“Three fresh ones and two old ones, and we think it killed a bunch more. There’s a big Wookiee and some other prisoners still unaccounted for.”
Doole scowled at the guard, but quickly regained his false smile.
Luke felt cold upon hearing the news. Of course, there was no way of knowing whether the Wookiee in question was Chewbacca—the Empire had taken a great many slaves from the Wookiee homeworld of Kashyyyk, and many survivors could well have been shipped off to Kessel. Luke met Lando’s gaze, and the other man shook his head ever so slightly. “Very interesting,” Lando said.
“Come on, there’s more to see,” Doole said as he strode back to the floating cars. “I hope all this is impressing you.”
“Certainly is,” Lando said. “You have an amazing operation here, Moruth.”
Luke remained silent. All day long he had been straining his senses, searching for some echo of Han or Chewbacca, but he had found nothing. Plenty of others wallowed in pain and misery here, but Luke found no hint of the ones he sought.
Han Solo might never have reached Kessel, and he was certainly no longer there. At least not alive.
19
The admiral’s quarters on an Imperial-class Star Destroyer were spacious and functional, and they had been Daala’s only home for more than a decade.
Year after year she operated in a vacuum, alone as always, following Tarkin’s parting instructions with no further input from the Grand Moff. The great distortion of the Maw itself blacked out all external holonet transmissions. Her fleet had been isolated, and the crew on her four Star Destroyers had fallen into a routine, but Daala did not relax her grip. She was afraid to wonder about events outside in the galaxy, confident at least that she could count on the Empire with its unbending rules, sometimes cruel but always clear-cut.
But now, in her turmoil, she was glad her quarters were sealed and locked, quiet and empty, so no one could see her like this. It would ruin her image entirely. Everything had been cut-and-dried before the interrogation of the new prisoners.…
Daala punched up the recording and watched it again, though she had already replayed the sequence a dozen times. She could mouth the words as the prisoner spoke them, but this tiny image could not convey the impact she had felt when watching him firsthand.
The man, Han Solo, sat strapped in a nightmarish, convoluted chair with steel tubes and wires and piping tangled around him. The gadgetry looked sharp and ominous—most of it served no purpose other than to increase the prisoner’s terror, and in that it proved effective.
On the recording, Daala stood by Commander Kratas, the captain of her flagship, the Gorgon. She could smell the prisoner’s fear, but his demeanor was full of bluster and sarcasm. He would crack easily.
“Tell us where you come from,” Daala said. “Is the Rebel Alliance crushed yet? What has happened in the Empire?”
“Go kiss a Hutt!” Solo snapped.
Daala stared woodenly at him for a moment, then shrugged, nodding to Kratas. The commander punched a control pad, and one of the metal bars across the restraining chair hummed.
The muscles in Solo’s left thigh began to spasm, jittering. His leg bounced up and down. The spasms grew worse. He had a puzzled, confused look on his face, as if he couldn’t understand why his own body was suddenly behaving so strangely. The involuntary seizure clenched the muscles under his skin.
Daala smiled.
Kratas adjusted one of the controls, and Solo flinched as the muscles along the left side of his rib cage also began spasming, tightening his body, but the chair would not let him move. Solo fought back an outcry.
The seizures were not so painful as they were maddening. Daala had found that a most effective interrogation technique was simply to induce an unrelenting facial tick that made the eyes blink over and over and over again for hours without end.
“Tell us about the Empire,” she said again.
“The Empire is in the garbage masher!” Solo said. Daala could see the whites of his eyes as Solo tried to look down at his rebellious leg muscles. “The Emperor is dead. He died in the explosion of the second Death Star.”
Daala and Kratas both snapped their heads up. “Second Death Star? Tell me about it.”
“No,” Solo said.
“Yes,” Daala said.
Kratas adjusted another button. The bars in the labyrinthine chair hummed, and Solo’s right hand began twitching, his fingers scrabbling against the smooth metal, jittering and shaking. Solo tried to look everywhere at once.
