Phasma (Star Wars)

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “I’ll get to Brendol when it’s time. First, you need to know Phasma’s story.”

  Cardinal shakes his head. “I don’t have a lot of time. Get to the part about General Hux. If she caused him harm or actively worked against him, I just need evidence. Something to pin her with.” The droid beeps in warning, and his mouth twists as he looks at it. “No. Iris is right. Tell me everything. I have no way of knowing what might ultimately be important.”

  Which is excellent, as that’s what Vi was going to do anyway. She wouldn’t be good at her job if she gave up the best information that easily.

  “I agree with your droid. You need to hear the whole story. To truly understand who you’re trying to take down.”

  His thumb plays over the remote. “And why do I need to understand her when I just want to destroy her?”

  “Because every great hunter knows it’s paramount to understand your prey, especially when they’re a predator hunting you in return. For all the stories Siv told me, she made certain that I understood one thing very well.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Vi looks into Cardinal’s eyes, hard, to make him understand.

  “Phasma will do anything to survive.”

  AT THE TIME THIS STORY HAPPENED, according to Siv, there was a child among the Scyre, which was a big deal. The people of Parnassos valued children above all else, for they knew that without children their band would die out completely within a few generations. In the last ten years, however, babies had become rare and pregnancy most often ended in tragedy. Whether it was something in the air or the acidic rain, or maybe a lack of vital nutrients, most children were lost before their mothers’ bellies even began to swell. But a healthy baby had been born to a Scyre woman named Ylva, and the clan was committed to keeping mother and child safe.

  By the time she was five, Ylva’s child was old enough to hunt frogs and urchins and contribute to the clan, so she was given the name Frey. It was a rare thing that a child lived long enough to be given a name, and Frey brought hope to the Scyre clan and was loved and indulged by everyone. Thanks to her small size and nimble fingers, she was able to venture into caves the rest of the clan couldn’t explore and to snatch birds’ eggs from the narrow shelves of rock on which they nested. She was the first child to reach the age of five in years, the only one, thus far, of her generation, and everyone loved her and doted on her.

  Keldo and Phasma had been firmly in charge for about two years, and the group was flourishing. Although she still kept her warriors close, Phasma considered it her responsibility to keep everyone in the Scyre group in good physical condition and well trained with weapons, including those who had no talent for it or those too old or infirm to actively defend the group. Even little Frey begged Phasma to teach her to fight, and Phasma made her a child-sized ax out of stone and driftwood. Together, they would playfully practice on the floor of the Nautilus cave whenever it was dry.

  One day, Siv and Phasma were sparring on the cliffs, leaping from rock spire to rock spire as they parried and sliced with their blades near the edge of their territory. It took agility and strength, maneuvering over sharp rocks with the crashing ocean far below. Suddenly Phasma put up a hand to stop the fight and used her ancient pair of quadnocs to scan the horizon.

  “Balder,” she said.

  “Are the Claws attacking?” Siv asked, glad she had her scythes in hand.

  The Claws were a local war band led by a particularly vicious Dug named Balder. All of the Scyre folk were human, but they had stories passed down from their ancestors suggesting that there had once been Dugs, plus Chadra-Fan and Rodians, among their numbers. Balder, as far as they knew, was the last of his kind. The Claws had more people and more fighters in particular, but what Balder didn’t have was the brainpower of the siblings who led the Scyre.

  “It’s not an attack. It’s just Balder. But he’s watching us. Has been for a while now.”

  Siv’s hands tightened on the hilts of her blades. “Do you think he wants the land? The Nautilus?”

  Phasma turned her ’nocs in the other direction, toward the bulk of the stone cliffs where their band lived their communal life. The people were relaxed and working. Keldo sat on a soft skin, apportioning out water, and Torben was teaching Frey how to swing her ax.

  “I think he wants Frey.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s the most precious thing we have.”

  Siv considered it and asked, “Then why now?”

