WAR was coming to the planet Jakku.

Its herald was the colossal battle cruiser known as the Finalizer. It soared through the depths of space with little worry of ambush. Nearly three kilometers from bow to stern, the Star Destroyer bristled with turbolaser cannons, tractor beams, shield generators, and missile launchers. And that was only its exterior.

The interior of the Finalizer housed its true firepower—its crew. Thousands of officers, gunners, soldiers, and technicians were unified in one purpose: make the First Order the dominant power in the galaxy. Their devotion to the cause was unshakable, and that loyalty bred a deadly efficiency. Orders were carried out, exactly as instructed, without thought of moral consequence. For in the minds of the crew, the First Order was always right.

The soldiers who executed the will of the First Order in combat were called stormtroopers. And like the First Order’s Star Destroyers, sight of them inspired not only dread but awe.

The stormtroopers wore the white body armor that had been perhaps the most recognizable symbol of the former Empire, but that armor had been refined. The shell plates were lightened and made less bulky, which provided greater flexibility and freedom of movement. And that singular face of Imperial brutality—the stormtrooper helmet—was streamlined. Its visor was elongated to permit a larger field of vision while still keeping its vague resemblance to a human skull.

But these First Order troopers were more than just ordinary soldiers in terrifying costumes. It was their skill in combat that set them apart. They had been selected to join the ranks in childhood. The stormtrooper corps had become their family. Their alphanumeric call signs had become their names. Their training was so thorough, so disciplined that nothing frightened them. They would sacrifice their lives without hesitation. They would commit the unspeakable if commanded. Guilt never troubled them. The First Order was always right.

Having recently been commissioned as a full stormtrooper, FN-2187 was eager to do his duty.

Heading with his squad toward the hangar, FN-2187 noticed a palpable excitement among his comrades. FN-2187 felt it himself, along with a sense of relief. There would be no more simulations. They were about to embark on their first true combat mission.

In the docking bay, three other stormtrooper squads joined them from opposite entrances. They all marched past racks of TIE fighters and came to a halt at precisely the same time, equidistant from Captain Phasma, leader of the First Order’s stormtrooper legions.

Phasma stood before four troop transports. Her spotless chrome armor gleamed. The mantle of her command, a black cape with red-striped edge, hung across her body from a clasp on her left shoulder.

“Troopers,” she said, her voice modulated through her helmet, “your objective is simple. Apprehend this fugitive of justice at all costs.” She held out a personal holopad. A miniature image of an old human male in sackcloth robes materialized above her palm. “He goes by the name of Lor San Tekka and is a sworn enemy of the First Order. Request backup immediately if you find him. We want him brought in to First Order custody alive for interrogation.”

FN-2187 studied the bluish hologram of the man. The fugitive must be very important to warrant the First Order’s sending a Star Destroyer and four squads of stormtroopers to catch him.

“Are there any questions?” Phasma asked.

All troopers remained silent and motionless, rifles held in double-handed grips. Phasma took a step forward. “For most of you, this will be your first experience of real combat. I cannot believe none of you have questions or concerns.”

FN-2187 lifted a hand.

“Speak, Two-One-Eight-Seven,” Phasma said.

FN-2187 returned his hand to his rifle. “What about collateral damage? How do we prevent civilian casualties?”

“You don’t,” Phasma said. “These villagers may appear poor and defenseless, but by sheltering a known enemy, they have declared war on the First Order. If they do not surrender at once, do what is necessary.” She turned to address all the troopers. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Captain,” FN-2187 said, his voice drowned out in the chorus of his comrades.

“Everyone, remember not to overthink the situation. Trust your training, follow your orders, and you will all return victorious in no time.”

Phasma gestured with her rifle. “You may board your assigned transport,” she said. “Long live the First Order.”

FN-2187 and the stormtrooper chorus repeated the cry. “Long live the First Order!”

