"Jess?" Poe asked through the communication channel between the cockpit and the gunner's position. The radio spit white noise for a moment and even though he knew Jess would answer, a number of nightmare scenarios flashed through his mind during that few seconds of waiting. Things had gone so totally tits up so often it would have been impossible not to worry.
"Roger," she said, an unmistakable note of excitement in her tone. He envied that. Yes part of him —the part that made him the best pilot in the Resistance— looked forward to what they were about to do. But another part, the part that was responsible for his ship and crew, shrilled a warning that made his skin prickle and his breath stick in his chest.
He brought the freighter around slowly, dipping through empty space, the freighter's stern-most engines like a whale's flukes breaching an ocean's surface as it dove deep. Zawati stood behind him, ready to help. She had silver-white tribal markings under her eyes and across her nose, dots and lines that accentuated her sharp features and deepened the already dark color of her skin. She turned that moon-white gaze on him when he glanced back at her, her hair an elaborate plait that she wore draped over her shoulder. A warrior's braid; maybe what a ship couldn't do, the Force could.
"Now is the time for courage, Dameron," she said. She probably didn't even need the Force to guess his thoughts, his pointless, circular apprehension. "Whatever we might find there, it is good to look forward as well as to the past." A skein of pink had escaped from its tie, giving her an odd girlish quality when she moved her head. He considered what he knew of Zawati; if anyone could say those words with authority, it was her.
"Do you sense anything?" He couldn't help himself, wanting some kind of sign. Like most pilots, Poe had his superstitions. Breathing on and buffing out his lucky gold coin. Both sides had Mon Mothma's image. He liked to think that meant he'd never come up tails in the field, too. Tucking his mother's wedding ring under his shirt, the chain cold against his skin, the ring as hot as a supernova. Used to be wearing his favorite jacket would be the third thing, but that belonged to Finn now. He'd take something, anything from Zawati in its place.
I hope I get to see you again, Finn.
The unbidden thought caught him unawares, making him swallow reflexively around a knot of emotion.
"The wilds of Uncharted hyperspace makes it very difficult to predict what might happen or whether we will find enemies there. It is a good idea to always assume things will go wrong. That said, you are a very talented pilot and Jessika can more than adequately man the gunner's station. I am well versed in the Force and will help you as I can. The ship has been upgraded, and as of right now I can detect no enemies at our backs. We are as ready as we will ever be."
Poe never would have imagined a pep talk from a witch actually working, but it gave him the boost he needed. He plugged in the first series of coordinates and their ship jumped into that place between time, the stars becoming streaks of light before burning out. They found themselves skimming the outer rim of known space when they came through the other side, a skipped stone that flipped, turned, and evened out in the span of an eyeblink. Zawati's Force signature settled around him like a heavy cloak of velvet and whuffa wool, keeping his stomach from trying to eject itself across the cockpit the way it dearly wanted to.
Stars, I wouldn't want to try and get that out of the seats.
"Ugh," Jess muttered into the radio.
"Sorry, mi hermana." He said, trying not to sound as queasy and shaken as he felt. "Only six more to go!"
"Gods, you are such a comfort," she growled. Poe could practically hear how green around the gills she must have felt. He tried to block it out just in case it made him throw up after all out of some kind of misguided gastrointestinal sympathy. "Nothing on my scope, in case you were wondering."
