The Force Awakens (Star Wars) (3 page)

Instrumentation blinked. Barrier ahead: too much wreckage through which to maneuver. She knew the spot. Though going over would use more power, at this junction the only alternative was a wide and potentially dangerous detour. At least at altitude, she knew, there would be the benefit of cooler air.

Lifting, the speeder rose over the crumpled metal before it, soaring to a necessary
height. For the hell of it, she executed a barrel roll; a small moment of exhilaration in an otherwise humdrum existence. By the time she came out of it, Niima Outpost was plainly visible just
ahead. Niima: center of the galaxy, repository of manifold cultures, offering to its myriad inhabitants a never-ending succession of entertainment, education, and enjoyable distractions.

Her smile twisted.
Niima was a functioning armpit of a town and nothing more, a place where no one asked questions and everyone went quietly about their own business. It was just large and developed enough that if you dropped dead in the street, there was a fifty percent chance someone might go to the trouble of raking up your body and passing it along to a local protein recycler, or cremator, or burial tech,
if either of the latter were part of your personal philosophy and so indicated on your identification, and provided there were funds available to pay for your chosen means of disposal.

Otherwise, the deserts of Jakku would take care of the remains in their own good time, and without rendering any opinions on the virtues of the deceased.

As long as she could work, Rey had no intention of
suffering such a fate. No one does, of course. Death displays nothing if not variety in its methods, which are often surprising and sometimes amusing. She parked her speeder, then unloaded her salvage and hauled it toward the community structure that had been built for that purpose and was open to all. No one offered to help her with the heavy load. In Niima, youth and gender were no barrier to
neighborhood indifference.

Once inside the tented, shaded structure, she unpacked the results of the day’s work, leaned her staff against a worktable, and began cleaning. When it came to salvage, appearance did matter. Compared to the strenuous work she had put into its recovery, a bit of polishing and buffing added little to the overall effort. Around her, other scavengers were doing the
same. Humans and nonhumans communicated freely, commenting on one another’s findings and exchanging gossip, mostly in the local patois. They filled a good deal of the available workspace. When not chatting amiably with one another, they strove to learn where their competitors were finding their best salvage.

Also, they were not above stealing from one another when the opportunity presented
itself. Rey kept a close eye on her goods.

Glancing up from her work, her gaze happened to fall outside the tent. The biped whose movements had caught her eye was human. A woman, clad in wrappings of deep maroon that shaded to purple, a band of turquoise makeup across her eyes and forefingers indicating her clan. Standing on a ship’s open ramp, she surveyed her surroundings. A moment later
a similarly clad and decorated boy appeared and moved to join her. A domestic exchange ensued, during which the adult did something to the child’s hair. Returning to her work, Rey was only partially aware that the brush she was using on a narrow piece of salvaged electronics had begun to imitate the same caressing, grooming movement of the woman’s fingers.

Coming up beside her, one of Unkar
Plutt’s assistants barked at her and gestured in her direction with his staff, implying it would be in her best interests to focus on her work and not allow herself to be distracted. Without another glance in the direction of the mother and child, Rey returned to her own work.

Finishing sooner than she expected, she made her way across the tent to the exchange booth. Fashioned from a small
salvaged sand crawler, dark brown from rust and age, it was surrounded by piles of recently purchased components. In contrast to the dominant tenting, it boasted a solid suspended ceiling in the form of another piece of salvaged metal. In Niima, the most disagreeable part of surrendering salvage was taking payment. This was due not to the quality of the food one received as payment but to the nature
of the individual distributing it.

The lumpish shape seated slightly above and in front of her was not human. The Crolute’s stout build terminated at the top in a thick, fleshy, hairless skull whose most prominent feature was a broad, flat nose. The nasal cavity extended all the way up and into the bald, metal-capped head. A separate layer of flesh flowed downward like a second neck. Loose
black pants were tucked into heavy work boots, while the long-sleeved, dun-colored shirt struggled to contain
additional layers of neck. Half a dozen bicolored metal plates hung from his neck and shoulders to just below the thick knees. Muscles were hidden beneath an additional layer of blubber.

