The Rise of the Empire

by John Jackson Miller

  “You don’t grasp the trouble you’re in.” Tarkin crossed his arms. “The production shortfalls—”

  “—you told me about in your message. And the other fellow told me earlier.”

  “Other?”

  “She refers to me,” announced a voice from outside the office. Tarkin recognized it—but moments passed before Count Vidian entered. The cyborg’s augmented hearing was acute. And just as impressive was the man himself: Dressed sparely but richly in a ruby tunic and black kilt, Vidian had metal limbs that glinted beneath the office lights. He bowed perfunctorily. “Good of you to join us, Grand Moff.”

  “When did you arrive?” Tarkin asked.

  “Midnight. I’ve been here since, reviewing the facility and its workers.” He turned his glowing eyes on Quelton. “I have just sent you a list of seventeen different practices that should be revised for maximum efficiency.”

  Quelton picked up a datapad from her desk. “So you have.”

  “And the employee break room should be converted to warehousing.”

  Tarkin raised an eyebrow. “You allow your employees leisure?”

  Quelton laughed. “I scrapped breaks soon after I contracted with the Empire.”

  “Old news, Grand Moff.” Vidian walked to the desk. “You must sanitize the room before using it for storage. The filtration system in my artificial lungs detected several different biological agents there.”

  Quelton was unruffled. “The Ithorians tracked them in, however long ago. It’s a jungle planet—or it was. You’ve already seen that the fabrication area, with the actual armor components, is sterile.”

  Tarkin looked wryly at Vidian. “That should satisfy our safety inspector.”

  “I am no mere—” Vidian started in aggravation, before stopping. He returned to his list, rattling off other recommendations. The Grand Moff recognized the act: Vidian was trying to establish territory, to show he knew more. Now he led Tarkin and Quelton from the museum she called an office onto a tour of the inefficiencies he’d found.

  Tarkin thought Vidian a self-impressed popinjay, but Quelton seemed dazzled by him, remarking offhandedly to the Grand Moff about the wonderful work Vidian’s armorers had done. For her part, Quelton seemed to match Vidian’s brusqueness with the Ithorians on her factory lines. Was it a show for the inspection? The creature Quelton smacked with her baton probably didn’t think so.

  At last, Tarkin tired of the pantomime. “These are changes at the margins,” he said. “Gilvaanen is underproducing by far more than this.”

  “Battles are won at the margins,” Vidian said. “I would expect a military man to know that.”

  Tarkin didn’t rise to the bait. “I want Quelton’s answer.”

  “It’s not us,” she said, pointing out a window. “Cladtech’s the problem.”

  Tarkin knew the name. Quelton’s rival across town, Cladtech had the lucrative contract to do final assembly of all interior armor parts. “Problems with the workers’ guild?”

  “Ithorians all,” Quelton said, not hiding her disdain as she walked toward a large door. “Staging slowdowns over this or that.”

  “Rubbish,” Vidian said. “The guild was dissolved years ago.”

  “Cladtech’s owner tolerates their nonsense. He’s one of them. Meanwhile, my armor plating is piling up at the loading docks.” Quelton touched a control, and the door lifted, revealing exactly that. “I want to outfit your army, Grand Moff. I need you to help me do that.”

  —

  Whatever it was in years past, Cladtech appeared to Tarkin to be inferior to Quelton’s firm. Shabbier and unkempt—and that described its employees, too. The ones on the job, at least: Several had staged a sick-out on learning the Empire was inspecting. And where Quelton’s harsh treatment had made her staff work faster, Mawdo Larrth, Cladtech’s owner, treated his people more gingerly.

  “They do good work if I leave them alone,” the maudlin Ithorian said, looking over a railing at the factory floor. Machines were running, but not every one was fully staffed. Larrth said the employees had been “working to rule,” doing what their contracts required and no more.

  “Void the contracts,” Tarkin said. “This is a military necessity.”

  “Then they’ll all walk,” Larrth said, his electronic communicator giving his translated voice the sound of defeat. “No one has to assemble armor for a living.”

  “That can change.” Vidian said. “And how are they coordinating their protests? You already banned outside contact between workers.”

