“No, Monti Calay,” the stranger said, voice low with threat. They gestured with their chin to his satchel. “With something this valuable, it takes a team.”
Their meal came, but Monti couldn’t eat. He could barely look at his plate. Why had he ordered squid? He felt his stomach turn.
The stranger, on the other hand, dug in, eating as if it had been days since their last meal. Monti watched for a while, strangely fascinated, until he finally blurted, “I don’t know how to get the list off the datapad. I do know it’s encrypted, but I don’t have the key.”
The stranger slurped down a long pinkish tentacle before answering. “We’ve got the key. And I’ll do the downloading, don’t you worry. Cracking First Order security is my job.” The stranger softened for a moment, eyes growing distant. “A Doaba Guerfel woman died for that encryption key,” they said quietly. “She was a friend.”
“I’m sorry,” Monti said. It seemed like the right thing to say.
The stranger smirked, as if sensing Monti’s lack of genuine empathy. “And who did you lose? What made you join the Collective?” they asked.
“What?” His voice was too loud, and a few patrons looked his way. He hunched, trying to hide, and the stranger winced.
“I haven’t joined the Resistance or the Collective or any of it,” Monti said, much more quietly. “I-I don’t…I didn’t lose anybody.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I’m just doing the right thing.” At least he thought he was. When he’d seen the prisoners last night, all shackled and broken, something inside him had shifted. And the way Winshur lorded over them, his glee at seeing their suffering. His platitudes about reform through hard labor when anyone with half a brain knew those prisoners had been tortured just by looking at them. Most of them could barely stand.
Monti hadn’t liked it. No, more than that. He had felt it was wrong, morally wrong. The intensity of the emotion had surprised him. He hadn’t been part of the First Order for very long, and for the most part he had no complaints. Winshur Bratt was perhaps not the best boss, but he was no worse than the handful of others that Monti Calay had worked under in his life. A bit more petty, more ridiculous, if he thought about it. And a snob, to be sure. But he had never thought of him as evil, of what the First Order did as evil. Oh, he knew about Starkiller Base and the destruction of the Hosnian system like everyone else, and yes, that was evil. But that was high command’s doing. It had nothing to do with what he saw of the First Order on Corellia. Here the First Order brought order and jobs and pride in one’s accomplishments. What happened to the Hosnian system felt distant, unreal. After all, Monti hadn’t known anyone personally who had died there, and there had been no newsfeeds showing actual people suffering. The evil, if that’s what it was, was decidedly divorced from his everyday reality.
Until last night.
Monti was no saint. He passed people in the street every day as they begged for food or work, and while he occasionally gave the truly wretched a few credits or a leftover meal, he mostly remained morally unbothered, willing to look the other way if it meant he could maintain his comfort. But something about last night had gotten under his skin. Maybe it was the intimacy of it, the up-close mundanity of men and women in chains for the smallest of crimes ferried to Corellia in secret and clearly meant to die laboring in anonymity. It had driven it all home in a way the other things he knew about the First Order had not. It had felt intimate. Real. Like something that could easily happen to him if he stepped out of line.
“Perhaps you should give me that bag, now, friend,” the stranger said.
Wordlessly, Monti handed it over.
“Six minutes,” they said, sliding off the stool. Monti watched them head to the bathroom. Six minutes wasn’t long, but now he had nothing to do but wait. He drank another mouthful of ale and picked at his squid.
A commotion at the entrance drew his attention. Two CorSec guards swaggered through the doors. Monti felt his heart rate climb through the roof, sweat immediately gathering at his neck. The guards scanned the room, clearly looking for someone, and Monti snapped around to face front. He drained his ale and, instinct kicking in, stabbed at his squid, thrusting a forkful into his mouth. It tasted like ash and seawater. He ate more.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the guards make their way around the room, checking IDs and asking questions. There were only a handful of patrons in the place, and at least three of them were so drunk they practically fell out of their seats when prodded for identification. They were getting closer. Monti forced himself to breathe normally.