  “Because now she’s useful. The Claws didn’t have to spend the time and resources to keep her alive when she was an infant, but now they’d be happy to use her.”

  The thought made Siv’s blood boil. “We can’t let that happen.”

  Phasma looked again in the direction of the Claw territory. “No, we can’t.”

  From then on, Phasma posted two guards at the edge of their territory, and every shift reported Balder’s spies keeping watch.

  So Phasma watched the Claws watching her people, and she hatched a plan. This was notable because until now she’d always worked in tandem with her brother, Keldo, as if they were two arms on the same body, but this time she told only her warriors. She didn’t mention to Keldo that they would be raided soon. And she didn’t tell him that she’d scouted into the Claw territory to spy on Balder in turn—but Siv knew.

  Finally, on a moonless night, it happened. Phasma and her people were sleeping in their net hammocks, strung between the tallest rock spires, when the ululating cries of the Claws sounded, echoing off the stone. But Phasma was ready. She swung from her hammock, fully awake and brandishing her spear, leaping from rock to rock toward the most secure hammock where Ylva always slept with Frey strapped to her chest. Her warriors likewise burst out of their hammocks, armed and awake, ready to fight. The rest of the Scyre folk had no idea the raid was coming, but they rallied and readied their weapons. The first of the Scyre’s night lookouts screamed and fell, cut down by Balder himself, her body splashing into the ocean below and quickly being dragged down into the dark water by gleaming white teeth at least a meter long.

  Phasma watched it happen, too far away to save the guard, and screamed her rage. The Scyre had not lost a member in many moons, and a dirty way it was to die.

  “The mother is there!” Balder shouted, hanging from an outcropping and pointing to where Ylva cowered in a rock cleft, arms wrapped around the bundle strapped to her chest.

  “But I am here!” Phasma taunted.

  The people of the Scyre moved to circle and protect Ylva, and Phasma moved between Balder and her people.

  “You don’t scare me, girl child,” Balder growled.

  Although he was much smaller than Phasma, the Dug had the natural agility and aggression of his species on his side, as well as a unique fighting style, thanks to the fact that he walked on his hands and used his nimble lower legs to manipulate his weapons. Phasma had never personally fought him before, but she wasn’t going to give him any advantage.

  As he circled, Phasma leapt for him. In one hand, she held her spear, topped with its slender blade, and in the other hand she had an ax of rusty metal. Of the many remnants of the old mines that her people scavenged, nothing was as useful as the old saw blades and machinery strong enough to hew through rock itself. She drew first blood on Balder and laughed, taking a fierce joy in the fight. Before now, the raids had been mostly tests, but this battle was for real.

  It was hard to keep track of who died and who lived as the members of the Scyre fought for their lives. Although they kept a tight circle around Ylva, some Claw members managed to leap or fight through the protective ring. Torben stood closest to Ylva, the last line of defense with his mighty clubs bristling with spikes. For all that she had her bundle strapped to her chest, Ylva fought as ferociously as anyone, taking down two Claw fighters with the rusty saw blades Phasma had taught her to wield. Even Keldo took down a Claw for all that he could fight only in place, tethered to his stone spire by lines and
forced to fight on one foot.

  But Phasma was the warrior who did the most damage. Clad in her mask and climbing spikes, she was strong, tall, quick, and the master of every weapon she carried. For all that Balder had the physical advantage, Phasma fought like she craved death at the enemy’s hand, like she longed to fall on Balder’s b’hedda, a famed Dug weapon he’d painstakingly crafted from an old mining blade. But the b’hedda was a weapon for distance, and Phasma quickly closed with Balder, fighting past his own circle of defense and forcing him to turn away from Ylva and use more intimate tools to best her. It was like a dance, Siv told me: a teen girl dressed like a monster, weapons spinning in her hands as she fought an adult male Dug.

