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less than a minute, but she preferred to go slowly, first stripping down and removing, one by one, the garments of Thara Nyende of Sullust and stowing them in the locker. Next, she pulled on her new skin—a tough black body glove that sealed itself as she climbed in, too hot to be comfortable until the smart material adjusted to her body heat and the temperature of the room.
    She slid her feet into her white synth-leather boots and then—always left first, then right—snapped her plastoid greaves onto her legs. The soft click and hum of mechanisms assured her she’d attached the pieces correctly, and their perfect sculpt felt far more natural than anything she could buy as a civilian. Belt and crotch plate came next, then the torso piece—locked into the belt, finally making her feel clothed.
    Shoulders, arms, and gloves came after the torso. Most days, she’d already forgotten her ordinary troubles by this point. Sometimes she noticed her breathing had steadied, her muscle tension drained into the support of the bodysuit and plastoid. She could have attached the arm sections faster with the help of a droid or a colleague, but this was
her
ritual. She liked doing it alone.
    Finally, the helmet.
    She took it from its place in the locker and lowered it onto her head. For an instant, she was in total darkness. Then it clicked into place, the lenses polarized, and the heads-up display blinked to life. Targeting diagnostics cycled over her view of the locker room, power levels and environmental readings blinking at the corners of her eyesight.
    Like that, Thara Nyende faded into the background. A stronger woman, a better woman, stepped into place to do her duty.
    She was SP-475 of the Imperial Ninety-Seventh Stormtrooper Legion.



CHAPTER 4
    KONTAHR SECTOR
    Day Eighty-Five of the Mid Rim Retreat
    “You have no idea how the Empire really works.”
    The Rebel Alliance military transport
Thunderstrike
was not designed for comfort. Its corridors were lined with pipes and panels, and its doors were bulky and cumbersome, plated with heavy durasteel. Over the years, Twilight Company had stripped down and reconfigured the aging Corellian corvette, partitioning and repartitioning the ship’s few open spaces until barely a square meter was left unused.
    Thus, when Howl ordered the prisoner brought to his storage-unit-turned-office for questioning, the meeting was an intimate one. On one side of Howl’s flimsy folding desk sat the captain himself, flanked by Lieutenant Sairgon and Chief Medic Von Geiz; while Sairgon stood stiff as ever, like an ancient and gnarled tree, Von Geiz had propped himself atop an offline holoprojector. Facing Howl and leaning back in her chair with exaggerated ease was Governor Chalis, smiling like an empress. Behind Chalis stood Namir, who watched the governor’s hands as if she might be about to reach across the desk and strangle the captain.
    “I’m not saying that to be insulting,” Chalis went on. “But if you think Haidoral Prime was anything more than a backwater, you’re operating under dearly mistaken assumptions. My appointment there was a
punishment
, not an elevation.”
    She spoke in a low voice, full of bored confidence. In the safety of the ship, her Coruscanti accent—the accent of the Imperial elite, of propaganda broadcasts and rebel satire—seemed overly enunciated to Namir’s ears.
    “And why did you deserve punishment?” the captain asked.
    Chalis cocked her head as if surprised by the question. “When your Rebellion started encroaching on the Mid Rim, the Emperor set his dog loose. You heard about the deaths of Moff Coovern and Minister Khemt?”
    “Tragic accidents, as I recall,” Howl said.
    “According to my sources, both died at the hand of Darth Vader. Emperor Palpatine decided that incompetence at the highest ranks was to blame for the destruction of his Death Star, and from there began a culling.
    “There were other deaths, less public,” she added with a