by Renee Ahdieh
It pricked him that Director Krennic had already given the order to fire a test shot that had vaporized Jedha City, but such precautions were necessary. What if it had failed? Better such embarrassment lie at the feet of Orson Krennic than Grand Moff Tarkin. Krennic’s test proved spectacular, but the good director was destined to receive only a footnote mention in the annals of the Empire, as being tangentially connected to a mining disaster on the ancient moon.
Tarkin had carefully modulated his own distance from the project over the years—hovering ever closer when signs pointed to success, floating farther away when delays gnawed at the Emperor’s patience. In that moment over Jedha, the Death Star had moved from concept to proof, and Tarkin had stepped from distant backer to chief architect.
Krennic had tried to steal that moment. What was it he had said? That they stood there amid his achievement? Nonsense. Such claims were as absurd as a bricklayer taking pride in a parapet built at the behest of a king. It is the king’s castle. Glory ascends ever skyward.
Now Tarkin stood atop the sky, looking down at Scarif, a world violated by rebel intruders. A world infested, its secrets—Imperial secrets—exposed to rebel vermin. These secrets were not irreplaceable; there were duplicates of the military development records on Coruscant and, knowing the Emperor, elsewhere. That was beside the point; the rebel threat was here and now. The matter called for an executive decision.
The rebels could not leave Scarif. The information needed to be purged as a limb needed to be amputated before the infection spread elsewhere.
And Krennic was down there, wasn’t he? Returned to the Citadel on Scarif to clean up the mess he’d started. Well, Tarkin could do him a favor and sterilize that mess far more effectively from his current vantage point, inside the Death Star, orbiting high above the tropical planet.
Scarif turned below, bringing the Citadel to the horizon.
“You may fire when ready,” Tarkin said at long last. And he allowed himself the briefest of smiles.
NOW:
Tarkin stood on the Overbridge of the Death Star, surrounded by luminescent instrumentation and humming machinery. General Tagge waited nearby, as did Admiral Motti, examining a readout display, though a glance that failed to notice these officers could be forgiven, what with the other presence on the floor: the imposing form of Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith.
“Her resistance to the mind probe is considerable. It’ll be some time before we can extract any information from her,” rumbled Vader, describing the tenacity of their prisoner, Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan.
Time. The word echoed in Tarkin’s mind, bringing up thoughts of the past again. You have made time an ally of the Rebellion. Tarkin had scolded that idiot Krennic over such matters.
“The final checkout is completed.” Motti beamed. The admiral took care to ensure that Tarkin stood directly between him and the capricious Dark Lord. Motti and Vader had had a recent disagreement on matters of spirituality and procedure. “All systems are operational. What course shall we set?”
An operational Death Star and the entire galaxy within reach, a moment two decades in the making—and yet Tarkin could not savor it. The questions buzzed at him like a gnat in a bedroom: Where were these rebels? Where were they operating from? Where was their base?
And the most stinging question: What good was having the most powerful weapon in the universe if this girl could defy them?
“Perhaps she would respond to an alternative form of persuasion,” he proposed. The Senate and its appeals to the populace were no more; the Emperor had seen to that with the long-overdue dissolution of that quarrelsome body. Planets that brooked treason but were afforded some protection by invoking the sympathies of the Empire’s citizens would have no voice to appeal to the people. These worlds needed a reminder of what ultimate power looked like.
“What do you mean?” asked Vader, though no doubt the Dark Lord already suspected the eventual destination of Tarkin’s train of thought.
“I think it is time we demonstrated the full power of this station,” said Tarkin. He turned to the young admiral. “Set your course for Alderaan.”
Motti grinned. “With pleasure.”
—
The Death Star’s jump to hyperspace occurred with little incident. It was, literally, no small matter to propel such a massive object at superluminal velocities, but the marvel of engineering that was this battle station performed to expectation. Only slight shudders could be felt in Tarkin’s spacious office, where they resonated in rings in a cup of water on the gleaming surface of his desk.
