by Greg Rucka
He cut thrust to the engines, yanking the stick back a fraction of a second after. The X-wing’s nose snapped up sharply, still racing on its current heading. In atmosphere, wind resistance and gravity would slow the fighter down, theoretically forcing the pursuing attackers to overshoot. Out of atmosphere, the deceleration would be negligible without the aid of counterthrust.
Nose up, Poe kicked his engines to life again, rolling the fighter in a one-eighty and slamming the X-wing nose-down once more. He was, for the moment, flying backward as quickly as he’d been flying forward, above the attacking TIEs. Another salvo ripped beneath his ship as the enemy tried to track his move.
“Power,” he told BB-8.
The laser cannons came alive as the main thrust returned, and Poe opened fire immediately. The first of the TIEs had seen the maneuver coming, breaking hard starboard and descending, but that had left the remaining two exposed. The X-wing’s shots cut through the darkness, glowing bolts that hit first one fighter, then the next. The TIEs tumbled, the lead now bucking up, fins colliding with fins, cockpit balls crushing one another. Debris exploded, and Poe wrenched the stick, pulling into a spiral to avoid the remnants of the collision. BB-8 all but shouted at him that they were now on the proper heading, and Poe Dameron leveled the nose and punched the hyperdrive activator. The last thing he saw as they entered hyperspace was the shots of the pursuing TIE fighters, left light-years behind them.
Iolo and Karé weren’t on station when he came out of lightspeed on the edge of the Mirrin system and adjusted his heading to Mirrin Prime. BB-8 burbled, pleased with himself; the Yissira Zyde’s transponder signal had been clear and strong, and while they’d traveled through hyperspace the droid had been able to review the flight data collected during the engagement. BB-8 had located the freighter aboard the second of the three Star Destroyers. The mission, as far as Poe was concerned, had been successful.
Any sense of triumph was stifled when Mirrin Control came online during his approach.
“Rapier One, this is Mirrin Flight, respond.”
The voice was male, older, and Poe didn’t recognize it. “Rapier One.”
“Approach landing bay twenty-two, you are cleared for landing.”
“Mirrin Flight, Rapier Squadron berths bay seven, confirm please.”
“Commander Poe Dameron?”
“That’s correct,” Poe said.
“You are directed to bay twenty-two. Do not deviate your approach. Mirrin Flight out.”
The comm went silent. Behind Poe, BB-8 tweeted mournfully.
“Yeah,” Poe agreed. “We’re in trouble.”
Bay twenty-two was empty when Poe brought the X-wing in to land, shutting down the repulsors as the fighter settled on its landing gear. He powered down the ship’s systems, considered letting the engines remain on low-power standby for a moment, and then decided there wasn’t any point. If he was about to be arrested, if he was looking at a court-martial, he wasn’t going to try to run. He’d face the consequences of his actions, and he’d defend them as the right ones. He popped the cockpit and tried to enjoy the first breath of nonrecycled air that he’d had in hours. The cockpit always developed a funk after a long flight, worse after combat, with the combination of electrics and heated metals and his own sweat. There’d been times when he would emerge from his cockpit to find his flight suit soaked with his own perspiration, feeling as wrung out and exhausted as if he’d been running a footrace for hours. The physical and mental stress of fighter combat always took a toll.
He keyed the release for BB-8, freeing the droid from his socket, then unfastened his helmet and removed his gloves. The bay remained empty, peculiarly so, the doors into it closed. It was very odd. Even in a disused landing bay, you could always find something—power couplings left along a wall, or cabling coiled in a corner, or bits and pieces of replacement parts or spare ordnance. Something.
There was nothing there, as if the bay had been swept clean, as if it had been sterilized.
Poe hit the quick release on his harness, then vaulted over the lip of the cockpit, dropping straight to the floor without bothering to use the handholds. The sound of his boots hitting the ground echoed in the empty space. He felt BB-8 pressing against the back of his calf, heard him whistle softly.
