The Rise of the Empire

by John Jackson Miller

  It took only moments to reach the starfighter bay, where the commander left Tarkin to his business. Tarkin didn’t need to look far for Vader’s starfighter, as it was the only Eta-2 among a squadron of V-wings. The absence of color might have struck Tarkin as a dramatic choice had black not been the Dark Lord’s preferred color. What’s more, many pilots during the war had made an effort to distinguish themselves, so why not Vader now?

  Vader was standing between the weapons arms of the craft’s split prow tinkering with something, while a silver astromech droid stood by, plugged into a portable diagnostics unit. Without so much as a word of greeting from Tarkin, Vader turned and stepped out from between the forward laser cannons.

  “I trust that your fighter weathered the jump from Ord Mantell in good repair,” Tarkin said.

  “Not entirely, Governor, but the starfighter’s troubles do not concern me at the moment. What have you learned?”

  Tarkin lifted an eyebrow. “An interesting question, Lord Vader.”

  The foul humor Vader had been in since the attack at Lucazec hadn’t faded. “I am not referring to lessons, Governor. Do you have new information?”

  Tarkin nodded. “Something we need to discuss in strict confidence.”

  Vader turned to respond to a series of urgent twitters from the droid, then wordlessly led Tarkin to a small unoccupied situation room adjacent to the starfighter bay. The room featured a holotable and an array of communications modules.

  “Our isolation is assured,” Vader said. “Now: What have you learned?”

  “I believe I have discovered a way to predict where the Carrion Spike will next emerge.”

  “Your prediction will need to improve greatly on our hunch at Galidraan, Governor.”

  “I’ve removed some of the guesswork.”

  Vader waited.

  “Several things before I speak to my forecast. First, the device serial numbers we recorded on Murkhana indicate that the components were in fact part of a Separatist communications cache confiscated by the Republic during the war and warehoused in an Imperial depot until they disappeared sometime within the past three years.”

  “Disappeared,” Vader said. “Like the warship modules and droids you traced from Sentinel Base.”

  “Precisely. Sold, stolen, or perhaps given away.”

  “All three possibilities imply the conspiracy of insiders.”

  Tarkin smiled with purpose. “There’s more. The dissidents’ attack on the Galidraan wheel was especially well timed, in that a Victory-class Star Destroyer had jumped from the system not an hour before the Carrion Spike arrived.”

  Vader considered it. “The dissidents knew.”

  Tarkin nodded. “They may be working in tandem with a scout ship. Or perhaps with the warship observed at Sentinel Base.”

  “Or receiving help from the same insiders who provided them with confiscated equipment.” Vader paused. “The Emperor wishes to make an example of them, Governor. But he demands that we reel all of them in, not simply those who pirated your ship.”

  “And so we shall, if my calculations are correct.”

  Again, Vader waited.

  Tarkin prized his datapad from the pocket of his tunic and tasked it to interface with the holoprojector table. A rotund star map resolved in midair, which Tarkin manipulated from the datapad. The Carrion Spike’s movements were indicated by a zigzagging red line, annotated by measurements and calculations.

  “Fuel consumption,” Vader said after a moment.

  “I should have known you’d be ahead of me.”

  “I am not unfamiliar with the method, Governor.”

  Vader didn’t offer an explanation, so Tarkin went on, using his forefinger to highlight his statements.

  “The ship was fully fueled when it left Sentinel Base. We didn’t bother refueling on Coruscant for the jump to Murkhana, as there was more than an ample supply for the round-trip. From Murkhana, however, the ship jumped first to Fial, then to Galidraan, and then to Lucazec. We have no way of assessing let alone knowing where the corvette is at present—whether it is in hyperspace or parked in some local star system—but either way its fuel is in short supply. And unless the shipjackers have completed their mission—a supposition I find highly unlikely—fuel has to be their next priority.”

  Tarkin made adjustments to the star map, magnifying an area of the local sector. “Fuel requirements for the Carrion Spike are not ordinary, and replenishment sites out here are few and far between. In fact, calculations suggest only two options: here”—Tarkin pointed—“at Gromas, in the Perkell sector, or here, at Phindar, in the Mandalore sector.”

