Star Wars Aftermath Quotes

With the blood of a scoundrel and a princess in his veins, his defiance will shake the stars.

Even a small group of people can change the galaxy.

if there’s one mystical energy that powers the galaxy, it’s not the Force. It’s pure, unadulterated irony.

A HUG IS LIKE VIOLENCE MADE OF LOVE.

Buying gifts for a kid. Can we get him a cute little cape and a mustache so he looks like old Uncle Lando?” Lobot

I saw a banner hanging next to city hall in downtown Philadelphia that read, "Kill them all, and let God sort them out." A bumper sticker read, "God will judge evildoers; we just have to get them to him." I saw a T-shirt on a soldier that said, "US Air Force... we don't die; we just go to hell to regroup." Others were less dramatic- red, white, and blue billboards saying, "God bless our troops." "God Bless America" became a marketing strategy. One store hung an ad in their window that said, "God bless America--$1 burgers." Patriotism was everywhere, including in our altars and church buildings. In the aftermath of September 11th, most Christian bookstores had a section with books on the event, calendars, devotionals, buttons, all decorated in the colors of America, draped in stars and stripes, and sprinkled with golden eagles. This burst of nationalism reveals the deep longing we all have for community, a natural thirst for intimacy... September 11th shattered the self-sufficient, autonomous individual, and we saw a country of broken fragile people who longed for community- for people to cry with, be angry with, to suffer with. People did not want to be alone in their sorrow, rage, and fear. But what happened after September 11th broke my heart. Conservative Christians rallies around the drums of war. Liberal Christian took to the streets. The cross was smothered by the flag and trampled under the feet of angry protesters. The church community was lost, so the many hungry seekers found community in the civic religion of American patriotism. People were hurting and crying out for healing, for salvation in the best sense of the word, as in the salve with which you dress a wound. A people longing for a savior placed their faith in the fragile hands of human logic and military strength, which have always let us down. They have always fallen short of the glory of God. ...The tragedy of the church's reaction to September 11th is not that we rallied around the families in New York and D.C. but that our love simply reflected the borders and allegiances of the world. We mourned the deaths of each soldier, as we should, but we did not feel the same anger and pain for each Iraqi death, or for the folks abused in the Abu Ghraib prison incident. We got farther and farther from Jesus' vision, which extends beyond our rational love and the boundaries we have established. There is no doubt that we must mourn those lives on September 11th. We must mourn the lives of the soldiers. But with the same passion and outrage, we must mourn the lives of every Iraqi who is lost. They are just as precious, no more, no less. In our rebirth, every life lost in Iraq is just as tragic as a life lost in New York or D.C. And the lives of the thirty thousand children who die of starvation each day is like six September 11ths every single day, a silent tsunami that happens every week.

Thanks, Darth Obvious. Or is it Emperor Palpable?

Princess Leia’s baby, he knows, will have a good life. The best life.

how do you steal a Republic? By convincing its people that they cannot govern themselves—that freedom is their enemy and that fear is their ally.

War is not a state of being. It is meant to be a temporary chaos between periods of peace. Some want it to be a course of things: a default fact of existence. But I will not let that be so.

I don’t know what I’m doing here, either. I suspect that the moment I have it figured out, I’ll probably die half a second later.

This is a terrible plan,” he says to Han Solo—Solo, who crouches down so as not to be seen. Han Solo, the jerk. The very handsome, very charismatic jerk. “And I hate you very much.

All hail the light, the dark, and the grey.

Not it. Her. Give the Falcon some respect, kid.

War is not a state of being. It is meant to be a temporary chaos between periods of peace.

In the darkness, a red lightsaber rises from its hilt.

If ever she is to die, it should be out here, in space. Born from stardust, returned to stardust.

People like the illusion of choice. Gives them comfort in these strange times.

And the lone Jedi that exists—the son of Anakin Skywalker—possesses an untouchable soul. At least for now.

My name’s Mapo,” the boy says. “Mesa Jar Jar.

I smuggle, not snuggle.

I am going to do what every wife must do now and again," she says. "I am going to go rescue my husband.

