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It was supposed to have been a simple diplomatic errand. Mon’s presence was ceremonial, really. In exchange for a handful of “decommissioned” corvettes, Sera Veylan of Corellian Apex Lines had insisted on a personal meeting with the woman who might one day become Chancellor—her way of making sure the Alliance wasn’t a lost cause before hedging her bets. High Command had deemed it worth the risk, so Mon and Cassian rendezvoused with Admiral Cracken’s team to meet Veylan in Canto Bight. Not Mon’s favourite city. Better than being in Imperial space.
The meeting was less a meeting than a game, Veylan negotiating with one hand and seeing how far she could lean across the table with the other. In the end, they got on well enough, and the Alliance got what it wanted. (The shipping magnate even threw in an extra shuttle after receiving a kiss goodbye.)
Her first off-world engagement went exactly as expected. By rights she should be back at the base. Instead, she finds herself grounded on a Kwymar sector backwater after their navicomputer failed mid-route.
Cassian paces back and forth in the cockpit, palm pressed to his brow. He’s been on edge even before this. Last night he refused her with some line about wanting a clear head. Today, not even Cracken’s men were safe from his suspicion; he guarded her so closely that Veylan compared her to a prized shipment. It’s been maddening, and distinctly out of character for a hardened Intelligence operative. He’s weathered far greater dangers than a supply negotiation. Well, he must feel vindicated now.
K-2 holds up a small board from the cockpit panel. “Good news: it’s only a navigational systems guidance matrix board. A minor malfunction; the part is easily replaced.”
Cassian breathes out a heavy sigh.
“Bad news,” K-2 continues, his tone grim. “It seems we neglected to pack a spare. We are now stranded.”
If Cassian was on edge before, the news makes him restless. He grabs the toolkit from K-2 and checks for the part three times. When it still fails to appear, he calls up the ship schematics on a datapad and begins muttering under his breath.
She turns to K-2. “I understand our navicomputer is compromised. You can make our hyperspace jump calculations, can you not?”
“That is correct,” K-2 replies, far too chipper. “But we can no longer relay accurate coordinates to the hyperdrive. We could jump again. Whether we arrive intact is another matter.”
So much for a minor malfunction. “Can’t we contact the base? Or send a transmission to nearby Rebel ships?” she asks.
Cassian looks at her as if she’d just suggested they contact Palpatine himself. “And if our transmission gets intercepted? We’d need to give away our location to get any sort of help.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Look, it shouldn’t be too hard to find a replacement,” he interrupts. “Even on a planet like this.”
“I suppose you know better,” she says pointedly.
He grabs his shoulder bag and moves toward the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay in the hold; K-2 will stand guard. Better to keep you out of sight.”
“I’m not staying here. A grounded vessel will only invite attention. I’ll be an easy mark.”
“There’s a bounty on your head, Mon. We already took a risk bringing you to Canto. If you get recognized—”
“By whom?” She gestures at her plain, sand-coloured robes and hooded servant’s cloak. “I can scarcely recognize myself these days.”
“Given Senator Mothma’s present ragged state, the odds of her being recognized at this location are less than two percent,” K-2 says cheerfully. “Assuming she does not do anything to draw attention to herself.”
Cassian glares at his droid, then turns back to her. “It’s a long trek. And with this heat—”
She scoffs. “Fine.”
He softens. “Fine?”
“I’ll change into something more weather appropriate and meet you outside,” she says, retrieving her pack. “Captain.”
She emerges from the U-wing in a cream tunic dress and a scarf tied around her head. It’s a long walk to the city in this scorching, arid heat. Whatever grass remains is brittle and yellowed. Red dirt clings to their boots. By the time they arrive, she almost regrets spurning the cool air of the ship just to prove a point.
At least there’s little Imperial presence here; she overhears a woman say that they haven’t seen any troopers since the garrison cleared out four seasons ago. Osri may have been a city once, but its worn sandstone facades and derelict homes tell of better days. There’s life still—in the market stalls, the children’s street games, the long-snouted beasts hauling their loads—apparently just not enough to concern the Empire.
She glances at Cassian beside her. In theory, they should make an unassuming pair weaving through the cobblestone streets. He could even pass for a local in his cotton shirt, kerchief, and cargo trousers. If only he’d stop acting like a fugitive.
“Stay close,” he whispers, steering her with a hand on her arm. “Keep your head down.”
“Don’t you think it’s more suspicious that you keep shifting about?”
He ignores her and checks over his shoulder again. “And watch your step. The ground is uneven.”
“Right.”
“I can take your satchel if you want,” he offers, already pulling at the strap.
“What?”
“If it’s heavy.”
She doesn’t bother to hide her irritation. ”It’s not. Since when do you fuss like this?”
“Look, anything can happen out here.” He sounds as if he’s speaking to a child. “If you trip and sprain your ankle—”
“Might as well fetch K-2 so you two can carry me on a palanquin.”
They walk in silence to the local scrapyard. It’s less a shop than a maze, every surface stacked with parts and old machinery. Behind the counter, a man in a heavy apron is greasing some coiled metal tubing. He seems young enough, judging by that full head of hair, but has the weary look of someone raised on shady trades and lean harvests. He gives little indication that he’s spotted them.
