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1.
In the safe house, to Cassian and his comrade, she grates out: “He’d already done the hard work. I only finished what he started.”
To her fellow rebels, later, when Luthen’s name is no longer a secret, when it no longer carries with it a shadow: “He killed himself, rather than be taken alive. The old-fashioned way. With a knife.”
She wants no part in it, no glory. She wants none for the Empire. Alone, she knows the full and awful truth, the aching rightness of it: it was teamwork, her and Luthen. It took them both. They did it together.
It was how they’d always done things, even when Luthen didn’t plan it that way.
However she chooses to understand it later, it is not a story that makes sense in the moment. Watching Luthen’s slack, bloodied body on the stretcher, watching Dedra Meero snap orders, make curt gestures; feeling herself drown, fighting to breathe—
It wasn’t a blaster shot. I didn’t hear blaster shots. They would have rushed the building if there was gunfire…he wouldn’t have missed her; she would have wanted to take him alive…
There are only two real solutions, nightmare calculations Kleya’s always prepared for, without ever anticipating that it would feel quite like this.
They could have been waiting at the gallery. They could have taken him to the back, ordered him to explain the radio and the comms panel. If he had tried to lie, if he had tried to stay silent, they might have decided not to wait for the soundproof, antiseptic basement of an ISB office, and begun the torture there and then. Something visceral and physical; something less sophisticated than they’d done to Bix. Kleya’s become far too familiar, over the years.
Scenario two, which for some reason, risks to the Rebellion or no, is the one she truly cannot bear:
Luthen would never let it get that far. Luthen has done this himself.
Kleya knows she’s right when she approaches his bedside, even though she only has seconds to look. They've done rapid reparative surgery, followed by tissue regen and sutures; the raised, jagged lines mapping the wound are still plain to see. The knife had been aimed to kill. Later, pacing the gallery floor in her mind—trying to reconstruct that world, their world, her world—she remembers the Nautolan bleeder and its pearlescent blade, remembers the day they acquired it, remembers shining it for the shelf. Trust Luthen not to shoot himself but to make himself, sixty centuries later, another sacrifice—his goddamn guilt, his theatrics, his devotion…
She disconnects the machinery. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice says I am killing him, I am killing Luthen, but the whole focus of her being, just for this second, is on memorizing this last sight of his face. He looks younger somehow than he’s looked in a long time, the soldier’s haircut, the lack of artifice, the heavy sleep. His face crumples slightly, as the last breath leaves him: like a man lost in dreams, or an infant about to cry.
3.
For the first few days a blinding headache comes and goes, taking on brightness and intensity with the day. By late morning Yavin is swelteringly hot, an incandescent sunlight glistening off the verdant plants and the gleaming transports, and mosquitos a handbreadth wide skitter along the canvas ceiling. Vel, via the medic, gives her little round pills the same sickly yellow as the nurse’s uniform Kleya wore to kill her spymaster, her father, and Kleya avoids malarial fever and feels the pain of the stun grenade slowly ebb out of her bones. She eats her first real meal, warily, the day the nausea finally vanishes, although the fact of eating, of deciding to survive, brings a different queasiness that has nothing to do with the purple and slate-grey porridge. Looking in the mirror in the mornings, watching the bruises on her forehead and the scabs around her eye sockets fade, throws her back into the aimless terror that came right after Luthen died: different than the terror of trying to get to him, of knowing somewhere he was still breathing, of knowing she had a purpose…
She is washing her dishes, lingering vacantly over the warm, soapy water like she’s back in the shop, like she’s cleaning a coin or a tablet, when she hears the commotion. And it’s only been a few days, but suddenly it’s like no time has passed at all, because Cassian Andor is dead, they’re saying, because he took what Luthen had told her and ran with it, and now it’s killed him too—and when Vel tries to look at her with grim understanding, and Mon fucking Mothma tries to look at her with grotesque compassion, it’s too much, it’s all too much.
