Poe Dameron Read online

“I rarely offer my enemies such an opportunity,” Zeva Bliss said, sword still on Poe as she took a few steps to her right. “But I feel you deserve it, Poe Dameron. For your brief, mostly honorable service to the Spice Runners of Kijimi.”

  Poe opened his mouth to respond but was silenced by a loud, animalistic sound.

  The scream was primal, high-pitched, but focused, intense—like the sound a fighter makes when connecting a deadly blow, not one of fear or hesitation.

  The figure launched toward Zeva Bliss, knocking her over and into the sandy dirt. She rolled over quickly—returning to a fighting stance within seconds. It took Poe that long to realize who’d interceded.

  Zorii.

  She didn’t turn to look at him, her full attention on her mother. Both had blades drawn—though Zeva seemed more adept at wielding hers. They circled each other, not making any moves just yet.

  “You’ve made a grievous error, my child,” Zeva Bliss said, genuine concern in her voice. “Think carefully before you raise your hand against me. Against everything you stand for.”

  Zorii didn’t respond. Zeva attacked, swinging high and hard. Zorii parried capably, but it was clear she was overmatched. It was a delay tactic at best. But while Zeva Bliss was the epitome of training and well-executed maneuvers, Zorii had the element of surprise on her side. She sent a kick that connected with Zeva’s banged-up helmet, knocking her off-kilter and the helmet at a strange angle, impeding her vision. Zorii turned slightly and tossed Poe a blaster. He caught it and trained it on Zeva.

  “Help me, Poe,” Zorii said, out of breath. “I know this has gone sideways. I know this isn’t how you want things to be. But we can fix it. We can have what you want and what I want, okay? This is our chance. You were right. This was wrong. It wasn’t honorable. But there’s still time to salvage this. To salvage us. Help me now and we can reshape the Spice Runners to be something else—something new. We can do it together, Poe. If we can defeat my mother, there’s no stopping us—”

  Zorii lurched forward, the kick from Zeva Bliss catching her by surprise. To her credit, she bounced back fast, turning to face her mother, sword raised and teeth bared. Poe lifted the blaster again.

  Zorii had outlined everything Poe had wanted—months before. Maybe even further back. The idea of running their own crew, of traipsing around the galaxy on their own terms had seemed like a dream come true to Poe then. But he’d seen what the Spice Runners were. Even knowing he’d be able to help Zorii guide them—change the game—they couldn’t alter what the organization was, on a base level. Thieves. Criminals. Scoundrels who didn’t scoff at dealing with slavers and murderers and the worst the galaxy had to offer. Was that the life Poe wanted? Was that the life Shara Bey and Kes Dameron had envisioned for their only son? Was that what they’d fought for—so many times?

  Shara Bey’s voice resonated in Poe’s mind—soft yet strong. “You should always make your own choices, Poe. We’ll never take that from you. But we will teach you enough so you’ll know how to choose the right path when the time comes.”

  “No,” Poe said, letting the blaster drop to the ground. “No. I won’t do it.”

  Zorii looked back at Poe, over her shoulder—her eyes wild with a rage he had never seen on her face before. A look of pure anger and betrayal. Whatever she felt for Poe, whatever warmth and affection she’d pushed to the surface to steel herself to make this offer to him, was dead. Gone forever. Replaced by a white-hot anger that could never be doused.

  “Then run!” she screamed, her face bloodied and bruised, her mother looming behind her. “Run for your life, Poe—and don’t ever come back.”

  He ran.

  Poe sipped the brown, foamy beverage slowly. “Iced mocoa” was what the bartender had called it when he served him. Not bad, he thought.

  The cantina was loud and boisterous—it was late enough in the evening that most of the patrons were too drunk to notice the cloaked man sitting at the bar, his face in shadows, sipping a drink usually reserved for first light. But Poe Dameron needed the jolt the brew provided. It was going to be a long night out of Kijimi.

  It had been a week since he’d run away from Zorii. His legs ached. His bandaged arm and midsection still throbbed, days later. But he was alive. Barely. He’d managed to find Tarand Crowe amid the chaos—halfway through the monastery, blaster fire raging around them, guards running every direction. Some were headed to the yard, to watch their leader face off against her own daughter. Others were trying to regain some level of control over the prisoners who’d been somehow armed and were making their way back to their ships. Crowe gave Poe cover until they could make their way to Crowe’s ship. The smuggler gave Poe a name and a key. Then they parted with a brief handshake.

  “You did right by me,” Crowe said. “I won’t forget that.”

  “We’re even,” Poe said with a pained smile.

  “You okay on your own?” Crowe asked. “Took a beating back there, huh?”

  Crowe seemed more annoyed than concerned. Poe figured he’d reached the limit of the scoundrel’s kindness.

