From a purely objective point of view, the weapon was a technological marvel. The Death Star had been the size of a small moon; Starkiller Base would require an entire world. Its power was unrivaled in the history of the galaxy. Hux had heard whispers in far-flung tapcafs of long-ago stations with the power to crush worlds, to hold entire star systems together through ancient engineers' mastery of gravity, but Hux saw nothing to suggest these whispers were anything more than myths. There was an entire galaxy of wonders to be discovered. Surely a system of five inhabitable worlds was not so improbable as to require such a tale.
But Starkiller… Starkiller Base was the monster hiding in the shadows and under the beds of children everywhere. They would hear, on schoolyards across the galaxy, whispers of a weapon that devoured suns, that reduced star systems to their composite molecules with only the pull of a lever. When they were tucked in at night, the specter of the base would be there with them, and they would ask their parents or nanny droids to assure them that the monster isn't real, that it can't hurt them. And though their caregivers longed to tell them otherwise, they would have no comforting words to offer. For before Starkiller, all of them were children, unsure when it would emerge from under their beds to strike. It was incredible.
But more importantly, it was his. The culminations of years of effort, of demanding nothing short of perfection both from himself and those around him, was now so close that he could practically reach out and touch it.
Since he had been shown the plans three days prior, Hux had been the single fixed point in a flurry of activity. He would have to cede control of his fleet, including the Leveler, to another, as-of-yet unnamed general, and there were mountains of work to be done before the transfer could take place. He had to finalize the core team of individuals that would transfer with him Starkiller Base and find temporary replacements for them among the rest of the crew. Then there would be the new general to brief, paperwork to be finished, and his own packing to do. And that didn't include the usual work as well as the dozens of small tasks that arose whenever a gear shifted in a well-oiled machine.
Unfortunately, he could only work on a few of those tasks while trapped aboard this shuttle, and it would be several days until they rejoined the Leveler. Though he did hate to delegate important tasks, for though he trusted Tellers and Phasma to do well, there was always anxiety involved in leaving essential tasks to eyes less detail-oriented than his own, circumstances occasionally called for such measures. He spent hours hurrying through the forms he could do without being personally aboard the Finalizer and making endless corrections and changes to his list of personnel to bring with him. Tellers was essential, as was Phasma, as he doubted he would find better among the core command group already stationed on what would someday become Starkiller Base, but the others constantly rotated. Hux wanted to leave a few capable individuals to smooth the transition for the next general, but he also would need all the help he could get directing the construction of Starkiller.
The headache pills the medical droid had given him helped, but even with them, nine hours of staring at his datapad became unbearable. Hux massaged his temples, hoping it would be enough to get him through another hour or so. When he looked back down at the screen, the words danced before him in a nauseating blur. Never mind, then. He supposed a quick check-in with the pilot was in order. He ducked into the cockpit. Though certainly taller than the average human male, Hux had never considered himself unusually tall, but he could not stand in the low-ceilinged cockpit of his assigned shuttle. That would have to change with his new assignment.
"Good evening, General." On board shuttles, the usual requirements became somewhat relaxed. He had to admit he appreciated it, even if he would never implement such changes onboard the Leveler.
He nodded to the man. "And to you as well. How many hours do we have left in transit?"
"Seven, sir, but we'll be making a short detour. We've received a signal from an agent requesting extraction."
Hux frowned. He should have been informed before any such decision was made. "No. I must be back on board the Leveler as soon as possible."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I have orders from Lord Ren. He insisted that we pick him up on our way back."
That was a name he had hoped to never hear again. Just when he thought he might have escaped Ren forever, the man insisted on becoming an even larger nuisance. This wasn't helping his headache. "And what happened to Lord Ren's shuttle? He has always been adamant that no one else be allowed to come too close to it."
The pilot shook his head. "I don't know. All I have are coordinates where we're supposed to rendezvous with him."
Oh, excellent. He had gone and destroyed his shuttle. One could at least hope it had been in a battle of some kind and not one of those temper tantrums Ren was so fond of throwing, but Hux knew Ren too well to assume there was a legitimate reason for such destruction. "When will we be rendezvousing with Lord Ren?"
"We have half an hour left in hyperspace, sir."
"Very good. Carry on." Much as he was loathe to do so, Hux went back to his cramped office and powered his datapad back on. He ought to get some work done while he still could. Ren, he was sure, would find some way to distract him the instant he came on board.
