ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DELILAH S. DAWSON is the writer of the Blud series, the Shadow series (as Lila Bowen), Servants of the Storm, Hit, Strike, and a variety of short stories and comics. Dawson teaches writing courses online for LitReactor and lives in Florida with her family.

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Twitter: @DelilahSDawson

Facebook.com/DelilahSDawson

ABOUT THE BOOK

Discover the intriguing origin of the mysterious and formidable Captain Phasma.

One of the most cunning and merciless officers of the First Order, Captain Phasma commands the favour of her superiors, the respect of her peers, and the terror of her enemies. But for all her renown, Phasma remains as unknowable as the impassive expression on her gleaming chrome helmet. Now, an adversary is bent on unearthing her mysterious origins — and exposing a secret she guards as zealously and ruthlessly as she serves her masters.

Dee inside the battle cruiser Absolution, a captured Resistance spy endures brutal interrogation at the hands of Cardinal, a crimson-armoured stormtrooper. But the information he desires has nothing to do with the Resistance or its covert operations against the First Order.

What the mysterious stormtrooper wants is Phasma’s past – and with it whatever long-buried scandal, treachery or private demons he can wield against the hated rival who threatens his power and privilege in the ranks of the First Order. Though his prisoner has what Cardinal so desperately seeks, she won’t surrender it easily. As she wages a painstaking war of wills with her captor, bargaining for her life in exchange for every precious revelation, the spellbinding chronicle of the inscrutable Phasma unfolds. But this knowledge may prove more than just dangerous once Cardinal possesses it – and once his adversary unleashes the full measure of her fury.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, or maybe it was 2015, I bought a vanilla cupcake at the grocery store because it had a plastic Darth Vader ring stuck in the frosting. As I held the cupcake, I made a wish on it: I wanted to write a Star Wars novel. A few weeks after shoving that cupcake in my mouth and devouring it in two gigantic, messy bites, I was invited to write “The Perfect Weapon.” A year later, I was offered the immense honor of writing Phasma.

Getting to write stories in the Star Wars universe is a dream come true for me, and I’m so grateful for the chance to be a part of something that’s been so important throughout my life. I’d like to thank everyone who works on Del Rey Star Wars, including Elizabeth Schaefer, Tom Hoeler, Jen Heddle, Shelly Shapiro, Michael Siglain, David Moench, Julie Leung, the Story Group, and the publicity folks who take great care of us authors at cons (and everywhere else). Thanks to my agent, Kate McKean, for helping me navigate even when she isn’t quite sure who Yoda is. Thanks to my best buddies Kevin Hearne and Chuck Wendig, who passed on their priceless knowledge about writing canon, as well as the support of Ty Franck, Daniel Abraham, Matt Stover, Christie Golden, Claudia Gray, Tim Zahn, Janine K. Spendlove, Beth Revis, E. K. Johnston, Kelly Thompson—heck, to all the amazing Star Wars writers, with extra hugs to the #StarWarsGirlGang.

I’m so grateful to everyone who reads my books and to those who review, podcast, retweet, blog, or otherwise take the time to spread the word. Star Wars fans are the best fans. Thanks to the 501^st for inviting us to their amazing party at Star Wars Celebration Orlando—and for doing so much good in the world. And a shout-out to all the Bazine Netal and Captain Phasma cosplayers. I don’t think I’ll ever stop squealing when I see your amazing costumes.

Thanks to my husband, Craig, for always being my biggest fan and favorite person and for being just as nerdy about Star Wars as I am—but, again, you should feel very bad about killing me with Noghri. Thanks to my kids, both secretly name-dropped in this book, for being awesome. Thanks to my mom, Linda, for helping wrangle the Padawans while I was writing. And thanks to my much-loved plush Princess Kneesaa, who’s been with me since Christmas 1983. I am and will always be #TeamMurderbear.

May the Force be with y’all, and thanks for reading!

THERE’S SOMETHING COMFORTING about hyperspace. Running to or from trouble, it’s always the same. Steady, beautiful, soothing—even for spies carrying highly sensitive intel that plenty of people would kill to possess.

As the stars zip by and Vi Moradi settles into her pilot’s chair, she sighs and pulls a bag from the floor. She’s been working on this lumpy mess on and off for weeks, knitting the thick, soft yarn into a sweater for her older brother, Baako, a dignitary recently stationed on Pantora, of all places. She’s not very good at knitting, but it’s relaxing, and Baako always told her she needed to spend less time gallivanting around and more time creating something worthwhile. Of course, she had to use her “gallivanting” contacts to obtain this highly coveted but not “quite” illegal hippoglace yarn. Hopefully the warmth and brilliant azure hue will hide all her dropped stitches. Since she must hide her work with the Resistance from him, Baako still thinks of her as his mischievous, unfocused dilettante of a little sister.

Little does he know.

