Chapter Text
The Star Forge was massive. An intimidating relic from a bygone age, its vast central orb was dark and lifeless, as were the three immense, elongated wings that skewered through the central sphere. It orbited, alone and silent, around a star whose name had been forgotten for a thousand thousand years.
The First Order had come across this Star Forge entirely by chance while trekking through the uncharted regions of Wild Space. The entire system of the Star Forge, which they quickly renamed Tarkin, was hidden by some type of ancient technology, from what Armitage Hux could discern — a stealth lattice that refracted electro-magnetic emissions and suppressed hyperspace trace signatures.
Armitage gave the Forge a cursory glance from the shuttle as he settled in next to his stormtroopers for the short, bumpy ride from the Prowess, where he was currently stationed. He had volunteered to lead the away team to secure the Forge, and — he hoped — use its prodigious potential for the First Order's benefit. This was one of his first away missions as a Major, and he was determined that nothing would get in the way of complete mission success.
Father will have to respect this achievement, Armitage told himself, suppressing a wince at the discomfort of his thick silvery spacesuit. Once we have the power of a Star Forge at our command, we'll be able to produce thousands of ships and droids. More than mere thousands — tens of thousands!
Soon, the First Order would own more military technology than their previous wildest dreams could ever hope to see. Their overwhelming power would darken the skies of any world they chose to influence; their might would be unstoppable. The corrupt New Republic government would have no stomach for such a fight. They would see that they had only one choice — to bend the knee and submit to their new system of government — one of equality, peace, and order for all.
These and other similarly inspirational thoughts warmed Armitage as the shuttle settled into the Star Forge's hangar deck and extended its ramp down to the black deck below.
The Space Forge had only minimal gravity, so the pilot clamped the shuttle to the deck of the hangar bay with a series of heavy-duty magnetic clasps. Armitage and the stormtroopers would need to do the same with their magnetic boots, at a much smaller scale, or risk stepping too hard and bouncing themselves into the emptiness of the vast, void-like chamber where they had docked.
Devoid of stars, the inside of the hanger was darker than deep space. Their shuttle's external lights could only penetrate a few dozen feet before they gave up and petered out, helpless against the wall of pure nothingness that was so thick, it seemed almost physical in form.
"Troopers, with me," trooper LI-4099 announced Armitage through comms. "Secure the zone. Sir, on your command."
"No. I will take point," Armitage snapped. He knew the standard protocol required officers to remain on board while troopers checked the area for dangers. Of course he knew the protocols; he memorized them at the age of six.
"Major?" LI-4099 asked.
"On my vector," Armitage continued, motioning to the troopers to divide them into groups. "Form a tri-wedge. You lot, left; and you, right. Stay in my wake at forty-five."
Then he turned to the door, treading slowly down the ramp into the darkness with his troopers dutifully following behind.
Armitage was nervous, which only made sense. He was in an airless environment on an ancient artifact forged by a long-dead alien race that, by all accounts, had not been exactly friendly to human life. Anything could happen here. There could be ancient droids, traps he could not even imagine, even strange alien life forms lurking in the airless ruin, ready to awaken and hunger at the first sign of light or movement.
Still, he refused to pass up the opportunity to study the Forge, this glorious legacy of the ancient Rakatan Infinite Empire. The Rakatans, or the Builders, as they were sometimes called, had left Star Forges such as this in only a few locations. Armitage had read of one that had existed in the Lehon System, but it had been destroyed millennia before.
To find an intact Star Forge was a stroke of luck for the Order. This discovery could be the single most important technological breakthrough of Armitage's lifetime. The thought of staying safely behind on the shuttle was intolerable.
Armitage also reinforced his courage with the thought of how Brendol's lip would curl in distaste were he to learn that his bastard son had been too weak-minded to lead the away team.
Switching on his spacesuit's headlamp, Armitage proceeded cautiously in a line straight out from the shuttle ramp. There was a line of white dots on the floor that caught his light, and he decided to use them as his guide.
