by James Luceno
Vader came to an abrupt stop, scanning his audience and certainly sending shivers of fear through everyone—Toydarian, Dug, and Devaronian alike. As his raised right hand curled slowly into a fist, many of them began nervously tugging at the collars of their tunics and cloaks. But it was the Twi’lek prefect, standing not a meter from the Dark Lord, who unexpectedly gasped and brought his hands to his chest as if he had just taken a spear to the heart. Phoca Soot’s lekku shot straight out from the sides of his head as if he were being electrocuted, and he collapsed to his knees in obvious agony, his breath caught in his throat and blood vessels in his head-tails beginning to rupture. His eyes glazed over and his red skin began to pale; then his arms flew back from his chest as if in an act of desperate supplication, and he tipped backward, the left side of his head slamming hard against the blood-slicked floor.
For a long moment, Vader’s breathing was the only sound intruding on the silence. Without bothering to gaze on his handiwork, the Dark Lord finally said: “Perhaps this is a good place to conclude our assembly. Unless any of you have questions?”
The stormtrooper commander made a quick motion with his hand, and two of the white-armored soldiers moved in. Taking hold of the prefect by his slack arms and legs, they began to carry him from the room, tracking blood across the floor and passing close to Tarkin and Amedda. The vizier’s blue face was contorted in angry astonishment.
Tarkin hid a smile. It pleased him to see Amedda caught off guard.
“Lord Vader,” the vizier said as the Emperor’s deputy approached, “we’ve refrained from requesting that you grant stays of execution to those in your sights, but is there no one you are willing to pardon?”
“I will give the matter some thought,” Vader told him.
Amedda adopted a narrow-eyed expression of exasperation and withdrew, leaving Tarkin and Vader facing each other. If Vader was at all affected by the Chagrian’s words, he showed no evidence of it, in either his bearing or the rich bass of his voice.
“We haven’t stood together on Coruscant in some time, Governor.”
Tarkin lifted his gaze past Vader’s transpirator-control chest plate and grilled muzzle to the unreadable midnight orbs of his mask. “The needs of the Empire keep us elsewhere occupied, Lord Vader.”
“Just so.”
Tarkin directed a glance at the exiting stormtroopers. “I am curious about Prefect Soot.”
Vader crossed his thick arms across the illuminated indicators of the chest plate. “A pity. Tasked with controlling crime in his sector, he succumbed to temptation by hiring himself out to the Droid Gotra.”
“Well, clearly his heart wasn’t in it,” Tarkin said. “Strange, though, that the Crymorah crime syndicate had no representation in your audience.”
Vader looked down at him—blankly? Perturbed?
“We have reached an accommodation with the Crymorah,” Vader said.
Tarkin waited for more, but Vader had nothing to add, so Tarkin dropped the matter and they set out for the turbolifts together, with Amedda and his retinue of Royal Guards trailing behind.
Nothing about Vader seemed natural—not his towering height, his deep voice, his antiquated diction—yet despite those qualities and the mask and respirator, Tarkin believed him to be more man than machine. Although he had clearly twisted the powers of the Force to his own dark purposes, Vader’s innate strength was undeniable. His contained rage was genuine, as well, and not simply the result of some murderous cyberprogram. But the quality that made him most human was the fierce dedication he demonstrated to the Emperor.
It was that genuflecting obedience, the steadfast devotion to execute whatever task the Emperor assigned, that had given rise to so many rumors about Vader: that he was a counterpart to the Confederacy’s General Grievous the Emperor had been holding in reserve; that he was an augmented human or near-human who had been trained or had trained himself in the ancient dark arts of the Sith; that he was nothing more than a monster fashioned in some clandestine laboratory. Many believed that the Emperor’s willingness to grant so much authority to such a being heralded the shape of things to come, for it was beyond dispute that Vader was the Empire’s first terror weapon.
