by James Luceno
Teller looked at him. “I suppose not. If we can just keep delaying them with strikes … Once the rest of the galaxy gets to know the Emperor as well as we know him, we won’t be alone in the fight.”
Doubt surfaced in Artoz’s huge, glistening eyes. “With shipyards turning out Imperial-class Star Destroyers, any revolt will be hard-pressed to make so much as a dent in the Emperor’s armor. Even if we can continue to impede construction of whatever they are building at Geonosis, something unexpected is going to have to enter the mix in order for any rebellion to succeed. Yes, people will begin to recognize the truth about the Empire, but numbers alone will never make the difference—not against the likes of the Emperor, Vader, and the military they’re amassing. And don’t expect the Senate to restrain them, because it is even less effective than it was during the Republic.”
Teller gave his head a defiant shake. “We can either decide right now that it’s hopeless and call it a day, or we can hold out for hope and do what we can.”
“That decision has never been in dispute,” Artoz said.
“For Antar Four, then, and for a brighter future,” Knotts said.
Heads nodded in concert.
While the assembled pilots were moving toward their starfighters, Cala hurried into the hangar. “The supply convoy has dropped from hyperspace. HoloNet and communications jammers are enabled, and all weapons systems are standing by.”
Knotts extended his hand to Teller. “Good luck out there.”
Teller shook his old friend’s hand and tugged the helmet down over his head. Turning to Cala, he said, “Tell Anora and Hask that we expect nothing less than a galactic-class holovid.”
The attack on the battle station convoy was well under way by the time the Executrix reverted from hyperspace close enough to a small moon to all but tweak its orbit. Tarkin and several officers were at the viewports as the stars shrank back into themselves. With his booted legs spread, hands clasped behind his back, graying hair swept back from his high forehead as if blown in the wind, the governor might have been the vessel’s figurehead, taunting the enemy to face off with him personally in mortal combat.
“Sir, they’ve jammed the local HoloNet relay,” a spec reported from behind him. “That’s why our alerts weren’t received. For the moment our countermeasures are managing to keep the battle and tactical nets open.”
“Can we communicate with any of the convoy transports?” Tarkin asked without turning around.
“Negative, sir. It’s possible we’re not even registering on their scanners.”
“Keep trying.”
The boxy cargo ships and transports that made up the convoy had drawn together to allow the escort gunboats and frigates to fashion a defensive circle around them, but enemy lasers were chipping away at the perimeter, allowing droid fighters to dart through openings and prey on the larger vessels.
“Sir, battle analysis is showing one capital ship reinforced by a Nebulon-B frigate, multiple tri-droid fighters, and three—make that four starfighters. Two friendly tugs, two escort gunboats, and more than a squadron of ARC-one-seventies are already out of the fight.”
Tarkin took in the scene.
Same cobbled-together Providence-class warship, same swarm of droid fighters and antique starfighters. Only this time he was commanding the counteroffensive, and instead of Sentinel Base the enemy’s objectives were the hyperdrive components he had been worried about since leaving for Coruscant.
Pivoting away from the viewports, he made his way down the observation gallery to watch a simulation of the attack resolve above a holotable. The spherical defense mounted by the Imperial escorts was being dismantled by steady fire from the warships; pieces of gunboats and frigates drifted through a frenzied nimbus of ARC-170s and droid starfighters in pitched combat.
“V-wing fighters are away,” the noncom who had followed him down the observation gallery updated. “Tactical net is viable, and the wing commander is awaiting your orders.”
“They are to engage with the frigate and the carrier and leave the droid fighters to the convoy escorts.”
Tarkin regarded the simulation for a moment longer, then paced forward to rejoin the officers at the viewports. By shunting ships to systems imperiled by the Carrion Spike, Naval Command and Control had left the convoy defenseless; like Tarkin, taken in by the dissidents’ ruse. Had he not been called to Coruscant, he never would have allowed the convoy’s defensive escorts to be redeployed elsewhere, and it irked him that he had not made a stronger case for his remaining at Sentinel. He could only hope that the Emperor had made a wise choice in allowing Rancit’s and the shipjackers’ ploy to unspool, and that all of them were now caught up in the net. He narrowed his eyes at the enemy carrier, wondering whether the crew that had pirated the Carrion Spike was aboard, or if the shipjackers had gone into hiding after deserting the corvette.