No noises from the troopers' heavy, mag-booted footfalls came to his ears, thanks to the vacuum of space. Apart from his own steps, and his too-quick breaths inside his helmet, there were no sounds at all. Without anyone else in his field of vision, in the pure black of the vast room, it was easy to imagine that he was completely alone on the Forge.
Armitage's heart was pounding with adrenaline and dread. Without any light or sound beyond what he carried with him, and with such weak gravity holding him to the deck, he had the sudden sense that he was suspended not only in space, but in time as well. It might be ten thousand years ago, or a hundred thousand, or even more. Empires might have risen and fallen in the time it took him to unclamp his magnetic boot and take another step.
Armitage bit his lip and frowned. Focus, boy, Brendol's voice sounded in his mind. Try not to kark this up like everything else you do.
Armitage had completed all of the deep space learning modules, and had done spacewalks before, as part of training, with exemplary marks. But it was different here, on this alien artifact. This was no mere simulation. This was very real.
"GH-4772 here. I've found something," a voice crackled suddenly over comms.
"What is it?" Armitage asked, turning to sweep his spacesuit's light in an arc behind him, to where GH-4722 had fanned out to his left. He was at least a hundred meters away, possibly more, and the unexpected distance briefly gave him even more vertigo.
How was this hanger bay so huge? If he were to walk back towards the light, would every step pull him back towards the future, one century for each pace he made?
"Seems to be a control panel, sir," GH-4722's voice said in his ear.
"Don't touch anything," Armitage ordered. "I'll be right there."
He made his way towards the GH-4722's light, across the vast, empty floor of the hangar. The magnetic pull of his boots as they stuck to the floor with each step slowed him from striding as quickly as he would have liked, giving time for all manner of fears to begin swirling through his mind. What if GH-4722, or another trooper, didn't obey his command; what if they touched something? What if they triggered an alert in this ancient, dead husk of a space station; what if the forge was rigged to blow? What if some type of alien life was lurking above them, waiting to drop?
If that happens, at least Father will know he was right about me all along, Armitage thought wryly. He always told me that I'm nothing but a failure.
If only someone believed in him. But the only person who ever had, Grand Admiral Rae Sloane, had left the Order years before. With every passing month, Armitage grew more and more certain he would never see her again.
His father did not bear mentioning, and his mother was dead. Sometimes, Armitage wished for a friend among his own generation, but in the First Order, competition was fierce. Others either derided him for his physical weakness and status as a bastard, envied him for the supposed perks of being General Brendol Hux's son, or hated him for how much better he was in his academic achievements. No one he'd met could offer him a friendly ear. What's more — if someone did, Armitage didn't know that he'd be able to recognize or appreciate it. More than likely, he would inadvertently offend them, driving them away forever.
Enough of these maudlin, pointless thoughts, Armitage told himself. He needed to focus. Once he reached the control panel and learned how it worked, he could comm the Prowess and announce that he had acquired the Forge for the Order. It would be his greatest achievement yet.
A glint of light to his right had his head swiveling and his steps slowing almost before he knew why. Something was lying on the black deck, off to the side: something small and shiny. For some reason, it attracted his attention.
Of course, it could be a trap. But it could also be a vital bit that they would need to kick-start the machinery of this place, or a clue to the ancient, extinct race that had built it.
Stepping closer, Armitage leaned forward to examine it through his ungainly spacesuit's visor. It seemed to be a medallion. It was silvery and oval-ish in shape, with a curious pointed tip. A complex lattice of swirls marked its surface, catching the light from his headlamp and bouncing it back to his eyes in confusing patterns.
It was fascinating. Armitage needed to take it back to the Prowess so he could study it.
He reached for it, certain that the overly large fingers of his spacesuit would be unable to retrieve it. But to his surprise, the medallion almost leaped into his gloved hand, almost as though it wanted to go with him.
Nonsense, Armitage told himself. It was easier to pick up than I expected due to the low gravity here. Nothing more.