The troopers saluted Captain Phasma as they marched past her into the transports. Her gaze seemed to linger on FN-2187 for a moment longer than the others. Or maybe that was just his nerves. He knew Phasma expected great things from him. In the past, she had praised him before his peers as one of the strongest of the new cadets. But he wasn’t a cadet anymore. He was a stormtrooper of the First Order, about to test his mettle in the “real thing,” a life-or-death scenario. On this mission, he could show his comrades that he deserved to be in their ranks. He could prove to Captain Phasma and the First Order that he was worth their investment in him.

In step with his squad, FN-2187 saluted his captain and boarded the transport, ready to take on the Resistance.

One benefit of being a starfighter pilot was that you got to travel the galaxy. Flying for the New Republic and then the Resistance, Poe Dameron had seen it from Rim to Core. Lifeless hunks of rock. Forest moons. Mud planets that nearly swallowed his X-wing. And more than his fair share of desert worlds, like Jakku.

General Leia Organa had sent him here on a secret mission, “a mission vital to the survival of the Resistance,” she had told him. A mission that might help her find her long-lost brother, Luke Skywalker.

So far, the mission had gone by the book. He had slipped into Jakku’s atmosphere under cover of darkness and concealed his X-wing under a dense outcropping of rock. He’d instructed his spherical astromech droid, BB-8, to do reconnaissance while he put on his flight jacket and journeyed through the cold desert night to the nearby village of Tuanul. Here, among the tents and hovels, lived Lor San Tekka, the man Poe was tasked to contact.

The villagers weren’t an overly friendly bunch, but they also didn’t bother him. Jakku was a world where everyone minded their own business, for good reason. The galaxy was a big place, teeming with worlds harboring more temperate climates. Those who eked out an existence on the desert planet were either born here or trying to hide. Best not to ask questions or cast odd glances; you could never be sure whom you might annoy.

Tekka did not seem surprised in the least by Poe’s arrival. He gestured Poe inside his hut and greeted the pilot with a warm smile. Tekka was human and old—very old—wrinkled by more than a few lifetimes’ worth of worry lines. The man would have been in his prime during the Clone Wars, a conflict that had raged more than half a century before. The galaxy had undergone so much change since then, and a man as advanced in years as Tekka had witnessed it all.

The old man stood tall and strong, showing none of the usual infirmities of the elderly. When he spoke to Poe, his tones were warm and genuine, as if they’d been acquaintances their entire lives. They made small talk, which was part of the game, so as to sound inconspicuous to any listeners. But the small talk ended when Tekka gave Poe a slim leather bag, then placed his own hand on top of it. “This will make things right.” He removed his hand, leaving Poe holding the bag.

“Legend says this map was unobtainable,” Poe said. “How’d you do it?”

The old man just smiled at him, and Poe smiled back. “You’re not gonna tell me a thing, are you? That’s all right.” He gripped the bag tightly. “I’ve heard stories about your adventures since I was a kid. It’s an honor to meet you.”

The old man acknowledged Poe’s admiration with a grave face. “I’ve traveled too far to ignore the collective anguish that threatens to drown the galaxy in a flood of dark despair,” he said. “Something must be done—whatever the cost, whatever the danger. Without the Jedi, there can be no balance in the Force, and all will be given over to the dark side.”

Poe knew better than to converse about the Jedi or the Force. Such topics were above his pay grade. “The general’s been after this a long time,” he said.

“‘General.’” The old man’s smile returned. “To me, she’s royalty.”

“Yeah, but don’t call her ‘Princess,’” Poe advised. “Not to her face. She really doesn’t like it.”

He was about to depart when BB-8 spun into the hut. Those ignorant of the droid’s capabilities often commented on how adorable he looked. Some likened his domed head and round body to an overturned fruit bowl atop an orange-and-white gravball. But looks could deceive, for it was this design that made BB-8 a most adept companion in matters of espionage. The droid reported what he had seen in his reconnaissance outside the village to Poe in urgent beeps.

Poe took out his quadnoculars and hurried outside, with Tekka behind him.

Focused on the sky, the quadnocs revealed four transports dropping fast. Poe recognized the make and model of the transports instantly. First Order.

War was coming to the planet Jakku.