Death Star (47 page)

“Is this droid assigned to you, sir?”

Stay calm
. “Yes.”

“Apparently it is malfunctioning, Commander. Our computer security monitor detected it attempting to access restricted data.”

“This must be a mistake. This droid has been performing in an exemplary manner. I couldn’t be happier with—”

“That may be, sir, but our orders are to take the droid into custody and arrange for a memory scan.”

Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Persee
.

He tried, knowing that it was fruitless. “That may disrupt its ability to function. And it is a most valuable assistant.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we have our orders,” the guard said. “Come along,” he added to the droid.

P-RC3 said, “I’m sure it’s a simple mistake, Commander Riten, and a scan will straighten it all out. Oh, by the way, I did finish those filing chores you asked me to do. I hope they will be of assistance to you.”

“Good luck, Persee.”

“And to you, sir.”

The guards led the droid away.

Atour sighed in regret. Pretty soon P-RC3 was going to have a mental meltdown. Atour felt bad about it. Yes, the
droid could be reprogrammed, but it wouldn’t be the same. Sad. He had liked P-RC3, more than he did most people.

But there was a bigger problem to consider. If P-RC3 wasn’t here to take the call to verify the medical transport’s right to leave the station, it wouldn’t be going anywhere. And P-RC3 was gone.

It seemed that somebody else would have to be here to take that call.

“Ready to crank it up, Chief?”

Tenn Graneet looked steadily at his CO. “Absolutely, sir,” he said.

It was a lie, of course. He was not ready. Not after Alderaan. The destruction of the prison planet had been gut wrenching enough, even though he’d known the place had been home to killers and spice dealers and other scum of the galaxy. He reminded himself of that often, trying to find comfort in it, trying not to think about the thousands of guards and other personnel stationed on Despayre, some of whom had been his friends, not to mention the considerable number who had been wrongfully convicted and exiled there, all of whom had also died in fire because he had thrown the lever. Try as he might, he couldn’t justify their massacre simply as collateral damage.

And even if he could, there was still Alderaan. That hadn’t been collateral damage. That had been genocide on a planetary scale, an entire world wiped away, and for what? Why did all those millions of people have to die?

As an object lesson. To show the galaxy that the Empire meant business, that Palpatine was not to be trifled with. To make sure that Tarkin’s fear doctrine was taken seriously.

And to punish—no, to torture—a young noblewoman who was part of the Rebellion.

He’d heard the story from more than one source. There had been no Rebel force hidden on Alderaan—if he could have believed there had been, it might have helped. But there had been guards there when Tarkin had told Motti to drop the hammer. They had heard the truth.

And it had been Tenn who’d pulled the trigger. He had sent the beam that killed at least a billion people, maybe more; he didn’t know what the planetary population had been. No doubt there was an up-to-date census in some datafile somewhere, but he wasn’t going looking for it. He didn’t want to know the figures. The bottom line was that he had done it.

That knowledge was worse than gut wrenching. Much worse. Tenn hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since he’d done it, and he didn’t see how he ever could again.

“Scut is we’re on the trail of the Rebels,” his CO said. “Just wanted to give you a head’s-up. Stay frosty.” He turned and descended the steep stairs—almost a ladder—back down to the deck, leaving Tenn alone in the control room.

Alone
, he thought. If only. Tenn knew he would never be alone again.

Yes, he was a good soldier, a cog in the well-oiled machine that was the Empire. He followed orders. He did his job. But how could a man live with the knowledge that he, personally, had dropped the curtain on more people at once than anybody had ever done before?

How could he live with all those ghosts?

He, Master Chief Petty Officer Tenn Graneet, was the biggest mass murderer in galactic history. That was something to tell those hypothetical great-grandkids about, wasn’t it?

And now he was about to add still more to the total.
Hey, why not? What was a few hundred thousand, or even a million more, when you had already scragged the populations of two planets?

He didn’t know if he could do it again. When the moment came to destroy the Rebel base, he wasn’t sure he could.

He knew he didn’t want to—of that he was certain.

But if he didn’t, somebody else would, and he’d get tossed into detention for disobeying an order. Then he’d have plenty of time on his hands to think about that moment when he had put every vile dictator or madman who had ever committed genocide to shame. General Grievous, the Butcher of Montellian Serat, Grand Admiral Ishin Il-Raz … pikers, all of them. None of them had ever slain so many, so suddenly.

So easily …

There was an old proverb his grandfather had taught him when he’d been a boy:
Take care what you wish for, Tenn—you might get it
.

Now he understood exactly what that meant. He had wanted to fire the big gun, and he had gotten to do just that. The only man in the galaxy who had shot it for real, at real targets, and look what it had bought him:

Misery beyond his ugliest dreams.

Graneet, the planet killer. Two up, two down.

People were already looking at him funny. Someday this war would be over, and what he had done couldn’t be kept a secret. Alderaan had been destroyed, and somebody had done it. The citizens of the Empire—or maybe even the Republic once again, though he didn’t see how the Alliance stood a chance, now—they’d want to pore over the details of the action. And once they did, they’d find him. They’d hold him up to the light and decry his hideous aspect.

