#I haven’t been able to afford food for two weeks let alone a bloody uniform

[mycological-mariner]

*incoherent screams of frustration and tears of exhaustion*

[beaconsardis]

Resisting the Resistance

I receive a transmission.

They’ve encrypted it so I can’t tell who sent it or from where, so I have to take the transmission at its word that it was sent from someone in the Resistance.  They want to meet.  They give me coordinates and a time frame in which I will find them there.  I don’t take meetings.  They’re never not traps.

I move to delete it but something needles me.  A wordless something in the back of my brain is telling me to respond, to take the meeting.  The galaxy’s a dangerous place, I reason.  And I’m the captain of the ship.  Taking the meeting would not only be putting me at risk, but I’d be endangering every single one of my crew.

I type back my response.

I take the meeting.

I’m pleasantly surprised that I don’t have to explain myself to the crew.  Turns out they’re used to the reckless and unexplainable things I ask them to do.

I plug the the coordinates into the navicomputer and plot our course.  There’s something about the coordinates.  Something familiar, but I can’t pull what it is.

“At least tell me why you’re doing this,” Fordsy says from behind me.  “So I can explain it at your funeral.”

I don’t have an answer for him.  I can’t explain why I feel compelled to do this.  I throw the ship into hyperspace and turn to face my oldest friend.  F4-DC is a white and blue A9G-series droid I inherited when I was left home at fourteen.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“It’s most certainly a trap.”

“I know.”

“Seven of the last eight meetings you have taken were traps.”

“I know.”

“Then why go?”

I shake my head.  I still don’t have an answer for him.  A warning signal goes off, rescuing me from this conversation.

We drop out of hyperspace.  Something must be in our way.  This is why people travel the space lanes.  They’re clear of debris.  Our ship, the Nexu, is dropping out of hyperspeed to prevent a collision that would atomize us.

I sigh.  We have come face to face with an asteroid field.  I hear the servos in his neck whirring as his head slowly turns to face me.  He plays a flat, recorded laugh.

It’s the Guuntar Belt.  That’s why I recognized the coordinates.  The Guuntar Belt is con men and assassin’s favorite place to send pilots when they want to make it look like an accident.  The unknowing and trusting pilot plots the course, enters hyperspace, and splashes themselves across multiple asteroids before they know what hit them.   The Guuntar Belt has more wrecked ships than rocks in it at this point -- or so they like to say.

It’s gutsy, but it makes sense.  The Resistance is on the run.  They need a temporary headquarters, a staging ground, to prepare for whatever comes next.  It’s close to the Interior but no one would think to look for them here.  If they did, no one would be crazy enough to follow them in.

I think for a moment.

“Trying to find the words to-”

I hold up a finger to silence Fordsy.  I check the coordinates again.  I call Humaira to the cockpit.  

“You’re not actually going to fly into that, are you?”

“No,” I say.  “Humaira is.”

The door behind us hisses open and Humaira stands there, hands on her hips.

“Humaira is what?” she asks.

I point to the asteroid field.  “Think you can get us into the heart of that in one piece?”

I can fly.  Humaira can pilot.

Her eyes light up and she pushes me out of the way.  She looks out the windshield, down to the coordinates, and then back to me.  “You serious?”

“I am.”

She sits down in the pilot’s chair and pulls her hair back.  “Who says you never take us any place nice,” she says, her amber eyes alive with excitement.

I hit the comm.  “This is your captain speaking.  We are, as per usual, about to do something incredibly stupid and foolhardy.  Grab onto something firm and make peace with your gods!”

I watch Humaira’s eyes flick back and forth between the rocks.  She’s watching them move, taking in on how they tumble, and predicting where they will go next.  A smile dimples her cheek as she finishes tracing our trajectory in her mind.

She shoves the thrusters open wide and we rocket into the asteroid field at full throttle.

Humaira doesn’t give anyone a moment to react or respond.  She punches it and we fly into the asteroid field at full throttle.  Fordsy cries out as he flails and falls backward, rattling across the floor and out the door.  Humaira laughs.  We corkscrew through the starship graveyard.  We dive under and then flip over rocks the size of small moons.  We escape one hurtling danger only to fly into the face of another.  We are constantly nanoseconds away from sudden and immediate death.  In anyone else’s hands I would panic.  I wouldn’t be able to watch.  But Humaira was born to be behind the helm.  There’s no other hands I’d rather be in -- a statement that can be taken in a variety of ways, none of which would be inaccurate.

“There it is!” 

I point to a moon-sized boulder looming off our starboard.  A temporary port has been set up there and three ships are docked, presumably waiting for us.  If Fordsy were still in the cockpit, I’d ask for his apology.

