But then had come the Battle of Slag’s Pit. A foolish charge on behalf of an idiot general, hoping to use demolitions to buy a Separatist fortification cheaply. The ground wasn’t firm, the explosives were the wrong kind—and Skelly had raised hell about it.
No one had listened. No one ever listened.
The general had rank. All Skelly could do was enter the breach himself, relying on his innate talent to save the day for his fellow soldiers.
It hadn’t been good enough.
The Clone Wars had ended while he was comatose; he’d later learned that none of his companions had been saved. His hand was another crushing blow. The medical droids had assured the platoon they were carrying all the spare parts necessary for proper battlefield surgery. But they’d lied. They only had a Klatooinian prosthetic hand left for Skelly, which had never worked right with his human neurology. Worse, their blundering had damaged his arm to the point where a proper replacement would never work, either. Skelly had just stuck a glove on the stupid thing and tried to go on.
Poverty had followed. He’d had no choice but to return to demolitions work—and there, he’d only found confirmation for all his beliefs about corporate malfeasance. They were just as careless as the military types.
It would have been unbearable had his travels not taken him to Cynda.
As someone who had spent much of his time underground, he’d been astonished by the beauty of the moon’s caverns. Thoughts that moved too quickly through his head seemed to slow down here. He’d imagined his role a responsible one, for a time: If the moon was going to be exploited anyway, he’d make sure it was done in a cautious manner, protective of the world and the people working on it. Cynda had countless caverns; it was unimaginable to think the corporations could ruin them all.
But now, Skelly could imagine exactly that. Cynda would become one more ripped-up place, to add to the pile of torn-up lives.
The detonator armed, he replaced the applicator in his toolbox. One more stalagmite, ready to be decapitated. Rote work, and boring—but nicely done. Someone had to care.
“He’s over there,” Skelly heard the supervisor say. He stood up from his work on the stalagmite and turned around. There, being led by Tarlor, was a group of four Imperial stormtroopers.
Ah, Skelly thought. It seemed soon for the inspector’s advance team to be here, but that didn’t matter. “Hello!” he shouted. Toolbox still clutched in his good-for-little right hand, he saluted with his left. An impulse act: He wasn’t part of any military organization, but their armor looked much like that of the clone troopers he’d once served with, and he was glad to see them, in any event. “I’m Skelly. I’ve been writing to your oversight offices for months—”
“What?” Tarlor blurted.
“—and I’m glad to see someone’s listening.” Skelly looked past the stormtroopers, who continued to march toward him. “Er, is Count Vidian here?”
The lead trooper stopped and raised his blaster rifle. His companions did the same. “Skelly, you’re under arrest.”
Skelly laughed nervously. “You’re joking. Why?”
“You’re charged with speaking to the detriment of the Empire.”
Skelly’s eyes widened—and his mind raced. “Wait! Did Kanan report me?”
Tarlor shook his bald head. “He’s all yours. Skelly’s always been trouble—and Dalborg Mining doesn’t want anyone around that’ll upset Count Vidian. Please tell him we cooperated fully.” He looked over at Skelly and spoke acidly: “Looks like I just won the pool. You’re fired!”
Skelly sputtered. “W-wait. This is a mistake! And Tarlor, you don’t have the authority to—”
Before he could finish, the stormtroopers began to advance toward him. “Put that toolbox down!” the lead trooper said, just steps away.
With a blaster pointed at him and coming his way, Skelly made a decision. His left hand in the air, he crouched. “Okay, fine. I’m doing it. Just give me a second here.” He knelt—
—and grabbed for the remote control he’d left on the ground. He tumbled behind the crystal column he’d been working on and rolled up into a ball, covering his toolbox with his body. Before the stormtroopers could follow, Skelly pressed the button.
The baradium bisulfate affixed to the column near Skelly detonated—and the massive diamond-hard cylinder fell forward, exactly the way he’d known it would. Away from him—and toward the stormtroopers. One screamed loudly, crushed immediately by the base of the falling column. On striking the surface, the entire structure shattered into dagger-like fragments.
