I'm on Quantxi. Finding one's self on Quantxi is never the result of a series of good choices. Quantxi is a moon of Ord Mantell and the whole thing is a junkyard. We're safe from prying eyes, which makes it a favorite spot of disreputable people. There's no honor among thieves, so I want to do this drop off and put this moon behind us as quickly as possible.

"The Resistance thanks you," says the Togruta pilot who had introduced themselves as Temer Darm. He holds out a pale, coral hand. In it is a datapad.

"What is this?"

"It's a datapad." Temer responds dryly.

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"I want you to take it."

"Why?" We're not usually paid by the Resistance.

"I was told to give it to you."

"By who?"

Temer sighs, "would you just take the blasted thing?"

I take the datapad. I activate it. I'm looking at what appears to be an inbox for data transmissions. There's no account name listed, no information on what I'm looking at, just one blinking little rectangle. I tap it.

Instead of a stream of text appearing, I'm suddenly looking at the unmistakable face of Rey.

"Hi," she says, "I know we had discussed earlier the possibility of you and I getting together at some point, but as much as I would very much like to, it just doesn't look possible. Not for the foreseeable future. Unless . . ."

Rey pauses. She pauses like she's just had an idea. She pauses like this isn't the reason she sent me this datapad. She turns her head to look at me through the corner of her eye.

"Unless you want to come here. I can't tell you where we are and I can't give your coordinates. The First Order is absolutely relentless and we can't be too careful. Not now. So, if you think you could spare us -- me -- a bit of your time, the Resistance pilot before you can bring you to us."

Rey hasn't finished speaking and Humaira is looking up at Temer. "Yes," Humaira says. "We'll go."

"I've only got clearance for one of you," says exhausted Togruta.

"Then no," I say quickly, offering the datapad back.

"I wouldn't say I know Rey overly well," Temer says, "but she did make it sound like it was extremely important that you meet."

"I don't know Rey and I don't know the Resistance." I shake my head. "Just because we're scratching each other's back doesn't mean I trust any of you."

"And you're pirates," Temer reminds us. "You don't exactly have the moral high ground. Why should we trust your lot to not to sell us out first chance you get?"

It's a fair question. Humaira touches me. I know she's about to say it's fine and that I should go, but I speak before she does.

"Then just us two," I say, indicating Humaira and I. "Everyone else stays here."

The pilot isn't excited by this idea, but he is excited to end this conversation. "Fine," he says.

I explain the situation to Bomba and put him in charge. I don't particularly want to stand out, so I change into a tan shirt, a green vest and some dark pants I tuck into a pair of old boots. Humaira goes the opposite direction, changing into flowing red dress with three-quarter inch sleeves and a thick black sash around her waist. We grab what few necessities we think we'll need, stuff them into an overnight bag, and climb aboard the Resistance starship.

It's a massive, Baleen-class heavy freighter. I'm surprised they're using it. They're big, slow, and easy to track. You'd think they'd stick with smaller, lighter freighters. Something with some maneuverability.

Humaira does not like it at all. Every time she sits down, she stands right back up. She's fidgeting with her hands and looking out the portholes. I distract her with a game of sabacc.

"Sorry it can't be strip sabacc," I say, dealing the cards with a smirk, "stupid semi-private room."

"We're stuck on a big, fat, easy target of a tug boat." Humaira frowns. "The only way we arrive in one piece is good luck."

As she grumbles, Humaira's absent-mindedly scratches her leg. She's been scratching it a lot lately. She notices me noticing her and stops quickly, pulling her hand back.

"Your leg been giving you trouble?"

"It's fine," she says. She doesn't want to talk about it -- not because it bothers her, but because she knows it bothers me. She knows I blame myself for what happened over Ryoone.

Humaira shifts her right leg, sliding it through the thigh-high slit in her dress. I can see where she's been scratching -- half way between her knee and her hip, where her prosthetic leg meets the residual of her right leg.

It's a top-of-the-line cybernetic replacement. We shouldn't be having these problems with it -- but six months after its grafting, the synthetic skin began deteriorating and sloughing off. The leg works, but the skeletal durasteel calls attention to itself. And now it's irritating her skin where it's connected.

"It's fine," she says again. "It doesn't bother me."

Humaira's telling the truth. Having a cybernetic leg doesn't bother her. The itching is irritating, but she's thankful to be alive and grateful to live in a galaxy where a synthetic limb such as this is possible.

I drop the subject. Two hands of cards later, the pilot's voice screeches over the intercom.

"Buckle up," they say, "we're coming in for a landing."

We set down and the doors open. We don't wait for an escort, we show ourselves out. We haven't landed on landing pad. The ground is soft beneath our feet. We're in a clearing, one carved out of the surrounding jungle.

Flood lights blind us and, as our eyes adjust, show us the way. We're in the heart of a Resistance base camp. Like all Resistance base camps, and the Rebel bases before them, it's clearly a quickly thrown-together operation. One they could quickly pack up and take with them, should they need to leave in a hurry. Cables and vines cover the ground and the jungle animals keep a wary distance from the soldiers, mechanics, politicians and pilots now scurrying around.