The doors to the bay opened and three figures entered, striding toward him. The one in the middle, in the lead, looked to be in his late fifties, perhaps older, a human male wearing a Republic military uniform. The other two were unmistakably shore police, a short-horned Devaronian and a human female. They had their sidearms holstered, but they had the look, too, that they were expecting trouble and that they wouldn’t put up with it if they found it.
The man in the lead stopped some two meters from Poe and BB-8, then looked him up and down quickly. He had a rank cluster at his collar marking him as a major. Poe had never seen him before.
“Commander Dameron?”
“You are?”
“Major Ematt. You’ll come with us, please.”
“I’ve got a report I need to file with Major Deso. We located the Yissira Zyde.”
“Major Deso is occupied.” The man, Ematt, turned back to the door and began walking at once, fully expecting Poe to follow him. The two shore police waited.
Poe followed, BB-8 rolling along behind him.
There was a speeder, a low-slung standard military ride, waiting for them outside. The human shore police officer drove, Major Ematt seated beside her. The Devaronian sat with Poe in the back, BB-8 on the floor between them. The droid was oddly silent, but the central black lens on his half-domed head rotated between Poe and the Devaronian several times, as if trying to understand what was going on there. Poe could sympathize. He leaned forward.
“Am I under arrest?” he asked Ematt.
“Do you want to be?”
“Where’s the rest of my squadron? Lieutenant Kun and Lieutenant Arana?”
“They’re being dealt with.”
Poe didn’t like the sound of that.
The speeder slowed at a corner, then accelerated out of the turn, and they were out of the airfield portion of the Mirrin base, skimming across the tarmac that separated the fighter groups from the main buildings. The sky above was gray, warning of a storm, and beyond the edges of the base Poe could see the mountains and the shimmer of rainfall in the distance. The weather could change fast, and he wondered if they’d be under cover before the storm reached them. The wind was already picking up.
They weren’t heading for the main base, but instead for a collection of prefabs that had been recently erected on the north side. The storm broke over them as they came to a stop, sheets of cold rain that covered the ground at once, making puddles of water that rippled and spread away from the repulsors as the speeder floated in place. Ematt got out, already soaked, and waited for BB-8 and Poe to follow him. Poe hesitated, trying to read the situation. Something in Ematt’s manner, his bearing, reminded Poe of his father, and Poe saw it, suddenly: Ematt and Deso may have shared a rank, but Ematt, like Poe’s father, was a veteran. He had seen war, and had seen too much of it.
Poe exited the speeder, BB-8 rolling out behind him and hitting the pavement with a soft thump and a gentle splash. The speeder pulled away. Ematt led them to the farthest of the huts and pressed his palm to the security plate on the door. There was a beep as his identity was verified, then the sound of locks sliding back, and the door slid open.
“Go on in,” Ematt said. “Your droid and I will wait out here.”
Poe nodded, still unsure. He stepped through the door, and it closed immediately behind him.
He entered a repurposed briefing room, minimalist, with perhaps two dozen chairs and a desk, but on the far side of the hut someone had placed a cot and a trunk, so it had the appearance of both office and barracks. A holoprojector, used for analysis and planning, glowed in an opposite corner, projecting one of the Republic news feeds, but it had been muted, making it seem as if the reporter were speak
ing in pantomime. On the far wall, opposite where he’d entered, were two displays showing the galaxy, similar to the overlay map in Deso’s office. It took Poe another second to realize the difference, that these weren’t political maps but rather operational ones, showing troop and fleet movements.
There was a woman at the desk, her head down, working with a datapad. Poe waited, aware he was dripping water on the floor. He realized he was still holding his flight helmet and felt slightly foolish, so he set it down on the seat of one of the empty chairs, and when he straightened up again the woman had risen and was looking at him intently, as if she could see not through him but rather into him. She was older than Ematt, with braided hair pinned tightly in place. She was short, but that was only her height, not her stature. Something about her didn’t seem just to fill the space but to command it. She was in uniform, but it wasn’t Republic, not quite. It looked as if it had started that way and then, at some point, turned in favor of serviceable rather than ceremonial. She was unquestionably beautiful, almost regal.
