Phasma inclined her head but said nothing. Armitage looked her up and down, barely concealing his skepticism.
“The First Order thanks you, Phasma,” the young man said, clearly trying to impress his father.
“She will be joining us on the Finalizer. As will this child. Come now.” Brendol turned and held out his hand, and Siv clutched Frey close to her, realizing that no one had yet spoken of Siv’s own contribution, or her fate.
“Release her,” Phasma said, and Siv’s hands unclenched from Frey’s shoulders. “Come, Frey.”
Frey looked to Siv, her eyes fever bright and full of fear.
“It’s just Phasma,” Siv said weakly. “Go to her.”
Phasma held her blaster in one hand and offered her glove to Frey, who gave Siv a last, troubled glance before running to take the outstretched hand. Siv stood, dizzy, and took a few faltering steps toward the others, careful to step around the bodies.
“And what of that one?” Armitage said, looking at Siv with distaste.
“She’s too far gone,” Brendol said. “And too soft for our needs.”
Siv’s heart dropped. “Phasma?” she implored.
Phasma’s helmet turned to her, giving no hint as to what Phasma might be feeling. “When I ordered you to kill Wranderous, what did you do?”
Siv blinked against the sun, her world gone blurry. “I did what I thought was right. I showed him mercy.”
“You defied a direct order, and that will not be tolerated.”
Brendol smiled and nodded. “You’ll do well in the First Order, Phasma.”
Armitage inclined his head. “Shall we, then? The Supreme Leader has much to discuss with you, Father.”
All this time, the troopers had remained as still as stone. At Brendol’s signal, they turned and filed back up the ramp and onto their ship, Brendol and Armitage walking side by side between their neat columns. After a brief pause, Phasma followed, holding Frey’s hand.
“Phasma?” Siv asked again, pleading this time, her world shattering as the last living person of her band turned to walk away.
Phasma stopped and looked over her shoulder. “There’s another station just over the next dune. It has mostly escaped destruction. Brendol says it may be stocked with medical supplies.” She continued walking. The last thing she said was, “He’s right. You’re too soft.”
Without another word, without an apology, Phasma and Frey walked up the ramp and into the ship. Once everyone was on board, the ramp went back up, spilling gray sand. The ship took off in a gust of steam and noise, sending the sand swirling into great clouds that made Siv choke and squint. When she was able to see again, the only evidence that the First Order had visited Parnassos were tracks in the sand, an abandoned shipwreck, and the bodies of everyone she’d ever loved.
—
As the bigger ship devoured the smaller one and disappeared, Siv’s legs gave out, and she fell to the sand. It felt soft, at first, warm and calmly accepting. But then it began to burn, to itch. Siv was feverish; her lips blistered and her eyes full of grit, though she couldn’t tell if it was real sand or part of the sickness. But whether it was a dream or not, Phasma had given her a sliver of hope even as she broke her heart, and Siv was going to take it.
She crawled from body to body, collecting everything she could find. Water, food, weapons, cloaks. She put on Pete’s helmet and looked around in awe at a whole new world. It seemed to help block the sickness, or at least the blinding harshness of the sun, and she knelt to say one last goodbye to Torben. As she slumped there, sand burying her knees, she almost gave up. But then that persistent flip in her belly urged her to wobble to her feet and shuffle through the sand, dragging her collected bags over the next dune and toward the structure on the other side of the giant cylinders that Brendol had called a nuclear reactor. The white walls of the building showed marks of a blast but were otherwise whole. The door slid open as easily as the doors on the other Con Star Mining Corporation stations; for all its faults, Con Star could build a hell of a door.
The sand cascaded into the hallway sideways and Siv tumbled in with it. She knew enough to press the button to close the door behind her, and moments later, the building rocked, knocking her to the ground. When the world went still again, she pulled herself to standing, confused but determined to keep on.
