THE stormtroopers who had survived the raid disembarked from the troop transports into the docking bay of the Finalizer. A pair shoved the captured Resistance pilot toward the detention area. The rest rushed to the ready rooms to relieve themselves of their filthy armor.

FN-2187 would not be joining them.

He peeled away from his squad and leaned over the nearest waste container. Yanking off his blood-stained helmet, he let out everything in his stomach.

No matter how much he retched, he didn’t feel any different. His sickness wasn’t caused by anything he’d eaten. It was caused by what he’d seen and heard. What he’d participated in. What he’d failed to stop.

The atrocity that had occurred at Tuanul was burned into his memory like a blaster scar. The villagers had screamed and begged for their lives as they were lined up before the stormtrooper squad. The woman he’d let go stood among them. And there was nothing he could do to let her off the hook this time.

The order to execute the villagers came from the masked man in the black cloak, Kylo Ren, who relayed it to Captain Phasma. Waiting for her signal, FN-2187 and his squad mates lifted their blaster rifles.

“Fire!” Captain Phasma had said.

It was the first order FN-2187 had ever disobeyed. His comrades let loose a salvo that didn’t require FN-2187’s participation to be effective. He watched aghast as each and every one of those villagers crumpled and fell. The horrific sight triggered something deep inside of him. Anger. Guilt. A will of his own. It had churned up the sickness he now vomited into the waste container.

After many heaves, FN-2187 took a breath. He could tell no one how he felt. If his superiors found out, he would be interrogated, demoted, and perhaps even executed for rebellious thoughts. He’d have to keep his true feelings a secret.

He stood tall, in stormtrooper posture once again, and turned. He was surprised to find another trooper in brilliant chrome armor and a black officer’s cape stood behind him.

“Eff-Enn-Two-One-Eight-Seven,” said Captain Phasma, “I understand you experienced some difficulty with your weapon. Please be so good as to submit it for inspection.”

He glanced at the rifle he still carried. When asked by a squad commander why he hadn’t fired at the villagers, he had said his rifle jammed. But that was not an explanation Phasma would care to hear. His training had taught him there was only one proper response. “Yes, Captain.”

She continued to look at him. “And who gave you permission to remove that helmet?”

“Sorry, Captain.” He put his helmet back on.

“Report to my division at once,” she said.

Saluting, FN-2187 realized that keeping his secret from his superiors was not going to be easy. They would discover his treason. And they would view him no differently than the villagers. Expendable.

FN-2187 began to consider other options.

Kylo Ren entered the detention cell. The prisoner, despite being bruised and battered, attempted to launch himself out of his chair. His bonds held, digging lines into his wrists and ankles.

Under his mask, Ren smiled. The suffering of his enemies brought him pleasure. “I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board,” he said. The prisoner’s name was Poe Dameron. Casualty reports from starfighter engagements indicated he had downed many brave First Order pilots.

“Revealing yourself through your futile attempt on my life was foolish. Even had you not been slow and ill-prepared, Tekka was already dead,” Ren said. Dameron struggled again in his chair. “Comfortable?”

Dameron tried to move a hand. “Not really.”

The pilot would regret his sarcasm after Ren was done with him. “We both wanted the same thing from the old man. Perhaps he was more forthcoming with you than he was with me.”

“Might want to rethink your technique,” Dameron said.

Such a stupid man. He had no idea that the technique Ren was about to use would break him into a blabbering idiot. Soon Ren would know everything.

He reached toward the prisoner with gloved fingers. Through them Ren channeled currents of pain from his own bottomless well—and tendrils that would probe the depths of Dameron’s weak mind.

“Tell me. Tell me.”

Dameron sat straight up, eyes bloodshot, in silent mental agony. As Ren expected, the pilot told.

Once in possession of the information, Kylo Ren went to the destroyer’s bridge, where he informed General Hux, the commander of the ship. “The map to Skywalker’s location is in a droid. An ordinary Beebee-Ate unit.”

The straw-haired general in the black uniform, whose brilliance had pushed him up the chain of command at a young age, glanced out the viewport at Jakku. “That makes it easy, then. The directions are in a droid, and the droid is still on the planet.”