It's a carefully controlled chaos and there is a feeling that permeates it that is unlike other installations I've been on. I've been around soldiers. I've been on military bases of every stripe, faction, and order. These people are more than soldiers. They're family.

Humaira's eyes go straight to the stars. She's trying to pinpoint where we are. She clocks the two moons and then, judging by the stars says, "wherever we are, we're not far from where we were."

"Welcome to Ajan Kloss," says someone standing much closer than I thought anyone was.

I turn and stop in my tracks, just barely missing colliding with a top-ranking official.

No.

Not a top-ranking official. The top-ranking official.

I recognize her immediately. I grew up being told her story. I feel as though I know her as well as I know myself. She has no idea who I am but who I am is, in large part, because of her.

I grew up wanting the strength, the resolve, and the resilience of Princess Leia Organa. I still want it. More than any other hero of the Galatic Civil War, it was her I wanted to be.

Now she's standing in front of me as General Organa. Not a myth, not a story, a real person. A real person who's tired of fighting, tired of being backed into a corner, tired of being out of options. I see it in her eyes, though, she will always rebel against tyranny. She will always resist evil. This is who she is.

I fall to my knees.

"Will someone get this idiot on his feet?"

I can hear her rolling her eyes.

I try to explain, "my parents fought with you."

She taps me on the side of the head. I look up. There's a twinkle in her eye as she smiles. "You're going to have to be more specific than that. I fight with a lot of people."

I stand up, knowing how foolish I probably look and sound but completely powerless to do anything about it. "In the Rebellion!" I say. "The-they were at Hoth and Endor."

"Oh," she softens slightly, "and how are they now?"

"They're, uh . . ."

She smiles understandingly. "Mine too. What's your name?"

"Beacon Sardis."

"Glad to have you on our side, Beacon. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm apparently late for a committee I didn't even know I was on."

I watch General Organa leave, followed by an entourage of soldiers and officials. My mind is a whirling, fizzing blank. I'm absolutely speechless. I slowly turn back and find Rey standing right in front of me. She's grinning from ear to ear.

"I know," she says. And I believe her. She grew up on the same stories I did. And then she looks past me and sees Humaira. "Oh, hi. I don't know you. I'm Rey."

"Humaira."

"You're very pretty."

"I love your hair."

Rey runs her fingers around the three loose buns holding her hair out of her face. Her smile is appreciative but also a little awkward, like she's not used to receiving compliments and isn't entirely sure what to do with them. She turns her attention back to Humaira.

"And you are, uh . . ." Rey's pointing at me.

Humaira looks at me, her hands on her hips. "What are we? We need a word for it."

Rey turns to see what I'll say. I know what we are but I don't have an answer.

"We don't know what we are," Humaira muses.

"Well," I say, not liking how that sounds, "maybe you can help us. We're looking for a word. We don't know how to introduce ourselves."

"Okay." Rey's eyes squint. She's up to the challenge.

"We are more than friends," Humaira starts.

"We are more than partners." I say.

"We are more than married." Humaira says.

"We pledged life debts to one another." I explain. "I owe her my life."

"And I owe him mine." Humaira finishes.

"Oh," Rey nods, understanding. We don't know how she understands. We don't understand. She turns, searching for someone and then calls out, "Chewie!"

A tall, brown Wookiee jogs over to us. I scan the jungles to see if any of my other childhood heroes are hiding nearby.

"Chewie," Rey says, "what do you call it when two people have a life debt to each other?"

Chewie snuffles and barks.

Rey points at Humaira and I. "Yeah, these two."

Chewie responds with something between a purr and a bark and Rey nods.

"Yeah," she says, turning to us and pointing at Chewie. "I'd call it that."

Humaira and I laugh. Chewie growls questioningly at Rey and she rolls her eyes.

"Yes, I know, but that is going to have to wait."

Chewie groans.

"I'll come see you when I'm done. I have to talk to these two."

Chewie accepts this and strides off.

Rey turns back to us. "Thanks for coming. Follow me."

She leads us away from the camp, into the jungle. It doesn't take us long for the flood lights to no longer reach us and it's not so far beyond that, that the only sounds we can hear are our own breathing and the life that calls this moon home.

We find ourselves in small clearing and Rey invites us to sit as she lights a fire. Sitting down opposite us, she takes in a few, long, calming breaths before continuing.

"Thank you for coming," Rey begins. "I've needed someone to talk to and . . . I'd talk to Leia but . . ." Her lips tighten. "It's about Kylo Ren."

"The Supreme Leader of the First Order?"

Rey nods.

I don't understand. "Why can't you talk to General Organa about him?"

A look crosses Rey's face. She doesn't know if she's supposed to say what she's about to say. With a certain level of difficulty, she explains, "he's her son."

Humaira swears to herself, but not quietly. "This family is going to be the death of us all."

"It may not have anything to do with him at all," Rey says quickly, "I don't know. But I have felt something and I need to talk to someone who is sensitive to the Force and you're . . . you're the only living person I know."

"What have you felt?"