by Jason Clarke
FanFiction
Star Wars
"The Glitter and the Glory"
by
Jason Clarke
.lit creation 03/04 by DrB
PART I
12 Years before "A New Hope"
EN ROUTE TO THE H'ZONALM SYSTEM OUTER RIM TERRITORY
The massive Star Destroyer Ghorman burst out of hyperspace, abruptly slowing to a crawl as it entered the H'Zonalm system. Shortly after its arrival, swarms of TIE fighters erupted from its stern like insects, practicing attack maneuvers around the much larger capital vessel. The ship began its slow course toward H'Zonalm II, the glowing white engines pulsing softly as the Ghorman began its planetary assault campaign.
Alone in his conference room, Imperial Grand Moff Wilhulf Tarkin was lost deep within his own thoughts. As always, the Emperor was foremost in his mind; and though he tried to suppress them, Tarkin's thoughts always drifted toward his ever- present plan to create a weapon so powerful that he could overthrow the Emperor and rule the galaxy by himself. Then, he could crush the upstart Dark Jedi, Darth Vader, and make the so-called Dark Lord of the Sith bow down before him. Tarkin knew these were foolish dreams; Vader's power in the Force would never allow Tarkin to successfully enslave the Dark Jedi. The Grand Moff was forced to follow his original plan; to take over the Empire using a powerful weapon, one powerful enough to destroy all of Coruscant and with it, both the Emperor and Darth Vader. Only then could Tarkin assume complete control of the Empire.
Even now, plans were being made to create a huge vessel called the Death Star, a moon-sized monstrosity that would carry enough firepower to destroy an entire planet. This was the brainchild of Tarkin's own tank of scientists, hidden safely away in a section of space called the Maw. Though he would never allow the Emperor to know (though he suspected he did, just as Tarkin suspected Vader and Admiral Motti did), Tarkin had plan to also commission his technicians to construct an even more powerful weapon once the Death Star was completed; a weapon so powerful, it could outmatch the Death Star.
Unfortunately, it appeared that the Death Star was a long ways off. It was still trapped in the planning stages; the latest estimates gave at least twelve years before the vessel would be finished. This seemed an interminably long wait for Tarkin; but the Grand Moff knew that it would be well worth it, when he could rule the Empire with his own iron fist and control the galaxy's ideas of justice, equality, and subservience to the Empire. Tarkin was shaken from his reverie by the swish of his door opening.
"Grand Moff Tarkin, sir," said the Imperial officer.
"Yes, what is it?" Tarkin asked, with a cold tinge to his voice to tell the officer he didn't appreciate being interrupted. Tarkin's photographic memory identified the officer as Lieutenant Dorgan.
"Sir, Lord Vader is on the holotransmitter. He requests a meeting with you."
Tarkin sighed. "Very well," he replied. "I shall take it in here."
Dorgan nodded and turned to go.
"Oh, Lieutenant," Tarkin said, "please inform my servant, Ackbar, that I am ready to have my repast."
The officer looked puzzled for a moment. "The fish head?" he asked.
Tarkin's face turned cold. Unlike most Imperial officers, he had never understood the prejudice mentality of the Empire against nonhuman species. It seemed pointless to reject the majority of sentient beings in the universe on the basis of so flimsy a thing as racism.
"Yes, the Mon Calamari," Tarkin corrected. "As I said, inform him I am ready for my breakfast."
Dorgan nodded and exited. Sighing again, Tarkin ran a hand through his graying, thinning hair, then sat up in his seat, tugging on his uniform to straighten it. Finally, he switched on the holotransmitter. A tiny, seven-inch-tall figure suddenly leapt to form in front of him. The image of the Dark Lord of the Sith was flickering and rough, probably due to the great distance between the Ghorman and Coruscant. Tarkin always loved seeing Vader this way; so small and seemingly helpless, as if all Tarkin had to do was smash his fist and the Dark Jedi would be no more. Knowing that he was no more than three inches tall to Vader, due to his sitting position, made little difference to Tarkin. For a moment, he pondered why Vader always chose to stand during these briefings. Perhaps Lord Vader wished to make himself appear as large as possible during these conversations.
