Having a plan to see her again made it easier to compartmentalize her and he was able to go about his days with fewer distractions. He was finally able to catch up on the market reports, tracking the valuation of imperial credits against various indigenous currencies and to dog his engineers to accelerate the timeline for the completion of Star Killer Base.
Alone in the only conference room with a window, he drafted the comms message for the day: 'work harder to hasten the end of the republic'. The message was pointed directly at the engineering project management team that he had taken to task earlier that morning. He paged an ensign to come and collect it.
Ensigns Li and Bollinger arrived promptly and stood at attention.
"Take this and make sure this is the second shift message for today," he said, handing the note to Ensign Li.
"Do you want Captain Phasma to read it, Sir?"
"Yes. And make her do it this time, not that one deck officer that sounds like her. It's important that it's Phasma," he said. The other officer was sufficient the majority of the time, but this message required the menacing delivery of Phasma. He wanted his engineers to know he was serious about the timetable. Ensign Li saluted and was dismissed.
"Bollinger?"
Like the canny intelligence officer she was, Ensign Bollinger waited until the door shut before speaking, "Sir, we have been contacted by the Guavian Death Gang. They have some information that they would like to discuss with you."
"Pertaining to?" he drawled, rolling his wrist.
"They wouldn't say."
"Fine. Patch them through. We'll see if this is anything interesting." Bollinger took a seat next to him and began to set up the link. Armitage spun from side to side and tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair as she worked. She was good, but she tended to get flustered when it was just the two of them.
"I haven't got all day Ensign," he said as she struggled with the password, "And don't use that network, use mine."
"Yes Sir." Her blunt fingers stabbed the keys. Before making the connection, Ensign Bollinger paused and began to set up the recording equipment.
"What are you doing?" Armitage asked sharply, "Absolutely do not record this conversation, are you stupid?"
"Sorry, Sir. I'll make the connection now," she said. She turned the screen towards him and shifted to the side, to be invisible at his elbow.
The gangster appeared on the screen. Armitage immediately noticed several things: firstly, that the transmission was of excellent quality, so the gang either had exceptional equipment or they were very close, secondly that the man speaking to him looked exhausted and had blood on his cheek, and thirdly, he had been clever enough to conduct the call in front of a blank wall, leaving no clue as to what kind of ship he was transmitting from.
Ensign Bollinger wrote 'Bala-Tik' in block capitals on the paper beside his hand.
"I am speaking with General Hux?" the gangster asked, the accent heavy and difficult to place.
"You are. What would you like to tell me, Bala-Tik?"
"I have some information that you need."
"Go on, then."
"I'll need something in return."
It was always good when someone needed something. It made them weak. He asked, "What do you want?"
"My lieutenant Sema is jailed in Mos Eisley. I want you to release her." Bollinger pulled up Sema's record on the console next to the comm screen.
"It would seem that she is imprisoned for good reason," Armitage said mildly as he skimmed her arrest record, "Anyone else?"
"Tatu and Rufus," he said stupidly and without hesitation. Armitage tapped his fingers on the paper, but it wasn't necessary. Ensign Bollinger was already sketching out the command structure of the Guavian Death Gang.
"Do you want money?"
"I always want money, General," Bala Tik said, "But what I need is Sema. And when you hear what I have to tell you, you'll release all three and throw in some credits."
"I'll decide how valuable this is to me." Bala Tik thought for a moment, but it was show. He was obviously desperate.
"Agreed," Bala Tik said, "It's about the droid you've been looking for. It's aboard the Millenium Falcon. With Han Solo and your fugitives."
Armitage was excellent at controlling his expression, a skill that had literally been beaten into him by his father. But he couldn't help his eye brows from lifting, just slightly. Bollinger beside him had stilled. From a strategic standpoint this was a disaster, but it was the most welcome bad news he had heard in a while.
"Where are they now?" he asked. Bala Tik shrugged, and Armitage continued, "I will give you thirty thousand credits if you can tell me where they went."
"I can't help you, General. They jumped."
