“Grab Brendol Hux and get him back to the Scyre!” Phasma shouted to Torben, and the big man picked up Brendol like he was a bag of sand and strapped him on his back, as easily as if the grown man were but a child like Frey.
Brendol’s soldiers aimed their guns at Phasma, but she shouted, “Follow your leader. We’ll get you to your ship. Balder would’ve killed you all and taken your riches, but I and my people will go with you.”
As a fierce battle broke out, the stormtroopers must’ve done the math: Stay here and fight a bunch of strange primitives or follow the huge man bounding away with their superior. They might’ve shot at Torben, but with Brendol strapped to his back and screaming at them not to shoot, they had little choice. Blasters drawn, they followed Torben, picking their way across the rock spires with careful steps.
The battle raged in their wake. Phasma was truly in her element. Before, all the fights had been defensive, with a focus on repelling enemies from the land and saving the people who couldn’t fight to save themselves. Now, with three of her chosen warriors by her side and eight more Scyre folk handpicked and hand-trained for their proficiency with weapons and willingness to follow her orders, she could experience a true melee for the first time. The plateau was crowded, bodies clinging to one another as the Claws panicked and sought safety, but they fled or fell before Phasma’s ax and spear. Moving past the throng, Phasma aimed for the fighters, familiar masks and weapons she’d parried for years during raids and on whom she now could finally let loose her anger and fierce joy in destruction.
Phasma and her people fought around the perimeter of the great plateau, kicking the wounded and dead over the edge and into the sand to clear more room to fight. As Phasma had planned it, they fought their way back around the plateau until they were near the series of rock spires that would take them across the borderlands and back into Scyre territory.
“Now!” Phasma called, and her people retreated across the rocks as Carr covered them, ready to pick off any followers with his throwing knives dipped in Phasma’s poison.
Soon the remaining Scyre warriors were moving fast, back toward home. They’d lost only two people, and those not even worth naming. The Claws had taken far more damage. Without Balder to lead them and more concerned with protecting their own property and their more fragile members, they’d taken greater casualties, and now several survivors stood at the edge, looking down to see who’d died and been tossed to the sands far below.
“You’ve broken the truce. This isn’t over!” called one of Balder’s lieutenants.
“Come find us when you want to die, then!” Phasma called back over her shoulder, laughing.
She and her people hurried to catch up with Torben and help Brendol’s soldiers learn to traverse the dangerous rocks of Parnassos. In Phasma’s eyes, the raid was an unqualified success. She and her warriors had not only ended Balder’s reign and thrown the Claws into disarray, but they’d also acquired Brendol Hux and his soldiers. Her gambit had worked, and Keldo would have to see that her strategy would usher in a grand future for the people of the Scyre.
“THAT’S NOT ENOUGH,” CARDINAL SAYS, FROWNING.
“You asked how Brendol came to be on Parnassos, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but this story isn’t important. It’s just more of the same.” Cardinal frowns. “Phasma is great, Phasma is a liar, Phasma is dishonorable. Phasma might’ve lied a little, but it was for the greater good. The First Order doesn’t care about any of it.”
“But you should. She is the sum total of her stories, you know.”
The droid beeps a question.
“Good point. How are you choosing the stories you tell? What’s your angle?”
Vi gives a dry cough and waits for him to offer her a sip of water before she speaks again. “I’m telling you all this because like I said, I’ve been researching all the big names in the First Order, and you’re on the list. I can’t find a single black mark in your records. I have file after file of proof that you’re not a bad guy. You have your principles and you stick to them. You’re a great soldier. You practice what you preach. The kids who graduate from your training program all but worship you. I can’t even find a way to hate you, and I can still smell the burnt flesh from when you shocked me. So I figure this whole thing can go two ways. Either you use what I give you to take down Captain Phasma, or you realize who you’re really working for and defect. Either way, I win.”