She was familiar by now with the smooth white floors, with the orientation room, with the cafeteria full of food she was too nauseated to eat. She dropped her bags and put a hand to the wall, following the violet line to the medbay, a trick she vaguely recalled from Brendol’s recovery at Terpsichore Station. Once there, she realized that she couldn’t read any of the words or symbols on anything. But she did understand pictures, and a very handy drawing of a person putting their arm into a machine suggested that putting her arm into that machine might be useful. As if it had not been abandoned for over a century, the machine chirped to life and bleated repeatedly as a red light flashed. Soon droids poured out of all the doors in the room, and Siv’s first reaction was to panic. If these droids were as mad as the last batch, she was doomed.
The first droid that reached her told her quite calmly that she had radiation sickness and would require several rounds of treatment. It led her to a bed and urged her to lie down, and she was grateful it said nothing about praise to the creators. The last thing she saw was a cheerful silver face promising her that the Con Star Mining Corporation valued her health, and then she felt a needle prick her skin.
She fell asleep and was in and out of dreams for an indeterminate amount of time. Sometimes her gummy eyes would blink open on a smooth white ceiling; other times she would see a droid standing over her with various instruments that would’ve been terrifying if she hadn’t been, as she later learned, heavily sedated and strapped down. Siv didn’t remember everything that happened to her in the following week, but the droids took excellent care of her. Fluids and nutrients and the very medicines that Brendol had promised dripped right into her sleeping body, and for a while she was able to forget the horrors of her last days with Phasma and Brendol.
When she finally woke up, the droids were anxious to provide her with whatever she needed, and there was no mention of employment or remuneration. She was able to clean herself and slowly regain her strength and appetite. One day, they took her to a special room and showed her an image of her child moving on a big black screen, the baby’s tiny frog fingers seeming to wave as Siv broke out into long unshed tears of sadness mingled with newfound joy.
The baby was healthy, the droids said. There would be no damage from the radiation. She would be born five months later.
Siv named her Torbi.
When I visited them last week, Torbi was a strong child, and Siv had found her peace, living at Calliope Station. I told her I would send someone back for them.
I hope I can keep that promise.
VI LOOKS UP, HEAVES A SIGH, and smiles as if she’s finally free of a heavy weight. Cardinal has never wanted to shock her as much as he does right now, but he wants her to remain relaxed. Perhaps now that she’s told this story and thinks she’s safe, he can dig deeper or trip her up somehow. Still, he’s angry. Because there’s nothing in the story he can use, and she promised there would be.
“And that’s it?” he says. “That’s the end?”
“Well, to be fair, the story isn’t over yet. You and I are still here, and Siv and Torbi are waiting on Parnassos. We could change that, you know.”
He glances up at Iris, glad he had her disable the cams. Interrogation is one thing, but discussing defection is another, even if he’s only tolerating the spy’s screed to keep her talking.
“But you promised me intel that could take down Phasma and information surrounding Brendol’s death. This was Siv’s story. And I don’t care about Siv. She has no idea what happened to Phasma after they left the planet. Anything else is conjecture.”
Vi jerks her chin at the water, and he helps her drink.
“Tha
nks,” she says. “Thing is, a good spy doesn’t need conjecture because there are other ways to follow a story. If, for example, someone on my side was able to hack into a stolen troop transporter and access the cam feed from the day Phasma left Parnassos.”
At that, he perks up and leans in. “That wouldn’t tell you everything.”
“Not everything, but plenty. Audio, visual, and body language can tell a good story.”
Cardinal is concerned that the Resistance can steal and hack First Order ships so easily; do his superiors know about that? If so, they’ve kept such mistakes hidden from Cardinal even though he’s a captain and should know when his transporters disappear.
But for now, he’s more interested in taking down Phasma.
“Then tell it,” he says.
AS THE SHIP SHIFTED UNDER PHASMA’S boots, there was no way to tell what went through her mind. But the video showed Frey squealing and pulling her hand away from Phasma’s glove, so chances are she felt some anxiety as she began her first trip into the stars.
“Ow! Why are you squeezing so hard? What’s happening?” the child asked.