“The enemy carrier is repositioning,” the bridge officer said. “Looks like they’re trying to put the convoy between us and them.”
Tarkin nodded to himself as he watched the hodgepodge ship disappear behind the convoy and—recalling the tactics the dissidents had employed at the Phindar fuel tank—thought: Yes, this was the same crew.
“Wing commander reports heavy resistance from the enemy fighters,” someone behind him said. “They’re having trouble reaching the capital ships. Assessment scans indicate that two of the convoy transports have sustained significant damage.”
Tarkin turned to the spec. “Still no communication with the convoy leader?”
“None, sir. We can’t penetrate the jammers.”
That was not welcome news. Tarkin couldn’t be certain which of the transports was carrying basic supplies, and which contained components critical for the mobile battle station.
Jova’s voice whispered in his ear: Only glory can follow a man to the grave.
“Commander,” he said, with an abrupt turn to the officer central to the rest, “set us on a course into the midst of the battle.”
A tall man with a fringe of black hair, the commander stepped away from the viewports to approach him. “With permission, Governor Tarkin, we have no way of warning the friendlies in our path.”
Tarkin firmed his lips. “They’ll get out of our way or they won’t, Commander.”
“I won’t argue with that. But even if we manage to penetrate the defensive sphere without incident, we’ve barely enough space to squeeze between the transports.”
“We’ll worry about that when we have to. I will not chase that carrier in circles.” Tarkin’s eyes narrowed. “Death or renown, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Sir!”
As the commander left his side, Tarkin glanced at the bridge officer. “Our batteries are to refrain from firing until I give the command. Alert the wing commander that for the time being he and his pilots are our artillery. The droid fighters are slow to react to chaos. I want our starfighters to break formation and improvise, firing at will.”
“Clear, sir.”
Tarkin resumed his stance. This was how the Empire would conquer and rule, he thought: through might and fear.
The Executrix lumbered through the congestion of starfighters and into the thick of battle, where the cargo ships and transports were being pounded by cannon and turbolaser fire from the Nebulon-B frigate and the carrier. Explosive light pulsed blindingly beyond the viewports.
“All forward batteries are to concentrate fire on the frigate,” Tarkin ordered.
Local space lit up as dozens of energy beams loosed by the Star Destroyer converged on the much smaller vessel. In moments the ship’s shields were overwhelmed and the beams began to take their toll, obliterating the Nebulon’s rudder-like ventral appendage, then severing the spar that connected the main body of the ship to the engine module. Cracked open, the ship spilled its contents into space and imploded, sucking countless droid fighters into its blistering collapse.
“Battle speed,” Tarkin said.
The Executr
ix surged forward, slipping like a needle between two of the larger transports, its pointed bow in direct line with the enemy carrier, which seemed to rear up in reaction to the Star Destroyer’s relentless approach.
The bridge officer spoke up. “Wing commander reports that his squadrons are being carved to pieces.”
Tarkin kept his eyes on the carrier. It wasn’t turning tail as it had at Sentinel. This was the moment the scenario would change; this was the moment the dissidents would demonstrate their unshakable commitment.
“Order the starfighters to withdraw into our wake and to protect the convoy at all costs,” he said at last.
“Carrier is changing vector,” the spec all but shouted into his left ear. “Flank speed at the convoy leader.”
Tarkin’s eyes tracked the ship’s abrupt swing to port and sudden acceleration. “Ten degrees port. Starboard ion batteries go to steady fire. Race to the light of the lasers!”