Tarkin didn’t always agree with Vader’s methods for dealing with those who opposed the Empire, but he held the Dark Lord in high esteem, and he hoped Vader felt the same toward him. Very early on in their partnership—soon after both had been introduced to the secret mobile battle station—Tarkin grew convinced that Vader knew him much better than he let on, and that behind the bulging lenses of his face mask, whatever remained of Vader’s human eyes regarded him with clear recognition. More than anything else it was those initial feelings that had provided Tarkin with his first suspicion as to Vader’s identity. Later, observing the rapport the Dark Lord shared with the stormtroopers who supported him, and the technique he displayed in wielding his crimson lightsaber, Tarkin grew more and more convinced that his suspicions were right.
Vader might very well be Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker, whom Tarkin had fought beside during the Clone Wars, and for whom he had developed a grudging appreciation.
“How is life on the Sentinel moon, Governor?” Vader asked as they walked.
“In a week we’ll be back on the bright side of the gas giant, where security is improved.”
“Is that the reason you were opposed to coming to Coruscant?”
Vader shouldn’t have known as much, but Tarkin wasn’t surprised that he did. “Tell me, Lord Vader, does the vizier always share confidences with you?”
“When I ask him to, yes.”
“Then he should have qualified his statement. I may have been reluctant to leave my post, but I wasn’t opposed to doing so.”
“Certainly not when you learned that the request originated with the Emperor.”
Tarkin smirked. “Why not simply call it an order, then?”
“It is unimportant. I might have done the same.”
Tarkin looked at Vader askance, but said nothing.
“Will your absence affect the construction schedule?”
“Not at all,” Tarkin was quick to say. “Components for the hyperdrive generator will be shipping on schedule from Desolation Station, where initial tests have been completed. Work continues on the navigational matrix itself, as well as on the hypermatter reactor. At this point I’m not unduly concerned about the status of the sublight engines or shield generators.”
“And the weapons systems?”
“That’s a bit more complicated. Our chief designers have yet to reach an agreement about the laser array, and whether or not it should be a proton beam. The designers are also debating the optimum configuration for the kyber crystal assembly. The delays owe as much to their bickering as to production setbacks.”
“That will not do.”
Tarkin nodded. “Frankly, Lord Vader, there are simply too many voices weighing in.”
“Then we need to remedy the situation.”
“As I’ve been proposing all along.”
They fell silent as they entered a turbolift that accessed the Palace’s primary spire, leaving Amedda and the Royal Guards no choice but to wait for a different car. The silence lingered as they began to ascend through the levels. Vader brought the lift to a halt one level below the summit and exited. When Tarkin started to follow, Vader raised a hand to stop him.
“The Emperor expects you above,” he said.
• • •
The turbolift carried him to the top of the world. He stepped from the car into a large circular space with a perimeter of soaring windows that provided a view for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. A curved partition defined a separate space that Tarkin assumed was the Emperor’s personal quarters. Prominent in the main area was a large table surrounded by oversized chairs, one of them with a high back and control panels set into the armrests. Alone, Tarkin wandered about admiring artworks and statues positioned to catch the light of Coruscant’s rising or setting
sun, some of which he recognized as having been moved from the Supreme Chancellor’s suite in the Executive Building, in particular a bas-relief panel depicting an ancient battle scene. A circular balcony above the main level contained case after lofty case of texts and storage devices.
The Emperor emerged from his quarters as Tarkin was regarding a slender bronzium statue. Dressed in his customary black-patterned robes, with the cowl raised over his head, he moved as if hovering across the reflective floor.
“Welcome, Governor Tarkin,” he said in a voice that many thought sinister but to Tarkin sounded merely strained.
“My lord,” he said, bowing slightly. Gesturing broadly, he added: “I like what you’ve done with the place.” When the Emperor didn’t respond, Tarkin indicated the bronzium statue of a cloaked figure. “If memory serves, this was in your former office.”
The Emperor laid a wrinkled, sallow hand on the piece. “Sistros, one of the four ancient philosophers of Dwartii. I keep it for sentimental value.” He gestured broadly. “Some of the rest, well, one might call the collection the spoils of war.” His glance returned to Tarkin. “But come, sit, Governor Tarkin. We have much to discuss.”