"Greetings, Lord Vader," Tarkin said with as much cordiality as he could muster. "Why do you contact me now? I am busy preparing for the assault upon H'Zonalm II. I have little time for idle discourse."
"Then we are agreed, Grand Moff Tarkin," Vader replied in the rumbling bass that filtered through that death's head helmet, "since I do not partake of idle discourse. I have contacted you to deliver a message: the Emperor wishes you to take a different course than originally planned. Once you complete the conquest of H'Zonalm II, you are to travel to the planet Despayre in the Outer Rim's Horuz system. There is a planetary penal colony there, and the Emperor believes it will be an ideal source for labor in the construction of the Death Star. You are to...persuade the warden of the colony to allow the workers to aid in the construction." The Dark Jedi strongly emphasized the word "persuade," and it was clear to Tarkin that if the warden did not agree, then he was to be simply dispensed with.
"I see," Tarkin said noncommittally, secretly thankful for a solid base for the construction of his technological terror. "You may tell the Emperor that the task is as good as done. We will depart for the Horuz system as soon as the H'Zonalmi are subjugated. Inform the Emperor that this project will conform to the highest of his expectations."
"Understood, Grand Moff," Vader replied, with the slightest touch of sarcasm in his voice. Vader was well aware of the fear he created deep in the back of Tarkin's mind; and though it might have been a product of his imagination.
Tarkin thought he felt a slight twinge at the base of his throat as the image of Vader flickered out of existence. "Damned sorcerer," Tarkin muttered.
He had never been one to abide subordination, but he seemed to have little choice when it came to Vader. The Emperor would hardly care if, one day, Vader chose to end Tarkin's life on a whim. That thought was still lurking in Tarkin's mind when his servant suddenly entered the room, pushing a small anti-grav cart in front of him.
"Ah, Ackbar," Tarkin said with a touch of warmth; he had grown quite accustomed to the Mon Calamari's presence over the last few months. "I see you have been working hard at breakfast. And what have we today?"
The alien replied in a deep, gravelly voice that belied the fish-like exterior of Ackbar's face.
"Your favorite, Lord Tarkin...Corellian deep-dish fremoule with Goruth sauce." Tarkin smiled as Ackbar placed the plate in front of him.
"Wonderful, Ackbar," he said. "Do you happen to know how soon we shall be in orbit around H'Zonalm II?"
"If I heard the officers correctly, we will arrive near the planet in about two hours," the Mon Calamari replied.
"Excellent," Tarkin replied as he finished the plate and began to work on his ale. "You are very observant, Ackbar. It serves you well. Perhaps one day you shall serve as an officer. Would you like that?"
"Indeed I would," Ackbar replied, though Tarkin thought he detected a bit of hesitancy in the alien's reply.
Tarkin placed his drink on the table.
"Ackbar, you do not know how much it grieves me to see the Empire treat aliens like this," he said. "And were it in my power to give you an office without the possibility of your suffering prejudice and ridicule at the hands of the other officers, I would grant it in a minute. But for now, I'm afraid you shall have to live with the Empire's rigid system of human supremacy. One d
ay, the Empire will expand to allow all races within its Navy, and then we shall expand ourselves far beyond the borders of our own galaxy, to places far out of reach and control. But for now, you must suffer the burden of subservience. I am sorry."
The Mon Calamari bowed his head in deference to his master.
"You are a kind and gracious master," he said, "and it is a pleasure to serve you in any capacity."
"You are as eloquent as you are loyal," Tarkin said. "You are more worthy of being an officer aboard this ship than most of the Academy graduates who do nothing but gamble and waste their time with other petty diversions."
* * * *
The Imperial officer's face twisted to admit a sly half-grin.