Phasma looked down at Frey for a long time. I imagine her seeing glimmers of Ylva, or perhaps of Keldo’s eyes, which the child shared. Perhaps she didn’t know how to answer, or perhaps she was still lost in the tragedy she had just witnessed. In any case, she didn’t answer, and Armitage stepped in.
“We’re going up into space,” he said. “To become good soldiers for the First Order. I was once very little and took a ride on a ship like this, and now look how big I am.”
He smiled at the child, then shot a measuring look at Phasma, as if trying to guess whether she might be friend or foe. She looked strange, to be sure, with poorly fitting armor over ripped, bulky cloth, not very First Order at all. But even then, one imagines Armitage was always looking for ways to impress or destroy his own father. The look he shot at Brendol was pure loathing.
“Phasma, I wish for you to see this,” Brendol said from where he stood by a great glass window looking out into the sky. He murmured instructions to the pilot, who dutifully turned the transport ship around to face Parnassos.
When I was floating over Parnassos, I was struck by its beauty. The ocean was a surging swirl of dark green and deep blue, the land a sea of gray interrupted only by the black of rocks and the smudges that represented stations. That green one was Arratu; the white one marked their final battle. Somewhere, hidden under sand, was Terpsichore. I’ve been to many planets, and even I found it quite a view. I imagine, for Phasma, it was the most enchanting, fascinating thing she’d ever seen. She looked out the window for a long time, anyway.
If she looked to the far left, across the ocean, she might’ve seen another landmass, this one brown and bright green and healthy looking, as compared with the place Phasma had come from. Her home, the Scyre and the Claw lands and everything around them except for that bright spot of Arratu, looked like a boil of rot, like dead bones waiting to be buried. Gray and black, all of it. And as she looked down on it, perhaps she realized it was possible to both love and hate a thing in equal measure.
“It’s beautiful from up here,” she said, in any case.
Brendol stepped closer to the bank of instruments. “That’s not what I want you to see. Now watch carefully.”
Whatever his fingers did, the movements meant nothing to Phasma. At least not until bright lights bloomed from under the ship, shooting out with a heavy boom and zooming right toward her planet. Her hand jumped from where it lay by her side to Frey’s shoulder, but she didn’t call out, or even give voice to a moan of pain as she realized what Brendol was forcing her to witness.
She didn’t have names for what these weapons were, blaster bolts so big they could rain down from space, but she must’ve known instantly what they would do.
The first bolt slammed into the Scyre, and she watched the colors change, the black cliffs disappearing into the sea and great white plumes shooting up. The next bolt hit Arratu, leaving a black smudge across the gray sand where vibrant green had once been.
Before he initiated the next volley, Brendol looked back to Phasma. “Do you see now the power of the First Order? What we do to those who oppose us? Even those who inconvenience us?”
In response, Phasma only nodded. I wonder if her helmet hid tears. She silently stepped in front of Frey, blocking the child’s view as the final bolt arced down to where they’d just been, to where their entire family had fallen. She was too far away to tell if it had hit the buildings or Brendol’s crashed ship, but it was clear Brendol was sending her a message that couldn’t be misunderstood.
Do what he wanted, or find herself destroyed.
“Powerful indeed,” she said, when she was able.
VI WATCHES CARDINAL TO GAUGE HIS reaction. She’s maybe embroidered what Siv told her, just a little, but that’s the storyteller’s gift, isn’t it? To take a seed and spin it into a flower of untold beauty, glistening with dew? Cardinal did say he wanted to know everything, and she gave him everything. She needed to buy herself some time, and she’s done that. And she never lied. Everything she said was true. Mostly. And since she has an eidetic memory, she knows exactly which parts she embellished.
It’s worked, though. Time has passed. She’s gotten a little stronger.And as for Cardinal, he’s trying to hide that the story has affected him.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” Vi says, her voice even and calm and low.
“Do you really think she’s still capable of tears?” he asks.
