Star Wars: Before the Awakening (2 page)

But there was a benefit to that, too, 2187 realized. With the enemy fire divided, it gave him a straight shot to the bunker, to the heavy repeater and their objective. All he had to do was be quick and not lose his nerve.

He began running faster. He heard Slip struggling to keep up behind him, but he could no longer worry about that, he realized. If he could do this,
if he could do it fast enough, it wouldn’t matter if Slip stayed tight on his back or not. If he could do this, not only would he obtain their objective but he might do it without losing anyone on his fire-team.

Another cloud of smoke billowed across his vision, and cutting through it were the red and blue bolts of blaster fire—Zeroes’s and Nines’s and the enemy’s, too. He could hear his breathing,
amplified within the helmet, feel his pulse in his temples. The bunker was ahead, the data across his lenses declaring the objective twenty meters away, then fifteen, then ten.

That was when they saw him, but it was already too late. He could see motion inside the bunker, see the Republic soldiers manning the gun react to the sight of him racing toward them and try to swing the barrel around
in time. He could imagine himself as they saw him, the immaculate white armor, the symbol of unity and strength and power and skill that was a First Order stormtrooper.

Just before they had their shot, he dropped low, sliding feetfirst toward the edge of the bunker—one hand holding his rifle against his chest, the other going for one of the grenades on his belt. He rolled at the last moment,
thumbing the activator hard as he collided sideways with the bunker wall and then, in one smooth motion, bringing his hand up and tossing the grenade through the opening into the bunker. Almost instantly there was the sound and the flash of the explosive detonating. He felt it echo, the vibration running through his armor.

For a moment there was silence, interrupted only by the sound of FN-2187
trying to catch his breath.

The world flickered, froze, and then winked out of existence. Where there had been an unnamed Republic outpost, where there had been dead stormtroopers and Republic soldiers, there were only four walls and a perfectly flat metal floor. Where there had been a battlefield, there was only the simulation room, vast and empty and cold and sterile. High on one wall, the
observation window became visible—heavily tinted, making it impossible to see who was inside.

Then Captain Phasma’s voice echoed over hidden speakers.

“Simulation objective completed. FN-2187, FN-2199, FN-2000, FN-2003, report for evaluation and debriefing.”

“They completed the objective,” General Hux said. “There is that.”

“They completed the objective due to the skill of FN-2187’s leadership,”
Captain Phasma said.

They stood side by side at the observation window, watching as the fire-team filed out of the simulation room below. Three of the four were clearly jubilant, clapping one another on the back and shoulders, pleased with their performance. But the fourth—FN-2187, Phasma could tell—was following behind them, not quite part of the group. As she and Hux watched, 2187 paused at
the exit, looking back in their direction. Phasma wondered what he was thinking.

“He isolates himself,” Hux said, turning to look at her. “A good leader, part of his unit but standing apart.”

“If that’s why he’s doing it, General.”

“You have concerns?” Hux raised an eyebrow. “Speak them.”

“These stormtroopers will be the finest the First Order has ever produced,” Phasma said. “I have overseen
their training at every stage, from induction to deployment. This class is exemplary.”

“Yet you have concerns, Captain. I would hear them.”

“Not for this class.”

Hux sighed, at the edge of annoyance.

“FN-2187,” Phasma said, “has the potential to be one of the finest stormtroopers I have ever seen.”

“From what I just observed, Captain, I agree.”

“But his decision to split the fire-team and
return for FN-2003 is problematic. It speaks to a potentially…dangerous level of empathy. You heard him.”

“‘You’re one of us’?”

“Yes, sir. While I am entirely in support of unit cohesion, General, a stormtrooper’s loyalty must be higher, as you know. It must be to the First Order, not to one’s comrades.”

Hux glanced back at the window, surveying the empty simulation room.

“I trust you to remove
any impurities from the group, Captain,” Hux said. “Wherever they may be found.”

