A New Dawn: Star Wars

by John Jackson Miller

  Kanan laughed. “She’s got you there.”

  Hera hugged her. “Take care—and thank you.”

  Zaluna walked to the edge of the gravel road with them. “And now,” Kanan said, “I get the pleasure of walking this gentle lady back to this mysterious starship of hers.” Kanan had been dropped off by a tramp freighter, and had yet to get a look at what she and Hera and had arrived in.

  “I see,” Zaluna asked. “Are you traveling together?”

  “We haven’t discussed it,” Hera was quick to say.

  Zaluna smiled. “You’d better take him with you,” the woman said, “or I’ll put him to work.” She turned and walked back toward the garden.

  Kanan and Hera walked the long sylvan road from Zaluna’s house.

  “I think she’ll be fine,” Hera said for the third time. “The medic I took her to said she’s healing nicely.”

  “Oh, sure,” he replied again. They had done an excellent job of talking about nothing on the walk—indeed, since the life pod landed on Gorse. They’d parted quickly then, allowing Kanan time to leave a trail placing him on Gorse during all the previous action. Sloane might know his name, but as far as Imperial surveillance was concerned, he was just one more suicide flier who’d left Gorse when the work dried up.

  They approached the small hangar she had rented outside the little town. Not turning toward him, she asked, “So what’s next for you?”

  “Well, you know me. A force always in motion.”

  “I do know you.” She kept walking. “So what do you think about what Zaluna said?”

  “What, going with you?” Kanan shrugged. “Well, you know what I’ve said. You’re great company.” He eyed her. “But I don’t think you’re looking for a traveling companion, are you?”

  “Not like that.” She stopped outside the door to the closed hangar, and he did the same. She looked up at him. “What’s happening to the galaxy is serious, and I mean to do something about it. If you mean only to mind your own business,” she said, offering her hand, “then I wish you luck in your travels.”

  He looked down at her hand, and then at her. “I still haven’t seen this ship.”

  “And you won’t. The fewer people see it, the better.”

  He scratched his beard. “It sounds pretty large. Must be a lot on it to keep up.”

  She stared at him for a moment—and nodded. “Yes, there is.”

  “You might need a crew for something like that.” He looked at her pointedly. “Not a traveling companion. Not a revolutionary. Crew.” He thrust his hand into hers.

  She flashed a shrewd smile—and shook his hand. “I can live with that.”

  Kanan turned and clapped his hands together. “Great! I just hope it’s not as big a mess as the ship I just left.”

  “Well, you’re going to love this,” she said, opening the door to the hangar.

  So. Kanan Jarrus was a Jedi. Or rather, he had been in training to become one when the Emperor betrayed them all.

  It was just a guess. He hadn’t said anything more to Hera about that moment aboard Forager. It was possible that he was just some random person who happened to have the ability to use the Force. Someone who, in a rush of adrenaline, had reached out to the universe for a great feat—and who had seen his prayer answered.

  But Hera didn’t think so. When she was a girl, the Jedi had helped her people in the Clone Wars. Although she had been too young then to remember specific events from those days, her father had told her, time and again, of the Jedi in action. Later, she’d watched many historical holos—all of them now banned—of Jedi in action. She understood that Jedi abilities weren’t some suit of superpowered armor that someone could leave at home, or abandon in a garbage can. The Force influenced and enhanced every action of a person touched with it, whether they were conscious of it or not.

  And no one but a Jedi could do the things she had seen Kanan do. The brawl in Shaketown, the escape on the hoverbus, the battle with Vidian—in each, she’d seen a man acting at the outer edge of human performance. And in all cases, she’d somehow thought him capable of doing even more. It seemed as if he’d identified a line that he would not cross, and had stuck to it.

  Kanan had gravitated toward a dangerous calling on Gorse, because to him it wasn’t dangerous. And it was a solitary trade, so he secretly could call on his prodigious talents if danger struck. She suspected that described all the odd jobs he’d taken on in his life. It was the strategy of someone trained in a certain discipline, and yet forbidden from practicing it. That, his nomadic nature, and his lack of family ties all added up.