The squeak of a bathroom door and Monti turned, heart pounding. He caught the stranger—he had never learned their name—walking out. He widened his eyes, trying to tell them to go back or to run or to do anything but come over to him. The stranger must have caught the mood in the room because they froze, catching a glimpse of the guards, and then eased their way back into the bathroom, letting the door close silently.
“ID?” asked a voice to his left.
He swiveled around to face the guard. A woman, light hair pulled back in a severe bun, dark eyes serious.
“Of course,” Monti said. He sounded flustered. The guard narrowed her eyes skeptically. It wouldn’t do. He needed to sound like a righteous man in a First Order uniform, not a boozy Corellian caught in an act of treason. He straightened, pulling his identification card from his pocket, and thought of his boss.
“What is this about?” he said, channeling Winshur Bratt at his most haughty. “If there’s something amiss, I should inform the First Order. I doubt CorSec has the resources to handle it.” He let his voice drip with contempt.
The woman took his ID and fed it into her handheld datapad. He could see his information come up on the screen. Name, residence, job details. Some things he didn’t know they tracked, like known acquaintances. He blushed when he saw his ex’s name. Monti hadn’t thought about him for ages and preferred not to be reminded.
“Nothing we can’t handle, sir,” the woman said. “Reports of Collective activity in the area.”
“The Collective?”
“White face paint, white headscarves. Known criminal element.”
“Can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that, and it seems outrageous to be harassing innocent citizens over a criminal you can’t be bothered to…” He drifted off as the security guard’s eyes took in his lunch.
“Two orders of salted squid?” she asked skeptically.
A moment of panic, but then Monti thought again of Winshur and raised his chin, looking down his nose at her. “Is there a law against a man liking salted squid?”
She glared at him, mouth pursed. When it came down to it, Monti doubted CorSec would actually cross him. He was First Order, after all, and they were just locals. Locals who clearly didn’t appreciate his presence, but surely wouldn’t want to cause an incident over it. If he kept his cool, he would be fine. He hoped.
The other officer joined them. “No one’s seen the slicer,” the partner said. “Place is clear.”
“Check the bathrooms.”
“Why? If no one’s seen them…?”
“Just do it.”
Monti thought to protest, to cause a distraction, but what? Surely the stranger could fight their way out of the situation. Isn’t that what criminals did? Monti briefly closed his eyes. It was in fate’s hands now.
The partner slouched over to the bathrooms looking annoyed, and Monti braced himself for what was to come. The guard drew her weapon, a long electrified baton, and kicked the door open, weapon raised. She entered, and the door swung closed behind her. Monti held his breath.
After a moment the door opened, and the guard came out alone. “Empty,” she said. “Just like I told you.”
Her partner grunted and handed Monti’s ID back. “Sorry to bother you, sir,” she said, not sounding particularly sorry. She mot
ioned to her partner and they both turned away. Monti watched them wend their way back among the tables past the indifferent patrons and through the front doors. Only when they were out of sight did he dare breathe again.
He exhaled, coughing furiously. His hands were shaking, and he clamped them around his ale glass until they stopped. After a few moments, he stood on wobbly legs and made his way to the bathroom. He opened the door, tentative, and peered in. He saw only a toilet, a sink, and pale walls. Completely vacant. He spied a window. It was small but big enough for a small and clever person to squeeze through in an emergency.
A hysterical giggle escaped his lips, and only intensified when he realized that his satchel and the datapad it held were nowhere in sight. The stranger may have gotten away, and likely copied the data, but Monti was without a datapad to return to Winshur’s desk unmissed. He stopped laughing, swallowing to hold back terrified tears instead. He would be arrested for this. Beaten. Tortured for information and then likely convicted of treason and put to death. Or maybe he would join those poor pathetic prisoners, shunted off somewhere to work until he was dead. He stumbled dizzily into the wall. Sobs threatened to rack his body, but he held them back by sheer force of will. Surprisingly, he had no regrets. He was glad he’d done it. Glad the information on the list was out in the world now. It was, he believed, worth it.