  “My people settled this world,” Larrth said. “The connections of community run deep with Ithorians. I can’t stop what is said at the supper table.”

  “You can add shifts and make the workers take their suppers here,” Vidian replied.

  Larrth’s head bobbed as he evaluated the idea. “I don’t think the workers would go for that.”

  “Who asked them?” Tarkin brushed at his shoulders. The oppressive heat in the factory was threatening the creases in his uniform.

  “I apologize for the discomfort,” Larrth said. He gestured to the machines below. “The injection molds run hot, and your orders have had us working double shifts. They never cool except during work stoppages. I power down then—the energy to run them would break me.”

  Vidian focused on the workers below. “Your average worker has been here eighteen years, correct?”

  “The crew chiefs for thirty,” Larrth replied. “There’s a lot of experience here—it’s why the work that gets done is quality. But it also explains the unrest. People remember when things were…different.”

  Tarkin turned his attention to the far doorway. “They will soon forget,” he said. The doors opened, and a team of stormtroopers entered, accompanied by several black-clad officers. Tarkin greeted them. “The personnel section is to the right,” he said. “The information should be there.”

  Larrth was surprised. “What’s happening?”

  “Imperial Security Bureau officers,” Vidian said of the darkly attired figures. He looked to Tarkin, puzzled. “You called the ISB?”

  “And supplemented with stormtroopers from Executrix,” Tarkin said. “We will identify all truant workers and bring them in. They will not depart this facility again until their quotas are met.”

  “It must be convenient, traveling with your own army,” Vidian said tartly. “You must’ve called them before our tour started.”

  “Quelton said there was labor strife here,” Tarkin said. “That’s reason enough.”

  “My review is not complete,” Vidian snapped. “I will call agents in myself—but when I deem them necessary.”

  “Oh, they are necessary, regardless of your opinion.” Tarkin looked on, indifferent. He and Vidian had disagreed several times over tactics since their first meeting; he wasn’t going to be delayed any further. He gestured for the ISB agents to proceed. Larrth, fretful, followed the new arrivals.

  A commotion rose from the factory floor. Stormtroopers entered, raising their weapons at any Ithorian workers who happened to be away from their machines. Frightened, they returned to work. Vidian clapped his metal hand on the railing, denting it. He looked back at Tarkin. “This is not the way.”

  “We broke the guilds in this industry for a reason, Count.” Tarkin looked over at him. “The Emperor cannot brook any rival power centers to form.”

  “Agreed,” Vidian said. “But this lacks finesse.”

  “Finesse? You may seek marks on style, but I—”

  “Precision. Punitive acts should be targeted at the poorer-performing, like that hapless CEO. We must carve away the scar tissue and leave muscle.”

  Tarkin thought it an amusing analogy for a man whose anatomy was mostly mechanical. But he did not respond. He turned to follow the agents.

  —

  “Tarkin!”

  The sound from far down the hall caused the Grand Moff to look up from his work, but he did not respond. Both desk and office had that morning belonged to o
ne of Quelton Fabrication’s vice presidents, whom Thetis had fired peremptorily to give Tarkin temporary space and to show she was willing to cut fat. “Tarkin!” Vidian said again, now in the doorway.

  “I will not be addressed in that fashion,” Tarkin said, eyes returning to his work. “I don’t care who you think you are.”

  “I’ve received word from my aide on Calcoraan, Everi Chalis. You’ve been making inquiries into my background.”

  “Like the Emperor, I am interested in all things in the Empire.” Vidian had continued to spar with him all week, repeatedly intervening to try to protect Cladtech workers he seemed to think had value. Tarkin thought such concern was misplaced. Indeed, suspicious. “After your outbursts in defense of the striking Ithorians, I wanted to know what kind of man I was dealing with.”

  “You could buy one of my holos. It would save time.”

  “I have seen them,” Tarkin said. He lifted a datapad. “I have also seen here a response from one of your other underlings. He suggests my curiosity is justified.”

  Vidian paused. “Baron Danthe?”

  “The same.”

