Phasma (Star Wars): Journey to Star Wars

by Delilah S. Dawson

  Star Wars: Phasma is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated. All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  D EL R EY and the H OUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Hardback ISBN 9781524796310

  Ebook ISBN 9781524796327

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Elizabeth A. D. Eno, adapted for ebook

  Cover art: Larry Rostant

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Del Rey Star Wars Timeline

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Delilah S. Dawson

  About the Author

  A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….

  THERE’S SOMETHING COMFORTING ABOUT HYPERSPACE. RUNNING to or from trouble, it’s always the same. Steady, beautiful, soothing—even for spies carrying highly sensitive intel that plenty of people would kill to possess.

  As the stars zip by and Vi Moradi settles into her pilot’s chair, she sighs and pulls a bag from the floor. She’s been working on this lumpy mess on and off for weeks, knitting the thick, soft yarn into a sweater for her older brother, Baako, a dignitary recently stationed on Pantora, of all places. She’s not very good at knitting, but it’s relaxing, and Baako always told her she needed to spend less time gallivanting around and more time creating something worthwhile. Of course, she had to use her “gallivanting” contacts to obtain this highly coveted but not “quite” illegal hippoglace yarn. Hopefully the warmth and brilliant azure hue will hide all her dropped stitches. Since she must hide her work with the Resistance from him, Baako still thinks of her as his mischievous, unfocused dilettante of a little sister.

  Little does he know.

  Her comm blinks, and she sees who’s calling and grins at Baako’s uncanny way of knowing exactly when she can’t talk. Not only because she’s elbows-deep in a lumpy sweater, but also because she’s on official gallivanting business that he wouldn’t approve of and can’t know about. Much as she could use a friendly chat to warm her heart after the chill of this assignment, the general is expecting her to check in soon.

  “Sorry, brother,” she says, flicking the button to shuttle his call to her busy message. “You can tell me all about the new job and lecture me about my lack of focus once I’m done with this mission and giving you this sweater in person. But you’d better meet me somewhere civilized and comfortable, because I’m done with impossible environments.”

  The comm goes still, and she feels a small ping of guilt for ignoring him. Most ships can’t even handle communications at this range, but the Resistance does have some wonderful toys. Vi puts her boots up and leans back in her seat, focusing on the unwieldy wooden knitting needles that look more like primitive weapons than elegant tools.

  “It’s all about forward momentum, Gigi,” she says to her astromech, U5-GG. “Better a hideous sweater infused with love than…I don’t know. What other gifts do people give their only living relative? A nice chrono? I shall continue to the end, if imperfectly.” She spins in her chair and holds up what she’s accomplished so far. “What do you think?”

  Gigi beeps and boops in what sounds like apologetic disappointment.

  “You be nice, or I’ll make one for you. A droid cozy to clash with your paint job.”

  The droid gives a cheerful whistle and turns around as if desperately interested in the hyperspace swirls darting around them. When the Resistance assigned her the droid, Gigi was the factory colors—white and blue—but Vi painted her new friend yellow and copper to match her own bleached-yellow hair and burnished-brown skin.

  Vi turns back around and knits furiously. Her hair is cropped short just now. The last time her image popped up on a wanted list, the long dark locks had been far too noticeable, so she’d hacked them off immediately and ejected them into space. Wiry and petite, she’s had a hard time finding Resistance uniform pieces that fit her well. The cobbled-together costume she wears now has been altered and shows its long wear in rips, scuffs, and patches. Even the soles of her boots are torn to shreds. Her current assignment has involved some very physical work in a terribly unpleasant place, and she’s looking forward to a few days of rest on D’Qar.

  Hyperspace lulls her to sleep, and Vi manages a short nap tangled in thick, soft yarn before Gigi beeps and whirs to let her know they’ve nearly reached their destination. She sits up and stretches as much as the cockpit will allow, wishing the Resistance had provided her with a roomier ship but knowing that for ships, much like for herself, being small and unassuming often means avoiding detection. The ship emerges from hyperspace to float gently in the middle of nowhere, exactly according to plan.

  Taking a deep breath, she puts her knitting away and types a long code into her comm. The answer is immediate and, as always, mysterious. They never say more until she’s confirmed her identity.

  “Copy.”

  “Starling, reporting to General Organa.”

  A familiar voice replies, warm but professional. “Welcome back, Starling. What have you got for us?”

  “Ah, General. It’s always business first, isn’t it?”

  “When the galaxy is on the line, I have a way of skipping past the formalities of my youth. Let’s hear your report.” Vi can hear Leia’s smirk and likes her the better for it. No wonder they get along.