While she knew he looked forward to their occasional business dealings, she could not say the same.
Since that would have required not only listening to him but looking at him, she always strove to keep their encounters as brief as possible.

Unkar Plutt, on the other hand, was delighted to extend their encounters for as long as she could stand it. He always took his time when examining her pieces, letting his gaze rove slowly over everything she put before him, making her wait. Only when
the bounds of common courtesy had been markedly surpassed did he deign to acknowledge her presence.

“Rey. A decent offering, if nothing remarkable. Today you get a quarter portion.”

She did not give him the pleasure of seeing her disappointment, just took the pair of packets that appeared in the transfer drawer in front of him. One transparent package contained beige powder; the other,
a more solid slab of something green.

“That’s my girl,” Plutt commended her.

Not replying, she turned and left, moving as quickly as she could without alerting him to the fact that his presence disgusted her. She could feel his eyes all over her until she exited the big tent.

Out on the salt flats of Jakku, the only place to shelter from the sun was inside something one had built
oneself. Rey’s speeder was an insignificant speck against the fiery, setting mass as she slowed on approach to her residence. Climbing down, she left it parked where it had stopped. There was no reason to secure it. Few came this way. Those who did, including the pirates and bandits who haunted the desert wastelands, wouldn’t waste time trying to steal a vehicle as dated and banged-up as her
transport.

Unloading, she gathered her belongings and headed for the
makeshift entrance that led into the belly of the half-destroyed AT-AT walker. It might be an ancient, rotting, rusting example of now useless military might, but to Rey, it was home.

After carefully unloading her gear and supplies onto the homemade cabinets and shelves, she remembered to make a scratch mark on one interior
wall of semi-malleable material. She had long since stopped bothering to count the scratches, which now numbered in the thousands.

Bits and pieces of homemade décor ornamented isolated alcoves and corners: here a handmade doll fashioned from reclaimed orange flight suit material, there a cluster of dried desert flowers; on the far end of the bed insert, a pillow that had cost her a day’s work.
It wasn’t much, but where such examples of defiant individuality had been placed, they softened the drabness of their surroundings.

Green slab-stuff sizzled in a makeshift cook pan. Opening the packet of beige powder, she dumped it into a tin half full of water. A brief stir activated the mixture, which promptly expanded and solidified into a loaf of something like bread. She slid the cooked
meat off its pan and onto a plate, then slipped the loaf out of its container. Taking a seat, she dug into both as if she had not eaten in weeks. It seemed that these days all too many meals were like that.

When she had finished, she picked up the plate and licked it dry before setting it aside. Rising, she moved to a window that looked in the direction of Niima. The signature contrail of
a single ascending ship streaked the flat dark blue of the evening sky like chalk on slate. Wiping her mouth, she turned to a shelf where an old, badly damaged Rebellion helmet rested. She stared at it for a moment, then picked it up and put it on.

Still wearing the helmet, she made her way outside into the cooling air. Nothing much to see tonight, she reflected. The sun going down. Tomorrow
morning, the sun coming up. And so on to another day, not unlike its predecessor and the interminably repetitive ones that had gone before.

She tried to think of something else—something that had changed,
something that seemed different—if only to keep her mind from atrophying. But there was nothing. Nothing new. Certainly nothing to daydream about. On Jakku, things never changed.

There
was
that occasional mention in the market of a rising new power in the galaxy. An organization that called itself “The First Order.” Determined, relentless. Nobody seemed to know much else about it. Not something to worry about here, she knew. Whatever it was, whatever it represented, it wouldn’t come to this backward, out-of-the-way world. Nobody came to Jakku.

She was alone.

Something
squealed that was not shifting sand.

Rising quickly, she removed the helmet. The sound could not have come from within its long-dead electronics. Even as she inspected the headpiece, the noise was repeated. A hysterical, panicked beeping. Whirling, she ran back into the dwelling and emerged a moment later clutching her staff. The beeping was sounding continuously now, no less frantic for its
frequency.