  Vader circled the star map twice before coming to a halt and looking at Tarkin. “As it happens, Governor, I am acquainted with both worlds.”

  Now Tarkin waited, but once more the Dark Lord offered no explanation.

  “Like Lucazec,” Tarkin continued, “Gromas supports a mining operation—for phrik, I believe—”

  “Yes,” Vader said.

  “The Empire has a depot there that includes a full range of fuel options. Phindar, by contrast, was attacked by Separatists during the war, and hosts what is little more than a large tanker in fixed orbit. The property of a criminal cartel some twenty years ago, it is now operated by subcontractors as a fuel and service facility for Imperial starships.”

  “Two options,” Vader said, “Gromas presenting more difficulties.”

  “The shipjackers chose Lucazec over Nam Chorios or even Belderone, and they transmitted their attack live over the HoloNet. If, then, their plan is to spread both destruction and propaganda—”

  “Gromas would be the expected choice, if only because of its relative importance.”

  Tarkin nodded slowly. “It’s certainly the target we should provide to the intelligence agencies.”

  Vader nodded slowly, in full understanding of Tarkin’s implication. “I’ll inform the Emperor.”

  “The Carrion Spike may already be in motion,” Tarkin said, squaring his shoulders.

  As if in echo of Tarkin’s posture of readiness, Vader planted his fists on his hips. “Then we have no time to spare.”

  THE CARRION SPIKE DRIFTED above a lifeless, volcanic planet in a star system designated by number rather than by name. The crew was already assembled in the conference cabin when Teller entered, wearing the uniform of an Imperial commander.

  “Turn around so we can get the full effect,” Anora said from one of the chairs that surrounded the cabin’s circular table.

  “Doesn’t fit you like it used to,” Cala said.

  Teller stared down at himself in disappointment. “Poverty will do that to a being.” He raised his head to speak to all of them. “But I’ve got good news—”

  “Good news from a human dressed as an Imperial,” Salikk interrupted, fingering the tuft of fur on his cheek. “That has to be a first.”

  “What did our ally have to say?” Dr. Artoz asked.

  “A task force has jumped for Gromas.”

  Artoz’s side-facing eyes grew vivid with interest. “Confirmed?”

  Teller nodded once. “From multiple sources.”

  “Then you were right about Tarkin,” Hask said.

  Teller hitched up his trousers and straddled a chair. “When he was with Outland in the Greater Seswenna, they used to track pirates by calculating fuel consumption. Outland would track them to a fuel depot and swoop in. The Jedi did the same. You just have to know how much fuel a ship started out with and you have to be reasonably certain of its itinerary. Doesn’t always work, but when it does, it works like a charm.” He glanced at Cala. “You glad now about taking the extra time on Murkhana?”

  The Koorivar wrinkled his face but nodded.

  “Even with Imperials jumping for Gromas,” Hask said, “every depot between here and Centares has got to be on the lookout for this ship.”

  Teller compressed his lips. “I never promised a sure thing. The altered transponder signature worked at Lucazec, and
there’s no reason to think it won’t work again. To most Imperial installations, we’re just another corvette running low on fuel. But that doesn’t mean something can’t go wrong. If that happens, we have enough fuel to jump at the first sign of trouble.”

  “To where, and then what?” Salikk said.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Teller told everyone. “For now, we follow the plan.”

  Hask was shaking her head, her slanted eyes narrowed. “We should have stashed fuel somewhere. Refueled ourselves.”

  Teller scowled at the Zygerrian. “We broke the bank getting that shipment to Murkhana.” He gestured to himself. “Like I said, poverty wreaks havoc with a diet.”

  Hask looked away from him, a frown contorting her angular features, so Teller turned to Anora. “Good job with the holovid. It’s getting attention all over.”

  She shrugged. “Just doing my job, Teller. Same as ever.”

  Teller grew serious as he swung to Cala. “Speaking of jobs…”

  “Done,” the Koorivar said. “Although I had to spend extra time in decontamination.”