Her comm blinks, and she sees who’s calling and grins at Baako’s uncanny way of knowing exactly when she can’t talk. Not only because she’s elbows-deep in a lumpy sweater, but also because she’s on official gallivanting business that he wouldn’t approve of and can’t know about. Much as she could use a friendly chat to warm her heart after the chill of this assignment, the general is expecting her to check in soon.

“Sorry, brother,” she says, flicking the button to shuttle his call to her busy message. “You can tell me all about the new job and lecture me about my lack of focus once I’m done with this mission and giving you this sweater in person. But you’d better meet me somewhere civilized and comfortable, because I’m done with impossible environments.”

The comm goes still, and she feels a small ping of guilt for ignoring him. Most ships can’t even handle communications at this range, but the Resistance does have some wonderful toys. Vi puts her boots up and leans back in her seat, focusing on the unwieldy wooden knitting needles that look more like primitive weapons than elegant tools.

“It’s all about forward momentum, Gigi,” she says to her astromech, U5-GG. “Better a hideous sweater infused with love than … I don’t know. What other gifts do people give their only living relative? A nice chrono? I shall continue to the end, if imperfectly.” She spins in her chair and holds up what she’s accomplished so far. “What do you think?”

Gigi beeps and boops in what sounds like apologetic disappointment.

“You be nice, or I’ll make one for you. A droid cozy to clash with your paint job.”

The droid gives a cheerful whistle and turns around as if desperately interested in the hyperspace swirls darting around them. When the Resistance assigned her the droid, Gigi was the factory colors—white and blue—but Vi painted her new friend yellow and copper to match her own bleached-yellow hair and burnished-brown skin.

Vi turns back around and knits furiously. Her hair is cropped short just now. The last time her image popped up on a wanted list, the long dark locks had been far too noticeable, so she’d hacked them off immediately and ejected them into space. Wiry and petite, she’s had a hard time finding Resistance uniform pieces that fit her well. The cobbled-together costume she wears now has been altered and shows its long wear in rips, scuffs, and patches. Even the soles of her boots are torn to shreds. Her current assignment has involved some very physical work in a terribly unpleasant place, and she’s looking forward to a few days of rest on D’Qar.

Hyperspace lulls her to sleep, and Vi manages a short nap tangled in thick, soft yarn before Gigi beeps and whirs to let her know they’ve nearly reached their destination. She sits up and stretches as much as the cockpit will allow, wishing the Resistance had provided her with a roomier ship but knowing that for ships, much like for herself, being small and unassuming often means avoiding detection. The ship emerges from hyperspace to float gently in the middle of nowhere, exactly according to plan.

Taking a deep breath, she puts her knitting away and types a long code into her comm. The answer is immediate and, as always, mysterious. They never say more until she’s confirmed her identity.

“Copy.”

“Starling, reporting to General Organa.”

A familiar voice replies, warm but professional. “Welcome back, Starling. What have you got for us?”

“Ah, General. It’s always business first, isn’t it?”

“When the galaxy is on the line, I have a way of skipping past the formalities of my youth. Let’s hear your report.” Vi can hear Leia’s smirk and likes her the better for it. No wonder they get along.

“Finally found the missing piece of the puzzle, although I had to hunt around. Rough place.”

“Everything is rough in the Unknown Regions. So you have what we need?”

Vi shrugs. “Knowing how monsters became monsters doesn’t always help destroy the monsters.”

“Sometimes it does. Every weapon in our armory has a use, Starling. Now, I know you’re due for some time off, but I’ve got one more set of coordinates, and you’re already in the right corner of the galaxy to drop by. Can I count on you?”

Vi looks down at the blue yarn spilling from her bag. She hates putting off time with Baako. They see each other so rarely these days. “Of course, General. That’s why I’m here.”

“Transmitting coordinates.”

On her screen, Vi plots the best route to the general’s next stop. Leia wasn’t lying—she’s already pretty close, and not many pilots have the experience or the guts to explore this shadowy corner of nowhere. She confirms the route and lets Gigi plot the jump.

“Not too bad. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Good. Just a quick sweep of the area. We’ve heard rumors of First Order ships there, and it’s vital that we know if they’re true. If you see anything, be ready to jump. We’ve had several pilots go missing.”

“Bet they weren’t as fast as I am.”

Leia sighs, sounding every year of her age. “It’s not necessarily about speed, but if they come back, you can race them in the Five Sabers. I’ll buy you a ship. For now, just a quick sweep and then home. I need those reports.”

“Aye aye, General.” Vi salutes, wishing they had visual. “About to enter hyperspace. Keep safe, General Organa.”

“You too, Starling.”

The line cuts off. The starhopper zooms into hyperspace. It’s a short trip, not relaxing at all, and she doesn’t bother picking up her knitting again. She’s jittery now—it’s been too long since she’s slept. And then they’re dropping out of hyperspace again. The long lines of stars judder into pinpoints against a sea of black. Vi’s eyes adjust, and she mutters a curse. There should be nothing here, just peaceful darkness and twinkling lights. Unfortunately, there’s rather a large something: a Resurgent-class Star Destroyer. Leia was right: The First Order is here, big time. Even before she can think the words, her fingers are already typing in new coordinates.

