Poe Dameron

by Lucasfilm Press

  Zeva Bliss stood up, a smooth, quick motion that took the other attendees off guard. That was the idea, she thought.

  “We are, at best, friendly rivals. At worst, bloodthirsty enemies. But those days must end now,” she continued, walking around the long table with a slow, calculated precision. She took a moment to nod or recognize each of the smugglers and thieves at their seats as she walked by, trying to make sure they all felt seen and recognized. “The Battles of Endor and Jakku have created a new galactic order, and over the past few years, we have come to learn ways to subvert and sidestep the New Republic, in many of the same ways we profited off the mistakes of the Empire. But I am here to tell you that there is much more profit to be made a different way. Together.”

  Slight murmuring as Zeva Bliss paused. She’d expected this—a little dissent before her point was even made. But she’d come ready.

  “I hear your dry laughter,” she said. “I understand the hesitation. What is there to gain from pooling our resources? From sharing information? Why not continue to cut the corners and skim from the top as we’ve all done for generations? I’ll tell you why.”

  She slammed her fist down on the table, the blow echoing off the room’s high ceilings and spacious décor.

  “We can do better,” she hissed. “And our time is now, as the New Republic continues to fumble, continues to focus on other things.”

  She continued to pace, faster, angrier.

  “The fact is, the New Republic does not care about us, or about the worlds on the Mid or Outer Rim,” Zeva Bliss said. “It is our time to seize control of what is rightfully ours. What we deserve.”

  “This is all nice and cozy, but so what?” It was Crowe speaking, with an ever-present shrug. “What can the Spice Runners of Kijimi offer me that I can’t do for myself?”

  Zeva Bliss smiled under her golden helmet.

  She strode toward Crowe, and the buzzing conversations ceased. This was what everyone had expected, to some degree: A confrontation. A battle. The ruse of Zeva’s invitation revealed to be nothing more than a trap. But she stopped short and stood over Crowe, who stared up at her, a bemused expression on his gruff, worn face.

  “An excellent question,” she said. “And the answer is simple: the Spice Runners of Kijimi are ready to become more than just a fast-rising gang looking to fill a void. We want to be more than your competition. We want to be your partners. If we pool our resources—intelligence, weaponry, routes—we can become richer than we’d ever imagined.”

  Crowe shook his head.

  “I don’t get it,” he said with a scoff. “Why would the Spice Runners want to give me their secrets? For what? A cut? Why not just do it yourselves?”

  Zeva Bliss placed a gloved hand on Crowe’s shoulder, taking the smuggler by surprise.

  “We are not invincible. We are still learning ourselves. The Spice Runners of Kijimi cannot be everywhere,” Zeva Bliss said. “But we see opportunity. We see a path to riches and a world where our organizations can live and thrive next to the simpleminded governance of the New Republic.”

  She took her hand off Crowe and turned to address the entire group.

  “Tell me you haven’t seen it, too, my friends. The New Republic is stretched too thin. They’re more concerned with eliminating ghosts from the past than looking toward the future—and determining what they’d like the galaxy to be. Now that role must fall on us, and I want to share my vision with you, to make sure we seize it faster than any of us could do alone.”

  Barso spoke next, not bothering to raise his hand or call for attention.

  “We’ve tried everything else, you know?” he said. “We’ve tried being at each other’s throats. We’ve tried ignoring each other. Why not see what comes of working together?”

  Adlerber chimed in. “Are you mad? The Spice Runners of Kijimi have never hesitated to double-cross us before. Why should we believe them now?”

  Then Sotin spoke.

  “I’m not one to judge too harshly. I know it’s a dangerous galaxy out there—the idea of partnership is nice, charming even,” the smuggler said. “But I come here more out of curiosity than a genuine desire to believe. The second thieves start to trust each other, we’ve lost, no?”

  The room bubbled up into a heated exchange, all decorum lost as voices rose and some of the attendees stood up to be heard. Zeva had seen this kind of incident before. It wouldn’t be long before the gathered criminals were at each other’s throats. No matter, she thought as she quietly moved toward the exit. The plan was the plan. She gave one of her security officers the signal as she stepped out of the room slowly, so as not to raise any alarms.

