Death Star (16 page)

Nova headed back for bed.

“Where are the prisoners?”

Tarkin looked back at Vader. “Don’t you want to finish the tour?”

Vader dismissed this question with a wave of his hand. “I trust you can manage the assembly without my help. The prisoners?”

Vader could see the muscles in the governor’s lean jaw tighten. “This way,” Tarkin said. He was irritated, but did not allow it to show overmuch on his face. And while his mind was perhaps not as flexible as it should be, it was hardly weak. Amazing, Vader reflected, how many highly ranked naval officers did have weak minds. They were good at following orders, but he could read them easily, even without the Force. The language of their bodies spoke volumes about their inner thoughts.

Not everyone here was weak-minded, however. Quite the contrary, in fact. One of the architects, the Mirialan woman, had surprised him. She had put up a powerful shield to cover her thoughts, even though she was untrained at it. He couldn’t feel the Force flowing in her—she was no Jedi—but her mind was strong. Stronger than that of any woman he’d encountered in a long time; ever since …

Vader quashed the memory that threatened to rise. He did not allow such thoughts any longer. He had made an ally of pain over the past two decades; had let the physical and emotional trials he’d been subjected to make him
stronger, instead of destroying him. But stoic though he was, even he had limits to what he could stand.

He looked about him at the huge, curved wedge of the section, which was slowly being filled with girders and columns and vast plates of duralumin. The observation catwalk, and the small area around it, had been fielded off and supplied with gravity, as had a number of other decks and platforms. Vader could see one directly across the wedge from them, with several people garbed in the traditional white smocks and gray jumpsuits of scientists and engineers discussing something. Their local A-grav field made it appear that they were standing upside down relative to his party.

The vast majority of the wedge, however, was still in zero-g and vacuum. Vader watched construction workers—Wookiees, mostly, judging from the size of their vac suits—floating from one level to another, or welding struts and bracework. Droids of various makes and models also moved about on various errands. It was an image of well-organized industry, one calculated to reassure him that work was proceeding smoothly and on schedule. No doubt it had all been carefully orchestrated by Tarkin, but no matter. Vader knew that it took workers who were at least competent to give the illusion of exemplary work.

He would return with a favorable report for his Master. Tarkin and his construction teams would be able to continue building the station. Sabotage could not be allowed. He would examine those suspected of having a hand in the recent explosion. If their mental defenses were feeble, he would pry every thought in their heads loose and act on what he found. Anyone connected to the disruption would be made to pay the ultimate price. One, ten, a thousand—it didn’t matter how many. All would regret it.

All would pay.

“F
or whom are you working?”

Vader stood in front of the lieutenant who had been in charge of the night watch at the Despayre air production facility. Tarkin watched as the Sith Lord interrogated the prisoner about the evening when the ship that had blown up had been loaded.

“Th-th-the Imperial Navy,” the man managed, in response to Vader’s question.

“I think not.” Vader’s deep and distorted voice carried such an overtone of menace, it made Tarkin want to take a step back. Some of the officers behind him actually did so.

The lieutenant, old for his rank, turned to look at Tarkin. The fear in his eyes was obvious—as was his desperation. He had to be desperate if he thought there would be any help for him from Tarkin. Tarkin held his own gaze cool and steady. The man belonged to Vader now.

“Look at me,” Vader said. The lieutenant turned back to stare at him. “This is your last chance.” He raised his right hand, fingers spread wide.

“My lord,
please
! I know nothing!”

Vader closed his hand into a fist.

The lieutenant’s voice faded to a choked whisper, his throat muscles straining visibly against the unseen vise that had suddenly gripped them.
“Ugghh …”
His face purpled,
his eyes and tongue bulged, and after a moment, he staggered and fell to the durasteel plate floor. One didn’t need to be a medic to see that he wasn’t going to be telling anybody anything, ever again.

Tarkin said nothing. He had seen Vader do this before, and, as before, he had no idea how it was accomplished. Whether the Force was some form of telekinetic power or psycho-physiological hypnosis or something else altogether, it was certainly impressive.

Vader turned to Tarkin. “He had nothing to do with the sabotage.”

Tarkin frowned. “You know this?”

“His mind was weak. Easily read.”

“Then why kill him?”

“He will be an object lesson for those who follow.”

Tarkin raised an eyebrow. “A bit harsh.”

“The incident happened on his watch. He is responsible. He should have known about it.”

There was a line of causality that didn’t bear too close an examination, Tarkin reflected. By that logic, anybody who had been on duty at the time, at any point in the construction process, could be found guilty. Taken to extremes, even Tarkin himself might be. And somehow, though Vader’s mask was as impassive as ever, Tarkin knew that the Sith Lord was thinking just that.

“I will wait for a time before I examine the remaining prisoners,” Vader continued. “Give them a chance to learn of this man’s fate. See that they hear of it ‘accidentally.’ ”

Tarkin nodded. It was ruthless, but certainly he could see the value of it. After all, was not this battle station the grandest example of the doctrine that fear itself was the most potent of weapons?

“I will return to my ship now,” Vader informed him.

