The Rise of the Empire

by John Jackson Miller

  Tarkin nodded, and listened as she told him where to find the place. He already knew, of course; it was his business to know. Quelton returned to work.

  Stepping out, Tarkin saw Vidian waiting. His electronic ears had picked up the whole conversation—and it clearly amused him. “So this is what you do? Award lucrative contracts to wealthy women and invite yourself over?”

  Tarkin gave him a deadly look. “Keep your indecorous remarks to yourself. I have something for you to look into…”

  —

  At most mansions Tarkin had visited, butler droids had greeted him. He wasn’t surprised in the least when an armored Pikaati warrior opened Thetis Quelton’s door. It was the woman herself, wearing the gear she’d told him about. “I told you I had a full suit.” Apparently, Quelton had no fear of appearing the peculiar tycoon before him.

  Helmet under her arm, the woman in her lumbering armor led him on a predinner tour of her home. Hall after hall held pieces of the past on Gilvaanen; how people had lived there since the planet’s settlement. And her massive parlor was her office display writ large, a museum of military history.

  Tarkin took an interest in that, of course, but he was in fact biding his time. She was still in the Pikaati gear, atop a dais showing off an ancient suit of armor for some mammoth creature, when the Grand Moff received the message he was waiting for.

  “I neglected to mention that Count Vidian will be joining us.”

  Quelton looked down at him, startled, before her face brightened. “That’s wonderful. I have so much to ask. How they rebuilt his body is something of a legend in my circles.”

  “He has superior capabilities, to be sure.” Tarkin paced the floor below. “And whatever else is in Vidian’s legend, I’ve seen that his reputation as a turnaround artist is well earned. But no one is my equal when it comes to spotting loyalty.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Larrth was right about how Ithorians stick together,” Tarkin said. “Stern disciplinary measures from a human executive should have at least sparked some opposition. And yet protesters never troubled your firm. There had to be a reason.” He stopped beside a shield on a display. “You have been your workers’ protector. Your dislike of them, your harsh treatment: They’re a sham. Don’t deny it. ISB interrogators have heard it from the captured. You are no more devoted to profit than Larrth was.”

  “You think I was putting on a show this week? Maybe I was harsher than I usually am, because of the inspection.” She chuckled. “And I tipped you to their meeting. How prolabor could I be?”

  “True, your tip put Cladtech in your hands—and that’s what I believe you were really after. I know you’re not in it for the money. Oh, you did want money—to spend on this ludicrous collection of yours, and to thwart Imperial attempts to eliminate the past on this world. We know about those efforts.”

  “I care about the past, yes—and my planet. But that’s normal, for a property owner.”

  “Then shall we talk about the abnormal? We looked at your bid for the most recent stormtrooper armor-assembly contract. It was irrationally low—you would have lost millions of credits had you won.”

  “I was trying to undermine a competitor.”

  “You would have undermined your own firm at those prices. It’s why the Empire rejected your bid, a year ago. And you certainly couldn’t afford to buy Cladtech outright—and we know you tried. So why did you want that contract so badly?”

  “So these did not go to waste.” The answer came not from Quelton—but from Count Vidian, who stepped through the far door. Between his left thumb and forefinger, he held a round black ring, less than a centimeter thick.

  “I can’t see from here,” Quelton said. “What’s that?”

  Vidian laughed. “You should know. There were twenty-seven million in your factory, waiting to be shipped to Cladtech’s assembly center.

  Tarkin nodded, satisfied. “Where were they?”

  “She was manufacturing them in an area off the Quelton employee break room,” Vidian said, “where my lungs had sensed antigens before.” He approached Tarkin with the small ring. “It’s a grommet for a stormtrooper helmet. It helps form the seal inside an atmospheric transduction nozzle. Possibly the lowest-tech item in the entire assembly—and it must have cost her millions.”

  Tarkin took the ring and eyed it. “You’ve had it analyzed?”