Cardinal sits back and barks a laugh, looking at her like she’s gone mad. “You’re a fool,” he says, shaking his head. “All you’ve told me is what I already know: Captain Phasma is willing to do whatever it takes to bring her people glory. She did exactly what the First Order would’ve done in that situation, the thing no one else had the courage to do. The thing that would ensure prosperity for her people. Even I can’t find fault with it. And I want to. No, you’re going to have to give me something more if you want to get out of this alive. And if you want to keep your brother safe.”
At the mention of Baako, Vi bares her teeth at him. “Ah, but that wasn’t the end of the story,” she hisses. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part.”
PHASMA AND HER WARRIORS HAD THEIR work cut out for them on the way back to the Scyre. It was slow going. The whole way there, Phasma focused on better understanding Brendol’s strange accent and peculiar vocabulary. With the translator droid gone, lost somehow in the skirmish, she was determined to communicate on her own terms. He was polite and helpful, for the most part, but he did have to correct her frequently.
“Stop calling me Brendol Hux,” he muttered. “So long as we’re on this blasted planet, just call me Brendol.”
“Your people have more than one name?” Phasma asked, fascinated.
Brendol shrugged. “Some do. Some go by numbers, like my soldiers.”
“I don’t think I’d want to be a number,” Phasma said, turning to watch the three troopers.
“Depends on your priorities,” Brendol snapped. “They consider it a worthwhile trade for a better life.”
Phasma took it upon herself to help him traverse the terrain, and although he wasn’t as nimble and strong as his warriors, between Torben’s muscle and Phasma’s patience, Brendol didn’t slow them down too terribly. His soldiers, Siv reported, were well trained, quick to improvise, and tirelessly devoted to their superior. Although she’d already pledged to help them find their ship, Phasma continued to store away information on these strangers from the stars, trying to better understand their ways and speech.
The original journey had taken half a day, perhaps, to get to Balder’s territory, but it took longer to return. The warriors were tired, several had sustained minor injuries, and Brendol himself was neither agile nor quick and had little muscle mass. His life in the stars must’ve been an easy one, the warriors whispered among themselves. As they stopped on one of the last of the plateaus to rest and eat, Phasma monopolized Brendol’s time, asking him question after question as she struggled to master the intricacies of his language. She wanted to know about his life, about the ships, about why the First Order needed warriors. She was especially interested in their training programs, as she’d watched the troopers in white armor fight during the battle with Balder’s Claws and had found much to admire in their calm, their aim, their nerves, and the way they reflexively followed orders.
Brendol seemed happy enough to talk though his watery eyes darted everywhere, scanning the sky constantly as if rescuers might arrive unrequested at any moment. He spoke slowly as Phasma sorted out their language differences, but it was obvious he had no interest in learning about the Scyre folk and their speech patterns. All his questions were about the planet as a whole.
“But what happened here?” he asked, waving an arm, his nose wrinkled up as if the air carried a bad smell. “There’s a powerful defense system but nothing else. No cities. No signals.”
“We don’t know,” Phasma told him. “Generations ago, we had technology. And perhaps your cities. But
so much has been forgotten.” She shrugged and chewed her dried meat. “All we can do is survive and hope something will change.”
“So you’ve never seen active vehicles in the sky? There’s no corporate or governmental presence here?”
Phasma shook her head. “There are only the Scyre and the Claws. And then the wastelands. No one who has gone there has returned in many years.”
“Fascinating. None of this is recorded, you see. The planet is listed as uninhabited, but the rest of the files were wiped.”
“What are files?”
Brendol ignored that. “Tell me, Phasma. Are there any other fighters in the area who share your prowess? Neighboring bands that might have worthy warriors like you?”
At that, Phasma gave a haughty chuckle.
“No, Brendol. My fighters are the best warriors here. Balder was mighty, but I killed him. Perhaps his clan still has fighters, but there are no other bands. There were, once, when I was young, but they either died out or joined stronger bands. We lose ground every year as the sea rises. That is why we’re anxious to leave with you.”
