Star Wars: Before the Awakening

by Greg Rucka

  © & TM 2015 Lucasfilm Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Lucasfilm Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Lucasfilm Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-3550-3

  Designed by Gegham Vardanyan

  Visit the official Star Wars website at: www.starwars.com.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Finn

  Rey

  Poe

  About the Author and Illustrator

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

  A shadow has been cast across the galaxy. Where once there were hope and peace, now there are fear and the looming clouds of war. The FIRST ORDER is rising, its power growing, and the NEW REPUBLIC may well be powerless to stop it.

  Among the billions upon billions of beings in the galaxy, three individuals will find themselves drawn into the heart of this conflict. Each of them will play a vital role in what is to come. Each of them will face darkness. Each of them will struggle to reach the light.

  FN-2187 is a STORMTROOPER, trained by the First Order. He is plagued by doubt. On Jakku, a young woman who calls herself REY struggles to live in an isolation necessary for her own survival. And among the stars, POE DAMERON strives to serve a Republic he has always believed in, as sinister powers threaten to break his resolve.

  These are their stories in the days, weeks, and months before THE FORCE AWAKENS.

  THERE WERE four of them in the fire-team, and because shouting out things like, “FN-twenty-one eighty-seven, watch your back!” was a mouthful, especially when the blaster fire was searing the air around them, they’d defaulted to shorter versions. In front of the officers, in front of Captain Phasma especially, they always used their appropriate designations, of course. But in the barracks and in combat, they used the names they’d given one another or the names they’d given themselves.

  FN-2199, he was Nines, because he liked the sound of it, simple as that. FN-2000 had told everyone to call him Zeroes, because he was proud of the fact that he’d landed such a straightforward number as his designation. He thought it made him special, and either nobody had ever told him that being a “zero” wasn’t exactly something to be proud of or he didn’t care.

  FN-2003 was the only one with an actual nickname. They called him Slip. He always seemed just a little slower, a little clumsier than the rest of the fire-team. It wasn’t simply physical, either. Sometimes—in briefings, during training, during drills—you got the feeling that orders didn’t quite take with him, that he didn’t, or couldn’t, fully understand what it was he was supposed to be doing or how he was supposed to be doing it.

  FN-2187 was simply Eight-Seven whenever one of the team wanted to shorten his designation. They didn’t do it very often. He was, as far as the training cadre and his peers were concerned, one of the best stormtroopers anyone had ever seen. He was everything their instructors wanted—loyal, dutiful, brave, smart, and strong. Whatever the test, whatever the evaluation, FN-2187 consistently scored in the top 1 percent. So he was FN-2187, well on his way to becoming the ideal First Order stormtrooper. That was what everyone thought, at least.

  Except FN-2187 himself.

  FN-2003—Slip—had fallen behind.

  FN-2187, Zeroes, and Nines had taken cover behind what was left of an exterior perimeter wall, the section they were sheltering behind still mostly intact but cracked and scored with innumerable blaster hits. The wall marked the edge of the Republic compound, still heavily defended, and the suppressing fire being directed their way was withering. Bolts of bright blue sizzled overhead and smashed into the ground around them. They punched into the wall with enough force that the stormtroopers could feel the impact even through their armor.

  “He did it again,” Zeroes said, elbowing FN-2187 and then pointing up-range, the direction from which they’d advanced.

  FN-2187 crouched down and looked in the indicated direction. They were all virtually indistinguishable in their stormtrooper armor, but within his helmet, along with the near-constant stream of data projected across his lenses—telemetry, firing solutions, atmospheric conditions, everything up to and including the ammo count for his blaster rifle—individual ID tags would pop up whenever he looked directly at another trooper, his in-suit computer reading friendly identifications. According to that same stream of data, 2187 could see that Slip was exactly 29.3 meters back, crouched in cover behind the hulk of a blasted-out Republic speeder.

  He could also see what Slip couldn’t—a squad of five Republic soldiers advancing on him unseen from the left flank. FN-2187 raised his rifle, sighting, but he knew before his helmet confirmed it that he was out of range. He could open fire, but there was no way he’d score a hit.

  “He’s done,” Nines said. “We’ve got to advance.”

  “He’s one of us,” 2187 said, lowering his rifle.

  “We’ve got an objective,” Zeroes said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the base. “It’s that way. We go back for him, we’ll be cut to shreds.”

  Face hidden inside his helmet, FN-2187 frowned. Yes, they had an objective, and yes, there were enemies all around them, and yes, Zeroes was right. In the compound was their objective: an enemy position defended by a heavy repeating blaster. And whichever Republic soldiers were manning that thing, they knew their job. They’d seen two full squads cut down by it during their advance. The only reason 2187 could figure it hadn’t taken out Slip already was that whoever was on the trigger was waiting to see if one of them was going to do exactly what FN-2187 was thinking of doing—go back for him.

  “We’re running out of time,” Zeroes said.

  FN-2187 checked over his shoulder, back toward the compound. The terrain was uneven, and there was enough cover for a sustained fire-and-move advance. It would thin out the farther they advanced into the compound, approaching the heavy blaster emplacement, but it was doable if it was done smart.