  “It’s quite clever. Alone, it is uninteresting even under close analysis. But when the helmet is worn, the wearer’s breath awakens and circulates the tiny spores infused in the ring.” Vidian gestured to the foliage outside the window. “They’re native to this planet, and cause a disease of the windpipe, known only to jungle explorers. They call it—”

  “Bottleneck,” Quelton said. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “But it was soon to have another name: stormtrooper’s lung.”

  Tarkin marveled at the tiny ring. “Ingenious. Because the rings are installed inside the armor, it would be beyond filtration. The armor’s pathogenic response systems would see nothing at all.”

  “And neither would we, for some time,” Vidian said. “Bottleneck isn’t deadly. But it is debilitating.”

  “Keeping your thugs from hurting anyone else,” Quelton said, turning to face the giant alien suit of armor behind her on the dais. “It would slow the Empire’s conquest of the Outer Rim faster than anything.”

  “It would’ve been found,” Tarkin said, clutching the ring in his fist. “And traced back to you.”

  “But not before it crushed recruiting. ‘Join the Empire and suffer.’ Not much of a slogan, is it? But then, it’s what you offer the galaxy now.” She looked around at the armor on display. “The warriors who fought in these suits had one thing in common. They were all defending their homeworlds against invaders—protecting their cultures, their histories. Gilvaanen was a peaceful world, with a people with a magnificent past. And you’ve ruined it. You’ve burned and you’ve buried, without a care to what you were throwing away.” She turned and glared at Vidian. “I don’t want to ‘forget the old ways,’ Count. Some of them were better!”

  Vidian looked at Tarkin. “Another dissident! How novel. What a puddle of unhappiness this planet is.”

  “The ISB has been studying her communications since I first suspected her,” Tarkin said. At their mention, several agents entered at the far end of the parlor, flanked by stormtroopers. He looked up at her. “We know you have spoken with other radicals offworld—but that you had cut off contact several months ago.”

  “They didn’t approve of my plan,” Quelton said, as the stormtroopers advanced toward the steps to the dais. “They don’t know you like I do.”

  “We’ll find out—when you tell us of them,” Vidian said.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, eyeing the advancing troopers. “I can still protect something.” She put the Pikaati helmet back on her head. But this time, she activated the seal, which gave a low hiss. The stormtroopers raised their weapons—but Quelton wasn’t moving to attack. Her armored form shook violently, causing her to tumble from the dais onto the parlor floor.

  Vidian rushed to her side. “She’s having a seizure!”

  He began to work the helmet’s fastener—before Tarkin put his hand on the cyborg’s arm. “Don’t. She’s already dead.”

  “Dead!”

  Tarkin nodded. “The Pikaati breathe hydrogen cyanide. The helmet flooded as soon as she activated the seal. Open that, and you could put the rest of us in danger.”

  Vidian stood and regarded the body. “You never expected her to tell us anything, did you?”

  “We saw all we needed to in her communiqués,” Tarkin said. “Her contacts abandoned her. The trail was old.” He mused over the corpse. “But I was interested to see what she would do in her defense. True rebels are rare specimens. It pays to learn how they think.”

  It was worth a moment’s contemplation—but only a moment. “Now,” he said, rising, “we have another corporate vacanc
y to discuss…”

  —

  The Emperor’s holographic form shimmered in Quelton’s former office. “Report.”

  Count Vidian wasted no time. “I concur with the Grand Moff’s plan, Your Highness. Gilvaanen should be ‘imperialized.’ ”

  “You had rejected that before. You now agree?” The Emperor seemed mildly surprised.

  “I do. All parts of the armor-production chain will be brought under the Imperial Department of Military Research.” Vidian sat motionless. “It will be a lengthy transition; I am placing Everi Chalis directly in charge.”

  The Emperor calculated for a moment. “A reduction in portfolio will free you for other activities.”

  Vidian was quick to suggest some. “I’ve noted inefficiencies in Star Destroyer resource production. I can put them aright with a tour of mines and processors.”