  “I’ll manage,” Poe said with a wheeze before turning and darting off into the Kijimi night. Though Zorii had commanded him to run, he couldn’t be sure the Spice Runners wouldn’t want to find him—and make him suffer for his betrayal.

  Crowe’s contact lived deep in the underbelly of Kijimi City, and while he was a thief, he wasn’t a Spice Runner. Von Tante was a reed-thin wisp of a man—with a shock of white hair and salt-and-pepper stubble and not much else. His eyes were dull but not dead, and it had taken Poe a second to even notice the man as he’d entered his quarters with the key Crowe had slipped him. He’d lost a lot of blood. If Crowe’s friend wasn’t around, Poe was certain he’d die in the empty quarters.

  Tante stepped out of the shadows, eyebrow raised and blaster pointed at Poe. Despite the intrusion, he didn’t seem surprised—almost amused, actually.

  “You got a key, which means someone I know thinks we should talk,” Tante said, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at Poe. He didn’t seem to like what he saw. “Had a rough night, kid?”

  Poe’s legs buckled, and he struggled to stay upright. Tante stepped toward him and led him to a beat-up chair in the corner of the sparsely furnished room.

  “Take a seat, I’ll get you something to drink,” Tante said. Poe heard clanging and clattering coming from nearby. “On the run, huh? That happens a lot here on Kijimi. Hard to stay in one place when the rules keep changing.”

  Poe didn’t respond, trying to focus on staying conscious. He wasn’t succeeding. His mind was drifting off. Then he felt a light slap on his cheek, and a metal cup was thrust in front of him. It smelled of herbs and mud.

  “Here, take this,” Tante said. “Gonna taste like dirt, but it’ll help you. Medic’s on the way, too. Called in a favor. She’ll get you patched up. Who sent you my way?”

  “Crowe,” Poe said, the word coming out like a gag, the foul taste of the beverage overtaking him. “What—what is this?”

  “Better I not tell you,” Tante said. “Crowe, huh? I like him. Glad he’s still around. Strange he came to Kijimi, though. He’s no Spice Runner.”

  “Neither am I,” Poe said.

  Tante—with the help of a medic Poe barely remembered, so delirious was he from blood loss and his injuries—let Poe heal over three or four days. But by the fourth morning, he made it clear to Poe it was time to go.

  “This isn’t a lodging house, kid,” Tante said flatly. “You’re hot. Someone’s after you. I know that much. Word travels fast on Kijimi. You’ve done something bad. So bad the Spice Runners are out, full force, looking for you. Best I can offer is a warm bed for a few days, then a path off-planet. I did the first part already.”

  Poe thanked the man, who had no reason to help him but did anyway.

  A late-evening visit to Babu Frik had been risky, but necessary, Poe felt. The droidsmith had been surprised to see Poe—more surprised to see the shape he
was in. Though he felt better than he had when he stumbled out of the monastery into the shadowy streets of Kijimi City, he was still a sight to be seen.

  “Quick-quick, this put Babu in bad place,” Babu said, motioning for Poe to step closer.

  “I know you’re one of them,” Poe told Babu, hands raised. “And I understand if you can’t help me. But you saved my droid, and I wanted to let you know she died. She’s gone. They gutted her. She didn’t deserve that.”

  “You look bad, too, yeah,” Babu said, shaking his head slowly. “Babu Frik cannot help. Big trouble for Babu.”

  “I understand,” Poe said. “But I have nowhere else to go.”

  Poe waited for a response, a sign from Babu that the droidsmith understood and sympathized with him, but his expression remained blank.

  “I’ve got some intel—there’s a ship docked in the city that’s leaving tomorrow,” Poe continued. “I need to find a way onto that ship. But I can’t make it through the streets—much less wander the docks—without hiding who I am. My face is everywhere. The Spice Runners want me dead. I need—”

  The droidsmith made a low growl, silencing him.

  “I not help you,” Babu said. Poe’s heart sank. He’d be captured for certain. “But you thief, no? Maybe you find thing you need here. How Babu know until later, something missing?”

  Poe nodded slowly as Babu turned around and rummaged through a small box of what looked like junk to Poe. Then Babu Frik slid a small disk onto the table that separated them. He scooted off his seat and scampered out of the workshop.

  Poe stepped closer and picked up the device. Then he smiled.

  The holographic disguise matrix hadn’t been perfect—but it had done the job, and Poe was thankful. Babu’s device had given him enough cover to walk the streets of Kijimi City unnoticed. Well, when it was working. The device was, basically, a personal hologram projector. It allowed Poe to look and sound like someone else. Which was handy while in Kijimi on the run from the Spice Runners…of Kijimi. The devices had a sordid history—used often by bounty hunters and other unsavory figures trying to evade detection. Poe figured he fell into that category, at least in the eyes of some. It was obviously stolen tech and not in the best shape. So Poe relied on a dark cloak and kept to himself as he made his way to the cantina—where he’d meet a man named Zade Kalliday and his starship, the Midnight Blade.