Tarkin sat looking over engineering reports scrolling across his desk monitor. Per Krennic’s standards, each hyperspace jump was accompanied by an exhaustive list chronicling the performance of every system and subsystem involved in the process. Tarkin’s bony fingers flicked a scroll of information, but he soon grew disinterested. The station worked; he didn’t need an autopsy on every mechanical event. Let the engineers pore through it.
He shuffled this technical data feed out of view and pulled up the news coming out of the capital. The disbanding of the Senate demanded the attention of the media, and the holonews outlets were obediently repeating the narrative that the Empire’s advisers had prepared. Rebel traitors had infiltrated the Senate. Such infiltration resulted in a devastating terrorist strike on a major Imperial military installation on Scarif. For the duration of the emergency, the Emperor needed absolute control to bring a swift end to this threat and root out insurgents who had access to the heart of the Imperial bureaucracy.
Tarkin saw a dramatic display of the Death Star’s prime weapon as the perfect way to punctuate that decree with an undeniable example of Imperial power. Tarkin had the authority to make such decisions. Surely he need not seek permission from Coruscant to do what he planned.
The door chime rang, interrupting Tarkin’s reading. From his desk, he unsealed the door and invited his visitor to enter. Motti stepped forward. “I wish to congratulate you, Governor, on a more personal level than formality would ordinarily allow. You have achieved what many nonbelievers deemed would be impossible,” he said. Motti’s nostrils flared as he breathed deeply. “The Death Star is ready and is yours.”
“Your sentiment is noted and appreciated, Motti, but I’m not one to have time wasted on overly emotional displays,” said Tarkin, watching the admiral closely. “You did not come here just to share such words.”
Motti swallowed, then spoke. “Sir, if I may. This station can destroy any planet you care to select. The entire starfleet, in pitched battle, couldn’t stop us. Couldn’t stop you. You now have in your hand the power of life and death over every living thing in the galaxy.”
Tarkin waited, saying nothing. Motti continued, “Ultimate power. It rests with you now.”
“And with the Emperor, of course,” said Tarkin, spearing Motti with his gaze.
“To be sure, Governor,” Motti quickly replied. “That’s what I meant. But the Emperor is far from here, and you are in actual command.”
Tarkin reached for his water, but still watched Motti closely. “This isn’t the first time you’ve spoken in this fashion, Motti.” He took a brief sip. “Say what is on your mind.”
“If you order so.” Motti’s pause was almost imperceptible. “The battle station has become the very source of the Empire’s power. All that power lies at your command. And your command alone.”
“You are close to treason, Motti,” Tarkin warned. He had known that the conversation would arrive at this mark when Motti had shown himself in.
“Is it treason to point out that you could demand a position of authority second only to that of the Emperor?” asked Motti.
“I would not care to have the Emperor as my enemy,” Tarkin said, breaking eye contact with Motti to glance down at the reports from Coruscant. With a flick of a button, he collapsed that data feed.
“But command of the Death Star makes you his equal,” said Motti. “You could share dominion
of the galaxy.”
The slight emphasis on share painted a clear picture of motivation in Tarkin’s mind. He looked back up at Motti and grinned his lipless grin. “With you at my right hand?”
“I’m your willing servant, Governor Tarkin.”
Tarkin stood. Motti took an expectant half step forward, but Tarkin stayed behind his desk. “Thank you for the sentiment regarding this station’s operation, Admiral. But we shall now return to the formality of procedure and record, and continue our mission that the Emperor has decreed.”
Motti nodded, regaining his more rigid posture and the degree of circumspection that Imperial protocols dictated. But the gleam was still in his eye. It had been a gamble, but Motti had successfully launched the first volley in an ambitious bid for power and still stood possessed of his rank and his life. Tarkin dismissed him with a nod, and Motti turned on his heels and stepped out of the office.