“It’s funny that your land is being swallowed,” Brendol said. “From the sky, we noted several other landmasses that appeared far more habitable. Grasslands and forests, perhaps, even a few large compounds that suggest some sort of civilization. But no one answered our distress call. What do you make of that?”
“I wish to see it myself from your ship. Are all the night stars planets like ours?”
“Some are. Most planets are significantly more advanced.”
“But most planets don’t have fighters as tough as we are.” Phasma looked around at her war band proudly. “How will we become warriors for your clan, Brendol?”
Brendol went very stiff. “The First Order is not a clan, Phasma. It is a political and military organization.”
“These words—political and military. What do they mean?” she asked, although she gave a one-shouldered shrug as if to imply that if they weren’t part of the Scyre dialect, they couldn’t possibly be important.
Brendol considered her as if assessing her intelligence. “It means, in short, that the First Order seeks to rule those who cannot rule themselves. To establish stability and promote progress for all.”
Phasma held out an arm, gesturing at the horizon. “And what would the First Order think of this place?”
“This place.” Brendol paused as he fought to chew a bit of dried meat. “Many parts of this planet could be useful, if we could disable the defense system. It could be colonized and used for training and support, possibly even farming or mining. It’s unfortunate that your people have been trapped in such an unwelcoming area. But, as I’ve said, we can offer you something more than scratching away at the rock.”
“What about those who aren’t warriors?” Phasma asked. “Perhaps they could be transported to these better parts that you’ve seen.”
“Perhaps,” Brendol said, but he quickly changed the subject back to Phasma’s fighting.
Siv made note that as Phasma spoke with Brendol, she matched her speech patterns to his. Her consonants became clipped, her vowels drew out longer, and in just a few hours she began to develop the stranger’s accent. A natural mimic, although Siv had never heard the phrase. Most of the Scyre folk still had trouble understanding Brendol’s accent and continued to focus on the most important aspect of Parnassian life: staying alive. Siv and her friends were constantly scanning the borderlands, waiting for the Claw folk to appear and reclaim their prize.
It wasn’t long before they were on the move again, headed back into Scyre territory. Phasma went first with Torben and Brendol at her side and the rest of her warriors helping Brendol’s troopers navigate the chasms in their armor. When the first sentry called out a greeting, Phasma and her warriors returned it with gusto, beating their weapons against their shoulders and howling their victory. The sentry did not reflect their triumph but shared solemn news: Keldo and the rest of the Scyre folk were waiting for them in the Nautilus. It was considered a great omen that the strangers from the stars had fallen to Parnassos when the cave was revealed, and Keldo held court within, sitting on the ancestral throne of stone.
A contingent of warriors guarded the cave’s entrance. Phasma and Brendol passed them and entered side by side, trailed by the stormtroopers, who were allowed to keep their weapons and treated as valued guests. Torben, Carr, Siv, and Gosta followed. Despite the formality of the meeting, it was a time of great excitement and hope, for no living Scyre had met someone from beyond the stars, someone who had survived the orbital defense system that usually reduced every encroaching ship to a pile of component parts.
The great skylight shone down on Keldo’s throne. He looked resplendent and solemn, wearing his full Scyre costume composed of bright fabrics and antique feathers carefully stored for great occasions of state. Across both his knees sat an antique staff made of golden metal, some ancient piece of mining equipment handed down from leader to leader among the Scyre and hidden in the Nautilus with other treasures while the sea level was high. There was room beside him for Phasma, but this time he sat in the center of the throne, denying his sister her rightful place.
“Brother, I bring gifts. First, for you.”
Phasma’s warriors knew not to pry, but they’d all been curious about the bundle in the pack on her back, which she hadn’t possessed on the way to the Claw lands. Now she unwrapped it to reveal the unexpected: a leg. Siv recognized it as belonging to Brendol’s missing translator droid.
“With a few adjustments, you could stand on your own again.”
