The Atmospheric Assault Lander separated silently from the Star Destroyer, cast out into cold, bleak space from the bright warmth of the Finalizer's hangar like a gently lobbed bomb, accompanied by three troop transporters just like it. Ahead, an orange ball in the endless night, lay the desert planet Jakku.
The excitement on board was palpable. FN-2199 nudged FN-2187 for the third time. "This is it!" he hissed.
FN-2187 stamped his feet to ward off the chill creeping through the metal hull. Nines was right - this was it. Their first mission off-base. No more sanitation duty, no more securing the muck lines or flushing the trash chutes. Their squadron had been promoted, rather unexpectedly, just that morning. Captain Phasma had ordered them to the situation bay and explained their elevated status with all the pleasure of a leg amputation. As soon as she departed, the troopers had reported for their new gear and weapons, cheering, whooping, congratulating each other. FN-2187 seemed to be the only one to wonder what had happened to the unit they'd suddenly replaced.
Just behind FN-2187, FN-2003 readjusted his grip on his blaster and muttered, "Should've peed before we left."
FN-2199 snorted, a brief burst of static through his helmet. "We'll be back before you know it, Slip. This suppression will be effortless. Jakku's an incompetent trader's outpost, nothing to wet your suit about."
Slip reached past FN-2187 and punched Nines in the small of his back, a quick jab in his armor plating the moment Captain Phasma was facing away. "I'm not scared, moron. I just drank too much."
FN-2187 was tugging at his chestplate, trying to give his throat an inch. "Anyone else's armor too tight?"
Nines glanced back. Another static burst of laughter. "Maybe you grabbed a suit from the women's supply."
"Maybe you wish you'd thought of it," Slip retorted, sneaking another punch past FN-2187. Watching his friends joke did nothing to settle his nerves. There was a tightness in his chest he couldn't account for, and his stomach was knotted like he'd eaten elapsed rations. Around him, while maintaining the appearance of professional soldiers in order to avoid Phasma's displeasure, the other stormtroopers were practically radiating anticipation. A trooper's first mission was his first chance to be noticed. His first chance to work his way up from the position he'd received in childhood. His first chance to escape randomly assigned fate.
Sweat slid down FN-2187's forehead. It was damn hot inside that infantry helmet. The sanitation helmets were vented better, not needing to protect the wearer from the toxic vapors of blaster fire or the concussive clouds of bomb strikes. Though, with the stench of the job, the sanitation helmet vents weren't nearly the benefit they were designed to be. Slip often stuffed his with clean rags, for the truly awful jobs. FN-2187 had just learned to put up with it.
They were his best friends, having grown up together, initiated as part of the FN class when they were just toddlers. He knew a handful of troopers outside his squadron, most by appearance only. The twenty men on the AAL with him were the only people who knew him at all. And, somehow, standing there in those tight quarters with them, headed to a mysterious planet to face unknown alien life, listening to their excitement at their impending chore, FN-2187 wondered how well they really knew him after all.
Someone laughed softly and Captain Phasma spun, shouting at them to settle down! Comport themselves! Her contempt ate through the air, dissolving the conviviality instantly. She didn't mourn the absence of the previous unit; she loathed every squadron equally.
The ship entered Jakku's outer reaches and everyone braced against the press of atmosphere. The dim overhead lights began to flicker.
"Remember," Phasma barked, seemingly immune to the sudden pitching of the ship that had everyone else planting their feet. "Fight those who fight back. Corral the rest."
The walls rattled, as if the ship itself were trying to subvert them. FN-2187 fought the resulting nausea. "Who are they?" he heard himself say. "Why are we fighting them?"
The blank black lenses of Phasma's chrome mask slid toward him. Everyone else seemed to be holding their breath. One or two dared to glance over.
For a long moment there was only the concessive thumps of the reverse thrusters and the deep rumble of landing gear. The lights dimmed further, then flashed once, twice. Without using any handholds, Phasma approached FN-2187, personally modified blaster rifle resting assuredly in her armored hands. She stopped at his left side. He wasn't sure whether to turn his head or not, so he peered sideways through his helmet.
