Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

^{Chapter 17}

YAVIN 4 WAS A PRISON world. It seemed discourteous to say so aloud; Base One had given Mon Mothma a home, a shelter from an Empire that would have eagerly chased her into the wilds of the galaxy for the slimmest chance of executing her. But leaving Yavin was next to impossible for those same reasons. Mon’s travels offworld were rare and short-lived, and they always ended back in her cell within the ziggurat.

She was chief of state of the Rebel Alliance and her power extended as far as the tree line of the jungle. She fought a fierce envy as the councilors she’d summoned piled into their starships, soared one by one into the bright-blue sky. They went to their homeworlds and their battlefields and their mobile headquarters, ready to wage war or flee or surrender, for the Alliance’s deadlock remained unbroken, and Mon’s speeches had not swayed them.

She watched Senator Pamlo’s unmarked transport depart for Coruscant, where Pamlo would publicly decry the Death Star battle station before resigning her office and urging the Rebellion to disband. Mon had extracted that concession during her eighty-three minutes of debate with Pamlo that morning. Maybe one day Mon would look back and admire Tynnra Pamlo’s principles. But not today.

She turned back to the hangar, crossed the tarmac, and stepped into the shadows of the ziggurat. A steady trickle of councilors continued to their ships, apparently supervised by Davits Draven and Antoc Merrick.

Merrick was, by all accounts, an excellent pilot and a worthy commander of Blue Squadron. Seeing him with Draven, Mon had to resist the urge to ask: Who are we assassinating now? Instead she said, “Are the departures secure?”

There was no point worrying at wounds before they’d even scabbed over.

“Blue Squadron is ready to launch if anyone calls for assistance,” Merrick said.

Draven grunted. “Everything’s clean so far. At least the Imperials didn’t follow anyone here.” He glanced from side to side, nodded to an oblivious senator’s aide, and lowered his voice. “Even so, I’d like to start scouting new headquarters. Too many people know about Base One, and we can’t be sure how many of them will still be on our side tomorrow.”

Just like that, Mon thought, we’re preparing for the breakup of the Alliance.

“Do it,” she said.

Merrick started to speak, but was interrupted by a shout from the rear of the hangar. “Senator! Senator Mothma!” One of the base privates was powering his way past a huddle of technicians and a C1-series astromech, racing toward her. Draven stepped out of their circle to intercept him, grasping his shoulder roughly as if he were ready to throw the man to the ground.

As if, Mon realized, Draven were protecting her from a would-be assassin. She wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or worried.

“Stop right there, Private,” Draven said, low and stern.

The man stood stiff, practically shaking with nervous energy.

“Let him speak,” Mon said.

“Intercepted Imperial transmission, ma’am,” the private answered. “Rebels on Scarif.”

Scarif? How was that possible?

But the answer was obvious. She saw it on Draven’s face, too, and Merrick’s.

While Mon had spent the night clutching like a miser at whatever pieces of the Alliance she might preserve, Jyn Erso had gone to risk everything she had.

She fixed the private with a sober look. “I need to speak to Admiral Raddus,” she said.

“He’s left already.” The man was almost stammering. “He’s in orbit aboard the Profundity. He’s gone to fight.”

“I see,” she said, and slowly smiled. Merrick’s expression was expectant; Draven’s grave and resolved.

Perhaps she had given up hope too swiftly.

Less than ten minutes later, sirens were announcing the departure of Red, Blue, Green, and Gold Squadrons along with the U-wing transports. Raddus had already contacted all capital ships within range of Yavin or Scarif. Draven had brusquely warned Mon not to think of joining the mission, no matter how inspirational she thought she might be; but the warning hadn’t been necessary. Mon understood her limits too well to get in the way.

Instead she reminded herself of her pride in the soldiers of the Alliance and watched pilots and infantry personnel and technicians scramble to their vessels. Anyone capable of contributing would find his or her abilities welcome in the coming battle.

As the last transports began to fill, she turned back to the corridors of the ziggurat and set out for the communications center. She had to step aside for a gold-plated protocol droid and an astromech unit hurrying toward the tarmac, and faintly overheard the former indignantly declare:

“Scarif? They’re going to Scarif? Why does nobody ever tell me anything, Artoo…?”

Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin made it a point not to dwell on the flamboyant ambitions of Orson Krennic. Over the course of more than a decade, the director had gone from a nuisance to a genuine threat and back again, all the while demanding far more attention than Tarkin was prepared to grant him. Krennic had been too useful to dispose of and too self-motivated to trust, but an admixture of neglect and rare, forceful reminders of Tarkin’s authority had kept him largely on the outskirts of Tarkin’s personal galaxy.

Nonetheless, as Tarkin stood on the overbridge of the Death Star and stared into the stars on the viewscreen, he took a moment to acknowledge the director’s contributions. A project of such scale needed to be handled with both an eye for detail and an emphasis on implementation; and Krennic, despite his faults and obsessions, had made the Death Star work.

Tarkin had half expected every nonessential system on the battle station to burn out after the test on Jedha. Yet the Death Star remained intact, invulnerable—its full fury yet to be unleashed. It would be remarkable, Tarkin thought, to see if it could truly demolish a planet…

He laughed inwardly at his own childish eagerness. There was no hurry. The Death Star was a tool like any other, to be applied at the appropriate hour.

“Sir?” General Romodi had approached. Tarkin indicated his attentiveness with a cock of his head. “Scarif base—they’re reporting a rebel ground incursion. Firefights around the Citadel.”

Now, that was a surprise. Scarif was a hardened target, one Saw Gerrera might have struck while feeling particularly ambitious. If the Rebellion was hitting Scarif so soon after Gerrera’s death, it was for a reason.

Possibilities flitted across Tarkin’s mind. None of them alarmed him. Very little truly alarmed Tarkin anymore.

“A ground incursion,” he said. “But no spaceborne support?”

“Not that Ramda’s people mentioned.”

Which suggested a last-gasp effort or a plan not yet fully implemented.

“I want to speak to Director Krennic,” Tarkin said.

“He’s there, sir,” Romodi replied. “On Scarif.”

The day was full of surprises.

Tarkin spoke with detached consideration, as much to himself as Romodi. “The original plans for this station are kept at the Citadel, are they not?”

“They are.”

Along with other technical schematics for projects covered by the Tarkin Initiative. It would be a special pity, Tarkin thought, to see War-Mantle and Stellarsphere set back. But hardly a major blow to the galactic timetable, particularly with the Death Star finally online.

Best to suffer a minor loss to avoid a greater one. What the rebels could do with the technical schematics was limited, of course, but Tarkin had always been a man who preferred to elude the specter of risk.

“Prepare the jump to hyperspace,” he said. “And inform Lord Vader.”

Romodi hurried off, and the soft hum of the reactor rose gently in pitch as the lightspeed engines drained away power. Tarkin folded his hands together and observed a pair of TIE fighters on the viewscreen race toward one of the station’s hangar bays.

He was curious to see the rebels in action. He was curious, too, what opportunities might present themselves. Just how many victories might be scored in one battle?

But Tarkin was a patient man. He would wait and see what Scarif provided.