  “Finally found the missing piece of the puzzle, although I had to hunt around. Rough place.”

  “Everything is rough in the Unknown Regions. So you have what we need?”

  Vi shrugs. “Knowing how monsters became monsters doesn’t always help destroy the monsters.”

  “Sometimes it does. Every weapon in our armory has a use, Starling. Now, I know you’re due for some time off, but I’ve got one more set of coordinates, and you’re already in t
he right corner of the galaxy to drop by. Can I count on you?”

  Vi looks down at the blue yarn spilling from her bag. She hates putting off time with Baako. They see each other so rarely these days. “Of course, General. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Transmitting coordinates.”

  On her screen, Vi plots the best route to the general’s next stop. Leia wasn’t lying—she’s already pretty close, and not many pilots have the experience or the guts to explore this shadowy corner of nowhere. She confirms the route and lets Gigi plot the jump.

  “Not too bad. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Good. Just a quick sweep of the area. We’ve heard rumors of First Order ships there, and it’s vital that we know if they’re true. If you see anything, be ready to jump. We’ve had several pilots go missing.”

  “Bet they weren’t as fast as I am.”

  Leia sighs, sounding every year of her age. “It’s not necessarily about speed, but if they come back, you can race them in the Five Sabers. I’ll buy you a ship. For now, just a quick sweep and then home. I need those reports.”

  “Aye aye, General.” Vi salutes, wishing they had visual. “About to enter hyperspace. Keep safe, General Organa.”

  “You too, Starling.”

  The line cuts off. The starhopper zooms into hyperspace. It’s a short trip, not relaxing at all, and she doesn’t bother picking up her knitting again. She’s jittery now—it’s been too long since she’s slept. And then they’re dropping out of hyperspace again. The long lines of stars judder into pinpoints against a sea of black. Vi’s eyes adjust, and she mutters a curse. There should be nothing here, just peaceful darkness and twinkling lights. Unfortunately, there’s rather a large something: a Resurgent -class Star Destroyer. Leia was right: The First Order is here, big time. Even before she can think the words, her fingers are already typing in new coordinates.

  “Come on, Gigi,” she mutters. “We’ve got to get out of here. I hate it when the general is right.”

  For all her speed, she’s not surprised when her starhopper quavers and begins to move. Not forward, like it should, but sideways toward the enemy ship. Whatever new tech they’ve been cooking up while hidden out here is hard, fast, and implacable. Vi tries every trick in her book, but the starhopper can’t break free of the tractor beam. Her firepower is minimal, and she knows they could blow her to smithereens and call it a win. As Gigi squeaks and burbles frantically, Vi considers her options.

  “I know, I know.” She locks her datapad, encrypts it, and jettisons it into the darkness of space, along with her patched Resistance jacket. The chance of her returning to claim either item is infinitesimal, but every little bit of hope adds up. Reaching into a storage cubby, she tugs out an old black leather jacket she pulled off a dead Kanjiklubber and slips her arms inside. It smells of oil and sand and home, and it did her good on her last mission. Her ship eases ever closer to the cruiser, and she pulls out a small mirror and plucks dark-brown contacts from her eyes, revealing their natural amber hue. What with the hair, eyes, clothes, and fake documents in her front pocket, there’s a good chance she won’t be recognized.

  When Gigi beeps in alarm, Vi settles and taps her temple.

  “Don’t worry, Gigi. I’ve got it all where it counts. And they won’t break me.”

  Gigi makes a noise that suggests the odds are against such an occurrence.

  “It’s okay, little buddy. If I fail, you’ll never know.”

  Swiveling around in her chair, she keys a code into the astromech slot and wipes the droid’s memory.

  Her earlier comfort and insouciant slouch are gone. This is not the first time she’s been captured, and she’s got to get her head in the game. She leans back in her chair now, legs spread, arms on the seat’s armrests. Every muscle is tense, one foot tapping by the bag of forgotten yarn. Her eyes flash dangerously, her lips set in a thin line.

  One way or another, Vi Moradi is going to survive.

  THE ROUGHED-UP STARHOPPER GLIDES INTO THE hold of the Absolution and settles gently onto the hangar deck. It’s a little thing, just big enough to hold one pilot, a droid, and a hyperdrive, and yet it’s so dwarfed by the belly of the warship that it looks like a child’s toy by comparison, or possibly an insect. Vi feels like that, too—like a tiny, rough, insignificant trifle surrounded by much bigger, more dangerous predators. She goes cold, wondering if this impersonal, black-and-white deck is the last thing she’ll ever see, if she’ll become just another missing pilot devoured by the mysterious First Order.