I’ll run, he thought. Simply run. Disappear into the city, maybe join this secretive Collective. Or even go offplanet. Somewhere in the Outer Rim, where the First Order would never find him.
Heartened by that bit of dreaming, he pushed himself upright. He took three deep breaths until he almost felt normal, and then, back straight and feeling resolute, he walked out of the bathroom of the Dead Aeronaut. He paused at his seat to leave enough credits to cover both his and the stranger’s bills, and then he made himself walk toward the front door. At first his steps dragged, heavy and impossible, but as he realized that losing the datapad meant he had gained a kind of freedom, they lightened. He might be wanted, hunted for the rest of his life, but he would be reborn, somewhere and someone new.
The only problem was, he liked being Monti Calay.
By the time he reached the exit, he was dragging again, tears threatening to drown him.
“Calay,” Smokey said from the corner of the bar. His voice was a wavering creak, and the reason the patrons all called him Smokey.
Monti stopped.
“Your friend left this for you.” The old man lifted up a leather satchel and handed it over the bar. He took it with unsteady hands, unbuckled the clasp, and looked into the front pocket. The datapad was there.
Monti collapsed against the bar in relief. He felt his stomach heave, and he gagged back the anxiety threatening to manifest itself as half-digested lunch and sour ale. After a moment he felt an old gnarled hand patting his hair.
“Now, now,” Smokey said. “The salted squid ain’t that bad, is it?”
POE ARRIVED AT THE fight just as one of the pilots Wedge had brought in from Phantom Squadron went sliding across the floor, his feet skidding out from under him in a streak of blood.
“What in the hell?” Poe murmured, taking in the scene. To his left was the ex-Imperial, Teza Nasz. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She had a cut above one of her eyes that bled freely, streaking the ocher on her cheeks and dripping on the floor like rubies against the black stone. The woman surged forward, a pillar of muscle, but Jess hurried to stop her. She wrapped a hand around the woman’s arm, pulling her back, pleading in words that Poe couldn’t hear this far away.
To his right, Wedge and another man were helping the Phantom Squadron pilot Poe didn’t know up from the floor over his protests that he was fine and didn’t need their help.
The gathered assembly had created a loose circle around the two combatants, clearly ready to cheer on the fight. Poe looked at their faces. They were a fair mix of rebel veterans—graybeards left over from the war with the Empire—and fresh faces that looked like they couldn’t be long out of flight school, if they ever attended flight school at all. The absurdity of it all flashed through his mind. The old and the young, both caught up in this war, both fighting for the same things, yet somehow fighting each other. Might as well punch yourself in the face, he thought. That last thought stopped him in his tracks. Is that what Maz had been trying to tell him? That he was fighting himself?
“Poe Dameron,” a familiar voice called. Poe shook the unsettling thought from his mind and looked over to see his old flight instructor, Wedge Antilles.
“Antilles,” he said, voice threaded with anger. “What in the hell is going on?”
“Agoyo swung first,” Norra Wexley offered. She was standing beside Wedge, clearly evaluating the ex-Imperial with something that looked like appreciation.
“I’m not sure I care,” Poe said, somewhere between disgusted and tired. “We’re all on the same side here. What is this about?” He waved his hand in the general direction of the circle of bystanders.
“You should care!” shouted the young pilot Norra had named as Agoyo. He was back on his feet, but the uniform he wore was streaked with blood that wasn’t his. That uniform wasn’t his, either. Or at least it had belonged to someone else before Agoyo claimed it. For one, it was at least a size too big, but the giveaway was the Phantom Squadron patch. This kid was way too young to have been part of Phantom Squadron.
Poe raised an eyebrow. “Identify yourself, pilot.” He hated to call the young man out, but he also knew that he needed to put an end to whatever this was right now, before grudges were formed and things got even more complicated.
