Tarkin: Star Wars

by James Luceno

  “Problem?” Teller asked.

  Salikk kept his eyes trained on one of the status displays. “It’s probably nothing, but …”

  Teller sat bolt-upright in the chair’s webbing. “It’s probably nothing, but I’ve had this pain in my side … It’s probably nothing, but my girlfriend’s been acting distant lately …” He gave his head an aggravated shake. “Whenever I hear that phrase—”

  “It’s the fuel capacity,” Salikk cut in. “Factoring in the cells we took on at Phindar, something doesn’t add up.”

  “That Phindian cheated us!” Teller exclaimed. “No wonder he was being so nonchalant.”

  Salikk’s twin-horned head was shaking back and forth. “That’s not it.”

  Teller leaned toward the console. “Maybe you didn’t notice we weren’t full up when we separated from the tanker.”

  The Gotal’s head continued to shake. “I checked—at least I think I did. But even if I overlooked a detail, the discrepancy doesn’t make sense.”

  “We had to override that tractor beam—”

  “No.”

  Teller looked at Artoz, who was sitting quietly in the comm officer’s chair, watching both of them. “Any ideas?”

  The Mon Cal thought for a moment, tapping his webbed hand on the console. “The hyperdrive motivator may be addled. We could try recalibrating the synchronization relays.”

  Salikk forced an exhale. “It’s probably nothing.” His hand was reaching for the navicomputer controls again when Teller told him to hold off, and then shouted through the ruined hatch for Cala, who was in the conference cabin.

  “You’ve gotta put the hazmat suit back on,” Teller said as the Koorivar entered from the afterdeck.

  Cala stared at him. “You’re trying to overdose me on rads, is that it? You’ve decided I’m expendable.”

  “Calm down,” Teller said, gesturing. “I just need you to go into the fuel bay and run tests on the fuel cells we took on at Phindar. You’ll know them because they’re Wiborg Jenssens, marked with the tanker’s logo—a kind of triple S.”

  Cala’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “With any luck, nothing more than an empty or faulty cell,” Artoz said.

  Cala scowled. “That Phindian cheated us!”

  “Let’s hope so,” Teller said, freeing himself from the chair’s safety webbing and getting to his feet. “Come on, I’ll help suit you up.”

  Frozen hatches and malfunctioning air locks forced them to follow a circuitous route to the fuel hold. Once sealed into the hooded, face-shielded hazmat suit, Cala disappeared through the air lock and Teller returned to the command cabin, where he found Anora seated in the copilot’s chair.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, her words more a demand than a question.

  “It’s probably nothing,” he started to say, then stopped himself. Enabling the intraship comlink, he said: “Cala, you inside?”

  “I’m checking them now. Power-level indicators look good.”

  Teller had turned toward Anora when Cala added: “Wait. The sensor found one. The cell is reading empty.”

  “One of the Phindian’s?”

  “It has the logo.”

  “Can you remove it?”

  Cala replied with a lengthy curse. “I told you we should have brought a droid along.”

  “I know you did, but think of the headaches a droid would have caused Salikk.” Teller aimed a grin at the magnetically sensitive Gotal. “Besides, we didn’t, and you’re our best bet. Is the repulsorlift conveyor still in there?”

  “Right where I left it after rigging the bomb.”

  “Task the conveyor to remove the cell,” Artoz said toward the audio pickup, “and transfer it into the decontam bay so the diagnostic unit can have a look at it.”

  “Have a look at it how?” Cala said. “The sensor says it’s empty.”

  “We need to open it up,” Teller said.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Cala barked. “Suppose there’s a bomb inside?”

  Teller tried to make light of the idea. “That’s something only we do. Anyway, that’s why you’re letting the diagnostic unit do it. It’ll scan the cell first.”

  “This is the last time I’m putting this suit on,” Cala said.

  “Deal. Next time I’ll have Anora do it.”

  A gesture from her revealed her feelings on the matter.

  Another curse from Cala broke the long silence. “It’s not empty.”

  Teller exchanged nervous glances with Salikk and Artoz. “What’s inside?”

