“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 superlaser 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.
* * *
BOTTLENECK
* * *
John Jackson Miller
“AMBUSH!”
The driver’s warning was hardly necessary—not when the Imperial troop transport was already off-kilter, knocked sideways by the impact of hate on eight thunderous legs. A second monstrosity, five meters tall, struck from the darkness. Prodded by its feral Tsevukan rider, the slick-skinned kivaroa rammed the transport hard. The repulsorcraft flipped over and splashed into the swamp, shedding the stormtroopers riding in its exposed exterior racks as it tumbled.
The impact snapped the driver’s restraints, sending her smashing headfirst into the ceiling of the command cabin. The harness of her passenger held—but as brackish water gushed in through the shattered viewport, there was no way he was going to stay buckled in for long. Wilhuff Tarkin, Grand Moff and governor of the Outer Rim for the Galactic Empire, had many things on his agenda. Drowning in a fetid bog wasn’t one of them.
Unhooking his restraints, Tarkin struggled to get his bearings. He was uninjured, but in the darkness with water rising, he was forced to feel around for the escape hatch. He hadn’t yet found it when another of the angry Tsevukan natives outside obliged by ramming his beast into the damaged hovercraft, knocking it back upright.
Tarkin landed atop the motionless driver as the emergency lighting flickered on. Was she dead or unconscious? He didn’t know, nor was there time to find out. Shoving her crumpled body out of the seat, he quickly grabbed the throttle. The repulsorcraft’s engines, still running, whined with acceleration. The Grand Moff had no idea where he was going, but moving was better than sitting still. The transport clipped something ahead—another kivaroa, whose rider went flying into the muck.
Good riddance. Tarkin found his comlink. Before he could call for help, stormtroopers aboard speeder bikes screamed past, firing their vehicles’ blasters. As the Tsevukans and their beasts charged off into the night, the Grand Moff determined his location by satellite and drove the battered transport the last kilometer to his destination.
The garrison was the last stop on his tour of Tsevuka, the Empire’s newest Outer Rim possession. He’d thought an overland transit between its outposts would be more efficient—but clearly, the natives were not as pacified as his general here had led him to believe. The great Empire, menaced by mindless creatures aboard beasts of burden lurking in swamps? Ridiculous. It was foremost on Tarkin’s mind as the base commander dashed up, wearing an expression between concern for his superior and outright panic.
The latter was the right choice. Removing his soiled jacket, the Grand Moff let his aggravation show. “Where was the patrol, Commander? There should have been more troops stationed along this route!”
“I don’t have enough people for that detail.” The commander swallowed hard. “Or in general.”
“Nonsense. Recruiting has been going well.”
“If you’ll forgive me, sir, that’s the problem. I’ve got troopers taking shifts because there aren’t enough suits of stormtrooper armor to go around.”
Tarkin had no patience for this. “Take it up with requisitioning.”
“I have. They don’t have enough either. The Empire’s just—well, it’s grown too fast.”
Tarkin scowled. “The Empire is doing what it should, Commander. But perhaps some inside it are not.” He called for his shuttle before leaving to seek a clean uniform.
—
“So we are punctured by the speed of our success,” the Emperor said.
Sitting in his office aboard the Star Destroyer Executrix, Tarkin nodded. He had said something similar to open the holographic call, but Palpatine had put it more bluntly, as he often did. “It seems to be so,” Tarkin replied. “My forces in these sectors rely on output from Gilvaanen, on the Inner Rim. But armor production there is only up fifty percent this year—half what is required.”
The jungle world of Gilvaanen had been a smallish thorn needling Tarkin for some time. Private corporations, most employing Ithorian colonists who’d settled there long before, handled most of the armor production. To Tarkin, the way to improve output was obvious. “The corporations should be dissolved and production brought fully under Imperial control.”
“Your control, you mean,” the Emperor said, a trace of impatience in his voice. “You’ve said this before. But I’m not convinced it is the right path—and neither is Count Vidian.”