Kleya starts walking. She doesn’t know where. When Vel finally catches up with her Kleya can barely recognize her, can barely remember in herself the brutal toughness that defined her a week ago, the woman of a few years ago who ordered Cassian’s death herself. For once, nowhere in her calculations is the benefit of the Rebellion, the fact that they all chose to live and die for a victory like this one. She hits at Vel’s outstretched hand and heaves out, in tearless, angry invective:
“Bail Organa survives, Senator Mothma survives, even Saw Gerrera outlives Luthen—these cowards outlast Luthen and Cassian and Cinta and are here to congratulate themselves—”
All you know now is how much you hate. You bank that. You hide that.
When news of Saw's and Senator Organa’s deaths filters through, later, she supposes she should feel chastened. By then, though, the numbness has crept back in.
Luthen had had a little flask for moments like this, in the early days, when he thought that Kleya wasn’t looking. She remembers the color of the liquid in the vial, soft blue like peaflower, remembers how he’d twist his head quickly to the side and drop the liquid into his mouth, swallowing it hurriedly down like a parched man in the desert, dying of thirst. She remembered her disgust at his weakness, her contempt for it. Poor Sergeant Lear, sorry for razing her village, for putting her parents, her sisters, her neighbors against the wall. Poor Imperial soldier, dragging helpless civilians into the streets and burning them, until the sun through the smoke made the sky the same color as the clay.
“We’re leaving in the morning,” he said to Kleya on one of these occasions, stowing the flask and making an effort to sound brisk, business-like. “We need some cover. Let’s go farther afield. Forest or ocean?”
Kleya, still not yet a teenager, made a dispassionate assessment.
“Forest is already familiar. I’ve never seen an ocean planet. I should learn more about them.”
Luthen had half-laughed, exhausted, leaning his head back against the ribs of the ship.
“I’ll see if I can find someplace tropical. I remember one or two.”
Remember how? From another mission? Kleya had thought, but did not say. There was no point in belaboring why and how they’d ended up fellow travelers, father-daughter, handler-protégé. Luthen operated under the same brusque assessment, though there were times, sometimes, when she could tell he felt sorry: she hated him for it, hated that weakness too. Shortly after Naboo he finally stopped using the drops, if not needing them, and she was relieved. They needed to be clear-headed. They needed to move forward.
A few years later, she was no longer my daughter, Kleya, but my assistant, Kleya, and looking back she can’t tell which of them she prefers.
5.
Kleya does not turn to a flask, or a vial. In the daytimes she familiarizes herself with the base, finds small and unobtrusive ways to be useful, to pass the time: fixing this piece, cleaning that machinery, coaxing this salvaged, ancient comms equipment back to life, and schooling bright-eyed, naïve young volunteers on its use. Everywhere she looks, astonishing numbers of people are flitting around her, buoyed by their recent victory: people armed with weapons Luthen stole or traded for, people fed and housed with credits Luthen embezzled, people brought to the cause by clandestine radios that she and Luthen operated, day after lonely and futile-seeming day. She eats with them at communal tables, keeping a stony, private silence, listening to them talk about how far they’ve travelled, how much they’ve survived, every sentence revealing how little they know about how and by whose work they’ve made it to take part in this war.
There are new recruits to the flight corps who’ve never heard of Captain Cassian Andor, much less of Luthen Rael.
At night she curls up on a cot, in a small corner of a small bungalow they’ve decided to allot for her, and listens to the jungle rain ticking on the deck. It’s a far cry from the soft, amniotic sound of the constant traffic on Coruscant. It’s too hot for blankets here—all she has is a nylon sheet—and she misses the silky weight of heavy quilts, the feel of her own mattress, the soft cool of her favorite pillows. It’s odd to think that her bedroom at the back of the shop has by now probably been ransacked by ISB agents: her books combed through for secret messages, her few vases and decorations—small things, favorite things, from the collection and their many travels—shattered or stolen as potential evidence. She thinks of Luthen’s room, guarded the same way she guarded hers, turned over to the people who hunted him down, and it’s only slightly more bearable than thinking of his body, of what they must have done with his corpse. Their home is still there, even if the two of them are gone. It’s there, and she can never go back—
A typical day in the gallery:
Luthen, when not traveling, wakes first, cooks breakfast in the stark, small kitchen behind the shop. From the early days he’d always made sure she had something to eat in the mornings, either cobbling something together or buying food on the go. She ate, but she hated the attention; sometimes she’d slip away to find and wolf down what she wanted, avoid the guilt and the ritual and the performance.