The briefing room, like every other section of the base where Captain Phasma oversaw their training, was featureless to the point of sterile. That wasn’t to say colorless, however. Amid the wide variety of industrial grays, there was always black and, of course, red (though that was reserved primarily for First
Order insignia). It was when the helmets came off the stormtroopers-in-training that the real color emerged—in Slip’s pale complexion and hazel eyes; in Nines’s almost frighteningly blue eyes and red hair; in the scar that had healed along Zeroes’s cheek, contrasting lighter against his dark brown skin. In FN-2187’s own reflection, caught in those rare moments in front of a mirror preparing for
inspection or in the polished surface of the mess hall tables.

In their armor they were all the same, and that was the point, he understood. But he took pleasure in the moments when he could see their variety and diversity—those moments when he could glimpse the people beneath the armor and see them as more than just faceless, nameless soldiers identified by letters and numbers and nothing more.

He didn’t know much about life outside of his training, had little in the way of memories of a time before, in fact. What he knew was what he had been taught, and what he had been taught was simple: the First Order stood against the deprivations of the Republic. The First Order brought law to a lawless galaxy. What little he had seen of the galaxy had been filtered through his training, through
the eyes of the First Order, but there was no need or even reason to doubt its truth.

Still, he wanted to see it with his own eyes. He wanted to know what was out there. Like all the others of his cadre, he was waiting for that day when they would first be deployed, when they would take their skills and their training and finally get to apply them in the service of the First Order, at the command
of the Supreme Leader. He was waiting for his chance to defend the people of the galaxy against all those who would threaten it.

Those were his thoughts as he sat in the briefing room with Slip and Nines and Zeroes, all of them still in their armor but now with their helmets off, waiting for Captain Phasma to arrive. Slip was nervous, 2187 could see, even if Nines and Zeroes were not. FN-2187
wasn’t certain how he should be feeling. He knew, empirically, that he had done well; he had, in fact, been responsible for the successful completion of the simulation. That should’ve been enough to give him a sense of pride, if not accomplishment. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had somehow made a mistake, had in some way stepped wrong.

The doors slid open with a hiss, and 2187 got
to his feet immediately, in unison with the others, all of them fixing their eyes straight ahead and coming to attention. Captain Phasma moved into the room with the same authority and purpose, the same flawless precision, with which she seemed to do everything. Her armor, unlike theirs, was as reflective as a still pond, and as she walked to the front of the room he could see their images bouncing
back at them, distorted and curved.

There was no preamble. There never was. Captain Phasma faced them, surveyed them, and then said, “Adequate.”

FN-2187 had learned that “adequate” was the closest Captain Phasma would ever get to saying “well done” or “good job.”

“FN-2000, you’re wasting ammunition,” Phasma continued. “Telemetry indicates you expended one hundred and twenty-seven shots, with
a hit ratio of less than five to one. You are assigned to the range tomorrow during your second detail. I expect an immediate and marked improvement.”

Zeroes drew himself even higher. “Yes, Captain.”

The shiny helmet shifted almost imperceptibly to the left. It was another thing that 2187 had noticed about their captain; you never knew exactly who or what she was looking at. He thought it was
Slip, but she spoke to Nines, instead.

“FN-2199, biosensors noted your heart rate eight percent above acceptable range, with an additional twenty-second delay in reverting from strong exertion to resting pulse. Your weight is up two percent, without corresponding gain in muscle mass. Your meals are being modified, and you will begin additional physical training tomorrow, second detail.”

“Yes,
Captain,” Nines said.

Phasma didn’t move, not even the slightest shift in the angle of her helmet, yet FN-2187 was absolutely positive she was now looking at Slip. She didn’t speak. The silence stretched, and as it went on it changed, and FN-2187 could see Slip growing more and more nervous, fighting the urge to say something. Still the silence grew, and then 2187 could feel it, too, found himself
silently urging Slip to stay silent, to wait it out, somehow knowing that if Slip should speak it would be a mistake and that another mistake was exactly what Captain Phasma wanted him to make.

