Rogue One

by Alexander Freed

  Saw Gerrera had recruited hard soldiers and made them heartless. Staven and Codo and Maia, everything Jyn had loved and hated about them—all of it was shadow in Saw’s fiery light.

  She shut down a tremor and steeled herself to meet the man who’d saved her from the cave.

  —

  “In there,” the Tognath said, and gestured at a curtained doorway. Jyn stepped through the ragged fabric, which parted like a cobweb. The Tognath did not follow.

  The small chamber beyond was a spartan living area built for a lonely abbot. It peered onto the valley of the Holy City through a window in the rock. A pale-gray dawn had crept up behind the horizon, and Jyn realized that she was no longer tired; sometime during the night, during the march across the desert, she had lost the capacity for ordinary exhaustion and taken on a deeper weariness.

  She heard a harsh metallic clank. She shifted her weight instinctively, ready to take a fighting stance.

  “Is it really you?” a hoarse voice asked.

  She was ready, she told herself.

  Jyn turned her head and looked at Saw Gerrera.

  The wreck that had been Saw Gerrera.

  Where she had once known a soldier, scarred but strong, now she saw an old man held together by the scaffolding of armor and braces. His dark hair was frosted with white, grown wild and unkempt about his face. His eyes were keen as ever, but they were trapped inside a rusting cage.

  Saw Gerrera had been the strongest person Jyn had ever known. Even sealed within the hatch in her mind, buried in the darkness, he had shouted to be heard.

  She loathed him for so many reasons. She had been prepared to fight. Witnessing him like this, she wanted to cry.

  “I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “Jyn…”

  He strode toward her, the metallic rhythm of his leg echoing in the chamber.

  “Must be quite a surprise,” she said. She spoke in the voice of the Jyn who wanted a battle. It was the voice of a soldier, the voice that terrified prisoners and demanded cold, merciless retribution.

  It was supposed to be Saw’s voice.

  But there was no harshness in his rasp. “Are we not still friends?” he asked.

  “The last time I saw you,” Jyn uttered, as casual as if she were butchering a rat on a spit, “you gave me a knife and loaded blaster and told me to wait in a shell turret until daylight.”

  “I knew you were safe,” Saw said. He sounded wounded.

  “You left me behind.”

  “You were already the best soldier in my cadre.” Saw shook his head. “You were ready, and I saw that, even if you did not.”

  Her words came too fast, too hot. “I was sixteen.”

  “I was protecting you.” Her error seemed to give strength to Saw. His rasp became sharper, a swift slap of correction.

  “You dumped me,” Jyn sneered, but it wasn’t much more than a murmur. She had come full of savagery, ready to pit her fire against his; instead he’d stolen her heat, and all either of them had now was embers.

  “You were the daughter of an Imperial science officer,” Saw said. He spoke more gently than Jyn could bear. “People were starting to figure that out. People who wanted to—to use you as a hostage.

  “Not a day goes by I don’t think of you…”

  “Stop,” she said. She didn’t want this. The kind Saw Gerrera, the gentle Saw Gerrera, who could afford to look at the girl he raised and pity her. Fight me, she wanted to beg.

  Then Saw’s eyes narrowed, and Jyn caught a glimpse of the warrior she knew.

  “But today, of all days?” he asked.

  He took another step forward, stared at her, unblinking.

  “It’s a trap,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  The soldier was somewhere in the wreck of the man, inside the armor and the braces, gasping defiance against his dying body. “The pilot,” Saw said, with impotent urgency. “The message. All of it.” He grasped at the oxygen mask built into his armor, pulled it to his face and sucked in a mouthful of air before resuming. “Did they send you? Have you come here to kill me?” There was no humor in his voice as he added: “There’s not much left.”

  Jyn shook her head slowly. The words drifted like motes of dust, like ash, and she began to comprehend. This was still the Saw Gerrera she knew, albeit enfeebled and drained of life. This was the man who knew compassion, who cared for Jyn as his own daughter, only so long as there was no battle to fight; no paranoid fantasy of traitors or Imperial plots to lure him astray.