Two hours. He looked down at his chrono yet again. No, two and a half hours they had been waiting, and Ren still had not bothered to show or comm in. Hux had already ordered the pilot to check the coordinates twice, and he had looked them over himself as well, and he was entirely confident now that fault lay entirely with Ren. He supposed there was a bit of poetic justice to what would hopefully be their last meeting being so much like their first, but that did nothing to dull his annoyance. Had Ren not demanded that they pick him up, Hux would be back onboard the Leveler right now. Instead, he was stuck in some disgustingly humid jungle that had practically glued his clothes against his skin. Even though he had only stepped outside the shade for a half hour or so to see if Ren was somewhere nearby, he could feel the feverish effects of a sunburn taking hold. Hux was certain that his skin would be bright pink when he woke up tomorrow morning, and knowing that Ren was to blame for his discomfort did nothing to make it more bearable.
Hux had taken position under the wing of the shuttle. He had long ago given up on getting any more work done today, and here, he was at least partially shaded from the sun's rays. He spun around the moment he heard steps on the ramp to see the pilot coming down. "Did he respond?" Hux already knew the answer, but he really hoped Ren would surprise him.
He shook his head. "No, I couldn't get ahold of him. What should we do, sir?"
Hux considered their options for a moment. If Ren were to show up and they had left, it would be unpleasant for all involved. On the other hand, he had important business to attend to, and waiting for Ren on some hellhole wasn't helping anyone. "We'll give him another half hour. If he's not here by then, we'll leave a message for him to find another shuttle."
"Very good, sir."
He heard a familiar sound from the brush, and purely out of instinct, Hux ducked. Training had ingrained certain movements into him, and he had his blaster out of his thigh holster only a split second after the blaster bolt struck the wing behind him. "Get the ship ready for takeoff! We're leaving as soon as possible!" he shouted to the pilot, not bothering to check if he was even still outside. Hux did not bother to aim, instead shooting wildly into the dense brush as he moved behind the wing. It wouldn't shield him forever, but it at least provided some cover.
The forest went still for a moment, and as his eyes flicked over the area, searching for anything amiss, he reached for his comlink. The guards should have stopped the threat, whatever it was, before it got this close to him. "FI-289, come in." No response came. Incapacitated or dead, it really made no difference to him. "LS-311, come in." Again, no response.
Nothing had moved in the brush for several seconds. He shot randomly into the trees just to see if it would make his assailant move. It didn't, and through the exhaust port, he could feel the engine beginning to come to life, so he edged out of his spot. The instant he moved, Hux heard a sound in the trees, and he again shot into the brush. Then, a dark figure erupted from the trees blasterfire surrounding him, and he squeezed the trigger a dozen more times in rapid succession. When he recognized Ren, his eyes widened, and Hux had just enough of his wits still about him to direct his fire away from the knight and towards the other figures that had begun emerging from the jungle.
Ren was a masterpiece. His blade whirled around him as he spun towards the Resistance troops, for, Hux belatedly realized, that was what their enemies had to be, and he was reminded of nothing so much as the Mon Calamari water ballet his mother had taken him to once as a child. The dancers had a grace to them that Ren's solid frame would seem incapable of, but he outshone them in a way that made Hux never want to look away. Still, there was a fight to be won, and he could not remain both distracted and alive for long. Hux added to the blasterfire that scattered the clearing, doing his best to avoid Ren, though the man moved so quickly and erratically that it was difficult not to send a few towards the knight.
Ren batted away several shots, and one of the Resistance troops screamed as his own bolt pierced him through the chest. Another fell as Ren sliced him from shoulder to abdomen, leaving a clean, diagonal burn through his torso. The numbers might still be on the Resistance's side, but the momentum had shifted. Hux allowed himself a grim smile as he aimed at a female human perhaps a few years older than himself. He had just begun to squeeze the trigger when a crippling pain flowered against his chest. He dropped to his knees, losing his shot, and the blast was lost into the wing of his shuttle.
He breathed heavily, trying to hold on to any concrete thought. It hurt, it hurt terribly, pain on a magnitude he had never felt before. Hux traced its source to the left side of his chest. It couldn't be his heart, or he'd be dead already and it wouldn't still hurt. He held onto that. Breathe, it's not your heart, breathe, it's not your heart. The fight before him faded in and out with shadow and that Mon Cal ballet until he wasn't sure which was which, or if it really made any difference at all.