  “This feels wrong,” Poe said as he followed Zorii down a worn path outside of the monastery’s weathered exterior. He pulled his coat tighter, trying to fight off the biting Kijimi City winds. He heard EV-6B6’s clunking footfalls behind them.

  “What do you mean?” Zorii said as Poe caught up with her, their backs to the monastery’s wall. “Second thoughts?”

  “You could say that,” Poe said. “But more like thoughts, period. Why are we sneaking around if this meeting is supposed to be about bringing people together?”

  “If you have a question, Poe, ask it,” Zorii said, craning her head around a doorway, then signaling it was clear. “I don’t have time to crack a code.”

  They followed her down a short, dark hallway before reaching an empty room—the only furniture two small cots and a tiny control terminal that seemed out of place in the ancient structure.

  “This seems quaint and cozy,” EV-6B6 said, pacing around the small room. She glanced at the control terminal. “What does this do? It seems to be a surveillance device of some sort….”

  Poe grabbed Zorii’s shoulder, and she turned around to face him, her face red with anger. She was frustrated—but it was more than that, Poe realized. She was struggling with something else. Something stronger.

  Shame?

  “This isn’t a meeting to form alliances, is it?” Poe asked.

  Zorii’s silence was more than enough of an answer. They weren’t helping Zeva Bliss enact a masterful, unifying plan to bring the myriad criminal organizations into closer alignment. They weren’t there to ensure the safety of their guests or to make sure Zeva Bliss was able to get her message across. No. It was something much more cunning—and much, much deadlier.

  “It’s a trap,” Poe said. “And we’re the ones pulling the trigger.”

  The conversation that would alter the course of Sela Trune’s life started off quietly, just one of many mundane tasks she had to oversee as part of her duties in the New Republic Security Bureau. But her supervisor’s final words jumped out at her—and would haunt her until she died.

  “We have to shut down this hunt you have going, Trune. We have other targets aside from the Spice Runners. We need our best people focused elsewhere.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she’d responded. Had she been able to hold a mirror up to her face, Trune was certain she would have found her mouth agape.

  Trune’s words hung over the comm, the silence on the other end saying more than the head of New Republic Intelligence, Tolo Mandah, could with words.

  “You have your orders, Trune,” Mandah said, finally breaking the silence. Her demeanor was stern but not without empathy. Sela Trune’s passion for this mission was no secret. “I realize this might not be what you—”

  “It’s a mistake.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re making a terrible mistake,” Trune said. “I have intelligence—good intelligence—on a major event that could alter the landscape of the galaxy’s criminal underworld, and it directly implicates the Spice Runners of Kijimi. I just need a few ships. A dozen men, maybe less, and we will—”

  Mandah cleared her throat.

  “We don’t have the resources,” she said, her words tougher now. “We’re stretched beyond our means, Trune. I know you understand that. I know you have a personal stake in
this—believe me, we all have to bring some passion into this cause. But it’s not our battle now. Perhaps in a few months…”

  “Don’t humor me, sir,” Trune said flatly. “I deserve better than that.”

  She could tell Mandah hadn’t expected so much pushback. Despite her young age, Trune had earned a reputation as an officer who knew and stuck to the rules. This defiance was out of character, and Mandah wanted to cut it off fast.

  “I expect a report on how we’ll reallocate resources as soon as you can,” Mandah continued. “I don’t mean to be harsh here, Trune, but if we’re not seeing eye to eye on this, that’s a problem. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Trune responded. She was being truthful. She did understand. But it wasn’t what Mandah was referring to.

  “Good,” she said. “Now, if this is a problem—you need to get it out of your system fast. We have to move to deal with this bounty hunter situation before it becomes a bigger obstacle.”

  Silence.

  “Trune?” Mandah said. “Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  Mandah’s patience was wearing thin, Trune could tell. She didn’t really give a damn.