Agoyo tossed his black hair out of his eyes defiantly. He crossed thin arms over a square chest, and his expressive mouth twisted now in something close to contempt. Poe shook his head. Agoyo was this close to insubordination.
“Name, pilot,” he repeated crisply.
“Pacer,” the kid practically spit. “Pacer Agoyo.”
“Pacer.” Poe gave him a nod of acknowledgment. “You know who I am?”
Pacer nodded. “Poe Dameron.”
“No. I’m your commanding officer,” Poe corrected him. “And frankly, right now I’m not impressed with what I see. I understand you’ve come a long way to join us…” He left the statement open until Pacer offered: “Nuja. My dad flew with Phantom Squadron at Kashyyyk but he’s dead. So I came instead.”
That explained the uniform. “I appreciate your father’s service, and your willingness to join the Resistance, but unfortunately, it looks like you’re not a good fit for this mission. You’re free to leave.” Poe very purposefully turned his back on the pilot. Small gasps of shock echoed around him, and then silence. He caught Leia’s eye. She was standing back at the edge of the crowd, watching.
Poe heard Pacer shifting in his boots. He cocked his head slightly to indicate he was waiting.
Finally Pacer spoke. “Poe…I mean, Commander Dameron. I-I want to stay, sir. Please. It’s just…”
Poe could almost feel the emotion flowing off the young pilot like a living thing. The kid was deep into it, whatever it was. Not embarrassment, not regret…righteousness. Righteousness and rage.
He turned. “It’s just what, Agoyo?”
Pacer wasn’t looking at him. He was focused on Teza Nasz. And his gaze burned hot, all that rage bubbling to the surface.
“Do you know each other?” Poe asked, a suspicion forming in his mind.
“She murdered my brother!” Pacer growled. He took a step forward, fists rising.
“Agoyo!” Poe barked sharply, drawing the young man’s attention to himself.
Pacer froze.
“Eyes on me,” he said, and now their eyes met. “You will stop menacing Teza Nasz, or I will have you thrown in the brig until you can cool down. Is that understood?” Poe wondered if they even had a brig, but certainly they could i
mprovise, if necessary. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
Pacer Agoyo paled. Wedge, who had been standing near the young man and watching, placed a hand on Pacer’s arm and leaned in to whisper in his ear. At first Poe thought Agoyo would shake him off, but instead some of the bubbling anger seemed to dissipate, and he let Wedge pull him back.
Poe breathed a silent sigh of relief and made a note to speak to Wedge later. But first, he had to bring Teza Nasz on board, too.
“Well?” Poe asked, turning to the ex-Imperial. He knew next to nothing about the woman, but he would have to figure her out quickly. He needed everyone’s buy-in, or this wouldn’t work. Simmering resentments, distrust, and personal grudges would kill this new Resistance just as quickly as an attack by the First Order.
Teza turned a painted, blood-streaked face toward Poe. “It’s possible I killed his brother,” she admitted coolly, “but I don’t remember.” She straightened to her full height, easily just shy of two meters, her eyes roaming over the gathered crowd. “It’s possible that I killed all of your brothers. And cousins. And mothers and fathers and former lovers.” Her voice was flat and unforgiving. “It was my job.”
“Then why are you here?” Poe asked, voice calm, curious but not accusing.
Teza focused back on Poe, looking mildly surprised. “Because it was wrong,” she said simply. “But I didn’t know it at the time.”
“You were young and ambitious,” Poe said, taking a guess, “so you joined the Empire.”
His conjecture was rewarded with a startled nod. “Mostly hungry,” she murmured, “but yes.”
“You joined the Empire,” Poe said, eyes roving the room before resting on Wedge, “just like you.”
The older man blinked but didn’t hesitate. “It’s no secret I attended Skystrike Academy,” he said, spreading his hands. “But I left once I realized what the Empire was doing.”
Poe gave him a knowing nod and turned to Zay. “And your mother,” he said.
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