The Force Awakens (Star Wars) (6 page)

No doubt every
gunner, every weapons system operator on the destroyer, was just waiting for the stolen fighter to break outsystem preparatory to making a jump to lightspeed. Their attention would be focused in those directions, away from the ship and toward the great darkness. The last thing they would expect someone escaping from the vicinity of the planet Jakku to do would be to—head for Jakku.

As he sent
the TIE fighter roaring toward the desert world below, a hand reached forward and down to rap him on the shoulder. “Wait—this isn’t right! Where are you going?” Behind them, a few desultory blasts erupted from the Star Destroyer’s weapons. It would take very little time for the great ship to bring all its power to bear on the fleeing fighter. But very little time was all a pilot like Poe needed.

“You mean, where are
we
going. Back to Jakku, that’s where.” As
if, he thought, the brown and yellow globe expanding rapidly in front of them wasn’t indication enough. But he could sympathize with Finn’s confusion. What they were doing made no sense. Always, he knew, the best way to avoid predictability. Even if it was a little mad.

“
What?
Jakku? No, no, no! Poe, we gotta get outta this
system
!” The TIE fighter rocked crazily as one near-miss after another reached them from the destroyer and Poe fought to confuse any automatic trackers. Finn’s voice grew calmer, but only slightly. “Oh, okay, I got it. We’re gonna go sub-atmosphere, circle the planet, and strike for lightspeed on the other side, out of the big guy’s range, right?
Right?
Tell me I’m right, Poe.”

Poe didn’t bother
to shake his head, focusing on the fighter’s wonderfully responsive controls. “I got to get to my droid before the First Order does!”

Finn gaped at the back of the pilot’s head. “Your
droid
? What does a droid have to do with escaping?”

“It’s not about escaping. This whole business isn’t about escaping.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Feeling slightly numb, Finn slumped back in his seat. “You
must really, really,
really
like this droid.”

“He’s a BB unit. One of a kind. Orange and white. Utterly unique and utterly invaluable.”

Finn’s voice rose anew. “I don’t care
what color it is
! I don’t care if it’s capable of invisibility! No droid can be that important!”

Poe let out a private, knowing grunt. “This one is, pal.”

“Okay,” Finn countered, “you say that it’s important.
I’ll tell you what’s important,
pal
. Getting as far away from the First Order and its representatives as we can, as fast as we can!
That’s
what’s important. To me, anyway.” He lowered his voice. “I saved your life, Poe. At the very least, you owe me mine. We go back to Jakku, we
die
.”

“That’s a chance we’ve got to take.” The pilot’s stance was unshakeable. “This isn’t about my life, or yours.
I’m sorry, Finn, but there are far greater things at stake. Forces are in motion that must be dealt with. Unfortunately, I seem to be at the center of them. It’s a
responsibility I can’t—I won’t—forgo. I’m sorry you’ve become caught up in the middle of it, but I can’t do anything about that.”

“I don’t care how important this droid of yours is, or what you and it are involved in. For you and
me, Jakku is another word for death.”

Poe could not dispute Finn’s logic, so he ignored it—just as he had set aside reason when he had rushed into the village in a futile attempt to save the life of Lor San Tekka.

Of course, he reminded himself, that hadn’t turned out so well, either. But he was being nothing if not truthful. He had sworn an oath to the Resistance, and he had no intention
of breaking it now. No matter how bad the odds. He took a deep breath. Although it meant breaking protocol, Finn deserved to know.

“My droid’s got a map that leads to Luke Skywalker.”

It took Finn a moment—a long moment—for the full impact of the pilot’s declaration to hit home. “You gotta be
kidding
me! Skywalk— I never should have rescued you!”

Even as he spoke, a burst from the
destroyer intercepted Poe’s latest evasive effort. Sparks flew within the cockpit, followed by an eruption of acrid smoke and fumes. The fighter’s engines flared wildly, sending it out of control. And since it was headed straight toward the surface of Jakku, that was where it continued to race—out of control.

