Nearest Siv was Torben, a big man with a bushy brown mane and beard, tan skin, and light-green eyes. He was good-natured and smiling even with his spiked club and huge ax in hand, the tallest and broadest man among the Scyre and always ready for a fight. His best friend, Carr, stood beside him, a lanky, quick-witted man with golden skin, sunbleached hair, and freckles. Carr had the best aim when throwing blades and was always ready with a joke, but for now he was serious and held two knives by their tips, his eyes scanning the room for anyone who might stand against Phasma. On Siv’s other side was Gosta, an agile, quick girl who could dart in to disembowel an enemy and dance out of range before her victim began to fall. Stocky but all muscle, with medium-brown skin and curly black hair, she was just a few years younger than Phasma and looked up to her like she was a goddess reborn.
“I can’t wait to sink a knife into Porr’s toadies,” Gosta murmured.
She was the only girl her age, just past becoming a woman, and Siv had noticed Porr and his friends watching Gosta in a way that Egil should’ve addressed. For all that Siv hated Porr, she knew that one thing was true: Egil was too old and weak to lead. Not that he deserved his current end, bleeding out on the floor of the Nautilus, staining the worn floor with yet more blood. Few people lived past thirty-five in the Scyre, and Egil had to be over forty. He was getting slow, and everyone knew it.
The helpless among the Scyre folk melted back to stand against the walls of the cave. That was part of life in the Scyre: If you couldn’t fight, you quickly found a way to contribute to the group by scavenging food, water, or clothing, and you got out of the way of the fighting or died where you stood. Porr and Phasma circled each other, their warriors fanning out, weapons at the ready. Porr struck first, hacking at Phasma with his long blade, a dagger in his other hand. She was taller and dressed to fight, but Porr was older, more muscular, and more desperate.
Phasma parried the slash with her spear, a rough thing made entirely of metal with a bladed tip. Siv had one eye on the fight and one eye on Porr’s minions, who weren’t as tough or well trained as their leader. Phasma taught her warriors personally, sparring with them daily and challenging them to learn every weapon and remain constantly vigilant. They followed her not because she asked them to but because she had her own gravity, a greatness and courage that spoke to their hearts. But Porr demanded only attention and flattery from his followers, and so they hung back, waiting for a sign from Porr instead of wading in to fight and turn the tide in his favor.
Porr was quick with his blades, following up a slash from the right with a backhand from the left. But Phasma knew his moves, having trained with him for years under Egil. Every eye in the Nautilus watched Porr and Phasma hacking and slashing and parrying and grunting. Life was hard on Parnassos, and most fights were raids from rival bands, when even those who couldn’t fight had to take up arms and defend the land. It was rare to watch two warriors battle, especially when it wasn’t life and death for the band. It was beautiful, Siv recalled, watching how easily Phasma fought off Porr’s attacks. Siv quickly realized that although Phasma could’ve destroyed him easily, the warrior was holding back. And then she saw why.
Porr screamed and fell to the ground, but it wasn’t Phasma’s blade that had struck him. It was Keldo’s. While everyone had watched Porr’s face, Phasma’s mask, and the flashing weapons in their hands, Keldo had crawled across the floor with his own knife and sliced the tendons of Porr’s ankles, permanently hobbling him.
By the time Porr understood what had happened, Keldo had backed out of reach and Phasma had her spear pointed at Porr’s throat.
“You have broken our greatest law,” Keldo said. “We do not raise weapons against our own people, and now you must be punished. You may serve the Scyre with your hands and mind, as I do, or you can serve by contributing the protection of your essence to the people. What is your choice?”
Porr was panting now, his eyes wide and round as he tried to stand and failed. “Fight for me!” he screamed at his warriors. “Don’t let them win!”
But Porr’s toadies found themselves trapped by the blades of Phasma’s warriors, and they did nothing to help their once friend.
“You heard Keldo,” Phasma said. “Choose.”