  “I thought your complexion looked ruddier than usual.”

  “No joke, Teller,” Cala said. “That stint could cost me a couple of years.”

  “If it’s any consolation, there’ll be a higher cost to the Imperials.”

  “That part doesn’t bother you at all, does it?” Hask said with a sneer. “The indiscriminate killing, I mean.”

  Teller frowned. “Indiscriminate? What, because not all of them are soldiers? This is where you draw the line?”

  “People have to work, Teller,” the Zygerrian said.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Hask. These aren’t civilian targets. They’re Imperial installations staffed by people who have bought into the Emperor’s sick vision of the future—for you, your queen, me, and everyone between here and the Unknown Regions. You’ve seen the recruitment posters: Serve the Empire and be a better being for it! That doesn’t turn your stomach? Anyone who willingly serves is a traitor to life, Hask. And don’t tell me they don’t know what they’re signing up for, because it’s as clear as those posters on the wall. It’s enslavement, suppression, military might the likes of which none of us has ever seen.” He worked his jaw. “I won’t go peacefully into that future, and neither should you. Hell, why are you even with us if you haven’t thought this through by now?”

  Anora made a conciliatory gesture. “She knows. She just forgets sometimes.” She glanced at Hask. “Don’t you?”

  Hask returned a brooding nod.

  But Teller wasn’t through. “Look, whether they’re mining ore for TaggeCo or refueling Imperial warships, it comes down to the same thing: standing with the Emperor. Our high-minded leader, who on his most benevolent day is still worse than Vader. The idea, Hask, just in case you’ve forgotten, is to put the fear into anyone who’s even contemplating joining up. To slow the death toll, Hask. And as payback. Do you get it or not?”

  “I get it,” Hask said finally.

  Anora slapped the tops of her thighs and laughed shortly. “Teller, sometimes you are so straight out of a holodrama I can’t decide whether to cheer or applaud. My production team on Coruscant would have made good use of you.”

  Teller glanced from her to Hask and snorted in derision. “Artists. If the Emperor has his way, you’ll be the first ones targeted for eradication.” He waited a long moment. “Are we done?”

  Heads nodded in assurance.

  Teller looked at Anora. “Speaking of holodramas, let’s see how I look with red hair.”

  —

  Tarkin, dressed in a black flight suit, was waiting in the hangar command center when the ship reverted to realspace at the Rimward edge of the Phindar system. Floating above a holoprojector was a one-quarter-scale holopresence of the tanker facility’s administrator, a yellow-eyed, lugubrious-looking humanoid sporting a pair of thin green arms that dangled past his knees.

  “Refueling has been completed, Governor Tarkin,” the Phindian rasped in Basic. “The corvette is preparing to detach as we speak.”

  “Good work, Administrator. You performed the refueling according to my instructions?”

  “We did—though it took considerable effort.”

  “The Empire looks kindly on those who cooperate in such matters.”

  “And I look forward to whatever kindness you’re willing to dole out, Governor. But you should know that the ship is assailable. My workers and the stormtroopers here are more than willing to take the crew head-on.”

  “No, Administrator,” Tarkin said in a way that brooked no argument. “You mustn’t raise any suspicions. What’s more, the people aboard that ship have had plenty of time to prepare for this. You and your workers would be killed.”

  “If you say so, Governor.”

  “I do say so. Have you a recording of the commander?”

  The Phindian nodded his huge, snub-nosed head. “Transmitting it now.”

  Tarkin squinted at the hologram that appeared alongside the holopresence of the facility administrator. Dressed in an Imperial uniform, the man was tall and lean, with thick red hair and a raised scar on his left cheek that ran from the corner of a full mouth to a bionic eye not unlike the one worn by Vice Admiral Screed.

  “His code cylinder identified him as Commander LaSal.”

  “One moment, Administrator,” Tarkin said, stepping out of cam range and turning to the nearest specialist in the command post. “Run the hologram through the roster database. If indeed there is a Commander LaSal, find out where he is currently deployed.”

  “Yes, sir,” the specialist said.