“Come on, Gigi,” she mutters. “We’ve got to get out of here. I hate it when the general is right.”

For all her speed, she’s not surprised when her starhopper quavers and begins to move. Not forward, like it should, but sideways toward the enemy ship. Whatever new tech they’ve been cooking up while hidden out here is hard, fast, and implacable. Vi tries every trick in her book, but the starhopper can’t break free of the tractor beam. Her firepower is minimal, and she knows they could blow her to smithereens and call it a win. As Gigi squeaks and burbles frantically, Vi considers her options.

“I know, I know.” She locks her datapad, encrypts it, and jettisons it into the darkness of space, along with her patched Resistance jacket. The chance of her returning to claim either item is infinitesimal, but every little bit of hope adds up. Reaching into a storage cubby, she tugs out an old black leather jacket she pulled off a dead Kanjiklubber and slips her arms inside. It smells of oil and sand and home, and it did her good on her last mission. Her ship eases ever closer to the cruiser, and she pulls out a small mirror and plucks dark-brown contacts from her eyes, revealing their natural amber hue. What with the hair, eyes, clothes, and fake documents in her front pocket, there’s a good chance she won’t be recognized.

When Gigi beeps in alarm, Vi settles and taps her temple.

“Don’t worry, Gigi. I’ve got it all where it counts. And they won’t break me.”

Gigi makes a noise that suggests the odds are against such an occurrence.

“It’s okay, little buddy. If I fail, you’ll never know.”

Swiveling around in her chair, she keys a code into the astromech slot and wipes the droid’s memory.

Her earlier comfort and insouciant slouch are gone. This is not the first time she’s been captured, and she’s got to get her head in the game. She leans back in her chair now, legs spread, arms on the seat’s armrests. Every muscle is tense, one foot tapping by the bag of forgotten yarn. Her eyes flash dangerously, her lips set in a thin line.

One way or another, Vi Moradi is going to survive.

THE ROUGHED-UP STARHOPPER glides into the hold of the Absolution and settles gently onto the hangar deck. It’s a little thing, just big enough to hold one pilot, a droid, and a hyperdrive, and yet it’s so dwarfed by the belly of the warship that it looks like a child’s toy by comparison, or possibly an insect. Vi feels like that, too—like a tiny, rough, insignificant trifle surrounded by much bigger, more dangerous predators. She goes cold, wondering if this impersonal, black-and-white deck is the last thing she’ll ever see, if she’ll become just another missing pilot devoured by the mysterious First Order.

Just in case she can defy the odds and find a way out of here, she counts and stores away everything she sees: hundreds of TIE fighters, troop transports, speeders, and even a few walkers. General Organa will be glad to know what kind of firepower they’re up against in this new fight. They tell her only what she needs to know to complete her assignments, but considering the intel they were already paying Vi to provide, the Resistance needs every bit of help they can get. At the moment, facing impossible odds, so does Vi.

As stormtroopers surround her starhopper, blasters pointed, Vi’s attention is drawn to their leader. She’s seen troopers before, of course, but never one like this. His bright-red armor is a strange twist on the regular stormtroopers’, but the sanguine violence of the color lends it an air of bloody menace their tidy white just doesn’t possess. An armorweave cape falls from one shoulder, and a spherical black droid floats in the air to the trooper’s side. Even if this guy didn’t look different from his troops, and even if she didn’t know who he was, she would immediately recognize his importance. There’s an attention there, a level of focus that the grunts just don’t possess. She glares at him as one of his men opens the hatch of her ship and points his blaster at her chest. All this time, she affects the look of a regular smuggler caught by hostiles: scared but defiant. She’s got to play stupid if she wants to stay alive long enough to escape.

“Get out,” the red trooper barks.

She waits a moment, fingers curled over the armrests, before climbing out to stand on the deck of the Star Destroyer.

“Hands on your head.”

She obliges him … but in return, she’s got to test him.

“What are you supposed to be?” Vi asks. “The big red button? The emergency brake?”

He ignores her taunts as he snaps binders on her wrists. “Why are you in this sector?”

“Same reason you are. Enjoying the peace and quiet. At least, I was. Look, I’m an independent trader traveling under legal documents. I have no quibble with anyone. So why the blasters?” Gigi beeps in alarm, and Vi turns to find two troopers digging through her cockpit. “And why are those guys roughing up my droid?” One of the troopers yanks out her yarn and starts unraveling the sweater with his clumsy gloves as if looking for weapons. “Hey, Private Friendly! I worked hard on that. You can’t just paw through someone’s personal property. And who are you, anyway?”

“Silence,” the leader says.

“I asked you a question. Who are you?”

He takes a step closer, and his blaster jams into Vi’s belly. “I’m the one in charge. Which means I’m the one who asks the questions.”

“But isn’t the Empire gone?”

He chuckles.

“We are not the Empire. And you know it.”