“Just… let me do the talking. Don’t say a word,” Cassian hisses in her ear.
“I believe I have some experience with words,” Mon says curtly.
“You’ve got too much Coruscant in you. They’ll—”
“Hey,” the merchant calls out in a gruff voice. “You lookin’ to buy or just pokin’ around?”
Cassian had just warned—ordered—her not to speak. But he’s been hypervigilant since they left Yavin. She’s worn enough masks, heard enough from her colleagues to imitate the markers of Rim speech. Surely she can manage a few lines of bargaining.
She approaches the counter with a confident bounce. “How’re ya keepin’, sir? We’re looking—” Clearing her throat, she tries again. “—lookin’ for a nav matrix board. The old model will do.”
The merchant raises an eyebrow. She hears Cassian groan behind her.
“And no games. We’ll pay fair,” she adds, lower this time. The consonants sit strangely on her tongue. “Nothin’ more.”
His surly face remains unmoved. “Fifteen hundred.”
“What? That’s absurd!” She catches her inflection slipping. “It ain’t worth a third—”
“You can drop the act, lady. I know a Core Worlder when I see one.” He squints at Cassian, shaking his head. “You always let your wife haggle like that?”
Mon bristles. “I’m not—”
Suddenly, Cassian chortles in a way she’s never heard. “My wife does what she wants.” Now she’s unsure if he’s mocking her or just slipping into character. “With or without my permission. Like you said. Core Worlder.”
The merchant narrows his eyes. “Where you from?”
“B-Brentaal,” Mon says, still reeling. “But I haven’t been there in a long time. Not since… since…” Since what?
“Let’s just say her family didn’t take kindly to her running off with a spacer like me,” Cassian supplies. “Haven’t seen ‘em in nearly twenty years.” He spits on the dirt floor for effect, contempt in his voice.
The merchant’s face lights up. “I know what that’s like. Wife’s from Alderaan. Caused a scandal back then, too.”
“A good woman’s worth all that,” Cassian says.
“Damn right. Now we’ve got three little ones to show for it. Two boys and a girl. You?”
Cassian crosses his arms and tips his chin proudly. “Four.”
Mon nearly drops her satchel.
“Four?” The merchant laughs, slapping his belly. “Well, that’s somethin’. Ain’t a small feat.”
In a minute she has transformed from an anonymous patron to a disgraced Brentaali aristocrat and frontier mother of four. She throws Cassian a glare, but he responds only with a knowing smile—like a husband all too accustomed to his highborn wife’s temperament.
“Some may even say it’s excessive,” she manages through gritted teeth. “But we make do, somehow.”
“Well, they’re not so little anymore. Makes it easier. The eldest will come of age next year. Twins...” Cassian trails off, as if waiting for her to continue.
“Yes. Twins,” she says, deflated. “Isolde and Valenne.”
The merchant whistles sympathetically. “Got nieces that way myself. They wear everyone out.”
Cassian, stars help him, whistles back. “Only thing I regret about raising them out here. They’ve got none of their mother’s polish.” He pulls her closer, rubbing her back. She resists the urge to shake him off. “But we love ‘em anyway. Rian came after Iso and Val. Then there’s Blorn. Wild. Likes to climb.”
Mon coughs at Blorn, though she presses her lips together to stifle the sound. Fine. If it’s a performance Cassian wants, then she won’t be outclassed. “They must all be worried sick back home.” She clutches her chest. “And if we miss Rian’s name day tomorrow—”
“I know. Family’s everything, especially now.” The merchant clucks his tongue. “Tell you what—I’ll let you have it for four-fifty. Any less and I’ll be losin’ money. I got mouths to feed too.”
“Fair enough,” Cassian says.
The merchant yanks open a drawer, scattering bolts as he digs through cables and cracked datapads. He comes up with the board after a minute. “Go ahead. Inspect it if you like.”
Cassian lifts the board to his eye like a jeweller appraising a stone. Whatever he sees, it’s enough. “We’ll take it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mon clutches her chest again. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Malek. Just get back to your young ones, yeah?”
“We will, thanks to you.” Cassian holds out the credit chips and squeezes his hand as he takes them. “I’m Zeep, by the way. This is my wife—”
“Carina,” she cuts in, sparing herself from whatever nonsense he had ready. The mischievous grin he flashes confirms she made the right decision.
“Carina and Zeep,” Malek lifts his palms up and bows low. “May the Force be with you.”
***
On the walk back, they pass a golden field Mon hadn't noticed before. It could be beautiful here, with the cloudless blue sky, but the air is so still it feels like being shut in a crowded transport. The sun is harsher now at midday. She tugs at the scarf around her head, drawing it closer around her cheeks and nose. Hopefully she won’t wake up blistered tomorrow.
At least Cassian has stopped fussing. Beside her, his stride is jaunty, bordering on smug. She could’ve sworn he was even humming a moment ago.
“You enjoyed that far too much,” she says, chastising.
He snickers. “It’s not every day that a Chandrilan senator tries to pass off as a Rimmer.”