Humaira sets us down gently on the asteroid.  I clap her on the shoulder.  She’s beaming with pride.  I exit the cockpit step over Fordsy, who’s still trying to get up off the floor.

“This is still a bad idea,” he says.

“You’re welcome to come with me if you like,” I say.

“I don’t like,” he says.  “I don’t like at all.”

I descend down out of the Nexu and am met by two Resistance guards.  They check me for weapons.  I left my blaster onboard, but I don’t go anywhere without my lightsaber.  The guard on the left, the one who discovered it, looks over at the other.  They both stare at it in shock and then back up at me.  I wait for them to tell me to leave it, but instead they just nod for me to follow them.

The guards lead me into one of the docked transport ships.  The crew of the ship looks haggard.  They’re beaten and bruised.  It looks like they haven’t slept in days -- maybe weeks.

By now everyone has heard about the bloody aftermath of the Battle of Starkiller Base.  The haunted, hollow look in these fighters’ faces say the reports were not exaggerated.  The Resistance is running on fumes.  I don’t know how that makes me feel.

I’m led to a room.  It’s a small room, a meeting or conference room.  There’s a table and a handful of chairs.  No drink or food on the table.  Probably can’t afford it.

A door opens and a woman marches in.  She’s short, strong, and determined.  She has the look of someone who has had to fight for everything she has and shows no sign of stopping that fight any time soon.  She’s wearing grease-stained coveralls, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows.  

I’m reminded that, unlike the First Order, the Resistance doesn’t have uniforms.  They’re a ragtag group of people brought together with a common goal.  The few uniforms you do see are those New Republic veterans who joined the cause. 

She looks me up and down and nods, “you’re Captain Sardis?”

“Friends call me Beacon,” I say.

“We’re not friends,” she snaps and then stops. With a forced smile she says, “sorry, Let me start over.  My name is Rose Tico.”

“Beacon Sardis,” I smile back, willing to start over.

“Thank you for seeing us,” she says.  She’s trying to sound congenial, but her voice is strained and focused.  

I see through her.  There are a thousand things she would like to say to me but is holding back.  She doesn’t want to be here.  She thinks she’s wasting her time.  I cut to the chase.  These sorts of meetings are always inspired by something -- usually a ship I recently plundered.

“Which one was it?”

“What?”

“It was the cargo ship,” I remember, “the one with the medical supplies.”

“The Cerulean Slipstream.”

I shrug. I don’t remember the name.  I remember the ship and I remember the crew protesting my relieving them of their cargo, saying they were Resistance fighters.

Rose’s eyes burn.  “You have any idea how many people died because we didn’t have the medical equipment we needed?”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on in the jungles of Uhhrloc?” I counter.

Rose is caught off guard. “What?”

“Uhhrloc.” I repeat. “Ever hear of it?”

“Uh . . .”

There’s no reason for her to have heard of it.  There’s no reason for anyone to have heard of it.  

“It’s a dwarf planet on the outskirts of the outer rim. It holds no strategic importance for the war effort and it is devoid of any resources you might find useful. What it does have is a population caught between two bloodthirsty warlords vying for control of the planet. Their civil war has been raging longer than you or I have been alive, but nobody cares.  Nobody’s thinking about them or sending aid. They are on nobody’s scanners.”

Rose is silent.

“So if you’re asking me to weigh the lives of soldiers who have knowingly put their life on the line against families who are just have the rotten luck of being born on the wrong planet at the wrong time . . .”  I don’t finish my sentence.  I don’t have to.

“The First Order-”

I cut her off.  “The First Order doesn’t care any more about them than the New Republic did.” I wait before adding, “or the Resistance does.”

“But-”

“What’s the offer?” We now agree on something. We both think she’s wasting her time. “What’s on the table?”

Rose clears her throat and slides a datastick across the table. “We provide you intel. The Resistance has connections with many trade federations, conglomerates and unions. We can tell you who is shipping what where when.”

I’m stunned.  This is not the sort of shady under-the-table transaction I’d come to expect from the Resistance.  I’ve had the First Order approach me on several occasions, floating proposals such as this my way.  I’ve turned them all down.  This is the kind of deceit and duplicitousness I’ve come to expect from them, not the scrappy do-gooders standing against evil.

Which means they trust me.  I’m a pirate.  I’m a thief.  I’m a liar.  I’m not a murderer.  I may take your cargo, but I have no use for your life.  That must be what makes this little parley okay.

Taking all this in, I look up at Rose.  “In exchange for?”

“You leave Resistance transports alone.”

“That’s it?”

“And,” Rose stalls, “you give us first dibs on any supplies we may need.”

I don’t have to think about it for long. “So we put our necks on the line with no guarantee we’ll gain anything for it?  Should the Resistance decide they need whatever we find, we forfeit it?”