“Sir,” one of the troopers calls from her cockpit. “We’ve got the logs. The most recently visited planets are Arkanis, Coruscant, and Parnassos.”

The blaster jerks against her belly. It’s going to leave a bruise. One of those three planets must have set him off, but which one? Not the heavily populated Coruscant. Arkanis or Parnassos, then. Lots of First Order secrets on both planets, but not much else. They’ll never let her go now. Good thing she picked up this junker two hops after D’Qar, because that’s one planet these monsters don’t need to know anything about. They’re going to be suspicious now, but she’s got to act normal, which means belligerent. Just because she knows who he is doesn’t mean the red trooper knows who she is.

“What you’re doing is illegal,” she shouts at the troopers tearing the starhopper apart. “That’s my ship.”

“Not anymore it isn’t. Search the ship and turn the droid in for parts, then report to your stations,” the leader instructs his troops. “I will handle this interrogation personally.”

“Personally, huh?” she says.

He spins her around and jams his blaster in her spine, which is a pleasant enough change from her belly. “Walk. I know who you are, Resistance spy Vi Moradi, and I would be all too happy to shoot you.”

“I don’t know who that is. I’m just a trader, and my boss isn’t going to like this.”

“No, she isn’t.”

Her heart sinks. He knows. She can almost feel his finger on the trigger. He wants to pull it so badly. Sweat trickles down her neck as she watches him over her shoulder. She had hoped this was just a random grab, just the usual First Order business. See a ship where it shouldn’t be, claim it, dispose of the inconvenient person inside. But if he knows her name and he knows who her boss is, what else does he know?

He glances up at the control room, almost nervously, it seems. When he nudges her with the blaster, she moves.

“Bosses can indeed be a problem,” he says. “Now walk.”

Vi was trained to remember every detail when it counts, but even she can’t keep up with the labyrinthine twists and turns of the enormous Star Destroyer’s guts. Long hallways end and intersect, and turbolifts up and down make it impossible for her to recall their route. It’s one thing to see pictures of ships like this one, but it’s another thing to really understand the enormity of their enemy’s resources. As he guides her into another lift, the man in red stands in front of the panel so she can’t see which level they’re headed to.

“Your place or mine?” Vi asks, hoping to goad him into moving aside.

But the man in red is silent, the gun always rammed into some soft place on her body and the spherical droid floating by his side. Her leather jacket has built-in armor plating, but it wouldn’t do much to stop a fatal shot at this distance. Thing is, she knows he’s not going to shoot her. But she has to play along. When she slowly begins to take her hands down, he clicks his tongue at her.

“Tsk. Hands on head. You know how this works, scum.”

The blaster shoves into her kidney, and her hands go right back up. “Look, I’m not scum. I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m just a trader. Maybe I smuggle a little, but who doesn’t? And wouldn’t that be the New Republic’s jurisdiction, anyway? Did I travel back in time? Shouldn’t I be in a cell, waiting to speak to some cadaverous bureaucrat in a jaunty hat?”

The lift door slides open, and he shoves her out into a hall that’s downright dungeonous. They didn’t see anyone farther up, and Vi is willing to bet that’s due to a combination of this trooper’s knowledge of the ship’s rigorous schedule and his droid’s meddling, as it sometimes pushed ahead to lead. But down here—well, it’s clear nobody goes down here. Except people doing things they shouldn’t be doing.

The lighting is dim and flickering, and there’s something dripping, maybe runoff from the vent system. They’re deep in the bowels of the Star Destroyer, then, in an area that’s generally off-limits or beneath notice. And that’s not good for Vi. Even the First Order has rules, and the red trooper is breaking them. If this guy kills her, he won’t even have to do datawork. She’ll just be another load of garbage sliding down toward the incinerator.

Great. The Resistance doesn’t know much about the enemy they’re facing, and the New Republic doesn’t consider them a threat, which means Vi hasn’t been briefed on the protocol these people generally follow. She doesn’t know what to expect. She’s been trained to resist interrogation, but she also doesn’t know what new toys this guy in red might have. A chill trickles down her spine. She might be in over her head.

“They put you in the penthouse, huh, Emergency Brake?” she says, because she always babbles when truly worried. “Top-notch accommodations. Can we get room service?”

The blaster doesn’t leave her spine. Her captor gives her directions—turn here, turn there—but doesn’t respond to her taunting. Finally, he presses a long code into a control panel on the wall, and a door slides open far less smoothly than Vi would expect in what’s obviously a new ship. The room inside is colder than it should be and smells of moisture, metal, and, no point in denying it, blood. The spherical droid hurries inside first and turns off the cams, one by one. Vi pauses on the threshold, but the trooper finally touches her, shoving her hard with a gloved hand so that she stumbles to her knees, her fingers curling into a rusty grate set in the floor.

“Get up.”

“You really know how to treat a girl right.”