  Kanan probably wasn’t yet a Jedi when the massacre came. She doubted he even had a lightsaber—all he had in the galaxy was one bag of clothing, and if he’d hidden it in there, she would never go looking for it. Hera wondered how young Jedi became apprenticed. She didn’t know, and such information was harder to come by now than just about anything else.

  Where had he been, when the great betrayal had happened? Who had he been with? Had someone warned him?

  And did that someone yet exist?

  Kanan might tell her, someday. Or he might not. She was all right with that. The Emperor had disenfranchised souls across the galaxy, people from all walks of life. A reluctant near-Jedi was just one more of their countless number. Many people would be required for a rebellion to work, all contributing their unique talents. All would be equally important, in their own ways.

  He obviously liked her starship, she could see as he walked around it. That was good. He was also smitten with her, she could tell—and she was all right with that, too. She didn’t want to tell him that her war had already begun, and that in war, there was no time for anything else. He would probably understand that eventually.

  No, she thought, things would be fine the way they were. Kanan would be a great asset to her in the days to come even if he never returned to the Jedi ways.

  But she couldn’t help but wonder: What would happen if he did?

  Kanan Jarrus was in love.

  The Ghost, Hera had called it. It was the ship he’d admired as it passed him on the way to Cynda days earlier—and it was a marvel. Roughly hexagonal in shape, it was a light freighter with lots of modifications—all of them, as near as he could tell, improvements. The two main engines jutting out the back were top-notch pieces of equipment, better than anything he’d seen on Gorse or anywhere else. A cockpit sat front-and-center above another bubble housing a turret for a forward gunner. It had symmetry many Corellian cargo ships lacked—and even a small excursion module mounted aft.

  After piloting dingy freighters and explosives haulers, after riding in nasty commercial liners and the holds of mining ships, Kanan found Ghost a breath of pure oxygen. He would kill to fly it—and as Hera had joked, he might have to. It was hers, all hers. That was fine. He’d welcome the ride.

  A nightmare had begun for everyone, years earlier, and it continued in almost every way that mattered. The galaxy hadn’t awoken from it yet, and maybe it never would. But Kanan had always been about going to perdition in style, and Ghost was a great way to get there.

  Particularly with the company.

  She was watching him as he admired the starship. Hera had hidden it well, constantly looking away or fiddling with some part—but Kanan was well trained in knowing when female eyes were on him. Things had changed there, too. Hera had been mildly curious about him before, but the events on Forager had definitely influenced her attitude toward him. That, or he had somehow gotten a lot more attractive.

  Either reason was fine. Any excuse to be in her company was a good one, as long as she didn’t push the matter. Hera knew one little thing about his past now, which was one more than he knew about hers. He hoped she’d figure out it had no bearing on who he was. If delivering pinpricks to the Empire was what gave her a thrill, he could certainly help her without getting into all that.

  Perhaps the answer will come to you in another form, Master Billaba had said years earl
ier when he’d asked what a Masterless Jedi should do with his time. He’d sought answers in dangerous jobs and travel, in cantinas and carousing. Hera was a new and very different answer: as good a way to spend his time as any.

  The people who had taught Kanan as a child had left him with a handful of skills and some parting advice. Nothing more. That had been their total legacy. Heeding their instructions was all he owed them. He would continue to avoid Coruscant, to avoid detection. He didn’t understand what he needed to “stay strong” for, but he’d continue to defend himself against anyone who challenged him.

  And the Force? Well, it might be with him, or it might not. Kanan would get by, either way. He always had.

  He slapped the underside of the Ghost and winked as he made for the ramp. “Let’s go somewhere.”