"You object to my orders, Effen-Two-One-Eight-Seven?" Phasma murmured coldly through her mask.
FN-2187 could see the side of her helmet, the fold of red and black cape over her shoulder, and the rigidity of Nines' back just in front of him, as he pretended not to eavesdrop.
"No, Captain," FN-2187 replied.
"Is your enemy more important than your ally, Effen-Two-One-Eight-Seven?"
"No, Captain."
Phasma leaned in another inch. FN-2187 could see his reflection, or rather the reflection of his pristine white helmet, in the metallic finish of hers. He realized that was all she saw when she looked at him. "Do as you're told. Without question," she growled. "Or you'll be dealt with accordingly."
FN-2187 swallowed. "Yes, Captain."
The ship shuddered, everyone lurched, some seizing their handholds with a second grip. Phasma, however, barely moved. The light vanished and they were momentarily plunged into total dark, then the glow returned, appearing somehow brighter than before. Phasma stared into FN-2187's mask, close enough he could almost hear her breathing. Assuming she breathed at all.
The comm barked, making FN-2187 jump, as the pilot ordered landing preparation.
At last, Phasma turned away. She returned to her post at the front, and FN-2187 exhaled, the breath becoming a grunt when Nines stomped on his foot. Discipline for one meant discipline for the whole squadron, and FN-2187 spotted a number of menacing gestures his way, blasters tipped threateningly. He was running a hand inside the ribbed collar of his suit, stretching his neck and trying to get some air into his helmet, when he sensed Slip leaning close.
"I was wondering the same thing," his friend muttered quietly.
FN-2187 looked back. Slip was back in formation, head tilted slightly toward the wall. FN-2187 gave a small nod. After a pause, Slip returned it.
The AAL cut through the clouds and Jakku appeared through the miniscule windows, silvery tan in the moonlight. Sand dunes shaped the horizon, sprinkled with darker shapes that might have been trees, had those grown in this climate, but what FN-2187 quickly realized were tents. Among these were small campfires, and as they approached their destination, the tents grew closer together, becoming bigger, though no less primitive, buildings. Momentarily forgetting his anxiety, FN-2187 leaned toward the window and peered out, fascinated by what he was seeing. In all his life, he'd only ever been to three planets. Including the one on which he'd been born, though he wasn't sure that counted if he couldn't even recall the name of it, let alone what it looked like.
The ground rose up and the ship slowed further. Hulking tan huts gained detail; windows, doors, even flags whipping wildly in the ship's downgusts, too fast for him to make out.
The Jakku village of Tuanul.
They landed so softly, he wasn't sure he felt it. Just the sudden realization that they were no longer moving and solid ground now rested below their feet. Metal clinked, machinery beeped. With a muffled groan the disembarkment ramp descended, admitting swirling dust and sand brightly lit by the ship's spotlights. The view beyond that metal ramp was immediately obscured, but Captain Phasma stepped out first, black cape rippling, marching unflinchingly to the planet surface.
In practiced fashion, the lead troopers stepped into the aisle, blasters held like shields across their chestplates. One by one they descended and the next row followed. FN-2187 thought he heard Nines whisper, "This is it," but it may have been his imagination. They were marching forward, blinded by the beams - they were shouting, running, firing.
Dying.
It was that fast. As if a chunk of time had disappeared, in one breath they were on the ship, the next they were scattered, attacking, attacked. FN-2187 lost track of Nines ahead of him, running into the fray. He spun toward where Slip had been, just a moment before, the screams and blasterfire filling his ears to the point he thought he'd scream back, just to block it out.
There were bodies; animals, troopers, civilians. Flashes of his unit all around, moving just as he seemed to have become paralyzed, his useless weapon clutched tightly to his chest.
Slip. Just a few steps away. FN-2187 turned, but at that moment, his friend was blasted off his feet. Like a discarded sanitation crate, his friend's body was flung through the air, landing hard upon the sand, in a crevice. In shadow.