He reaches into her jacket’s collar and hauls her to her feet, spinning her around. She staggers into the wall, putting her back against the cold metal. The room isn’t large, maybe three meters by four, and it clearly has only one use: interrogation. Well, two uses, if you count torture. Three, if you include the inevitable death promised by the fact that she’s not going to give up any intel on the Resistance. The space is dominated by an interrogation chair, and the only other furnishings are a simple table and two rickety metal chairs, a place for the bad guys to sit down with a cup of caf and go over their notes while their victim bleeds out, probably.

“I hope the linens are clean.”

He shakes his head like he’s disappointed, grabs her jacket lapels, and drags her to the interrogation chair. They call it a chair, but it’s actually like a gurney standing on end with metal pincers to restrain her head, chest, and wrists as she stands on the metal lip. As part of her training, Vi was shown dozens of images of such machines ranging back from the days of the Empire’s Inquisitors to more sophisticated units currently being manufactured for Hutts and other thugs with too much money and a need to get information while keeping their slimy hands clean. This unit, she’s sad to notice, has life-support capabilities and a mind probe, which means her captor can bypass discussion and go straight to her brain. Vi has been trained to withstand fists and weapons, but no one has yet found a way to evade direct attacks on the nervous system. She contemplates the poison tooth implanted in the back of her jaw for the first time, running her tongue over it as her captor snaps the metal manacles closed around her arms and torso.

She won’t bite down yet. There’s still a way out of here. There has to be. With everything she knows now, surviving will mean major strides for the Resistance. They’ll have a better idea of what they’re truly fighting, in numbers, technology, and enemy mindset. But that means she’s got to find a way to live through this interrogation with her mind and body intact. And that means she’s got to stop focusing on her own predicament and start paying attention to her enemy and what makes him tick.

Luckily, she knows a lot more about him than he knows about her.

After strapping her in, he checks the panel monitoring her vital signs, flicking it with a finger.

“Your heart rate is up,” he notes.

“Yeah, well, I’m strapped into a torture chair, standing on somebody else’s dried blood. Seems like a natural response.”

“You’ve got something to hide.”

“Who doesn’t?”

His red helmet tips, just a fraction, conceding the point. As she watches him, he moves around the edges of the room, double-checking the cam feeds his droid already shut off, as well as what she’d guess is the comm system. The droid hovers ominously beside his shoulder, and he makes the rounds slowly, as if giving a warning.

This is not official.

This is off the record.

No one else is watching.

There will be no interruptions, no reprieves.

This is not how the First Order does things.

“So this is personal,” Vi notes.

“We shall see. It’s up to you. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Vi wiggles, testing the strength of her bonds. “Letting me go would be really, really easy. Besides, you can search me all you want, but I don’t have anything useful. Let your boys tear my ship apart, deconstruct my droid, unravel my sweater, poke around in my brain all day. Whoever you think I am, you’re wrong. I’m just a harmless passerby.”

He stands before her now, legs spread and arms crossed. His blaster is clipped on his hip, red and gleaming. His red-gloved fingers tap against it, another reminder. It’s just the two of them and his droid. Anything could happen.

“You are Vi Moradi, code name Starling, known Resistance spy. And you have the very intel I need.”

“And you’re the Big Red Button. What happens if I poke you in the chest? Does a light turn on somewhere? Does something explode?”

“You don’t deny it?”

She would shrug if she weren’t manacled and strapped down. “You’re the one running the torture, so you’re the one who gets to decide what’s true and what’s not.”

“You were on Parnassos.”

Vi is too well trained to grin.

“Was I? And what’s so important about Parnassos?”

Her captor considers her. “Nothing. That’s the point. Now tell me what you know about Captain Phasma.”

VI MORADI IS good at her job, so she cocks her head, her brow wrinkling.

“Who?”

Her captor says nothing to betray his annoyance, but he does move around behind her and adjust her bonds. Something slides over her head, brushing the tops of her ears. She’s about to say something clever when the smallest electric shock zaps her, raising every hair on her body. Instead of dissipating, it runs down her spine, fizzing out through her nerves to burn in the tips of her fingers and toes. Her teeth clench together painfully, and for a long moment she’s unable to pull them apart.

“That’s not the highest setting,” he says, coming back around to face her. “Not by a long shot. That’s barely a taste.” He has a remote in his big, gloved hands, and she can’t see what sorts of controls it might feature, but she doesn’t really want to know. Pain is easier when you don’t know what’s coming.

“It tickled a little.” The words come out slurred, her jaw still clenched.

He cranks up the juice, and every muscle in Vi’s body goes rigid. It feels like her bones are on fire, and her eyes roll back in her head, showing her a personal galaxy of exploding stars that in no way resembles the comfortable safety of hyperspace.

When the jolt is over, Vi lifts her head to look at him, her jaw shivering with the struggle of prying her teeth apart. The place where the metal band rested against her forehead feels like it’s burned. The words come singly at first as sensation and control slowly return.

“I don’t know anything. About anything.”

