Star Wars: Death Star

by Michael Reaves

  “Meet me at the flight deck.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cautiously: “Might one ask where we are going?”

  “To inspect the damage to the battle station from the explosion. I want to see it for myself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tarkin stood, feeling a glow of fierce satisfaction. He had not always been a desk-bound commander. He had spent plenty of time in the field. Now and again it served the rank and file to know that he was still capable of getting his hands dirty—or bloody, depending on the situation.

  GRAND MOFF’S LIGHTER, 0.5 KILOMETERS FROM THE DEATH STAR

  “Look to the forward viewport, sir,” the pilot said.

  Tarkin, who had been poring over a schematic hologram of the station that showed where the damage was, turned and stared through the port at the real thing.

  It was indeed a mess. It appeared as if a giant hand had smashed the dock, then petulantly ripped sections of it loose and flung those into space. Debris of all sizes and shapes whirled and tumbled aimlessly, not having had time yet to settle into any sort of orbit.

  Tarkin’s expression was pinched tight in anger, but his voice was level as he said, “Bring her around and let’s have a closer look.”

  “Sir.” A pause. “There’s a lot of debris, sir.”

  “I can see that. I suggest you avoid running into it.”

  The pilot swallowed drily. “Yes, sir.”

  As the pilot began to swing the small cruiser into a wide turn, Tarkin’s aide approached.

  “Yes, Colonel?”

  “The forensic investigation team has a preliminary report, sir.”

  “Really? This soon?”

  “You did indicate a desire for alacrity, sir.”

  “Indeed.” Tarkin offered the colonel a small, tight smile. “Hold off on the flyby,” he instructed the pilot. “I’ll take the report here.”

  “Sir.” The pilot was visibly relieved at this.

  A moment later, the holoprojector lit over the command console at which Tarkin stood, displaying a one-third-sized image of a security force major standing at attention.

  “Sir,” the major said, giving a military bow.

  Tarkin made an impatient gesture. “What do we have, Major?”

  The major reached off-image to touch a control, and a second holoimage blossomed next to him. It was that of an Imperial gas tanker. As Tarkin watched, the images grew larger and translucent as the point of view zoomed closer. A flashing red dot appeared toward the rear of the ship, and the POV zoomed in closer still to reveal the interior of the vessel.

  “From the dispersal pattern of the ship’s interior and hull, which we backtracked by computer reconstruction, the source of the explosion was here—” The officer pointed into the hologram, only his hand and pointing finger becoming visible in the blown-up image before Tarkin’s eyes. “—in the aft cargo hold. The precise location was plus or minus a meter of the pressure valve complex on the starboard tank array.”

  “Go on.”

  “Given the size of the tanks and the pressure—the oxygen is liquefied, of course—and the estimated explosive potential and expansion, we have calculated that a leak and subsequent accidental ignition of expanding gas in an enclosed compartment is highly unlikely to have produced the level of damage recorded.”

  Tarkin nodded, almost to himself. “Sabotage, then,” he said. “A bomb.”

  “We believe so, sir.” The image zoomed back out to encompass the major again. “We have not yet recovered parts of the device itself, but we will.”

  Tarkin gritted his teeth, feeling his jaw muscles bunch. He made an effort to relax, giving the major another of his tight smiles. “Congratulate your team on their efforts thus far, Major. I am pleased with your efficiency.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man smiled.

  “But don’t pat yourselves on the backs too much just yet. I want to know what kind of bomb it was, who made it, who planted it—everything.”

  The major stiffened again. “Yes, sir. We will report as soon as we have new information.”

  “You’re already late with it,” Tarkin said. “Dismissed.”