  Tarkin moved back into view of the holocam. “You were saying, Administrator…”

  “Only that LaSal’s rank plaque insignia and command cap disk looked legitimate.”

  Tarkin wasn’t surprised. With all the shipjackers had already accomplished, forging command cylinder codes and insignias must have been child’s play.

  “Sir,” the specialist said from his station, “the roster shows a Commander Abel LaSal deployed aboard the Star Destroyer Sovereign, currently docked at Fondor. But the likenesses don’t match up the way they should. Shall I contact the Sovereign?”

  Tarkin shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

  The words had scarcely left his mouth when a starfighter signals officer entered in a rush. “Governor Tarkin, Lord Vader requests that you join him in the bay soonest.”

  Tarkin ended the duplex transmission and hurried through the hatch and across the deck to where a yellow-and-gray V-wing was powering up. The canopy was open, and a red astromech occupied a socket aft of the cockpit. Vader’s black Eta-2 warmed nearby. Catching sight of Tarkin, the Dark Lord grabbed a flight helmet and life-support chest pack and carried them to him.

  “Highly recommended,” Vader said, handing over the gear.

  Tarkin began to slip into the chest pack.

  “It seems your calculations were correct, Governor.”

  “Yes, but coming all this way had to be a stretch for them. There’s good reason to suspect that they did in fact refuel before launching from Murkhana.”

  “Then someone may have warned them away from Gromas.”

  “A point worth considering,” Tarkin said. “In addition, they’ve betrayed themselves in other ways. Not only are they conversant with the Carrion Spike’s instruments, they are also well acquainted with Imperial procedure. The self-styled commander looks every bit an officer, and he used code cylinders to requisition the fuel cells.” He looked up at Vader. “Some of the Empire’s own?”

  “The Emperor has limited patience for puzzles, Governor. Whoever they are, we need to put an end to their game.”

  —

  The tanker orbited above hospitable Phindar. A lengthy cylinder of unshielded alloy, the enormous station’s aft bridge was elevated above a trapezoid of shielding that protected a quartet of sublight engines and a generic hyperdrive. Pressurized radioactive gas, liq
uid metal, and composites were housed in proprietary sections. Extravehicular droids of several varieties carried out refueling operations by installing fresh fuel cells in starships and removing and transporting spent cells to storage bins anchored along the tanker’s starboard side. The Carrion Spike was still umbilicaled to the station, its bow facing the huge tanker’s trapezoidal stern, as Teller hastened through the docking ring air lock and into the main cabin.

  “Retract the transfer tube and get us out of here,” he shouted toward the command cabin.

  “Trouble?” Anora asked, leaping from her chair.

  Teller shook his head while he peeled the scar from his cheek and the fake implant from his left eye. “That’s the problem. Everything went way too smoothly. The Phindian didn’t question anything, didn’t even ask about the ship or the special fuel cells.”

  “You said yourself we’re just another corvette out here,” Anora said.

  “Not up close we’re not.” Hearing the segmented umbilical retract into the hull, Teller hurried for the command cabin, Anora right on his heels.

  “Easing us away,” Salikk said from the captain’s chair.

  The corvette lurched slightly as maneuvering jets separated it from the tanker. Teller moved to the forward viewports to sweep his gaze over local space.

  “What are you looking for?” Artoz asked from one of the other chairs.

  “I won’t know till I see it,” Teller started to say when Cala cut him off.

  “Ship reverting Rimward!” He paused to study the sensors. “Imperial escort carrier. On screen.”

  Teller, Anora, Hask, and Artoz crowded behind Cala’s chair as an image resolved of a boxy vessel with a curved upper hull and a flat ventral one. Aft, the hull extended over the carrier’s engines.

  “Transponder signature identifies it as the Goliath,” Cala continued. “Capable of carrying a wing of starfighters. Armed with ten Taim and Bak H-eights and a Krupx missile delivery system. Not much in the way of shields—”

  “I’m not interested in testing its mettle,” Teller said.

  “It could be here simply to refuel,” Artoz said, sounding unconvinced.