Her captor says nothing, just gives her another jolt, turning the power up a little bit. She has no way of knowing how high it goes, of when it will start to do real, lasting damage to her body. When the electricity comes, it comes on strong, and it’s all she can do to ride it out. Stars, pain, heat, shaking, an ache in her jaw and another behind her eyes. When her vision returns, she watches her captor through her eyelashes. Despite his calm, there’s something desperate about him. He doesn’t seem like the interrogating type, like he does this sort of thing frequently. Perhaps he’s never done it before. He hasn’t tried to use the brain probe, after all, and if his droid were programmed for interrogation, there’s no way they’d pass up that hack.

Back in the Empire days, Vi knows, the Imperial Security Bureau could get anything out of anyone who wasn’t trained in the Force. But this guy? He doesn’t know what he’s doing. And that means he could kill her before he even knew she was dying.

“Tell me about Captain Phasma,” he barks again. “I know you’ve been to Parnassos, and I know that’s where she’s from. I know you were sent to gather intel on her. And now I want to know everything you know about her. So start talking!”

Yeah, like just yelling at her will force her to spill. Interrogation goes both ways.

Especially now that she knows he’s onto her. She has to tell him something or he’s going to break her, and soon.

Two more jolts, and he pulls up her hanging head by her hair. She spits blood on his boots from her bitten tongue and stares at the splotch on the flawless plastoid. The blood and the boot are not the same red, much as Brendol Hux might’ve liked them to be.

“Phasma,” he warns. “Tell me about her, or it’s going to get a lot worse.”

Vi looks up at him through a haze of red. Her brain feels scrambled, like she’s beyond drunk. Maybe that brain-stem jack is working, after all. Or maybe pain this intense really does loosen things up, with or without the fancy tech.

“You wanna know about Phasma? I can tell you about Phasma. Oh, the stories I’ve heard.”

Her captor sits back on one of the chairs, arms crossed.

“So tell me one, and we’ll work from there.”

Vi smiles, just a little.

“Fine. One story. I’ll tell it to you exactly as it was told to me by a woman named Siv. My brain isn’t working so good right now, but I have a very good memory. That’s why I’m such a good spy.”

He places the remote on the table.

And Vi starts talking.

THE STORY BEGINS with a teen girl named Siv. She was part of a band of about fifty loosely related people who lived in a territory on Parnassos they called the Scyre. Although the Scyre folk knew that their planet had once been rich with life and flourishing with technology, they also knew that some great cataclysm had befallen it, leaving them with an increasingly uninhabitable environment. The Scyre was ruled by the swiftly encroaching sea on one side and an unknown wasteland of jagged stone spires on the other. For Siv and her people, the only ground was rock, and food and water were always scarce. They ate mostly dried sea vegetables and meat, salty creatures from tide pools or dead things washed up against the rocks or, sometimes, the screeching birds that cleverly hid their roosts and eggs. Every now and then, some remnant of civilization would wash up against the pitted black cliffs, an old datapad or a bit of recyclamesh that they hoarded. But they had lost written language, and so all they could do was save what they could and hope that they would one day find the peace and comfort their ancestors had known.

Siv said their greatest boon was an ancient cave. The Nautilus, which had once been dry and safe but was now flooded by the sea most of the time. Once every few days, the tide would go out, and the Scyre folk could find succor in their cavern, resting and holding rituals and tending to their accumulated collection of broken tech, weapons, and human remains carefully stowed in hidden tunnels. The Nautilus was the reason the Scyre folk so fiercely defended their territory, for all that the cruel sea and neighboring bands encroached on their home. In a dangerous world, the Nautilus felt safe. And then one night, something terrible happened.

It started with a cry, and Siv jerked awake, ready to fight. She was young then, around sixteen, and already considered a deadly warrior. Leaping to her feet with a blade in her hand, eyes adjusting to the darkness, she scanned the cave for threats. Their entire band had been sleeping peacefully on pallets around a fire in the center of the cave, just under the hole in the ceiling that led back out to the cliffs. As a young, healthy person, Siv’s sleeping place was far from the fire’s warmth and light, but she easily found the source of the scream.

Their leader, Egil, lay closest to the fire, gasping for breath. A younger man, Porr, loomed over the graying warrior. Porr’s blade dripped blood, and his well-armed friends stood by him, grinning with menace.

“Egil is dead,” Porr shouted, hefting his blade, a crude thing made from a rusty saw. “He was too old to rule and growing slower by the day. I will lead you now. Siv, bring the detraxors and extract his essence so that even in death, he will protect our people.”

Siv looked down at the bag she carried with her always before glancing around the room to see how the rest of her band felt about the power shift. She immediately understood the situation, saw that her friends were moving into position, and knew she had to buy time.

“Egil is not dead. I will only use the detraxors when there is no more hope. You know that.”

“He will be dead shortly. Come here and prepare them. Or, better yet, teach me to use them. As the new leader, I will take over the ritual.”