  The holo blinked off, and Tarkin stared into the blank space that was left, as if looking for answers. Sabotage was, of course, to be expected. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it almost certainly would not be the last. A project this size, no matter how tight the security, was impossible to keep entirely hidden. An astute observer could gather a number of disparate facts from far-flung sources—shipping manifests, troop movements, vessel deployments, and the like—and from those, if he had even the cleverness of a sunstroked Gungan, deduce some general ideas. He might not know exactly what, or precisely where, but he could figure out that something big was being constructed. And with sufficient resources, time, and cunning, this being, and others like him, could discover a trail that led back to this system and this station.

  There were shrewd beings among the Rebels; Tarkin had no doubt of that. And there were, more than likely, Rebels among the human detritus down on the prison planet. Perhaps even traitors among the Imperial Navy or troops.

  A very tight lid was being kept on this project. Communications had been, and continued to be, squeezed tighter than a durasteel fist. But somebody had blown up that cargo ship, and had not done so just because they were bored and had nothing better to do.

  Such travesties could not be abided. Nor would they be.

  9

  INTERIOR OFFICE ANNEX, ASSEMBLY HALL, CONSTRUCTION SITE BETA-NINE, DEATH STAR

  He had a name—Benits Stinex, and anybody who knew anything about architecture recognized it. Stinex? Oh, sure, the designer. The one who still gets written up regularly in Beings Holozine. The one whose price was always more than one could imagine, let alone afford. Among themselves, the staff doing the interiors referred to him as “the Old Man.” Old he was, too—Teela guessed his age at three, maybe four times her own, and she was nearing twenty-five standard years. Human, with more wrinkles than hyperspace, the chief architect was; the head of interior design and construction, and still mentally as sharp as a vibroblade.

  He waved at the holo, which glimmered blue and white over the projector in front of them, depicting the schematics for the finished assembly hall. “What do you think, Kaarz?”

  Standing next to him in the recently pressurized but still-cold office annex, Teela knew she was once again being tested. Every time she was around the Old Man, he did that. She’d heard that it took awhile for him to trust you—but once he did you were golden in his eyes. It seemed that everybody worth the salt in their bodies who worked for him wanted him to feel that way.

  And why shouldn’t they? A missive of recommendation from Stinex, even just a line or two, was worth just about any conceivable torture one could imagine and endure. It was a ticket for the hyperlane that could lead to wealth, fame, and the most desirable thing of all:

  Freedom.

  The freedom to design what one wished, to give free rein to one’s artistic expression, to create something that might truly outlast the ages, that might—

  Teela realized that the Old Man was waiting patiently for an answer to his question. She shrugged. “It’s standard Imperial design; works enough to serve.”

  The Old Man gave her a slow, disappointed look.

  “But,” she continued, “if you want it to work well, then the egress and exit portals need to be relocated.” She pulled the finger-sized electronic scribe from her belt, thumbed the eraser stud, and waved it at the drawing. “Here, here, and here,” she continued, “and possibly there, as well.” The portals vanished as she gestured, replaced by skeletal wall lines. Quickly she sketched in new doors. “Reposition these portals, skew the walkways, like so, the flow-through improves at least twenty-five percent, like the presentation says. Doesn’t cost any more.”

  The Old Man smiled and nodded, pleased. “What about the ventilation?”

  “Specs call for a superannuated Syst
em Four and what you need is a minimum of a Five. A Six would be better.”

  “The Empire deems a Four adequate.”

  “The idiot who drew up the engineering specs was interested in saving money—if he had to sit in this hall with four thousand other beings, each putting out between sixty and a hundred and forty watts of heat and copious amounts of carbon dioxide, not to mention various body odors, while listening to some long-winded admiral blather on for two hours, he’d upgrade the air exchangers as soon as he could get to a requisition form.”

  The Old Man laughed. “I can see why you were sent to prison. Political delicacy is not one of your strong points, is it?”

  She shrugged. “Form follows function.”

  “The defense of the idealist. I will grant you that the Empire is slow to learn basic architectural concepts.” He nodded at the three-dimensional image. “All right. Make the portal changes. I’ll allow a Five for the exchangers. What else?”