"Looks like you lose again, Fenrell," the officer said, pulling the sabacc chips from the center of the table to join his ever-growing pile. The black-haired, dark-skinned officer across from him sighed as he sat back in his chair. “You're unbelievable, Slick," he muttered. "How many wins is that?"
"More than you want to know," Slick replied as he counted up the enormous pile in front of him. "Hey, don't say I didn't warn you."
Fenrell grinned. "Yeah, I guess you did," he said. "Still, you didn't have to take me for _everything_ I had..."
"Your loss," Slick answered. "Hey, you know you can pay me later. Or we could always play double or nothing?" the officer suggested with a mischievous grin.
"I don't think so," Fenrell said. "I've learned my lesson."
Just then, the door to Slick's quarters hissed open and Lieutenant Hojn Dorgan poked his head in. "You guys seen that fish-head?" he asked.
"Ackbar?" Fenrell asked. "No, he's not around here. Why?"
"Good," Dorgan said as he strode through the door and plopped down in one of the empty chairs surrounding the small, circular table of black glass. "I hate that guy. He's ugly as hell."
"What, the Mon Calamari?" Slick asked. He'd completed counting the chips and handed a datapad to Fenrell bearing the results; Fenrell emitted a groan as Slick continued, "I hardly ever see him. Why does he bother you?"
"He's just...ugly, I guess," Dorgan replied. "And nosy. He's always poking around the bridge, following Tarkin around. And Tarkin loves him so much that the fish-head never gets kicked out. I don't understand why the Grand Moff would even stand the presence of an alien on the bridge."
"Chill out, Hojn," Slick said. "It's no big deal. He can't harm anything. And I'm on the bridge all the time, and I don't see him much."
"He could be a spy," Fenrell suggested.
"A fish-head?" Dorgan asked incredulously. "I don't think so. They're not that smart."
"Speaking of the bridge," Fenrell said, changing the subject, "how does it feel to the pilot of the Star Destroyer straight out of the Academy, Slick?"
Slick grinned sheepishly at the prodding comment. "It's not that great," he said. "I just punch in the coordinates and execute the maneuvers. The navicomputer handles all the hard stuff."
"Sure, play it down," Fenrell said. "Play it down while we engineers are stuck down with the stormtroopers, listening to them complain about their jobs during some important drill or something."
"Speak for yourself," Dorgan said as he eyed the sabacc chips on the table. "Being a lackey for the Grand Moff is no picnic either. All I do is report messages to him and retrieve that damn fish-head. The only good part is, I once got to see Vader in a holo."
"Really?" Fenrell exclaimed. "Wow."
"What's he like?" Slick asked.
"Well, it's kind of hard to tell with those holos, you know," Dorgan said, "but he looks to be about seven feet tall or so. He's dressed all in black, with a bunch of computer junk on him. But the helmet and mask is the most creepy thing; it looks like a big black skull. And then there's that breathing machine of his; makes him sound like an old man wheezing."
"Better not let Tarkin hear you talking like that," Fenrell warned.
"Hell, you'd better not let Tarkin catch us playing sabacc, Slick."
"Ah, he won't come in here," Dorgan said. "He's got better things to do. And as for Vader, he hates him more than the Rebellion. Gets in his way, I guess. I once overheard a transmission between Tarkin and Admiral Motti, and Motti was saying all sorts of things, calling Tarkin an over-ambitious control freak and telling him not to underestimate Vader and the Emperor. I guess Tarkin has some grand plan to take over the Empire or something."
"Whoa," Slick said. "That's stuff I don't think you should be talking about, Hojn. Tarkin executes officers for stuff like that; my guess is, he doesn't even want the Emperor or Vader to know that."
"Ah, I'm not worried," Dorgan said with a dismissive wave. "I don't talk about it much, and I know you two won't say anything. Anyway, what say we start a new game here, eh?"
Slick grinned. "You ready to lose, partner?"
Abruptly, the intercom near Slick's door crackled to life.
"Lieutenant Solo, report to the bridge."
