The Rise of the Empire: Star Wars: Featuring the novels Star Wars: Tarkin, Star Wars: A New Dawn, and 3 all-new short stories

by John Jackson Miller

  “Ma’am?” Habbel asked.

  Sloane jabbed her finger at the Death Star.

  “Our entire purpose is to protect that battle station—and the man in its throne room,” she said. “Now get me that sitrep, Lieutenant.”

  For years to come, Sloane’s mind would come back to that moment, lingering there in anger or despair. The rebel task force had been caught between an Imperial fleet it couldn’t outgun and a battle station invulnerable to attack—an instrument of the Emperor’s indomitable will and his lust for vengeance.

  That moment, she would come to realize, was the apogee of Imperial power.

  —

  Sloane was silent as she received the damage report. Three bow deflector generators and one dorsal unit had burned out under the rebel assault, but the auxiliary units had kicked in, and the shields had held. The Sapphires, meanwhile, had lost six pilots.

  The damage to the deflector generators was inconsequential. The loss of the pilots was not, and she felt a burning anger at their deaths. She shoved it away, annoyed with herself. That was the cost of war.

  Other Star Destroyers in the Imperial line had suffered far worse damage—the Vehement and the Tector-class Harbinger had been destroyed, while the battlecruiser Pride of Tarlandia and the Devastator were heavily damaged and not responding to hails. And the rebel assault hadn’t burned itself out quite yet—Mon Cal cruisers and Nebulon-B frigates were still slugging it out with the Star Destroyers—some exchanging broadsides at point-blank range, like sea-bound armadas in a conflict from ancient history.

  But the Imperial line was holding.

  There was only the nagging matter of the incursion on the Forest Moon. Habbel had descended into the crew pit and was standing behind Ives, radiating impatience while the communications officer spoke into her headset. Sloane looked away. They were following her orders; there was nothing she could do but wait.

  “The rebel assault was doomed from the start,” Ottkreg exulted. He was standing in the holotank, swiveling his head left and right to study the holographic representation of the battle around him. “One last insignificant tantrum thrown by their terrorist movement.”

  He better move before that flight of A-wings flies up his nose, Sloane thought.

  Sloane debated telling Ottkreg it wasn’t over—not until they knew the threat to the Death Star’s shield generator had been contained. She decided not to. Most likely, the confusion about what was happening on the Forest Moon was the usual fog of war. After the battle, the loyalty officer would make his reports, and it wouldn’t do for Sloane to be labeled as overly cautious or doubting Imperial capabilities.

  Politics is a blurred lens that obscures vision.

  Had Vidian said that, once upon a time? Or maybe that had been Sloane’s own conclusion, and it just sounded like one of the dead count’s aphorisms.

  Maybe so, Count, but I still have to deal with it, she thought.

  “Prepare navigational and firing solutions for two different scenarios,” Sloane told her crew. “First, a mop-up operation to disable or destroy the remaining rebel ships. Second, pursuit of the nearest concentration of enemy ships should they break off the attack and flee.”

  “Will do, Admiral,” Habbel said.

  She didn’t know which order Piett would issue, but both were likely. This way, the Vigilance would have a head start complying with either.

  “Admiral, something’s happened.”

  The voice came from the starboard crew pit, and it wasn’t the words that got Sloane’s attention, but the tone. The controller—Feldstrom was his name, she recalled—sounded like he wasn’t sure if he should have spoken up or not.

  This time Sloane moved quickly, the report of her boot heels loud on the decking.

  “I’ve lost my reading on the Death Star shield,” Feldstrom said. “It might be a glitch, but—”

  “Focus the orbital imagers on the shield-generator site,” Sloane said, eyes searching the crew pits for the crewmember responsible for imaging.

  Controller Heurys nodded, then looked up in shock.

  “I have no uplink from the site,” she said. “Visuals are anomalous—”

  “Display it on the tank.”

  The representation of the battle disappeared, replaced by a magnified view from the Vigilance’s imagers. Ottkreg stepped back, trying to focus on what he was seeing, but Sloane grasped its importance instantly. A massive plume of smoke rose from the forest where the shield generator had been.