Graneet, the planet killer. Unique among men. Got a pest problem? Call the chief—guaranteed to get rid of ’em all.

He wouldn’t be able to walk on a street on any civilized planet in the galaxy; people wouldn’t be able to abide his presence.

Nor would he blame them.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He didn’t believe he would ever be able to stop thinking about it. The dead would haunt him, forever.

How could a man live with that?

V
ader and Tarkin watched the schematic representation of Yavin Prime glowing in the air. The smaller image of the moon Yavin 4 behind the translucent gas giant moved in small increments toward the outer perimeter.

The voice from the comm said, “Orbiting the planet at maximum velocity. The moon with the Rebel base will be in range in thirty minutes.”

The countdown flashed on the screen.

Vader had thought long and hard about his duel with Obi-Wan, and had come to a somewhat satisfying conclusion: whatever had happened to his body, his old teacher was no more. That was what mattered. Wherever his form had gone, whatever it had become, he would not be seen in this galaxy again. That was more important than anything else.

To Tarkin, he said, “This will be a day long remembered. It has seen the end of Kenobi. It will soon see the end of the Rebellion.”

Tarkin glanced at Vader. The latter did not need the Force to sense the Grand Moff’s pride—it shone from his face. The culmination of all his decades of work was about to take place. This had been his project from the beginning, and it was about to produce the result he had always said it would. How could he not feel proud?

“Sir,” came the voice from the intercom, “we have
picked up small Rebel ships leaving the moon and heading our way.”

Tarkin smiled, a cruel expression.

“Shall we scramble TIEs to intercept?” the voice asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Tarkin said into the intercom. “I believe our gunners can use the practice.”

He turned back to Vader. “It will be like swatting flies.”

Atour felt a faint vibration in the deck beneath his chair. Whatever it was, he hoped fervently that it wouldn’t interfere with his work. He was almost finished with the final stage of the plan. He concentrated on programming, the monitor’s flickering light painting his face with pallor. Almost there … almost …

Ah. He leaned back in satisfaction, feeling stiff back muscles protest. He had found the link in the comm system that P-RC3 had built for him, and had locked it down. A dedicated pipe for communications from the Door Control room.

He picked up his comlink.

Vil Dance felt the vibration through his boots as he passed the watch commander. “What’s up, Commander?”

“That’s what it feels like when the guns are locking and loading full power charges. We got company come to call.”

“We scrambling?”

“Negative. I guess they think we hogged all the fun last time—they’re letting the gunners deal with this. Too bad.”

Vil’s comlink chirped. “Oops, sorry, need to take that. New girlfriend is supposed to be cooking me dinner.”

The watch commander grinned and made a kissing sound.

Vil grinned back. “I hope so,” he said. He took a few steps away, pulled his comlink from his belt. “Yeah?”

“Go,” Riten’s voice said. “A little under thirty minutes.”

“Copy. See you there.”

There was a short pause. “Right.”

Vil’s mouth was suddenly dry. This was it. If he was going to change his mind, this was the time. He could still back out, stay the best pilot in the fleet, on the fast track for promotion.

No. He remembered blowing up that shuttle of escaped prisoners. He remembered the nightmares he’d had for weeks afterward. He remembered the slaughter of the attacking Rebel fighters. And of course, he remembered Despayre and Alderaan.

He didn’t want to be on the side that performed such atrocities.

He was going.

Ratua’s comm buzzed. He looked at Memah. Nobody had the number but her—and Riten, the archivist. She looked back at him, her lovely teal face expressionless.

He answered it. “Yeah?”

“Go.”

“I have Memah and Rodo right here.”

“Then I won’t call them. Get to the rendezvous point.”

“On our way.”

Nova was standing guard on a restricted corridor when his comlink cheeped. Since he was in duty black instead of
whites, he was able to answer it without routing it through a helmet comm. “Stihl.”

It was the archivist. “Time to take a walk, Sergeant.”

“Copy.”

Nova left his post and started toward the turbolifts.

“What’s up, Sarge?” the guard at the lifts asked.

“Sudden call of nature,” he said. “Those lamitos at the mess hall last night.”

The guard laughed. “I hear that. I’ll keep an eye on your hall till you get back.”

“Thanks.”

As Vader strode down the hall, one of his own crew officers hurriedly approached.

“We count thirty Rebel ships, Lord Vader. But they’re so small, they’re avoiding our turbolasers.”

Vader’s burned face twisted into its unseen, stiff smile. Once again, Tarkin had been overconfident, so certain his beloved monster was proof against anything. A fly could sting you if you missed swatting it. He had his own personal wing of TIE fighters on board. He would lead them out, and they would deal with what Tarkin could not.

“We’ll have to destroy them ship-to-ship. Get the crews to their fighters.” His officer knew the command referred only to Vader’s elite fliers. A squadron would be more than enough.

S
omebody with access or clout or both had installed a first-rate holoprojector in the conference room that had access to external cams, and a small crowd had gathered around the images flashing across the screen.