“The second Death Star?” Daala asked again.
“It was still under construction when we set off a chain reaction in its core. Darth Vader and the Emperor were on board.” Solo resisted, but he seemed to delight in telling the news.
“And what happened to the first Death Star?” Daala said.
Solo grinned. “The Alliance blew it up, too.”
Daala was skeptical enough that she didn’t believe him entirely. A prisoner would say anything, especially a defiant one like this. But in her gut she feared it might be true—because it explained other things, such as the years of silence.
“And what about Grand Moff Tarkin?”
“He’s in a billion atoms scattered across the Yavin system. He burned with his Death Star. He paid for the lives of all the people on Alderaan, a planet he destroyed.”
“Alderaan is destroyed?” Daala raised her eyebrows.
Kratas increased the power vibrating through the chair. Tiny pearls of sweat appeared on his own forehead. Daala knew what the commander was thinking: during all these years of isolation they had been assuming the Emperor would maintain his iron grip, that the fleet of all-powerful Star Destroyers and the secret Death Star would cement Imperial rule across the galaxy. The Old Republic had lasted a thousand generations. And the Empire … could it have fallen in just a few decades?
“How long since the explosion of the second Death Star?”
“Seven years.”
“What has happened since?” Daala finally sat down. “Tell me everything.”
But Solo seemed to gain inner strength and clammed up. He glared with his dark, angry eyes. Daala sighed. It was like a rehearsed show they had to perform. Kratas adjusted the controls until Solo’s entire body was a writhing, spasming mass of twitching muscles, as if a storm were happening inside his body.
Gradually, the prisoner spilled the entire story of the other battles, the civil war, Grand Admiral Thrawn, the resurrected Emperor, the truce at Bakura, the terrible conflicts in which the waning Empire had been defeated again and again—until finally she had Kratas release him. The loud humming of the chair suddenly stopped, and Han Solo slumped into exhausted bliss at being freed from the onslaught of his own muscles.
Daala motioned outside the door of the holding cell, summoning a glossy black interrogation droid that floated in with hypodermic needles glistening like spears in the dim reddish light. Solo tried to cringe back, and Daala could see the fear in his eyes.
“There,” Daala said. “Now the interrogator droid will confirm everything you told us.” She got up and left.
Later she had found out that Solo was indeed telling the truth in everything he said. Alone in her quarters, Admiral Daala switched off the recording. Her head pounded with a gnawing, throbbing ache like dull fingernails scraping the inside of her skull.
One of the Maw Installation scientists, learning that the new prisoner had actually been on board the completed Death Star, demanded to speak with him. Daala would send the scientist this interrogation report—after she edited it, of course. Sometimes it was impossible to keep these prima donna scientists happy. They had such a narrow view of things.
Right now Daala had greater worries. She had to decide what to do with this new information.
In her quarters Daala stood between two full-length curved mirrors that projected a reflection of her body, head to toe. Her olive-gray uniform showed no wrinkle, only crisp creases and near-invisible seams. Through a
strict regimen of exercises and drills, she had not added a fraction to her weight during her long assignment; her appearance, though older and harder now, still pleased her.
Daala wore her bright admiral’s insignia proudly over her left breast: a row of six scarlet rectangles set above a row of blue rectangles. To her knowledge she was the only woman ever to wear such a rank in the Imperial Navy. It had been a special promotion, given directly by Grand Moff Tarkin himself, and it was possible the Emperor did not even know of it. He certainly did not know about the Maw Installation.
Her coppery hair flowed over her shoulders, rippled down her back to below her hips. More than a decade ago Daala had arrived at Maw Installation with her hair cropped short and bristly, part of the humiliation the Imperial military academy inflicted upon female candidates.
After being sealed inside the Maw, though, Daala was placed in charge by direct order from Tarkin. Asinine regulations-for-the-sake-of-regulations meant nothing to her anymore. She refused to cut her hair, as a gesture of her own independence: rank had its privileges. She felt Tarkin would have approved. But Tarkin was dead now.
