by James Luceno
Jova stood from where he had been hiding. He was gnarled, wrinkled, and deeply tanned, but still spritely for his age. Thirty additional years of living on the Carrion didn’t seem to have done him too much harm. Parting the savanna grass with leathery hands, he began to make his way toward Tarkin, proffering a sleek blaster when they reached each other.
“He dropped this when he fell in,” the old man said. “A WESTAR, isn’t it?”
Tarkin nodded as he accepted the blaster, switched off the safety, and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. “Where’s his speeder, Uncle?”
Jova’s crooked finger pointed east. “Behind the trees. I thought he might follow you up the hill, but he stayed at the bottom, making a little nest for himself in the grass, then tracked you when you came down and started for your ship.”
Together they walked to the pit to gaze down at Teller, some four meters below them, somewhat stunned by the unexpected plunge but squinting up as their heads appeared over the rim. Fortunately for Teller, the sharpened stakes that had once studded the floor of the pit had rotted to mulch. The fall, however, had damaged some of the mimetic circuits of his camouflage suit, and he was alternately blending in with the mulch and visible to the naked eye.
“I made it as easy as I could for you to stalk me, Captain,” Tarkin said, using the rank Teller had earned during the Clone Wars. “I even left my stormtroopers behind in Eriadu City.”
“Very bighearted of you, Governor—or do I have to start calling you Grand Moff now?” Teller tried to get to his feet, but promptly winced in pain and sat back down to inspect a clearly broken ankle. “I knew you were leading me on,” he said through gritted teeth, “but it didn’t matter. Not as long as I had a shot at getting to you.”
“You had plenty of shots at getting to me, as you say. So why not when we were in the air? And why a simple hand blaster rather than a sniper rifle?”
“I wanted us to be looking each other in the eye when I killed you.”
Tarkin grinned faintly. “Sadly predictable, Captain. And so unnecessary.”
Teller snorted. “Well, this old fossil would probably have killed me before I got off a shot, anyway.”
“You’re right about that,” Jova said good-naturedly.
He and Tarkin stepped back from the rim. Jova stomped down an area of razor grass with his wide callused feet, and they sat facing each other.
“Were you surprised to hear from me, Uncle?” Tarkin asked.
Jova shook his hairless, nut-brown head. “I knew you’d return someday. I had to renovate some of your old traps. Lucky you recalled where you dug them.” He paused to grin. “Though I don’t suppose luck has much to do with anything.”
Tarkin gazed around him. “I remember my time here like yesterday.”
Jova nodded sagely. “I’ve tried to keep abreast of your career. Haven’t read or heard much about you the better part of three or four years now.”
“Imperial business,” Tarkin said, and let it go at that. “But whatever success I’ve achieved is to your credit for mentoring me. My memoir will make clear your contributions.”
Jova gestured in dismissal. “I don’t need to be singled out. I prefer being more of a phantom.”
“Phantom of the plateau.”
“Why not?”
Tarkin got to his feet and returned to the rim of the pit. “How’s the ankle, Captain? Swelling, I would imagine.”
Teller’s glower said it all.
“Need I remind you that we fought on the same side in the Clone Wars?” Tarkin said. “We fought to prevent the galaxy from splintering, and we achieved our goal. But where I’ve put that war behind me, you appear to be still waging it. You’d have the galaxy fracture again?”
“You haven’t put it behind you,” Teller said. “That war was nothing more than a prelude to the war the Emperor always had in mind. Subjugating Separatists was practice for subjugating the galaxy. You’ve known all along. And this time you’re going to crush your opponents before they have a chance to organize.”
“That’s called pacification, Captain.”
“It’s rule by fear. You’re not just demanding submission, you’re generating evil.”
“Then evil will have to do.”
Teller stared up at him. “What transforms a man into a monster, Tarkin?”
“Monster? That’s a point of view, is it not? I will say this much, however: This place, this plateau is what made me.”
Teller considered it, then asked: “What is the Empire building at Geonosis?”