  “Zeroes, left. Nines, take right,” FN-2187 said. “On my order. Hold at the inner wall.”

  “We’re gonna blow the mission,” Nines said.

  “Hold at the inner wall,” 2187 said again. “Go!”

  Neither Nines nor Zeroes liked it, 2187 could tell, but they were stormtroopers, and that meant once orders were given they would follow them and follow them quickly. They moved at once, and 2187 waited a half-breath’s pause, letting each of them draw enemy fire, before launching forward. The terrain was just as bad in that direction, cruel, uneven, and strewn with broken rock and battle debris. Thick black clouds from engine fires clung to the ground, rolling across it like an uneven tide. He sprinted the first dozen meters, trying to keep low, zigzagging his way from points of cover and occasionally hurdling obstacles in his way.

  He’d closed half the distance when one of the Republic soldiers saw him and gave a shout of alarm that carried across the battlefield. Just as the soldier opened fire, FN-2187 dove forward, tumbled into a freshly made crater, and lay flat for a second before popping up on his elbows. He fired twice before dropping down again, then rolled to his right and repeated, firing three times. He was pleased to see that he’d taken out two of the enemy.

  But that left three more, and now he had their attention.

  FN-2187 keyed his radio. “FN-2003, check right, check left!”

  There was static, then Slip’s voice. “I don’t see them!”

  “Your left!�
�

  Another blast of static, loud enough that it made FN-2187 wince. He rolled back to his initial position and edged his way to the lip of the small crater just in time to see Slip opening fire on the remaining Republic soldiers closing in on his position. Now 2187 could take his time. He sighted carefully, then stroked the trigger on his blaster rifle three times in succession. The last of the enemy soldiers dropped.

  “On me!” he shouted, but he needn’t have bothered, because Slip was already out of cover and running toward him. FN-2187 rolled onto his back, making room in the crater as Slip slid into place next to him and rapped him on the chest plate hard enough that it sounded like he was knocking on a door.

  “Thanks, 2187,” Slip said. “Thank you, man. Thought you were gonna leave me behind.”

  “You’re one of us.” He pointed back the direction he’d come. “Stay tight on me.”

  “Right behind you.”

  FN-2187 took another moment to catch his breath, then vaulted out of the crater, Slip clambering up behind him. The fire from the Republic base seemed to have diminished, but FN-2187 knew that was an illusion, that it was just as intense as before, only less concentrated. That, of course, had been his plan: by splitting Zeroes and Nines, he’d forced the enemy to divide their attention, and that had given him the opening he needed to reach Slip. The downside was that Zeroes and Nines were now isolated, pinned down with no way to escape.

  But there was a benefit to that, too, 2187 realized. With the enemy fire divided, it gave him a straight shot to the bunker, to the heavy repeater and their objective. All he had to do was be quick and not lose his nerve.

  He began running faster. He heard Slip struggling to keep up behind him, but he could no longer worry about that, he realized. If he could do this, if he could do it fast enough, it wouldn’t matter if Slip stayed tight on his back or not. If he could do this, not only would he obtain their objective but he might do it without losing anyone on his fire-team.

  Another cloud of smoke billowed across his vision, and cutting through it were the red and blue bolts of blaster fire—Zeroes’s and Nines’s and the enemy’s, too. He could hear his breathing, amplified within the helmet, feel his pulse in his temples. The bunker was ahead, the data across his lenses declaring the objective twenty meters away, then fifteen, then ten.

  That was when they saw him, but it was already too late. He could see motion inside the bunker, see the Republic soldiers manning the gun react to the sight of him racing toward them and try to swing the barrel around in time. He could imagine himself as they saw him, the immaculate white armor, the symbol of unity and strength and power and skill that was a First Order stormtrooper.

  Just before they had their shot, he dropped low, sliding feetfirst toward the edge of the bunker—one hand holding his rifle against his chest, the other going for one of the grenades on his belt. He rolled at the last moment, thumbing the activator hard as he collided sideways with the bunker wall and then, in one smooth motion, bringing his hand up and tossing the grenade through the opening into the bunker. Almost instantly there was the sound and the flash of the explosive detonating. He felt it echo, the vibration running through his armor.

  For a moment there was silence, interrupted only by the sound of FN-2187 trying to catch his breath.

  The world flickered, froze, and then winked out of existence. Where there had been an unnamed Republic outpost, where there had been dead stormtroopers and Republic soldiers, there were only four walls and a perfectly flat metal floor. Where there had been a battlefield, there was only the simulation room, vast and empty and cold and sterile. High on one wall, the observation window became visible—heavily tinted, making it impossible to see who was inside.

  Then Captain Phasma’s voice echoed over hidden speakers.

  “Simulation objective completed. FN-2187, FN-2199, FN-2000, FN-2003, report for evaluation and debriefing.”

  “They completed the objective,” General Hux said. “There is that.”

  “They completed the objective due to the skill of FN-2187’s leadership,” Captain Phasma said.