  Everyone stared at the command center enunciator, as if the Koorivar were there, in the command cabin.

  “A device of some sort,” Cala reported finally. “Nothing like I’ve ever seen.”

  “All right,” Artoz said, trying to keep his resonant voice calm. “Task the diagnostic to cam the device, then run the image through the ship’s library.”

  Cala exhaled loudly. “Hold on.”

  Again the intraship comlink went quiet, and Teller ran a hand down his face.

  “It’s probably noth—” Anora started to say when he shushed her.

  “Damn, Teller, it’s an Imperial homing beacon!” the Koorivar said. “Database describes it as a paralight tracker—a kind of HoloNet transceiver that parses commands from the ship’s navicomputer.”

  Salikk swiveled to face the others, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Tarkin knows not only where we are, but also where we’re planning to go. Which means we’re essentially marooned, unless you want to get there by sublight, which will only take”—he glanced at a console readout—“on the order of fifty years.”

  “Maybe we’ve done enough,” Anora said, touching her injured scalp. “We call it quits right here.”

  Teller shook his head at her. “We haven’t done near enough.”

  Cala’s distant voice intruded. “Should I disable this thing?”

  “No, don’t do anything just yet,” Teller told him. “Let it sit in there, and get yourself forward.” He glanced around the command cabin. “Let’s consider this from Tarkin’s side.”

  “Yes, why don’t we,” Anora said in plain anger.

  “Tarkin knows we’re here,” Artoz said, “and he is convinced that he has a good read on our intentions.”

  “With good reason,” Salikk said.

  “He knows we’re here,” Teller said, thinking out loud, “but he hasn’t come for us.” He cut his gaze to Artoz. “Obviously he’s waiting to see what we enter into the navicomputer so he can beat us there.”

  “So he and Vader and whoever else—maybe the entire Imperial Navy by this time—can beat us there,” the Mon Cal said. “No doubt they’re calculating all possible jump egresses from this system.”

  Teller nodded in agreement. “Of which there have to be dozens.”

  “Meanwhile,” Salikk said, “the navy’s deploying ships to every system where Tarkin thinks we’ll show ourselves.”

  Anora looked up from studying her hands. “Is there a way to enter false coordinates into the navicomputer?”

  Salikk shook his head negatively. “Not while that tracker is enabled.”

  No one spoke for a moment; then Teller said: “At this point, we just need to buy some time, right? So suppose we supply Tarkin with jump coordinates into a very busy star system.”

  Anora’s thin eyebrows formed a V. “I don’t see how that helps us, unless you’re counting on hiding in a traffic jam.”

  “We supply the coordinates,” Teller said, “but we don’t jump.”

  “You mean—”

  “We get someone else to do it.”

  Standing proudly on the elevated command bridge walkway of the Star Destroyer Executrix, Tarkin felt more at home than he had in years. An Imperial-class wedge-shaped titan, the warship had just decanted in the Obroa-skai system after a jump from Lantillies, on Tarkin’s learning that the Carrion Spike was on her way. The panoramic view through the
bridge’s bay of trapezoidal windows included nearly all the ships that made up the task force. In the distance, positioned against a radiant sweep of stars, floated three Interdictor vessels, a Detainer CC-2200, a newer-model CC-7700 frigate, and—fresh from deepdock in the Corellia system and as yet untested—an Immobilizer 418. Thickly armored, the former two had downsloping bows and stubby winglike lateral projections housing quartets of gravity well projectors. The Immobilizer, by contrast, featured four hemispherical projectors aft on the ship’s sharp-bowed hull. Deployed in the middle distance between the Interdictors and the Executrix were frigates, pickets, and gunboats. The centermost picket carried Vader, Crest—promoted by Vader to lieutenant—and some two dozen stormtroopers, who made up a boarding party, in the unlikely event that the Carrion Spike could be retaken without a fight or at least put out of commission rather than reduced to wreckage.