The Emperor lowered himself into the armchair and swiveled away from the window-wall so that his ghastly face was in shadow. Tarkin took the chair opposite and crossed his hands in his lap.
As Nils Tenant had reaffirmed, there were as many rumors circulating about the Emperor as there were about Darth Vader. The fact that he rarely appeared in public or even at Senate proceedings had convinced many that the Jedi attack on him had resulted not only in the ruination of his face and body, but also in the death of the sanguine politician he had been before the war, betrayed by those who had served him and had supported the Republic for centuries. Some Coruscanti even confessed to having fond memories for ex-chancellor Finis Valorum, about whom they could gossip to no end. They yearned to see the Emperor strolling through Imperial Plaza or attending an opera or officiating at the groundbreaking of a new building complex.
But Tarkin didn’t speak to those things; instead he said: “Coruscant appears prosperous.”
“Busy, busy,” the Emperor said.
“The Senate is supportive?”
“Now that it serves rather than advises.” The Emperor swiveled slightly in Tarkin’s direction. “Better to surround oneself with fresh loyal allies than treacherous old ones.”
Tarkin smiled. “Someone once said that politics is little more than the systematic organization of hostilities.”
“Very true, in my experience.”
“But do you even need them, my lord?” Tarkin asked in a careful, controlled voice.
“The Senate?” The Emperor could not restrain a faint smile. “Yes, for the time being.” With a dismissive gesture, he added: “We’ve come far, you and I.”
“My lord?”
“Twenty years ago, who would have thought that two men from the Outer Rim would sit at the center of the galaxy.”
“You flatter me, my lord.”
The Emperor studied him openly. “I sometimes wonder, though, if you—born an outsider, as I was—feel that we should be doing more to lift up those worlds we defeated in the war? Especially those in the Outer Rim.”
“Turn the galaxy inside out?” Tarkin said more strongly than he intended. “Quite the opposite, my lord. The populations of those worlds wreaked havoc. They must earn the right to rejoin the galactic community.”
“And the ones that waver or refuse?”
“They should be made to suffer.”
“Sanctions?” the Emperor said, seemingly intrigued by Tarkin’s response. “Embargoes? Ostracism?”
“If they are intractable, then yes. The Empire cannot be destabilized.”
“Obliteration.”
“Whatever you deem necessary, my lord. Force is the only real and unanswerable power. Oftentimes, beings who haven’t been duly punished cannot be reasoned with or edified.”
The Emperor repeated the words to himself, then said, “That has the ring of a parental lesson, Governor Tarkin.”
Tarkin laughed pleasantly. “So it was, my lord—though applied in a more personal manner.”
The Emperor swiveled his chair toward the light, and Tarkin glimpsed his sepulchral visage; the molten skin beneath his eyes, the bulging forehead. After all these years, he was still not accustomed to it. “When one consorts with vipers, one runs the risk of being struck,” the Emperor had told Tarkin following the attack on him by a quartet of Jedi Masters.
There were many stories about what had occurred that day in the chancellor’s office. The official explanation was that members of the Jedi Order had turned up to arrest Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, and a ferocious duel had ensued. The matter of precisely how the Jedi had been killed or the Emperor’s face deformed had never been settled to everyone’s satisfaction, and so Tarkin had his private thoughts about the Emperor, as well. That he and Vader were kindred spirits suggested that both of them might be Sith. Tarkin often wondered if that wasn’t the actual reason Palpatine had been targeted for arrest or assassination by the Jedi. It wasn’t so much that the Order wished to take charge of the Republic; it was that the Jedi couldn’t abide the idea of a member of the ancient Order they opposed and abhorred emerging as the hero of the Clone Wars and assuming the mantle of Emperor.
“I thank you for remaining in service to the Empire and not turning your hand to writing,” the Emperor said, “as some of your contemporaries have done.”
“Oh, I still dabble, my lord.”