What are you, Armitage wondered, staring at it through his visor. What are you?
"Sir?" trooper IJ-6191 was asking over comms. "Your status?"
"Hold position," Armitage snapped, standing up. He tucked the medallion into his belt pouch. "Await my command."
For the rest of the exploratory mission, for the entirety of the trip back to the Prowess, for the debriefing meeting with his father and the other officers on the ship, and for the rest of that standard cycle, Armitage could think of little beyond the medallion. It seemed to have a strange fascination to his mind that he could not immediately explain.
He also saw no reason to mention it to the officers in his debrief. It was a small trinket — barely worth mentioning — and they would think ill of him for wasting his time retrieving a piece of jewelry in the first place.
Perhaps its allure was merely because it was so small, so easily overlooked, and yet he had found it, along among all the vast centuries that had passed it by. The medallion felt like a secret message from the ancient Rakatans to him from hundreds of thousands of years before — a message to Armitage Hux, a skinny, sickly bastard son who had to claw his way higher in the Order, rank by rank, ascending through sheer willpower and grit alone.
But what is it telling me? he wondered.
When he finally had the privacy to examine the artifact more closely, in his solitary bunk pod, Armitage was surprised to note that the medallion was connected to a chain that he had not noticed before. It was perfectly sized to go around someone's neck.
How could I have missed the chain when I picked it up? he wondered, looking at the coils of silvery links pooled on his black desk. Then again, I was distracted by the discovery of the control panel, and the hangar bay was dark. I was nervous. That explains it.
Armitage frowned. He hated any reminder of his various weaknesses. He wanted more for himself. He wanted to be stronger, smarter, more cunning, so that he could succeed; so that he could impose his will on the rest of the Order and bring control and stability first to it, and then to the entire galaxy.
He was clearly intelligent enough to rise to the top of the Order and direct it to his will; he only needed the right opportunity to show his mettle — an opportunity that his father and the other Imperial-era relics currently in charge would never allow.
Turning the medallion over in his fingers, he found his thoughts drifting to his overall dissatisfaction with his position and prospects so far. It was true that he had recently ascended to the rank of Major, but he was still pinned underneath his father's abusive thumb. He was still trammeled by the protocols and directives of the First Order, which was fighting for its life here in Wild Space and parts of the Outer Rim. The Order had nowhere near enough firepower to take on even one major civilization, much less the entire Core; they spent much of their time dodging the Chiss. Yet that is what their mission, their destiny, must be — to return to the Core, cleansed through the fires of privation, and therefore willing to challenge the Core's softness, its weakness, with the Order's strength.
Armitage wished that he, personally, were stronger. He wished for a stronger body that would be capable of performing in the Order's various tests and feats of physical skill. But that was a lost cause. As Brendol never failed to remind him, Armitage had inherited the weak Arkanisian blood of his kitchen wench of a mother, rather than the strong, virile essence Brendol was convinced must dominate his own bloodline.
How you never sired any other child but me is a mystery, considering your self-proclaimed manliness, Armitage thought towards his father, with more than a hint of snark. Surely there ought to be at least a few other half-siblings of his running about with the Hux name and curse. But, sad to say, even at twenty-five, Armitage was still quite alone.
"Enough," Armitage muttered to himself. He had done nothing but stare at this medallion like a moonling for the past fifteen minutes. "What am I going to do with you?" he mused.
First things first. He should determine whether it was dangerous.
Armitage scanned the medallion and chain with every piece of technology he had available to him. All indications were that it was a mere pendant and chain — no embedded tech, no radiation, no alien spores.
So there was no reason at all why he should not drop the chain around his neck and wear the medallion next to his dog tags. True, it was not standard issue — but he was a Major now. Only a few officers on board this ship could command him to strip. The medallion was unlikely to be noticed under his uniform, and if it was, he could simply take it off.
The metal half-disc felt strangely comforting against his upper chest, like a small, warm secret that was meant for him, and him alone. A talisman that would help him survive here in the Order; survive and grow stronger.