  The cyborg laughed. “Baron Danthe is a lying, disloyal hypocrite—and jealous of my position. In the business community, and now the Empire.”

  “A wonder you allow him to work for you.”

  “As you well know, we are not always given the choice of whom we work with.”

  “Just so.” Tarkin smirked. He, too, thought Danthe was a lying, disloyal hypocrite, an opinion formed after their sole holographic encounter that afternoon.

  “I have no time for political games,” Vidian said, artificial voice booming. “This is about finding the most efficient path to what the Emperor wants. Indeed, what he demands.” He stuck a metallic finger in Tarkin’s direction. “You’ve been interfering with my directives all week. You’re outside your department—and beyond your competence. Now step away.”

  Tarkin simply stared at the cyborg. “Do those tactics work on the laborers?” he drily asked. “Because I assure you, they have no effect on me.”

  “Step away, Grand Moff. I will fix this planet, myself!” Vidian spun on his heel and departed.

  Tarkin clasped his hands and thought as Vidian’s clanking footfalls receded. The Grand Moff knew what his bailiwick was, but he had often found that others did not. Both the aristocracy and the industrialists retained some power within their spheres, and that muddled things. Vidian belonged to both classes and had a mandate from the Emperor.

  Tarkin had no doubt whose side Palpatine would take in any conflict. Perhaps Vidian thought the same. If the count wanted to test their assumptions, so be it.

  A knock outside his open door broke his concentration. “Excuse me, Grand Moff,” Quelton said.

  “Yes?”

  “There have been whispers of something on the factory floor here,” she said. “Something…well, treasonous. You may want to check it out…”

  —

  The ISB station chief walked through the night toward Tarkin. “We have them, sir. There’s no escape.”

  “Go in.”

  Tarkin watched as floodlights activated, illuminating the back alleys of Gilvaanen’s capital. The building ahead was dilapidated, an abandoned factory. No right-minded Ithorian would come to such a place at night. That so many had done so confirmed Tarkin’s suspicions. Quelton’s information was accurate. Stormtroopers emerged moments later to address him. “Secured, sir. You may enter.”

  Inside, beneath the harsh lights of the security forces, more than a dozen Ithorians knelt, their elongated heads casting grotesque shadows across the dump of an office. “All supervisors of the Cladtech factory line,” the ISB chief said. “The meeting is illegal.”

  Tarkin took the chief’s datapad and read from the list of names. He had seen most of them before: workers Vidian had identified as Cladtech’s best. They were here preparing another strike, this one in response to Tarkin’s measures earlier in the week. There was only one thing to be done. It would send Vidian into a rage, he knew—but there was no other option. Resistance could not be tolerated. “Eliminate them.”

  Ignoring the shocked responses from the Ithorians, Tarkin turned toward the exit. The first blasters were being raised when sounds of a commotion came from the doorway to the street. The Grand Moff heard shouts—and then took cover as a human form went flying, hurled violently into the room from outside.

  It was another ISB agent, Tarkin saw—and his assailant entered a moment later. “Stop this!” Vidian demanded, the volume of his neck-mounted public address system at maximum. “I tracked someone here—and I appear to be just in time. Do not kill these workers!”

  Tarkin emerged from cover, disgusted. “This is a military operation, in conjunction with the ISB,” he said, brushing himself off. “It is definitely not—what was your term?—your department.”

  “I said stop!” Vidian said, his voice’s volume lowered but his demand no less emphatic. He barged into the space between the stormtroopers and the terrified Ithorians, who now cowered on the floor. He turned, bringing his armored form between the troopers and their prisoners.

  Tarkin stared, stunned. He’d wondered about Vidian’s loyalties—but this was shocking behavior the Emperor would never accept. Very well. “We see whose side you’re on.” Wondering how armored Vidian’s body really was, he looked to the stormtroopers. “You have your orders. You will—”

  Vidian threw up his hands—but in disgust, not surrender. Spotting an overturned desk at the far end of the room, he charged toward it. Servomechanisms in his arms easily allowed him to lift its weight, revealing the hiding Ithorian figure huddled beneath. “I’m not the sympathizer. He is!”

