The Rise of the Empire

by John Jackson Miller

  Since he’d boarded, she hadn’t had a conversation with him where he hadn’t interrupted at least a dozen times.

  “We’ve alerted the local mining guild to your arrival, Count. The thorilide production totals—”

  “—are already coming in,” Vidian said, and with that, he marched to another data terminal in the aft section of the bridge.

  Commander Chamas joined her far forward, many meters away from the count. In his late forties, Chamas had been leapfrogged in rank by several younger officers. The man loved gossip too much.

  “You know,” Chamas said quietly, “I heard he bought the title.”

  “Are you surprised? Everything else about him is artificial,” Sloane whispered. “Ship’s doctor even thinks some of his parts were voluntarily—”

  “You waste time wondering,” Vidian said, not looking up from where he was studying.

  Sloane’s dark eyes widened. “I’m sorry, my lord—”

  “Forget the formality—and the apology. There is little point for either. But it’s well for your crew to know someone is always listening—and may have better ears than yours.”

  Even if they had to buy them in a store, Sloane thought. The ragged fleshy lobes that had once been Vidian’s ears held special hearing aids. They could obviously hear her words—and more. She approached him.

  “This is exactly what I’d expected,” Vidian said, staring at whatever unseen thing was before his eyes. “I told the Emperor it would be worth sending me here.” A number of underproducing worlds that manufactured items critical to the security of the Empire had been removed from their local governors’ jurisdictions and placed under Vidian’s authority: Gorse was the latest. “Messy work might have been good enough for the Republic—but the Empire is order from chaos. What we do here—and in thousands of systems just like this one—brings us closer to our ultimate goal.”

  Sloane thought for a moment. “Perfection?”

  “Whatever the Emperor wants.”

  Sloane nodded.

  A tinny squawk came from Vidian’s neck-speaker—an unnerving sound she’d learned to interpret as his equivalent of an angry sigh. “There’s a laggard holding up the moonward convoy,” he said, staring into nothingness. Looking at her tactician’s screen, Sloane saw it was the cargo vessel that had bumped them earlier. She ordered Ultimatum turned to face it.

  A shower of sparks flew from the freighter’s underside. Other vessels hung back, fearful it might explode. “Hail the freighter,” she said.

  A quavering nonhuman voice was piped onto the bridge. “This is Cynda Dreaming. Sorry about that scrape earlier. We weren’t expecting—”

  Sloane cut to the point. “What’s your payload?”

  “Nothing, yet. We were heading to pick up a load of thorilide on the moon for refining at Calladan Chemworks down on Gorse.”

  “Can you haul in your condition?”

  “We need to get to the repair shop to know. I’m not sure how bad it is. Could be a couple of months—”

  Vidian spoke up. “Captain, target that vessel and fire.”

  It was almost idly stated, to the extent that Vidian’s intonations ever conveyed much genuine emotion. The directive nonetheless startled Chamas. Standing before the gunnery crew, he turned to the captain for guidance.

  The freighter pilot, having heard the new voice, sounded no less surprised. “I’m sorry—I didn’t get that. Did you just—”

  Sloane looked for an instant at Vidian, and then at her first officer. “Fire.”

  The freighter captain sounded stunned. “What? You can’t be—”

  This time, Ultimatum’s turbolasers provided the interruption. Orange energy ripped through space, turning Cynda Dreaming into a confusion of fire and flak.

  Sloane watched as the other ships of the convoy quickly rerouted. Her gunners had done their jobs, targeting the ship in a way that resulted in minimal hazard for the nearby ships. All the freighters were moving faster.

  “You understand,” Vidian said, turning toward her. “Replacement time for one freighter and crew in this sector is—”

  “—three weeks,” Sloane said, “which is less than two months.” See, I’ve read your reports, too.

  This was the way to handle this assignment, she realized. So what if Vidian was strange? Figuring out what the Emperor—and those who spoke for him—wanted and then providing it was the path to success. Debating his directives only wasted time and made her look bad. It was the secret of advancement in the service: Always be on the side of what is going to happen anyway.