If Teller wasn’t careful, astonishment was going to be the death of him. The sneak attack on the convoy had commenced without incident, with several Imperial support vessels destroyed and the cargo ships themselves jeopardized, until a Star Destroyer—certainly Tarkin’s Star Destroyer—had reverted to realspace and turned the battle on its ear. V-wings were decimating the droid fighters, and a Headhunter and a Tikiar had been obliterated, leaving only Teller’s ship and the Tikiar piloted by a Koorivar he had trained on Antar 4. The warship itself was now pushing into the heart of the fray, as if intent on going head-to-head with the Star Destroyer, but was in fact on a collision course with the bulkiest of the cargo vessels. Energy began to coruscate across the hull as it continued its desperate charge for the convoy transports.
If it was Tarkin’s aim to confound and confuse, he had done so brilliantly. The V-wing fighters were creating such chaos, it was impossible to predict what Tarkin would do next. And where a more cautious commander might have steered a course around the chaos, Tarkin was taking the massive ship right into the middle of it, placing not only himself but his own pilots and everyone else in peril.
Teller had made repeated attempts to raise Salikk and the others on the battle net without success. Abruptly, the interference abated, and Salikk’s face resolved in flickering fashion on the cockpit display screen.
Teller got right to the point. “Get clear and jump the ship to hyperspace while there’s still time,” he told the Gotal.
“Back to you, Teller,” Salikk said through a pall of smoke drifting over the warship’s bridge.
“Get clear of that Star Destroyer!”
Salikk shook his head. “We’re already committed.”
“You’d have a better chance flying into a supernova!”
Anora leaned into cam range from behind the captain’s chair. “Teller, haven’t you ever seen a holodrama? You’re the one who’s supposed to live to fight that other day.”
Teller grimaced for the cockpit cam. “I’m not the one being dramatic. I’m the one who’s talking sense!”
“Listen to her,” Salikk said. “For my part, I’ll always be grateful for the extra years you gave me after Antar.”
Teller’s nostrils flared. “You dumb, flat-faced space jockey!”
Salikk ignored the insult. “I’m transmitting jump coordinates to your fighter. Ease out of the fight while Tarkin is concentrating on us. The Headhunter’s hyperdrive will do the rest.”
Anora nodded soberly. “Looks like we’re destined to be martyrs after all, Teller.”
“Over and out,” Salikk said before Teller could reply.
“Carrier’s shields are failing,” a tech updated.
“The carrier is modular,” Tarkin said. “If we can’t blow it to pieces we can certainly dismantle it. Order armaments to target the assembly points.”
Coherent light from the Executrix’s turbolaser batteries stratified local space, skewering the carrier like a beast set upon by lancewielding hunters. Debris streamed and corkscrewed from jagged breeches in the ship’s belly, and illumination systems began to wink out from stern to bow. Two modules blown from the main body pirouetted away from the ship and exploded. The sublight engines flared and died.
“Droid fighters are powering down,” the tech updated. “HoloNet signal-to-noise is better than fifty percent.”
“Our lasers must have found the master control computer,” the bridge officer said.
Its curved bow severed and deflector shields sparking out, the carrier continued to come apart as Tarkin and the others watched, the droid fighters twirling about like storm-tossed leaves. Quartered by the Star Destroyer’s cannons, what remained of the vessel listed to starboard and showed its belly to the vanquisher.
“Cease fire,” Tarkin said.
The order had scarcely left his mouth when the spec spoke. “Two marks reverting from hyperspace.”
For a moment Tarkin thought that he had stumbled into another trap, but then the tech said, “Star Destroyers Compliant and Enforcer from Imperial marshaling station Pii.”
“Sir, we have one Headhunter unaccounted for,” a second tech said. “Sensors indicate that it may have jumped to hyperspace.”
“We’ll find it,” Tarkin said. “In the meantime, ready a boarding party. I want the carrier crew taken alive.”
• • •
Standing alone at the summit of the Palace spire, the Emperor narrowed his eyes as he gazed out on Coruscant, spread below him like a stage set. The sky was clearing after a cleansing of the Federal District by weather control, and the skyscrapers and towering monads shone like new. The power of the dark side coursed through him like a transfusion of unsullied blood.