  “I don’t care enough to kill you, Saw,” she said.

  “So what is it, Jyn? Why come to Jedha in the name of the Rebel Alliance?”

  He’d done his research, apparently. He wanted to talk about her mission? About the pilot? Fine.

  “The Alliance wants my father,” she said. “They think he’s sent you a message about a weapon. I guess they think by sending me you might actually help them out.”

  “Who sent you?” he asked, as if he’d caught her at a lie. “Was it Draven?”

  “General Draven, Mon Mothma, the whole damn council,” Jyn snapped. “I don’t know them, Saw. I’m doing this job because I have to.”

  Saw turned away, snatched up a cane, and leaned heavily against it. His hand was trembling. “So what is it that you want, Jyn? Did you expect I could welcome you back? Ignore the deaths in the city?”

  She almost laughed. She held it in, smiled bitterly instead. “I want to be left alone. They wanted an introduction, they’ve got it—you should be talking to your prisoners, not me.” Again, that distant, distracted thought of Cassian. “I’m out now. The rest of you can do what you want.”

  The cane wobbled in Saw’s hand. She saw him lurch, catch himself. “You care not about the cause?”

  Jyn tried to find words to respond. Do you think you’re testing me? Do you think I’ve been hiding anything from you? “The cause?” she finally managed. “Seriously?”

  “You were the best soldier in my cadre,” Saw hissed. “Not because of your skill, but because you believed.” The cane rose and snapped back to the floor, the sound bellowing through the room. “Because you knew our enemy like I did. Because you were willing to die for our cause and our army.”

  She had believed. Saw was right about that. But that belief hadn’t been preserved in the dark cave in her mind. It had withered there, dried and cracked and turned to dust.

  “The Alliance?” she said. “The rebels? Whatever it is you’re calling yourself these days? All it’s ever brought me is pain.”

  Saw’s throat worked with effort. His nostrils flared. He didn’t reach for the oxygen mask. “You can stand to see the Imperial flag reign across the galaxy?” he asked.

  Jyn shrugged.

  She could have walked away then; turned her back on the shadow of the man she’d known, walked into the desert and called an end to her obligations.

  But Saw had hurt her.

  “It’s not a problem if you don’t look up,” she said.

  She had seen Saw Gerrera face disloyalty before. She had seen him spill blood over worse offenses than her own, seen him bind and blindfold a would-be deserter and toss him from an airspeeder in front of an Imperial barracks. She knew, too, that he had hidden the worst from her—secret methods of torment and interrogation that he hadn’t wished to show a fifteen-year-old girl.

  She wanted to hurt him.

  She wanted his old fire back, in the hope that it might rekindle her own. She had come into his chamber prepared to fight and found herself suffocating, her rage perishing without fuel. The exhaustion of the night’s trek, of the battle in the Holy Quarter, rose to reclaim her after all.

  You taught me to survive.

  But Saw only took a drag from his oxygen mask and closed his eyes. The trembling of the cane ceased. When he looked a
t her again, he seemed to have found a new clarity.

  “I have something to show you,” he said.

  —

  So much could go wrong, Orson Krennic thought, but in the moment before action—in the instant when both triumph and defeat remained possible—the galaxy seemed wondrous.

  He observed the evacuation of Jedha on a dozen viewscreens across the Death Star’s overbridge. The smaller craft, the personal shuttles of high-ranking officers and the transports of specialized stormtrooper units, were the last to lift off. The Star Destroyer Dauntless, once stationed above Jedha City, had already repositioned itself some distance from the moon. Despite the protests of local garrison commanders, the forces assigned to Jedha would be safe from whatever followed.

  One of the bridge officers called out a number: 97 percent. Krennic amended the thought: 97 percent of Jedha’s assigned military forces would be safe.

  That would suffice. Jedha was a meat grinder. A 3 percent loss in return for total victory would win any general a commendation.

  “It’s past time, Director.” The unctuous voice came from the direction of the turbolift.

