We are nothing,” he repeats, as he is told. The light blinds him. He opens his eyes wide against the pain. “We are no one.”

“You belong to me,” the Commander says.

“We belong to you.”

They are seven. But they are one.

One in mind. One in obedience. One in life.

They are no one.

“Count off,” the Commander says.

The young men obey. “X-1!” shouts the first. “X-2!” the second. And down the line.

He waits. And then, “X-7!” he shouts.

The lights blink out. Darkness.

“Time to sleep,” the Commander says.

X-7 braces for the blow. It is always sooner than he expects, always harder. Pain blossoms from the back of his head, blots out the world.

Time to sleep.

Once he’d plotted the course to Coruscant, X-7 stretched out on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.

The Preybird starfighter had seen better days, and it wasn’t much for comfort or show, but the autopilot would take him where he needed to go. At least, that’s what the Rodian had boasted, before he died.

No need to go anywhere now, my friend, X-7 had told the Rodian lying lifeless at his feet. So I’m sure you won’t mind if I take her for a spin. Then he’d holstered the blaster and lifted off.

The Commander wanted him on Coruscant within a day. And what the Commander wanted, the Commander received.

For X-7, these were words to live by.

Literally.

The stun cuffs pin him against the durasteel wall. The light pierces his eyeballs, and the figure facing him is nothing more than a shadow.

But he knows it is the Commander. It is always the Commander.

He does not struggle. He only waits for this moment to pass, and then the next. He dreads the future; the past is forbidden. The present is his only home.

“Who are you?” the Commander asks.

“I am X-7.”

“What is your purpose?” the Commander asks.

“To serve you.”

“To what end?” the Commander asks.

“To serve the Empire.”

“Where do you come from?” the Commander asks.

“From nowhere.”

Pain. Everywhere at once. It is born inside of him, exploding out of him, and then it is gone.

“Where do you come from?” the Commander asks again.

“I cannot remember.” He gives the answer the Commander wants to hear.

Pain. Greater now, more intense, like a knife hollowing him out.

“Liar!” the Commander roars. “Have you not yet learned it is impossible to lie to me?”

The sensors on his forehead take measure of his thoughts, his emotions. He has no secrets from the Commander. He has no secrets.

“What do you remember of your past?” the Commander presses him.

“Nothing,” he gasps, already anticipating the pain that follows in the next instant. The explosion in his brain casts a shadow of darkness, and for a blissful moment, he is lost. But the Commander calls him back, jolts him awake.

He wants to obey. He wants to blot out his memories, to empty himself of the past. He struggles to erase it all.

He has no name. No history. His life is blank. He remembers nothing but these walls, the light, the Commander’s voice. Pain. Almost nothing … but.

There are images. A small girl, blond, with an innocent smile. A grassy hill, and just beyond it, a lake, cool and refreshing. Two suns blazing against a violet sky. A woman’s voice. A hand on his forehead, soft and warm. He wants to forget … but not as much as he wants to remember.

They are only images; they are all he has left.

“Tell me what you remember,” the Commander says. His finger twitches over the switch that will bring the pain.

He would rather die than survive another jolt. And they will not let him die.

“I remember … a girl,” he says softly. “She is my …” Sister? Friend? Daughter? But the memory will not come. Only her face. Only her smile. “She is mine,” he tells the Commander.

The Commander smiles. “Not anymore.”

The hours crept by as X-7 drew closer and closer to Coruscant. X-7 knew, because he had done extensive research on “ordinary” behavior, that most beings would feel the need to fill the time. They would fiddle with a datapad, play a game of dejarik, even gaze out the window at the emptiness of space. And when necessary, X-7 would do the same. On a mission, he was well-equipped to fit in.

But alone, he had no such need. He had stripped the mattress from his bunk. The rigid durasteel against his back felt comfortably familiar. He appreciated these hours, alone in space. So much of his life was a careful act. Isolated moments like this came as a relief. He could drop the mask and exist as he was: empty.

No one in the galaxy had ever seen X-7 like this, his true self exposed. No one but the Commander, of course, who knew him inside and out.

As he should: The Commander had made him.