FN-2187 rushed to his side, dropping to his knees, pressing a hand to FN-2003's armor. Words should have come, but just as he'd rediscovered the ability to move, his voice in turn failed him. Slip coughed, spasmed, shook on the dirty ground. FN-2187 patted his sides, looking for the wound, finding it beneath Slip's gloved hand. Slip's gasping breaths were barely louder than his own, but quickly, too quickly they began to quiet. Shorten. Sputter.
FN-2187 shook his head. He pressed on the wound. No, he whispered over and over, inside his helmet. Inside his head. No.
Something crossed his field of vision and FN-2187 flinched. But it was Slip's hand, dripping red, settling gently on his mask. Touching his head as he had countless times before, a brotherly pat of comfort after a hard day of work, or an appreciative push after a dumb joke.
The hand fell. His breathing fell silent. His chestplate stopped moving. For a brief moment, FN-2187 could almost pretend his friend was asleep, unable to see the blank, empty gaze on his lifeless face.
A face he'd never see again.
Finn woke with a start, blasterfire still echoing amid the stench of imagined blood, and immediately lurched with pain.
"Be still," a voice cooed, a hand on his chest, pushing him back.
He swatted it away with one hand, groping for his blaster with the other, then looked around, breathing hard. He was in a sterile room, in a building, too quiet to be aboard any ship. There was no blaster. This was no longer the battlefield.
His mind flashed forward to the present, to the last thing he remembered. Fighting Kylo Ren in the snowy woods of Starkiller Base, armed with only a lightsaber.
Clearly, he'd lost.
Doctor Kalonia peered down at him, as if curious about something. Finn stared back in confusion.
After a moment, she pulled back, and shrugged unapologetically. "Never seen one of you without a mask." She turned, and began organizing her supplies on a nearby table. "Didn't think you'd be quite so human."
Finn made to sit up, but arched suddenly against the agonizing pain that speared through him, groaning.
"Stubborn stormtrooper," Kalonia muttered with a shake of her head.
"Finn!"
Finn opened his eyes to see Poe Dameron sweep in, huge grin spread across his face, hair wild around his head as if he'd only just removed his flight helmet.
Poe always looked like that.
He stopped at Finn's side and planted his hands on the table. "Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?" he asked brightly.
In response, Finn could only groan, eyes rolling back to the ceiling.
Poe nodded sagely. "That's what I thought."
"He needs to stop being a stubborn dolt and lie still," Doctor Kalonia admonished.
Poe scoffed. "He's been lying still for ages. Come on," he said, seizing Finn's arm without warning and hoisting him into a sitting position. Finn gasped, his back screamed, and sweat broke out on his face as he gripped the table edges and tried to balance himself.
Poe grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Better?"
The moment his vision stopped swimming, Finn shot him a resentful glare. Poe nodded, satisfied. "Excellent."
Kylo Ren had escaped capture from Starkiller Base, though not before being wounded by Rey. Finn perked at her name. But Poe shook his head. She'd left weeks ago, gone with Chewbacca and R2D2, in search of Luke Skywalker.
"They finished the map?" Finn asked breathlessly.
Poe raised his eyebrows excitedly and nodded. Completing the map had been his mission for too long to remember. Now, having succeeded, he was desperate for his next assignment.
An assignment Poe sensed he was about to receive.
Doctor Kalonia had released Finn only that morning, and very reluctantly at that. As he left the infirmary and crossed the Resistance base with the pained, hobbling gait of a geriatric happabore, it seemed every person Finn met felt the need to greet him with a giant congratulatory slap on the shoulder, the arm, the back. They'd heard of his duel with Kylo Ren, and seemed duly impressed by it, convinced of his heroism. The story that had circulated seemed to imply that he had attacked Kylo Ren of his own volition, exacting revenge for Han Solo's cold-blooded murder.
Not exactly the truth, but he didn't mind.
Once the third blow had landed, accompanied by a giant grin and a "Good to see you walking around," Finn found himself cursing every rebel he'd ever met. This was a vast improvement over the reserved reception he'd faced from others once they learned of his former position as a stormtrooper, but Finn was beginning to miss those days.
For one thing, they were far less painful.
As quickly as he could, Poe had informed his friend about what had happened since Starkiller was destroyed. While Finn was fighting nightmares of his traumatizing time under Captain Phasma's command, the First Order and the Resistance had regrouped, the latter on D'Qar, and the First Order to a location of unknown identity.