Reaching the top of a nearby dune, she found herself gazing down at a sight as curious as it was unexpected. Trapped in a net of local organic material, a small spherical droid was attempting to escape its prison, an effort rendered extremely difficult by the fearful mechanical’s total absence of limbs. Mounted atop a squat, four-footed, square-helmeted luggabeast, a native Teedo
was struggling to constrain and reel in the legless but overactive and insubordinate droid.

When uncertain as to anything taking place on Jakku, Rey knew, it was always reasonable to assume that something untoward was happening. At least until she understood the particulars of the confrontation she was witnessing, it was only right to call it to a momentary halt.

“Tal’ama parqual!”

Motion ceased as both the Teedo and BB-8 stopped wrestling and turned to peer up at her.

“Parqual! Zatana tappan-aboo!”

Making an effort to simultaneously control both its heavy-headed mount and its captive, the Teedo yelled back through the mouthpiece
of the goggle-eyed helmet that covered its reptilian cranium. Its attitude was decidedly unconciliatory, even threatening. Meanwhile the
hovering head of the imprisoned droid swiveled rapidly back and forth, trying to watch both Teedo and human simultaneously.

Rey immediately took offense, not only at the Teedo’s tone, but at its speech, which far exceeded the bounds of common courtesy that existed between fellow desert-dwellers and made difficult coexistence possible. The luggabeast rider knew better, and its intemperate words
were enough to decide her on a course of action. Descending the far side of the dune, she drew her knife and began hacking at the netting.

“Namago!”
she growled.
“Ta bana contoqual!”

Observing that it was on the verge of losing its prize, the Teedo unleashed a stream of indigenous invective. None of it had the slightest effect on Rey, who continued cutting away at the mesh until the native
promulgated a slur that would have been vile in any language. Pausing in her work, she turned to face the tightly clothed creature, gesturing with her knife and fairly spitting a reply.

“
Noma. Ano tamata, zatana.”

Long and drawn out, the Teedo’s response to this would have been unprintable on any of a hundred civilized worlds. Turning the metal-enclosed head of its mount, the unpleasant
scavenger departed in the opposite direction. As soon as the native was a safe distance away, BB-8 rolled clear of the netting and began beeping loudly and challengingly in its direction.

“Shhh,” Rey hastened to quiet the droid. “Don’t tempt it. Enough insults can override anyone’s common sense, even a Teedo’s.” BB-8 instantly went silent. Together, the two of them tracked the luggabeast until
it and its rider had vanished from view.

An electronic query drew her attention. Rey knelt down beside the questioning droid.

“He’s just a Teedo. A local. Not so unlike me, really.” Her expression twisted. “Except this one was particularly impolite. Wanted you for parts.” Leaning forward slightly, she studied the top of the droid’s head. “Your antenna’s bent.” As she examined the scored
markings on
her softly beeping new acquaintance, her interest continued to deepen. “Where’d you come from?”

The droid beeped a reply. Pursing her lips, Rey shook her head.

“I don’t know what that means.” A string of beeps followed. This time, she smiled. “Oh. Classified. Really? Well, me too. Big secret.” Rising, she started back toward her dwelling. “I’ll keep mine and you can keep yours.”
Raising an arm, she gestured. “Niima Outpost is that way. Stay off Kelvin Ridge. Keep away from the Sinking Fields up north or you’ll drown in the sand. Otherwise you should be okay. The closer you get to Niima, the less likely you are to run into a marauding Teedo.”

Beeping softly, the droid started to follow, halting only when she turned on it sharply.

“Don’t follow me. You can’t come
with me. I don’t want anyone with me. You understand?” More beeping, distinctly anxious this time. She grew angry. “No! And don’t ask me again. I’m not your friend. I don’t have any friends. This is Jakku. Nobody has friends here. Just fellow survivors.” Turning once more, she moved off with longer strides.

The beeping that sounded now was laced with unmistakable desperation, poignant enough
to make her stop. Turning once more, she looked back at the imploring droid. She didn’t like it—him. Her fondness for most machinery extended to its trade equivalent in food. But she found herself feeling sorry for this small, helpless droid. At least, she told herself, this one seemed harmless enough. And notwithstanding her warning, there was no guarantee that the Teedo might not come back.