“There are plenty of transports and cruisers for you to plunder. If you’re half as good as they say, you stand to make a fortune — even if we take half of what you find.”

“Half?”

Rose winces. She spoke too quickly. I can see it on her face. She’s mentally  cursing herself.  She picked a number at random. I can see that.  But the seed has been planted.  It’s taking root and pushing every other thought out of my head.  Should I take this deal, what would prevent them from claiming everything we plundered?

I’m tempted to take the datastick and leave.  Take what’s being offered and give nothing back in return.

I shake my head.  “I’m not a smuggler,” I say.

“We don’t need anything smuggled,” she says with a definitive shrug. 

“One does not become a pirate to enlist in a chain of command.  I go where the stars lead me.  I’m not for hire.”

Rose rolls her eyes.  “We’re not asking you to do anything you’re not already doing.  We’re helping you and are asking, in return, for you to help us.”  Then she adds, “but honestly just you not stealing from us would be enough.”

I shake my head.  “You have no idea who I am or why I do what I do.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she says, “I know the galaxy isn’t black and white. I know that we aren’t going to enter some grand utopia after this war is over. I know that probably, for you, it doesn’t matter who wins or loses. You’re still going to be out there robbing the space lanes.”

I don’t say anything.

“Am I right?” Rose asks. “Tell me I’m wrong if I am. Tell me I’m not asking you to care about something you don’t care about. Tell me you’re not nearly as selfish as I think you are.”

I didn’t come here to be lectured. I nod, give her a smile, and wish her and the Resistance luck.  They’re going to need it. Then I turn to leave.

“Wait!”

I don’t wait. I head straight for the door. Before the door opens, though, the room is suddenly awash with a flickering blue light. 

“Captain Sardis?” 

I turn around. Standing in front of me, from lightyears away, is a young woman in a sleeveless tunic. Her hair is pulled back away from her face, some of it in a bun and some of it falling down over her shoulders.

“My name is Rey.”

I don’t move. I’ve heard of her. She’s being hailed as the last hope of the Resistance. They say she’s a Jedi. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t a young woman with wide, hopeful eyes and a small, eager smile.

“Beacon,” I say.

“Beacon then,” she smiles. “I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

“What?” I can’t believe she knows who I am.

“You’re the infamous Jedi pirate.” Rey bristles with excitement. “Everyone knows who you are -- are you really a Jedi?”

“No,” I say, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Did you build that,” she points at my lightsaber, “or did you steal it?”

“A little bit of both,” I admit. “I found it and I fixed it.”

“Can I see it?”

I unclip my saber and hold it up. She leans forward to get a better look and I’m not sure that’s how holocomms work.

“That’s beautiful,” she marvels, “you said you found it?”

“It was floating in a derelict ship we came across years ago.”

“In all the vastness of space, you just so happened to come across a derelict ship that contained a lightsaber from the Old Republic?”

“Pfft,” I hear Rose hiss. I can see her through the hologram. She doesn’t believe me.

I nod.

“That’s amazing,” Rey says. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t think you found that lightsaber on accident.  I’m not an expert on how the Force works,” she admits, “but from my experience . . . Lightsabers like to have owners.”

I look down at the hilt, with its intricate, swooping bronze and gold designs.  “You think it dates back to the Old Republic?”

“Again,” Rey laughs, “I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I’ve seen and what I’ve read, if it isn’t that old, it was certainly made to look it.”

I hadn’t thought to ask that. “I’ll see if the holocron can help-”

“You have a holocron?” Rey bursts. “A Jedi holocron?”

“I found it with the lightsaber.”

“And it still works?”

I nod.

“Whose was it?”

“An Kaminoan Peacekeeper called Oh Lin.”

“I haven’t heard of them but that’s amazing.” Rey shakes her head, her eyes wide with wonder. “I’d really like to see that some time. Maybe we can meet up some time?” She suggests. “If you’re going to be helping us maybe I can coordinate to be at one of the drop-offs?”

To my knowledge, I’ve never met another Force-sensitive person before. The idea of being able to sit down with someone like me and compare notes is truly exciting.

“That would be great,” I say.

“Great!” Rey smiles back. “Well then, I hope to see you soon, Captain Sardis.”

“You too.”

“May the Force be with you,” she says as the hologram flickers away.

Rose looks at me with a cocky smile. She’s won and she knows it. I take the datastick.

“You’re never allowed to claim over half,” I say.

She holds out a hand.  “Shall I tell the general we have a deal?”  

I clip my lightsaber back to my belt and take her hand. “We have a deal.”

Fordsy is less than pleased with the deal, but the rest of the crew sees the benefits outweighing the cost -- though none are too excited about the likelihood that this will put us directly into the crosshairs of the First Order.