Skelly didn’t see what happened to the other stormtroopers because he was already up and running. He sprinted into an unlit passage leading from Zone Thirty-Nine into a service shaft. He knew from memory that it led to ventilation tunnels and other routes, pathways that could take him all over Cynda’s underworld.
Wheezing as he ran in the dark, Skelly tried to comprehend what had just happened. So someone was listening to his words, after all. But they hadn’t gotten his meaning.
Fine, he thought. He recognized the feeling of the toolbox full of explosives, still clutched in his immobilized right hand, bouncing against his leg as he ran. It gave him comfort, and he smiled.
There’s more than one way to send a message.
VIDIAN HAD NEVER SEEN corporate hacks scatter so quickly. Since he’d declared Security Condition One, the surveillance operators on Gorse had provided him with the names of forty-six potential agitators working in the Cyndan mines. Vidian’s news that the stormtroopers were making arrests had sent the executives off to alert their employees of the new scrutiny.
Other organic beings, for their supposed sentience, were really no better than droids, Vidian thought. They could be made to act according to program.
With the right encouragement, of course. Flanked by a pair of stormtroopers, the count glared at the guild chief—the only person left on the tour. “Palfa, your members will name a morale officer in each work crew to ensure the Empire is supported in word and deed.”
The director cast his eyes to the ground. “My lord, I don’t know how such a program will be received. It’s the kind of laborers we attract. Rough characters. It’s hard to control what they think—”
“When they think at all. Drunks and brawlers don’t concern me. But they aren’t all harmless! Consider this report I’ve just heard.” Vidian paused to tune his earpiece. “An arrest attempt has been made on your Level Thirty-Nine—and the suspect responded by assaulting the troopers!”
The director shook his large head. “That’s terrible. I’m sure our security personnel have caught him.”
“They haven’t. But my troops will.” Vidian switched off his audible communications long enough to give a command. “There,” he said, speaking aloud again. “I’ve sent your office a copy of my remedial political program. Make sure your member firms adopt it immediately.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then we continue.”
The dejected director led Vidian into a work zone. Like everywhere else, this space was populated by itinerant laborers, beings only slightly more effective than droids. Some passed through with explosives for other chambers. Others stood hip-deep in mounds of shattered crystal, sweating profusely as they shoveled thorilide-containing chips into bins for shipment. Cynda’s interior was naturally dry; the light haze on the air was entirely organic perspiration. Vidian was glad his sense of smell no longer existed.
The rabble with the rubble, Vidian thought. Their kind had been present on countless other production worlds he’d been tasked to straighten out, and they were terrible clay to work with. Even with the troublemakers removed, few could be taught anything new—and their lifestyles outside only served to make them less effective on the job.
But they were boundless in number, and that gave him something he could do. He walked into the workers’ midst and slapped his metal hands on the backs of one laborer after another. “You. You. You. And you.” Each look
ed up, startled by the cyborg’s touch. Human, nonhuman—their only common trait was their advanced ages. “Too old. Too slow.”
Ignoring the mix of angry and insulted looks he was getting from the workers, Vidian called back to the guild chief, “Palfa, another directive for your members. New age caps on laborers, effective immediately.”
Palfa spluttered. “But—but they’re still productive!”
Vidian turned his soulless eyes toward Palfa. “And you are being unproductive,” he said, stalking toward him. “Your guild is a haven for traitors and loafers!”
“My lord, perhaps I can suggest some way to—”
Vidian didn’t wait to hear Palfa’s suggestion. His arm lanced out and caught the director by the collar. Yanking downward, he pulled the screaming bureaucrat’s cape over his head and forced him to the rocky surface. The stormtroopers watched, blasters drawn, as Vidian rained powerful blows on Palfa’s body.
The count stepped back, satisfied, as the cloth-covered guildmaster’s body stopped moving. Vidian looked admiringly at his hands; they still had their sterling shine.
“My lord!” one of the stormtroopers said.