Beside him, Bollinger was already drafting a bounty on the Falcon and its crew. Armitage placed his hand on her forearm and shook his head. She nodded and deleted the message.
"Well, this has been most helpful and I appreciate your diligence in reporting. We'll release your Sema and give her an hour head start before we start chasing her again. As a token of my thanks, I'll send her with fifteen thousand credits."
"Pleasure doing business, General."
"Quite," and after Bollinger ended the transmission he added, "See to it that one of our agents follows her. It will be interesting to see if she heads straight home or strikes out on her own. Discretely find Kylo Ren. This information is sensitive, and I need to deliver it to him myself. I'll alert you when I want the bounty on the Falcon broadcast." She stood and saluted.
Alone once more in the conference room, he heard the tones heralding the start of the second shift and the subsequent message. He was pleased to note that it was indeed Phasma who delivered it. While he waited for Bollinger to return, he stared out of the window and thought about the weapon. Usually, it existed in his mind as a checklist, something theoretical that had not yet come into being. This was no longer true. His engineers were closer than he thought. The weapon would be ready soon.
Assuming the thing worked and didn't destroy all of them the first time they fired it, it would be the most powerful weapon that had ever been created. When he actually allowed himself to think about scale of it, he shuddered. Used wantonly, there would be nothing left of the galaxy. It had to be the only one of its kind, and the threat of it had to be absolute. It needed to bring about the unconditional surrender of the republic. The war, indeed all wars, could be ended in one shot and the mere existence of the thing would act as a deterrent to all future conflict.
He made a list of large planets with atmospheres of poisonous gas. A demonstration, perhaps, of the First Order's might? But supposed they weren't cowed? It would be a huge waste to blow up a planet and then have the official republican army and their bothersome militia force them to use it again.
Bollinger returned, "He's in his rooms." Armitage folded his notes and placed them in his pocket. He didn't have his mind made up, but he at least had some semi-coherent thoughts to guide the discussion when the senior leadership in an hour. He walked towards the suites where he, Ren, and Phasma had their rooms. He knocked on Ren's door and was admitted.
Their rooms were almost identical in their layout. Ren's was, admittedly, less cluttered, but that was solely because there was nothing in it; no books, no consoles, no trays that held reams of balancing paper towers. It felt like a museum, with display cases of weapons lining the wall. His table and chairs were pushed to the side, leaving an open space in the middle of the room where Ren sat cross-legged on a rug, his helmet beside him.
Ren continued to ignore him, facing a tall table as though meditating on its contents, which was probably exactly what he was doing. Peering closer, Armitage realized that the object of Ren's contemplation appeared to be a melted head. Yes, it was definitely a melted head. He was worshipping Darth Vader's melted head. Right. He cleared his throat.
"I have some intelligence that you need to hear," he announced. Ren sighed in annoyance and hefted himself to his feet. He crossed his arms and stared at Armitage in distaste.
"You had to interrupt me?" Not that he had been doing anything at all, but Armitage decided to keep this observation to himself.
"I think you would prefer that I don't impart this to you on the bridge."
"Let's hear it." His voice was higher and less menacing without the reverberation of the helmet. Ren regarded him coldly and Armitage couldn't help but to sharpen his own features in response, scowling back at him. He was not afraid of this lout, magic or no.
"The droid and the fugitive are with your father. Han Solo." Armitage was immensely gratified to see the full impact of his words as they struck Ren. Ren ground his teeth; his hands flexed into fists and a withdrawing tide of energy pulled towards him.
"I don't care," Ren growled, his tone barely controlled. Armitage heard the sound of the display case glass cracking.
"Obviously you do care. I wanted to tell you now so that when we discuss this with the senior leadership and later the Supreme Leader you are in full control of your facilities, and we don't have to pause for you to pitch a fit and destroy something."
Kylo Ren did not move any closer to Armitage, but he seemed to grow larger and darker, looming over him. Armitage didn't flinch, though he was aware that Ren could snuff him out without moving. The dark energy withdrew suddenly and dissipated like mist. Ren again appeared to be his normal size and seemed overwhelmingly mortal. Armitage no longer had the sensation that there was a guillotine poised over his neck.