Out there were people who wished him dead, others who envied his station, and still others who wished merely to be close enough to him to sate themselves on the crumbs he brushed aside. The thought of it was almost enough to transform his disgust to sadness for the plight of the ordinary. But the wretched practices of the Republic endured: corruption, decadence, the lust for prestige. A penthouse in an elite building, a position that opened doors anywhere in the Core, collections of priceless art, the finest foods, the most able servants … He never had need for any of it, even when a senator, even when Supreme Chancellor, and had subscribed to luxury only to satisfy juvenile fantasies and, of course, because it was expected of him. Now he had only the dark side to answer to, and the dark side had an appetite for extravagance of a different sort.
A plot had been foiled, a distraction laid to rest. Needless energy had been expended, and resources wasted. Eventually the dark side would grant him infallible foresight, but until such time future events would remain just out of clear sight, clouded by possibilities and the unremitting swirlings of the Force. He had made himself lord of all he surveyed, but he had much to learn. Actions meant to topple him from his lofty perch wouldn’t end with the successful containment of this most recent fiasco. But he would deal with any who chose to challenge him with the same precision he had applied to exterminating the Jedi. And he would not allow himself to be sidetracked from his goal of unlocking the secrets many of the Sith Masters before him had sought: the means to harness the powers of the dark side to reshape reality itself; in effect, to fashion a universe of his own creation. Not mere immortality of the sort Plagueis had lusted after, but influence of the ultimate sort.
As his Empire swelled, bringing more and more of the outer systems into its fold, so too would his power unfurl, until every being in the galaxy was held captive in his dark embrace.
A search of the carrier’s extant module yielded thirteen dead crewmembers—humans, Koorivar, and Gotals—and twice the number of survivors, representing the same mix of humans, humanoids, and nonhumans. Tarkin stepped from one of the module’s air locks as the latter group was being herded into a thoroughly ruined cabinspace by the stormtrooper squads who had captured them. The floor was awash in fire-suppressant foam, and the air reeked of fried circuitry and melted components.
Tarkin waited for the prisoners to b
e shackled and formed up into two lines before conducting an inspection. He began with the inner line, stopping to regard each being before moving on. As he turned to move down the outer line, a smug smile softened his expression.
“Anora Fair,” he said, stopping in front of the only human female among the captives. “Though I see you’ve restyled your hair.” Leaning back to glance farther down the line, his eyes settled on a willowy, red-furred Zygerrian female. “And you would be Hask Taff. I trust you found the Carrion Spike to your liking?”
Neither uttered a word or altered her forward gaze—not that he would have expected them to. A sidestep brought him eye-to-eye with a rheumy-eyed middle-aged man.
“Ah, the infamous Lantillies broker himself,” Tarkin said. “Nice of you to attend, Knotts.”
The broker, too, stared straight ahead and offered no reply.
Tarkin took a few more steps, stopping to look up into the face of a Mon Cal. “Dr. Artoz, perhaps?” He stepped back from the line to address everyone. “But where is Teller?” When the silence had gone on long enough, he said: “Left for dead in some other module? A starfighter casualty?” He paused, then, with an eyebrow arched, added: “Escaped?”
He gave them another long moment.
“Tell me, was it our late vice admiral Rancit who reached out to you, or did you approach him?” Tarkin glanced at Knotts. “Come now, Knotts, both you and Teller answered to him during the war, did you not? Apparently your betrayal took him by surprise, spoiling the betrayal he planned for you.” Again he waited. “Nothing to say? No last moment cheers of solidarity? No verbal abuse for the Empire or for the Emperor himself?”
“You’ll fall from your perch soon enough, Tarkin,” Anora Fair said, skewering him with an abrupt glare. “And it won’t be a soft landing.”
He grinned without showing his teeth. “And here I was expecting an apology for the condition in which you left my ship.”
She managed to contort her shackled hands into an obscene gesture before one of the stormtroopers slammed her in the back of the head with his blaster rifle.