By the time she’s a teenager, then an adult, it’s not expiation but routine, even occasionally a comfort. Kleya rises early, checks the comms channels, sends the morning weather report, and pads into the kitchen to find Luthen slicing melon or frying eggs, sometimes in comedic half-layers of shopkeeper costume, sometimes dressed to board the Fondor right after and disappear. She pours herself hot caf without speaking and takes a seat at the table, running through the day’s agenda, waiting for a plate. If she wants to cook herself, or to cook for Luthen—if he’s looking tired, if he’s feeling his age—she has to wake ungodly early, and sneak into the kitchen before he does. He eats without seeming to taste, much less savor. Both of them do.
“What’s on the schedule?” he asks, many mornings, and Kleya answers between mouthfuls of toast.
“Check-ins on Ruusan, Aaloth, and Obroa-skai. Plus getting the pages of that damn codex to come unglued. You?”
“I should never have bothered with it. It’ll barely be readable. I’ve got a few shipments; Saw’s contact’s pulling the usual paranoid stunts, but he’ll come through.”
“Paranoia being something you’ve never experienced,” Kleya replies, dryly. “So we’re all good?”
“As good as it gets. For now.”
“Leave your plate. I’ll do that.”
After the dishes are put away Kleya shucks off her pajamas and her comfortable sweater; washes her face, pins up her hair, dons her elaborate uniform: sapphire and cream and makeup and lipstick and a placid, well-bred Coruscanti smile. There’s usually an early-morning customer for Luthen to entertain, and Kleya watches from the background, drifts in and out to listen to the radio or detail a stubborn piece. This goes on for a few hours, then they take a small lunch break, and then on again until the evenings, until either they dress for some godawful formal salon or public appearance, or Kleya gets to take down her hair again and go collapse on her bed for a minute before getting up to man the comms, always manning the comms.
We used up all the perfect.
This is the fabric of most days; this is what she remembers, here and after, even though at the time it was all plates spinning, all panicked calls, all vicious decisions. There were taut, tense nights spent alone, blaster pistol close to hand, waiting sleepless until dawn because something felt off, something felt unsafe today. There were arguments with Luthen, and soul-killing conversations with panicked voices on the frequencies, urging calm and discipline while knowing she was damning faithful agents, faithful people, to die. There were extractions, here on Coruscant and elsewhere, that turned into assassinations, very few of them truly describable as mercy kills. There were long days, long weeks, waiting for assets to report back, to call home, only to find out later they’d died or disappeared, some to a fate worse than death.
Every day there were rumors and confirmed stories of new Imperial massacres, new atrocities, and Kleya would read or hear them, dry-eyed, and think good, just a bit more, and it’ll tip the scale… we’re almost there, a few more years of this and it’ll tip the scale…
9.
As time passes she talks to Vel, sometimes, but never to Mon Mothma. Mon Mothma who is thriving here, who took risks, but never shouldered anything quite like Kleya or Vel. Kleya avoids the Council, period; cut off from her networks, she no longer has much of use to tell them, and she doubts they would listen anyway. She thinks of them, sometimes, the agents abandoned when Cassian dragged her away from Coruscant: where they are, what they’ll do now, how long they’ll survive before capture. For all they know, it might as well have been Kleya and Luthen who turned them in.
What was your plan for this? she finds herself thinking, thinking of Luthen; what was your plan for when you left me behind—
Kleya has a dream, a fantasy, that she wraps around herself in idle moments, watching the fight drift past her, and it’s this: that finally the war started and ended and after all of it the shop was still there, and Luthen was still there, and she got to break down there and then behind a counter full of artifacts in that old and familiar world, let that world experience the confusion and the paradox of peace, rather than having to process it alone. Luthen was the one who was always tortured, but this time she is the one that breaks: steadying herself against the comms panel, blinking back tears, trying to slow her breathing. Sometimes, she can’t even tell if this is fantasy or memory.