  “Switch back to the main tank view, Heurys,” Sloane said. “Highlight all enemy starfighters and attack craft.”

  The rebel starfighters were streaking toward the Death Star. Ottkreg sputtered in indignation as they vanished into the battle station’s superstructure, pursued by clusters of TIEs.

  Ottkreg was shouting something. Lyle looked numb with shock. Sloane ignored them, her eyes moving between the holotank and the viewports.

  Hands behind the back, feet apart. The ultimate power in the universe. See everything.

  “Admiral?” Ives called out. “Sapphire Leader requests permission to pursue the rebel fighters into the superstructure.”

  Of course that’s what Maus wants to do.

  “No,” she said. “They’re too far behind to do any good.”

  Ives relayed her order, then looked up again.

  “Admiral, Flight Leader Monare asks—”

  “He has his orders. There are more rebel fighters out there.”

  “Admiral, we must—” began Ottkreg.

  “Silence on deck,” Sloane snapped, staring out the viewports to where the Death Star hung above the lush green moon.

  It was the Imperial ships that were the ones pinned in place, she realized. The heart of the Death Star—of the Empire itself—was under attack. And none of them could affect the outcome of that battle.

  Sloane felt her heart start to thump more rapidly, but she knew her expression hadn’t changed. And she wouldn’t let it. Fear was a contagion, after all.

  Her brain was already skipping ahead, subconsciously sorting through odds and eventualities. She let it do its work, tuning out Ottkreg’s red-faced objections and the chatter from the crew pits.

  But the conclusion she reached surprised even her.

  Sloane pivoted on her heels, hands still behind her back, and regarded her crew.

  “Recall the TIEs,” she said.

  —

  Sloane heard her voice rise when she had to repeat her instructions. Commandant Baylo would not have been pleased.

  “That order is countermanded!” Ottkreg screeched. “Send every TIE—”

  “Don’t forget whose bridge you’re standing on, Colonel,” Sloane said, her voice even but venomous. “You can tell the ISB whatever you like about my actions, but you have no authority to do more than that.”

  “Sapphire Flight is returning to the hangar,” Ives said, breaking the silence, and Sloane nodded.

  Ottkreg turned away from Sloane in disgust. Lyle sidled up to her, face pale.

  “I’m not questioning your order, Admiral,” he said in a low voice. “But—”

  “It sounds like you’re doing exactly that, Nymos,” Sloane said. “There’s a chance we could lose this battle. A very real chance, in fact.”

  Lyle looked aghast.

  “But you’re putting your career in danger,” he said.

  “My career?” Sloane replied, her voice once again louder than she’d intended. “The Empire is in danger.”

  She knew without looking that her crew’s faces were fixed on her.

  Always be on the side of what is going to happen anyway. That had been another one of Vidian’s sayings. The efficiency expert had meant it cynically, but Sloane didn’t think about it that way. It was about the importance of anticipation and seizing maximum advantage by staying ahead of events. That way you could guide them instead of remaining helpless as they guided you.

  “Move to flank position on the Executor,” she ordered, sta
ring out through the viewports at the massive flagship. “Open a channel to her bridge and send it to my comlink. Turbolaser crews, protect our port flank. And I want all sensors monitoring the battle station—communications, power levels, everything.”

  If she was wrong, Ottkreg’s report would ensure she’d spend the next three decades commanding a fuel tender in some armpit of an agricultural sector. But if she was right, the Executor was about to become the fulcrum of not only the battle but also the balance of power in the entire Outer Rim. That meant the flagship must be defended with every Imperial asset available.

  Sloane didn’t want to be right. But she knew she was.

  The faint thrum of the decking beneath Sloane’s feet changed in pitch and the Vigilance turned to starboard, her turbolasers spitting at the nearest rebel fighters. The Executor grew in the viewports until she was a bright wedge—one surrounded by flashes of fire.

  Sloane turned from the viewports to the holotank. The rebel cruisers were all closing on the Executor, hammering her with fire from every direction.