  Teela could not stop her grin. She was a political prisoner of the Empire, but at least she was being allowed to do work she knew how to do. As vast as the project was, they needed all the help they could get, and she was very good at her job. The Old Man knew it, even though he kept verbally poking at her every time they spoke. He himself was a willing tool of the Empire, but he had designed everything from refreshers to superskytowers, skyhooks to sports stadiums, and he had forgotten more than most architects learned in a lifetime of study. She had trained with some of the best, and she knew the hand of a master when she felt it. She didn’t enjoy being tested like a third-year arcology student this way, but she also felt a little surge of pride every time the Old Man smiled and nodded at one of her suggestions. It was good to be acknowledged by someone of his ability.

  As she pointed out other inefficiencies in the standard design, however, she felt it again: that tiny twinge, that brief moment of discomfort. She was working for the Empire, a thing she had sworn she would never do, helping design a vessel that would, in all probability, be the most fearsome weapon the galaxy had ever seen. While it was true that improving the biometrics and seating pattern in an assembly hall was not the same as devising a superlaser that could melt moons, still …

  Still, one was either a factor in something’s success, or a factor in its failure.

  Working for the enemy, said the little voice she sometimes heard in her head. She often visualized it as a miniature version of herself, shaking a chastising finger. How sad is that?

  Not as if I had a choice, is it? she replied mentally. Nobody asked me if I wanted the job, now, did they?

  You could have turned it down, the avatar of her conscience shot back.

  And been sent back to that serpent’s nest of a planet to rot and die? To what end?

  Her inner self fell silent.

  “We can’t do that,” the Old Man said to her suggestion of natural lighting in the complex. “I have limits.”

  She nodded. She had thought that would be his response, but there was no harm in asking. The Old Man had considerable power when it came to design alterations. Several times Teela had seen specifications upgraded and improved to heights well beyond what she had expected. This project had support at the highest levels. While the admirals who controlled the credits were always trying to pinch and hold on to as many as they could, nobody was going to stint on anything that would make it function as intended.

  Too bad the original designers hadn’t had that mandate.

  Teela hadn’t seen all of the master plans—she didn’t think anybody below the Old Man’s standing had seen all of them—but there were plenty of design flaws in the sub-plans she had reviewed. Nothing so major that the place would fail to function or fall apart if somebody bumped into a wall, but enough little bits and pieces here and there said without a doubt that the designers had paid less attention to details than they should have. Another draft or two of the schematics would have corrected most of those; many were being caught and fixed on the fly, such as she had just done—poorly placed entrances and exits, less-than-adequate ventilation systems, thermal vents badly located … the usual minutiae that cropped up in big construction projects. There was just more of it, but then there was a lot more vessel for mistakes to happen in, wasn’t there? This Death Star was, after all, as big as a Class IV moon, with a minimum of over a million beings making up the crew. Nothing this size had ever been built before … at least as far as Teela was aware.

  What it all came down to was, she would do what she could do. Working for the Empire was bad, no getting around that, but not as bad as living in a makeshift hut on a world that was, for the most part, either jungle or swamp, and whose inhabitants would sooner kill you than look at you. After all, what could she do? Architecture wasn’t exactly the sort of exciting and dashing thing that people could rally around. She would, in all probability, just get herself killed if she tried to aid the Rebels. But by doing what she knew how to do, she might actually save a few lives, or at least make those lives more comfortable. Yes, those lives would belong to servants of the Empire, but after all, not every single being here was evil.

  As rationalizations went, that one wasn’t so bad. Her inner self almost bought it.

