Phasma (Star Wars)

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “What do you need?” she asked, walking at Phasma’s side and holding out one arm to show it was available to be grasped.

  “My helmet and my eyesight,” Phasma snapped. “My vision is blurry. And my fingertips are…burnt. Numb.”

  But she didn’t take Siv’s arm, so Siv let it fall back to her side and merely walked slightly closer to her leader than she normally would, ready to catch her if she fell.

  “No talking,” one of the captors said, waving one of the electric sticks. He looked like he had a temper, so Siv stopped talking.

  As soon as they left the hangar and entered a hallway, the station became eerily similar to Terpsichore, with the same smooth white walls and floors and cold, bluish lighting. Siv saw no droids, though, and she did notice some changes in the layout. Wide windows opened on busily working machines, and although they were being marched quickly along, Siv saw that many of the machines appeared to be making or manipulating the bright fabrics everyone in the city wore. She realized they were following a green line on the wall, so she wasn’t surprised when the next door their captor opened led to barracks. The room was quite similar to the one at Terpsichore Station, but it held twice as many beds and was occupied by at least thirty people. Most of them were thin to the point of emaciation. That didn’t bode well, Siv thought.

  “Hands out,” the leader said.

  One by one, he unlocked their binders and shoved his prisoners into the room, all while the man with the sneer and the electric prod blocked the exit.

  “What about Gosta and Elli?” Siv asked as soon as she was free. The leader shrugged at her, so she added, “The women who were hurt?”

  He shrugged. “Not my problem. They’ll get better or they won’t, as the Arratu wills it.”

  “But what do we do?” Brendol asked as the leader turned to leave.

  “You do the only thing you can do,” the man said, his eyes twinkling. “You wait for the gods to shine on you and hope you don’t die.”

  Their captors left, laughing, and the Scyre and First Order folk were left to deal with an entire room full of strangers, none of whom looked friendly.

  “Fresh meat,” someone murmured.

  Despite her injury and the fact that she’d been stripped of her weapons and helmet, Phasma’s posture changed, subtly shifting into a fighting stance.

  “Not for you,” she growled.

  And then they charged her.

  LUCKILY, IT WAS THE GAUNT ONES who attacked. Torben gently placed Gosta on the ground and prepared for the onslaught, and Siv bared her teeth and screamed. The first person who reached Phasma was a man so thin they could see every bone pressing angrily through skin. Phasma didn’t wait for him; she head-butted him and threw him aside. Taking her lead, Torben batted their attackers away like they were made of kindling, and they crumpled and rolled across the hard floor, moaning. Siv waded in, fists flying, and discovered the strange sensation of beating people who were too exhausted to fight.

  “Stop this instantly!” Phasma called as one of the fallen men reached for her from the ground.

  “D’you have any food?” he asked.

  “They’re still strong,” another one added.

  “Won’t last long,” someone else said, deeper into the room.

  Brendol and his troopers stood behind the Scyre folk. The troopers had put Elli down beside Gosta, but Brendol hadn’t given them the command to fight, and no one had yet threatened him, so they merely stood, waiting. Now that the other prisoners had stopped attacking, Brendol stepped forward, pushing past Torben to stand at Phasma’s side.

  “Someone explain this place to us.”

  A short, bearded man in a long-sleeved robe who still had some muscle about him hopped off a top bunk and strutted over as if he owned the place.

  “This is Arratu Station,” he said, his voice dramatically pitched to fill the room. “Once the leading supplier of fabrics, recyclamesh, and tarpaulins for the Con Star Mining Corporation’s operations on Parnassos. You know what happened. It all went to hell. And we’re what’s left behind.”

  Brendol flicked his fingers at the man. “Get to the point.”

  “This is a prison.”

  “We know. But what do they want of us? To merely suffer? Because I suspect something more.”

  The short man crossed his arms and smirked. He wore a draped crimson robe like the soft people outside, the fabric wrinkled and worn but still vibrant in comparison with anything in the Scyre besides freshly spilled blood.