"Until now," Poe said, poking Finn in the chest. "Now we know exactly where they are. And now," he added with one more irritating poke, "we ship out."
Finn batted him away. "Now?" he asked incredulously, following Poe as he led the way past one guarded door after another, and into the base's central command.
Poe shrugged. "The world didn't stop working when you did."
Command was bustling. General Leia Organa stood among admirals, majors, commanders, and everyone who worked below these. While perhaps not as tall as most of the humans and aliens present, the general had complete authority over the room. At her order, a holographic map of a distant system of stars and planets appeared above the strategy board. Almost instantly, activity in the center ceased and all attention was on their leader.
Pointing to a small world of oblong shape, General Organa announced, "The First Order is here. Domandari." A tech hit some buttons and the graphic expanded, while the other stars and planets fell away. "A partially settled mining colony in the Neutral Territories, the First Order has quickly and effectively taken control and are killing civilians indiscriminately, removing any who offer opposition."
Admiral Ackbar growled. "How do we know this?"
"Citizens of Domandari who have escaped have made reports detailing the atrocities on their home planet. The First Order is already working on establishing a command base there."
Major Brance stepped forward and began detailing the terrain of Domandari, explaining its metal stores and divided populace of impoverished slave laborers and wealthy mine owners.
Finn had stopped listening. Too young to have been present at the groundbreaking of Starkiller Base, he had still heard stories of how the First Order had seized control of the forested planet, eviscerating the indigenous population and destroying the two nearest suns during practice tests for its devastating weapon, plunging the climate into year-round winter.
No one escaped the First Order.
No one except him, that is. Certainly not slaves and metal merchants caught by surprise in the Neutral Territories.
"How did the Domandarians find us to make these reports?"
The room fell silent at his question. All eyes turned to him. Admiral Statura, who had been providing a verbal list of ships and pilots capable of fighting, appeared vaguely annoyed at the interruption. General Organa, on the other hand, studied Finn briefly with a calculating look. Unless he was mistaken, and there was a very good chance that he was, the general was secretly pleased by his inquiry.
With a soft-spoken command, Leia ordered Statura to complete his report. Once done, she thanked him and dismissed the others, sending all unnecessary personnel out of the room. Finn turned to go as well, but she caught his eye and shook her head slightly. To his surprise, he was left alone with her, Ackbar, Statura and Poe when the blast door slid shut.
"They were sent to us," Leia said without preamble. "By someone working inside the First Order."
Beside him, Poe murmured the disbelief that momentarily rendered Finn mute. "There's a spy in the First Order?" he choked out when he found his voice again.
"Very highly placed," Leia confirmed. "Put there by my predecessor, General Enborn, and, unfortunately, their exact identity died with him. But the intelligence we've received over the years has been extremely reliable, and the Domandarians' reports all match what we know."
Years. A spy in the highest ranks of the Order.
Finn struggled to comprehend it.
"This morning," Leia continued, indicating the map, "we received the most distressing message to date. The people of Domandari are being annihilated, and with the Republic crippled, there is no one left to stand up for them. No one to resist them. Except us."
"But our forces were decimated in the fight over Starkiller Base," Finn cut in. "We have too few resources to attack them now."
"The First Order is weak as well," Leia pointed out patiently. "They are acting out of desperation, attacking a neutral planet in hopes of establishing a base. Desperation leads to poor decisions, and poor defenses."
Before Finn could respond, Leia continued, "We do not have the strength for an aerial assault, that is true. But we do have the ability to use the chaos on the ground to our advantage. Poe, you will take a team with you to the location Major Brance cited in his address. Report back to me what you find there, and be prepared to intercede if the opportunity arises."
Poe gave a short nod, already eager to begin. "Yes, General."
Incredibly, General Organa turned to Finn. "And how are you, Finn?"
He nodded solemnly, standing a bit straighter. "Ready to help."
"Doctor Kalonia released him a short time ago."
Leia looked at Poe for a moment, then back at Finn. "Good," she said simply. "Get what you need from the wares techs. You leave in the morning."
