Could the spy be playing him just to stay alive? Maybe. But Iris’s programming was written to pick up on lies, which helps with the younger recruits. So far, Vi believes the story she’s telling. He needs to try to trip her up and see how she reacts. But he’ll also get more out of her if she believes he’s sympathetic or naïve, so he can’t push her too far.
It almost feels like a betrayal, showing empathy to a Resistance spy, but what he’s doing is in service to the First Order. If Phasma is a bad seed, it’s up to him to help his superiors see, to excise her before something dangerous takes root. Somehow, they’ve missed what he’s seen all along. Perhaps if Brendol were alive, he would have caught on. It’s a shame about Armitage. He’s never liked Cardinal, and the younger Hux and Phasma are close. But Cardinal’s going to change that.
Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.
The turbolift opens, and he steps into the dark hall, hating the loss of order and cleanliness that is omnipresent everywhere else on the Absolution. This lower level—well, they have their uses for it, clearly, but it doesn’t represent the better parts of the First Order. Cardinal knows about this particular room only from witnessing several interrogations done by Brendol years ago, also in secret, and he doubts many others have ever seen it or know such places exist. Even the troopers assigned to cleaning duty don’t have chores this deep in the gigantic Star Destroyer.
He stands outside the room, supplies in hand, getting a handle on his emotions. He has to maintain control but seem cheerful and sympathetic. He has to be threatening but keep her happy, keep her talking. He can’t lose his control and hurt her—too much. And he has to get to the meat of the matter fast, before Armitage and Phasma arrive on the ship and start asking questions about where Cardinal has been. He needs evidence—actual physical evidence. No one would take a Resistance spy’s word against a proven warrior and captain of the First Order Guard, especially not the vaunted Captain Phasma.
The irony does not escape him. Cardinal is breaking First Order rules to out Captain Phasma for breaking First Order rules. But he’s not doing it for personal gain, not because he wants a promotion or a reward or power. He’s doing it because she has the potential to destroy the thing he loves most, and she must be stopped.
He has to get the answers he needs. Or else.
Or else he’s a traitor, too.
“OH, GOOD,” VI SAYS, GUMMY EYES blinking open. “I’m not just dreaming.”
“Don’t call it a dream until you’ve tasted the food,” Cardinal replies as he places his helmet on the table, but there’s something about his forced jocularity that tells Vi he’s not entirely genuine. “The vitamin packs are tough to swallow.”
He helps her with the water, sticks her with the stims, forces the vitamins down, and squeezes yet more gray protein paste into her mouth as a chaser. “Almost tastes like chicken,” she says, struggling to swallow, “if you deconstructed a chicken and forced it through a happabore. Now, when are you going to let me out of this fancy chair so I can eat with my own hands?”
“When you tell me what I need to know.”
“You already know what you need to know. Phasma is bad news.”
He shakes his head, exasperated. “Oh, of course. Let me just go to General Hux and pass that on. Yes, sir, so it turns out that this Resistance spy I’m hiding in the bilge said Phasma is a no-good nerf herder huttnugget.” For just a moment, what she thinks might be his original accent comes out, broad and rough. Then he returns to his best approximation of the clipped tones of the First Order. “They’d kick me out an air lock. This isn’t a child’s game of tattling. I need real, actual evidence of wrongdoing. And not the New Republic’s specious idea of wrongdoing. It’s got to be a clear violation of First Order law.”
“Like murdering Brendol Hux?”
That gets his attention. He spins around to face her, and the droid zooms excitedly to his side. “Yes. Exactly like that. We’re finally getting around to the important part. Do you have proof?”
Vi leans her head back, grinning. “I can tell you where to find proof, although it’s nearly a suicide run. But you’ve got to let me get there. It’s all part of the story.” She chuckles. “All part of the legend. Doesn’t that ever bother you?”
“What?”
“That it’s like they chose her over you. Wanted to turn her into a myth. The little girl from nowhere who became the most lauded engine in the greatest war machine.”
He turns away, and she knows she’s got him on the hook.
“It bothers me if she’s not what she seems.”
“And didn’t you ever wonder if it was all just a lie? If she’s not really the shining, chrome-plated paragon on all your propaganda posters, that billowing cape flying behind her? Not the ideal soldier?” A pause. “That she might not actually believe in the First Order like you do?”
Cardinal goes very still. He’s facing away from her, but she can see the pain in every line of his body. His fingers briefly tug on his own armorweave cape, identical to Phasma’s, not that he’s on any posters. All they see is her polished chrome. This barb of hers has hit him hard.
“Of course it bothers me. Every day.”
“But you’ve done nothing about it.”
He turns to face her, teeth bared. “And what could I do? No one knows anything about her. Brendol is gone. I searched the records and found nothing of Parnassos, nothing until you showed up today. I can’t toss her suite looking for clues. She speaks to no one, has never confided in a single person. How can you fight a legend, especially one that continues to win favor and impress her superiors? How can you fight a myth that they built from nothing?”