  A holotable situated starboard and below the elevated command walkway displayed a 3-D chronometer counting down in standard time to the Carrion Spike’s estimated moment of arrival. As expected, the dissidents had jumped the ship from her original location to the remote Thustra system, and after spending several hours there had charged the navicomputer to plot a course for Obroa-skai. The ETA was based on the assumption that the Carrion Spike had gone to lightspeed at that moment or soon after, and on how quickly the corvette’s Class One hyperdrive could deliver her. An earlier-than-expected arrival would find the ship reverting to realspace deeper in system, where other Imperial warships, including the Goliath, were positioned to intercept her. A more sophisticated homing beacon would have allowed Tarkin to track the corvette through hyperspace by way of S-thread transceivers, but the stormtrooper squadron assigned to the Phindar fuel tanker had had access only to a basic device that interfaced with a ship’s navicomputer.

  A specialist seated at a console in the most forward of the sunken data pits got Tarkin’s attention. “Sir, the quarry is due at T minus one hundred twenty.”

  Tarkin angled the microphone of his headset closer to his mouth and opened the battle net to the task force liaison officer, who was aboard the CC-7700 frigate.

  “The projectors are powering up to high gain, Governor Tarkin,” the commander said. “The field will be initiated, then disabled, in an effort to keep from dragging vessels other than the quarry from hyperspace. I should caution, however, that that may be unavoidable, given the heavy traffic in this system.”

  “I understand, Commander,” Tarkin said. “Order your technicians to be judicious, nonetheless.”

  “I will, sir. But the power setting of the gravity wells is dictated to some extent by the relative speed of the targeted ship, and, well, sir, to be blunt about it, there aren’t many as fast as the Carrion Spike.”

  Tarkin pinched his lower lip in thought. Ideally, local systems would had been notified that Obroa-skai had been designated a no-entry zone, but naval command had opted against issuing the designation for fear of alerting the dissidents. He had other reasons for concern: chiefly the question of why the dissidents would jump to Obroa-skai, which lacked anything in the way of an Imperial target, and was known mostly for its medcenters and libraries.

  “T minus thirty and counting,” the specialist in the data pit announced.

  Moving to the forward end of the walkway, Tarkin fixed his gaze on the trio of Interdictors. Arms folded across his chest, he counted down in silence even while the voice of the specialist was doing the same in his right ear bead.

  The countdown had just reached T minus five when Tarkin was yanked forward, nearly completely off his feet. Fearing another lurch he spread his hands wide and so was kept from being slammed headfirst into the closest viewport panel. Klaxons began to howl throughout the suddenly trembling command bridge as the giant ship groaned and lurched yet again in the direction of the distant Interdictors. Struggling to remain upright, Tarkin caught a glimpse of the middle-distance frigates and pickets being pulled forward, almost as if accelerating.

  “Commander,” he shouted into the headset mouthpiece, “the field is too powerful!”

  “Working on it, sir,” the commander said with equal volume. “It’s the Immobilizer. The overcurrent resistors failed to prevent the gravitic systems from redlining—”

  The comlink connection broke.

  Close to the Interdictors, ships began to appear where there had only been star-filled space. Tarkin turned from the forward bay and stumbled back to the data pit to study the magnified view on one of the screens. First to drop out of hyperspace was an outmoded, saucer-shaped YT-1000 freighter, followed by two angular transports and a lustrous space yacht. Then another freighter winked into visibility, followed by two passenger vessels.

  Abruptly, Tarkin felt as if he’d been shoved toward the rear of the bridge. With the interdiction field neutralized, the ships that had been caught in the invisible web began to whirl out of control. Two of the ships collided and drifted out of view. The magnification screen showed the sublight engines of other ships flashing, but the ships barely had a chance to flee or correct their spins when the field re-initiated, capturing them once again. Tarkin spread his legs wide in an effort to balance himself; then his eyes went wide as well as he turned to face the viewports. Listing on its port side, an enormous ship that more resembled something grown than built decanted, broadsiding the Detainer CC-2200 before careening into a spin that left its dorsal surface impaled on the Interdictor’s sloping bow.

