Some of My Favorite Quotes from Greg Rucka’s Novel GUARDIANS OF THE WHILLS
The word was, in so many ways, the perfect embodiment of who Baze Malbus had become, as blunt and as hard as the man himself. No was the word that seemed to define Baze Malbus these days, all the more so since the Imperial occupation had begun. No, and in that word Baze Malbus was saying many things; no, he would not accept this, whatever this might be, from Imperial rule to the existence of a Jedi in the Holy City to the suffering the Empire had inflicted upon all those around them. No, ultimately – and to Chirrut’s profound sadness – to a faith in the Force.
Despite his best intentions, it even, sometimes, was a scent Chirrut caught from himself.
Chirrut Îmwe was not a Jedi. He was not, by any definition, a Force user. But what he could do, what he had spent years upon years striving for the enlightenment to do, was – sometimes – feel the Force around him. Truly, genuinely feel it, if only for a moment, if only tenuously, like holding his palm up to catch the desert sand that blew into the city at dawn and at dusk. Be, however fleetingly, one with the Force.
Baze was a big man, a strong man, but he knew how to move himself with speed when needed, and with purpose at every moment. While Chirrut’s movements had flow, Baze’s had direction.
These were Imperials, who had taken that which was beautiful and made it profane, and it didn’t matter if Baze Malbus still believed or not; it mattered to him that others did, and he saw the pain the Imperials caused every day. He saw it in friends and strangers. He saw it in hungry children in the streets, and hiding beneath the smile of Chirrut Îmwe.
The problem was that if they were stopped for questioning, or brought it, there was no telling where that might lead or what it might lead back to. Unlike Baze, Chirrut still dressed as a Guardian of the Whills. He would be singled out because of this, subjected to more questions. And Chirrut, being Chirrut, would not tell the stormtroopers what they wanted to hear, and Chirrut, being Chirrut, would very likely begin spouting the litany. They would detain him. They might even detain him aboard the Star Destroyer, and Baze knew very well that those detained aboard the Star Destroyer were never heard from again.
“Fine,” he said. “Me first.”
He shoved Chirrut into the alley.
“I’ll catch up,” he said, then started running…
Baze led the way, reached back to guide Chirrut out of the vehicle. As soon as Chirrut had his feet on the ground once more, Baze’s hand was gone.
He didn’t want to know what Baze saw, not literally; Chirrut wanted Baze’s impression. If Chirrut asked, What does the service droid look like? he didn’t want Baze to say that the machine was a meter and a half tall, or half a meter wide, and covered in laminate with scratches along its torso. What Chirrut wanted was for Baze to say that the droid was friendly, or past its sell-by date, or had seen better days, or looked like it was fresh off the assembly line. Chirrut wanted the perception as Baze saw it, and thus, in a way, he was asking for Baze’s opinion.
Right now, Chirrut was frowning, head down.
“How does it look?” he asked.
“Not,” Baze said, “good.”
But Baze didn’t say anything. There was nothing he needed to say. Chirrut knew what he was thinking, and Chirrut knew why he was thinking it.
He moved his walking stick, settled it so it stood between his knees where he sat. He rested his forehead against the cap of the staff, the cold metal of the crystal containment lamp doing little to soothe his headache. He was tired, and he was frustrated, and he thought that either or both would bother him less if Baze’s reassuring presence were somewhere over his shoulder.
Chirrut grinned. “Yes,” he told Fortuna. “He, meaning me, would.”
“I don’t mean to offend, but you’re blind.”
Chirrut put a hand up in front of his face, waved it back and forth, gasped.
“Baze Malbus,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Baze laughed. Fortuna didn’t.
“Don’t mistake his lack of eyesight for a lack of vision,” Baze said.
“So you have hope, still?”
Baze shrugged, spread his hands on his thighs. They were big hands, and he had done a lot of harm with them, and sometimes he wondered if his hands would not have been better used for gentler work – what it would have been like to have been a painter or sculptor or baker.
“I do not know what I have anymore,” Baze said. “I have a home, and will fight for it. I have those I love, and I will fight for them. I see injustice, and will fight against it. I suppose these are the best reasons to fight.”
Chirrut turned his head in surprise, orienting to the sound of his friend’s voice.
“It’s chav,” Baze said. “Not that wretched Tarine stuff.”
For a second, Chirrut found himself at an utter loss for words. He hadn’t heard Baze’s approach, and Baze was not, generally, a man who did things quietly. More, he hadn’t sensed Baze’s approach, nor even his presence, and if there was a presence that Chirrut Îmwe knew in the Force more than any other – more, perhaps, than his own place in it – it was that of Baze Malbus.
“Well, if it’s chav,” Chirrut said, “I can hardly refuse, can I?”
“There is a space between ‘next to impossible’ and ‘impossible.’” Chirrut smiled at something only he knew was there. “This is where we will fit.”
“This guy, do you believe this guy?” Denic said to Baze.
Chirrut shook his head slightly, frowning. Baze tried to remember the last time he’d seen Chirrut happy.
“There is no time to argue with me, Baze Malbus. Here, your anger only grows. You must leave Jedha before it consumes you.”
“You cannot be left alone,” Baze said. “You would walk into walls.”
