III

The holding cell had no bars. They were not needed. There was nowhere aboard the ship for a prisoner to go. Even had there been, the single occupant was shackled tightly to his chair, unable to do more than turn his head. Poe knew he should have been flattered. They were taking no chances with him. But all he could think about was how he had failed his mission.

So sunk was he in depression that he scarcely reacted when they beat him. Delivered with practiced skill, designed to hurt but not result in permanent damage, the blows fell intermittently, at different times of the day on different parts of his body. He did his best to shut out the pain, much as he succeeded in shutting out the questions. What he did not know was that they were merely a softening-up, an introduction to his principal interrogator.

That formidable individual arrived in due course. Recognizing him from the attack on the village, Poe threw himself against his bonds in a final, supreme effort to break free. Demanding the last of his strength, the failure left him completely exhausted. It was just as well, he consoled himself. Fighting against the figure now standing before him would be counterproductive at best. Fighting and resistance, however, were two different things, and he resolved to focus what remained of his energy on the latter. Doubtless his inquisitor could sense his determination. Was the masked figure smiling? There was no way to tell.

While his interrogator’s greeting was far from challenging, the sarcasm underlying Kylo Ren’s words was plain enough.

“I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board. Revealing yourself through your futile attempt on my life was foolish. Revenge is little more than an adolescent concession to personal vanity. Even had you not been slow and ill-prepared, Tekka was already dead. Comfortable?”

Poe did his best to sound nonchalant. “Not really.” He gestured as best he could with a shackled hand. “The accommodations leave something to be desired.”

“I regret the necessity. They are gratuitous in my presence. But those others who have made your acquaintance possess only the most primitive abilities, and further defiance on your part would demand their unnecessary exertions.” He bent toward the prisoner. “None of this unpleasantness need be necessary. We both wanted the same thing from the old man. Perhaps he was more forthcoming with you than he was with me.”

Poe made a show of seriously considering the proposal before replying phlegmatically, “Might wanna rethink your technique. Hard to get cooperation from a dead man.”

Ren stood back, looming over the prisoner. “A truism on which you might personally wish to reflect. It is pathetic, though. Is it not? You and I, both in pursuit of a ghost.” His tone darkened. “Where did you put it?”

Poe stared up at him innocently. “Where did I put what?”

“Please. All time is transitory, and mine especially so. This will go more quickly and less awkwardly if we dispense with childish nonsense.”

Poe readied himself. “The Resistance will not be intimidated by you.”

“As you wish, then. There is no ‘Resistance’ in this room. Only the pilot Poe Dameron. And I.”

A hand extended toward the shackled prisoner. Silent agony followed soon after.

“Tell me,” Ren murmured. “Tell me.”

General Hux was waiting for him. As expected, the interrogation had not taken long. The senior officer did not have to ask if it had been successful. No matter how determined the prisoner, no matter his or her individual resolve, Ren’s questioning invariably produced the same results.

The metal-covered face regarded the general, the voice that emanated from behind it dispassionate. “The pilot does not have it. The map to Skywalker’s location is in a droid. An ordinary BB unit.”

Hux was plainly pleased, though that meant nothing to Ren.

“That makes it easy, then. The directions are in a droid, and the droid is still on the planet.”

“Even a single planet offers innumerable places for concealment,” Ren pointed out.

Hux did not dispute this. “True enough, but the world below us is primitive. A simple droid will gravitate toward support facilities for its kind. Of these, Jakku has few enough.” He turned away, planning. “With any luck we may not even have to search for it ourselves.”

Even to a droid, Niima Outpost was unimpressive. BB-8 took it all in, recording every visual in detail for possible future reference. Nothing the droid saw was encouraging.

Having unloaded him from her speeder, Rey once more hefted the satchel that bulged from a new day’s scavenging. Eying the indecisive droid, she nodded toward one part of town.

“There’s a trader in Bay Three name of Horvins. Don’t be put off by his appearance—­he’s actually a pretty decent sort. Might be willing to give you a lift, wherever you’re going. So . . .” She paused a moment, considering, and then shrugged. “Good-bye.”

She had only taken a few steps when a series of beeps caused her to look back and laugh. “Oh, really? Now you can’t leave? I thought you had somewhere special to be.”

Plaintive and anxious, the electronic response was nothing like what she expected. Retracing her steps, she knelt to stare into the droid’s dark eye.

“Don’t give up. He still might show up. Whoever it is. Classified. Believe me, I know all about waiting.”

The droid beeped questioningly.

“For my family. They’ll be back. One day.” She tried to smile and failed miserably.

BB-8 moved as close to her as protocol permitted and beeped softly. It caused her to rise suddenly, plainly annoyed by the query.

“What? No! I’m not crying.” This time when she started off she did not look back.