  Sloane clasped her arms behind her back. “We’ll see that the convoys make double time—and challenge any ship that refuses.”

  “It isn’t just transit,” Vidian said. “There are problems on the ground, too—on planet and moon. Surveillance speaks of unruly labor, of safety and environmental protests. And there’s always the unexpected.”

  Sloane clasped her arms behind her back. “Ultimatum stands at your service, my lord. This system will do what you—what the Emperor—requires of it.”

  “So it will,” Vidian said, eyes glowing blood-red. “So it will.”

  —

  Hera Syndulla watched from afar as the scattered remains of the freighter burned silently in space. No recovery vehicles were in sight. As unlikely a prospect as survivors were, no one looked for any. There were only the shipping convoys, quickly rerouting around the wreckage.

  Obeying the master’s whip.

  This was mercy in the time of the Empire, she thought. The Imperials had none; now, to all appearances, their lack of care was infecting the people.

  The green-skinned Twi’lek in her stealth-rigged starship didn’t believe that was true. People were basically decent…and one day, they would rise up against their unjust government. But it wouldn’t happen now, and certainly not here. It was too soon, and Gorse was barely awake politically. This wasn’t a recruitment trip. No, these days were for seeing what the Empire could do—a project that suited the ever-curious Hera perfectly. And Count Vidian, the Emperor’s miracle man, practically begged investigation.

  In previous weeks, the Imperial fixer had cut a swath through the sector, “improving efficiency.” On three previous worlds, like-minded acquaintances of Hera’s on the HoloNet had reported misery levels skyrocketing under Vidian’s electronic eyes. Then her associates had simply vanished. That had piqued Hera’s interest—and learning of the count’s visit to the Gorse system brought her the rest of the way.

  She had another contact on Gorse, one who had promised much information on the regime. She wanted that information—but first she wanted to check out Vidian, and the system’s notoriously anarchic mining trade offered her a variety of chances to get close. Industrial confusion, the perfect lure for Vidian, would provide excellent cover for her to study his methods.

  Emperor Palpatine had too many minions with great power and influence. It was worth finding out whether Count Vidian had real magic before he rose any higher.

  It was time to move. She picked out the identifying transponder signal of a ship in the convoy. One button-push later, her ship was that vessel, as far as anyone trying to watch traffic was concerned. With practiced ease, she weaved her freighter into the chaotic flood of cargo ships heading to the moon.

  None of these guys can fly worth a flip, she thought. It was just as well it wasn’t a recruiting trip. She probably wouldn’t have found anyone worth her time.

  “LOOK OUT, YOU BIG IDIOT!”

  Seeing the bulky thorilide hauler coming right at him, Kanan Jarrus forgot about talking and abruptly banked his freighter. He didn’t waste time worrying whether the bigger vessel would veer in the same direction: He took his chance while the choice was still his. He was rewarded with survival—and an alarmingly up-close look at the underbelly of the oncoming ship.

  “Sorry,” crackled a voice over the comm system.

  “You sure are,” Kanan said, blue eyes glaring from beneath dark eyebrows.
I see that guy in an alley tonight, he’d better watch out.

  It was madness. Cynda’s elongated elliptical orbit meant that the distance between the moon and Gorse changed daily. Close-approach days like today made the region between the worlds a congested demolition derby. But the appearance of the Star Destroyer and its destruction of the cargo ship had created a stampede in space. A race with two terrified groups bound in opposite directions, hurtling toward each other in the same transit lanes.

  Normally, Kanan would be the one pushing the limits to get where he was going. That was what kept him in drinking money, the main reason he had a job. But he also prided himself on keeping his cool when others were panicking—and that was surely happening now. Kanan had seen a Star Destroyer before, but he was pretty sure no one else around here had.

  Another freighter moved alongside. He didn’t recognize this one. Almost shaped like a gem, with a bubble-like cockpit forward and another for a gunner seated just above. It was a nice ride compared with anything else in the sky. Kanan goosed the throttle, trying to pull alongside and get a glimpse at her driver. The freighter responded by zipping ahead with surprising speed, claiming his vector and causing him to lay off the acceleration. He gawked as the other pilot hit the afterburners, soaring far ahead.