Tarkin showed him a faint grin. “Unfortunately, Captain, you are not cleared to know that. But I’m willing to make a deal with you. I’m certain you’ll have a difficult time extricating yourself from this trap you stumbled into—what with the depth of the hole and now a broken ankle. But should you succeed, you will find your blaster, just here on the rim.” He made a point of setting the weapon down. “The most dangerous of the Carrion’s predators don’t appear until nightfall. They’ll sniff you out, and … Well, suffice it to say you don’t want to loiter down there. Of course, even if you manage to get out, it’s a long way to the edge of the escarpment.” He paused in thought, then added, “I’ll have Jova park your speeder at the base of the plateau. Should you make it off Eriadu alive, look me up and I’ll reconsider what I said about Geonosis.”
“Tarkin,” Teller said, “you will die horribly because you deserve nothing less. The more you try to coerce the disadvantaged to play by your rules, the more they will rebel. I’m not the only one.”
“You’re hardly the first to prophesize my demise, Captain, and I could certainly make an equally dire prediction about your death. Because here you are, trapped in a deep hole and crippled, and that’s precisely where I intend to keep the others of your ilk.”
Teller smiled with his eyes. “Then if I can escape, the rest will.”
Tarkin returned the look. “That’s an interesting analogy. Let’s see how it plays out in real life, and in the long run. Until then, farewell, Captain.”
Jova stood up as Tarkin approached, gesturing with his stubbled chin to the hole. “Broken ankle or no, he seems capable enough to escape. Do you want me to keep an eye on him, perhaps provide a hint or two of the lay of the land to better his chances?”
Tarkin stroked his jaw. “That might be interesting. You be the judge.”
“And if he makes it down off the plateau in one piece, and to his speeder?”
Tarkin mulled it over. “Learning that he’s actually at large will keep me on my toes.”
Jova smiled and nodded. “A good strategy. We’re never too old to learn new tricks.”
The epicenter of a bustling throng of construction droids, supply ships, and cargo carriers, safeguarded by four Star Destroyers and twice as many frigates, the deep-space mobile battle station hovered in fixed orbit above secluded and forbidding Geonosis. When viewed from mid-system or from even as close as the asteroid belt that further isolated the planet from celestial interchange, one could be fooled into believing that the irradiated world had added another small moon to its collection. Still youthful, the spherical station had yet to grow into the features by which it would be recognized a decade on. The northern hemisphere focus lens frame for the super-laser was scarcely more than a metallic crater; the Quadanium hull, a mere patchwork of rectangular plates, so that one could see almost to the heart of the colossal thing. The sphere’s surface city sprawls and equatorial trench might as well have been dreams.
By the time Tarkin arrived, at the conclusion of his travels through the Outer Rim systems, some of the hyperdrive components had been installed, but the station was far from being jump-ready. Nevertheless, work on some of its array of sublight engines had recently been completed, and those were ready to be tested, if only to determine how well the globe handled.
The project’s chief scientists and engineers had taken Tarkin on a tour of finished portions of the station that had lasted a week, and yet he
still hadn’t seen half of it. From the interior of a repulsorlift construction craft, his guides had pointed out where the shield and tractor beam generators would be installed; they had laid out their plans for housing a staff and crew of three hundred thousand; they had described gun emplacements, mooring platforms, and defensive towers that would stipple the gray skin.
Tarkin was in his glory. If he felt at home on the bridge of a Star Destroyer, here he felt centered. The station was a vast technoscape, ripe for exploration; an unknown world awaiting his stamp of approval and his mastery.
While most of the construction work was done in micro-g, omnidirectional boosters supplied standard gravity to a large cabinspace near the surface that would one day become the overbridge, with designated posts for Tarkin and various military officers, a conference room featuring a circular table, a HoloNet booth dedicated to communicating with the Emperor, and banks of large viewscreens. There, in the company of the station’s designers and construction specialists, Tarkin gave the order for the sublight engines to engage.