“Just leave me alone,” she manages, anger—pointless, impotent anger—seeping through the pain. “There’s no reason. Things just hurt today, that’s all.”
Luthen, or Luthen’s ghost, watches her quietly, appraisingly, mouth slightly open as though considering whether to speak. There’s empathy in his eyes, and regret, and self-reproach. There are some kinds of questions he doesn’t ask, especially if he thinks he knows the answer.
“Let’s take the night off,” is all he says. Kleya huffs half of a hysterical laugh, rolls her eyes, wipes her face with the heel of her hand.
“Take the night off, there’s no time—people are still dying out there, I’m not—”
“Get your coat,” Luthen insists. And she does, and he does, and it’s comforting, even with him wearing that awful wig; they descend to one of the lower levels for an early dinner, and he gives her his arm as they walk. She lets him choose their route, part the crowd, make the decisions. At a bustling market street he weighs the options, finds a noodle stall where they can sit at the counter and watch the traffic. The people here are not politicians or bureaucrats or war profiteers but everyday people, living everyday lives, normal people, like who they used to be before they met.
It reminds her of their early travels, makes her think about how much time they’ve spent doing this, how purpose has softened into something too close to closeness to be spoken about. There is a reason, after all these years, why she tries to convince him to let her take certain risks, in spite of who he is and how they met. There is a reason, far deeper than duty or pride, that explains why he always says no.
Neither of them ever say it, not directly at least: not beyond just be there; not beyond be careful, Luthen. By the time she knows she wants to, it’s already too late. In the dream they walk through the park past the fountains after dinner, on the way back to the shop; the sky is yellow and the clouds are golden, and the sun is warm, and even without her knowing or daring what to call it, their common silence is warmer still.
In another lifetime, in the real one, Kleya presses a kiss to Luthen’s forehead, and leaves him behind for good.
14. / ?
A year after Scarif—
The klaxons are screaming.
The Empire is bringing the fight to them.
She hears booted feet running, the whir of speeders, the heavy click of weapons racked. Preparing to report to her station, to her new place, Kleya pulls on her old grey sweater, humidity be damned; she loads and checks and holsters her blasters, she tucks a knife into the top of her boot. She pins her hair up in its gallant waves, maybe one last time, maybe just this time. She takes a deep breath, inhale, exhale, and she moves.
Often, watching with her placid, Coruscanti costume smile from the back of the shop, watching as Luthen laughed and flirted with and flattered one customer or another, watching the artifice, the art, she would think:
Who are we going to be outside of these roles, when the war starts in earnest, when we’re no longer in hiding, when we can say and wear and do whatever we want, or the rough-and-readiness of hiding out on a tropical planet makes our disguises impossible and improbable…who will we be when we have to be okay with handing over our work, with being pieces in a much larger machine, when we have the opportunity to relate to each other differently?
At the time she couldn’t imagine it. Now, after, she can equally picture Luthen out of his depth, sweating, in too many clothes, in a hangar bay here on Yavin, watching the war go on around him, and Luthen in his element, thriving, out of disguise, striding with confidence through the flight deck, barking orders to pilots on their way to open battle. Sergeant Lear, returned again. Luthen in command, Luthen one of the generals in this war. How things might have looked different. How the victory might have come a little sooner.
We lose. And lose, and lose, and lose. Until we’re ready.
Kleya finds out for herself, what she looks like in this future, but Luthen will never get to. She can’t decide if that’s a mercy or a tragedy. Cassian—a tragedy. The other agents they lost, too many to count—a tragedy. But Luthen? She’s not sure.
As for herself, she’s not sure either. No part of her plan included arriving here in this world of soft pink sunrises and sunsets, of jungles wide and deep enough to drown in, of people from almost as many planets as the expats on Coruscant, here for a common purpose, here to rush headlong against the breaking wave of the Empire, all of them so bravely and stupidly certain that someone, at least, will survive. She doesn’t share that luxury. She doesn’t care to hope for it.
She thinks of Luthen, that first day, offering her his hand. She thinks of that first decision to run, and to live. She remembers his smile, his laugh, both the false ones and the real ones, and she remembers her own.
No more lies now; no disguises.
Alone, she touches a hand to her heart, and goes to war.