She didn’t have to. Ignoring her admonitions, the droid tagged along, beeping continuously, irritating her with distressing consistency.

“I was not!” she continued to insist. “Just because a little water flows from a human eye doesn’t mean it’s crying. Check your info dump.” She rubbed at the eye in question. “Nothing but a piece of grit. This whole world is nothing but a big piece of grit.” The droid’s comment on this left her not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

“No, Beebee-Ate. I don’t have a world in my eye.”

But her eyes continued to water as she made her way deeper into town, and she gave up trying to persuade the droid to leave her alone.

Maybe one day things will change, she told herself absently as she waited her turn in the line. Like the hot, dry desert wind, reality cut in as she stepped up to the front and unloaded her goods. She hid the wave of revulsion that swept through her. Maybe one day, before the universe died, Unkar Plutt would take a bath.

The merchant made his usual show of inspecting her salvage, but his attention was actually on the rotund droid that had parked itself behind her and slightly to one side.

“Two interlifts. I’ll give you one quarter portion. For the pair.”

She reacted immediately. “Last week they were a half portion each, and you said you were looking for more.” She indicated the two devices. “Here’s two of ’em.”

Plutt’s flesh rippled. “Conditions have changed.” He hefted one of the components and squinted at it. “Besides, this one is missing a membrane. I don’t like paying for incomplete equipment.” Before she could object further, he leaned forward. “But what about the droid?”

“What about him?” she asked guardedly.

“Is he with you?” Plutt smiled. Which, if anything, was worse than his usual expression of indifference. “I’ll pay for him. He looks functional.”

Behind her, BB-8 began to beep apprehensively. Rey ignored him, intrigued.

“He might be.”

“Why then didn’t you offer him up together with the interlifters?” Plutt was drooling. Normally that was a cue for her to flee while she still had control of her stomach. This time she ignored the bile.

“As you say, he’s functional.” She spoke with studied indifference. “I can always use a functioning droid around the house.”

Plutt begged to differ. “This one? Of what use could it be to someone like yourself? It has no service limbs.”

“Maybe I enjoy the company. You said you’d pay. How much?”

His pleasure apparent, Plutt could not contain himself. “Sixty portions.”

Somehow she managed to restrain her reaction to a single muscular twitch. Sixty portions would feed her for . . . for . . . for a very long time. Time enough to do other work that had been long neglected. Time enough to relax and rest her bones. Time enough for—­leisure was a word that had long ago been dropped from her vocabulary.

Beeping furiously, BB-8 nudged her from behind. The droid had been following the conversation from the beginning and was not liking the turn it had taken, not at all.

“Quiet,” she muttered.

Either the droid didn’t understand or else he was willfully ignoring her instructions. Having little patience with obstreperous mechanisms, she reached over and thumbed a sequence on his head. Immediately, that portion of the droid slid sideways until it made contact with the ground. No further beeps issued from its speaker. Artificial consciousness was absent now, and it was just a quiescent piece of machinery, a spherical piece of junk.

But apparently one that held some value, she told herself. How much value? Before agreeing to anything, it behooved her to find out.

“One hundred portions.”

Plutt was patently surprised by the counter­demand, and just as obviously unhappy. Not that he was a stranger to argument. Scavengers wouldn’t be scavengers if they didn’t frequently dispute the value of their finds. It was just that he had not expected it from this one, especially considering what he had already offered. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered right now except gaining possession of the droid. So he smiled anew.

“Your audacity always has exceeded your size, Rey. I’ve always admired that about you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m wonderful. Do we have a deal or not?” She stayed expressionless.

“How can I resist the force of your personality?” he replied in mock alarm. “One hundred it is.” Atop his battered throne, he turned. “As you can imagine, it will take me a moment to assemble your payment. Please be patient.”

Rey could hardly believe it. He’d accepted the counteroffer! She had only made it to see the expression on his face, never dreaming he would readily accede. A hundred full portions! Eagerly, she opened her satchel in preparation for receiving the expected bounty. This was one heavy load she was not going to mind toting. Her elation extended as far as making small talk with the detested Plutt.

“What are you going to do with the droid? He travels well, but as you pointed out, he doesn’t have any service limbs.”

“Oh, I’m not going to keep him for myself.” Plutt spoke absently as he continued to stack full nutrition portions beside his seat. “Certain parties have been asking around about a droid like that. None of my business what they want it for. Smart traders don’t delve deeply into their customers’ motivations.” He glanced over at her. “If I find out, I’ll do you the courtesy of letting you know. Meanwhile, I’d like to think this exchange’ll be good for both of us. That’s the best kind of business, after all.” As he started placing packets into the transfer drawer, she moved to take them.

“That’s my girl.” His tone oozed something more than false possessiveness. There was an eagerness in his voice that was something new even for Unkar Plutt. An eagerness that all but translated into triumph.