He is less a human-shaped thing and more a pulsing, living band of light. Light that sometimes dims, that sometimes is thrust through with a vein of darkness. She tells herself that it’s normal—Luke said to her, Leia, we all have that. He explained that the brighter the light, the darker the shadow. Right

Stormtroopers were literally supposed to be within the same range of height and weight in part because of exactly that—he wasn’t joking when he said he was too tall to be a stormtrooper.

And the New Republic or the New-New Republic or the Republic We Got This Week will clamp down hard and then those people with the so-called better way will become the brave rebel alliance and the Republic will become the enemy and the wheel will turn once more.

Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire,” Solo says before adding quietly, “Usually an electrical fire near the hyperspace drive, which Chewie always warns me about…

So why, then, can’t Ackbar shake the feeling that once again they are about to fall into a trap?

The rebellion is home to all kinds.

Food for the native Ewoks.

suddenly he’s forced to wonder if each Jawa is just a fraternity of wet rats gathering together under brown robes and a black face veil.

Everything means something, but not every something matters.

The New Republic is not a military entity. It is one of democracy. And it is painfully naïve to think that democracy can work on a galactic scale.

This is Tracene Kane, HoloNet news reporter embedded with the New Republic Thirty-First. And I’d like to tell you about a friend of mine. A friend the Empire just stole from me.

If one wants power, one must take it.

She treats herself as if she is a divine worm born of sand and stone.

Bones!” Temmin says, throwing his arms around the droid. “I PERFORMED VIOLENCE,” the droid warbles. Jas wonders if that’s pride she hears in the thing’s discordant voice. “ROGER-ROGER.

Ackbar interjects: “But we also must recognize the Empire’s ability to play the long game. Our victory over Endor was fortunate, but the Empire orchestrated that trap with great patience.

He's heard tales of the Clone Wars -tales spoken by his own father. He knows how war goes. It's not many wars, but just one, drawn out again and again, cut up into slices so it seems more manageable.

The droid stands up. Servomotors whir as it regards its repaired arm—an arm that’s not so much an arm as it is an astromech leg. It spins the leg around, slow at first, then faster and faster until it’s just a blur. “THIS IS NOT MY ARM.” “I know, Bones. Sorry.” “THIS IS AN ASTROMECH LEG.” “No, no, I know.” “ASTROMECHS ARE INFERIOR. THEY ARE BEEPING BOOPING TRASH CANS. I AM MADE INFERIOR BY THE INCLUSION OF THIS NON-ARM.

The Wookiee tilts his head back and ululates a loud, joyful growl, then wraps his impossible arms around the smuggler. Solo looks like a child snatched up by an eager parent—for a moment his whole body lifts up off the ground, his legs kicking as the Wookiee purrs and barks.

That what guided me was the Force.” “You’re lying. The Force is only for the Jedi.” “No!” Jumon says, not angry so much as he is incredulous. “They wield it, but the Force is in all living things. It is what gives us our intuition, our drive, it’s what connects us to one another. We are all one with the Force.

The tyrant Palpatine is dead. But the fight isn’t over. The war goes on even as the Empire’s power diminishes. But we are here for you. Know that wherever you are, no matter how far out into the Outer Rim you dwell, the New Republic is coming to help. Already we’ve captured dozens of Imperial capital ships and Destroyers—

From the box, he withdraws a helmet. Pitted and pocked, as if with some kind of acid. But still—he raps his knuckles on it. The Mandalorians knew how to make armor, didn’t they? “Look at this,” he says, holding it up. “Mandalorian battle armor. Whole box. Complete set, by the looks of it. Been through hell and back. I think my boss will appreciate this.

The Empire must fall.

Somehow, the remaining factions of the Empire are still fueling their war effort even months after the destruction of their second battle station.

It’s a trap!

(When you believe in magic, it is easy to see all the universe as evidence of it.)

The Empire pretends it’s about law and order, but at the end of the day, it’s about dressing up oppression in the costume of justice. The

Naughty business, this Empire.

You wanted to show us…a battle droid? The most incompetent droid soldier in the history of both the Republic and the Empire. A mechanical comedy of errors.