“You can’t make me,” Porr bleated, and Phasma’s warriors laughed, a harsh sound echoing off the walls of the cave.
“Oh, she can make you, mate,” Carr said. “Either way, you’re not gonna like it.”
“I’ll help,” Porr said. “Just…please. Don’t kill me. Bring the healer. It can be fixed.”
Keldo shook his head sadly. He was the only one on the ground with Porr, but his strength, confidence, and dignity radiated, while Porr shivered and bled and blubbered. Keldo was only a year older than Phasma, but Siv had long known that he would make a great leader.
“We accept your surrender, but you know such wounds never heal,” Keldo said. “Phasma and I will rule now. You must find your own way to contribute. Anyone else who wishes to challenge us may come forward and be treated the same as Porr. That is: fairly, and according to the law.”
Porr’s threat neutralized, Phasma turned to face the people of the Scyre as they crowded against the cave walls. Even through her mask, it was as if she met every person’s eyes, her spear held aggressively forward.
“Then we are the Scyre now,” Keldo said.
“Scyre, Scyre, Scyre!” the people chanted, starting with a whisper and building to thunder.
Phasma’s attention landed on her warriors, and she gave them the nod that meant she was pleased with their performance.
“Siv, the detraxors,” she murmured.
Siv fetched her bag from where Keldo had stashed it and hurried to Egil’s body. Even dead, every person contributed.
“Thank you for serving us, Egil,” she said. “Your today protects my people’s tomorrow. Body to body, dust to dust.”
The prayer said, she removed the machine from her bag. The bulb, tubes, and needlelike siphon were already fitted with a fresh leather skin, ready to collect the nutrients from Egil’s body, without which the Scyre folk would become diseased and weak. Siv used this essence to create an oily substance called oracle salve, which served many uses. Most important, when applied to the skin, it served as protection from the rain, sun, and many diseases. A different formulation created a liniment that helped wounds heal. For Siv, this process wasn’t harsh or cruel or strange; it was the closest thing she had to a religion, and one day it would be her own turn to contribute. Egil was gone now; the graying leader she’d once looked up to had faded away sometime during the fight.
When the detraxor had done its work, she stood carefully and carried the full leather skin to where Phasma stood, holding her brother up with one arm. Siv gave the skin to Keldo with a slight bow, and he hefted it.
“For the Scyre!” he shouted, and the people cheered.
The Scyre had new leaders, and though they were young, they were strong.
But they still didn’t truly understand Phasma. Not yet.
VI LICKS HER DRY LIPS AND looks at her captor, wishing she could see his face. Of course, she can already tell he’s annoyed. He’s tapping one heel and sitting forward, focused on her like he might explode.
“Not what you wanted to hear, huh?”
He shakes his head. “I need pertinent intel. No one cares about what happens to children on backwater planets, or this ship would be empty.”
She takes a moment to tuck that bit of information away. “Pertinent intel. So I was right. This isn’t just business for you, is it, Emergency Brake? This is personal. Really personal. You got a thing for Phasma?”
He snorts and cocks his head, considering, before picking up the remote and cranking the power up higher than he has yet, so high she’s bowed back, up on her toes, fingernails digging bloody moons into her own palms. When it subsides, she collapses, and if not for the tight restraints she would slither to the floor and cry. The scent of cooked flesh fills th
e small room, turning her stomach. It takes her longer to come back this time, and her captor simply sits in the chair, watching her.
“Okay, the opposite, then,” she finally says. She clears her scorched throat. “Look. You want something, and I want something, and we’re all alone, so let’s work out a deal.”
It takes everything she has to raise her head and look him in…well, where his eyes should be. The black chasms of his helmet lenses show only her pleading face, drowned in red. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, so she continues.
“I know everything you want to know about Phasma.” She pauses meaningfully, spits out another wad of blood with worrisome black specks in it. “Everything. Let’s say I tell you. And let’s say that after I do, you let me go. How about it, Emergency Brake?”
He crosses his arms and considers it, taking long enough that she’s able to get her breathing back down and stop panting.