It took a real effort for her to let go of the first pile of food packets and draw her hand back. She glanced down at the inert droid, thinking hard. At last she looked back at the merchant.

“Actually—­the droid’s not for sale. I made a mistake.” Willing herself to do so, she shoved the brace of food packets to the back of the transfer drawer.

Plutt was beside himself, any thought of restraint gone. As his voice rose, other scavengers in the room looked up from their work. Even for the irritable merchant, the outburst was exceptional.

“Sweetheart,” he bellowed, his tone belying his choice of words, “we already had a deal!”

Grinning tightly, she echoed his earlier observation. “Conditions have changed.” Reaching down, she reactivated the droid. BB-8’s head immediately swung up into its natural dorsal position. Had the droid possessed eyelids, it would have blinked.

“Conditions have . . .” Plutt looked like was he going to explode. “You think you can be snide with me, girl? You think you can play games here? Who do you think you are?”

She drew herself up with as much pride as she could muster. “I am an independent operator, scavenger of the metal lands, free of debt and beholden to no one. Least of all to a small-time trader named Plutt.”

“You are . . . you are . . .” The merchant tried to control himself. “You have nothing. You are nothing!”

“On the contrary,” she shot back, “I just told you who I am. As to what I have, that would be my freedom and my pride.” Murmurs of assent rose from behind her, from the vicinity of the worktables. She had said aloud what her colleagues and compatriots, regardless of species, all wanted to say but dared not. At least not to Plutt’s ugly face.

All pretense of deference gone, Rey took a step toward the chair and shot the merchant behind it so steely a glance that he visibly flinched. BB-8 reacted with a beep of admiration. Resisting the urge to give the sphere a reassuring pat, Rey concluded the day’s dealings with Unkar Plutt.

“The droid is not for sale.”

With that she turned and headed toward the big tent’s exit, the excitedly beeping droid pacing her effortlessly.

Plutt watched her go. He was starting to calm down, his mind working systematically. The confrontation had almost escalated beyond repair. Such loss of control was not like him. In the course of negotiations he would often shout, yell, occasionally pound the service shelf in front of him. But all the time, he was calculating. It was all about the business, all about the profit. Never personal. Not even now, when it involved the lovely but disrespectful Rey. That was something of a pity, he mused as he picked up a communicator.

A voice answered. Ignoring the newly arrived scavenger who had tentatively approached, Plutt turned away and lowered his voice.

“I have a job for you.” With a free hand he slammed the service portal opening shut, leaving the scavenger holding his bag of goods and staring blankly at the merchant’s back.

Slumped and shackled in the seat, Poe was still breathing. Beyond that, he no longer cared much what happened to him. It wasn’t his fault, he kept telling himself. For an ordinary person, no matter how strong they thought themselves, resisting the probing of a creature like Kylo Ren was simply not possible. He had tried. There was no shame in the failure.

He didn’t much care what they might do with him now, though he could guess. Having given up what little of value he had possessed, he was no longer of any use to them. There was nothing about X-wing weapons systems the First Order did not already know, and as a mere pilot, he would not be expected to know anything about military movements or tactics. He had rendered himself expendable. No, not expendable. Less than that. He was now extraneous. As such, he doubted they would keep him alive. He would not receive food, but he might become it.

His head came up as the door to the holding cell whooshed open and a stormtrooper entered. At least, Poe mused, it would be over soon. He could look forward to freedom from any further tormenting thoughts. The trooper’s words to the room’s single guard surprised him, however.

“I’m taking the prisoner to Kylo Ren.”

Poe sagged in his seat. What more did they want from him? Everything, anything of value that he had known was now known to them. Had they overlooked some line of questioning? He could not think of one. But then, at the moment, his mind was not functioning properly.

The guard wondered, too. “I was not told to expect you. Why would Ren wish to question the prisoner outside the cell?”

The new arrival’s voice darkened. “Do you dare to question Kylo Ren’s motives?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant! I . . .” Without another word, the guard proceeded to release the prisoner from his shackles. It took twice as long as it should have, since in his sudden nervousness he kept fumbling the task.

Procedure demanded that the trooper keep his weapon trained on the prisoner at all times as together they made their way down the corridor. Another time, another place, Poe might have considered making a grab for it. But he was far too weakened to contemplate such a likely fatal effort. In any case, the trooper seemed as competent as all his kind and gave no indication of relaxing his vigilance.

A rough prod with the weapon’s muzzle caused Poe to stumble and nearly fall. So exhausted was he that he could not even raise an objection or mutter a curse.

“Turn here,” the trooper commanded sharply.

The passageway they entered seemed unusually narrow and poorly lit. In contrast to the one they had just left, they encountered no personnel. No troopers, no techs, no general crew.