  But Kalliday was late, which made Poe nervous but also gave him time to eat something. His stomach growled. It had been days since he’d had a proper meal, and he couldn’t think of a better place to have his last on Kijimi. The bartender slid him a plate with a shawda club sandwich on it that Poe soon devoured, his appetite getting the best of him. He fought the urge to lick his fingers as he finished.

  His thoughts wandered back to the monastery—Zeva Bliss’s sword at his throat, sand and blood mixed together, his vision blurring. Zorii. She’d saved his life, offered him a chance to lead the Spice Runners together. A chance to fulfill the dream he’d had since they first started working together on the Ragged Claw. An offer Poe rejected. He’d left her to face off against her mother alone while he ran away to fight for something he hadn’t figured out yet.

  Poe wondered how she felt. But he knew the answer. Betrayed. Angry. Hurt. He couldn’t fix that. He’d never be able to, he thought. He left the Spice Runners for something else, for a cause Zorii found comical and foolish. He’d never get the chance to explain his side to her. He’d be murdered on sight if he tried. His time as a Spice Runner was over. But it hadn’t been all bad, he thought as he patted his mouth with the coarse rag that served as a napkin. She’d learned to fly, and he’d learned how to be a better scoundrel—how to dance in the gray areas of life. Perhaps, over time, she’d come to appreciate that, too. But he wasn’t banking on it.

  Poe stared upward, a wan, nostalgic smile on his face. He wasn’t sure if it was the familiar voice that had drawn his eye, but he knew her immediately—before she uttered another word. Senator Leia Organa. The news footage was from the Senate, and Organa was responding to another colleague’s comments in the Senate chamber. Poe was catching them mid-debate, but he didn’t need a map to figure out what they were arguing about. Poe locked on to the regal hero’s face and was immediately hypnotized by her passionate words.

  She spoke plainly, without bravado or overly emotive gestures. It was as if she was speaking directly to Poe Dameron, and she drilled down into him in a way no one else had been able to. In moments, the collected scrapes and cuts and scar tissue of the past few years—the darkness he’d experienced and seen with the Spice Runners, Zorii, Tomasso, Sela Trune, EV-6B6—everything crumbled, replaced by something else. Something new but also very, very old. The words were resonant but not unknown to Poe. In a way, he heard his father and mother speaking to him through the senator’s lips. Poe had abandoned those ideals and beliefs in an act of desperation—because he had wanted to explore the galaxy on his own terms, to get off Yavin 4. But that had been flawed. That had been wrong. Not having a choice wasn’t always a limitation. Sometimes it was something bigger. Like destiny.

  “You cannot defeat evil once and consider yourself victorious,” Organa said, her inflection clear, confident, but also wary. “It is our duty as the New Republic to challenge evil when we see it, no matter how scarred or hurt we are from past conflicts. We either stand for what we believe in forever without limit or qualification, with strength and bravery, or we shall fall to the same elements that crushed the Republic decades ago.”

  Poe stood with a jolt, electrified by Organa’s words. She was a legend to Poe. A name whispered in stories he’d heard as a child. But also a person—an old, trusted friend to his parents during their shared time in the Rebellion. He felt a sudden, deep, and impossible-to-rationalize connection to her. A need to reach her, help her, that would’ve been laughable had he tried to explain it in words. But he felt it all the same. He knew what he had to do next. He knew where he had to go. Finally.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. Poe turned to his right and saw a man with an expectant look.

  “Hey, you waiting on someone?” the man said. “Name’s Zade Kalliday. Tante said you were looking for a lift. If the price is right, I’m your man.”

  Poe smiled.

  “That’s me,” he said, shaking Kalliday’s hand. “Thanks for the seat.”

  “Hey, nothing’s free, my man,” Kalliday said. “But I’ll get you there. You know where you’re headed?”

  “I do now.”

  ALEX SEGURA is an acclaimed writer of novels, comic books, and podcasts. He is the author of the Pete Fernandez mystery series (including the Anthony Award–nominated crime novels Dangerous Ends and Blackout) and a number of comic books, most notably the superhero noir The Black Ghost, the YA music series The Archies, and the “Archie Meets” collection of crossovers, featuring cameos from the Ramones, the B-52s, and more. He is also the cocreator/cowriter of the Lethal Lit crime/YA podcast from iHeart Radio, which was named one of the best podcasts of 2018 by The New York Times. By day he is copresident of Archie Comics. A Miami native, he lives in New York with his wife and children.