  It was the one time he’d touched the brakes all trip, and it was instantly noticed. His comm system chirped, followed by a female voice, sounding none too happy. “You there! What’s your identifier?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “This is Captain Sloane, of the Star Destroyer Ultimatum!”

  “I’m impressed,” Kanan said, smoothing the black hairs on his pointed chin. “What are you wearing?”

  “What?”

  “Just trying to get a picture. Hard to meet people out here.”

  “I repeat, what’s your—”

  “This is Expedient, flying for Moonglow Polychemical, out of Gorse City.” He rarely bothered to activate his ID transponder; no one ever managed space traffic here anyway.

  “Speed up. Or else!”

  Kanan sat lazily back in his pilot’s seat and rolled his eyes. “You can shoot me if you want,” he said in a slow almost-drawl, “but you need to know I’m hauling a load of explosive-grade baradium bisulfate for the mines on Cynda. It’s testy stuff. Now, you might be safe from the debris in your big ship over there, but I can’t speak for the rest of the convoy. And some of these folks are hauling the same thing I am. So I’m not sure how smart that’d be.” He chuckled lightly. “Be something to watch, though.”

  Silence.

  Then, after a moment: “Move along.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, you could probably record it and sell—”

  “Don’t push it, grubber,” came the icy response. “And try to go faster.”

  He straightened one of his fingerless gloves and smiled. “Nice talking with you, too.”

  “Ultimatum out!”

  Kanan switched off the receiver. He knew there wasn’t any chance of his being targeted once anyone with a brain understood what he was carrying. For their own protection, miners only used “Baby”—the sardonic nickname for baradium bisulfate—by the gram down in the mines on Cynda. Any Imperial would think twice before targeting a Baby Carrier too close by—and the Star Destroyer captain in particular would be less apt to call on him again about anything after that conversation.

  That was also according to plan. He’d rather avoid that meeting, no matter what she might look like.

  He mouthed Sloane’s words mockingly. “Go faster!” He was already flying the freighter at close to top speed. When fully loaded, Expedient wasn’t going to give him even that much. The sarcastic name was his idea. The freighter was Moonglow’s, one of dozens of identical vessels the company operated; the ships met with disastrous ends often enough the firm didn’t bother naming them. “Suicide fliers” didn’t stay in the game long, either, provided they survived, so Kanan had no idea how many people had flown his ship before him. Giving the Baby Carrier a name was just his attempt to give it even a single amenity.

  It’d be nice, he thought, if on one of the planets he visited he could fly something with some class—like that ship that had just raced past him. But then, whoever owned it probably wouldn’t let him take the liberties he did with Expedient. Like now: Seeing two mining haulers heading right for him, he banked the ship, corkscrewing between them. They slowed down: He kept on going. Let them watch out for me.

  His carefully secured payload didn’t react to the sudden motion, but the maneuver did produce a dull thump from back in the cargo area. He turned his head, his short clump of tied-back hair brushing against the headrest. Through the corner of his eye, Kanan saw an old man on the deck, half swimming against the floor as he tried to get his bearings.

  “Morning, Okadiah.”

  The man coughed. Like Kanan, Okadiah had a beard but no mustache—but his hair was completely white. He’d been sleeping back with the baradium bisulfate containers, on the one empty shelf. Okadiah preferred that to the acceleration couch in the main cabin: It was quieter. Figuring out which way was forward, the old man started to crawl. He addressed the air as he reached the copilot’s seat. “I have determined I will not pay your fare, and you shall have no tip.”

  “Best tip I ever got was to pick another line of work,” Kanan said.

  “Hmph.”

  Actually, Okadiah Garson had several lines of work, all of which made him the perfect friend to have, in Kanan’s eyes. Okadiah was foreman for one of the mining teams on Cynda, a thirty-year veteran who knew his way around. And down on Gorse, he ran The Asteroid Belt, a cantina favored by many of his own mining employees. Kanan had met Okadiah months earlier when he’d broken up a brawl at his bar; it was through Okadiah that Kanan had gotten the freighter-pilot job with Moonglow. Even now, Kanan lived in the flophouse next door to the cantina. A landlord with a liquor supply was a good deal indeed.