“Eh?” Vidian looked at the soldier—and then back at the group of workers he’d been standing amid. They were all staring at him. “Industrial accident,” he said. “Get to work—unless I told you to get out. Your firms will find more suitable labor for you on Gorse. Unemployment in a strategic resource system is unlawful. The Empire does not tolerate layabouts.”
Seeing the wary workers complying, Vidian nodded with satisfaction. Management, the Imperial way. It was so much more efficient than under the Republic—and it came to him easily. Firing a manager inspired only the ambitious who wanted to take his or her place. But murder motivated everyone. It belonged in every supervisor’s tool kit.
He changed his audio channel. “Captain Sloane, are you listening?”
From Ultimatum, the captain’s voice filled his ear. “Affirmative.”
“Inform Coruscant that there is an opening atop the Cynda Mining Guild. I’m sure the Emperor can send us someone appropriate.”
“Done. Sloane out.”
Leaving the stormtroopers to mind the workers as they disposed of the body, Vidian continued his tour alone. In the next chamber, he found another work crew—and while he had no intention of personally going through and identifying every slacker, he couldn’t resist when he saw a white-haired man kneeling as he cleaned his pick.
“You’re definitely too old,” Vidian said, grabbing at the man’s collar.
“Yeah? Well, you’re too ugly,” the man responded before he even turned to see who had accosted him. When he did, he cried out in revulsion. “What are you supposed to be?”
Vidian didn’t react. He read the old man’s badge. “Okadiah Garson.” Not one of the names on the dissident list, but it didn’t matter. He was through here. “Stop gawking at me like a fool.”
“Sorry.” Okadiah pointed to a spot behind the cyborg’s ear, where his synthskin didn’t completely cover the scar tissue beneath. “It’s just—you missed a spot there.”
“It’s not for vanity. It’s for the benefit of those who lose efficiency when confronted with the extraordinary.” He tightened his grip on Okadiah’s collar and shook. “I find this galaxy already has enough ordinary beings. Maybe you’d like to have your skin removed, as well, to see what it’s like!”
“Maybe you should let him go,” a voice said from behind.
Vidian looked back to see a dark-haired young man standing with a heavily laden hovercart in the opening to a tunnel. He held a blaster pointed straight at the count.
“Well, well,” Vidian said, not in the least concerned for his safety. “We have a gunslinger. Or perhaps we’ve found our missing saboteur!”
—
In his travels, Kanan had seen a lot of people with prosthetics. Most were decent individuals, using technology to overcome misfortune. But the cyborg that had Okadiah by the collar had really gone to town with it. He looked like a war droid playing a human at a masquerade party.
“I’m no saboteur,” Kanan said, still holding his weapon. “Heard a scream—sounded like trouble. What’s this about?”
“I am Count Vidian, here for the Emperor. And I am doing his work.” Vidian, seeming totally unconcerned by Kanan’s blaster, started to lift the writhing old man by the neck.
Kanan fingered the trigger of his weapon. He had no desire whatsoever to tangle with the Empire, much less the top Imperial in the area. He was thankful when another way occurred to him. “There’s something you should know.” He lowered his blaster as he trod cautiously onto the work floor. “You’re about to mangle the man who knows how to mine thorilide better than anyone.”
Vidian paused. “Doubtful. He can’t have the strength to dig or haul much.”
“He teaches those who do,” Kanan said. “Moonglow’s the most efficient producer for its size.”
Vidian shook Okadiah for a short moment before abruptly dropping him to the cavern floor. “At last—someone who understands what’s important,” he said. “You’re fortunate I’ve already beaten someone else to death today, gunslinger. I have a schedule to keep.” With that, the cyborg abruptly turned and exited with his guards.
Kanan holstered his blaster and turned back to check on Okadiah. Being tended to by his fellow miners, the old man rubbed his neck and looked at Kanan. “You always have to poke the gundark.”
“Just following your lead,” Kanan said.