  10

  MEDICAL FRIGATE MEDSTAR FOUR, POLAR ORBIT, DESPAYRE

  The secretary droid C-4ME-O stood gyroscopically balanced on its single wheel in the hallway as Uli exited the surgery theater. The procedure had been routine, an operation to graft in a new liver for a Wookiee slave injured in the recent explosion at the construction site. Some of the enslaved species were considered expendable, as there were always more potential conscripts on the planet below, but Wookiees were too valuable to lose, a colonel had told him. They were worth three of just about any other worker, and Uli had already heard it at least ten times since he’d gotten here: if you want a job done right, get a Wookiee to do it. They were able to better withstand the temperature extremes of vacuum, they had more endurance than the other species, and their work ethic was unimpeachable—they seemed incapable of giving less than 100 percent, even on a project they had been conscripted for. The only drawback was that their vacuum suits had to be specially made to accommodate their huge, hairy forms. Uli had wondered why he’d seen so many of them when he’d arrived. He’d soon realized that like himself, they were not here by choice.

  “Dr. Divini,” the droid said, in its pleasing tenor. “How are you?”

  “As well as can be expected, Fourmio. Is there something you need?”

  “I am quite self-sufficient, thank you, Doctor. But Commander Hotise would like to see you when it is convenient.”

  Inwardly, Uli groaned. He’d been pretty much on the go ever since he’d gotten here, and now that his rotation was finally over, he’d been looking forward to some sleep. “Did he sound urgent?”

  “Actually, sir, his precise words were, ‘Get Divini’s butt up here on the double.’ ” The droid did a perfect imitation of Hotise’s voice.

  Uli had to smile at that. Hotise might be a career man, but he was honest and direct in his speech and actions. And he was just another cog in the Empire’s giant machine—no point in blaming him for the situation.

  Uli was wearing surgical blues, which he did not waste time changing. While standard service protocols ordinarily required more formal dress when attending a commanding officer in a noncombat area on board a ship, the medical units were less stringent. Most medics were draftees and didn’t give a Psadan’s patoot what the navy thought of them anyhow—they were just hoping to get out and go home. And like him, any doctor worth his laser scalpel knew he, she, or it was far too valuable to be stuck in a brig for failing to observe some piddling uniform code. The Empire was sometimes hidebound and slow, but not altogether foolish.

  When Uli entered, Hotise was seated behind his desk, tapping his fingers rapidly on two different input consoles. Holoimages danced and flashed over the consoles as the codes flowed. It was impressive to watch, like seeing someone able to wr
ite in two languages at the same time, one with each hand.

  “Sit. Be with you in a few seconds.”

  Uli parked himself in the chair, a flowform device that hummed and adjusted itself to his contours for a perfect support. Sitting down was a mistake, he belatedly realized. If he leaned back, he could fall asleep faster than …

  Hotise, true to his word, jarred Uli from his doze only a few seconds later. “The construction crew has gotten a couple of equatorial med stations operational—not full-service plexes, but they have two surgery suites, pre-op and recovery rooms, and twenty medical beds each. Not to mention bacta tank wards, nursing stations, supply rooms, offices … you know the drill. More than a Rimsoo, less than a medcenter.”

  “And …?”

  “And I want you to go run one.”

  “I’m not an administrator,” Uli said.

  “Teach your grandfather how to put his boots on, son. I know you’re not an administrator, but we’re shy a few dozen of those right now. Construction is running ahead of schedule, at least in our field, and we’re slow getting fresh help.

  “You’re qualified as chief surgeon, and I’ll send Fourmio along to handle the secretarial stuff. We need three surgeons and a couple of internal medicine docs, all with broad-species experience, plus nurses, aides, orderlies, and some computer operators. It’s no worse than running a clinic. Caseloads’ll be mostly workers getting banged up, some infections, age-related illnesses—the usual med-surg stuff on a construction site. Nothing you can’t handle. If you get bogged down, you can call for help.”

  There was no way out of this, Uli realized. Still, he couldn’t resist asking: “Why me?”

  “Well, frankly, son, I don’t have anybody else I can spare.”

  What did it matter? Uli asked himself. Here, there, or somewhere else—it was all the same, really. This wasn’t a combat situation, like so many in the past had been. Nevertheless, he could feel a tiny worm of uneasiness begin to writhe slowly in his gut. “All right,” he said.