“Commander Dameron,” the woman said. “Do you know who I am?”
Poe nodded. He was acutely aware, now, that his flight suit was soaked with rain and sweat, that he likely smelled like the hind end of a bantha, and that he had disobeyed direct orders that had come down not just from Deso but higher. From as high as Command. From as high as the Senate, perhaps.
He came to attention, snapped a salute, and held it.
“General Organa,” he said.
General Leia Organa left her gaze on him for a second more, her expression unchanged, brown eyes seeming sad and weary and strong all at once. Then she waved a hand, dismissing the salute, as if bored by the need for such things.
“At ease. Have a seat, Poe. I’m going to call you Poe, if that’s all right.”
“Whatever you like, General.”
“I like Poe.” She moved from behind the desk and hooked one of the nearby chairs with the toe of her boot, pulling it into position before taking a seat. She gestured to the empty chairs, and Poe took one and turned it to face her.
“You should see your expression,” General Organa said. She smiled, and that, too, touched her eyes, gave them a warmth that made Poe feel like he was nine again. “I’m not that frightening, surely.”
“No, ma’am. Not…no, ma’am.”
“The problem with a reputation is that it can become a legend.” General Organa tugged at the shoulder of her uniform, adjusting it. She shrugged. “Don’t be deceived, Poe. I’m not a legend.”
Poe grinned and shook his head. “You’re not sitting where I’m sitting, General.”
“I’m a soldier, Poe. Like you. A soldier with rank and experience, too much experience, perhaps. But just another soldier.”
“If you say so, ma’am.”
“I do. And stop calling me ma’am.”
“Yes, General.”
She chuckled. “Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it? All right, Commander Dameron. Do you know why you’re here?”
Poe shook his head. Three minutes earlier, he’d have been relatively certain of the answer: that he was, at best, about to be knocked down to private and grounded for life.
“Tell me about the Yissira Zyde,” Leia said. “Everything.”
She listened intently, her chin in her hand, her elbow on her knee. Poe couldn’t remember ever having felt so heard by anyone in all his life. When he talked about the encounter at OR-Kappa-2722 she rose, moved to the maps marking fleet and troop movements, and examined them as she asked him to keep on speaking. She made notations on each map before returning to her seat, and when Poe finished she remained silent for almost a minute, staring past his shoulder at nothing, or perhaps at something only she could see. Memory or the future, Poe didn’t know which. Finally, she focused on him again.
“That was exceptionally foolish of you,” Leia said. “You barely got out of there with your life.”
“In my defense, General, there’s no way I could’ve known I’d find a First Order staging point.”
“But you hoped you would. Or something like it.”
“Yes,” he said.
“The need to do what’s right, and maybe find a little adventure along the way.”
Poe shifted in his seat.
“You remind me of my brother,” Leia said softly. “Fly like him, too, apparently.”
Poe looked at her, surprised and flattered at once. The question pressed him, begged to be asked, but before he could find the courage to voice it, she went on.
“Have you heard of the Resistance, Poe?”
“Rumors, mostly.”
“Such as?”
“Such as there’s a splinter of the Republic military that…that feels the Republic isn’t taking certain threats as seriously as they maybe ought to be taking them. Specifically the threat posed by the First Order.”
“That’s a very diplomatic way to put it, but not an entirely inaccurate one.” General Leia Organa exhaled and settled back in her chair, looking him over again. The smile returned, slighter, perhaps sadder. “You’ve made some people very angry, you know that, Poe? Not letting matters drop when you were told to, disobeying direct orders. Technically, one could argue that you stole a Republic X-wing for personal use.”