  “Helm, maximum acceleration,” she ordered. “Where’s that channel to Admiral Piett?”

  A moment later, Sloane knew she’d never get an answer. The massive Super Star Destroyer’s bow dipped and she began gathering speed, aimed like a spear at the surface of the Death Star.

  “She’s lost her helm,” Lyle said, one hand jumping to his mouth.

  The distance between the Executor’s bow and the battle station’s surface shrank to nothing. From space, the collision looked deceptively gentle at first—an intersection of competing geometries. Sloane knew the reality was anything but—steel decks rippling and twisting, men and women consumed by fire or ripped out into space to their deaths. The Executor’s engines shoved her deeper into the side of the Death Star, until she paused and seemed to shudder. And then she vanished in a fountain of flame.

  Sloane watched the death of the mightiest warship in the Imperial fleet, hands behind her back. Lyle had both hands on the sill of the main viewport, his head down. Ottkreg was simply staring at the place where the Executor had once been.

  Sloane turned away from that emptiness. The past is both ever-present and irretrievable. Vidian, or Tarkin? She didn’t remember.

  “Are there any communications from the Death Star?” she asked calmly.

  “The chain of command seems to have fragmented,” Ives said calmly. “All orders were coming from the Emperor himself, but the overbridge says there’s no response from the throne room.”

  “That’s not possible,” Ottkreg said. “There’s some mistake.”

  “There isn’t,” Sloane said. “Ives, order the surviving captains to recall their TIEs and form up on the Vigilance. If anyone questions the order, remind them that I am now the ranking admiral.”

  Lyle turned from the viewport, eyes wide.

  “This is madness,” Ottkreg said. Sloane couldn’t disagree.

  “Admiral,” said Feldstrom. “I’m picking up power fluctuations from the battle station.”

  “Look,” Lyle said, finger outstretched at the holotank.

  Sloane looked. The rebel ships had broken off their assault on the Imperial line and were accelerating away from the Death Star.

  “The cowards are running,” Ottkreg said.

  Sloane drew her pistol and shot the loyalty officer dead. He fell through the holotank and crashed onto the deck, rolling over so his lifeless eyes were staring up at the battle.

  Sloane holstered her pistol.

  “Has my second scenario been programmed?” she asked. “The one in which we pursued the rebel ships?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Habbel said shakily. “The most likely outcome was a rebel retreat to the Annaj system. We’ve prepared navigational data for a jump there.”

  “Good,” Sloane said. “Send the coordinates to all Imperial ships. Tell them to jump immediately.”

  Lyle looked down in shock at the loyalty officer’s body. Sloane ignored him. There’d be time to explain later how a man so out of touch with reality would have reacted to her order that they retreat. The scenario she’d envisioned still held—except the roles played by the Imperials and rebels had changed. Every second she could act before the Empire’s enemies did was now critical, and Ottkreg would have impeded her ability to do what had to be done.

  When the Death Star exploded, Sloane barely reacted. It didn’t matter anymore. The thrum beneath her feet rose again, and a moment later, the stars elongated into streaks, replaced by the churning chaos of hyperspace.

  “We lost,” Lyle said in the shocked silence on the bridge.

  Sloane looked at him. She’d been running through lists of fleets and shipyards in her head, compiling rosters of admirals, Moffs, and advisers.

  “The battle, or the war?” she asked.

  “The battle,” Lyle said, then shook his head. “And the war. Without the Death Star, without the Emperor…”

  Sloane nodded.

  “We did lose the battle,” she said. “As for the war, we’ll lose that as well if what’s left of the Empire fights as if none of this has happened. If we imagine the Emperor can simply be replaced, or the threat of a fleet action alone will bring rebellious planets to heel. So our responsibility is to prevent that from happening.”

  “And how are we going to do that?” Lyle asked.

  Sloane looked from the tumult of hyperspace to the body of Ottkreg.