At that, Siv picked up her second blade and went into a crouch. She wasn’t a large woman, but she was known for being a good, quick fighter with her two curved scythes made from old, sharpened agricultural implements. The well-kept silver flashed in the low light of the fire, and she bared her teeth.

“Detraxing is a holy ritual passed down through my mother, as I will one day pass it down to my daughter,” she told Porr. “You can’t simply use the machines on a body and move on. You must care for them, oil them, and offer the proper prayers as you withdraw the essence and craft the oracle salve. Without the detraxors, without the salve to protect our skin and heal our wounds, our entire band will die. A good leader understands such things.”

Porr sneered and took a step toward her. He’d always been a bully, and Siv would die before giving up the detraxors to him. Fortunately, she wouldn’t have to choose. The plan she’d seen beginning was coming to fruition, and a young man named Keldo spoke out from the crowd.

“Porr, this is not our way. Killing the leader is forbidden unless both parties agree to combat.”

Everyone turned to look down at the speaker. Most of the band stood now, but Keldo remained on the ground. He’d lost the lower part of one of his legs as a child, and although he was tough enough to survive in the Scyre, he was now known for his wise counsel and clever ideas.

Porr laughed mockingly. “Oh, and you’re going to stop me?”

In the silence that followed, a strong voice filled the Nautilus. But it wasn’t Keldo.

“I will stop you.”

A tall figure in full battle regalia stepped before the murdering usurper.

It was Keldo’s sister, Phasma.

Over two meters tall, Phasma drew every eye. She wore her war mask, a rust-red terror of hardened pinniped-skin painted with black slashes and surrounded by scavenged feathers and fur. The eyeholes were covered in fine mesh salvaged from a wreck, making Phasma seem less like a human and more like a nightmare monster. Climbing claws tipped her gloves and boots to help her navigate the rocks and spires outside or fight any rival war bands. And now she faced Porr in her heavily wrapped leathers, mask, and spikes while he wore only sleeping clothes. He had planned his raid for the time when Phasma was outside on guard duty, but he had made a fatal miscalculation. Beside her, Porr looked small and weak.

“Stay out of this, Phasma. Your brother is worth nothing to the group, and you know it. Now that I rule, you will be my deputy, but you must submit to me first.”

Phasma shook her head. “You will never rule me.”

As if in agreement, a circle of warriors stepped forward to join her. Even in their sleeping clothes, they had a lethal edge. These young fighters were loyal to Phasma and ready to mete out justice as she commanded.

Siv was among them, and she first nudged her detraxor bag toward Keldo with a grateful smile, knowing he would keep the vital equipment safe. As she moved into position, the light of the fire flashed off her dark skin, and she was glad she’d tied back her long dreadlocks with a piece of leather so that she could fight more nimbly.

Nearest Siv was Torben, a big man with a bushy brown mane and beard, tan skin, and light-green eyes. He was good-natured and smiling even with his spiked club and huge ax in hand, the tallest and broadest man among the Scyre and always ready for a fight. His best friend, Carr, stood beside him, a lanky, quick-witted man with golden skin, sunbleached hair, and freckles. Carr had the best aim when throwing blades and was always ready with a joke, but for now he was serious and held two knives by their tips, his eyes scanning the room for anyone who might stand against Phasma. On Siv’s other side was Gosta, an agile, quick girl who could dart in to disembowel an enemy and dance out of range before her victim began to fall. Stocky but all muscle, with medium-brown skin and curly black hair, she was just a few years younger than Phasma and looked up to her like she was a goddess reborn.

“I can’t wait to sink a knife into Porr’s toadies,” Gosta murmured.

She was the only girl her age, just past becoming a woman, and Siv had noticed Porr and his friends watching Gosta in a way that Egil should’ve addressed. For all that Siv hated Porr, she knew that one thing was true: Egil was too old and weak to lead. Not that he deserved his current end, bleeding out on the floor of the Nautilus, staining the worn floor with yet more blood. Few people lived past thirty-five in the Scyre, and Egil had to be over forty. He was getting slow, and everyone knew it.

The helpless among the Scyre folk melted back to stand against the walls of the cave. That was part of life in the Scyre: If you couldn’t fight, you quickly found a way to contribute to the group by scavenging food, water, or clothing, and you got out of the way of the fighting or died where you stood. Porr and Phasma circled each other, their warriors fanning out, weapons at the ready. Porr struck first, hacking at Phasma with his long blade, a dagger in his other hand. She was taller and dressed to fight, but Porr was older, more muscular, and more desperate.

Phasma parried the slash with her spear, a rough thing made entirely of metal with a bladed tip. Siv had one eye on the fight and one eye on Porr’s minions, who weren’t as tough or well trained as their leader. Phasma taught her warriors personally, sparring with them daily and challenging them to learn every weapon and remain constantly vigilant. They followed her not because she asked them to but because she had her own gravity, a greatness and courage that spoke to their hearts. But Porr demanded only attention and flattery from his followers, and so they hung back, waiting for a sign from Porr instead of wading in to fight and turn the tide in his favor.

