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I personally love the idea of Spymaster Finn, because there’s Finn in the medcenter on D’Qar, his whole spine throbbing, expecting one of the Knights of Ren to walk through the door any second and start poking around in his aching head. (He knows Major Calonia said “debriefing” but he also knows he’s an enemy defector and that means “interrogation”. He doesn’t have any other definition for that but pain, and guilt, and fear.)
So he’s—sort of surprised when a short human with a tangle of dark hair walks up to his bed and takes a seat. “Hello,” she says, shaking his hand warmly. “I’m Rishy Niser, with Intel. How’s your back?”
They have a conversation. She’s easy to talk to, she laughs a lot. After a few hours she gets up, and stretches. “Well, I think that’s it for me. I’ll get someone to bring you an official misrep form tomorrow, if you could fill that out—“
Finn blinks. “Isn’t someone going to interrogate me?”
“What do you think that was? Sleep well, Finn.”
Finn stares after her for a long time. He stares even harder when he pressures Poe into bringing him Intel’s report. ”I didn’t…say any of the stuff in here!” Finn says indignantly, scrolling through the document. “I mean, none of it is incorrect, but I—we were just talking.” He definitely hadn’t mentioned the trooper capacity of the Finalizer, but there it was in blue and white. He hadn’t said that. Had he?
“Intel,” Poe says solemnly, “are tricky bastards.”
Intel, Finn thinks, is magic.
So when General Organa approaches him about perhaps contributing to the Resistance—“Intel,” he says quickly. “I mean, I would like to be assigned Intelligence, if I could. General.”
And I love this idea specifically because to take this kid who has been brainwashed to think he’s just muscle, and give him access to a crappy holonet connection and some satellite feeds and the frequency freighters transmit over, and have him show up at the morning meeting yawning, with the location of the primary First Order shipyard—
“I’m sorry, this is what,” Admiral Akbar splutters.
Finn fumbles with the input drive, but finally a hologram of the system flickers into being, overlaid by bright lines. “Here,” he says, pointing to a tangle of bright red strings. “Talked to a bunch of freighter captains last night. It’s interesting, they were all complaining about the demand for vanadium ore. Apparently, there’s a buyer who can’t get enough of the stuff, and they’re feeling pressured to cut parsecs, stay in hyperspace longer.”
“What does that mean?” Statura asks thoughtfully, gazing up at the map.
“Nothing on its own. But once the vanadium ore guys were done, the carbon freighter captains just had to complain about their own runs,” he says, pointing to the lines of yellow light cutting across the map. “Now, it’s probably normal that vanadium ore and carbon are bought by the same parties, they’re both common in alusteel smelting for starfighters and other spacecraft.”
“But?” General Organa asks. She’s almost-smiling.
“But, if you take out Mon Calamari, Kuat, and the other commercial shipyards…” Finn keys in a code, and a number of planets ringed with red and yellow go dark, until there are just two planets still tied with those threads of light. “And only Cheenthi is ordering commercial shipyard quantities of alusteel components. Not to mention that they’ve stepped up demand—recently, and with urgency.. The planet is near a major hyperlane, which makes shipping convenient, and has been seeing levels of cronau radiation inconsistent with usual traffic. Um, I got that from the old Republic database,” he adds with a shrug. “You want to know where the First Order is building its star destroyers? I’d look to Cheenthi.”
General Organa smirks and raises her eyebrows meaningfully at Intelligence Director Niser. Niser sighs, and transfers fifty credits to the General.
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I personally love the idea of Spymaster Finn, because there’s Finn in the medcenter on D’Qar, his whole spine throbbing, expecting one of the Knights of Ren to walk through the door any second and start poking around in his aching head. (He knows Major Calonia said “debriefing” but he also knows he’s an enemy defector and that means “interrogation”. He doesn’t have any other definition for that but pain, and guilt, and fear.)
So he’s—sort of surprised when a short human with a tangle of dark hair walks up to his bed and takes a seat. “Hello,” she says, shaking his hand warmly. “I’m Rishy Niser, with Intel. How’s your back?”
They have a conversation. She’s easy to talk to, she laughs a lot. After a few hours she gets up, and stretches. “Well, I think that’s it for me. I’ll get someone to bring you an official misrep form tomorrow, if you could fill that out—“
Finn blinks. “Isn’t someone going to interrogate me?”
“What do you think that was? Sleep well, Finn.”
Finn stares after her for a long time. He stares even harder when he pressures Poe into bringing him Intel’s report. ”I didn’t…say any of the stuff in here!” Finn says indignantly, scrolling through the document. “I mean, none of it is incorrect, but I—we were just talking.” He definitely hadn’t mentioned the trooper capacity of the Finalizer, but there it was in blue and white. He hadn’t said that. Had he?
“Intel,” Poe says solemnly, “are tricky bastards.”
Intel, Finn thinks, is magic.
So when General Organa approaches him about perhaps contributing to the Resistance—“Intel,” he says quickly. “I mean, I would like to be assigned Intelligence, if I could. General.”
And I love this idea specifically because to take this kid who has been brainwashed to think he’s just muscle, and give him access to a crappy holonet connection and some satellite feeds and the frequency freighters transmit over, and have him show up at the morning meeting yawning, with the location of the primary First Order shipyard—
“I’m sorry, this is what,” Admiral Akbar splutters.
Finn fumbles with the input drive, but finally a hologram of the system flickers into being, overlaid by bright lines. “Here,” he says, pointing to a tangle of bright red strings. “Talked to a bunch of freighter captains last night. It’s interesting, they were all complaining about the demand for vanadium ore. Apparently, there’s a buyer who can’t get enough of the stuff, and they’re feeling pressured to cut parsecs, stay in hyperspace longer.”
“What does that mean?” Statura asks thoughtfully, gazing up at the map.
“Nothing on its own. But once the vanadium ore guys were done, the carbon freighter captains just had to complain about their own runs,” he says, pointing to the lines of yellow light cutting across the map. “Now, it’s probably normal that vanadium ore and carbon are bought by the same parties, they’re both common in alusteel smelting for starfighters and other spacecraft.”
“But?” General Organa asks. She’s almost-smiling.
“But, if you take out Mon Calamari, Kuat, and the other commercial shipyards…” Finn keys in a code, and a number of planets ringed with red and yellow go dark, until there are just two planets still tied with those threads of light. “And only Cheenthi is ordering commercial shipyard quantities of alusteel components. Not to mention that they’ve stepped up demand—recently, and with urgency.. The planet is near a major hyperlane, which makes shipping convenient, and has been seeing levels of cronau radiation inconsistent with usual traffic. Um, I got that from the old Republic database,” he adds with a shrug. “You want to know where the First Order is building its star destroyers? I’d look to Cheenthi.”
General Organa smirks and raises her eyebrows meaningfully at Intelligence Director Niser. Niser sighs, and transfers fifty credits to the General.
Keep reading