  “Let me be clear, and I’m only saying this because I respect you and the work you’ve done for the NRSB,” Mandah said. “If you don’t show me things are going to move away from this obsession you have with these Kijimi spice runners, and do it fast—we’re going to have a big issue. I don’t want to have to reassign you, understood?”

  “I understand,” Trune said again, with no emotion in her voice.

  “Good,” Mandah said. “I look forward to your report.”

  She signed off. A charged silence filled Trune’s cramped workspace.

  There would be no report for Tolo Mandah. Trune knew this as she placed her datapad and identikit on the table. There would be a shift change at the docking station in about an hour. She would make her way there. She would have an innocuous conversation with the officer on duty. She’d find a ship—a small, fast ship, one that could get her where she needed to go. And that would be that.

  She loved the New Republic. Loved everything it stood for. She felt a weight on her heart as what she planned to do set in. But she had no choice.

  Zeva Bliss had to face justice.

  The visions swept into Poe’s mind, like a flood of memories, dreams, and possibilities. For a moment, he was on an A-wing, battling back TIE fighters in Endor’s orbit—a giant Death Star looming in the background. Then he was on the surface, walking through the planet’s dense forests, surrounded by a team of Pathfinders and Ewoks, dodging fire from a cadre of stormtroopers. Then he was somewhere else on Yavin 4, running down a barren, vine-strewn road, his footsteps falling in the same rhythm as his pursuers’—an authoritarian voice booming behind him: “We know it was you, Poe Dameron! Slow down and turn yourself in!” Then he was a boy again, his sheets pulled up to his chin, his mother’s outline looming above him, her soft hand on his cheek as she hummed a familiar lullaby. Why couldn’t he see her? Then darkness, the only sound a low, moaning cry. He was in his house, but older, walking through the main hallway toward the pained sound. The living room was dark; he could only make out a hunched form. It was his father—racked with sobs, a picture of Poe’s mother, Shara Bey, in his quivering hands.

  His vision cut to a field, blood on his chin, another boy behind him—his mother’s voice running through his young brain as a group of older kids approached. “Help when you can, Poe. We’re a family of helpers. We try our best to do the right thing, no matter how hard it can be. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Then he was older, on a landspeeder on Yavin 4, the wind slapping his face, L’ulo L’ampar driving at top speed. He didn’t remember how or why, but he’d been with his mother’s oldest friend when L’ulo got a call. L’ulo didn’t hesitate. “Stay here, don’t say anything,” L’ulo had commanded as he kicked the small Civilian Defense Force vehicle into high gear. No hesitation. The need to help, to do good, was ingrained in him, as it had been in Shara Bey and Kes Dameron. Despite being flawed, complicated people—they always tried to do their best. To help others—to choose the path of justice over selfishness.

  Could Poe Dameron say the same of himself?

  “This is a setup,” Poe said, his voice flat and distant, still processing the realization. “It’s a death trap.”

  Zorii looked down at her feet, then up at Poe, shaking her head. She walked over to the terminal and tapped a few keys before turning to face Poe again.

  “I’m surprised it took you this long,” Zorii said. “Did you really think my mother was gathering every rival she could to break bread and sing songs together?”

  “It’s murder,” Poe said.

  Zorii laughed, a humorless, dry sound.

  “If I recall, Poe, you were desperate to murder Sotin not long ago,” Zorii said. “How is this different?”

  “It’s a trap—these people are coming in expecting an alliance,” Poe said. “Instead, they’ll get a knife in the back.”

  “You have to be smarter than your enemies to survive,” she said with a shrug. “You have to know when to make tough decisions. Haven’t you learned anything?”

  Poe took a hesitant step back, hands up.

  “I know they’re criminals, Zorii,” he said. “They’re all bad, unprincipled people. But it’s not a fair fight.”

  “Fair?” Zorii said, taken aback. “What’s fair, Poe? This life is about scraping and clawing for whatever you can, for any advantage. Do you think the Spice Runners got this far by being fair—by doing the right thing?”