Finn quit looking for something to shoot at because his instrumentation had gone
completely dead. Coughing, fighting for breath, he yelled in the pilot’s direction. “All weapons systems are down! My controls are neutralized! You?”

There was no reply, save for the now continuous shrilling of the fighter’s alarms. Finn waved at the increasingly dense smoke as he strained forward toward his new friend—and drew back in horror.

Poe was not moving. His eyes were shut. Blood
streamed down his face.

“No—noooo!
Poe!
”

No response came from the unconscious pilot. Eying him in the closed, smoky confines of the cockpit, his own eyes filling with tears in response to the increasingly bad air, Finn couldn’t even tell if the
other man was still alive. The blackness of space was gone now, completely blotted out by the increasingly proximate surface of Jakku. Even if
he could somehow take Poe’s place, Finn knew he could not safely set down an undamaged fighter, much less one in this condition.

He did, however, figure out the location of his seat’s eject control. Equipped with a manual override in the event of total electronics failure, it was clearly marked. Gripping the handle, he wrenched on it as hard as he could. Neither the extra muscle nor additional
adrenaline was necessary. The handle moved smoothly and without resistance. A moment later, he felt his body being ripped away from the TIE fighter. The universe spun wildly around him, and for a brief moment his sight was filled with alternating visions of yellow planet, black space, and white clouds.

Then he passed out.

On the
Finalizer
command deck, General Hux had moved away
from Mitaka’s station. Wandering from console to console, he proceeded to question a succession of technicians and fire-control officers. The anxiety that had been building in him but which he had managed to keep restrained was greatly lightened when one tech looked up at him to report.

“They’ve been hit.”

Hux’s expression did not change, but inside he felt considerable relief. He studied
the tech’s console, his gaze flicking rapidly from one readout to the next. The details coming in appeared conclusive, but in this matter there was no room for mere ninety-nine percent certainty; no room for analytical equivocation.

“Destroyed?”

The tech’s response as he studied his instruments confirmed the general’s circumspection. “Disabled only, it would appear.”

Hux leaned closer.
“He could be trying to throw us off.”

“If so,” the tech reported, “he’s going to grave extremes. Sensors show pieces of the fighter are becoming detached and flying off. Such
actions could not be carried out by the operator of the fighter itself and must be the result of the craft having suffered serious damage.” He paused a moment, added, “I hew to my original opinion, sir. No one would choose
to voluntarily engage in a descent such as the one the fighter is currently taking.”

“Very well, then,” Hux conceded. “They are disabled, perhaps fatally so. Given that and what you can divine of their present vector, what is the projected location of touchdown?”

Once more the technician analyzed his readouts. “The fighter is projected to crash somewhere in the Goazon Badlands. At this
range and given the nature of the topography in question, it is impossible to predict the exact angle and velocity with which it will strike.”

Hux nodded thoughtfully. “They were going back for the droid. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Otherwise they would have tried to hit lightspeed as soon as the pilot had had enough of teasing us.” He shrugged slightly. “It doesn’t matter
now. Or at least it won’t once termination of this regrettable interruption is confirmed. Send a squad to the projected crash site and instruct them to scan not only the wreckage but the surrounding area. If they can’t find bodies, then have them vac the debris. I won’t accept that the pilot and the traitor are both dead until I have tangible biological proof.” His tone darkened only slightly,
but it was enough to cause the tech to wish the senior officer would resume his wandering.

“Biological traces are acceptable,” Hux murmured, “but a couple of skulls would be better.”

It felt to Finn as if it took him longer to escape from the confines of the encapsulated, ejected gunner’s seat than it had to travel from plunging fighter to planetary surface. The clips and buckles,
braces and foam that were intended to set him down in one piece now seemed designed to prevent him from ever emerging onto his own two feet. There was a sequence that had to be followed—first this control, then this button, then slide this to unlock—before the gear
could be convinced to let him go. Or rather, he thought frantically, to let go of him.

Eventually he succeeded in freeing himself
from the tangle of safety tackle. Staggering clear, he took in his surroundings. His spirits fell. He was alive, but if the environment in which he presently found himself was anything to go by, not for long.