At last she said, “FN-2187, your targeting was exemplary. According to the simulation, you fired your weapon only thirty-six times, scoring kills with thirty-five of those. You deployed one explosive,
which resulted in the achieving of the objective and another six enemies killed.”

Now they could all see her head move as she looked them over in turn.

“All of you should take your example from FN-2187,” Captain Phasma said. “You are dismissed. FN-2187, stay.”

The others collected their helmets and headed for the door. Slip shot him a last glance before it sealed shut again. FN-2187 remained
standing.

“Why did you go back for FN-2003?” Phasma asked.

“He’s one of us,” FN-2187 said.

“This is not the first time you’ve helped him. Your instructors have noted multiple occasions where you’ve been seen assisting him in various duties. Why are you doing this?”

“We’re only as strong as our weakest link, Captain.”

“I agree.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“I want it to stop.”

He blinked, surprised.
“Captain?”

“We are only as strong as our weakest link, FN-2187. While you believe you are attempting to strengthen that weak link, I assure you that is not what you are actually doing. Rather than fixing the problem, you are allowing it to persist. As a result you are, in fact, weakening the whole. Further, you are weakening
yourself
.”

FN-2187 frowned, brow furrowing. “Captain Phasma, I don’t—”

“You have great potential, 2187. You are officer corps material. Your duty is to the First Order above everything. Nothing else comes before that. FN-2003 must stand or fall on his own. If he stands, the Order is strengthened. If he falls, the Order is spared his weakness. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I sense hesitation.”

“No, Captain. None.”

“Then it will stop.”

He swallowed, then
nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

“Then that is all. You are dismissed.”

It took a couple of days after his success in the simulation—and the warning from Captain Phasma—for FN-2187 to realize that something had changed. Activity in the base, in their training, seemed on the uptick—a new, quiet urgency pervading everything they did, everything they were expected to do. Instruction seemed suddenly more
intense. Their classwork and lectures, which until then had focused primarily on their duties as stormtroopers—on small-unit tactics, weapons maintenance, military structure and integration—gave way to more discussions on particular deployments, stormtrooper specializations, and localized scenarios using named, known locations. For the better part of a week, they studied and were repeatedly tested
on different historical battles, many from the Clone Wars, some even earlier.

They were stormtroopers, but they weren’t quite, not yet. They were cadets, and as cadets they had additional duties aside from their training. Those duties covered everything from maintaining the armory to performing minor repairs on equipment to quite literally moving equipment from one location to another, often
by hand but frequently with the assistance of the heavy-lifter droids, when whatever was to be moved was too big to be moved manually. They mopped the floors. They emptied the trash. They worked in the galley preparing meals.

Free time in which to relax, simply to rest in the barracks or to read First Order–approved literature or watch First Order–approved vids, vanished. There was always something
more to do, somewhere else to be, another session in the simulator or more dishes to wash. There was always someone watching their performance, no matter what it was, someone to tell them that they needed to work faster, work harder, that they had to be
better
.

It didn’t leave a lot of time to think, and FN-2187 began to wonder if that wasn’t the point.

As grueling as their schedule had become,
it was Slip who took the worst of it. He had never been the best under pressure, and his mistakes became more common. Under scrutiny, each error was magnified. Minor infractions—a broken plate when they were doing the dishes, a battery pack left on the wrong shelf in the armory, things that could’ve happened to anyone—were dealt with punitively, and
all
of them were punished, not Slip alone.

Nines and Zeroes made no secret of their growing resentment. Even FN-2187 felt it. He could see Slip struggling, and he would think to help him, to try to ease his burden, even move to do so.

Then he would remember Captain Phasma and would instead turn away.

He didn’t like how that made him feel—almost like he was sick, like there was something sitting deep in his stomach that didn’t agree with
him. It didn’t help that FN-2187 couldn’t see any indication from anyone else—not from Nines, not from Zeroes—that they felt the same way. He was sure he felt it alone.

He began to wonder if there was something wrong with him.