  “There are too many people here,” he said simply. “Not enough food, not enough room. So we serve the Arratu and hope for his favor.”

  “And what does the Arratu ask?” Brendol pressed.

  The man walked to one of the skeletal prisoners on the floor, still creeping toward Phasma although she’d proven beyond a doubt that it was an idea doomed to fail.

  “If you’re troublesome, he wishes you to suffer in an amusing fashion. If you’re interesting, he wishes to be entertained. So I ask you, my drab friend. Are you troublesome or entertaining?”

  Brendol huffed a sigh and glanced around the room as if he’d expected something better.

  “I am bored.”

  “So is the Arratu. So I’d suggest you find a way to be entertaining.” The man kicked the crawling prisoner, who fell over with a listless grunt. “Because the suffering doesn’t look so pleasant. Everyone has a chance to earn food and possibly freedom, but the Arratu is picky, and those who don’t delight him don’t eat. They clear these poor souls out once a week.” He grinned through yellow teeth. “The soup’s always extra good that day. I’m Vrod, by the way.” He held up both hands, letting the sleeves of his robes fall down. His left hand was entirely whitish pink, while the rest of him was warm brown. “Vrod of the White Hand, they call me. I’m lucky. I always amuse the Arratu, which is why I’m in charge of this prison full of arena fodder. Your time will come soon. Let us hope you find your own gift quickly.”

  With that, Vrod turned and walked to the door. When he barked a command, it slid open, and he sauntered out. The moment he was gone, the room’s original occupants focused once more on the newcomers.

  “I am General Brendol Hux,” Brendol shouted, loud enough for anyone to hear. “We have no food. It was all stolen by your oppressors. But I warn you now: We are trained warriors. Trouble us, and you will suffer even more than this.” He nodded to one of his troopers, who stepped to the half-dead figure on the floor at Phasma’s feet and pressed his boot down until a loud crunch echoed in the still air.

  Around the room, heads nodded in understanding—and respect. Siv was horrified, both at the prison and that Brendol had encouraged one of his men to murder someone who was already half dead. Perhaps it was a mercy killing, but the dramatic snap of bone suggested a more sinister intent. Looking at the two troopers now, Siv couldn’t even tell which one was responsible for the act. Gosta shouted, and Siv turned to find one of the gaunt men grabbing for the injured girl’s hand as she lay on the floor, floundering.

  “Torben!” Siv motioned for the big warrior to help their friend, and he lunged to kick the man away and swing Gosta back up into his arms.

  “We need a bed,” he noted.

  Phasma was still somewhat dazed, and Siv almost spoke for her, but Brendol stepped in.

  “There.”

  The bunk beds he pointed at held five prisoners, so thin that they could squeeze in two up top and three on the bottom, even though the cots were made to fit only one. Siv quickly realized that it would be easy enough to evict these weak prisoners, but particularly cruel. Still, she was a woman of the Scyre, and Gosta and Elli needed a safe, defendable place. Pete and Huff were already headed toward the bunk, everything about their posture and gait suggesting that the people in the bed should get out before they were forced out, which they did, slithering down to the ground as if they didn’t have the energy or strength to stand. Siv felt bad, watching them crawl away, but at least Brendol let them live.
>
  Torben carefully placed Gosta on the top bunk, and Siv crawled up to sit beside the younger girl. There was an animal comfort in feeling the warmth of a friend’s flesh and smelling her familiar smell. Since they’d been in the city, Siv’s nose had been tormented by the scent of too many bodies combined with cloying fragrances, both layered over the sharp bite of the growing vines.

  “You okay?” Siv asked as Pete and Huff put Elli in the bottom bunk.

  “My head hurts, and everything feels really bright and loud, but I think I’ll do.”

  Siv grinned at the girl’s plucky spirit and elbowed her gently. “Good. We don’t really need your head anyway. And this place is bright enough, so you’re not alone there.”

  “What’s going to happen, Siv?” Gosta asked. “What do they want with us?”

  Siv smoothed her hair back reassuringly. “We’ll find out soon enough. Until then, rest. You’ll need energy for whatever’s coming.”