Keldo took the leg from her, careful not to betray how hard it was for him to hold such a heavy device. He considered it from all angles before leaning it against his throne, his face a war of hope and rage. Siv understood perfectly: Yes, it was a gift, but it was also an insult, perhaps even Phasma’s way of saying I told you so in front of the entire Scyre. Keldo had forbidden her from leaving, but he’d been unable to stop her, to follow her. He was, in that respect, incapable. And it made him furious.
“And what else did you bring me?” he asked carefully.
“A visitor from beyond the sky,” Phasma said. “This is Brendol Hux, and these are his soldiers. They call themselves stormtroopers, and their clan is the First Order. Brendol commands many great ships waiting in the sky.”
But Keldo did not smile. His fingers went white where they curled on the stone and around the staff.
“Sister, what of our treaty? Surely our ally, Balder of the Claw clan, did not freely allow you to bring this Brendol Hux with you into the Scyre territories?”
Phasma held her temper. She stood tall, still wearing her mask, and did not bend to her brother in any way. “These people and their ships are more important than any treaty. If we can help him reach his fallen ship, Brendol Hux will contact his people, and they will give us food, water, supplies, medicines, and access to the many advancements our civilization has lost.”
Keldo glared his dissatisfaction, his voice booming in the cave. “Were these people found in the borderlands, then?”
“They were beyond Claw territory, in the unclaimed wastelands.”
“And did Balder allow you safe passage?”
Phasma breathed out, making steam pour from her mask. When she spoke, her voice was harsh and low, almost animalistic. “No. He did not. Balder demanded the child Frey for my insolence in crossing the border, so I took these people for the Scyre and killed Balder for his presumption. That foul Dug will trouble us no more.”
The cave went silent, the Scyre folk caught between Phasma’s fierce joy and Keldo’s disappointment.
“And how many of our people died during this pointless skirmish?”
Phasma’s voice was tight. “Two. And at least twelve Claws. But the loss will be more than paid back. Brendol Hux will help us. Our children will be born and raised in safety among the stars, and our warriors will join the glory of the First Order and bring honor to our
people.”
Keldo sighed. “These are a child’s dreams, sister. Your actions have broken the peace between the bands, and your foolishness has lost precious lives.”
“These are a warrior’s dreams, brother, and they are real. Balder is dead, and the Claw band has been defeated. We killed a dozen of his finest warriors and claimed this prize fairly. Brendol Hux is our greatest hope for the future. With his help, we can become the most powerful band on the planet and keep our people from going extinct. There are better lands beyond the sea, Brendol tells me, lands where buildings still stand and the ground is solid and yields crops and fruits and beasts. He can take us there in his ship, relocate us and all our treasures to a safer place. This will be our reward for returning him to his people. He need only call them, and they will appear.”
Siv noted here that, to her knowledge, Brendol had not promised any such thing, but she would never dare to correct Phasma, especially not in public.
Keldo held up a finger. “If his people are so great, why do they not simply find him on their own? If their technology is like that which we lost, their ships should already be able to immobilize the orbital defense system and search the planet’s surface for his lost ship. I have read the old manuals, Brendol Hux. Does your ship not have a homing device?”
Siv couldn’t see Phasma’s face, but she watched her leader’s hands tense into fists. Even Siv hadn’t known that Keldo had taught himself to read, although she had noted he had an old datapad among his belongings. He’d been keeping secrets of his own.
Hearing Keldo’s patronizing tone, Brendol spoke for himself, albeit slowly and as if talking to a child. “The orbital defense system may have destroyed my craft, as well as any beacons that could contact my people independently. Even if they should come looking for us, we’re far from the ship’s crash site and now even farther from our escape pod. It is of utmost urgency that I am returned to my fallen ship, so that my troops and I might repair the comm array and make direct contact with my superiors. Your sister is correct: An entire fleet of ships, millions of men strong, awaits my order.”
Phasma (Star Wars): Journey to Star Wars Page 7