“Did you have to give us four children?” she asks, still aghast.
“He had three!” he exclaims. “We needed to win so he’d lower the price!”
“That’s ridiculous,” she says, smiling now.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
She concedes defeat by patting the nav board through its small pack. “I suppose getting this for less than five hundred credits was worth the momentary humiliation.”
“I wasn’t the only one talking back there,” he says with a nudge. “Nice touch with Rian’s name day.”
“Of course. I had the rest of it prepared. We got him star charts for tomorrow,” she says, utterly serious. “He’s the sharp one. Never idle.”
“Just like his mother. Not like the twins; can never get ’em to do anything.”
She covers her mouth with her hand to hide a giggle. “And always with their flutes. Those duets...”
“What?” He gives her a look of mock horror. “That’s just grim.”
“We haven’t known peace in years,” she sighs. The laughter that bubbles from them both comes easy.
He says something else, but she misses it entirely. Leida brought home a flute once. The thing shrieked the same notes for months, always hollow and out of tune. One of the servants started wearing earplugs. Or so Perrin recalled; Mon was rarely home to hear it. Just another false memory, as vivid as the twins’ playing.
“Hey. You all right?”
“Yes.” She forces a smile. “I’m just… parched, that’s all.”
He hands her his canteen and lifts a hand to his brow. “It’s okay. We’re almost at the ship.”
Cassian and K-2 have the navicomputer running and recalibrated within half an hour. It would’ve been even quicker if they hadn’t spent ten minutes arguing over who should solder. Cassian looks pleased with himself, shaking his head at some joke the droid just told.
The gentle beeping of the console returns. “Our navigation computer is now fully operational,” K-2 announces from the cockpit. “We will depart shortly.”
“K-2.” Mon takes a deep breath, meeting Cassian’s eyes. “I’d like you to conduct a final ship inspection. Outside.”
“I already did. Four minutes and thirty-six seconds ago,” K-2 says, wounded. “If you’re implying my work is unsatisfactory—”
“Can you just… go, Kay? Please?” Cassian pleads.
K-2 tilts his head. “Oh, I understand. You would like some privacy. You could’ve just said so.”
“I’m saying it now,” Cassian says impatiently.
“I will stand outside until I am asked to return.”
“Thank you, K-2,” she says.
“Don’t take too long,” K-2 calls out as he exits. “This is tactically unwise—”
Cassian presses a button to close the hatch.
K-2’s right; it’s unwise to linger. She removes her scarf, still flushed from the heat and their charade. Four children, a name day, a fiction that bridged two sectors of the galaxy. She thinks of Carina, who gave up finery for a chance at something true. And of Zeep, who could’ve found someone easier but didn’t. How brave of them. Foolish, too. She’d never been either—though she did grow to love Perrin once, the way reeds bend to the wind. What must it be like, to feel certain enough to choose?
“I shouldn’t have called attention to us,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself. “It was a careless risk. The last thing we needed.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t have pushed back if I hadn’t been treating you like fragile cargo,” he says quietly.
She arches a brow. “So you did notice.”
“Old habits.”
She tips her head up, narrowing her eyes. “I know I’m hardly the veteran you thought would be leading us, but…”
Cassian’s face goes still for a second, as if working to take in what she said. “No. You’ve got it backwards. I-I was doing it because—because this would all fall apart without you.”
Mon blinks at him. All that anxious watchfulness… she’d thought him patronizing, and she wasn’t wrong. But under it is something harder to resent.
He starts again, fiddling with his hands. “Last time we were together like this was on Coruscant. It’s one thing to do this alone; it’s another thing to be responsible for someone. It stayed with me, how we barely made it out. And I didn’t even know you then.” His eyes widen after a beat. “Not that I… know you now—I’m sorry. Don’t mean to sound like I’m making excuses.”
“It’s all right.”
He lets out a nervous laugh, shoulders loosening. “If you say so.”
“Cassian. I mean it.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“At least I got to see our best field agent at work,” she says, leaning against the side console. “Now I understand how you manage to charm your way across the galaxy.”
He shrugs. “Guess I’ve played many parts. Same as you.”
Let this be another one, then. “Come here.”
He takes two steps to close the distance between them. “I wasn’t sure if—” There’s something coy about him all of a sudden, the way he blows a puff of air before gripping her waist. “Thought you’d be eager to get out of here.”
“I am.” Her hands settle against his chest. “But we’re already six hours behind schedule. What’s a few more minutes?”
He’s looking at her intently now, so she studies him back, taking in the features she usually hurries past. There’s a thin scar on his left cheek; she remembers it being a cut when they first met. They’d only ever touched in the dark, hidden in their quarters or some forgotten corner of the temple. Her gaze drops when she imagines how he sees her in this light. The lines on her face, the few strands of grey in her hair. He thumbs her jaw before she could dwell on it.
She closes her eyes, focusing on the press of his fingertips. She had run away too. Not for love, but for a cause greater than either of them. If this is where duty has carried her, she supposes she could let it.
“Feel like this is gonna be the last time they’ll let you off Yavin with just me,” he murmurs, almost as an apology.
“All the more reason to make the most of it.”
She leans in, brave and foolish.