Armitage fell asleep in his pod almost as soon as the lights were turned off. It had been a rather exhausting day.
Behind his eyelids, the darkness of a Rakatan hangar bay echoed through his mind.
Armitage drifted up through layers of sleep. Something was amiss. Something was not the way it ought to be.
He was warm, and comfortable — so comfortable. More comfortable than he had ever been before. Distressingly comfortable.
Something was definitely wrong.
"Mmmm," a female voice murmured from just in front of him. Something warm and plush and breathing was in his arms, pressed close to his body — something alive.
Armitage's eyes snapped open. The room was dark, but not so dark that he couldn't see a strange woman right in front of him, her eyes half-lidded with sleep.
"Hey there, sexy," she murmured with a little smile.
Armitage screamed, shoving her as hard as he could. There was a brief flash of her limbs, tangled up with a blanket, and then a thud as she hit the floor.
He scrabbled away from the edge of the bed until his back was against the wall. What — an attacker, in his bunk? How?
Armitage flicked his wrist to summon the monomolecular blade from his wrist sheath, but nothing happened. He flicked his wrist again, and again, and finally felt blindly at his forearm with his other hand, only to discover that his arm was strangely wide, not like his real arm at all. More distressingly, it was completely bare of both knife sheath and knife.
The woman was getting up off the floor. She seemed irked.
"Hey! What the fuck was that for?" she demanded, putting her hands on her hips.
Armitage stared around the dark room, which was completely strange to him. He had never been here before. Its windows showed the lights and buildings of some world — not a spaceship, not the Academy, not Brendol's manor on Arkanis. He was in a totally different, unknown location.
I must be dreaming, Armitage thought, pinching his arm savagely. But no matter how hard he pinched himself, he didn't wake up.
"I'm serious!" the woman half-shouted. "Are you just going to sit there after pushing me out of bed? For no reason?? You could at least apologize!"
Armitage stared at her. If he was not asleep, and he was on some strange world — then this woman must have kidnapped him off the Prowess.
"Who are you and what do you want?" he demanded.
To his shock, the voice that came out of his throat was not his voice. It was lower, coarser — rougher. He reached up to his neck, palming it to see if she had harmed him somehow.
The woman was frowning at him. "Look, you weren't that drunk last night," she said. "We only had a couple. You didn't forget me already, did you?"
Armitage only blinked. "I've never seen you before in my life."
She smiled — a sinuous, seductive thing. "I'm Bytril; remember? We've been flirting for weeks, and last night you finally agreed to get Ghostian maizeballs with me. And then, one thing led to another..." She gave a graceful half-shrug with one bare shoulder. "And you invited me back to your place so we could 'get to know each other better!'"
Armitage clutched the sheets to his chest, right near where his heart was rabbiting with sudden terror. Bytril — Ghostian maizeballs — flirting for months — back to your place — none of that made any sense. He had never heard that name; he had never had that food. This was not 'his place.' And he had certainly never flirted with a woman.
Her words were not the words of a kidnapper; she seemed sincere. But if this was not a dream, and not a kidnapping, then what was it?
The woman — who, he was just now realizing, was distressingly naked — was looking at him in a strange, warm way. It was not a type of look he was accustomed to receiving. It made something under his skin itch with unease.
More terrifyingly, she seemed to be about to get back into bed with him. Her hand was already on the mattress.
He needed to get her to leave. Then he could take stock of his situation. Gather intel; assess his resources, make a plan.
"I don't remember you," he finally made his too-deep voice say.
The woman — Bytril, apparently — looked perplexed. "Well, that's too bad. But, since I'm here... I guess I could just... remind you..."
She walked two of her fingertips across the mattress towards him, the muscles of her arm shifting. She leaned forward and half-closed her eyes again. A slice of light from the window cut across her bare body, highlighting some rounded, pillowy regions while veiling others.
"What do you need?" she whispered, kneeling on the bed and leaning towards him.