  Phasma parried every hit and struck back until Balder dripped blood from his stone-gray skin. One of the reasons he ruled was because he didn’t fall ill from his wounds as easily as the humans so often did, but he was soon panting and slowing down. His knife fell from his cut foot as if the appendage was numb, but still he continued fighting. When Phasma lopped off one of his ear fins dripping with ceremonial baubles, Balder finally bellowed in rage, spun, and swung away, calling a retreat. The Claws followed him gladly, for they had lost a dozen members and sustained their own damage without obtaining the child they sought.

  Phasma stood tall on her stone spire by a Scyre flag, hefted her ax in the air, and screamed her war cry. Her people gathered around, including Ylva, who was exhausted, having been the focus of the attack.

  “How is the child?” Keldo called.

  But when Ylva unbuckled her burden, there was no sign of Frey. Her bundle was full of ragged blankets. The Scyre people gasped, shocked that despite being routed, Balder’s people had managed to steal the child they’d all been willing to die to protect.

  And that’s when Phasma untied her bulky coat to show that she’d carried Frey herself, the child strapped to her chest and unharmed.

  “You took a great risk, sister,” Keldo said, looking very grim.

  “And it paid off. We won’t be seeing Balder for a while. If ever.”

  That got everyone’s attention. As Phasma unbuckled Frey and transferred the child back to her mother, Keldo pressed her. “And why is that? After tonight, I would think him twice as likely to attack, now that we’ve denied him his prize.”

  “Did you see how Balder couldn’t fight any longer? How his weapons fell from his feet, and he looked at his toes in horror? I tried another gambit, and it was successful.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I wasn’t sure if it would work. We’ve always assumed that wounds fester because of the air, but I realized that it’s from the lichen on the rocks. Even touching it makes your fingertips go numb. So I pounded the lichen to make a paste and smeared it on my blades. That is why Balder weakened. Even Dug blood is no match for poison.”

  She held up her ax, and it was clear to see that a light-green substance was on the metal, mixed in with blood and bits of gray flesh.

  “Why did you not share this with the tribe?” Keldo asked, his rage barely contained. “When we all could have benefited from this knowledge?”

  “I had to test it first. I had to be sure. And I’m telling you now.”

  “Sister, I am ashamed of you.”

  Phasma hooked her weapons on her belt and made her way to the spire on which he sat, his good leg and his half leg dangling down over the churning ocean far below.

  “Are you ashamed that I bested our enemy, saved a mother and child, and protected the Scyre’s territory? Or are you ashamed that I chose not to include you in my plans?”

  Keldo carefully considered her, as good leaders do. He knew that to lose his temper would be to lose face.

  “We rule together, Phasma. We always have.”

  Phasma didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

  “And we still do. But fighting is my province, brother, and today we fought. And we won!” She gave a war cry, and the people of the Scyre echoed it, hefting their weapons at the night sky so full of faraway stars. “While Balder is crippled and his people recover, we should return the favor. Raid their settlement. Take their territory. They have a plateau big enough for their entire band to sleep on. They light a fire at night and cook their food and warm their flesh. Every night! The people of the Scyre deserve to feel that fire’s warmth, and to watch our Frey walk on soft ground!”

  At that, however, the people did not shout their agreement. They quieted and looked to Keldo.

  Keldo’s face was grim. “That, sister, I cannot allow. It is one thing to kill to defend our home and our sacred cave, but it is another thing to trespass against a neighbor, no matter how tyrannical. We are good and strong, but we are not murderers. I’d rather sleep free with a clean conscience than warm myself over an innocent person’s bones. We should use this period of fragility to forge a peace with Balder’s people. Surely they, like us, understand that if we spent more time surviving and producing children and less time fighting, all our people would be strengthened. If we continue to squabble over nothing, we’ll all be gone. One, maybe two more generations, and there will be no one left to fight, nothing left to fight over.”

  The people of the Scyre nodded along to these wise words, but Phasma breathed out a hum of disapproval, the steam curling from her mask, which she hadn’t yet removed.

  “You are too fond of peace,” she said simply.

  “I am a leader, and a leader does what is best for the people.”