“Doctrinal writings?” the Emperor said in what seemed genuine interest. “Examinations of history? A memoir perhaps?”
“All those things, my lord.”
“Even with your obligations as sector governor, you find the time.”
“Sentinel Base is remote and mostly tranquil.”
“It suits you, then. Or is it that you are well suited to it?”
“Sentinel isn’t exactly privation, my lord.”
“Even when attacked, Governor?”
Tarkin restrained a smile. He knew when he was being goaded. “Is this the reason you summoned me, my lord?”
The Emperor sat back in the chair. “Yes and no. Though I am familiar with the report you transmitted to the intelligence chiefs. Your actions at Sentinel bespeak a keen intuition, Governor.”
Tarkin adopted an expression of nonchalance. “The important thing is that the mobile battle station remains secure.”
The Emperor imitated Tarkin’s affected indifference. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been forced to deal with malcontents, and it won’t be the last. From both near and far.” He paused. “There is no refuge from deception when adversaries remain.”
“All the more reason to safeguard the supply lines, especially through sectors that aren’t under my personal control.”
The Emperor placed his elbows on the table and steepled his long fingers. “Clearly you have thoughts about how to rectify the situation.”
“I don’t wish to be presumptuous, my lord.”
“Nonsense,” the Emperor said. “Speak your mind, Governor.”
Tarkin compressed his lips, then said: “My lord, it’s nothing we haven’t discussed previously.”
“You are referring to the need for oversector control.”
“I am. Each oversector governor would then be responsible for maintaining control beneath him—if only as a means of policing districts without having to request guidance from Coruscant.”
The Emperor didn’t reply immediately. “And who might assume your position if I were to remove you from Sentinel?”
“General Tagge, perhaps.”
“Not Motti?”
“Or Motti.”
“Anyone else?”
“Nils Tenant is very competent.”
Again the Emperor fell briefly silent. “Are you certain that Sentinel’s unknown assailants managed to override the local HoloNet relay station?”
/> “I am, my lord.”
“Have you some notion as to how they achieved this?”
Tarkin wet his lips. “Travel to Coruscant prevented me from carrying out a complete investigation. But yes, I have some ideas.”
“Ideas you are willing to share with our advisers and intelligence chiefs?”
“If it will serve your purpose, my lord.”
The Emperor exhaled forcibly. “We will see at length just whose purpose it serves.”
SIMILAR IN DESIGN to the pinnacle room, the audience chamber on the penultimate level of the central spire was a circular space, but without partitions and featuring a ten-meter-tall podium reserved for the Emperor, who accessed it by private turbolift from his residence. Tarkin arrived by means of the more public turbolift, entering the vast room to find nearly a dozen people waiting, all of whom he knew or recognized, loosely divided into three groups that made up the Empire’s uppermost tiers. First, and positioned closest to the podium, was the Ruling Council, represented just then by Ars Dangor, Sate Pestage, and Janus Greejatus, all three dressed in baggy costumes of riotous color and floppy hats more befitting a night at the Coruscant Opera. More or less on equal footing, the two other groups were made up of members from the Imperial Security Bureau and the more recently created Naval Intelligence Agency, with Harus Ison and Colonel Wullf Yularen speaking for the former, and Vice Admirals Rancit and Screed for the latter. Feeling like the odd man out, Tarkin gravitated to where Mas Amedda and Darth Vader were standing, off to one side of the podium.
Tarkin acknowledged his military comrades with a friendly nod to each. Some he had known since his academy days; others he had served with during the Clone Wars. Interestingly, the Emperor’s advisers were also a kind of clique, having attached themselves to the Emperor since his early years as an untested senator from Naboo. Perhaps their outlandish garb was in some sense a tribute to the sartorial extravagance of Naboo’s nobility. Even those who should have known better tended to dismiss Dangor, Greejatus, and Pestage as sycophants, when in fact members of the Ruling Council oversaw the everyday affairs of the Empire and wielded wide-ranging and sometimes menacing powers. Even the Empire’s twenty Moffs were obligated to answer to the Imperial cadre.