  “Mon Cal star cruiser!” a voice in his ear said, loud enough to be heard over the head-splitting racket of the klaxons. “The luxury liner Stellar Vista out of Corsin. Approximately ten thousand aboard!”

  A brief but nova-bright explosion flared in the distance, ferocious enough to leave Tarkin blinking and seeing stars that weren’t there. When he was able to focus through the viewport’s blast-tinting, he saw that the stern of the organically sculpted passenger ship had disappeared and that the Interdictor had been knocked ninety degrees from its former position. In moments podlike lifeboats and flocks of spherical escape pods were streaming from the stricken liner.

  “The Stellar Vista reports that it is in imminent distress,” the specialist said. “The ship’s captain is requesting all the help we can provide.”

  Tarkin swung toward the data pits, but spoke into the headset. “Order the frigates to render assistance. Instruct the Interdictors to negate the field, and move us into a position where we can utilize the tractor beams to grab the lifeboats.”

  All at once Vader’s voice was booming in his ear. “Where is your corvette, Governor? It is not on any of our scanners. Do you have it?”

  Tarkin hurried to the edge of the walkway and gestured to one of the seated noncoms. “Have you located the Carrion Spike?”

  The spec turned to him. “No sign of the corvette, sir. Could it be in stealth mode?”

  Tarkin compressed his lips and shook his head. “Not even a cloaking device could keep it from being detected in an interdiction field.”

  A second spec called to him. “Sir, the task force commander wants to know if you wish the Interdictors to re-initiate the field. Some of the transports are trying to make a run for it.”

  Tarkin had his mouth open to reply when Vader said, “I want all those ships corralled. Hold them in place with tractor beams if you have to, but none should be allowed to leave.”

  Tarkin nodded to the noncoms. “Contain those vessels.”

  “And the lifeboats, sir?” one asked.

  “We’ll see to them when we can.”

  Yet a third specialist joined in. “Sir, one of our frigates is taking fire.”

  Tarkin moved farther down the command walkway to stand over her. “On screen.”

  A grainy image of a modified Lux-400 yacht took shape, green hyphens of laserfire erupting from the ship’s well-concealed lateral cannons.

  “Do we have the transponder signature of that vessel?” Tarkin asked.

  “The Truant, sir,” the tech said. “On the
wanted list in several sectors for arms smuggling.”

  “Draw a bead on it,” Tarkin commanded.

  The spec relayed the command into her headset, then glanced up at him. “Our gunners report they’re having difficulty finding a clear shot because of the lifeboats and the debris field.”

  Tarkin fumed. “Acquire it and open fire!”

  He turned his attention to the screens as turbolaser beams from the Star Destroyer’s starboard-side turrets found the Lux-400, and it vanished in a short-lived fireball.

  “The Truant is no longer on the wanted list, sir. Minimal collateral casualties.”

  Tarkin strode forward on the walkway to the primary data pit. “Have you confined the rest of those ships?”

  “They’re not going anywhere, sir, and Lord Vader’s picket is currently closing on the group. Still no sign of the Carrion Spike.”

  “Do the sensors detail any instances of ships jumping to lightspeed?”

  “None, sir. No instances of Cronau radiation—though the interdiction field would make that a long shot, in any case.”

  Tarkin shook his head in bewilderment. Had the shipjackers had a last-moment change of plans? Or had they been forewarned?

  “Is the homing beacon still transmitting?”

  The tech attended to his various instruments. “No signal from the tracker, sir. Nothing.”

  So they had discovered it. But when?

  Tarkin continued to move forward until he was standing just short of the viewports, just short of the chaos beyond. Vader’s voice fractured his introspection.

  “Which vessel appeared first?”

  “The YT-One-Thousand freighter,” Tarkin said.

  “Then we’ll begin with that one, since it arrived closest to the projected arrival time of the Carrion Spike.”

  “Begin what, Lord Vader?”

  “The failure of the corvette to appear does not owe to any impromptu change of plans, Governor. The dissidents are trying to throw us off the scent, and I intend to search each interdicted ship until we have answers.”