  “Not very glamorous work.”

  “But necessary.” Vidian paused, before continuing. “It would entail relevant sectors being placed under my authority. And military support to enforce my edicts.”

  The Emperor looked to Tarkin. “This meets with your approval, Grand Moff?”

  “It does.” Tarkin straightened. “I propose a Star Destroyer be seconded to Count Vidian. I would detach one from my own complement for his use.”

  A pause. Then the Emperor gave a chuckle, a dark throaty thing that chilled even those familiar with it. “I sense a bargain here, gentlemen.”

  Tarkin and Vidian looked to each other. “Efficiency is what we all crave,” the Grand Moff said.

  —

  There had been a bargain. Tarkin had decided it was pointless to make an enemy of Vidian when a simpler solution existed: making sure their zones of influence didn’t overlap. Vidian had come to the same conclusion, offering to trade his oversight of Gilvaanen for a number of franchises Tarkin didn’t care as much about. If the count’s actions led to Star Destroyers being produced faster for the Outer Rim, it would be more than worth letting him have one today.

  Tarkin had offered Vidian his choice of veteran captains, including several with experience escorting leaders of industry under the Republic. That’s when Vidian surprised him by requesting the greenest captain on the list. “Remember my motto,” Vidian had said. “I would rather have the aid of someone new, someone with no attachment to past practices.”

  In other words, Tarkin had thought, you want someone you can push around. Very well.

  Aboard Executrix, he awarded the assignment. And the recipient could not have been more surprised.

  “But Ultimatum is to be assigned to Yale Karlsen,” Rae Sloane said. Not only was he already a captain, he was much senior.

  “I have detached Captain Karlsen to the construction committee, which needs his wisdom.” It had required only a minute to arrange. “Karlsen will take Ultimatum in time. But the ship’s mission must proceed.”

  Sloane, who had been sitting upright in the chair across from Tarkin since being invited in, sat back as she began to comprehend the tasks before her. Tarkin spelled them out. “You’ll have your hands full preparing the ship for flight. She is your responsibility, for however long you have her. The same can be said of your passenger, when he joins you.”

  “Count Vidian,” she said, half whispering. “I’d be escorting one of the Emperor’s troubleshooters.”

  “I’m told you once flew with the Emperor himself, and Lord Vader.”

  “I was merely present, sir.” She paused, before straightening. “But I believe Lord Vader would endorse my performance.”

  That’s some claim, Tarkin thought. It was daring enough that it was probably true—in which case she might not be the pushover Vidian expected. That was all well, too. For while Vidian offered no threat to him now, it couldn’t hurt to have a check against him for the future.

  “To your command, Captain Sloane.” They stood—and Tarkin offered a last piece of advice. “Count Vidian’s eyes never close. And neither should yours.”

  * * *

  STAR WARS®: A NEW DAWN

  * * *

  John Jackson Miller

  FOREWORD

  Star Wars is an incredibly creative galaxy, where storytellers have sent Jedi on countless missions, explored numerous planets, and discovered hidden treasures since 1977. I grew up with the original trilogy, and as the years passed by I read the books and comics, I played the games, I saw the re-releases, and I could not believe it when one day I sat in a theater and the screen said EPISODE I. It was a day I had waited for, for a long, long time. I went to all the prequels on opening night, stood in lines like we all did, went to the “Midnight Madness” toy releases. I really enjoyed the community that had grown up around the Star Wars universe.

  Little did I know that before the final prequel film was released, I would move to Northern California and begin work on Star Wars: The Clone Wars, right alongside “the Maker” George Lucas. I felt like I had won some Star Wars lottery, but I also felt a tremendous responsibility to all the people I knew who loved Star Wars to make sure that I “got it right.” As my own personal Jedi training began, I always had George there to answer the deeper questions, to make certain that we got it right, that we truly made Star Wars the way he wanted it. He used to joke with my crew and me, telling us that he had been teaching us the ways of the Force so that one day when he retired Star Wars could keep on going without him. I’m not sure we ever believed him, until it happened.