Slick quickly got up from the table. "Sorry, fellas, but it looks like I won't be able to join this game," he said.
"What a shame," Fenrell said with a sarcastic grin as he hunkered down to rob Dorgan over every credit. It would help him pay back Slick, if that was possible.
* * * *
Lieutenant Han "Slick" Solo. Han had acquired his nickname after performing a particularly slick maneuver in a malfunctioning U-33 loadlifter during class exercises in the Imperial Starfleet Academy. That incident had brought him to the attention of the Academy higher-ups; and after that, Han's career in the Academy had been well-attended. He was hailed as one of the finest pilots to enter the service of the Empire in a long time, and it came as a surprise to no one when Han had received a commission to pilot a Star Destroyer right out of the Academy. What had surprised Han, as he had later learned, was that the Grand Moff himself had requested Han. That such a powerful Imperial officer would take note of him was a source of great pride to the Corellian. But in the space of two months, the appeal of the Empire had waxed and waned in Han's mind. He was already tired of the long hours, the endless drill runs, the unyielding and uninteresting console that he stared at all day. But he never allowed himself to doze or daydream, as he knew to do so would mean a strong reprimand; and besides, Han was still somewhat interested in making a career out of the Imperial Navy. Though it wasn't as if he had a choice anymore. Once an officer, always an officer, as the saying went; though in the Empire, this old proverb wasn't speaking of personal character. Many officers remained officers until the day they died. Stormtroopers had it easy, as did TIE fighter pilots; their life expectancy was little more than five years after entering the service, due to the extremely high-risk nature of their jobs. Not surprisingly, storm troopers and pilots also commanded the highest salaries.
But Imperial Navy officers on Star Destroyers usually never got off the ship. Sure, they might take leave and visit home, or even retire...but one could never really escape the Empire. If they wanted you, you were there, no questions asked. Tarkin himself was on the bridge as Han entered and hurried to the pilot's seat, relieving the old, feeble officer who was Han's alternate; Han always felt a twinge of pity for old Redege as the Alderaanian pulled himself up painfully from the seat and limped toward the lift doors. Once seated, Han took the time to adjust his stark grey uniform and adjust his cap. The Grand Moff ran a tight ship, and it would never do for the pilot to look as if he had just left a enjoyable game of sabacc. Through the large window that dominated the bridge, Han caught a glimpse of the swirling green-orange clouds of H'Zonalm II. He knew what was coming next.
Imperial conquest of a planet usually followed the same general pattern: Some bureaucrat in a war room on Coruscant would find some planet or another strategically valuable, either as a position or a source of valuable resources or any other such reason, sometimes quite infeasible. Then, a Star Destroyer would be sent--sometimes two or more, depending on the size of the planet and the technology of its inhabitants--and it would decimate the plan
etary defenses as well as any major cities. A new Imperial government would be placed on the planet--Han knew that this the reason D'jik Sevvro, the Loloen bureaucrat, was on the Ghorman--and that was that. The planet belonged to the Empire.
This was an aspect of serving in the Imperial Navy that Han had always found somewhat...distasteful. Though he had been raised to understand the doctrines of the Empire, his parents had always hinted that they found the Empire to be an evil institution, and they had strongly protested when Han had told them he wanted to enter the Academy. Now, Han had not had contact with his relatives for some time; even so, he always felt a twinge of regret when performing one of these planetary conquests.
Han brought the Ghorman into orbit around H'Zonalm II just as the Grand Moff gave the order for the TIE fighters to attack. Han watched the vessels with fascination; he knew full well that the tiny ships were little more than tin balls with solar plates on them, and that they would fly apart at the slightest blast. More impressive were the wicked-looking TIE interceptors that maneuvered quickly in between the larger TIEs and packed both more punch and more structural integrity. Mightiest of all were the large TIE bombers, which followed the convoy at a snail's pace. It was the job of the bombers to take out any significant planetary weaponry, such as ion cannons, and to level the major cities.