The dusky dune field stretched in all directions, to every horizon. Somehow blue sky and sand now seemed more forbidding than the blackness of space. The warships that had largely been
his home were sealed, environmentally controlled little worlds. Anything one needed was readily available, right at hand. Food, water, entertainment, sleeping facilities: All were no more than a few steps away. It was more than a little ironic that someone comfortable in the vastness of space should suddenly find himself suffering from a touch of agoraphobia.

Glancing skyward, he expected
to see a landing craft or two dropping out of the clouds in hot pursuit. But his gaze was rewarded only by the sight of a pair of native avians soaring southward. They looked, he decided uncomfortably, too big to be herbivores. At least they were not circling the spot where he had landed—or him. Yet.

Something else manifested over the eastern dunes. Smoke. The wind had dropped off, allowing
it to rise in a column instead of being blown sideways and dispersed. Otherwise he would have noticed it earlier, despite his distress. Someone was making a fire in this forsaken place, or…

He started toward it, struggling in the remnants of his armor. Logic insisted no one could have survived the fighter’s crash without ejecting beforehand, as he had done. But logic also insisted that it
was impossible to escape from a First Order spacecraft, and they had done that. Not that it would matter if he was found here, wandering alive among the dunes. Of one thing he was certain: His former colleagues would not understand, no matter how hard he tried to explain. No one fled the First Order and lived.

The sand sucked at his feet as he stumbled toward the rising smoke.
“Poe! Say something
if you can hear me!
Poe!
” He did not expect a response, but he hoped for one.

Flame had joined smoke in enveloping the wreck of the TIE fighter. Built more robustly than the typical ship of its class, the Special Forces craft had survived the crash landing, although hardly intact. Debris from the impact was scattered over a wide area. Careful not to cut himself on twisted shards of metal and
still-hot composite, he pushed through the heat and haze until he reached the cockpit. It lay crushed and open to the desert air. Trying to shield his eyes against the smoke, Finn moved in closer. Something—there was something sticking out of the wreckage. An arm.

Ignoring the heat and the licking flames, Finn reached in until he could get a grip on it. First one hand, then both, then pull—and
it came free in his hands. No arm, no body: just Poe’s jacket. Frustrated, he threw it aside and tried to enter the ruined cockpit. Increasing smoke and heat made it impossible for him to even see, much less work his way inside.

“Poe!”

He felt his legs start to go out from under him. But they hadn’t buckled; the ground had. Looking down, he saw sand beginning to slide beneath him. His
feet were already half covered. He was sinking. In front of him, the ruins of the ship began to slide into the hollow in which it had come to rest. Sand was crawling up the wings and reaching for the open cockpit. If he didn’t get away from the quicksand, it was clear he was going to join the TIE fighter in premature internment. He began backpedaling frantically, yelling at the disappearing vessel.

“POE!”

Going. Down, down into the sand, to a depth that could not be imagined. Maybe just below the surface, he thought as he scrambled to find safe footing. Maybe much, much deeper.

The more the sand covered the fighter, the faster the vessel sank, until in a few moments it was completely gone. Joining it was most of the debris that the hard landing had thrown aside. There was nothing.
Nothing to show that—

A violent explosion erupted almost beneath his feet, sending him staggering backward. For an instant, the substantial fireball that blew skyward flared an angry black and red before dissipating into the atmosphere. Regaining his footing, he stumbled forward. In place of the vanished TIE fighter there was some scattered debris and fused sand. Nothing more, and certainly
no sign of another human being. Unlike the fighter, in the case of his companion there were no surviving fragments.

Drained of energy and overwhelmed, he started kicking at the sand, as if exposing a lower layer might reveal something, anything, familiar or encouraging. But each kick exposed only more sand. Looking around wildly, he saw only the silent dunes. It was as if nothing had ever
touched this place; certainly not the hand of civilization.

He had escaped. He had survived. He had landed intact and apparently unharmed. And by the looks of things, he was just as dead as if none of it had ever happened. He inhaled deeply, then screamed at the empty planet, knowing as he did so that there was no one around to hear him.