Porr was quick with his blades, following up a slash from the right with a backhand from the left. But Phasma knew his moves, having trained with him for years under Egil. Every eye in the Nautilus watched Porr and Phasma hacking and slashing and parrying and grunting. Life was hard on Parnassos, and most fights were raids from rival bands, when even those who couldn’t fight had to take up arms and defend the land. It was rare to watch two warriors battle, especially when it wasn’t life and death for the band. It was beautiful, Siv recalled, watching how easily Phasma fought off Porr’s attacks. Siv quickly realized that although Phasma could’ve destroyed him easily, the warrior was holding back. And then she saw why.

Porr screamed and fell to the ground, but it wasn’t Phasma’s blade that had struck him. It was Keldo’s. While everyone had watched Porr’s face, Phasma’s mask, and the flashing weapons in their hands, Keldo had crawled across the floor with his own knife and sliced the tendons of Porr’s ankles, permanently hobbling him.

By the time Porr understood what had happened, Keldo had backed out of reach and Phasma had her spear pointed at Porr’s throat.

“You have broken our greatest law,” Keldo said. “We do not raise weapons against our own people, and now you must be punished. You may serve the Scyre with your hands and mind, as I do, or you can serve by contributing the protection of your essence to the people. What is your choice?”

Porr was panting now, his eyes wide and round as he tried to stand and failed. “Fight for me!” he screamed at his warriors. “Don’t let them win!”

But Porr’s toadies found themselves trapped by the blades of Phasma’s warriors, and they did nothing to help their once friend.

“You heard Keldo,” Phasma said. “Choose.”

“You can’t make me,” Porr bleated, and Phasma’s warriors laughed, a harsh sound echoing off the walls of the cave.

“Oh, she can make you, mate,” Carr said. “Either way, you’re not gonna like it.”

“I’ll help,” Porr said. “Just … please. Don’t kill me. Bring the healer. It can be fixed.”

Keldo shook his head sadly. He was the only one on the ground with Porr, but his strength, confidence, and dignity radiated, while Porr shivered and bled and blubbered. Keldo was only a year older than Phasma, but Siv had long known that he would make a great leader.

“We accept your surrender, but you know such wounds never heal,” Keldo said. “Phasma and I will rule now. You must find your own way to contribute. Anyone else who wishes to challenge us may come forward and be treated the same as Porr. That is: fairly, and according to the law.”

Porr’s threat neutralized, Phasma turned to face the people of the Scyre as they crowded against the cave walls. Even through her mask, it was as if she met every person’s eyes, her spear held aggressively forward.

“Then we are the Scyre now,” Keldo said.

“Scyre, Scyre, Scyre!” the people chanted, starting with a whisper and building to thunder.

Phasma’s attention landed on her warriors, and she gave them the nod that meant she was pleased with their performance.

“Siv, the detraxors,” she murmured.

Siv fetched her bag from where Keldo had stashed it and hurried to Egil’s body. Even dead, every person contributed.

“Thank you for serving us, Egil,” she said. “Your today protects my people’s tomorrow. Body to body, dust to dust.”

The prayer said, she removed the machine from her bag. The bulb, tubes, and needlelike siphon were already fitted with a fresh leather skin, ready to collect the nutrients from Egil’s body, without which the Scyre folk would become diseased and weak. Siv used this essence to create an oily substance called oracle salve, which served many uses. Most important, when applied to the skin, it served as protection from the rain, sun, and many diseases. A different formulation created a liniment that helped wounds heal. For Siv, this process wasn’t harsh or cruel or strange; it was the closest thing she had to a religion, and one day it would be her own turn to contribute. Egil was gone now; the graying leader she’d once looked up to had faded away sometime during the fight.

When the detraxor had done its work, she stood carefully and carried the full leather skin to where Phasma stood, holding her brother up with one arm. Siv gave the skin to Keldo with a slight bow, and he hefted it.

“For the Scyre!” he shouted, and the people cheered.

The Scyre had new leaders, and though they were young, they were strong.

But they still didn’t truly understand Phasma. Not yet.

VI LICKS HER dry lips and looks at her captor, wishing she could see his face. Of course, she can already tell he’s annoyed. He’s tapping one heel and sitting forward, focused on her like he might explode.

“Not what you wanted to hear, huh?”

He shakes his head. “I need pertinent intel. No one cares about what happens to children on backwater planets, or this ship would be empty.”

She takes a moment to tuck that bit of information away. “Pertinent intel. So I was right. This isn’t just business for you, is it, Emergency Brake? This is personal. Really personal. You got a thing for Phasma?”

He snorts and cocks his head, considering, before picking up the remote and cranking the power up higher than he has yet, so high she’s bowed back, up on her toes, fingernails digging bloody moons into her own palms. When it subsides, she collapses, and if not for the tight restraints she would slither to the floor and cry. The scent of cooked flesh fills the small room, turning her stomach. It takes her longer to come back this time, and her captor simply sits in the chair, watching her.