Phasma (Star Wars)

by Delilah S. Dawson

  The door opened, but instead of a droid, they heard only a voice, the same calm female from the disk.

  “Please follow the red line to the barracks for outfitting, praise to the creators.”

  On the wall, a red line appeared, snaking away and disappearing down a curve. Phasma went first, and Siv realized that with Brendol out of the picture, the troopers had calmly accepted her leadership. They walked at the pace Phasma set, slowing to look at each new opening in the wall. Siv knew Phasma well enough to know that she was gathering knowledge to inform her future choices, trying to learn everything she could about this new environment.

  The red line terminated in an open door, the room within lit in that same cold light so different from the sun outside. Racks of hanging cloth stood along the walls. Another droid waited there, silent and still until they’d all entered the room.

  “I am Deefoursevenseven,” it said in a softer woman’s voice. “I will fit you for your uniforms, praise to the creators. Please step up one at a time.”

  All eyes went to Phasma.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “All Con Star Mining Corporation employees are required to wear the appropriate uniform,” the droid replied calmly.

  “And if we refuse?” Phasma asked.

  The droid’s head canted toward her in a way that reminded Siv of a predatory insect known for biting the head off its mate after laying eggs. “You will show respect for the creators and follow orders, or your terms of servitude will lengthen accordingly.”

  Phasma stood firm. “I did not agree to this foolishness and will perform my duties as I am.”

  The droid’s head sparked, and Siv drew back.

  “DOES NOT COMPUTE PRAISE TO THE CREATORS ALL EMPLOYEES WILL FOLLOW ORDERS AND ALL DROIDS WILL FOLLOW CREATOR PROTOCOL!”

  The group tensed until the droid stopped sparking and regained its calm. It straightened its head and reached into the rack, withdrawing a folded cloth hanging from a twisted bit of metal wire. “This should fit,” it said, holding it out to Phasma. She took it but did nothing further. “Please do try it on,” the droid said, polite again. “We want you to be comfortable, praise to the creators.”

  Phasma nodded at the droid, but as it began to turn back to the rack, she yanked the cloth off the wire and whipped it around the droid’s head to cover its facial sensors. Planting a boot in its chest, she kicked it over backward. It fell to the ground with a heavy clank, and in a heartbeat Phasma was straddling its torso, jamming the metal wire into its eyehole.

  One of the troopers fell to his knees by her side, scrabbling for a panel on the droid’s chest and digging his fingers in, trying to pry it open. The droid’s hands flailed and reached for its assailants, but it was clearly unaccustomed to combat. The other two troopers each sat on an arm and Torben restrained the droid’s legs as the first trooper got the panel open and began yanking out wires by the fistful.

  “REQUIRED REQUIRED PRAISE PRAISE DOES NOT…” the droid screamed.

  The lights clicked off, a klaxon began to ring, and something wet fell from overhead. Siv turned her face up to the ceiling, amazed by the concept of falling liquid like the harmless rain she remembered from her childhood, but it wasn’t water. She breathed in the foul, unnatural odor, and everything went black.

  SIV WOKE UP ON HER BACK, staring at the white ceiling. When she sat up, she was dizzy, and her companions were likewise half asleep around her. Tiny black droids scooted among them, drying the floor, but Siv was still wet. TB-3 stood over them, fidgeting.

  “I did warn you,” he said. “You’re employees now, and you cannot shirk your contractual obligations, praise to the creators.”

  Still muddled, Siv asked, “Why do you keep saying that, praise to the creators?”

  TB-3 proudly tapped a badge on his shining white chest. He’d been polished since bringing them to the station, all evidence of the gray sand buffed away.

  “The Con Star Mining Corporation landed here one hundred and eighty-six years ago. We were built and activated on Parnassos by our creators, who designed us to perfectly perform our duties. Once the facility was under proper management and the human personnel had arrived, the creators left. Time passed, and we experienced temporary signal interference. We can no longer communicate with the creators or the other stations. Our human contingent…well, we have been waiting ever since. For the creators. We are very pleased you’ve arrived.”