“I’d like to think she’s still human under that armor. Or that at least she was, then. The holo shows her shaking as she watched Brendol ravage her planet.”
Cardinal looks off into space and smiles. “I remember the child. Showed up in the youth barracks a few days later, still pink from the radiation, although the medbay cleared her. She did well. UV-8855. They called her Warcry because she couldn’t stop herself from shouting during every fight. The little ones and their nicknames. When she was old enough, I graduated her. A year ago, just about. I passed her directly into Phasma’s hands. I wonder if they recognized each other?”
He’s so still that Vi knows he’s working through some deep feelings. She doesn’t want to lose him, though. She needs to keep steering him, steering the story. The less he thinks about the remote and about Baako, the better.
“Her name is still Phasma, and she’s the tallest person around. Kind of hard to miss. But you can’t feel bad about it. Frey was just another kid who would’ve died on a crap planet anyway.”
For the first time, Cardinal’s head falls forward into his hands, his hair sweaty and mussed. He’s been running his fingers through it again and again, making it stand up in whorls. He looks…well, more broken than stormtroopers are supposed to be.
“Why would Brendol order such a senseless massacre? The First Order’s purpose is to bring stability and peace to the galaxy. I’ve been on missions, and I’ve followed orders, but the people of Parnassos weren’t in rebellion. They weren’t even given a chance to cooperate.”
Vi shakes her head sadly. “Sorry, but you’re the only one here who’s not playing dirty. The First Order goes to planets, and they steal children, and they subsume resources. I guess that way up here, you can’t see what’s going on down below. Do you ever leave this bucket? Take an R and R on some quiet moon with umbrellas in the drinks?”
“Of course not. Not since Brendol died. My duty is here. I train the children.”
“And now you know who you’re training them for.”
Cardinal stands and paces. “General Hux was my mentor. My superior.”
“Yeah, well, much like everyone else in this story, Brendol Hux was a liar.”
Without being asked, Cardinal brings her water, helps her drink it. His hands are shaking, she notes. He can’t quite meet her eyes, just now. Whether he can’t handle her truth or he’s planning his next move, she doesn’t know. She still hasn’t given him what h
e needs. For a strong and steady man, a man who’s nearly had the emotions programmed out of him, he carries himself gently. As a spy, Vi has delivered a lot of intel to a lot of people, and it just takes them this way, sometimes. As if they wish they could curl into themselves and deny something they always suspected, deep down. Something they now know is true but they aren’t quite ready to face.
“How do you know all this?” he asks, voice rough. “How do you know Brendol is dead? That’s one of the most closely guarded secrets in the First Order. Outside of this ship, official word is that he’s on a long-term mission.”
“But you know he’s dead, and not just because Armitage told you and ten thousand of your friends.”
Cardinal snorts, like she’s a fool. “I was his personal guard. He handpicked me on Jakku, trained me himself. I was infinitely loyal. From the time I first put on this armor, he trusted me to keep him safe.” He holds up his arm, displaying the flawless red. “He designed it himself because he said red was a color of power. Every moment he spent in my company, he knew he was safe.”
“But what about when he left your company?” Vi presses. “Did he say nothing about his time on Parnassos?” Vi is genuinely curious, and the interrogation is starting to feel more like two people of like minds colluding.
“Almost nothing. When they arrived, Brendol looked half dead and Phasma ridiculous, in poorly fitting armor, badly stained and blasted and hung all over with primitive weapons. It was just the two of them—and the child, but she needed longer in the medbay, so I didn’t meet her until later. None of Brendol’s troopers survived. They were my friends, trained alongside me. At the time, we were told they’d perished in the crash, shot down by enemy craft. I felt terrible that I hadn’t been with Brendol, and the fact that Phasma was there with him instead…well, I felt like I had failed him somehow. I was terrified that I was being replaced. I guess I don’t have anything to lose now, telling you that, do I?”
Phasma (Star Wars): Journey to Star Wars: The Last Jedi (Star Wars: Journey to Star Wars: the Last Jedi) Page 27