A faint shudder seemed to run through the orb—though Tarkin thought that the vibration could easily be the effect of exhilaration coursing through him in a way he hadn’t experienced since his teenage years. Then, with almost agonizing sluggishness, the battle station began to leave its fixed orbit. Ultimately it surpassed the speed of the planet’s rotation, emerging from the shadow of Geonosis and moving into deep space.
For my elder son, Carlos, frequently my sounding board, who this time provided a plot point just when I needed one; and for Pablo Hidalgo, who led me down a couple of paths I had never explored.
In loving memory of Rosemary Savoca, my aunt and most forgiving fan.
BY JAMES LUCENO
THE ROBOTECH SERIES
(AS JACK MCKINNEY, WITH BRIAN DALEY)
THE BLACK HOLE TRAVEL AGENCY SERIES
(AS JACK MCKINNEY, WITH BRIAN DALEY)
THE YOUNG INDIANA JONES CHRONICLES
The Mata Hari Affair
STAR WARS
Star Wars: Cloak of Deception
Star Wars: Darth Maul: Saboteur (eBook)
Star Wars: The New Jedi Order—Agents of Chaos I: Hero’s Trial
Star Wars: The New Jedi Order—Agents of Chaos II: Jedi Eclipse
Star Wars: The New Jedi Order: The Unifying Force
Star Wars: Labyrinth of Evil
Star Wars: Dark Lord—The Rise of Darth Vader
Star Wars: Millenium Falcon
Star Wars: Darth Plagueis
Head Hunters
A Fearful Symmetry
Illegal Alien
The Big Empty
Kaduna Memories
The Shadow
The Mask of Zorro
Rio Passion
Rainchaser
Rock Bottom
Hunt for the Mayan Looking-Glass: The Adventures of 3Sky and Flint
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMES LUCENO has made ends meet as a psychiatric aid, studio musician, adventure travel scout, and carpenter. He has been writing commercial fiction since 1980, and has also written television screenplays and nonfiction. A keen interest in ancient cultures has fueled trips and expeditions to remote archaeological sites around the world. He and his wife live in a riverside log cabin in Annapolis, Maryland.
Read on for an excerpt from
Kevin Hearne
PUBLISHED BY DEL REY BOOKS
THERE’S NO ONE AROUND to answer all my questions now that Ben’s gone. It’s a stark fact that reasserts itself each time I wonder what I’m supposed to do now. That brown robe he wore might as well have been made of pure mystery; he clothed himself in it and then left nothing else behind on the Death Star. I know Han likes to scoff at the idea of the Force, but when a man’s body simply disappears at the touch of a lightsaber, that’s more than “simple tricks and nonsense.”
And I know the Force is real. I’ve felt it.
I still feel it, actually, but I think it’s like knowing there’s something hidden in the sand while you’re skimming above it. You see ripples on the surface, hints that something is moving down there—maybe something small, maybe something huge—living a completely different life out of your sight. And going after it to see what’s underneath the surface might be safe and rewarding, or it might be the last thing you ever do. I need someone to tell me when to dive into those ripples and when to back off.
I thought I heard Ben’s voice a couple of times during the Battle of Yavin, but I’m wondering now if that really happened. Maybe I only thought it did; maybe that was my subconscious speaking to me—a kind of wishful thinking. He’s been silent since, and I don’t feel I can talk to anyone else about the Force. My confidants at this point consist of one blue-and-white astromech droid.
Han and Chewie are off somewhere trying to earn enough credits to pay off Jabba the Hutt. They lost all their reward money from the Battle of Yavin and they’re back to being broke and desperate—the galaxy should beware.
Leia is cloistered with the leaders of the Alliance in the fleet, which is currently hiding in the Sujimis sector around an ice planet no one has paid any attention to since the Clone Wars. Not that she would want to hear about my worries any more than I would like to speak them. She has much more important things to do than to waste time putting a bandage on my insecurities. Threepio is with her, no doubt feeling unappreciated for his predictions of imminent doom in over six million forms of communication. That leaves Artoo and me free to run an errand for Admiral Ackbar.