  “For openers, by realizing the next battle’s already begun.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  MELISSA SCOTT was born and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas, studied history at Harvard College, and earned her PhD from Brandeis University in the comparative history program. She has published more than thirty original novels and a handful of short stories, as well as tie-in fiction. She saw Star Wars: A New Hope when it opened, and has been a fan ever since. She is ridiculously happy to be writing in this universe.

  JAMES LUCENO is the New York Times bestselling author of the Star Wars novels Darth Plagueis, Millennium Falcon, Dark Lord: The Rise of Darth Vader, Cloak of Deception, and Labyrinth of Evil, as well as the New Jedi Order novels Agents of Chaos I: Hero’s Trial and Agents of Chaos II: Jedi Eclipse, The Unifying Force, and the eBook “Darth Maul: Saboteur.” He lives with his wife in Annapolis, Maryland.

  JOHN JACKSON MILLER is the New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: Kenobi, Star Wars: Knight Errant, Star Wars: Lost Tribe of the Sith: The Collected Stories, and fifteen Star Wars graphic novels. A comics industry analyst and historian, he has written comics and prose for several franchises, including Conan, Iron Man, Indiana Jones, Mass Effect, The Simpsons, and Star Trek. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and far too many comic books.

  JASON FRY is the author of The Jupiter Pirates young-adult space-fantasy series and has written or co-written more than thirty novels, short stories, and other works set in the galaxy far, far away, including The Essential Atlas and the Servants of the Empire quartet. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife, son, and about a metric ton of Star Wars stuff.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  * * *

  BATTLEFRONT: TWILIGHT COMPANY

  * * *

  by Alexander Freed

  PUBLISHED BY DEL REY

  THE RAIN ON HAIDORAL Prime dropped in warm sheets from a shining sky. It smelled like vinegar, clung to the molded curves of modular industrial buildings and to litter-strewn streets, and coated skin like a sheen of acrid sweat.

  After thirty straight hours, it was losing its novelty for the soldiers of Twilight Company.

  Three figures crept along a deserted avenue under a torn and dripping canopy. The lean, compact man in the lead was dressed in faded gray fatigues and a hodgepodge of armor pads crudely stenciled with the starbird symbol of the Rebel Alliance. Matted dark hair dripped beneath his visored helmet, sending crawling trails of rainwater down his dusky face.

  His name was Hazram Namir, though he’d gone by others.
He silently cursed urban warfare and Haidoral Prime and whichever laws of atmospheric science made it rain. The thought of sleep flashed into his mind and broke against a wall of stubbornness. He gestured with a rifle thicker than his arm toward the nearest intersection, then quickened his pace.

  Somewhere in the distance a swift series of blaster shots resounded, followed by shouts and silence.

  The figure closest behind Namir—a tall man with graying hair and a face puckered with scar tissue—bounded across the street to take up a position opposite. The third figure, a massive form huddled in a tarp like a hooded cloak, remained behind.

  The scarred man flashed a hand signal. Namir turned the corner onto the intersecting street. A dozen meters away, the sodden lumps of human bodies lay in the road. They wore tattered rain gear—sleek, lightweight wraps and sandals—and carried no weapons. Noncombatants.

  It’s a shame, Namir thought, but not a bad sign. The Empire didn’t shoot civilians when everything was under control.

  “Charmer—take a look?” Namir indicated the bodies. The scarred man strode over as Namir tapped his comlink. “Sector secure,” he said. “What’s on tap next?”

  The response came in a hiss of static through Namir’s earpiece—something about mop-up operations. Namir missed having a communications specialist on staff. Twilight Company’s last comms tech had been a drunk and a misanthrope, but she’d been magic with a transmitter and she’d written obscene poetry with Namir on late, dull nights. She and her idiot droid had died in the bombardment on Asyrphus.

  “Say again,” Namir tried. “Are we ready to load?”

  This time the answer came through clearly. “Support teams are crating up food and equipment,” the voice said. “If you’ve got a lead on medical supplies, we’d love more for the Thunderstrike. Otherwise, get to the rendezvous—we only have a few hours before reinforcements show.”

  “Tell support to grab hygiene items this time,” Namir said. “Anyone who says they’re luxuries needs to smell the barracks.”