Yelkin, the miner he’d tangled with that morning, rolled his eyes at Kanan. “I don’t know why you didn’t shoot that creep! Someone said he killed the guildmaster!”
“I pick who I party with,” Kanan said. He walked back to the hovercart and activated it. “I don’t mess with the Empire—and it doesn’t mess with me.”
“Zone Forty-Two awaits, gentlemen,” Okadiah said. “I want to be done with this day.”
—
Far across the wide chamber, Hera lowered her electrobinoculars. She’d had a bit of luck in the last hour, when all the stormtroopers had left her area. From what she’d been able to overhear, they were all after someone who had violently resisted arrest. She was interested to learn that story, but Vidian had to come first—and so she’d kept following along, trying to find safe places in each cavernous chamber from which to watch.
She’d been unable to get within a hundred meters, but she’d seen enough to know he was a vile thing, completely worthy of an important station by the Emperor’s side. She’d seen both his attack on the poor guildmaster and how his escort had reacted to it: as if managerial murder was the most normal thing in the galaxy. And she’d seen him harassing the old man, moments earlier. It was good luck that the younger guy had come along. At least someone had a spine.
Watching the dark-haired man leaving with his hovercart, Hera felt a moment’s impulse to follow him. People with the will to stand up to the Empire were worth knowing. But then she remembered that this wasn’t a recruiting trip. She needed to keep after her objective.
Maybe next lifetime, pal. Hera slipped down from her perch and took off after Vidian.
MORE STORMTROOPERS ran past as Kanan pushed the hovercart down the last tunnel to Zone Forty-Two. No doubt they were still looking for the idiot who had flipped out and attacked them in Zone Thirty-Nine. Lal Grallik had popped into the work area long enough to confirm the rumor that it was, indeed, Skelly on the loose. Kanan wasn’t in the least surprised—or upset. At least Skelly was out of his hair.
It wasn’t unusual to see stormtroopers in the Empire. But while he had hopped around some, Kanan’s travels through the galaxy had tended toward a spiraling path, moving outward from the galactic center. Core Worlds, Colony worlds, Inner Rim: Each represented a new frontier for him. And each had turned out the same, with Imperial presence starting at nil and gradually growing. Kanan sometimes wondered how the stormtrooper uniform suppliers kept up with the demand. When the Imperials
reached the fringe of the galaxy, what would they be wearing?
Not that the sight of stormtroopers alarmed him. No, like the woman who had spoken to him from the Star Destroyer, they were all functionaries. Organic droids, trained to react a certain way and seek out certain targets. Vidian was maybe the most literal expression that he’d seen: all their robotic efficiency and general nastiness bound up in a mass of metal, with a little skin on top. The best way to avoid being hassled by them was simply to fit perfectly into the stereotypes they were expecting to find.
On worlds like Gorse, the Empire expected to find workers of the sort drawn to low-skill, high-risk jobs. Rowdy and rambunctious characters—just not rebellious. Threats to their own sobriety and to one another, but never to the Empire. Not politically active, or even conscious.
It happened that those were the planets Kanan found the most fun. The role of roughneck suited him. He traveled the galaxy, looking at the sights—and sometimes the ceiling, after the odd fight or drunken binge. He’d visited more places than he could remember, and, beyond Okadiah, he’d never learned the names of most of the people around him. Why bother, when you were just going to leave?
Kanan pushed the cart into Zone Forty-Two. Deep beneath Cynda’s surface, it was the largest chamber yet opened—and more important, sensors had found large recesses hiding behind its walls: other areas sure to be thick with minable thorilide. For weeks, various teams had triggered controlled blasts—barely audible over Skelly’s objections—trying to get at the rich deposits. In a newly hollowed alcove, Moonglow’s techs were working on their own attempt.
Kanan parked his cart outside the opening and pounded on the outside wall. “I’m thirsty. Let’s get this done!”
The Rise of the Empire: Star Wars: Featuring the novels Star Wars: Tarkin, Star Wars: A New Dawn, and 3 all-new short stories Page 37