  They stood side by side at the observation window, watching as the fire-team filed out of the simulation room below. Three of the four were clearly jubilant, clapping one another on the back and shoulders, pleased with their performance. But the fourth—FN-2187, Phasma could tell—was following behind them, not quite part of the group. As she and Hux watched, 2187 paused at the exit, looking back in their direction. Phasma wondered what he was thinking.

  “He isolates himself,” Hux said, turning to look at her. “A good leader, part of his unit but standing apart.”

  “If that’s why he’s doing it, General.”

  “You have concerns?” Hux raised an eyebrow. “Speak them.”

  “These stormtroopers will be the finest the First Order has ever produced,” Phasma said. “I have overseen their training at every stage, from induction to deployment. This class is exemplary.”

  “Yet you have concerns, Captain. I would hear them.”

  “Not for this class.”

  Hux sighed, at the edge of annoyance.

  “FN-2187,” Phasma said, “has the potential to be one of the finest stormtroopers I have ever seen.”

  “From what I just observed, Captain, I agree.”

  “But his decision to split the fire-team and return for FN-2003 is problematic. It speaks to a potentially…dangerous level of empathy. You heard him.”

  “‘You’re one of us’?”

  “Yes, sir. While I am entirely in support of unit cohesion, General, a stormtrooper’s loyalty must be higher, as you know. It must be to the First Order, not to one’s comrades.”

  Hux glanced back at the window, surveying the empty simulation room.

  “I trust you to remove any impurities from the group, Captain,” Hux said. “Wherever they may be found.”

  The briefing room, like every other section of the base where Captain Phasma oversaw their training, was featureless to the point of sterile. That wasn’t to say colorless, however. Amid the wide variety of industrial grays, there was always black and, of course, red (though that was reserved primarily for First Order insignia). It was when the helmets came off the stormtroopers-in-training that the real color emerged—in Slip’s pale complexion and hazel eyes; in Nines’s almost frighteningly blue eyes and red hair; in the scar that had healed along Zeroes’s cheek, contrasting lighter against his dark brown skin. In FN-2187’s own reflection, caught in those rare moments in front of a mirror preparing for inspection or in the polished surface of the mess hall tables.

  In their armor they were all the same, and that was the point, he understood. But he took pleasure in the moments when he could see their variety and diversity—those moments when he could glimpse the people beneath the armor and see them as more than just faceless, nameless soldiers identified by letters and numbers and nothing more.

  He didn’t know much about life outside of his training, had little in the way of memories of a time before, in fact. What he knew was what he had been taught, and what he had been taught was simple: the First Order stood against the deprivations of the Republic. The First Order brought law to a lawless galaxy. What little he had seen of the galaxy had been filtered through his training, through the eyes of the First Order, but there was no need or even reason to doubt its truth.

  Still, he wanted to see it with his own eyes. He wanted to know what was out there. Like all the others of his cadre, he was waiting for that day when they would first be deployed, when they would take their skills and their training and finally get to apply them in the service of the First Order, at the command of the Supreme Leader. He was waiting for his chance to defend the people of the galaxy against all those who would threaten it.

  Those were his thoughts as he sat in the briefing room with Slip and Nines and Zeroes, all of them still in their armor but now with their helmets off, waiting for Captain Phasma to arrive. Slip was nervous, 2187 could see, e
ven if Nines and Zeroes were not. FN-2187 wasn’t certain how he should be feeling. He knew, empirically, that he had done well; he had, in fact, been responsible for the successful completion of the simulation. That should’ve been enough to give him a sense of pride, if not accomplishment. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had somehow made a mistake, had in some way stepped wrong.

  The doors slid open with a hiss, and 2187 got to his feet immediately, in unison with the others, all of them fixing their eyes straight ahead and coming to attention. Captain Phasma moved into the room with the same authority and purpose, the same flawless precision, with which she seemed to do everything. Her armor, unlike theirs, was as reflective as a still pond, and as she walked to the front of the room he could see their images bouncing back at them, distorted and curved.

  There was no preamble. There never was. Captain Phasma faced them, surveyed them, and then said, “Adequate.”

  FN-2187 had learned that “adequate” was the closest Captain Phasma would ever get to saying “well done” or “good job.”

  “FN-2000, you’re wasting ammunition,” Phasma continued. “Telemetry indicates you expended one hundred and twenty-seven shots, with a hit ratio of less than five to one. You are assigned to the range tomorrow during your second detail. I expect an immediate and marked improvement.”

  Zeroes drew himself even higher. “Yes, Captain.”

  The shiny helmet shifted almost imperceptibly to the left. It was another thing that 2187 had noticed about their captain; you never knew exactly who or what she was looking at. He thought it was Slip, but she spoke to Nines, instead.

  “FN-2199, biosensors noted your heart rate eight percent above acceptable range, with an additional twenty-second delay in reverting from strong exertion to resting pulse. Your weight is up two percent, without corresponding gain in muscle mass. Your meals are being modified, and you will begin additional physical training tomorrow, second detail.”