The future is suddenly unpinned—evolving, spinning, leaping about like a panicked tree-loormor.

Walls tagged with graffiti (one such piece of tagging: a stencil of a familiar Sith Lord’s helmet with the phrase beneath it reading VADER LIVES).

We need to get back to the Alliance—” She corrects herself. That’s old thinking. “The New Republic.

The pilot, Wedge Antilles, once Red Leader and now—well, now something else, a role without a formal title, as yet,

The woman standing there is in a crisp admiral’s uniform. She’s dark-skinned, with cold brown eyes to match.

You look nervous.” “I’m ... a little nervous.” “You’ll be fine. You’re pretty. You’re alien. You’ll trend well.

Han grins and laughs and tries not to get crushed. “C’mon, Chewie. Set new coordinates. It’s time to get you home.

Thankfully, it’s she who spoke. Not the skeleton. Because … gross.

And in the months since the destruction of the Empire’s dread battle station, we have already liberated countless planets in the name of the Alliance.

This is Wedge Antilles of the New Republic. I am trapped on the Star Destroyer Vigilance in the space above Akiva, and I am in—

We must remember that our fight continues. Our rebellion is over. But the war…the war is just beginning. —ADMIRAL ACKBAR

It is vital we demilitarize our government so that a galactic war cannot happen like this again.

For it is time to return home. It is time to return democracy to the galaxy.

He has never won a game of Galactic Expansion against the repurposed interrogator droid. But he’s close now. It’s never been this close.

Fetches cups of caf.

May the Force be with you, mister.” “You too, kid. You too.

Mmph! Mmph.” Translation: The Emperor will have your heads for this.

Dengar guffaws. “You little scrap-muncher. I was putting away bounties while you were still in your space diapers.” “What’s it say about you that you’re still in your space diapers?

When they say to one another, 'May the Force be with you,' it is precisely this that they mean: It is a wish that when the time comes to leap into the void and to make a decision based on instinct and trust, you are rewarded for that act and not punished. The hope is that if you meet the galaxy halfway, it meets you in the middle and carries you the rest of the distance.

This is democracy,” she says. “It is strange. And it is messy. It’s not about getting it right. It’s about trying to get it right. Yes, it’s a bit chaotic. Certainly we will get some things wrong.

One helmeted cop is flung from his vehicle. The other crawls out onto the hood of his speeder, opening fire with a pair of blasters—just as a hunk of stone cracks him in the helmet, knocking him to the ground.

No Tie Fighters. No blasts across the bow of his X-Wing. No X-Wing, in fact, and though he loves flying one, it's nice to be out. No Death Star--and here, Wedge shudders, because he helped take down two of those things. Some days that fills him with pride. Other days it's something else, something worse. Like he's drawn back to it. The fight still going on around him. But that isn't today. Today it's quiet. Wedge like's the quiet.

The man tut-tut-tuts. “Hardly. I am Tashu. Merely a historian. An eager student of the old ways. And, until recently, an adviser to Palpatine.” “My friend Luke told me some things about him.” Tashu’s grin broadens. Showing off his too-white teeth. “Yes, I imagine he did. Seen through the lens of a confused, naïve boy, most assuredly.” His fingers pluck at the air like a spider testing its webs. “I know I won’t break you physically.” “So why come here at all?

But the battle station was destroyed, Dad! The battle is over!” They just watched it only an hour before. The supposed end of the Empire. The start of something better. The confusion in the boy’s shining eyes is clear: He doesn’t understand what’s happening. But Rorak does. He’s heard tales of the Clone Wars—tales spoken by his own father. He knows how war goes. It’s not many wars, but just one, drawn out again and again, cut up into slices so it seems more manageable.

Hey, pal. You still know how to contact the other refugees? Roshyk, Hrrgn, Kirratha, and them?” Group of a half-dozen Wookiees who escaped Kessel and got away from the Empire when nobody else could. Group of the meanest, hairiest brutes.

The Empire is a thug, a bully. It’s no better than Surat Nuat, or Black Sun, or the syndicate of Hutts. The Empire pretends it’s about law and order, but at the end of the day, it’s about dressing up oppression in the costume of justice.

