Death Star (18 page)

Perhaps, though, Fem Fortune had decided at last that Celot Ratua Dil had suffered enough by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, for three very good things happened to him within hours of slipping from the transport ship and into the warehouse.

First, he practically tripped over a huge store of gas tanks, and among these were copious amounts of both oxygen and hydrogen. With two parts of the latter and one of the former and a spark—no problem, given all the gear available—he could produce pure water, which, in a pinch, could keep him alive without any food for weeks.

Second, he found a locker full of vacuum suits, one of which fit him tolerably well, so that in the event the rumors were true and the warehouses were periodically opened to the airlessness of space to get rid of pests that had somehow
managed to find their way within, he wouldn’t freeze or suffocate to death.

And third, he found a case of dehydrated Vulderanian grain flakes that had obviously been mislaid—it was stacked in a rack of machine tool parts. Add water and, while it would probably not be the tastiest meal he had ever enjoyed, and would certainly grow quite monotonous over time, it would offer sustenance.

So he had food and water, and he could breathe. Things could be a lot worse.

After another day of cautious exploration, Ratua came across a crate containing a general-service droid, and he marveled at his continuing good fortune. Long ago and far away, he had spent some quality time hiding out in a droid repair shop while avoiding the local authorities, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding. After a few days with nothing better to occupy his time, Ratua had taught himself the basics of droid programming. Nothing fancy, but enough that he could upload simple instructions. And general-service droids were often pressed into service as loaders.

Now he had a plan. All he needed was an opportunity, which came a few days later—just after he had finished his preparations for it. How lucky was that?

A troop of droids arrived on an unloaded cargo vessel. Seeing this from his hidden vantage point in a maintenance conduit, Ratua quickly activated his programmed droid and hurriedly donned his vac suit. Then he concealed himself in a packing crate, sealed the crate shut from inside, and waited.

Now it was up to the droid.

He’d programmed it to observe the loaders, see what stores they had come to acquire, and quickly mark the crate containing Ratua so that it appeared to contain the same items. Once this was done, the droid “borrowed” a null-g platform and moved the crate onto the supply vessel. Nobody stopped it—there was no reason to do so. Even if
there had been a living security agent on the cargo ship, a mechanical loading a crate of machine parts would be what he expected to see, and that’s what he would see.

And since nobody started yelling and trying to open the crate, Ratua felt fairly confident that his ruse had gone undiscovered.

The hold was airless and unheated, but Ratua was protected in his suit, and he couldn’t imagine the trip to the station would take more than a short time. If he’d guessed wrong, he would eventually run out of oxygen, but few things in life were without risk. And so he settled down to wait, willing himself into a quasi-dormant state so as to conserve air.

After a few minutes, he felt the cargo ship stir to life and move, presumably, away from the warehouse.

Wherever he was going, he was on his way.

The viewports were opaqued, there being nothing to see but a kind of impressionistic fuzzy
strangeness
. Memah had tried looking out into the higher-dimensional realm early in the voyage, and had quickly realized that the resulting headache and nausea were not to her liking. Rodo, who had undertaken more than a few FTL voyages, had warned her, but she’d had to check it out for herself. Memah Roothes had never been one to take another’s word for something when she could investigate herself; a trait, she reminded herself wryly, that had led to more than one headache over the years.

The vessel, while not a first-class starliner, was comfortable enough. Small but decent cabins, four passengers to a unit. Aside from Rodo, there were two other humans from Imperial Center in their cabin, both civilians contracted for
troop services—one was a Corellian who specialized in recreational gaming, the other a woman who was somewhat less forthcoming as to her origins and exactly what her duties were to be.

Nobody had told them about how long the trip would take or where it would wind up, but they had been cruising at superluminal for several days, at least, so it had to be no small distance. Unless, of course, they were going around in circles or other random patterns to make it seem that way. Memah didn’t seriously believe that, though. The Empire might be willing to expend drive fuel and pilot pay to confuse high-ranking officials or important civilian clients, but a tavern keeper, a bouncer, a gamer, and a “dancer”? She doubted it.

And when all was said and done, it didn’t really matter, did it? She was going somewhere, and when she got there, she’d be running a new place and getting paid pretty well for it. Things could be worse. Things could be—and had been—a lot worse. At least no one was likely to burn down a tavern run by the Empire.

D
arth Vader emerged from his hyperbaric chamber, refreshed insofar as the word had meaning for him. He had been thinking about the incidents that had impeded construction of the battle station, and they seemed to him to be ill formed and poorly operated. This surprised him somewhat, as he considered the Alliance more of a threat than even the Emperor did. That said, he knew that the Rebel network, like any large group, mostly comprised those who were at best adequate to the jobs with which they had been tasked. There were always a few who were adept, even brilliant, of course, and Vader was sure there were those among the Rebels who qualified for that description. Those were the ones to be concerned about, for they would fight to the last breath. Some of the Jedi had gone down very hard; the Emperor’s visage itself was testament to that.