“Maybe if your superiors learned the truth, they’d do the right thing. They’d realize that she’s a mynock gnawing at the heart of their ideals. That she’s a fiction. All smoke and mirrors. That the legend is indeed a lie. That she’ll one day betray the First Order like she’s betrayed everything else she’s ever professed to love.”
Cardinal is suddenly in front of her, fervor burning in his dark eyes.
“Then give me the evidence so I can end this. End her.”
Vi grins. “All right, then. Let me tell you about the beginning of Brendol’s end.”
AFTER SHE LEFT THE SCYRE, PHASMA never looked back. Her warriors had always considered her their true leader, and their real loyalties were no longer hidden. No one spoke of Keldo or the rest of the Scyre or the Claws; no one spoke of regret. They were silent as they traversed the rock spires that made the Scyre land so treacherous. While Gosta scouted ahead, Torben helped Brendol again, and Phasma, Carr, and Siv helped the troopers. Despite the inescapable noises made by anchoring their claws and leaping from rock to rock, no one from the tribe stirred as they left, not even the sentries.
When they reached the borderlands, the last Scyre sentry was asleep in his hammock. Later, secretly and out of earshot of Phasma, her warriors discussed this peculiarity, and it was mentioned that perhaps their leader had slipped something into that night’s stew to aid the group’s leave-taking. Phasma had served her people personally, and they had considered it an honor. Her warriors and the First Order folk had, of course, been served first. After leaving the snoring sentry behind, they couldn’t help considering that perhaps Phasma’s gesture of goodwill had been less an honor and more an insurance policy—not that they had a word for that in the Scyre. Still, they knew that something was up, and it was chilling, seeing this new side of Phasma.
Siv was undergoing her own personal crisis at the time. As the keeper of the detraxors, she had been raised to understand that her duty was to keep her people alive and healthy by withdrawing the essence of their dead members and crafting the oracle salve for those left behind. Leaving with Phasma and taking both detraxors meant that she was abandoning, betraying, and possibly dooming the majority of her band. She felt it keenly. But she had made her choice, and so she continued without complaint. Phasma was the key to a brighter future, sh
e hoped, for all the Scyre. They would one day bring the riches of the First Order to their people, and then they would no longer need the salve.
Rather than going directly through the borderlands and into Balder’s territory, where Claw sentries might raise an alarm, Phasma angled east. Her warriors followed without question, but it was considered a bold move. The Scyre knew little about this region, only that the rocks rose highest near the sea, and that there was very little to scavenge there. If the land had been ripe or welcoming, Balder would’ve worked to extend his territory, but there seemed to be a pall over the area, as if there was a reason no one wished to go there. The borderlands didn’t end so much as the Scyre and the Claws independently came to the conclusion that the land wasn’t worth fighting for.
Just before dawn, Phasma called her group close on an outcropping that afforded enough room for everyone to sit or perch relatively close. Very little was visible by starlight, and they had no fire; only the flashing bits of metal on Brendol’s black uniform and the gleam of stormtrooper armor shone in the darkness.
“We can’t go directly through Claw land,” Phasma said, immediately addressing the question on everyone’s mind. “We don’t know how hungry his people are for blood. If they’re smart, they’ll send a contingent out into the sands toward Brendol’s ship while leaving a defensive force to maintain their territory and harvest the bodies.”
“Harvest the bodies?” Brendol asked, half disgusted and half curious.
“Siv, explain.”
Siv reached into her pack and pulled out a detraxor. “As you know, our planet is sick. The sun is too harsh, the rain burns our skin, and we can’t get all the nutrients we need from our food, which leads to disease, brittle bones, and loose teeth. When someone dies, we use the detraxors to reclaim what minerals and liquids we can, and I craft those nutrients into a balm we call oracle salve. Every member of the band receives an allotment. Spreading it on the skin insures we remain as healthy as we can be, protected from the elements. The Claw people use them as well.”
“It’s inelegant but necessary,” Phasma said, her voice harsh and brooking no refusal.
“I see,” Brendol said, always diplomatic. “And how did you come to possess this machine?”
“It’s been passed down since the cities died. They once used them on food animals. My mother taught me how to care for them.” Siv stroked the worn leather lovingly. “And I’ve made some improvements. My mother’s oracle salve smelled like rancid fish, but mine, at least, smells—”
“Like fresher fish,” Carr broke in, and Siv elbowed him with a grin.
“It’s barbaric,” Brendol noted.
Siv bristled. “No. It’s holy. It’s how to keep your people strong, even as you leave them. Body to body, dust to dust.”
“Death is inevitable, but it means the rest of the tribe will be stronger,” Phasma said. She looked around the circle, gazing into each person’s eyes as the sun came up and giving a long look to each stormtrooper, their faces, as always, hidden behind their helmets. “Learn to respect both ends of this machine, if you wish to survive your time on Parnassos.”
“Do you not have such problems among your people?” Gosta asked. The girl was in awe of Brendol and his troopers, just as she was in awe of Phasma and her warriors.
