was BoShek, a human Corellian thief who was often a thorn in the Spice Runners of Kijimi’s hide when it came to transporting goods. She knew little else about him, and that was fine by Zeva Bliss. To his left were Alfris Sotin, apparently recovered from the skirmish at Ankot Station; the grumpy Iakaru spice dealer Alugomes; and Caryn, a human smuggler and fence who’d done business on the fringes of the Galactic Civil War. Like BoShek, she was mysterious and spoke little—traits of a successful smuggler, Bliss mused. Across from Caryn was the helmeted pirate Woan Barso. A refugee who only believed in his own battered orange vac-suit, Barso was in deep conversation with an Abednedo named Sarb Iltage, whose dangling mouth tendrils and nostrils seemed to be flaring in surprise or anger. Zeva wasn’t sure which. No matter.

  Astrid Fenris, another human smuggler, smiled as Zeva’s gaze reached her. Zeva nodded, but they both knew she held Fenris in low regard—considered her a fraud and poseur. But it was important she be there. To her left was a slinking, skittish Arconan dealer named Adlerber. To her right was Adlerber’s partner, a goggled and hooded Kubaz female named Monigallgh. At the other end of the table, sandwiched between Vranki and the Rodian Civian Bain, sat the rugged pirate Tarand Crowe. His perpetual smirk softened, replaced with a knowing nod, as he noticed Zeva Bliss take her seat.

  “My friends,” Zeva Bliss said, her voice silencing the hushed whispers and murmurs still popping up. “I appreciate you coming here, on my invitation. I appreciate that, despite our past disagreements, we can sit down and be open to what’s to come. To the future. To our future.”