Before Vader had himself been transformed, he’d watched Mace Windu inflict ghastly injury upon his Master. Had that been a test, as Vader suspected, to see if Anakin Skywalker would commit himself to the Sith Lord’s cause? Had Darth Sidious been in control the entire time, only pretending to be losing, and willing to absorb such malevolent energies purely to make a point? If so, it had been a heavy price for his Master to pay to learn what he’d needed to learn.

But be all that as it might, there was no Yoda, no Mace Windu leading this insurgency … no one who shone so brightly in the Force that Vader could not miss him. Whatever few Jedi might be left in the galaxy had nothing to do with this latest attack.

He would tell Tarkin as much. The cadaverous administrator had little imagination, but he was doggedly methodical, give him that. He could keep things on track. The project was not slowed so much that it needed Vader’s personal attention toward its completion. He had come to see what he needed to see, had corrected the problem he had found, and now it was time to move on to other, weightier matters. There was a war being waged, after all.

In the hallway outside his suite, Vader found a captain. “Find the admiral and tell him we are leaving within the hour.”

The captain saluted. “Yes, my lord.” He hurried away.

Vader entered the suite. It was well appointed but scarcely luxurious; it had been many years since he had taken notice of such things. He moved to the comm station to contact Tarkin and tell him he was done here. With any luck at all, Vader told himself, he would not have to return until the battle station was finished.

“Say again?” Sergeant Nova Stihl asked.

“Pack, Sergeant,” the loot said. “You are being transferred.”

“To where?” Not that he cared overmuch—after all, one place on this pestilent world was as good, or bad, as another. But to his surprise, the lieutenant pointed at the ceiling. “To that pile of I-beams and durasteel plate in the sky.”

Nova blinked. “To the Death Star? Why?”

The lieutenant sighed. “These insignia look like a Moff’s ranking to you?” He gestured at his uniform. “Not yours to reason why, Stihl, yours is only to do and die. There’s a shuttle leaving at midday; your orders are to be on it and so shall you be. Kiss your favorite prisoners good-bye and stuff your duffel.”

Nova shook his head in disbelief. “This makes no kind of sense. I’m doing good work here; since I started the lessons, murders and general population violence have been down by twelve percent.”

“Yeah, and we’re all gonna miss watching you, Sarge, but the military wants you there and not here, so there you will go.”

Nova shrugged. No way to argue against that. Orders were orders.

In his room, he was able to pack his gear in half an hour; it wasn’t like he’d been able to put down deep roots or anything. He’d supposed he would be moving on at some point, but he hadn’t ever really considered it all that much. And now here it was, and, when he got right down to it, what difference did it make? Watching convicts here or working a brig on a station—same difference. He’d miss the open air and sunshine, and the very few folks, either prisoners or guards, whom he thought of as friends. But he could work out anywhere he had a space big enough to lie down in, and he’d always been able to make new friends.

Nova looked around. It was just a place. He’d spent some time here; now he was leaving. Such was life. If he’d learned nothing else from his studies, it was that one went with the flow.

He wondered what kind of duty he’d be assigned on the station. Perhaps he’d contact a few people who owed him, try to find out.

Forewarned was forearmed, after all.

T
he smart thing for Ratua to do would be to stay in his crate until it was off-loaded and safely in a storage area somewhere. But after a couple of hours, he couldn’t stand the cramped monotony anymore, and so he undogged the hatch and cautiously emerged.

Save for the droids, which were all powered down for the flight, he was alone. The ship was on programmed remote control, so it was no risk at all for him to peep through a viewport to see what was out there.

He’d heard about the battle station, of course, even observed it once or twice through a dioptric scope he’d managed to scrounge from a guard. But he wasn’t prepared for this. Though only about half finished, the Death Star still loomed like a skeletal monster. He had no idea how far away it was; the lack of an atmosphere to blur distant objects rendered it stark and vivid, seemingly close enough to touch. The scale was unbelievable, and he wouldn’t have been able to tell how large it truly was save for the Star Destroyers and massive cargo ships that hung about the construction site, looking like so many children’s toys compared with the station itself.

Amazing.

Ratua thought,
Should be no trouble at all finding places to get lost in on something that size
.

He went back to his crate, latched himself back in, and began masticating some grain flakes.

Rodo whistled. “Check it out,” he said.

Memah moved to stand next to the much taller human. “Whoa!”

“
Big
sodder,” Rodo agreed. He pointed. “That’s a Star Destroyer moving off over there, see?”

“What is it? Some kind of troop transport?”

Rodo shook his head. “Battle station’s my guess. Too big for a troop carrier; you could probably stuff a couple million stormtroopers into that thing with room left over for a fleet of battleships, once they get it done—more than you’d need for any one Rebel outpost.”

“But why is it so
big
?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. I’d guess it packs a load of firepower.”