  Just in case she can defy the odds and find a way out of here, she counts and stores away everything she sees: hundreds of TIE fighters, troop transports, speeders, and even a few walkers. General Organa will be glad to know what kind of firepower they’re up against in this new fight. They tell her only what she needs to know to complete her assignments, but considering the intel they were already paying Vi to provide, the Resistance needs every bit of help they can get. At the moment, facing impossible odds, so does Vi.

  As stormtroopers surround her starhopper, blasters pointed, Vi’s attention is drawn to their leader. She’s seen troopers before, of course, but never one like this. His bright-red armor is a strange twist on the regular stormtroopers’, but the sanguine violence of the color lends it an air of bloody menace their tidy white just doesn’t possess. An armorweave cape falls from one shoulder, and a spherical black droid floats in the air to the trooper’s side. Even if this guy didn’t look different from his troops, and even if she didn’t know who he was, she would immediately recognize his importance. There’s an attention there, a level of focus that the grunts just don’t possess. She glares at him as one of his men opens the hatch of her ship and points his blaster at her chest. All this time, she affects the look of a regular smuggler caught by hostiles: scared but defiant. She’s got to play stupid if she wants to stay alive long enough to escape.

  “Get out,” the red trooper barks.

  She waits a moment, fingers curled over the armrests, before climbing out to stand on the deck of the Star Destroyer.

  “Hands on your head.”

  She obliges him…but in return, she’s got to test him.

  “What are you supposed to be?” Vi asks. “The big red button? The emergency brake?”

  He ignores her taunts as he snaps binders on her wrists. “Why are you in this sector?”

  “Same reason you are. Enjoying the peace and quiet. At least, I was. Look, I’m an independent trader traveling under legal documents. I have no quibble with anyone. So why the blasters?” Gigi beeps in alarm, and Vi turns to find two troopers digging through her cockpit. “And why are those guys roughing up my droid?” One of the troopers yanks out her yarn and starts unraveling the sweater with his clumsy gloves as if looking for weapons. “Hey, Private Friendly! I worked hard on that. You can’t just paw through someone’s personal property. And who are you, anyway?”

  “Silence,” the leader says.

  “I asked you a question. Who are you?”

  He takes a step closer, and his blaster jams into Vi’s belly. “I’m the one in charge. Which means I’m the one who asks the questions.”

  “But isn’t the Empire gone?”

  He chuckles.

  “We are not the Empire. And you know it.”

  “Sir,” one of the troopers calls from her cockpit. “We’ve got the logs. The most recently visited planets are Arkanis, Coruscant, and Parnassos.”

  The blaster jerks against her belly. It’s going to leave a bruise. One of those three planets must have set him off, but which one? Not the heavily populated Coruscant. Arkanis or Parnassos, then. Lots of First Order secrets on both planets, but not much else. They’ll never let her go now. Good thing she picked up this junker two hops after D’Qar, because that’s one planet these monsters don’t need to know anything about. They’re going to be suspicious now, but she’s got to act normal, which means belligerent. Just because she knows who he is doesn’t mean the red tro
oper knows who she is.

  “What you’re doing is illegal,” she shouts at the troopers tearing the starhopper apart. “That’s my ship.”

  “Not anymore it isn’t. Search the ship and turn the droid in for parts, then report to your stations,” the leader instructs his troops. “I will handle this interrogation personally.”

  “Personally, huh?” she says.

  He spins her around and jams his blaster in her spine, which is a pleasant enough change from her belly. “Walk. I know who you are, Resistance spy Vi Moradi, and I would be all too happy to shoot you.”

  “I don’t know who that is. I’m just a trader, and my boss isn’t going to like this.”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  Her heart sinks. He knows. She can almost feel his finger on the trigger. He wants to pull it so badly. Sweat trickles down her neck as she watches him over her shoulder. She had hoped this was just a random grab, just the usual First Order business. See a ship where it shouldn’t be, claim it, dispose of the inconvenient person inside. But if he knows her name and he knows who her boss is, what else does he know?

  He glances up at the control room, almost nervously, it seems. When he nudges her with the blaster, she moves.

  “Bosses can indeed be a problem,” he says. “Now walk.”

  —

  Vi was trained to remember every detail when it counts, but even she can’t keep up with the labyrinthine twists and turns of the enormous Star Destroyer’s guts. Long hallways end and intersect, and turbolifts up and down make it impossible for her to recall their route. It’s one thing to see pictures of ships like this one, but it’s another thing to really understand the enormity of their enemy’s resources. As he guides her into another lift, the man in red stands in front of the panel so she can’t see which level they’re headed to.