Armitage realized that she was clearly expecting to engage in sexual relations. The thought of putting his hands on a naked stranger — on a woman — was appalling. He would never be able to make himself do it, not even to gather intel.
"I need you to leave," he made his numb lips say.
Bytril paused. "Huh?"
Armitage licked his lips, gathering strength. He might not have his blade, but he had his voice. "You heard me. Get out."
Now she was looking truly irate.
"Really? You're kicking me out after you had your fun? But it's the middle of the night!" she objected. "Come on — I'll have to walk all the way across campus to get to my dorm. You know the trams don't run this late."
"Then that is what you will need to do!" Armitage said. "I require privacy!"
The woman stared at him. "PRIV-uh-see? What, are you talking like an Imp now?"
"You need to leave!" Armitage repeated, refusing to be distracted.
"Where am I supposed to go at this hour?" she complained. "The Student Union doesn't even open until six!"
"I neither know nor care!" Armitage snapped. "Put your clothes back on, and get out. Immediately!"
"Oh, I will! Kriff you!" Bytril returned with a gesture Armitage did not know, but that was no doubt meant to be rude. She bent down and scrabbled around near her feet, picking up a series of garments from different parts of the floor, and began to fasten herself back into her underthings, a thunderous scowl on her face. "I can't believe this. You're really kicking me out after you got what you wanted? You pushed me out of bed and told me to get gone, just like that? Seriously?"
"Believe it!" Armitage huffed, inching himself farther back against the wall; against safety. His heart was slowing a bit as Bytril put her clothes back on, despite the cutting glares she was directing his way.
Armitage was accustomed to cutting glares. He was not accustomed to waking up with a naked stranger.
A long, painful few moments passed while Bytril located her shoes, which had apparently been cast into separate corners, making them difficult to find immediately. But finally, she had located them, and was heading for the door.
Once she had reached it, she turned back, still tugging her clothes into place. "You're a real asshole, Poe Dameron, you know that?"
Armitage stared after her, his hand itching for his knife.
Finally, the door hissed closed behind her, leaving Armitage alone.
First things first, Armitage thought, cautiously standing up off the bed and taking a step towards the door to lock it. The last thing he needed was Bytril or some other unknown person surprising him before he had taken stock and formulated his plan.
He almost immediately tripped over something. In attempting to rebalance, he stumbled on something else, then flailed helplessly across the room, finally ending up plastered against the door, where he fumbled for the control panel.
The panel was all in Aurebesh rather than Outer Rim Basic. Armitage filed that bit of information away as he set the door to locked.
Breathing out in relief, he turned on the room lights, then took a closer look at his surroundings.
He was in a single room with two small windows on the same wall, over a desk with a chair. Two more chairs were scattered around the small room, each covered with various bits of clutter. The bed was against the left wall, featuring a mass of tangled blankets and sheets, as well as far too many pillows. A kitchen area on the opposite wall from the bed featured a small sink, a few cabinets, and a hot plate, but mostly held even more clutter filling up the entirety of its counter space.
Now that the lights were on, Armitage could see that the walls were almost entirely covered with large, colorful images, looking somewhat similar to some of the First Order's educational materials. Only, instead of holding up ideals such as Persistence, Determination, and Conformity, the words on these images made no immediate sense to him. He did not understand the import of the phrase 'PINK GLITTERBUGS," for example, especially since the image under that title was a picture of five juvenile delinquents.
The room was scattered with possessions lying about indiscriminately. The visual clutter of it was overwhelming — clothes, shoes, food items, oddball things he did not know how to categorize, even a datapad or two. All were all mixed together across every horizontal surface, including the floor.
"What in the stars," Armitage muttered, taking a cautious step towards a datapad. Perhaps he could use it to determine his location and send a message to the First Order requesting extraction.
A flash of movement from the corner had him turning towards it, his hands up in a battle stance.
Armitage's breath caught. He was staring at a tall mirror attached to the wall — but the person staring back from the mirror was, most definitely, not himself.