Politics, thought Tarkin, was where Krennic failed. The loudmouthed engineer knew the intricacies of hyperdrives and energy conversion ratios, but he had failed to see the pitfalls of the Imperial court. Krennic had wanted to ascend but was at a loss as to how to climb. Tarkin had blocked his every path, and not even a Death Star had allowed Krennic to rise.
Krennic had been a builder pretending to be a leader. In the end, it was his undoing.
—
Tarkin stood on the Overbridge. Admiral Motti had informed him of the safe reversion from hyperspace and that the Death Star now loomed closer to Alderaan.
Tarkin had visited the world on many occasions. It was steeped in history, its royal family having launched many of the ancient expeditions that had first opened up the galaxy. Such a pedigree elevated it to untouchable heights of import, and a cloud of arrogance surrounded it. The Organas had thought they could act with impunity in defying the Emperor’s decrees, because history had afforded them a special place in the hearts and minds of the people.
Alderaan and its royals were overdue for a lesson.
“Governor Tarkin,” said a haughty voice cloaked in an affected accent. “I should have expected to find you holding Vader’s leash. I recognized your foul stench when I was brought on board.”
Despite her small frame, entirely overshadowed by the oppressive black form of Darth Vader, Princess Leia Organa stood straight and proud. She was a fraction of Tarkin’s height and age, but she stood her ground well as they exchanged barbs dressed as pleasantries. But Tarkin soon grew weary of the interchange.
“Princess Leia,” he said, “before your execution, I would like you to be my guest at a ceremony that will make this battle station operational.” Tarkin spread his arms, taking in the sweep of the Death Star. “No star system will dare oppose the Emperor now.”
Leia faced him and spoke evenly. “The more you tighten your grip, Tarkin, the more star systems will slip through your fingers.”
“Not after we demonstrate the power of this station. In a way, you have determined the choice of the planet that will be destroyed first,” Tarkin said. He turned to the Overbridge monitor that displayed the image of blue-green Alderaan. So very much like Scarif, when he last stood in control of the Death Star’s prime weapon. Except now, there would be no half measures in the battle station’s operation.
“Since you are reluctant to provide us with the location of the rebel base, I have chosen to test this station’s destructive power on your home planet of Alderaan,” he said.
Leia gasped. There it was. The crack in the façade. The crumbling of hope. The death of that rebellious spark. Leia pleaded. Tarkin savored it.
Vader was as impassive and unreadable as ever.
It was different, this time, the blast that emanated from the battle station’s superlaser. The eight tributary beams funneled into a single ray that reduced Alderaan into fiery rubble. Tens of thousands of years of history were wiped out in an instant.
Tarkin saw his future in the bright shock wave of fire that radiated into the cosmos. He thought of the distant Emperor, and how little Palpatine’s reaction would matter. He thought of the girl, sobbing at the destruction of her treasonous world. He thought of Motti’s words. And in this moment of triumph, Tarkin couldn’t help but think of Krennic, and all he had taken from the unworthy man.
THEN:
His shoulder burned. Charred flesh cracked with every move.
Orson Krennic’s consciousness swam up from pain-induced darkness. His senses focused the blurry sunlight into a comprehensible image. He was on Scarif, in the grip of what could only be described as a nightmare. But it was no dream; it was all true, and had just gotten worse.
Krennic looked skyward and saw his creation: the Death Star, looming beyond the clouds, revolving slowly.
Tarkin, Krennic fumed. Tarkin was now in control of his battle station. Or so Tarkin thought.
You do not know the power you stand upon, Tarkin. You don’t know how to tame this.
If the rebels had succeeded in stealing the technical readouts of the battle station, then Krennic’s immediate course of action would have been to order a complete review of the schematics. Now aware of Galen Erso’s treachery, Krennic would have combed through the data to find anything, any aberration, no matter how insignificant. He would plug any gap that Erso might have made in the Death Star’s armor.
Krennic would do so, even though some would scoff that the Death Star was a proven success. Krennic would pull the station offline to examine every bolt. Krennic would have weathered the political fallout of depriving the Emperor of his new weapon to ensure it worked flawlessly.