Turning, she dimmed the lights, then activated the door. Outside, two bodyguards snapped to attention and continued staring ahead. Despite Maw Installation’s isolation, Daala insisted on peak performance, regular drills, war-gaming sessions. She had been trained in the Imperial military mold; though the system had done its best to squash her ambitions, Daala followed its tenets.
Beneath their armor the two guards were well built and attractive; but Daala had not taken a lover since Grand Moff Tarkin. After him fantasizing had been enough.
“Escort me to the shuttle bay,” she said, stepping into the corridor. “I’m going down to the Installation.” She strode off, hearing the bodyguards march behind her, weapons ready. “Inform the duty commander that I have a meeting with Tol Sivron.” One of the bodyguards muttered into his helmet comlink.
She strode down the corridors, pondering the complexity of her ship, the troops, the support personnel. In the Imperial fleet a single Star Destroyer housed thirty-seven thousand crew and ninety-seven hundred troops, but because of the secrecy of the Maw Installation, Tarkin had assigned her only a skeleton crew—people without families, without connections to the outside, some recruited from worlds devastated by the early battles of the Empire.
Even under rigid discipline, though, her crew had been trapped here for eleven years with no furloughs, no R and R other than the meager amusement facilities available on board. Her troops had grown weary of the entertainment libraries—restless, bored, and angry at being placed on standby alert for so long without word from the outside. They were well armed and itching to go out and do something—as was Daala herself.
At her fingertips Daala had the might of sixty turbolaser batteries, sixty ion cannons, and ten tractor-beam projectors, one of which had just been used to capture the battered Imperial shuttle. Inside the hangar bays the Gorgon alone carried six TIE fighter squadrons, two gamma-class assault shuttles, twenty AT-AT walkers, and thirty AT-ST scout walkers.
Three more identical ships, the Manticore, the Basilisk, and the Hydra, orbited Maw Installation, also under Daala’s command. Years ago Moff Tarkin had taken Daala herself to the Kuat Drive Yards to watch her four Star Destroyers under construction.
Tarkin and Daala had flown a small inspection shuttle around the enormous superstructures being assembled in orbit. The two remained silent for the most part, staring at the enormity of the project. Around them in space the tiny lights of workers, transport vessels, rubble smelters, and girder extruders made a hive of activity.
Tarkin had placed a hand on her shoulders, squeezing with a grip made of steel cords. “Daala,” he said, “I am giving you enough power to turn any planet to slag.”
Now, aboard the Star Destroyer Gorgon, Admiral Daala entered a personnel lift that took her and her bodyguards from the command quarters below the bridge tower to one of the hangar bays. She did not announce her arrival when the doors slid open. Daala was pleased to see her troops bustling about the TIE fighters, the shuttles, and service vehicles. After so many years of boredom, her personnel kept every system functioning perfectly.
Only months after the completion of Maw Installation, Daala had noticed a malaise creeping through the personnel. Part of it was because of her, she was sure; commanded by the only female flag officer, assigned to baby-sit a bunch of scientists in the most protected spot in the galaxy, the troops had grown lax. But a few graphic executions and continual threats kept Daala’s crew constantly on edge, honing their skills and making it inconceivable for them to shirk their duties.
That tactic had been one of Tarkin’s prime lessons. Command through the fear of force rather than force itself. Daala had 180,000 people at her disposal, not counting the weapons designers in Maw Installation itself. She did not want to waste them.
She glanced up and down the hangar, her molten-metal hair trailing behind her. Inside an electromagnetic cage that shielded the entire vessel, technicians scoured the battered Imperial shuttle Endor that had been brought in by the new captives. Endor—what kind of name was that? She had never heard the term before. The technicians would be checking for service markings, locator beacons, and course-log files.
For a moment Daala considered taking the battered shuttle itself down to Tol Sivron, the chief scientist of Maw Installation; the effect would probably shock him into paying attention to her for once. But that would be a childish gesture. She let the technicians continue their work and chose instead the Imperial shuttle Edict.