This isn’t some kind of inspirational story. Some scrappy, ragtag underdog tale, some pugilistic match where we’re the goodhearted gladiator who brings down the oppressive regime that put him in the arena. They get to have that narrative. We are the ones who enslaved whole worlds full of alien inhabitants. We are the ones who built something called a Death Star under the leadership of a decrepit old goblin who believed in the ‘dark side’ of some ancient, insane religion.

The dark side is honest. The dark side is direct. It is the knife in the front rather than one stuck in your back. The dark side is self-interested, yes, but it is about extending that interest outward. To yourself, but then beyond yourself.

That’s a lesson we could stand to learn. Imperials are just like us. Some of them, at least. It’s easy to label those who serve the Galactic Empire as pure evil, all enemy, but truth is, a lot of those who do so were either sold a bill of lies, or forced to by threat of pain or death.

For a long time he’s told his son not the truth but the idealized hope: One day the Empire will fall and things will be different for when you have children. And that may still come to pass. But now a stronger, sharper truth is required: “Jak—the battle isn’t over. The battle is just starting.

What’s come before will come back around again. Republic was the way of the world before, and it’ll be the way again. And for a time everyone will cheer them on, and everything will be cozy-dosie, but there will come a time when things go sour and someone decides they got a better way of doing things.

In 1855, at the height of the Crimean War, Roger Fenton’s photograph, ‘The Valley of the Shadow of Death’, published in The Times, poignantly captured the aftermath of British retreat in the face of the Russian army with a single image of an empty battlefield. There was only one problem. Fenton had constructed the entire scene, moving cannon balls artfully until he had the perfect image. In 1945, on the beach of Iwo Jima, legendary war photographer Joe Rosenthal captured the most famous image of battle ever taken: the raising of the Stars and Stripes as American soldiers took the summit from the Japanese. It won him the Pulitzer Prize. Both are a lie.

The Empire’s weapon may be destroyed, but the Empire itself lives on. Its oppressive hand closes around the throats of good, free-thinking people across the galaxy, from the Coruscant Core to the farthest systems in the Outer Rim. We must remember that our fight continues. Our rebellion is over. But the war…the war is just beginning.

Mon Mothma walks among the wreckage, attendants on each side of her: Hostis Ij to her left, and Auxi Kray Korbin on her right. Each serving the role of angel and demon on her shoulder (though the role is never fixed and one becomes the other depending on the situation). Behind them, four New Republic soldiers walking with blaster rifles at the ready. This

Today is a day of celebration. We have triumphed over villainy and oppression and have given our Alliance—and the galaxy beyond it—a chance to breathe and cheer for the progress in reclaiming our freedom from an Empire that robbed us of it. We have reports from Commander Skywalker that Emperor Palpatine is dead, and his enforcer, Darth Vader, with him. But

I’m old enough to remember when the Republic shot itself right in the knee. It wasn’t taken over by the Empire. It became the Empire slowly, surely, not overnight but over years and decades. Fruit always tastes nice when it’s ripe. But it can’t stay like that. Every nice piece of fruit will rot on the branch if it hangs there long enough. You remember that.

Mon wants this transition to be as peaceable as possible. That is, of course, a noble goal. And in late nights the chancellor confided in Leia that she is wisely struck by the fear of what happened the first time the parasite of Palpatine squirmed under the skin. How easy it was for him to prey on the anxieties of the galaxy. How simple it was for him to turn system against system by stoking the fires of xenophobia, anger, selfishness. (And here Luke’s voice echoes in her mind: The ways and tools of the dark side, Leia.) How do you form an Empire? By stealing a Republic. And how do you steal a Republic? By convincing its people that they cannot govern themselves—that freedom is their enemy and that fear is their ally. Palpatine