  Larrth?

  “He’s in league with his own striking workers?” Tarkin watched as Vidian grabbed the Cladtech owner and pinned him against a wall. “How did you know?”

  “I heard him breathing,” Vidian said, before taking Tarkin’s meaning. “I was reviewing my recordings and struck on something Quelton said: ‘He’s one of them.’ I’d thought it the remark of a bigot—but it made me look at the records I collected at Cladtech in a different way.” He glared at Larrth. “You said you cut power to the machines whenever there was a work stoppage. Your energy consumption records confirm that.”

  Larrth whimpered in fear. “They’re too costly…to idle…”

  “Those same records also confirm that you took them offline an hour before the shifts even started—before you knew a strike was coming!” He shook Larrth violently. “Do you have premonitions? Or did you know?”

  “He knew,” Tarkin said, eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

  Vidian loosened his grip on Larrth for a few moments. “What you’ve been asking…of my people…is impossible,” Larth said between coughs. “Letting them strike…was the only way…to give them a break…”

  “You acquiesced to revolt and thought it mercy,” Vidian said. “But you made a mistake. You were sacrificing profit already to collude with the unionists. But in trying to save a few thousand credits, you gave yourself away. That’s why I tracked you here.”

  It made sense to Tarkin. He gestured to the stormtroopers—but before they could advance, Vidian brought his mighty hands together, snapping Larrth’s neck with a sickening crunch.

  “Much more efficient,” Vidian said, releasing the Ithorian’s limp form. He turned back to look at Tarkin—who nodded slightly and opened his palm. Try it your way.

  Given permission, Vidian turned on the remaining Ithorians. “You are not under arrest—and you are not fired. You will go back to work immediately and meet our production targets. If you fail, everyone you supervise will die.”

  Terrified, the work supervisors rose. Stormtroopers hustled them from the room. “I think production will improve now,” Vidian said. “And I have some ideas on what we can do for management.”

  “We’ll talk,” the Grand Moff said. The count turned for the exit, and Tarkin followed. Perhaps I under
estimated you, he thought.

  —

  Once Tarkin gave it his grudging approval, Vidian proposed a free-market solution that absolutely delighted Thetis Quelton.

  “Cladtech is hereby merged with Quelton Fabrication,” Vidian said. “And the final assembly contract is now yours.”

  Tarkin had seldom seen anyone so pleased. Quelton had inhabited Larrth’s old office mere moments before she started barking out orders over her comlink to staffers at her own plant. “We’ll have this place shaped up in no time. And the Outer Rim will have all the armor it needs.”

  “We need more all the time,” Vidian said.

  “I guarantee it,” Tarkin added.

  But the woman seemed invigorated by the challenge—and excited to begin taking over her dead rival’s operations. “It’s a good old historic building,” she said. “Just needs some work. It’s important to keep the past alive.”

  “Older is not better,” Vidian said.

  “I know your motto,” she said mildly, before sitting down at Larrth’s desk. Within moments, she was immersed in the new reports.

  Yes, Tarkin saw sabotage in Quelton’s tipping him to the secret meeting; he wondered how long she had suspected Larrth was in league with the unionists. Vidian had seen nothing disloyal in it: a little self-interested patriotism. He’d speculated it would give Quelton more space for her burgeoning collection of useless historical relics. The cyborg prepared to leave for Quelton Fabrication, to help coordinate transition on that end.

  “Count, wait outside for a moment,” Tarkin said. Puzzled, Vidian withdrew as the Grand Moff turned back to Quelton. “Thetis,” Tarkin called.

  She looked up at him, startled to hear her first name. “Yes?”

  “I leave in the morning—and it seems a celebration would be in order. I would like to see these historic suits of armor you spoke of.”

  “The ones in my parlor at home?”

  A trace of a grin crossed his face. “You needn’t move them. I could come to dinner.” He looked about. “If it wouldn’t delay your work here.”

  Quelton smiled. “Of course. I have so much more, there—artifacts from this and a dozen other worlds, all fascinating. I’ll have the droids put together something nice to eat. Shall we say in four hours, at my estate?”