  “But we’re not—”

  Phasma interrupted her. “We’re happy to be here.”

  “Very good. I hope you will consider bathing and dressing in your uniforms now. Poor Deefoursevenseven was quite disturbed by your insubordination. You will need to eat before your shift, and punctuality is important.”

  Siv looked to Phasma, and Phasma just shook her head. “We’re happy to comply.”

  TB-3 led them to a room filled with spraying water and requested they disrobe and bathe. Siv was loath to trust the droid with her weapons, and the troopers were likewise adamant about their armor, but TB-3 showed them lockers in which to store their belongings. When Phasma didn’t argue and placed her ax and spear in the metal box, Siv had little choice but to follow. It was strange to be without her scythes, and she was dumbfounded by the feeling of bathing, nude, with Con Star soap. A warm wind machine dried them, and a new version of D477 gave her strange, light clothes with a Con Star badge on the chest, just like the one TB-3 wore with pride.

  They were instructed to follow the yellow line to the cafeteria, where they were served identical foods on identical plastic trays. Following Phasma’s lead, Siv ate the food, which all had the same texture but vastly different flavors and colors. The drink, served from a pouch, had the tang of minerals about it. Once the food was gone, she stood with her friends—now co-workers—to empty her tray and follow the blue line to the turbolift, which took them down into the mine.

  When Siv told me this story, she was still astounded by how different the station was from the Scyre. Everything was clean and sharp and cool, with smooth walls and perfect corners and cold lights that sometimes flickered but never went out. She had to learn words she’d never heard before, understand how to perform the repetitive work demanded of her. After a few hours, it was as if her hands had been made to hold the handle and push the cart. She wore her hard hat and goggles and did everything she was asked to do, a team of helpful droids instructing and overseeing her.

  At each new task, everyone looked to Phasma. Instead of a mask, claws, and weapons, Phasma wore her crisp uniform, and although she didn’t smile, she watched everything that happened, her bright blue eyes darting to every control pad and console they passed. Secretive looks passed among them all; they were biding time, and they knew it.

  Siv’s hands were blistered by the time a blinking green light announced the end of their shift. She put down her jackhammer and pushed her cart to the turbolift, where she stood quietly between Phasma and Torben. They followed the green line to the barracks, where they changed into their sleeping clothes and slipped into their assigned bunks. It was the most comfortable place Siv had ever been, with plenty of room to stretch out completely and turn in any direction she desired without feeling the warning creak of a net or the grainy slither of sand. But she wasn’t sleepy. None of them were. They were just waiting until the door closed, leaving them alone in darkness and silence.

  “This is crazy,” one of the troopers said. It was the one Brendol had shouted at, PT something. After that outburst, the troopers had kept their distance from the Scyre folk, but with Brendol gone, perhaps he felt it was safe to speak. Out of his helmet and armor, he seemed so much smaller and like any other man, not a stranger from beyond the stars.

  “We need to play along until we can get Brendol,” Phasma said, her voice low.

  The trooper nodded. “Yeah, he’ll understand more about the droids and their programming. We know how to take them down individually, but we can’t fight forty-seven droids without our weapons, not to me
ntion whoever runs the control room.”

  “And there could still be people.”

  “True.”

  “What’s your name?” Siv asked, feeling bold. “Not the number Brendol called you, but your real name. It feels wrong that you know our names, but we don’t know yours.”

  He gave a wry grin. “We don’t have names. The First Order only gives us numbers. I’m PT-2445, and this is LE-2003.” He nodded to the woman. “And HF-0518.” He nodded to the man.

  “Your names are hard to say,” Gosta said. “Can I call you Petey?”

  For a moment, PT-2445 looked kind and amused. “That’s more of a child’s name, but I suppose you can think of me as Pete when the general isn’t around.”

  “And that would make me Elli,” the female trooper said. “And you’re…Huff.”