"This was petty of you, General."
"I was merely paying you a courtesy. Though if you have any insight into where you father may have gone, I'd find it useful."
"I have no father. But I'm no bastard." The word sat in the air between them and if Armitage thought he had the slightest chance of winning, he would have punched Ren across the face. Instead, he straightened his bastard shoulders. Kylo Ren liked to assume he was the tallest man in any room. But he and Armitage were closely matched and Armitage pulled himself up to his full height to remind him of that.
"Thank you so much for that incredibly useful piece of information," Armitage sneered.
"If the droid is with Solo, they will soon find Skywalker," Ren growled, apparently satisfied that their posturing contest had ended in a draw and directing his anger elsewhere.
"But why does that matter? We have a weapon so powerful that a hundred Luke Skywalkers in one hundred X-wings couldn't destroy it."
"Don't make assumptions about things that you don't understand. I would advise keeping such ignorant comments to yourself."
He found himself sitting across Kylo Ren as the meeting of the high command began. The other generals appeared as holograms around the table. Phasma had to change seats because General Parandee was awkwardly superimposed on her. He was gratified that Quinn and Parandee shared his skepticism about the role Skywalker would play in the coming conflict, but he held his tongue as Ren had advised. However, no one shared his opinion that they showcase the weapon's force on a useless planet and demand unconditional surrender.
"You can't squirm out of a battle this time," Enric Pryde said, "We can show no hesitancy."
Armitage was an average tactician. He scored well in simulations, but when it came to battle, he tended to overthink and underact, as his father used to put it. His greatest military victories had been underwhelming. He made a spectacle and then he made demands. Not infrequently, this strategy worked well, though behind his back this was referred to as a 'Huxian' victory. His utility was in intelligence work and psy ops, in grooming soldiers to be loyal, and in prudent funding of research and development. His engineering corps was the biggest in the First Order. So, while it was his corps that had overseen construction of Star Killer Base, he knew that continuing to advocate for the destruction of a garbage planet would cost him the command. He couldn't look hesitant. Hosnian Prime was selected as the target. It was the obvious choice. Strike the seat of government and the Republican weapons cache. As soon as the weapon was ready, this was the course they would bring before the Supreme Leader.
When the meeting concluded, Ren disappeared, whisking out of the conference room with an angry snap of his cloak.
"Hosnian Prime is the appropriate target," Phasma said as soon as Ren was out of earshot.
"Yes. It certainly seems that way."
"How will you ensure that you are the one that proposes it to the Supreme Leader?"
"I'll know when it's done. Then I'll request an audience."
"Does it worry you how close Kylo Ren is to the Supreme Leader?" Leave it to Phasma to say the quiet part out loud.
"The Supreme Leader is wise. Kylo Ren is a weapon. But all weapons need a hand to wield them." Despite her mask, he could tell that Phasma understood that by the same logic, she was the weapon in his hand. Perhaps insulting, nevertheless true.
"I'm going to head back down to the barracks and supervise another simulation," she said stiffly.
"Actually, Phasma, I need you up on the bridge."
"Why?"
"I need you to supervise Peavey and make sure he doesn't captain the Finalizer directly into a star."
"Why?" Her tone was hard and suspicious.
"Because I will not be immediately available to answer his constant questions."
There was a quickening anticipation in his blood as he finally allowed himself to think about tonight's assignation. It amused him that all of the other generals had to work around this afternoon's meeting. He had scheduled it so as not to be in conflict with his preparations for dinner with Beatrice. He showered, combed his hair up in the high pompadour, put on cologne, brushed his teeth and put on a clean uniform, his boots polished, and his jacket pressed.