Because Krennic was an engineer. Tarkin was not. Tarkin could not fathom the complexity of this creation. Tarkin would instead be consumed by impatience.
Tarkin was a politician pretending to be an architect. In the end, Krennic knew, it would be his undoing.
My creation will be your destruction.
And with a flash of green energy, funneled through an array of composite kyber crystals engineered by Galen Erso, whose daughter just moments ago he had caught trespassing in the very heart of Imperial secrets, Orson Krennic became dust.
Maybe Aphra didn’t look like a rebel. Maybe she wasn’t going to get shot.
As she tumbled through the undergrowth, the vicious Dantooine thorns tearing at her, she realized that all she had were her prejudices of what rebels actually looked like. She pictured them having jutting chins, chests swollen with pride, and heads slightly creaking with a surfeit of misplaced idealism. That wasn’t Aphra. That said, with dual blasters at the hip, goggles perched on her tatty pilot’s helmet, and a wiry build, she looked more like a successful scavenger or an unsuccessful criminal than a doctor of archaeology. It’d be best to keep her head down, get back to the Ark Angel, and get the hell off this dumb green planet before she crossed paths with one of the Imperial patrols.
It didn’t matter what she looked like. If they found her near this rebel base, they’d be suspicious, inevitably in that murderously suspicious way the Empire was so fond of.
Aphra’s life alternated between finding interesting ancient artifacts and reactivating interesting ancient artifacts, with brief interstitial periods of selling the interesting ancient artifacts. She liked to describe herself as a rogue archaeologist. Others tended to describe her as a weapons dealer. After spending the best years of her twenties doing so, she couldn’t in good faith argue that hard against that.
She had been holed up in Dantoo Town, trying to reactivate and upgrade some war-surplus droidekas. Having the deflection fields integrate with the newly added rocket pods was nightmarish—her first experiment led to the payload detonating on the inside of the field. Cue Aphra spending two weeks rebuilding the droids from scratch. She could solve the problem easily enough…if she had a 3.23 colicoidic pulse field modulator.
None of her usual contacts had one, so she looked for salvage. She thought she had a lead. This base on the far side of Dantooine had been secret enough not to draw attention to itself, but big e
nough that it couldn’t be hidden from anyone actually looking. Aphra hacked into an orbital station’s feeds, which let her track the regular, secretive movement of snubfighters into orbit and back. She presumed it was criminals or criminals with delusions of altruism—as in, rebels. But it had been quiet for a while now. Probably abandoned. Possibly salvage-rich.
The base itself was elegantly integrated with Dantooine’s endless tree canopy. From orbit, you’d likely think it was a larger example of one of the planet’s many sap farms. It’d take an expert eye to notice the snubfighter bays in a circle around a low, main bunker. In her time picking over the sprawl, Aphra had learned a couple of things. Firstly, it was definitely a rebel base. Secondly, rebels were worryingly efficient in cleaning up after themselves. She felt sure actual criminals would have left more of a useful mess. Curse the Rebellion.
Aphra had…complicated feelings toward the Rebellion. Their instincts were good, but good wasn’t good enough. People like the rebels, all bighearted and high-minded, led to the Galactic Civil War. As far as Aphra had an ethical orientation, it had been formed by growing up in the shadow of the war. Most people needed order. Better the Empire when the alternative was that. Weak people died in their billions in that alternative.
Not that Aphra needed anyone, of course.
She was working her way through what she was pretty sure was the central comm before it had been stripped when the Ark Angel sent her an alert. A fly-by of TIE fighters had triggered her alerts. She had just enough time to run from the compound and throw herself into the wild undergrowth. Then the drop pods crashed down, gleaming stormtrooper kill teams spreading across the base like insects.
Aphra decided she didn’t really need the 3.23 colicoidic pulse field modulator that badly and ran back to her ship through a purgatory of thorns, viscous sap, and all-permeating forest damp.
