As the turbolift doors shut, General Hux tugged at the cuffs of his uniform, even though he knew they were perfect. He tried not to think how long it had been since Supreme Leader Snoke had summoned him to his throne room aboard the enormous warship known as the Supremacy.
The Supremacy was a massive flying wedge, measuring 60 kilometers from wingtip to wingtip. Its designers had anointed it the first of the galaxy’s Mega-class Star Destroyers, but such a classification struck Hux as essentially meaningless. True, the Supremacy could deliver the destructive power of a full fleet. But that was a decidedly narrow perspective from which to assess its capabilities. Within its armored hull were production lines churning out everything from stormtrooper armor to Star Destroyers, foundries and factories, R&D labs and training centers for cadets. The Supremacy’s industrial capacity outstripped that of entire star systems, while its stores of everything from foodstuffs to ore ensured it could operate independently for years without making planetfall.
All of which was by design. Snoke had been steadfast in his refusal to designate a world as capital of the First Order, explaining icily that he had far more in mind for his regime than ruling the handful of sectors it claimed in the Outer Rim or colonizing clusters of worlds beyond the frontier.
Such ambitions would make the First Order no different from the various nonaligned states that had sprung up in the wake of the Galactic Civil War, or the hermetic kingdoms of the Unknown Regions—many of which had been dismantled or destroyed by the First Order during its secret rise. No, Snoke had a grander destiny in mind—the First Order would restore all that had been stolen from the Empire, and then build upon that rebuilt foundation.
But until that promise was fulfilled, the First Order’s capital would be mobile. It would be the Supremacy.
It was a strategy Hux had helped formulate. The Supremacy couldn’t be cut off from its supply lines, as it carried them with it. Besides, Hux had seen the dangers of fixed capitals—they had their own gravity, drawing in everything from fleets to economic muscle to intellectual talent. They were cultural centers but also sinkholes—and that made them vulnerable.
Hosnian Prime had proven that vulnerability, Hux thought, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. The former capital of the New Republic was now a charnel house—the churning ember of a star, orbited by shattered planetary cores being slowly drawn into rings of dust and ash. Millennia from now, the Hosnian system would remain as a monument to the day the First Order had swept away the Republic’s weakness and dishonesty, reestablishing the principle of rule through strength and discipline.
And the name of Armitage Hux would be remembered, too—of that he was certain. It would be exalted as builder of the First Order’s armies, architect of its technological revolution, and executioner of the New Republic.
And, very soon, the destroyer of the Resistance.
For which he would earn another reward, Hux mused.
Commander of the Supremacy would be an excellent title…surpassed only by that of Supreme Leader Hux.
Hux almost whispered those three words to himself, but caught himself in time. Snoke had spies everywhere in the First Order—including, quite possibly, electronic ones in the turbolift leading to his private domain at the Supremacy’s heart.
The doors opened and Hux stepped into that domain, one of the few beings ever accorded the privilege of seeing Snoke in the flesh. The First Order’s leader sat on his throne, flanked by eight members of his crimson-armored Praetorian Guard. Banners bearing the regime’s emblem hung overhead, reflected in the gleaming black floor, and red curtains veiled the chamber’s viewports. In the throne room’s shadows, Hux glimpsed droids attending to their duties and the mute, purple-robed aliens that had helped the First Order blaze hyperspace lanes through the Unknown Regions.
As soon as Hux dropped to one knee, Snoke’s blue eyes were upon him, glittering in his ruined face.
“General, I handed you a war hammer and pointed to a nug-gnat,” he said.
“As I assured you, Supreme Leader, the setback is merely temporary,” Hux replied.
Snoke studied him appraisingly. The Supreme Leader wasn’t the towering figure seen in his holographic broadcasts, but he still dwarfed a human. The face was asymmetrical and the body hunched, but Snoke radiated power. A malign energy seemed to emanate from him, one that Hux imagined he could feel sending questing tendrils into his brain.
Hux knew the Force was real—his body still ached from being slammed to the deck of the Finalizer. But such sorcery was a last dying echo of ancient history, unreliable and unpredictable where technological prowess delivered certainty. Snoke commanded no legions of Force warriors, as the Jedi once had. No children were plucked from the ranks of First Order stormtroopers after displaying abilities beyond those of ordinary beings. There was just Snoke, and his loathsome creature Kylo Ren.
And Skywalker, whom Snoke and Ren had hunted so avidly, at the expense of much else that needed doing.
“After your failure today, General, your assurances do not inspire confidence,” Snoke said.
Hux’s shoulders tensed at the icy anger in his voice. He forced himself to remain impassive. If Snoke had wanted to kill him, he would have done it aboard the Finalizer, where Hux’s demise would have served as an object lesson to others. He wouldn’t have wasted time by summoning him here to do away with him in secret.
“You say you can track the Resistance fleet even after its escape to hyperspace—something no military force in galactic history has been able to do,” Snoke said, and Hux relaxed. Now the Supreme Leader was in Hux’s arena.
“No military force in galactic history had access to the technology we have created, Supreme Leader.”
“The Resistance fleet will be on the other side of the galaxy by now,” Snoke said. “In any of a billion star systems. The prospect of checking them all makes me weary, General.”
“We need not check them all, Supreme Leader. Our tracking system’s computer network contains millennia worth of data: every after-action report from Imperial history, as well as many from the Republic’s Judicial Forces and Planetary Security Forces. It contains astrogation reports, briefings from scouts and commercial guilds, Separatist intel—”
“A full inventory would be tedious,” rumbled Snoke.
Hux dipped his chin. “Of course, Supreme Leader. “Our sensors pinpoint the target’s last known trajectory, and tracking control analyzes it against our data sets. Trillions of potential destinations are sifted and reduced to hundreds, then dozens, and finally one.”