  “I think you both might need some time alone,” EV-6B6 said, stepping back into the hall. “Sometimes a little privacy helps when couples—”

  “I’m not doing it,” Poe said, meeting Zorii’s eyes. “I won’t kill people in cold blood.”

  “Poe, it’s done. It’s over,” she said, a chilling smile on her face. “They’re as good as dead.”

  “No,” Poe said, almost as much to himself as to Zorii. “I can’t…I won’t let you.”

  The punch came at Poe fast, her fist connecting with his face and sending him spinning. He clutched at one of the cots and stopped himself from falling to the floor. She stood over him, pulling back for another punch. Before she could, though, Poe sent a foot into her shin, knocking her back a few paces—giving him a moment to recover.

  “I don’t want to fight you,” he said. He could feel blood dripping down his chin, a cut on the inside of his mouth. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Zorii was done with words. She leapt toward Poe, a swift kick to his head knocking him down to the floor this time. She followed with a flurry of punches to his midsection, keeping him down. Poe caught a glimpse of her expression—her eyes red with anger, her mouth open as if mid-scream. Somehow, his refusal to participate had been the final straw. He’d finally broken her. Finally crossed the line she’d hoped he never would. Despite their arguments, despite her frustrations, she’d probably harbored a hope that Poe would come around, would fully embrace the life she was so willing to be a part of. But he hadn’t. And now he stood against her.

  Poe understood, to some degree. This was Zorii’s moment. All the training, the expectations, the pressure—they had all built to this. She had to show her loyalty—to the cause, to her own mother. She had to deliver for Zeva Bliss. If she failed in this task, it would create a fatal crack in the Spice Runners—a failure Zorii could never abide being responsible for. Whatever friendship they had when they walked into the dank halls of the monastery was long gone. Poe Dameron was her enemy now, and Zorii Bliss didn’t show her enemies mercy.

  She paused for a second, her breathing slowing. She was atop Poe, her hand gripping his tunic and her fist ready to strike again. Poe waited a moment—he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was hoping she’d come around, realize the error in the plan. Help him up so they could try to derail her mother’s insane, bloodthirsty trap. But she seemed fro
zen—staring down at Poe, his face bruised and battered. How had it come to this, he wondered?

  The moment passed, and Poe pushed her off of him in a fast, brutal motion, knocking her onto her back, a low groan escaping her mouth. Poe got to his feet. He thought about helping her up—to try to salvage something between them—but he was interrupted by a low rumbling sound. The monastery began to shake—slowly at first, then more violently.

  “What…?” Poe asked. “What’s going on?”

  Out of the corner of his vision, he caught Zorii pulling herself up onto one of the empty cots. She rubbed her chin. Their eyes met, and she spoke two words that chilled Poe to his very core.

  “It’s starting.”

  Poe darted toward the door, hoping to outrun Zorii—but before he could make it into the hall, her arms wrapped around his ankles, yanking him to the ground. His head slammed into the stone floor, blinding him for a minute. Next thing he knew, she was standing over him, her blaster drawn. The building still shuddered, but the small quakes were more consistent now, adding a droning, vibrational effect to the entire affair.

  “You either help us or you’re against us,” she said. Her face was scraped and bruised, blood caked on her chin. “I don’t want to have to kill you, Poe, but I will. Don’t doubt me.”

  He didn’t. If there was anything about Zorii Poe believed, it was how deeply connected to the Spice Runners she felt. How much the life had consumed her. She wasn’t just a thief—she was a Spice Runner of Kijimi, and nothing he did could change that. She would never divert from this path. He’d been foolish to even consider that.

  He let his head fall back on the cold ground. Her breathing calmed a bit, but her grip on the blaster didn’t. Was this the end, Poe thought? To be killed by the woman he once considered his closest friend? The one reason he felt he couldn’t leave the Spice Runners of Kijimi? He closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer. He wasn’t sure to what, but he did it anyway. The shaking stopped—at least on the outside. Poe’s head felt like it was experiencing its own kind of aftershock.