  Krennic pivoted on his heel and smiled a broad, respectful smile at Wilhuff Tarkin as the old man eyed the bustle of officers and technicians. “I couldn’t agree more,” Krennic said, and inclined his head. “But under the circumstances, it seems only respectful to await the Emperor’s command.”

  “The Emperor is awaiting my report,” Tarkin retorted.

  Krennic’s smile faded only a touch. “One had hoped that he and Lord Vader might have been here for such an occasion.”

  Tarkin’s voice was laced with irritation and feigned exasperation. “And I thought it prudent to save you from any potential embarrassment.”

  My embarrassment, or your own?

  Tarkin’s objective was transparent: The man believed (with typical grandiose certainty) that a demonstration on Jedha would diminish, rather than enhance, Krennic’s stature. Yet why remained an open question. Krennic had turned up no evidence of sabotage; nor had his contacts close to Tarkin revealed anything of use regarding the governor’s plot. And while Tarkin’s disdain for Krennic was supreme, he would surely have arranged for the Emperor to bear witness if he assumed Krennic’s “incompetence” would result in the station’s failure.

  No. The most likely possibility was that Krennic’s precautions against sabotage or failure had shaken Tarkin’s confidence. The man was now hedging his bets. If Krennic succeeded in annihilating Jedha, Tarkin would attempt to take credit in the eyes of the Emperor. If Krennic failed, all the better.

  But Krennic would not fail. The Death Star was ready. Once Jedha was destroyed, he would receive his private audience with Emperor Palpatine—and he was confident he could persuade the Emperor that it was he, not Tarkin, who deserved the accolades.

  It even happened to be true.

  “Your concern is hardly warranted,” Krennic said. “The finest scientists and engineers in the Empire have dedicated their lives to this project. You will not find our faith in them misplaced.”

  “If saying it would only make it so,” Tarkin murmured, just loud enough for the officers to hear him above the din.

  Krennic barely withheld a snarl. “All Imperial forces,” he announced, striding along the command stations, “have been evacuated, and I stand ready to destroy the entire moon.” The officers faced him, uniformly at attention; the technicians slowed but did not cease working, as Krennic had earlier instructed.

  “What we do today was once inconceivable—a scientific heresy. Yet our Empire and our Emperor have ensured our success and granted us the moral authority required to take this step toward peace. The death of a world—”

  He stopped at the sound of brisk applause from Tarkin. “Inspiring,” he said, “but that won’t be necessary. We need a statement, not a manifesto.”

  Krennic’s smile twisted into a grimace. “What is it,” he asked, “that you suggest?”

  Tarkin shrugged. “The Holy City will be enough for the day.”

  Krennic tugged at his gloves, felt sweat on his palms as his ire grew. His assessment of Tarkin had been incomplete: The old man was hedging against both success and failure, ensuring that even a perfect performance would be unspectacular at best.

  Could he subvert Tarkin’s orders? Arrange the destruction of the moon regardless and claim that the station’s sheer power had been unanticipated? He glanced from a control console to Tarkin and back.

  Not with him watching. Not on short notice.

  He would find another way.

  “Target Jedha City,” he snapped. “Prepare single reactor ignition.”

  Krennic concealed his resentment, calmed himself with the sounds of his breath and the tidal rush of the station reactor. This wasn’t how he’d imagined the culmination of twenty years’ work—a diminished attack, a grand moff’s power play—but it was the reality he contended with.

  “Fire when ready.” His voice was steady. He had earned his pride, no matter the outcome.

  CASSIAN HAD A PLAN. HE’D tested the cell door’s locking mechanism while the guards were fixated on a game of dejarik, pressing against the metal with his thumb and probing the limits of its tamper alarm. He’d feigned fatigue, leaning against the door’s bars so he could inspect the lock visually and find its make and model. He’d mentally cataloged the picks hidden in his boot and selected the tools he intended to use. He guessed he could escape the cell in under three minutes.