“And so why are we not headed to that lone destination?” Snoke asked.
“We are cross-checking the results of our initial analysis, Supreme Leader,” Hux said. “The final calculations should be complete within minutes.”
Snoke leaned back in his throne, considering that. His guards stood unmoving in their imprisoning red armor. Behind him, the alien navigators carried on their inscrutable work.
“So your solution to this ancient problem is no conceptual breakthrough,” Snoke said. “Your invention is a product not of genius, but brute force.”
“Brute force is underrated, Supreme Leader,” Hux said with a smile. “The New Republic’s home fleet is destroyed, and its surviving senators have dissolved the remaining task forces to protect their homeworlds. Their division makes them defenseless. No power in the galaxy can stand against us, Supreme Leader.”
His comlink trilled out a high-priority alert.
“With your permission, Supreme Leader?” Hux asked, and was favored with a nod. The message was the one he had hoped to hear.
“We have the Resistance fleet’s coordinates, Supreme Leader. Five-nines confidence level.”
“Then go, General. You’ve explained how your invention works—now show me that it does. Bring Organa’s rabble to heel.”
As Hux got to his feet, the turbolift opened behind him and Ren stepped into the throne room, face hidden behind his black-and-silver mask. Hux couldn’t resist grinning at him.
“Hux’s new toy appears to be working,” Snoke told Ren. “The Resistance will soon be in our grasp.”
“Thank you, Supreme Leader,” Hux said, and stepped into the lift.
Snoke had summoned him to answer for his failure, and sent him away praising his inventiveness. Hux knew Kylo Ren had arrived with no accomplishment that might deflect the Supreme Leader’s wrath—he’d needed to be rescued from Starkiller Base as it came apart and spent much of the time since then being put back together by medical droids.
Snoke had shepherded the First Order through its years in the galactic wilds, transforming a band of Imperial refugees into a weapon forged to reclaim the galaxy. As such, he would always be remembered. But Hux knew the future would need a different kind of leader—one able to direct the galaxy’s industries and nurture their innovations, while commanding its citizens’ respect.
Snoke wasn’t that leader. And neither was Ren.
Kylo Ren studiously ignored Hux as the black-clad general all but strutted out of the throne room. But Snoke had no difficulty sensing the anger that boiled out of Kylo at the sight of Hux’s smug smile.
“You wonder why I keep a rabid cur in such a place of power,” Snoke said once they were alone. “Mark this—a cur’s weakness, properly manipulated, can be a sharp tool.”
Kylo ignored that—he was in no mood for Snoke’s teachings, not after all that had happened.
“How’s your wound?” Snoke asked, making no effort to hide the derision in his question.
“It’s nothing,” Kylo said.
That wasn’t true—the lightsaber slash to his face had been closed with microsutures, but Kylo would bear its scar for the rest of his life. And his abdomen ached where a bolt from Chewbacca’s bowcaster had struck—a blow that would have been instantly fatal if Kylo hadn’t instinctively contained its energy with the Force.
“The mighty Kylo Ren,” Snoke said, considering his student. “When I found you, I saw what all masters live to see: raw, untamed power. And beyond that, something truly special—the potential of your bloodline. A new Vader. Now I fear I was mistaken.”
Behind his mask, Kylo glowered at the tall figure in golden khalat robes.
“I’ve given everything I have to you—to the dark side,” Kylo said, his voice distorted by his mask. “Everything.”
“Take that ridiculous thing off,” said Snoke, his voice dripping with disgust.
Shock froze Kylo momentarily. He slowly reached up and removed the mask, revealing his scarred face. Snoke rose from his throne, the slow shuffling of his feet hinting at pain that dogged every step. Kylo stood stone-faced as Snoke approached him, willing himself to remain still as one finger stretched for his cheek, then higher.
The fingertip traced Kylo’s eyelid, leaving a streak of moisture behind.
“Yes,” Snoke said. “There it is. You have too much of your father’s heart in you. Young Solo.”
Kylo’s eyes snapped to Snoke’s, burning with rage. “I killed Han Solo. I killed my…when the moment came I put my blade through him. I didn’t hesitate.”
“Petulance, not strength,” sneered Snoke. “And look at you. The deed split your spirit to the bone. You were unbalanced, bested by a girl who had never held a lightsaber. You failed.”
Kylo felt rage ignite deep inside of him—ignite and become an inferno demanding release.
But Snoke had anticipated that, too. Kylo had only taken the slightest step toward his master when lightning erupted from Snoke’s fingers, blasting Kylo backward and leaving him reeling in pain. The Praetorian Guards snapped into combat stances, faceless visors fixed on Kylo.
A dismissive wave of Snoke’s hand and the guards straightened again, though they still regarded the black-clad figure on the floor with wary suspicion.
“Skywalker lives!” Snoke howled at Ren. “The seed of the Jedi Order lives! As long as it does, hope lives in the galaxy!”
The Supreme Leader fixed Kylo with a contemptuous look. “I thought you would be the one to snuff it out. Alas. You’re no Vader, you’re just a child with a mask.”
Kylo turned his back on Snoke, fighting to keep the fires of his anger banked—and so missed the cruel smile that twisted the Supreme Leader’s face.
In the turbolift, doors shut, he stared down at the helmet cradled in his hands. This time the rage came without warning, a live thing that felt like it would burn and blister his very flesh. Kylo smashed the mask into the wall. The Force was howling inside him, giving him the strength to hammer his mask against the metal until it had been reduced to a twisted hunk of black and silver.
The turbolift doors opened and two frightened officers took an instinctive step backward from the seething man in black.
“Get my ship ready,” Kylo snapped.