He was gone before she could process what he meant, and she slipped to the floor, breathing hard, wiping sweat off her forehead with an equally sweaty forearm. She was seriously in need of a shower, which was going to present a challenge, since she didn't actually have a room to put a shower in. She towelled off as much of the damage as she could with the contents of the drawer he'd shown her, and then hopped out into the corridor, longing for her staff.

Life had returned to the Star Destroyer in response to some secret signal or other and she was caught up in a fast-moving stream of busy people hurrying one way or another as if their lives depended on it, which it was possible that they did. No one, but no one, would catch her eye, although she was sure they all knew who she was. She was the only person not in uniform for a start, and one of the very few not in black.

She hailed a passing droid, sure that its facial recognition programme meant that she wouldn't have to go through some painful process of introduction. 'Could you show me where my room is, please?'

'This way, Supreme Leader.'

She was still in post then, despite spending three days in prison and trying her very best to kill the real Supreme Leader. The droid led her to a lift somewhat off the main flow, which she didn't have to share with anyone and went to only one floor. It disgorged her into a corridor so shiny it must have needed waxing every hour and she pressed her hand onto a burnished black wall, just to see if the imprint would still be there when she next went past.

'Who cleans this?' she asked.

'Service personnel.'

The droid indicated a set of double ebony doors with obsidian trim set into a jet wall. The First Order were very committed to their colour scheme.

'Not droids then?'

'No, Supreme Leader.' The droid bowed slightly, and headed off.

The doors unlocked readily to her fingerprint. 'One more thing.' She poked her head back into the corridor. 'Where is the other Supreme Leader's room?'

The droid pointed a finger at the next door along.

'Of course it is.'

She'd been given a suite, not a room, which opened directly into an office, dominated by a massive desk, which was itself dominated by the even more massive First Order insignia hanging on the wall. She frowned at it briefly, before reaching out remotely and tearing it down. The next room along was a lounge, containing several banks of screens, a full size holopad for all the urgent shouting at subordinates she'd have to do, and an entire wall full of motivational material for the First Order, which would need to find the incinerator in short order. The bedroom came next, the bed approximately as large as Jakku, and refreshingly, not black.

But she couldn't spend any time on it, because the bathroom was calling and, after too much time trying to work out what the various knobs and buttons were for, she was finally able to wash the fight away.

There was no question of putting her stained clothing back on again afterwards so she headed for the wardrobe to see what final horrors it held in store. Someone had thoughtfully provided a wide range of replacement raiment, all in her size and all, inevitably, in black. There were uniforms of various styles and descriptions, a couple of long tunics, baggy trousers, tight pants, something made completely of leather and right at the back, the last and most appalling depravity. A dress. A high necked, long sleeved dress with an integral hood, to be worn with a thick leather belt, its full skirts slashed to mid-thigh with high black boots neatly paired beneath. She suspected that if she really dug around in the back of the closet she'd find the matching helmet.

Sighing heavily, she returned to the bathroom and began scrubbing at her old clothes, although when she'd finished, even they looked a lot greyer than before. She wrapped herself in a robe, drifted back into the office and spent a while exploring the terms of her captivity.

She'd realised from the time the databanks on the shuttle had unaccountably started working that there was no chance of escape. She had read only access to the First Order military archives, command structure, construction schedules, troop deployments, credit records, purchasing datasets and everyone everywhere had been told to tell her anything she wanted. But she couldn't leave. Her access didn't extend to any form of transport, she was banned from all meetings of the military elite and her access codes wouldn't work the long-range communications array. This was a much bigger ship, but she was still a prisoner.

Added to that, the man who owned the room next door, the man she was struggling not to think about, knew she was trying to help the Resistance and knew she wanted to kill him. Despite 'join me' and the thing he'd said to her at the end of the fight, which she was also struggling not to think about, he wasn't going to let her go. She would have to find her own way out.

In the meantime… She pushed a button on the desk, and, because it was that sort of desk, a lackey on the other end answered immediately. 'Yes, sir.'

'Call me Rey. There were some files on my shuttle I didn't finish reading, could you have them transferred over please? And could you find me a needle and thread?'

'Of course, Supreme Leader.'

'Thank you…?'

'Myakka, Supreme Leader.'

'Thank you, Myakka.'

She opened the door a few minutes later to a young man with a virulent skin condition, who shifted on the spot as if he'd forgotten to go to the toilet.

'Hi,' he started brightly, and from then on degenerated into gabbling. 'That is, I mean, good evening Supreme Leader, sir. Ma'am. Supreme Leader. I didn't mean to say hi, it just came out and I've forgotten the salute. I always forget the salute, don't kill me for it, I'm not important enough.' He took a breath. 'I'm the tailor you sent for.'

'I didn't really send for a tailor, I can sew perfectly well myself.'

The boy gave her a sceptical look. 'They made me watch a film about you. If you made the clothes you were wearing in it then I doubt you know what a needle is.'

She opened her door and let him in.

'My name is Haight, Supreme Leader.' He bobbed a bow at her.