“My name is Cardinal,” he finally says, and she has to stop herself from grinning. She knew this, of course, but getting one’s torturer to disclose something personal is like the first crack in a dam. If she can just stay alive and keep talking long enough, maybe she can find some weak spot in his armor. Find a way to escape. Or, better yet, turn him. She knows Cardinal is a by-the-books soldier, but she also knows he’s dedicated to working with children, running the program that turns orphans into killers. Maybe telling him what he wants to know about Phasma can expose him to some ugly truths about the First Order in general. She’s got to keep building this small rapport.
“How come you get a name, Cardinal?” she asks. “The rest of the bucketheads are just numbers.”
He ignores the question. “You wanted a deal, so here it is. You will tell me everything you know about Captain Phasma. Every detail. If you give me enough intel to destroy her reputation among the First Order and get her court-martialed, I’ll consider letting you go. But understand that you have no hope of leaving if I’m not satisfied.” The floating droid beeps a few urgent trills, and he adds, “And do it quickly. I’m on a timetable here.”
“A timetable, huh?”
Cardinal swipes a hand through the air. “That’s not your concern. Your concern is telling me what I want to know.”
She’s been slumped in the interrogation chair, held up by the straps and bands, but now Vi finds her feet and stands. She’s much smaller than Cardinal, but she’s strong, and she needs him to know it.
“If you promise you’ll let me go, I’ll tell you everything you need to take Phasma down.”
Cardinal nods and holds out his hand like he wants to shake on it, but, well, he’s got her strapped into a torture chair. Maybe, at some point, she can convince him that she’s harmless enough to let her out. The hand drops.
“It’s a deal,” he says. “But only if I get what I need. So go on. Tell me everything.”
She nods and chuckles. So he thinks he’s in charge? Well, time to take back equal ground.
“Oh, you’ll get everything.” She cocks her head to look up at him. “But it would help if I could see your face. How about you take off your helmet, now that we’re friends? You afraid I won’t think you’re cute?”
Her harmless smile must win him over—or maybe it’s the fact that he plans on killing her once he gets what he needs. Vi knows a few more things about him, too, but those are cards she’ll keep up her sleeve for later.
After considering the request, he checks that the door is locked, rechecks all the cams, and turns his back to Vi. The first thing she notices as he places the red helmet on the table is sweaty blue-black hair, clipped short. When he turns to face her, she sees a much younger-looking man than she was expecting. He’s maybe forty, although the lines on his face and the distance in his dark-brown eyes suggest he’s already lived a lifetime. His skin is golden tan with freckles and darker patches that speak to years of sunburn. Smile lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes and lips, but he’s not smiling now.
“The face you’re making suggests you’re already thinking about your remote control again,” Vi says. “But don’t worry. I’ll behave. Too much of that juice and I won’t be able to talk. It makes me feel dumb, you know?”
He says nothing, just considers her, his mouth a grim line. Something in his eyes suggests…is it sorrow? Or guilt? Whatever it is, she’s ready to dig for more of it.
“I knew you were from Jakku, but it looks like you had a rough time there,” she says.
That closes him up. He wipes a gloved hand through the air as if smearing a trail in sand. “Where I’m from isn’t important. Get back to Phasma. Unless you’d like to tell me where the Resistance base is located?”
She shakes her head at him like he’s a naughty boy. “You think they just hand out that kind of information to people like me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, maybe they do, and maybe they don’t, but that wasn’t part of the deal. So shock me all you want, and I just might forget how Phasma showed up one day and stole your job.”
Cardinal can’t hide his surprise at her knowledge, but he can point a threatening finger at her face. “Watch yourself, scum. Insulting me isn’t going to help your case.”
“Oh, honey. If it weren’t true, you wouldn’t be so angry about it. I bet it really burns you, how you both came from nothing and she still ended up ahead.”