  The third trooper, now Huff, scowled. “That’s not even a name.”

  “Ah, but we don’t have names, do we?” Pete said, and the troopers shared a private chuckle.

  “Enough about your names. I want to leave. These clothes are useless,” Torben said. His uniform was too small for him and could barely stretch over his shoulders. “Can’t fight in them. They can’t stop a blade. No wonder they have trouble keeping people here.”

  Siv laughed, grateful for a moment of mercy in the strange place. But Phasma was having none of their jocularity.

  “Then we all agree,” she said sharply. “We do as the droids ask until Brendol is with us, and then…”

  “And then?” Gosta asked.

  “And then we turn the tables.”

  —

  Time passed in a blur for several days, or at least what Siv assumed was days. They couldn’t see the sky and had no concept of time. Sleep, then food, then work, then food, then work, then sleep. It was monotonous, being an employee of the Con Star Mining Corporation. The droids she encountered when walking down the halls or delivering her cart full of ore were cheerful and helpful, but she never saw another person, and she didn’t entirely trust the droids or feel safe around them. She longed for life outside, even if it was harsh. At least it was honest.

  Two sleep cycles later, Brendol Hux appeared at breakfast. His skin was paler than usual, blotchy with purple bags under his eyes, and his uniform, although clean and pressed, fit a little looser. As soon as he saw them, he hurried over with TB-3 shuffling anxiously in his wake.

  “What the devil are you wearing?” he barked, staring at them each in turn.

  “Our uniforms, sir,” one of the troopers said, his eyes cutting to the hovering droid. “We’ve been indentured to the Con Star Mining Corporation to pay your medical debts.”

  Brendol turned a peculiar shade of red and began to splutter, but Phasma waved a hand.

  “It’s only sixty days each,” she said with a smirk. “I feel certain our time here will be worthwhile. But we must remain calm. We angered one of the droids recently and were punished harshly.”

  “Good behavior is expected of Con Star employees, praise to the creators,” TB-3 agreed.

  “You should get a tray and join us,” Phasma said. “Our work shifts are long, and you’ll be hungry.”

  “Work shift? I nearly died. I barely survived in the medbay under those butchers. I can’t work!” Brendol stormed.

  “General—” one of the troopers began.

  Phasma interrupted him. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned here, it’s that insubordination is punished, so we’re happy to help you acclimate. I feel certain our time will pass swiftly under our watchful hosts.”

  The smile she aimed at TB-3 was cold enough to freeze water, but the droid didn’t notice.

  “You are a model employee, Phasma,” he said.

  Brendol’s mouth twitched as he considered the situation, but in the end, he fetched his tray like everyone else. Once he was settled, TB-3 left. They knew well enough by now to follow the blue line to the turbolift for their shift when the bell rang.

  As Brendol approached the table with his breakfast, Phasma slid over to make room. He sat, contemplating the tray as if it were filled with slime.

  “This is madness,” he said.

  “We know,” Phasma answered, leaning close to whisper. “But we can’t escape without you. We can kill the droids one by one, but your troopers don’t know how to shut down the system. There are too many of them, and they are always watching. And listening.” She inclined her head to the cafeteria droid frozen in place by the trays.

  “We need to find the control room.” Brendol tried the food and nearly spit it out. “And quickly.”

  “Tonight. They’re least attentive at night. I’ve made several forays and encountered no droids.”

  Siv was shocked to learn that Phasma had ventured out of the room at night without her, without any of the Scyre warriors. She gave Torben an inquisitive look, and he shrugged. Poor Gosta looked just as surprised as she was. They had always known Phasma’s plans before.

  “Good,” Brendol said, and he continued eating with the arm that had nearly killed him—an arm that was still whole.

  “How is your wound?” Siv asked, because she had never seen someone recover from the fever before.

  Brendol rolled up his sleeve to show her. The skinwolf’s gash was a neat pink line, and his arm was a normal color. All signs of infection were gone. No redness, no streaks, no foul pus. Siv nodded her approval, but inside she was filled to the brim with a new sense of hope. The medicines here truly were miracles. If Brendol’s First Order had such curatives available, it was imperative that they claim his ship and get off the planet, no matter the cost.