'I'm Rey and I'm only going to kill you if I catch you bowing to me, Haight.' She eyed the wardrobe balefully. 'I'd like you to make me something to wear that isn't black.'

He beamed at her.

A couple of hours later she was standing on her office desk, arguing.

'I'm telling you, you should wear it. You can really carry it off.'

'It's too long, it'll get caught under my boots.'

'Give me some credit. It's a fraction above the floor, it won't get caught and everyone who is anyone around here wears a cloak.'

Haight had made her an outfit as close as possible to the one still drying in the bathroom, although he hadn't been able to replicate the sleeves and he'd had to make use of the wide leather belt from the closet to stop it bagging at the waist.

He held out a hand and helped her down. 'There, all done. You look amazing.'

She eyed herself in the mirror. The top was a little bit more low cut than she'd been hoping for, the trousers a little bit too tight but she could move in it and she even had a useful hook on the belt to hang her lightsaber.

'Well,' Haight began packing away his tools. 'That's the most fun I've had here in a long time.'

She swished the cloak a bit, still unsure. 'Don't you like working here?'

He snorted. 'Like it? I don't have a choice, of course I don't like it.'

Her hand flashed to her mouth. 'You're not a slave, are you? I'm so sorry, I should have asked. I would have made this myself rather than let you do it.'

'I'm not a slave, I get paid, but I'd rather not work for the army.' He flicked at his uniform in distaste. 'The quality isn't what it was. I was transferred here because there are such problems with the clothing manufacturers on Bak'Sharat. The First Order is running short of uniforms and they're having to employ people like me who can make them from scratch, so the generals don't have to wander round in their underwear.'

'What's the problem on Bak'Sharat?' Rey named a planet she'd never so much as heard of.

'You should talk to my friend Janeek, he's from there, he'll tell you all about it.'

'Is he a tailor?'

'No, he's your cleaner.'

Her desk, because it was that sort of a desk, contained a copious amount of Corellian brandy, most of which Janeek had polished off, by the time Rey managed to manoeuvre him round to uniforms.

'My mum says it's awful in the factories at the moment. She's had a stormtrooper at the end of her bench every day just to make sure she keeps working. Right nasty one he is too. Followed her into the loo yesterday.'

'Why is a stormtrooper in a factory?' Rey wondered. 'Doesn't sound very dangerous.'

Janeek pursed his lips. 'You've never met the labour unions of Bak'Sharat. The First Order pay everyone in this.' He dug in his pocket and flipped over a coin, with a familiar logo on both sides.

'It's a credit,' Rey shrugged.

'No, it's a First Order credit. It's worth about the same as half a real one. When you work for them you get free board and lodging, but they only pay you in these things. And you can only spend their money on worlds controlled by the First Order as well. That was fine when an Order credit was worth the same as a proper one, but they keep issuing more and more, and now they're trying to pay their suppliers in this junk as well. The unions won't have it. A fair day's work for a fair day's pay they say, not half of it with a pretty picture on the side. They won't make the products if the Order doesn't pay, and it prefers to try to bully then instead, which is why my mum has to put with JK4785 or whatever he calls himself.'

Rey shook her head. 'I don't know much about trade disputes, I'm afraid.'

'It isn't just a trade dispute any more. The Bak'Sharat unions have been onto the ones in in the Telanian system, them who make the weapons and they've linked up. Planning a grand strike, they are. It'll be huge. I can't wait to see the First Order generals marching around without their blasters and their pants.'

'I know someone who knows about the Telanian system,' she mused. 'Maybe I'll ask him.'

She placed the call the moment they'd left, a little disconcerted to have a full-size Captain Ocram standing in her lounge wearing only his pyjamas.

'What keeps you up so late, young lady?' he asked, with a wrinkled smile. 'I'm too tired to talk about the ethics of power this evening.'

'Can you take me to Telanian system? I want to talk to the unions.'

His smile faded a little. 'That might be tricky. I'm allowed to talk to you, but there are orders confining you to The Reaper. You're not allowed to travel.'

'Could you at least ask? I'll see what I can do from here.'

He yawned. 'In the morning.'

If she could get off the ship there was a chance she'd be able to escape, join the Telanian rebels or at the very least persuade them to get a message to the Resistance and ask for help. But first, she'd have to get someone to change the orders, and the best place to start was with the man who had issued them.

Early the next morning she found her way back to the side room off the hangar, and waited until he sensed where she was and came looking. The mask was back; he seemed to be needing it more these days. His hand hovered over the handle of his weapon.

She took a deep breath, and reminded herself sternly that she was only doing this, so she could escape, or kill him, whichever came first, and she said. 'Train me. Please.'

He pressed the catches on either side of the helmet, took it off, squinted at her. 'Are you wearing a sheet?'

I can't post on Monday so I'm putting this up now - next chapter on Friday, as usual. We're going to be spending some time aboard The Reaper - a name I'd finished writing about before I realised it had already been used, so for the purists among you, think of this ship as The Reaper 2.