  So how do we move forward? And how do we make sure we get it right? Very simply, we trust in the Force, and we trust one another. We came together as a group and found the best talent: people who, like you and me, love Star Wars and want to make it great. Who want to capture the feeling that it gave all of us, that inspired all of us. More than at any other time in its existence, new Star Wars stories are being told every day. More important, the old concept of what is canon and what isn’t is gone, and from this point forward our stories and characters all exist in the same universe; the key creatives who work on the films, television, comic books, video games, and novels are all connected creatively for the first time in the history of the Star Wars universe.

  A New Dawn is a result of this method of story collaboration here at Lucasfilm. As executive producers of Star Wars Rebels, Greg Weisman, Simon Kinberg, and I had input on the story and characters, working with author John Jackson Miller. I even got to make comments on the look of Kanan and Hera for the cover—maybe a small detail to some, but it was exciting to be a part of that process, and to know the characters would remain true to their intended design. I really hope you enjoy this story, and that it enriches your experience and knowledge of the characters in Star Wars Rebels. There are still countless worlds to visit, countless aliens to meet, and with the incredible talent we have coming to work at Lucasfilm the way forward looks clear.

  Last I must thank you. Whether this is your first Star Wars adventure, or one of many over the years: Thank you. Thank you for your dedication to and passion for the Star Wars galaxy. Because of fans like you around the world, the Force will be with us, always.

  Dave Filoni

  Executive Producer and

  Supervising Director, Star Wars Rebels

  For a thousand generations, the Jedi Knights brought peace and order to the Galactic Republic, aided by their connection to the mystical energy field known as the Force. But they were betrayed—and the whole galaxy has paid the price. It is the Age of the Empire.

  Now Emperor Palpatine, once chancellor of the Republic and secretly a Sith follower of the dark side of the Force, has brought his own peace and order to the galaxy. Peace, through brutal repression—and order, through increasing control of his subjects’ lives.

  But even as the Emperor tightens his iron grip, others have begun to question his means and motives. And still others, whose lives were destroyed by Palpatine’s machinations, lay scattered about the galaxy like unexploded bombs, waiting to go off….

  Years earlier…

  �
�It’s time for you to go home,” Obi-Wan Kenobi said.

  The Jedi Master looked at the blinking lights on the panel to his right—and then at the students watching him. The aisle between the towering computer banks in the central security station was designed for a few Jedi doing maintenance, not a crowd; but the younglings fit right in, afraid to jostle one another in the presence of their teacher for the morning.

  “That’s the meaning of this signal,” the bearded man said, turning again to the interface. Rows of blue lights twinkled in a sea of green indicators. He toggled a switch. “You can’t hear anything now, or see anything. Not here in the Jedi Temple. But away from Coruscant, on planets across the galaxy, those of our Order would get the message: Return home.”

  Sitting on the floor with his classmates in the central security station, young Caleb Dume listened—but not intently. His mind wandered, as it often did when he tried to imagine being out in the field.

  He was lean and wiry now—ruddy skin and blue eyes under a mop of black hair. He was just one of the crowd, not yet apprenticed to a mentor. But one day, he’d be out there, traveling to exotic worlds with his Master. They’d provide peace and order for the citizens of the Galactic Republic, defeating evil wherever he found it.

  Then he saw himself later as a Jedi Knight, fighting alongside the Republic’s clone warriors against the enemy Separatists. Sure, Republic Chancellor Palpatine had promised to resolve the war soon, but no one could be so rude as to end the war before Caleb got his chance.

  And then, finally, he dared hope he would become a Jedi Master like Obi-Wan—accepted while still young as one of the wise sages of the Order. Then he’d really do some great feats. He’d lead the valiant battle against the Sith, the legendary evil counterpart to the Jedi.