  Gosta agreeably snuggled down. Siv let herself relax just a little, enjoying the bed’s padding after the bone-jarring ride in the GAV. Her nausea had stopped, for all that she was ravenously hungry. Nothing could be done about that. She settled down as well, preparing for a quick catnap. Torben was on her other side, standing guard by the bunk, his shoulder even with the bed. He brushed her cheek with huge knuckles before standing up tall and giving the room a withering dare of a glance. Phasma and Brendol stood at the foot of the bunk, whispering in hushed voices. The stormtroopers guarded either side, and Siv had to assume that they were as safe as they were going to get, and she might as well give in to the bone-weary heaviness in her limbs.

  As Siv drifted off, she noticed the gaunt prisoners edging toward the body the stormtroopers had stepped on, their eyes hollow and glowing and desperate. She closed her eyes and turned away. Using the detraxors was one thing, when everyone grew up knowing their responsibility to the people, alive or dead. There was a dignity to the machine, even the way the needle left the smallest hole, nothing garish or noticeable, really. But here, it seemed, bodies were something more. Siv had been hungry, but never hungry like the people on the floor. She hoped she never had to learn what it felt like.

  —

  The next day, Vrod appeared in bright-blue robes, his long beard braided and dyed purple. When they’d met him yesterday, he’d appeared to be just another prisoner, but it must’ve been some peculiar game or ploy to test them. Now he seemed like a caricature of a person, with colorful paint around his eyes and stitching on his sleeve that emphasized his white hand. A whisper of worry went up around the room. He looked at his prisoners with a satisfied, anticipatory smile and clapped his hands.

  “Yesterday’s bounty, come along. It’s time to meet the Arratu and see what you can do.”

  Brendol stepped forward. “All of us? One of my people is still injured.”

  Vrod shrugged. “That’s not my problem. You only get once chance to meet the Arratu, so you’d best leave her behind.”

  They’d removed Elli’s helmet sometime in the night, and when Siv jumped down she saw that the woman’s color wasn’t good. She was pale, with purple circles around her eyes and matching blue lips.

  Phasma leaned in and confirmed what Siv suspected. “Her neck is broken. Even if she wakes, she won’t be able to move her legs, maybe even her arms. Brendol thinks she might pull through, but in his world, one grows accustomed to medical miracles.”

  “One more reason to get back to his ship,” Siv noted.

  Phasma nodded. “But we won’t get there if we have to drag deadweight.”

  Standing, Phasma called out to Vrod, “Will you allow us to keep our clothing?”

  Vrod chuckled. “If your appearance amuses the Arratu, yes.”

  Brendol and Phasma traded a glance. Whatever passed between them ended with Brendol inclining his head in a nod.

  Without another word, Phasma began stripping Elli’s body of the white armor.

  Although Phasma was never clumsy, it was an awkward job. The other two troopers didn’t know whether to help or repel her until Brendol sighed. “Fine. Help her.”

  “And now you have until I’m bored,” Vrod said, turning his attention to a mess under a ragged blanket in the corner. “Who drew the short straw last night? Ah. He wasn’t very interesting. No great loss. You’d all best hope the new blood is amusing, or you’ll be licking bones for dinner.”

  Every eye settled on Siv and her group, and she felt as if she were being picked apart by knives. These people were beyond loyalty and kindness, reduced to only hunger and desperation. Perhaps Brendol’s First Order was the answer he claimed for such folk, if they could take a city this wretched and overcrowded and bring peace.

  With the stormtroopers’ help, Phasma soon had the white armor attached over her regular clothes. The fit was inelegant, as Elli was a head shorter than Phasma and a bit stockier, but the end result was that their greatest warrior had the best armor ever seen in the Scyre. When Phasma put on the helmet, she gasped briefly.

  “You get used to it,” Brendol said as Phasma’s helmet turned this way and that.

  “What do you see?” Siv asked.

  Phasma laughed, a rare thing. “More” was all she said, and Siv burned with curiosity to know what it was like to look out through those mysterious black lenses. Phasma had seemed ill at ease ever since she’d lost her old helmet, and now she visibly relaxed, for all that they were headed toward an uncertain fate.

