The adrenaline had started to wear off by the time she'd reached the hangar. She was hungry, tired, cold. She caught her breath, tried to still her thumping heart, tried to show some of that composure that she always saw Imperials walking around with.
No, not composure. And not pride either. Arrogance.
She raised her head, lifted her chin, straightened her — Fortnum's — cap.
A Stormtrooper came hurrying over to her. She prayed it wasn't one of the soldiers who had delivered her meals in the brig.
It didn't appear to be.
"Ma'am." He saluted. "We're getting reports of a Rebel incursion. We sent three scout ships to investigate a few hours ago, and they have not returned. We haven't heard anything from them."
She raised an eyebrow, carelessly took the data pad from him. "And?" She was from Tatooine — at least that was where she'd spent most of her life — and superciliousness did not come naturally to her. But she reminded herself that she was supposed to be an Imperial officer, and that meant treating her subordinates like dirt. So she scoffed, glowered at the trooper.
The Stormtrooper seemed to be thinking. He glanced around the busy hangar, seemed almost unnerved not by the rushed orders and the other troopers running. No, she unnerved him.
"Spit it out, trooper."
"And they've engaged our ship in combat. You should—"
"I should?"
He checked himself. "What I mean, ma'am, is that officers have been requested to attend a meeting in the briefing room." He paused. "It's urgent."
She nodded slowly, looked back at the data pad. She wondered — feared — that he would question why she hadn't got that message herself. Because she wasn't really an officer. But he didn't seem to be unsure; he still seemed unnerved.
"Trooper," she said, trying not to suffocate under that Imperial façade. "We're in hyperspace. Why?"
"Ma'am?"
"I asked you a question." She had no idea how he would respond to that. How did the Imperial command structure work? Would all officers know exactly where they were going and when and why? Were the Stormtroopers kept in the dark? Surely not.
The Stormtrooper squared his shoulders. "We're en route to Ryloth."
"Ryloth?" she echoed quietly.
He nodded.
"Very well, trooper. I trust you've got duties to attend to?"
He nodded, saluted once more, and then he was off. She turned, realised that she would have to go to the briefing room or at least appear to be going in that direction. So she walked towards the door, and she got no further. Could have gone no further. Was trapped.
More troopers came marching in, armour clanking. But these ones were dressed all in black, and they brushed straight past her, made for the ships. They were in their shops in less than a minute, and then the blast-doors were open, and the ships were gone, dancing and twirling and spinning in the blackness of space. There was a series of pops as more and more enemy ships appeared out of hyperspace. The Imperial fighters engaged them, fought, were often victorious. She wondered how many of them would return.
Inside the hangar, there were urgent orders shouted at droids, soldiers running to and fro, and she saw Fortnum emerge in the distance. She still had his blaster but he had apparently got a replacement one as well a new uniform, and he had that weapon trained on her, and she knew she wouldn't be fast enough — or stupid enough — to initiate a firefight.
She wanted to live.
Then everything went white, and she feared she was dead. Her ears were ringing, and she couldn't see anything. Sparkles filled her vision, and she noticed an overturned gonk droid. Its legs were wiggling in the air, and beyond it, she noticed a few of the black-clothed Stormtroopers lying prone, spreadeagled. Yes, she was on a ship. Yes, they were in space. But she never expected to see the crew floating motionless, vulnerable, dead, in the dark vacuum of space.
Some sort of decompression?
She hauled herself onto her elbows, shrugged. If this was a decompression, she needed to get off the star destroyer. Now.
When she stood, she realised she'd fallen badly on her ankle.
When she touched a fingertip to her lip, she drew it back and saw blood.
When she looked around, she recognised the brunet hair of Fortnum. He wasn't moving. His blaster lay beside him.
She paused, thought about going over to him. For what? She sighed, turned back.
Through the now-open blast doors, she could see that a few more troopers had made it to their fighters and were engaging the enemy. Whoever the enemy was. She'd probably had dealings with them. She'd dealt with the Empire before too.
She stood, in awe, for a while, watching the tilting and swooping of the ships, engaged in their deadly combat.
She could use that distraction.
Shots fired overhead, all around, shooting through the air at the speed of light. She ducked, rolled, ran. She ran. She had her hands pressed firmly on her head, ever aware of — and ever grateful for — the stolen blaster at her hip. Guilt stabbed through her as she remembered that officer — Fortnum, she remembered his name was — who she'd taken the blaster from.
But that stab was momentary, as was the guilt. All she needed to know was how to leave.
But, still, she stole a glance at the doors. And there she saw Fortnum, still lying prone. She saw the pool of red, knew it was blood, and she told herself that though there might have been innocents in the Empire, it all came down to choosing the lesser of two evils.