“I can pilot this myself,” she said to her bodyguards. “Leave me.” On the flight down she wanted time alone. She knew what Sivron would say on hearing the news, but this time she would not let him get away with it.
The bodyguards dropped back and to the side as Daala stepped up the ramp into the shuttle. She moved with quick, habitual movements, powering up the engines, running through the automated checklist. She mounted the headset nodes to her temple and to her ear, listening to her course vector as she raised the Edict from its pad and arrowed it out through the magnetic shields that closed off the hangar bay from the vacuum of space.
Surrounding her was the colorful, deadly shell of gases swirling into the endless gullets of black holes. Below hung Maw Installation itself, a cluster of planetoids crammed at the exact center of the gravitational island. The surfaces of the barren rocks touched in some places, grinding together. Immense bridges and bands held the asteroids in place. Access tubes and transit rails connected the cluster of drifting rocks.
Under Grand Moff Tarkin’s direction Imperial constructors had ferried the rocks across space and through the obstacle course into the Maw. The insides of the asteroids were hollowed out into habitation chambers, laboratory areas, prototype assembly bays, and meeting halls.
If we present the citizens with a weapon so powerful, so immense as to defy all conceivable attack against it, a weapon invulnerable and invincible in battle, that shall become the symbol for the Empire. Daala had read a draft of the communiqué Tarkin had sent to the Emperor, urging the creation of superweapons. We may need only a handful of these weapons to subjugate thousands of worlds, each containing millions upon millions of beings. Such a weapon must have force great enough to dispatch an entire system, and the fear it shall inspire will be great enough for you to rule the galaxy unchallenged.
After getting permission for his scheme, Tarkin had used his new authority as Grand Moff to put together this supersecret think-tank installation, where he could isolate the most brilliant scientists and theoreticians, giving them orders to develop new weapons for the Emperor. Since Tarkin took credit for everything without citing his sources, the Emperor himself did not know of the installation’s existence.
The workers and architects who built the place had boarded a return ship, thinking their job finished, but Daala had reprogrammed their navicomputers herself with an incorrect course out of the Maw. I
nstead of flying to their freedom, they had plunged straight into the mouth of a black hole. No loose ends.
The secret of Maw Installation had been protected. After Tol Sivron and his teams proved the initial concept of the Death Star, Grand Moff Tarkin had taken one of the Installation’s top scientists, Bevel Lemelisk, to the Outer Rim to oversee actual construction of the first production-model Death Star.
Tarkin’s last words to the Maw scientists had been a challenge: “Good. Now create an even more powerful weapon. Surpassing the Death Star may seem inconceivable, but we must maintain our superiority, we must maintain a sense of fear among the citizens of the Empire. The Death Star is terrible. Think of something worse. That is your reason for existence.”
Tarkin gave them nine years to develop his next-generation ultimate weapon. And now, since Tarkin was dead and no one else knew Maw Installation even existed—Daala could make her own decisions, plan her own course of action.
Finally reaching the small gravity field of the central administrative asteroid, Daala secured the shuttle Edict in the docking bay. She stood beside her shuttle, breathing deeply of the dusty, exhaust-laden air and already wishing she could be back on the gleaming and sterile decks of the Gorgon. She would deal with Tol Sivron quickly, then return.
A contingent of stormtroopers assigned to ground duty bustled to assist her. “Follow me,” she said. A show of force would smother any protests from the scientist administrator.
She did not announce her arrival but strode directly through the anterooms, startling the various clerks and administrative assistants. The stormtroopers stood at attention. The clerks stared at them, then slowly took their seats again and refrained from making any outbursts.
“Tol Sivron, I need to speak with you,” Daala said, entering his office. “I have some important news.”
The scientist administrator’s office was cluttered, but with all the wrong things. More a bureaucrat than a scientist, Tol Sivron required the theoreticians and designers to build concept models and tiny prototypes of their ideas, which Sivron left on shelves, on furniture, in alcoves. Daala guessed that Sivron played with them as toys during dull moments.
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