Ren followed General Hux’s gaze out the viewport. He neglected to say that nothing was ever easy when it came to finding Luke Skywalker.

Rey finished her day’s work a few hours earlier than usual, in large part due to BB-8. The diminutive droid couldn’t carry anything, of course, but his sensors helped Rey locate the best salvage. While his constant beeping irritated her, it did make the hours seem to go by quicker. And though she’d never wanted a friend, the fact that she could vent her frustrations to someone who listened—even if that someone was a droid—took some of the edge off of living on Jakku.

But it was temporary. Soon everything would return to normal. She’d be alone again.

In payment for his assistance in the junkyards, Rey took BB-8 to Niima Outpost to find him transport off the planet.

“There’s a trader in bay three who might be willing to give you a lift, wherever you’re going,” she said. “So, good-bye.”

Hoisting her satchel, she started toward Unkar Plutt’s booth. BB-8 mewled like a happabore pup. Rey stopped and turned. “Don’t give up. He still might show, whoever your classified friend is,” she said with a wise look. “Trust me. I know all about waiting.”

BB-8 murmured something long and full of concern. It astounded Rey that the droid could express such a wide spectrum of emotions only in beeps. She went back and knelt before BB-8.

“I’m waiting for my family.” Her eyes grew wet at the memory. “They’ll be back, one day.”

She had never admitted that to anyone. Rarely to herself. That a simple droid could pull the statement out of her stunned her.

BB-8 adjusted the magnification of his photoreceptor and beeped sympathetically.

“What? No—I’m not crying!” She blinked away the tears, rose, and walked away from the prying machine. What was wrong with her? Crying in front of a droid?

BB-8 rolled alongside her, jabbering that his data showed otherwise. His sensors had registered condensation in her eyes.

“I wasn’t crying!” But she was. Still. No matter how many times she blinked, the tears kept coming. So she gave up and let them fall and let the droid follow, answering none of his queries.

She decided against polishing her salvage that day. Best to get the exchange done with and go back home. There she could be alone, and sleep, and forget about everything.

When it was her turn, she went up and laid her satchel on the counter. Plutt appraised its contents. “Two interlifts,” he said, scrutinizing the two most valuable components she had salvaged that day. “I’ll give you one quarter portion. For the pair.”

The offer insulted her. She’d rather go hungry for the night than let him swindle her so blatantly. “Last week they were a half portion each, and you said you are looking for more.”

“Conditions have changed.” The rings of fat around Plutt’s neck wriggled as he looked past her. “But what about the droid?”

The question surprised her. She glanced back. “What about him?”

Plutt slobbered over himself. “I’ll pay for him.”

“How much?”

BB-8 started to emit worried beeps.

“Sixty portions,” Plutt said.

Did Rey hear him right? Did he say sixty portions? No way would Plutt ever offer such an amount, even for a functioning droid. Sixty portions would fill her stomach for weeks, even months if she was frugal. Surely Plutt had misspoken.

But the junk dealer eyed the droid and did not revise his offer. This made Rey suspicious. If there was one thing Rey knew about Unkar Plutt, it was that he was as honest as a Teedo marauder was polite. Plutt’s appraisals were always well below market value. It was how he stayed rich and kept all the scavengers poor.

BB-8 bumped her leg, protesting frantically. Rey keyed a command on his dome. He instantly went mute, and his dome slid down to clunk against the ground.

Rey felt a pang of guilt, but at that price she’d be a loon not to sell the droid. Anyone in her boots would do the same. It was a matter of survival.

And she wasn’t finished negotiating. For once, she had the upper hand. She had something Plutt truly wanted and she wasn’t going to allow him to cheat her.

“One hundred portions,” she said.

Plutt’s blubber rippled in contempt. “One hundred it is,” he said.

The quickness of his acceptance alarmed her. She suddenly felt that she’d bargained too low and that Plutt had fleeced her once again.

She looked at BB-8, unmoving in the grit of the road. What was so valuable about that little droid?