The interrogator droid hovers. A small panel along its bottom slides open with a whir and a click. An extensor arm unfolds—an arm that ends in a pair of cruel-looking pincers. So precise and so sharp they look like they could pluck a man’s eye clean from his head. (A performance this droid has likely performed once upon a time.) The arm reaches down toward its target. It grabs the ten-sided die, lifts it, drops it. The die clatters. Face up: a 7. The droid exclaims in a loud, digitized monotone: “AH. I AM AFFORDED THE CHANCE TO PROCURE A NEW RESOURCE. I WILL BUY A SPICE LANE. THAT CONNECTS TO MY FOUR OTHER SPICE LANES. THAT GIVES ME FIVE TOTAL, WHICH GRANTS ME ONE VICTORY POINT. I AM NOW WINNING. THE SCORE IS SIX TO FIVE.” Temmin’s lips

Humility is well and good but facts persevere beyond the shadow of one’s own feelings,” Ackbar says. “You saved Captain Antilles. You helped us capture two high-value Imperial targets—General Jylia Shale, and Palpatine’s adviser Yupe Tashu—and confirm the deaths of two others: Moff Valco Pandion and slaver Arsin Crassus.” The way Ackbar says that word slaver—it drips with rage and condescension.

The second Death Star is destroyed. The Emperor and his powerful enforcer, Darth Vader, are rumored to be dead. The Galactic Empire is in chaos. Across the galaxy, some systems celebrate, while in others Imperial factions tighten their grip. Optimism and fear reign side by side. And while the Rebel Alliance engages the fractured forces of the Empire, a lone rebel scout uncovers a secret Imperial meeting….

You fool,” she says. “You eager, egotistical fool. Grand Moff. Pfah. You have so much, so wrong. The Ravager is not the last weapon. Nor do I even control it. There is…another.” His face twitches. “You don’t mean…” “I do mean. He’s not dead.” “But you said he was.” “I lied.” She shrugs. “This was…all his plan. Wasn’t it? I should’ve seen it. I fell for a trap. We all fell for your trap. You betrayer. You foul, wretched betrayer.

Good kid. Eager to please. Joined the Empire because it’s what you did. Not a true believer, not by a long stretch. Not far from him: Captain Blevins. Definitely a true believer. A froth-mouthed braggart and bully, too. His face is a mask of blood. Sinjir is glad that one is dead. Nearby, a young woman: He knows her face from the mess, but not her name, and the insignia rank on her chest has been covered in blood. Whoever she was, she’s nobody now. Mulch for the forest. Food for the native Ewoks.

ALL ARE WELCOME. (NO FIGHTING.) That rule is simple on the surface, but not easy in the execution, because Maz Kanata's castle has been a meeting place since time immemorial-- a nexus point drawing together countless lines of allegiance and opposition, a place not only where friend and foe can meet, but where complex conflicts are worn down flat so that all may sit, have a drink and a meal, listen to a song, and broker whatever deals their hearts or politics require. That's why the flags outside her castle represent hundreds of cities and civilizations and guilds from before forever. The galaxy is not now, nor has it ever been, two polar forces battling for supremacy. It has been thousands of forces: a tug-of-war not with as ingle rope but a spider's web of influence, dominance, and desire. Clans and cults, tribes and families, governments and anti-governments. Queens, satraps, warlords! Diplomats, buccaneers, droids! Slicers, spicers, ramblers, and gamblers! To repeat: ALL ARE WELCOME. (NO FIGHTING.)

You chastise the dark side as if it is an evil path, laughable for its malevolence. But do not confuse it with evil. And do not confuse the light as being the product of benevolence. The Jedi of old were cheats and liars. Power-hungry maniacs operating under the guise of a holy monastic order. Moral crusaders whose diplomacy was that of the lightsaber. The dark side is honest. The dark side is direct. It is the knife in the front rather than one stuck in your back. The dark side is self-interested, yes, but it is about extending that interest outward. To yourself, but then beyond yourself. Palpatine cared about the galaxy. He did not wrest control simply to have power for himself—he already had power, as chancellor. He wanted to take power from those who abused it. He wanted to extend control and safety to the people of all worlds. That came with costs. He knew them and lamented them. But paid them just the same because the dark side understands that everything has a cost, and the cost must always be paid.