  As soon as the guards were gone, anyway. But the guards weren’t moving, and now he was stuck with two thoughts he had no desire to dwell upon:

  Had killing Saw Gerrera’s people ruined any chance of reconciliation with the Rebel Alliance? Even against the threat of a planet killer?

  And where was Jyn?

  “Who’s the one in the next cell?”

  Cassian tore his eyes from the guards and glanced over to Chirrut. It was the first time the blind man had spoken for nearly an hour.

  Baze grunted and shuffled to his feet. “What? Where?” He crossed the alcove, lightly shouldering Cassian aside to make room at the door. He peered into the darkness of the cell across the way; all Cassian could see was shadows, but Baze pulled back abruptly, snarling. “An Imperial pilot.”

  Cassian scowled and leaned in, trying to see what Baze saw. “What pilot?”

  “Imperial.” Baze shrugged, squinted, seemed to assess the distance between himself and the ragged pile Cassian was starting to discern. “I’ll kill him.”

  Cassian tried to interpose his body between Baze and the cell door as the Guardian straightened with purpose. “No—wait!” Damn religious crazies. He wasn’t sure what Baze could do from behind bars, and he wasn’t keen on learning. “Back off!” He tapped the larger man’s chest with his hands, tried to seem insistent without starting a brawl. Baze shoved Cassian once but then returned to his corner, slumping to the floor.

  Cassian crouched at the bars. The ragged pile shifted awkwardly. Shadows crystallized into limbs, hair, a dirt-encrusted face, and a battered uniform with Imperial markings on the arms. The man didn’t seem to see Cassian, staring between his knees, huddled as if in fear of the dark and the cold.

  Even from a few meters distant, he stank of sweat and filth.

  Is this what Saw does to prisoners?

  Is this what he’s doing to Jyn?

  “Are you the pilot?” Cassian called. The man didn’t look up. “Hey, hey—are you the pilot? The shuttle pilot?”

  The man blinked. Cassian watched dim lights from the guards’ chamber gleam in wet eyes. Then the man made a noise, a groan, that Cassian had trouble interpreting as a word: “Pilot?”

  Chirrut spoke softly. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Cassian shook his head and tried to recall the words of the Imperial holograms in the city. “Bodhi Rook?�
�� he asked.

  The man squeezed his eyes shut and shrank back. Cassian swore to himself.

  If he’s broken, he’s no good to us anyway.

  “Galen Erso,” Cassian tried. He meant to sound gentle, but he heard urgency slip into his voice. “You know that name?”

  The man hissed, turned his cheek as if he’d been slapped. His breath picked up, swift and loud like a hound’s panting.

  Cassian held still.

  Come on…

  The man opened his eyes again. His breathing slowed.

  “I brought the message,” he said. “I’m the pilot.”

  Then, in surprise and horror and hope:

  “I’m the pilot. I’m the pilot.”

  —

  Saw Gerrera clenched one trembling hand around the edge of his console. The other hand moved assuredly, inserting a holochip into the comm unit and tapping in a command. “This is the message from the pilot,” he said. “For what it’s worth, he believed it was real.”

  Jyn’s throat seemed to tighten. She rocked half a step backward, as if to withdraw from the chamber. She hadn’t wanted to see Saw. She didn’t want to see this.

  For reasons she couldn’t justify, she stood still and watched.

  The holoprojector flared and a man she didn’t recognize appeared etched in sapphire light. He was gaunt, but not haggard, like someone dying under the gentlest of care, and his eyes looked beyond the recorder instead of at it. His face stirred something in Jyn she couldn’t verbalize—some primordial recollection warped by the weight of years.

  When he spoke, she knew his voice.

  “Saw, if you’re watching this,” Galen Erso said, “then perhaps there is a chance to save the Alliance.” The words had the air of a deathbed confession.

  My father is alive. My father is a coward. My father is a bastard.

  Galen Erso is not my father. Galen Erso didn’t raise me…

  Jyn wanted (madly, childishly) to rush to Saw’s side, to cling to him for protection. She wanted to drive her fist into the holoprojector, to bleed from shards embedded in her knuckles and then tear the holochip out, crush it under her heel.