Vidian. Tarkin watched as the count, an up-and-comer in Imperial administration, appeared in the hologram alongside the Emperor. He had been there the whole time. It had to be Vidian: No one else looked like that.
Deformed years earlier by some malady, the count had remade himself in more ways than one. The fiftyish man’s destroyed face had been replaced with a pallid, featureless mask of synthflesh stretched across metal and reconstructed bone. His artificial eyes seemed to burn, macabre yellow-on-crimson orbs that provided him with data networking in addition to sight. But those were only the start of his enhancements. Surgeons had encased his battered organs in a powerful cybernetic body, protecting him not just against age and illness but also most kinds of physical harm. There was no telling how long Vidian might live—or what he might do.
And he had already done so much. A cutthroat financier in the last years of the Republic, Vidian had built a cult around his management ideas and his forceful artificial voice. Now, he was continuing his role as a corporate fixer, operating as one of Palpatine’s efficiency specialists. It was his word that had kept the corporations in control of Gilvaanen’s production.
“Profit is powerful,” Vidian said, his perfectly modulated digital voice amplified just enough to avoid offending the Emperor. “Financial reward—and the illusion of competition—can motivate in ways force cannot.”
Tarkin sniffed at the suggestion. “You’re playing games when the growth of the Empire is at stake.”
“There are occasions where state control is preferable, and I have recommended it,” Vidian said. “But rivalry has made the armor sector a high-innovation zone. Imperialize, and you could end that.” He looked to the Emperor. “Gilvaanen is in my portfolio, Your Highness. I can go at once to sort out the troubles.”
“Not good enough,” Tarkin said. “Count Vidian should have acted before. I must insist on a stronger hand.”
Vidian faced Tarkin and flexed his metallic fingers. “Whole industries have seen how strong my hand is, Grand Moff.” He barely hid his disdain in saying the title. “Your military might only exists because of the production I have wrested from the—”
“Enough.” The Emperor seemed amused rather than angry. “Rivalry indeed produces better results—by raising the penalty for failure.” He looked to Tarkin. “Grand Moff, I am directing both of you to Gilvaanen. You will work together to find what’s gone wrong with armor production—and you will see the targets met. Or I will know the reason why.”
Tarkin bowed his head. “By your command.”
The Grand Moff knew he would do as commanded, of course; the Emperor’s choice of agents was his prerogative. Tarkin would work with Vidian. But too much was at stake for him to permit delays from some nuisance interloper.
He would find out what he was up against.
—
“Forget the old way!”
Vidian was a man with two false faces, Tarkin saw as he watched one of the slogan-spouting count’s motivational holos. He’d requisitioned them to see more of what he was up against. Vidian wore a ruddy, healthy face in his bestsellers, thanks to image trickery. The holographers had also changed his garish eyes to look natural: magnetic and brown. It was no secret that Vidian had a reconstructed face, of course; his rebound from illness was part of his legend. But the frightening visage he wore in person was almost certainly part of the true story of his motivational success. That record, leavened with lesser-publicized outbursts of violence in the name of efficiency, had made him as popular with the Emperor as he was with the people.
Tarkin was surprised how little else was known about the man. Several of Vidian’s Republic-era corporations still supplied the Empire, but conflict of interest was hardly scandalous anymore. He had no friends, no living relatives: He lived for work, surrounded mostly by aides on his base orbiting Calcoraan. He kept his most trusted lieutenant, Everi Chalis, constantly traveling on assignment. It all meant few people knew the real man, a fact that might be meaningless—or suspicious. Yes, Vidian was an early and vocal proponent of the Empire, but Tarkin wondered about his loyalty.
Where there are two false faces, perhaps there are more.
A chime sounded. Tarkin froze the holo. “Yes?”
“We’ve arrived at Gilvaanen,” said the ship’s executive officer. Commander Rae Sloane stepped into the room and looked at the hologram. “Were the research materials satisfactory?”