“I’m a Republic officer, General. I swore an oath to protect the Republic, to—”
She held up a hand. “No, you misunderstand. I like it. It was rash of you, as I said, it was foolish. But we could use some rash these days, and foolish and passionate are often confused, and passion is something we desperately need.”
Poe blinked.
“I can whitewash your little trip out to OR-Kappa-2722 for you. I can sweep it under the rug if you like. You can go back to leading Rapier Squadron and having your hands tied by Command, by Major Deso, by politicians who don’t recognize what’s happening right before their eyes. I can make it all go away, Poe.”
She leaned forward.
“Or you can join the Resistance and help us stop the First Order before it’s too late.”
“Where do I sign up?” Poe asked.
In the end, Karé and Iolo came with him, all that remained of Rapier Squadron taken under the wing of the Resistance, and for the next few months Poe found himself putting in more cockpit time than he had since training, now behind the stick of an older T-70 X-wing. Aside from the early recruiting efforts to find additional pilots, most of it was confined to scouting missions, long-range reconnaissance, searching for signs of First Order movement and positions—an attempt to, as General Organa put it, “find the head of the dragon.”
Rapier Squadron was transferred from Mirrin Prime and redeployed aboard a refitted Mon Calamari cruiser called Echo of Hope. Poe found himself, while still holding the rank of commander, now in charge of his own fighter wing, with Iolo and Karé both promoted to captain under him, each of them responsible for their own squadrons, Dagger and Stiletto, respectively. Between scouting missions there were briefings, debriefings, and countless meetings, often with General Organa herself, and Ematt, and twice with Admiral Ackbar, whom Leia herself had convinced to come out of retirement.
The Resistance, Poe learned, was small, but among its personnel were some of the most dedicated and motivated people he had ever met, coming from all over the galaxy. Most of the core command staff surrounding General Organa were veterans themselves, many with experience dating back to the Galactic Civil War, and more than once he found himself speaking to someone who had known his parents, who had flown alongside his mother, who had been in the trenches with his father. It was, strangely, like coming home, as if this was the place Poe had been meant to be all along.
But there were many who had never seen Endor or Hoth or any of the countless battles in between. Two of his new squadron—Teffer and Jess, both human—were younger than he and each of them had stories to tell about the First Order that made Poe all the more determined that he had made the right choice. There wasn’t one of them in the
Resistance who didn’t see the First Order for what it was, who didn’t believe that its threat was both real and pressing.
Despite that commitment, the Resistance found itself stymied. Republic space and First Order space were separated by a buffer zone of neutral systems, and the peace that had been negotiated—a peace that many, including Poe, believed existed in name only—meant that military action taken by one side upon the other was considered an overt act of war. It didn’t seem to matter that evidence of First Order incursions into Republic space continued to mount; the Republic refused to take any action outside of the most formal diplomatic protest. Striking directly at the First Order was out of the question. As Leia explained it to Poe, Resistance action had to remain covert, at least until irrefutable evidence of the First Order’s violation of the peace could be presented to Republic Command.
It was this that led to General Organa’s recruiting Poe for Operation: Sabre Strike.
“This is Senator Erudo Ro-Kiintor,” Leia told Poe. They were alone in her office aboard Home One, off of the situation room. “The senior senator from Hevurion to the Republic.”
The holo rotated slowly, showing a tall and thin human, entirely bald, wearing a narrow-slitted visor over his eyes. It was a press image, taken at some official function, and to Poe’s eyes Senator Ro-Kiintor looked overdressed and self-important, but that may have been more his personal bias than anything else. He wasn’t feeling particularly warm toward members of the Republic Senate these days.
“If you say so, General.”
Leia flicked a control on the display, and the image vanished, to be replaced by a similarly rotating schematic, this of a ship. It was sleek, short amidships but broadening away from the keel, with what Poe thought was an unnecessarily ostentatious flaring at the wings.
“This is the Hevurion Grace, Senator Ro-Kiintor’s personal yacht,” Leia said.