  But then Siv’s eye was drawn to Elli, and a sad view it was. The woman was limp, one of her feet at an odd angle that had been invisible under the armor. Phasma was right. This was not a person up to the struggle of life in the Scyre, much less a perilous journey across the gray sands. Wearing only the formfitting black suit and with her bruised, twisted neck revealed by the helmet’s removal, Elli was a small and pathetic sight, her hair roughly chopped and her cheeks marked with old scars.

  “I don’t have the detraxors,” Siv said, suddenly overcome with loss.

  There was a reverence to her job, a certain awe and appreciation the band owed her for what she did. Without the oracle salve and liniment, her people would quickly take burns, weaken, or succumb to minor infection. She’d watched her mother perform this holy ritual when she was a child, and the day her mother had died, having fallen from a rock spire and hit her head while dangling from her line, it had been Siv’s responsibility to mount the effort to retrieve her mother’s body and the detraxors in her pack. The moment the needle had slipped into her mother’s arm, Siv had cried. Tears were infrequent things in a place bereft of water, but she’d caught them in a small vial and added them to her mother’s essence, a final act of love. Since then, Phasma and the other warriors had become her family. Being in the presence of a body well on the way to death but missing her tools, Siv couldn’t help feeling a knot of failure in her stomach. The dark green stripes had faded on everyone’s cheeks, and she could do nothing to help protect her people here.

  “Are you ready yet?” Vrod asked. “The Arratu is anxious to meet you.”

  Brendol and Phasma walked side by side, their warriors falling in behind them. Siv noted that Phasma walked a little prouder with the armor on—although she also admitted that Phasma had always walked proudly. Still, the armor suited her.

  Torben helped Gosta down from the bunk, and the girl leaned on him, limping, in Phasma’s wake. As the group walked out the door, Siv heard shuffling footsteps approaching their bunk. She did not look back. There was no helping Elli now, and the rules were different in this place.

  And when she thought about it, was it not strange that they’d been in binders and chains yesterday, but now, walking out into the hallway, they had but one leader and no restraints? She understood immediately when she’d passed through the door. Vrod’s people waited in the hall, and they had among them two of the gray-skinned dogs on ropes. Just like the skinwolves they’d fought in the desert, these beasts had strange knots and wrinkles and warts all over, and t
hey also had bared teeth and deeply thrumming growls that suggested they’d love nothing more than to have something fun to chase.

  “Running would be unwise,” Vrod said, stating the obvious. “But if you do decide to run, at least put some panache in it. The dogs crave entertainment, too.”

  Vrod marched them down several familiar hallways and toward where the turbolift had been located in Terpsichore Station. Here, however, that hallway ended in tall, broad doors. When Siv wordlessly pointed to the slashes of paint over the doors, Brendol frowned and muttered, “It says Welcome to Oblivion. Well, that’s cheery.” Vrod planted a hand on each one and shoved hard, flinging them open dramatically. The room within was more cavernous even than the hangar, as big as the rest of the entire factory, it seemed. It was as tall as six men, the walls perfectly straight and solid and the ceiling so high that the colorful squeeps darted among the struts.

  When Siv described what filled the room, I had to teach her the right word for it: arena. Rows and rows of benches surrounded a circular pit with high stone walls and a gray sand floor. Even if she didn’t know what to call it, she understood immediately what it was for. Fear trickled down her spine. The Scyre was an unwelcoming place, meaninglessly and randomly cruel, but humans had created this loathsome monstrosity on purpose.

  Vrod led them through a gate and into the arena. Standing in the center of the ring, it was only natural to spin around, looking up and feeling small. The seats were empty save for a sort of box nestled among the benches and protected on all sides by elaborate fabric awnings. Within this box sat a throne that dwarfed the one Keldo and Phasma had once shared in the Nautilus. Several older men and women in violet robes sat on benches on either side of the grand chair, chattering excitedly and pointing with their fabric fans, but they were clearly not the focus.