  By John Jackson Miller

  Star Wars: Knight Errant

  Star Wars: Lost Tribe of the Sith: The Collected Stories

  Star Wars: Kenobi

  Star Wars: A New Dawn

  Overdraft: The Orion Offensive

  About the Author

  John Jackson Miller is the New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: Kenobi, Star Wars: Knight Errant, Star Wars: Lost Tribe of the Sith—The Collected Stories, and fifteen Star Wars graphic novels. A comics industry analyst and historian, he has written comics and prose for several franchises, including Conan, Iron Man, Indiana Jones, Mass Effect, The Simpsons, and Star Trek. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and far too many comic books.

  To my mother, who taught me to love books and movies

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Since first seeing the movie that would later be known as Star Wars: Episode IV: A New Hope in the theater as a youngling, I’ve been interested in what life was like under the Empire. A New Dawn gave me the chance to explore that subject in a story set several years before the Star Wars Rebels television series. A New Dawn depicts the characters Kanan and Hera as developed by that program’s executive producers Dave Filoni, Simon Kinberg, and Greg Weisman, and I am appreciative to them for their suggestions and guidance.

  Thanks as well as to Rayne Roberts, Leland Chee, and Pablo Hidalgo of the new Lucasfilm Story Group and, as always, to Jennifer Heddle, Lucasfilm’s fiction editor. I am further indebted to Random House for giving me the opportunity: lead editor, Shelly Shapiro, and editors Frank Parisi, Keith Clayton, and Erich Schoeneweiss.

  I owe all again to wife and proofreader Meredith Miller—and a special thank-you to science-fiction sage and longtime friend Ken Barnes, for helping me think through some of the astronomical details.

  Finally, I owe a debt to all the writers who’ve worked in the Star Wars universe to date—and to the millions of readers who’ve supported their works. The stories we love may not always fit neatly into a single time-line, but they will always matter.

  John Jackson Miller

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Star Wars: Tarkin

  by James Luceno

  Published by Del Rey Books

  BLOWS AGAINST THE EMPIRE

  The door to Tarkin’s quarters whooshed open, disappearing into the partition, and out he marched, dressed in worn trousers and ill-fitting boots, and with a lightweight gray-green duster draped over his shoulders. As the adjutant hurried to keep pace with the taller man’s determined steps, the strident voice of the protocol droid slithered through the opening before the door resealed itself.

  “But, sir, the fitting!”

  Originally a cramped garrison base deployed from a Victory-class Star Destroyer, Sentinel now sprawled in all directions as a result of prefabricated modules that had since been delivered or assembled on-site. The heart of the facility was a warren of corridors linking one module to the next, their ceilings lost behind banks of harsh illuminators, forced-air ducts, fire-suppression pipes, and bundled strands of snaking wires. Everything had an improvised look, but as this was Moff Wilhuff Tarkin’s domain, the radiantly-heated walkways and walls were spotless, and the pipes and feeds were meticulously organized and labeled with alphanumerics. Overworked scrubbers purged staleness and the smell of ozone from the recycled air. The corridors were crowded not only with specialists and junior officers, but also with droids of all sizes and shapes, twittering, beeping, and chirping to one another as their optical sensors assessed the speed and momentum of Tarkin’s forward march and propelling themselves out of harm’s way at the last possible instant, on treads, casters, repulsors, and ungainly metal legs. Between the blare of distant alarms and the warble of announcements ordering personnel to muster stations, it was difficult enough to hear oneself think, and yet Tarkin was receiving updates through an ear bead as well as communicating continually with Sentinel’s command center through a speck of microphone adhered to his voice box.

  He wedged the audio bead deeper into his ear as he strode through a domed module whose skylight wells revealed that the storm had struck with full force and was shaking Sentinel for all it was worth. Exiting the dome and moving against a tide of staff and droids, he right-angled through two short stretches of corridor, doors flying open at his approach and additional personnel joining him at each juncture—senior officers, Navy troopers, communications technicians, some of them young and shorn, most of them in uniform, and all of them human — so that by the time he reached the command center, the duster billowing behind him like a cape, it was as if he were leading a parade.