He faces the Commander as an equal, though they will never be equals. There are no more restraints, no more sensors, no more neuronic binders to inflict punishing pain. They are well beyond this. He sits on one side of the desk, the Commander on the other. He waits.

“Congratulations, X-7,” the Commander says. He holds out a hand, and X-7 knows to shake it. He has been well-trained. He can act human.

The Commander tells him he is human.

The Commander tells him that the lessons he’s learned — how to smile, how to laugh, how to imitate sorrow or fear or joy — are things he used to understand instinctively. That he once was a being like other beings, soft and stupid.

He feels sorry for that other self.

He is grateful to the Commander for eliminating it.

“I have to admit, I always thought X-3 would be the one,” the Commander says, shaking his head. “He seemed somehow … impervious.”

But he had not been impervious to X-7’s vibroblade in their final training bout.

X-1 and X-6 had been easily dispatched. X-2 had malfunctioned, tried to escape. X-5 had malfunctioned as well, begun muttering about alliances, encouraged the others to see the Commander as their enemy. That was before X-7’s emotions had died away — he had been able to enjoy the kill. X-4 hung himself with a laser whip.

And then there was one.

“They were your friends, once,” the Commander says. “Your partners in our exciting new venture. You feel no sorrow over their deaths?”

He knows the Commander is testing him, but they are beyond tests now. He feels no anxiety — he has nothing to hide.

“I feel nothing,” he says honestly, “but the desire to obey.”

The Commander nods. “You’re ready. There’s just one last thing. I want to introduce you to someone.” He presses a button on his console, and a screen rises from the desk.

A face appears.

His head is shaved. Young, barely more than a child, but with the eyes of a man, stone gray and cruel. His thin lips are pressed together, a flat line running parallel to the single crease in his forehead. His skin is purpled with fading bruises, and a network of thin scars spiders across his scalp. “Recognize him?” the Commander asks.

X-7 shakes his head.

The man on the screen shakes his head.

X-7 opens his mouth to speak.

The man on the screen opens his mouth to speak.

X-7 understands.

The Commander sees it in his eyes, presses a button, and the mirrored screen drops back into the desk. X-7 realizes this was the final test.

He has passed.

He is ready.

Since X-7’s last trip to Coruscant, the Commander had switched offices. He was now located midway up a towering spire in the planet’s wealthiest quadrant. But this office was identical to the other, lacking in any personal effects. The spare space contained only a desk, a single shelf, and a wall-sized viewscreen.

“Welcome,” the Commander said, gesturing for X-7 to take a seat.

There had been a time when the Commander had been the only being he knew. His face had filled X-7’s world. Now, many missions later, after traveling the galaxy and encountering beings of all kinds, X-7 understood that the Commander was unusually thin and weak. His watery eyes, his pinched features, his stooped shoulders — they were not the mark of an intimidating man.

X-7 saw all this objectively, as he saw everything objectively. He saw the being before him as others saw him. Rezi Soresh, he thought, testing the name in his mind, trying to fit it to the man.

But it was no use. The man before him would always be the Commander, the center of his universe. Pleasing the Commander was all he needed in life; disappointing the Commander was death. He understood now that this was not natural. This was not the way other beings lived. Other beings had desires of their own, names, identities, histories. X-7 had no name, only a designation, like a droid. Other men had free will, while X-7 had only Soresh.

He knew this to be true, and he knew that Soresh had done this to him. But knowing the truth changed nothing.

X-7 had free will as well — and, like all other beings, he willed himself to be happy.

Happiness was obeying Soresh.

The Commander passed a datapad across the desk. “A valuable piece of Imperial property has been destroyed by the Rebel scourge. Your target is the pilot who fired the fatal blow. You will infiltrate the Rebel Alliance, gain proof of his identity, and report back. The datapad contains everything we’ve got on the Alliance. Operations, security protocols, personnel data — everything.”

X-7 nodded.

“You will arrange to be in a position to kill him, on my command,” the Commander continued. “You will cast the blame on someone else, so that you can remain at the heart of the Alliance. Everything they know, you will know. And everything you know, I will know.”

“For how long?” X-7 asked.

The Commander smiled. “Until the pilot is dead and the Rebel threat has been eliminated.”

X-7 rose, tucking the datapad securely into his utility pouch. “It will be done.”