I’ve been dispatched to Rodia in an effort to open a secret supply line to the Alliance. I’m not supposed to call it smuggling—Ackbar has serious issues with the very concept, but the truth is the Alliance can’t operate without it. Since the Empire is trying to shut down our lines of supply in the Outer Rim by going after smugglers’ dens, and the established black markets in the Core are a bit too risky for us to employ, we have to look for other sources to exploit. Rodia is under Imperial control, but Leia suggested that the Chekkoo clan on the Betu continent might be open to working with us. She said they despise the ruling Chattza clan and are highly skilled at manufacturing weapons, armor, and other hardware we could use to fight the Empire. Leia was betting they’d defy the Empire to spite the Chattza clan, and we stood to benefit. Mon Mothma was unsure of the idea, but Ackbar surprised everyone and weighed in with Leia, and that decided it.
I don’t know what it is about Ackbar that tends to quash arguments. He has a kind of moist charisma, I guess, that no one wants to challenge. I know I don’t want to dispute him, anyway.
Once it was agreed, I volunteered for the mission, and they loaned me a beautiful personal yacht to fly in. My X-wing would set off all kinds of alarms if I dared to enter Rodian space in it, but a small transport with minimal weapons would be no big deal. Both Artoo and I whistled when we first saw it in the docking bay of the Promise, one of the Alliance’s frigates. It was less of a yacht and more of a showpiece.
Painted a metallic red and trimmed in silver, the cockpit and living quarters of the ship sat forward and the wings swept back in an unbroken arc, like a half moon thinking about going crescent. The rear end looked a bit like someone had taken a bite out of a cookie, and it was packed with big sublight engines, jammers, sensor arrays, and shield generators. The power was all invisible from the front or the sides—it spoke of luxury and decadence—but the back told anyone pursuing that they wouldn’t be keeping up for very long. It was built for speed and quite possibly spying while doing its best to look like a rich person’s pleasure craft.
“Nice, isn’t she?” a voice said, tearing my eyes away. “That’s the Desert Jewel. You fly her safely, now.” The speaker was a tall woman with dark skin and a cascade of tightly curled ringlets framing a narrow face. She gave me a friendly smile and I smiled back.
“Is she yours?” I asked.
“Yep! Well, I guess I should say she’s my father’s. But both his ship and his daughter are at the disposal
of the Alliance now. Just got here last week.” She extended a hand. “Nakari Kelen. Glad to meet you.”
“Kelen?” I said, taking her hand and shaking it. She had a strong grip, and I tilted my head to the side as I connected her name and the ship’s to a memory. “Any relation to the Kelen Biolabs on Pasher?”
Her eyes widened. “Yes! Fayet Kelen is my father. Are you from Pasher?”
“No, I’m from Tatooine.”
“Ah, another desert planet. So you understand all about my fascination with ships and how they can take me far away from home.”
“Yeah, I understand that very well. I’m Luke Skywalker.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she said, finally letting her hand slip from mine. “They told me you’d be taking my ship out for some kind of spooky mission, but no one told me you hailed from Tatooine.”
“Ha. It’s not really spooky. Kind of a boring business trip, in fact, but this looks like it will prevent any Imperials from thinking I’m with the Alliance.”
“I should hope so. My baby’s classy and elegant and ill disposed to rebellion.”
“Hey, speaking of ill disposed, mind if I ask you something?”
Nakari nodded once, inviting me to proceed.
“I’ve always wondered why your dad chose Pasher for his biolabs. You’d think a jungle planet would be better suited simply because there’s more actual biology there.”
She shrugged. “He started small and local. The poison and glands of sandstone scorpions and spine spiders turned out to have medical applications.” She chucked her chin at the Desert Jewel. “Very profitable applications.”
“I’ll say.”
“What did you do on Tatooine?”
“Moisture farming. Spectacularly dull. Some weeks were so boring that I actually looked forward to going into Tosche Station to pick up some … power converters. Huh!”
“What?”