Brendol’s smile was kinder when he spoke to the girl. “No, child, we do not. We benefit from the greatest advances in technology and medicine. We simply add the vital nutrients to our food so that we stay strong.”
“But where do you get them from, then?”
“We buy them from merchants.”
“But where do the merchants get them?”
Brendol wasn’t smiling now. “These foolish questions waste valuable time. The wonderful thing about civilization is that you buy what you need, thereby supporting merchants and artisans. Where the sellers source their goods is not my problem. But I assure you that they do not come from humans. Such things are generally frowned upon in more civilized parts of the galaxy.”
Gosta looked crushed, but Phasma spoke next.
“I look forward to benefiting from such civilization, but until that time we will use all available resources to get us off this planet. There is no shame in using every advantage to staying alive.”
Brendol seemed surprised when one of the stormtroopers spoke next, his voice strange and somewhat amplified by his helmet. “We had something similar on Otomok, but for beasts. It’s similar to a moisture detraxor.”
Phasma’s warriors couldn’t miss Brendol’s sneer as he turned to look at the trooper and noticeably glance down at his number. “Perhaps you forget, PT-2445, that I have visited Otomok several times, as well as planets with even harsher conditions. And when on those planets, I still hold my rank.”
“Yes, General Hux. Sorry, sir.”
Brendol nodded, but there was a chill among the group now. On Parnassos, with everyone fighting to survive, such formalities were saved for rare instances of ritual or leadership, like Keldo’s pronouncement from his throne in the Nautilus. During regular moments, everyone was considered equal. Apparently that was not how things were done in the First Order. The stormtrooper did not speak again.
As for Phasma, she was already looking beyond the group to the hard line of the horizon. Siv knew her leader had carefully noted where Brendol’s ship had landed and where the smoke had risen, and although they didn’t know the lay of the land between here and there, they all expected trouble.
“No matter which direction we go, we’re headed into land we’ve never seen before. Eat and drink, apply your salve, and then prepare your rope lines. It’s a long way down the other side of these mountains.”
“How do you know?” Gosta asked.
Phasma gave her a long stare. “We know there’s flat land beyond these rocks because we’ve seen what’s on the other side of Balder’s territory. It stands to reason that land would stretch to these rocks. Does anyone disagree?”
No one dared, not even Brendol.
“It will be, I think, several days to the fallen ship, even without major impediments. We may encounter animals and people, or we may simply face harsh conditions unlike those of our own land. General Hux, can you tell us what you saw of the terrain between your ship being shot down and your journey to Balder’s plateau?”
Brendol considered. “We used the escape pods shortly after being hit. Each pod fits six people, and we had eleven bodies, so we had two pods. Two pilots in the cockpit were already dead, so our pod only held the four of us and the droid. We haven’t seen the other pod, nor have we been able to communicate with the others through our comm system. There’s no telling if the other five troopers made it. We were unable to see what happened to the ship, but when we exited the pod, the smoke was quite far away. At least the smoke suggests it didn’t land in the ocean, which would make it irretrievable. The land we saw was all sand, just endless sand. We walked for the plateau because we could see smoke, which meant people. We did not expect to be greeted by a murderous Dug and claimed as…spoils.” The look on his face suggested that he would’ve very much liked to have been the one who stabbed Balder.
“I’ve never walked on sand,” Torben noted. “What’s it like?”
Phasma’s people looked to her, but she nodded to Brendol.
“It shifts under your feet. Coarse and rough. Irritating. Gets everywhere. Slips into your clothes and boots.”
“But you passed no animals or people on your way to Balder’s land?” Phasma pressed.
Brendol shook his head. “No one and nothing. We feared we were on an entirely uninhabited planet, although we did see several factory complexes and uninhabited cities from the sky.”
“How far away?”
“In my ship, mere hours. By foot, several days, most likely. It’s hard to make accurate navigational estimates while plummeting to one’s death.” He sighed and went a bit wistful. “It’s a shame we landed here, where the terrain is so unforgiving. Across the ocean
, there is a larger continent, lush and green. As you told your brother, if we are able to reach my ship, perhaps your people can be moved there to give them a better chance of reclaiming what once was. Perhaps there are survivors there, a civilization.”
“Perhaps,” Phasma said. “But we know for a fact there is a better life among your stars.”
“May I speak with you privately?” Brendol asked.
Phasma’s warriors had always understood that they lived under two rulers, with Phasma acting as the muscle and Keldo as the brains and spirit. It was easy enough to accept that Brendol would now be one of their leaders, and it made sense to them, at the time, that Brendol might wish to talk to Phasma alone. The pair disappeared around a cluster of larger stones, their whispers obscured.
Now, when people grow up in small bands in rough lands, they become accustomed to never having privacy and to giving those who seek seclusion what little space they can. The warriors turned their backs to Phasma and Brendol and began talking among themselves, gabbling about their hopes for a new home, whether it be on a nearby continent made of solid ground or up in the stars wearing white armor. The three troopers stood outside this circle, looking very out of place.
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