Vi has been trained in reading microexpressions, and in this kind of situation, carefully monitoring his emotions might be the only thing that keeps her alive. The feelings that cross his face are swift and impossible for him to hide. He doesn’t have training in resisting interrogation or controlling his features, and she tucks this new bit of information away with her other intel. Now the lines of his face sag into resentment, anxiety, anger. His fingers rove over the remote button, but he seems to have been programmed with excellent self-control. He’s fighting it, though. The droid burbles over his shoulder, and he shakes his head, evens out his features, and tries a new tack.
“You shouldn’t provoke me. I’ve been hunting you for a while now, Moradi. I see that you’ve got intel on me, too. And that means you know I’ve been in combat, and you know I have no problem with killing my enemies.”
No wonder they keep this guy behind a helmet. He’s easy to read, easy to anger, easy to wound. She could take everything he owns at the right sabacc table.
“Speaking of which, what do you know about me?” he asks, voice aggressively clipped, as if the question is merely a formality.
Vi considers the request and gives him the barest sliver of what she knows. “You were born on Jakku, and General Hux—Brendol Hux, the original General Hux—took you offplanet and brought you into his training program after the final battle between the New Republic and the Empire. Now you run the younger half of the stormtrooper training program while Phasma fine-tunes your graduates for battle. You report to General Hux—Armitage, that is. Brendol’s son.” When he opens his mouth to ask for more, she shakes her head. “That’s all I’ve got, Cardinal. Don’t even know your real name, if you ever had one.”
He stands and turns to the door, and she knows well enough what he’s thinking and has to stop him.
“Wait. I know one more thing. You’re an ideal recruit. A perfect soldier. Not a single mark against you in all these years. So you’re probably thinking about going to tell on me right now, let your superiors know that you’ve got a captive Resistance spy. But if you do that, Cardinal, I won’t tell you about Phasma. You leave this room, and I’ll be dead before you return. I promise you that.”
He snorts, but he does turn away from the door. “And why would you do that?”
Despite the chill in the room, sweat trickles down her forehead, and she shakes her head to flick it away before it can burn her eyes.
“You’re willing to die for your ideals. Is it so inconceivable I might be willing to die for mine?”
He steps closer to her, but not in menace. With a sort of religious fervor.
“For the
Resistance? Yes. That’s foolish. They don’t care about you. They don’t care about anyone. They thrive on chaos.”
Vi snorts. “Hate to break it to you, big guy, but most people just want to live their small lives, not get caught up and die in someone else’s battle for ultimate power. The Resistance is about freedom. About doing what’s right and stopping the bullies and tyrants.” She can’t help smiling as she thinks about Baako, studying to be a diplomat and excited by the prospect of doing good on Pantora. “And the Resistance rewards good people willing to help with that. If you don’t like the way you’re being treated here, if you’ve been, say, overlooked for a promotion, or if you get tired of sending children planetside to oppress innocent populations with blasters and flamethrowers, the Resistance would give you a full pardon.”
“Defect? To the Resistance?” He barks a laugh and leans back against the wall, arms crossed. “And why would I want to do something that stupid?”
“Because people who try to take Phasma down usually meet ugly ends. At least, they did on Parnassos. I assume they do on this ship, too.”
“Speaking of which, our records indicate Parnassos was destroyed.”
“How was it destroyed if your men pulled it off my ship’s log?”
He rolls his eyes. “The planet is still there, but the water level rose. Phasma’s people are gone.”
Vi smiles slyly. “They’re not all gone. Someone just wants you to think that. I’m surprised you believed it. And that she hasn’t wiped it from your maps completely.”
“And why would Phasma do that?”
“Because she doesn’t want anyone to know what happened the day Brendol Hux fell from the sky—and the day he made a deal with her.”
Now Cardinal scoffs, sure he’s caught her out. “That’s a lie. Brendol Hux did nothing without my knowing it. I was his personal guard.”
Phasma (Star Wars): Journey to Star Wars: The Last Jedi (Star Wars: Journey to Star Wars: the Last Jedi) Page 3