Empire. Rebellion.
She would stand on whichever side offered her the most protection. She would choose purgatory.
And so she ran, kept low to the ground, as Stormtroopers yelled and shouted orders, as those shots continued to fire from every direction. As the white was eclipsed with that red, perhaps pooling out of Fortnum's head; as the blackness of space came closing in.
The engines were whining now, failing, and the ship was falling. She was falling.
As she drew herself up on her elbows, her ears were ringing, and she tasted blood. Tentatively, she brought a finger up to her lips, and when she drew it away, it was red. She winced, was on her knees, and then she was on her feet.
"Stop right there."
She flinched, scrambled for her blaster. But she told herself to stay calm. She was wearing an Imperial uniform. It clearly didn't fit but it was Imperial nonetheless. Which made her Imperial, didn't it?
She couldn't find her blaster. She only reached for — and found — debris and shrapnel. And some sharp piece of metal had apparently shredded her hand.
Soundlessly, she cried out. She pressed her good hand to the ground, pushed herself up onto her feet. When she finally stood, she planted her feet into the metal floor, desperate not to be shoved over by yet another explosion.
When she looked up through her matted hair, she saw the bloodied figure of Fortnum. His young face was contorted in pain, and he was squinting in the brightness.
"I said: stop there," Fortnum repeated. "I will not let you get away this time."
She stood still, eyes fixed on his face, hands raised in surrender.
"I never meant to hurt you," she said honestly. "Please, let me go. I've got nothing to offer you. Or your Empire. I'll be on my way."
"You will not."
Fortnum had not said that. From behind the wreckage of what used to be a fighter, another officer emerged. He wasn't sooty and blackened like Fortnum was; his uniform was pristine white. And he had a blaster, ready and trained on her.
Ophelia blinked, backed away. And then she was on her back again as another explosion rocked the star destroyer. The fuselage creaked, cracked, and she noticed flames appear on the outside of the hull. They were falling through the atmosphere of some planet which she assumed was Ryloth, and the ship was overheating, burning, self-destructing.
"Director, you should get to your shuttle," Fortnum said urgently.
Krennic raised a hand, silenced him. "Go."
"But, Sir—"
The director shot him a withering look, and Fortnum backed away but not without a glare at Ophelia.
"The Empire should've been more selective with choosing that one," Krennic muttered.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're criticising the Empire."
"No." He shrugged. If she looked hard — very hard — she thought she could see his arrogance falling away around him, crumbling. But she'd have to look very hard.. "I'm criticising him."
She made to slope for a place to hide, perhaps a shuttle or a larger piece of wreckage.
But he was too quick. He fired the blaster, and the bolt landed right next to her foot. She grimaced, caught his eye.
"You've already interrogated me. I'm leaving."
A swish of his cape, a flash of white, and he's raised his blaster. He fired it only once, and it missed, ricocheting off the hangar wall. Ophelia ducked, hid.
Before she knew it, she had found her way — whether by crawling or sprinting or sneaking, she couldn't quite remember — onto a small shuttle. It had apparently been sitting vacant in the hangar. They were in a battle; a shuttle would be of no help. All the fighters — apart from what she assumed was Krennic's personal craft — were gone. They were locked in their fatal dance in the skies, around the floundering star destroyer.
The engines booted up, and she pulled up on the throttle. It quickly aimed height and speed, and then she was through the blast doors. And then she was gone.
When she opened her eyes, it was silent. The blackness of space was interrupted by the orange-white of explosions and torpedo fire. And if she squinted, she could see the tiny bodies of troopers and pilots floating aimlessly, for all eternity, in space.
The shuttle was surprisingly agile despite its appearance and she shot easily through the firefight blazing all around her. Alarms blared at her, demanded her attention, and yet she ignored them. She needed to get the craft on the ground, wherever the ground was, whichever planet it was. She frowned, looked desperately down at the display. Mountains, forests. At least there would be some plant life. That meant a possible civilisation. It meant food and water and shelter.
She smiled. She allowed herself that smile. Perhaps this would be her ticket to freedom, a place she could start afresh.
And she supposed she should be thankful. She wasn't about to land on some barren ice planet like Hoth or a world covered in lava like Mustafar or another sandy desert like Tatooine.
It wasn't a wealthy place like Alderaan or Naboo, either, she thought scathingly.
But it was something.
And now she could relax, could breathe, could take a moment for herself. Squinting, she looked upwards, saw the red and orange and white of torpedo fire, and she wondered how many of those pilots' bodies would none littering the forest canopies below her. She shuddered.
But now there was little to do except wait and let the shuttle land. She had an hour or so. So she leant back, closed her eyes, slept.