“Sufficient.” Tarkin templed his fingers. “I won’t have time to study everything. How would you summarize his recent Imperial career?”
“He’s a miracle worker. He got the Gozanti freighter program launched on time, and under budget—and straightened out several shipyards. He’s an icon in his community.”
“He’s in my community, now.” Tarkin dismissed the hologram and looked up to see the young woman standing inside the door. “Something else?”
“This is my last flight on Executrix, sir. I have made captain.”
“At your age? Admirable.” But not surprising, Tarkin thought. A natural at starship navigation, Sloane had graduated high in her class at the Imperial Academy on Prefsbelt—and as a lieutenant, had studied navigation with the legendary Pell Baylo’s last class of cadets. “Where do you go?”
Sloane shuffled uncomfortably. “I…do not know, Governor. I will be returning to Coruscant to await an assignment. But there are more captains than postings, right now.”
“And you expect me to recommend you for one?”
Dark eyes widened. “No, sir, I wasn’t asking—”
He stood to leave. “Accept no favors, and you’ll never owe any.”
—
Blasterfire resounded through the halls of the factory. The stormtroopers flanking Tarkin quickly moved in front of him, raising their weapons in defense. But the hammer-headed Ithorian at the reception desk stood and waved his spindly arms. “It’s normal,” he said, pointing to double doors behind. “She’s expecting you.”
As the doors opened, the shooting continued. Tarkin saw the source: three Ithorians fired blasters at close range at a bipedal figure standing atop a fancy antique desk. It was a human woman, as near as Tarkin could tell, but she was wearing a black helmet designed for something with two very large, bulbous cranial lobes—as well as a bulky triangular breastplate that was ably absorbing the Ithorians’ shots.
Over the din, the Ithorians’ target noticed Tarkin and his escorts and raised a hand. The Ithorians stopped firing. Her helmet removed, Tarkin saw the perspiring face of a brown-haired woman in her late sixties. She smiled. “Welcome, Grand Moff.” She wiped sweat from her brow. “Sorry, there’s not much air in this helmet.”
“Thetis Quelton, I presume.” Tarkin stepped into the office as the Ithorians stored their weapons in a cabinet. He was rarely amused by shows for his benefit—but from what he understood, this was vintage Quelton: testing systems herself.
She clapped the breastplate. “Not even singed. It’s rare—confiscated from some species called the Pikaati. I have a full suit at home.”
“Hmm.” Tarkin had heard she was eccentric, a collector of all things historical—and the exotic suits of armor lining the office walls showed it. As the Ithorians helped Quelton down and out of her gear, he walked to the window and got his first real view of Gilvaanen. A once-lush jungle world, it was quickly being reshaped into its role for the Empire. Forests were being clear-cut for their trees’ elastic polymers, while the mountains beneath them were be
ing stripped for materials for ceramic composites. Gilvaanen was the perfect place to make suits of armor.
The Pikaati outfit removed, Quelton swore at her aides. “What are you standing around for, oafs? Get back to work!” The Ithorians mawkishly withdrew, careful not to jostle her historical displays. Tarkin dismissed his troops.
Quelton deposited the alien helmet on a shelf. “The Pikaati did nice work. There should be some ideas I can wrest from it.”
“Surely there are more orthodox ways to study armor,” Tarkin said.
“You’ve got to wear it to believe in it,” she said. She approached another display, a massive maroon suit that once protected a six-legged beast. She ran her wrinkled hand lovingly along the ornate metalwork. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it? From an archaeological find; I had it restored. It shows that armor is common to sentients throughout history. Either as protection from elements or the void or enemies, all beings have designed things to protect themselves.”
“Yes, yes,” Tarkin said. “But while you amuse yourself, your Empire’s troops go without on the Outer Rim.”
She took a cloth and began shining the giant display piece. “Quelton Fabrication isn’t your problem.”
The Rise of the Empire Page 30