The sofa in the living area was presently up in the wall. He had the bad habit of laying down on it and working through the night, only sleeping in short bursts; he was trying to improve his sleep hygiene by removing the temptation. To get ready for her, he pulled the sofa out. When the food came up from the kitchens he set it on the coffee table. He'd realized during the first dinner that his desk was too formal, and it felt like he was giving her a performance review. Lifting the lid, he smelled the spicy, sauced fish that reminded him so strongly of Arkanis. It affected him more than he thought it would and he suppressed the memories it released. Food to make him distraught indeed. He tapped a fingertip in the sauce. It was not as flavorful as his mother's, but it would do. The wine was crystalline chartreuse, crisply mineral and herbaceous and he was grateful for the glass-and-a-half he drank before she arrived.
They didn't sit next to each other on the sofa, but he had been correct in that the informal setting was better suited to whatever this was. His knee nudged into hers, but she didn't seem to mind. Their conversation was superficial but there was an effervescence between them. He felt almost careless. She drank his wine and said she enjoyed it, she ate his food and asked why he'd chosen it, to which he replied that nothing made him more upset than this particular dish. She'd heartily laughed at that. They were not thirty minutes into their dinner, just sliding into the rhythm of conversation and getting deeper when someone knocked on the door with urgency.
"Ensign Bollinger. What can I do for you?" Ensign Bollinger did a poor job of masking her surprise at his appearance: he had answered the door at this late hour in full parade dress, hair high, and scented like a wooing troubadour. His goal had been to look presentable, he now realized he had overshot the mark. He wished that the door had hinges so he could hide Beatrice as Ensign Bollinger peered curiously over his shoulder.
"I know you said not to disturb you, Sir, but the Supreme Leader needs to speak with you directly. He's already addressing Kylo Ren in the conference room." Damn. He really couldn't object to a summons.
"I'll be back shortly," he said to Beatrice, and he left her sitting alone in his room.
He started to feel nervous, and it took every effort not to look at his watch. He couldn't end the meeting, not now when he was being awarded a prime position. This was more important: this was about war and worlds. She would wait for him. But the moment he was dismissed from the Supreme Leader's presence (Ren had to stay), he all but ran back to his quarters. It had been almost two hours. and the probability that she was still there was low. It was late and they'd dimmed the hall lights already. She'd understand. She was prudent. He opened his door, wondering if he even needed an excuse or if his absence was justified.
She rested the side of her head on his sofa, asleep. She couldn't have looked more uncomfortable, her ankles still crossed on the floor, her pale neck bent awkwardly. Armitage allowed himself a moment of unwitnessed panic. He wanted to move her but what if she woke up while he was holding her? Did he have a blanket he could put over her? If she was that tired, why hadn't she gone back to the dorm where the MOs slept?
And then it dawned on him that she hadn't left his room because she had not been dismissed. He had thought of her inferior rank only in terms of protecting himself. He assumed that she would be flattered to receive his attention. He hadn't thought that perhaps everything up to this point had just been to appease him.
She probably thought he was a monster, and if she didn't play this role of the smiling whore he would sell her into slavery on Jakku or shoot her in the hallway. Every laugh was now suspect. She must absolutely hate him. How could he be so foolish, so blind, to not see that it had all been an act, an acquiescence to his rank? She probably went back to the infirmary and regaled the other MOs with how precious and inept he was. How impotent.
This situation was partially her fault too. If she hadn't wanted his attentions she could have complained to human resources and requested a transfer. She could have been a worse actress, so that he knew that it wasn't real. He ran his hand across his mouth while he stared at her. He was as bad as his father, and that thought stung like a slap.
He was still deliberating what to do when she woke, looking confused. He opened his mouth, to apologize or reassure her he wasn't sure, but her expression of naked fear cut him to the very core. She shot to her feet and bowed her head.
"Forgive me, Sir," she said and fled the room.
That night he drank the rest of the wine alone and passed out on the sofa, the wine having anesthetized him to his own anxiety. Acting like his father and tasting the heavily spiced food that reminded him of his mother primed him to dream about Arkanis, and the substance of the dream haunted him when he awoke in the middle of the third shift, head pounding and mouth dry. He couldn't fall back asleep, so he tortured himself with memory.