  Okadiah claimed he only partook of his own ferments when someone got hurt in the mines. That was a handy conviction to have, considering it happened nearly every day. Yesterday’s cave-in had been so bad it kept the party going all night long, causing Okadiah to miss his shift’s personnel shuttle. Baby Carriers didn’t get many passengers who had any other options for getting to work, and Kanan didn’t take riders. But for Okadiah, he made an exception.

  “I dreamed I heard a woman’s voice,” the old man said, rubbing his eyes. “Stern, regal, commanding.”

  “Starship captain.”

  “I like it,” Okadiah said. “She’s no good for you, of course, but I’m a man of means. When do I meet this angel?”

  Kanan simply jabbed a thumb out the window to his left. There, the old man beheld Ultimatum, looming behind the frenetic rush of space traffic. Okadiah’s bloodshot eyes widened and then narrowed, as he tried to determine exactly what it was he was looking at.

  “Hmm,” he finally said. “That wasn’t there yesterday.”

  “It’s a Star Destroyer.”

  “Oh, dear. Are we to be destroyed?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Kanan said, grinning. He didn’t know how an old miner on an armpit like Gorse had come by his genteel manner of speech, but it always amused him. “Somebody got on the wrong side of her. Know anyone on Cynda Dreaming?”

  Okadiah scratched his chin. “Part of the Calladan crew. Tall fellow, skinny Hammerhead. He’s run up quite a tab at The Asteroid Belt.”

  “Well, you can forget about collecting.”

  “Oh,” Okadiah said, looking again out the window. There was still a bit of debris from the unlucky freighter about. “Kanan, lad, you do have a way of sobering a person up.”

  “Good. We’re almost there.”

  Expedient rolled and angled downward toward the white surface of airless Cynda. An artificial crater had been hollowed out as a landing approach zone; half a dozen red-lit landing bays had been gouged into its sides, connecting with the mining areas farther below. Bringing Expedient t
o hover over the crater, Kanan turned the ship toward his appointed entrance.

  Okadiah turned his head forward and squinted. “There’s my transport now!”

  “Told you we’d catch up.”

  They had caught up, but it wasn’t purely from Kanan’s efforts. The Empire’s unreasonable directive had played a role. The personnel transport Okadiah was supposed to have been on had attempted to enter the bay too quickly and had clipped the side of the doorway. Now it sat blocking the entrance, disabled and partially hanging over the edge. It was in no danger of falling, but the magnetic shield that would seal the cavern against the void could not be activated. Space-suited workers were visible in the bay, staring haplessly at the wreck.

  “Move it,” Kanan said over the comm.

  “Stay put, Moonglow-Seventy-Two,” crackled the response from the control tower at the center of the crater. “We’ll get you in after we get the workers suited and off-loaded.”

  “I’m on a schedule,” Kanan said, shifting Expedient out of hover mode and moving toward the entrance.

  Objections came loudly over the communicator, getting Okadiah’s attention. He glanced at Kanan. “You are aware we’re carrying high explosives?”

  “I don’t care,” Kanan said. “Do you?”

  “Not at all. Sorry to disturb. Carry on.”

  Kanan did, expertly bringing Expedient’s stubby nose toward the exposed side of the personnel carrier. He could see the miners inside its windows, clamoring futilely at him as his ship made contact with a clang.

  Expedient’s engines straining, Kanan gunned the ship forward, dislodging the personnel transport from the edge. The noisy scrape reverberated through both vessels, and Okadiah glimpsed nervously back into the cargo section. But in moments both ships were inside the landing area. The magnetic shield sealed the landing bay, and Kanan deactivated his engines.

  Okadiah whistled. He regarded Kanan with mild wonderment for a moment and then placed his hands on the dashboard before him. “Well, that’s that.” He paused, seemingly confused. “We drink after work, is that correct?”