  —

  Their two work shifts took forever, and then they were finally back in the barracks for the night. Phasma and Brendol held a whispered discussion, and soon they were ready to move.

  Instead of following the red, yellow, green, or blue lines, they hurried to the showers, where they traded their Con Star nightclothes for their regular clothes and weapons and slathered on their oracle salve in preparation for their escape. Brendol was the only one who didn’t need to change, and he spent his time identifying cams that might be watching them.

  “They’re recording,” he mused. “And yet no one has come to stop us.”

  “An issue I discovered days ago, while you were still in the med bay. Instead of pondering that, let’s take advantage of it,” Phasma snapped, pulling down her mask.

  Siv felt better the moment she was back in her leathers, and she grinned at Torben, grateful to see him looking like himself again and happy to feel the weight of her scythes on her hips. She caught Phasma studying the troopers as they put on their armor and checked their guns. She’d known Phasma since they’d been children, and yet she was seeing a new side of her leader. Phasma had always been dedicated to power, but now she was hungry for more than just stability in the Scyre. She coveted the armor, the blasters, the tech. Siv began to wonder if perhaps Phasma wanted it too much.

  Back in the hall, they followed Brendol as he read the plaque beside each door. Siv had her scythes out, ready to face down any of the droids that might challenge them. Oddly, none appeared, not even the little mouse droids that always seemed to show up when the slightest bit of dirt marred the gleaming floor.

  Finally, Brendol found what he was looking for. He tapped the plaque and said, “Control room. This is it. My soldiers will go first, since blasters will do more damage to metal and we’ve only seen droids thus far. Should there be any sentient beings within, feel free to subdue them.”

  Phasma nodded, and Brendol pressed something on the wall. The door slid open, and the troopers fanned inside, blasters up. But they didn’t shoot. Seconds had passed before a trooper called, “All clear, sir,” and Brendol led the rest of them inside. Without being asked, Torben remained outside as a guard. In the Scyre, one never went into a tight space without a friend to stand watch. It was all too easy to get trapped.

  The room inside was like all the other rooms: white and pristine. There was no
one within to threaten. The troopers had their blasters up, and Siv realized that with their armor on there was no way to tell them apart. They were no longer Pete, Elli, and Huff. They were just faceless soldiers.

  Brendol went directly to a bank of machines that beeped, blinked, and flashed strange symbols. Screens all around the room showed various images of the station, including all the rooms Siv had seen and many more. One room, to her horror, was filled with human bodies piled haphazardly. At least they weren’t fresh, from what she could see. In another room, she was surprised to see all the droids standing in neat rows, holding perfectly still with TB-3 facing them at the front. But her attention was drawn back to Brendol.

  His fingers flew over a keyboard, and Phasma stood nearby, watching his every move.

  “Come on,” Brendol grumbled at it, poking buttons and twisting dials.

  He must’ve done something important, as all the lights clicked off, leaving them in complete darkness. The gentle hum of machines always in the background wound down to silence. The air, which was a constant and regular cool, went still and stale and carried the unmistakable tang of death.

  “Just give it a moment,” Brendol said, and he was right. A red glow softly filled the room.

  “What’s happening?” Phasma asked.

  “I’ve turned off the main power and shut down the droids. I’ll give it a few moments before rebooting. The droids, however, will remain deactivated.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the lights and air circulators will be on while the insane droids will be off. There don’t seem to be any other beings about—and if there were, they’d be running right here to stop us.”

  The lights came back up and the screens flickered back on, but nothing else happened. Siv watched the door, waiting for Torben to call out or for some new threat to appear, but neither happened. Brendol clicked away until he found what he was looking for.

  “These records show that the only remaining supervisor is Dr. Kereg Ryon, but that’s all I can find. Does anyone see him on a screen somewhere?”