“We have quarters for you here, Lord Vader—”

“I prefer my own.” With a swirl of his cape, Vader turned and departed.

Tarkin quelled the annoyance he felt at Vader’s dismissive attitude; he’d expected no less. He glanced at the dead man, and then looked at the coterie of guards and officers crowded into the small chamber, several of whom were obviously still stunned by what they had seen. “Take the body to the recycler level and dispose of it. And see to it that the guards allow the prisoners to overhear conversations about what happened here—in florid detail.”

For a moment, no one moved. Tarkin looked about the room. “Am I talking simply to hear my own voice?”

That got results. Quickly, a pair of guards bent to gather up the corpse.

Tarkin left the brig, striding down the narrow corridor, flanked by his adjutants. Vader was about as controllable as a rogue reek, but he did get results. Tarkin would be surprised if the other personnel being held in connection with the sabotage were not quick to give up what they knew after hearing of this.

If they knew anything at all …

Still, if it cost a handful of prisoners to help keep this from happening again, that was a small price to pay. There were plenty of others to replace them.

Master Chief Petty Officer Tenn Graneet was in the corridor leading away from the shuttle that had brought him to the battle station when he saw a lone figure striding toward him, all in black, with a cape rippling behind. He recognized the man immediately, from innumerable news holos he’d seen.

It was Darth Vader, the Emperor’s enforcer.

Son of a bantha
, Tenn thought. He’d known the man was here on an inspection tour, but he certainly didn’t expect to encounter him walking down a corridor all by himself,
with no protective entourage. Although, given everything he’d heard about Vader’s highly touted skill with that Jedi akk-sticker hooked to his belt, why shouldn’t he be?

Tenn kept walking. So did Vader. The corridor, one of the peripheral passageways that led from the shuttle terminus, wasn’t exactly narrow, but it wasn’t terribly wide, either. Tenn realized that Vader’s course was such that the mysterious cloaked figure would run smack into him unless one of them shifted to the side.

For a moment, Tenn considered holding to his path, just to see what Vader would do. It was a common game among navy personnel, a test of will and dominance, to see who would veer away first, and CPO Tenn Graneet seldom had to give space to anybody—save, of course, superior officers. Vader, however, wasn’t in the navy, so technically he didn’t outrank Tenn.

It was tempting, but only momentarily. Vader’s pace was fast, and Tenn didn’t think the man in black had any intention of altering his course even a hair. Tenn Graneet thought himself as tough as a vacuum seal, but he wasn’t stupid or suicidal. He allowed himself to drift to the right, just enough so that when they passed, their shoulders were within a hand span—actually, Vader’s shoulder passed within a hand span of the top of Tenn’s head. Close enough so that the edge of the flowing black cape slid over Tenn’s arm and threatened to catch, for just an instant, on the chief’s chrono. The material had a smooth, silky texture, and was cooler than he would have thought.

In fact, the very air seemed cold in the wake of Vader’s passage.

Tenn slowed his pace slightly, feeling as if he had just brushed up against a primal force of nature; the edge of a hurricane, perhaps, or an icy comet that simply could not be stopped. Had he challenged Vader by staying in his path, he had no doubt that he would have regretted it for
as long as he lived. Which quite probably wouldn’t have been all that long.

The chief resisted an urge to glance back. If Vader had even noticed his passing, there had been no sign. “Whoo,” he said softly to himself as the sound of the other’s boots diminished. That had been an experience he’d remember for a while. He’d almost been the man who’d tugged on Darth Vader’s cape.

N
eet Alamant was a polished fellow, his voice as smooth as drive lube; never an awkward pause or loss for words. Seated in the retro-style dining booth across from him, Memah felt very little in the way of trust or warmth for the human. Rodo was at the counter, overwhelming a stool and not trying very hard to look inconspicuous as he nursed a cup of caf. Memah wasn’t afraid of this officious little man, but it did feel comforting to have Rodo nearby, and to have that be obvious, just in case.

“So let me see if I have the gist of your offer,” she said. “You want me to run a cantina at a military installation, for which I will be paid a fat signing bonus and a very generous salary, plus a percentage of the profits. This will entail a two-year contract, during which time I will be required to stay at this base full-time. Is that a fair summation?”

“Yes. Recreational facilities will be available. I am given to understand that the installation in question will be on a par, at least, with this area of the Underground, insofar as supplies, traffic, and general working conditions are concerned.”

Memah looked thoughtful. That last statement didn’t mean much, but she had lived in worse places than the Underground. She didn’t need luxury; in the last couple of
years she hadn’t had occasion to visit the surface but a few times, and she could have skipped those without any real sense of loss. Her life pretty much revolved around her work at this point.

All in all, it seemed a straightforward proposition. Alamant was not forthcoming as to where and what the military installation was, but she could understand that. There was, after all, a war on, and the Empire was, not surprisingly, protective of its secrets. What little clues she could sieve from his words, it was probably a naval base on some far-flung planet. If it was big enough to justify having a civilian-run cantina, it probably wasn’t in the middle of a hot war zone. And if it had the comforts of the Southern Underground, without the concomitant dangers, it couldn’t be too bad.