No Sith remain,” Tashu says. “And the lone Jedi that exists—the son of Anakin Skywalker—possesses an untouchable soul. At least for now. We must instead move toward the dark side. Palpatine felt that the universe beyond the edges of our maps was where his power came from. Over the many years he, with our aid, sent men and women beyond known space. They built labs and communication stations on distant moons, asteroids, out there in the wilds. We must follow them. Retreat from the galaxy. Go out beyond the veil of stars. We must seek the source of the dark side like a man looking for a wellspring of water.

The boy is young, only twelve standard years, not old enough to fight. Not yet. He looks to his father with pleading eyes. Over the din he yells: “But the battle station was destroyed, Dad! The battle is over!” They just watched it only an hour before. The supposed end of the Empire. The start of something better. The confusion in the boy’s shining eyes is clear: He doesn’t understand what’s happening. But Rorak does. He’s heard tales of the Clone Wars—tales spoken by his own father. He knows how war goes. It’s not many wars, but just one, drawn out again and again, cut up into slices so it seems more manageable.

He staggers through the forest. The burning forest. Bits of brush smoldering. A stormtrooper helmet nearby, charred and half melted. A small fire burns nearby. In the distance, the skeleton of an AT-AT walker. Its top blown open in the blast, peeled open like a metal flower. That burns, too. Bodies all around. Some of them are faceless, nameless. To him, at least. But others, he knows. Or knew. There—the fresh-faced officer, Cerk Lormin. Good kid. Eager to please. Joined the Empire because it’s what you did. Not a true believer, not by a long stretch. Not far from him: Captain Blevins. Definitely a true believer. A froth-mouthed braggart and bully, too. His face is a mask of blood. Sinjir is glad that one is dead. Nearby, a young woman: He knows her face from the mess, but not her name, and the insignia rank on her chest has been covered in blood. Whoever she was, she’s nobody now. Mulch for the forest. Food for the native Ewoks. Just stardust and nothing. We’re all stardust and nothing, he thinks. An absurd thought. But no less absurd than the one that follows: We did this to ourselves. He should blame them. The rebels. Even now he can hear them applauding. Firing blasters into the air. Hicks and yokels. Farm boy warriors and pipe-fitter pilots. Good for them. They deserve their celebration. Just as we deserve our graves.

I was trained to sniff out weakness in my cohorts. I learned how to read body language, how to detect lies, how to use people against one another, all in order to discover where my own people had committed trespasses against the Empire. Anything from small breaches of conduct to outright treachery against the throne. I was the shadow they couldn’t shake. You put me in a base or battle station or office and they knew they were on notice. I’d scare up what they’d done like a hunter flushing prey from the brush. And I’d hurt them to earn a confession and correct the errors. Oh, it wasn’t just physical pain I caused, though that was certainly a part of it. It was emotional pain.

Today is a day of celebration. We have triumphed over villainy and oppression and have given our Alliance—and the galaxy beyond it—a chance to breathe and cheer for the progress in reclaiming our freedom from an Empire that robbed us of it. We have reports from Commander Skywalker that Emperor Palpatine is dead, and his enforcer, Darth Vader, with him. But though we may celebrate, we should not consider this our time to rest. We struck a major blow against the Empire, and now will be the time to seize on the opening we have created. The Empire’s weapon may be destroyed, but the Empire itself lives on. Its oppressive hand closes around the throats of good, free-thinking people across the galaxy, from the Coruscant Core to the farthest systems in the Outer Rim. We must remember that our fight continues. Our rebellion is over. But the war…the war is just beginning. —ADMIRAL ACKBAR

Now, listen. What’s come before will come back around again. Republic was the way of the world before, and it’ll be the way again. And for a time everyone will cheer them on, and everything will be cozy-dosie, but there will come a time when things go sour and someone decides they got a better way of doing things. And the New Republic or the New-New Republic or the Republic We Got This Week will clamp down hard and then those people with the so-called better way will become the brave rebel alliance and the Republic will become the enemy and the wheel will turn once more.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m old enough to remember when the Republic shot itself right in the knee. It wasn’t taken over by the Empire. It became the Empire slowly, surely, not overnight but over years and decades. Fruit always tastes nice when it’s ripe. But it can’t stay like that. Every nice piece of fruit will rot on the branch if it hangs there long enough. You remember that.