  Phasma shook her head and turned away. “I am a fighter. I do what I must to survive. And making peace with Balder will not save us.”

  After Phasma had left to sit alone on a far promontory where the night guard had fallen, the Scyre voted. It was decided to let Keldo pursue peace with Balder, although Phasma’s warriors voted against it. Keldo’s closest confidants helped him make the journey to Claw territory the next day; he did not request his sister’s presence or aid. Phasma and her warriors watched, silent, as the procession passed them by. A vote was a vote, after all.

  As the Dug was unconscious and still healing from the wounds Phasma had inflicted, Balder’s people had no choice but to agree to Keldo’s terms. A fragile peace was negotiated between Scyre and Claw, without Phasma and without Balder. There would be no more raids. They would work together for a shared future, trading goods and encouraging new friendships that might lead to healthy children. Everyone cheered, and Keldo’s chosen Scyre folk stood on actual ground for the first time in many years, enjoying the brief safety of Claw land.

  Phasma and her warriors had remained behind, standing vigil on their rock spires, guarding the Nautilus and the most helpless members of the clan, as they always had. But they heard the cheers as Keldo’s procession returned. Phasma wore her mask, but her hands were in fists. She turned her back on the celebration and stared out at the ocean.

  For their very different roles in this new peace, Phasma and Keldo were celebrated as heroes.

  But for Phasma, it wasn’t a peace. It was a betrayal.

  Maybe she’d withheld her plans from Keldo, but he’d directly opposed her, then scorned her.

  She would not forget it.

  VI LOOKS UP. CARDINAL IS MESMERIZED by the story, leaning avidly forward.

  “So you’re saying she was a hero on her home planet?” he asks with a sad chuckle. “That she saved mothers and children and invented new weapons against her enemies? That she deserves her reputation as the perfect soldier?” He scoffs. “Unfortunately, that information doesn’t exactly help me. There’s a meeting tomorrow. General Hux will be there, and I need something that can take down Captain Phasma for good.”

  “Little Armitage is coming over to play? What’s the occasion?”

  “That’s not mine to know. I’m a soldier, remember? Now tell me something I can use.”

  Vi clears her dry throat and shakes her head, feeling like a schoolteacher with a particularly stubborn student. “That’s just one story, just a taste of her life on Parnassos. Her orig
in story, say. It’s easy to be a hero when your own survival is aligned with someone else’s, when your victory is a victory for your entire clan. On Parnassos, you contribute to the group or you don’t last long. There was nothing to lose in her fight with Balder. Her group needed that kid to keep their clan going. Saving Frey was saving herself, even if it looked a little sappy on the surface. The real information you need to take away from this idyllic scene is that Phasma betrayed her brother—and held a grudge. Sure, she saved the kid. And sure, she invented a new weapon. But she didn’t let anyone else take a bit of her fanfare, and she didn’t want peace. If it had been up to her, she would’ve killed every Claw.”

  Cardinal says nothing, just rubs his hands through his hair and stares into nowhere. Vi can almost see him doing the math in his head, see that the Phasma he knows now is the same Phasma who once stood on Parnassos, weapons in hand. But this story alone won’t be enough to convince him of what Phasma really is. He’ll need more.

  And he wants it by tomorrow so he can, what, tattle on Phasma? Get her kicked out of the First Order? Their rivalry must be more serious than the Resistance had led her to believe. They told her Cardinal and Phasma were equals, each with their own domain, but that’s definitely not how Cardinal feels. This is no little workplace tiff or friendly contest. And if Vi learned anything on Parnassos, it’s that Phasma has her own plans for Cardinal, that she wouldn’t let a brown-nosing rival stick around for long, especially if he became a threat.

  Vi can see how the story is beginning to crack him. How the more he thinks about Phasma, the less formal First Order soldier he is and the more angry little boy he might become. She’s got to encourage that, keep Cardinal’s emotions hot and push him to break his careful programming. That’s the key to getting him on her side.