A gloved hand clutching his shoulder brought him to a halt. Poe took in his claustrophobic surroundings. An odd place to carry out an execution, he thought resignedly. Apparently they were not going to make a show of him.

The trooper’s words came low and fast. “Listen carefully and pay attention. You do exactly as I say, I can get you out of here.”

Within Poe’s wounded brain something like cognizance stirred. He turned and gawked at the trooper’s mask. “If . . . what? Who are you?”

In lieu of reply, the trooper removed his helmet—­a helmet that had been cleaned of the blood that had been smeared across it by the flailing hand of a dying trooper far below, in the course of a minor battle on an obscure corner of the planet Jakku.

“Will you be quiet and just listen to me? This is a rescue. I’m helping you escape.” When a stunned Poe didn’t respond, the trooper shook his shoulder firmly. “Can you fly a TIE fighter?”

Poe finally stopped gaping at the dark-skinned young man and found his voice. “What’s going on here? Are you—­with the Resistance?”

“What?” The trooper indicated their surroundings. “That’s crazy! How long do you think anyone with Resistance sympathies would last on a ship like this? You’re under continuous observation. You so much as wink the wrong way and before you know it, the psytechs are all over you. No, I’m just breaking you out.” He cast a nervous glance up and down the narrow, dim corridor. “Can you fly a . . .”

Having long since surrendered anything resembling hope, it took Poe more than a moment to begin regaining it. “I can fly anything. Wings, no wings, push-pull echo force, in or out of lightspeed—­just show it to me. But why are you helping me?”

The trooper spoke while staring nervously down the corridor. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Poe shook his head, not buying it for a second. “Buddy, if we’re gonna do this, we have to be honest with each other.”

The trooper stared at him for a long moment. “I need a pilot.”

Poe nodded. A wide grin broke across his face. “Well, you just got me.”

FN-2187 was taken aback by Poe’s quick agreement. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Poe insisted. “We’re gonna do this. If you can get me into something that flies, that is.”

The trooper slipped his helmet back over his head. For an instant, the whole enterprise teetered on the edge of believability. Was he being set up? Poe wondered. No longer needed, was he being made the subject of some cruel psychological trial, only to be thrown away at the conclusion? Yet there was something about the trooper that made Poe feel he could trust him. His manner, his look: There was something that said “throw in your lot with this one and you won’t be sorry that you did.”

The trooper pointed back in the direction they had come. “This way. And stop looking so positive. Optimism doesn’t fit a prisoner’s profile.”

Poe obediently lowered his head and adopted as morose an expression as possible. Once, as they re-entered the main corridor, a hint of a smile broke through, to be quickly quashed.

The longer no one intercepted them and no one questioned their passage, the more Poe dared to allow himself to hope. What they were attempting bordered on the insane. Escaping from the custody of the First Order, much less from inside a Star Destroyer, was nearly impossible.

Nearly.

The very unfeasibility of it worked in their favor. He could not be a prisoner trying to escape, because prisoners simply did not escape. Just as stormtroopers did not desert their posts to facilitate such flight.

Ordinary troopers were one thing; the group of officers coming toward them as they entered the hangar was quite something else. Face still resolutely aimed downward, Poe tensed and fought not to meet their eyes. Beside him, the trooper nudged him gently with the end of his blaster and muttered tightly.

“Stay calm, stay calm.”

Poe swallowed as the officers drew near—­and walked on by.

“I am calm,” Poe whispered.

“I was talking to myself,” the trooper explained as they maintained their methodical tread toward the far side of the enclosure.

“Oh, boy,” Poe whispered, this time to himself.

“Act nervous,” the trooper advised him. “As if you’re being sent to your doom.”

Poe swallowed. “Thanks for the tip.”

The craft they were approaching was a Special Forces TIE fighter. Poe couldn’t help it—­raising his gaze, he raked the ship with his eyes. If one discounted its origins, its dark angles took on a deadly beauty. No one stood near it: no techs, no maintenance workers, and no guards. What reason could there be to have to post a guard beside a ship inside a Star Destroyer? The entry hatch was open. Open and inviting: He had to will himself not to break into a run. There was no telling if the fighter was functional, or if it was being monitored by automated hangar security. The hangar’s atmosphere was contained, of course. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to speculate about such things, since he would be a cold, dead protein crisp floating in space. How to get the massive access portal open?

One thing at a time, he told himself. Get to the ship first. Then get on board. Find out if it was operational.

A tech droid came toward them, trundling along the open floor. He could sense the trooper at his side tightening up. They maintained their pace and direction. So did the droid. It was very close now, its optics easily able to resolve the fine details of prisoner and escort. What would they do if it started to ask questions?

Questioning a prisoner and guard not being a part of the tech droid’s protocol, it continued on past without beeping so much as a casual query.