  At Tarkin’s request, the rectangular space was modeled after the sunken data pits found aboard Imperial-class Star Destroyers. Filing in behind him, the staffers he had gathered along the way rushed to their duty stations, even while others already present were leaping to their feet to deliver salutes. Tarkin waved them back into their swivel chairs and positioned himself on a landing at the center of the room with a clear view of the holoimagers, sensor displays, and authenticators. Off to one side of him, base commander Cassel, dark-haired and sturdy, was leaning across the primary holoprojector table, above which twitched a grainy image of antique starfighters executing strafing runs across Rampart’s gleaming surface, while the marshaling station’s batteries responded with green pulses of laser energy. In a separate holovid even more corrupted than the first, insect-winged Geonosian laborers could be seen scrambling for cover in one of the station’s starfighter hangars. A distorted voice was crackling through the command center’s wall-mounted speaker array.

  “Our shields are already down to forty percent, Sentinel … jamming our transmiss … lost communication with the Brentaal. Request immediate … Sentinel. Again: request immediate reinforcement.”

  A skeptical frown formed on Tarkin’s face. “A sneak attack? Impossible.”

  “Rampart reports that the attack ship transmitted a valid HoloNet code upon entering the system,” Cassel said. “Rampart, can you eavesdrop on the comm chatter of those starfighters?”

  “Negative, Sentinel,” the reply came a long moment later. “They’re jamming our signals net.”

  Peering over his shoulder at Tarkin, Cassel made as if to cede his position, but Tarkin motioned for him to stay where he was. “Can the image be stabilized?” he asked the specialist at the holoprojector controls.

  “Sorry, sir,” the specialist said. “Increasing the gain only makes matters worse. The transmission appears to be corrupted at the far end. I haven’t been able to establish if Rampart initiated countermeasures.”

  Tarkin glanced around the room. “And on our end?”

  “The HoloNet relay station is best possible,” the specialist at the comm board said.

  “It is raining, sir,” a different spec added, eliciting a chorus of good-natured laughter from others seated nearby. Even Tarkin grinned, though fleetingly.

  “Who are we speaking with?” he asked Cassel.

  “A Lieutenant Thon,” the commander said. “He’s been on-station for only three months, but he’s following protocol and transmitting on priority encryption.”

  Tarkin clasped his hands be
hind his back beneath the duster and glanced at the specialist seated at the authenticator. “Does the effectives roster contain an image of our Lieutenant Thon?”

  “On-screen, sir,” the staffer said, flicking a joystick and indicating one of the displays.

  Tarkin shifted his gaze. A sandy-haired human with protruding ears, Thon was as untried as he sounded. Fresh from one of the academies, Tarkin thought. He stepped down from the platform and moved to the holoprojector table to study the strafing starfighters more closely. Bars of corruption elevatored through the stuttering holovid. Rampart’s shields were nullifying most of the aggressors’ energy beams, but all too frequently a disabling run would succeed and white-hot explosions would erupt in one of the depot’s deep-space docks.

  “Those are Tikiars and Headhunters,” Tarkin said in surprise.

  “Modified,” Cassel said. “Basic hyperdrives and upgraded weaponry.”

  Tarkin squinted at the holo. “The fuselages bear markings.” He turned in the direction of the spec closest to the authenticator station. “Run the markings through the database. Let’s see if we can’t determine whom we’re dealing with.”

  Tarkin turned back to Cassel. “Did they arrive on their own, or launch from the attack ship?”

  “Delivered,” the commander said.

  Without turning around Tarkin said: “Has this Thon provided holovid or coordinates for the vessel that brought the starfighters?”

  “Holovid, sir,” someone said, “but we only got a quick look at it.”

  “Replay the transmission,” Tarkin said.

  A separate holotable projected a blurry, blue-tinted image of a fan-tailed capital ship with a spherical control module located amidships. The downsloping curved bow and smooth hull gave it the look of a deep-sea behemoth. Tarkin circled the table, appraising the hologram.