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Reconditioning is an effective, but time-consuming and resource-intensive method of discipline. For this reason, it is not recommended for troopers who do not meet or exceed standards in all competencies. Such troopers should be executed immediately, used as shock troops or, as a last resort, re-assigned to functions that are not mission-critical.

Troopers to be reconditioned must arrive at the appropriate medical centre in generally good physical health. It is preferable if the subject does not anticipate the procedure, as this leads to a higher rate of success. In this officer’s experience, however, most candidates for reconditioning are aware of the probability and therefore at high risk for violent non-compliance and injury (self-inflicted or otherwise). Sedation will often be required...

FN-2187 had never met a trooper who’d been Reconditioned. Slip said there was one in his first squad, but Slip was the kind of guy who liked to tell stories whether or not they were true.

“Nah, seriously!” Slip’s head appeared below the roof of Finn’s bunk. His dark hair feathered out in a short corona barely visible against the burnt orange glow of the emergency lights set into the barracks floor. “Before Reconditioning, PK-8953 was kind of annoying, but you could live with her. After…” He blew out a breathy whistle. “She said five words a day. Maximum. Usually just ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“So why did they do it?” 87 whispered, half-believing Slip and half-humouring him.

“Dunno.” Slip shrugged upside-down, which made it look like his head was bobbing on a string. “Someone said she tried to desert, but I never believed that. She wasn’t stupid.”

To deserve Reconditioning, it must have been a terrible infraction. 87 tried to imagine the worst thing he could possibly do. “Maybe she sabotaged something. Or was a spy.”

“Then she’d’ve just got spaced.” Slip’s eyes widened in the dim light as he invented a new embellishment. “I think she crossed paths with one of them. The Knights. And they could tell something about her was wrong.”

87 was getting used to the climate on Starkiller Base, but Slip’s story had launched past creepy and into chilling. He shivered and furled his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“You know they can dig around in your brai—”

Another set of bedding rustled. 87 and Slip froze, waiting for whoever had stirred to fall asleep again.

“Shut up, you two!” Nines’ voice, scratchy with sleep and irritation, projected from his bunk in the corner. “It’s more than an hour past lights-out.”

Slip’s head silently rose back into the darkness, and 87 heard the familiar sounds of his long body rearranging itself in the bunk over his head. “Kriffing hard-ass,” Slip muttered into his mattress. “Betcha he’d volunteer to throw the switch himself.”

RD-7145 had never been on the bridge before. The vast open space was nearly as immense and intimidating as the starfield on the other side of the viewports—or the officer standing before them.

“Captain.” He halted at the precise distance; out of arm’s reach without being so far away as to indicate he was fearful of her. Although, of course, he was.

Phasma turned, and he saw himself as a blurry white column in her chromium armor. “Yes, RD-7145?”

“I need to speak with you.”

Her silence indicated quite clearly the fatuous nature of this statement.

“I think.” He started again. “That is, one of my squad may need to be re...” He couldn’t push the word off his tongue the first time. “Reconditioned.”

“Who?” Phasma’s shoulders twitched microscopically, and his reflection wavered.

RD-7145 hesitated, deflected from his practiced report by the first sign of emotion he’d ever seen from the Captain.

“FN-2199. He’s obsessed with FN-2187—the traitor. Went after him on Takodana, got shot by the Wookiee. He’s back from medical leave now, but he hasn’t been reliable. I just—” He swallowed to cut off his babbling incoherency and reverted to his carefully prepared explanation. “In my opinion, he is presently incapable of making rational decisions in combat.”

A stark wash of bile flooded his stomach. Admitting one of his troopers to be substandard was shameful enough, even disregarding the knowledge that he was delivering Nines to a process so abhorrent no-one spoke of it.

The eyes of Phasma’s helmet remained aimed at him. He endured, keeping his head directed steadily at hers, but inside the protective shell he dropped his gaze to her feet, where the dark reflected sockets of his own helmet accused him of incompetence.

“Have him report to me after roll call tomorrow.” Phasma turned back to the viewport, the folds and crimson border of her cape swinging flawlessly into place. “And thank you for bringing this to my attention, RD-7145. Better this than the alternative—for both of you.”