Star Wars: Death Star

by Michael Reaves

  He unsealed the cap and poured some in the two mugs, handing one to his guest.

  “Starry,” Brun said, tasting it. Not bad.

  “Keep the bottle.”

  Brun nodded. “ ’Shuwan?” What do you want?

  Ratua took a deep breath, composing himself as best he could. Nothing ventured, nothing … “I want you to get me onto the supply ship before it leaves in the morning.”

  A long heartbeat of silence; then Brun laughed, shook his bread-loaf-shaped head, had another sip of the wine, and replied, to Ratua’s surprise, in perfectly understandable Basic, “I can do that, but what’s the point? It’s not going anywhere except back to the freighter parked up in geo-sync. Any ship leaving the system’ll be scanned down to the rivets, and you’ve probably heard that none has been leaving lately. You can’t go anywhere, Ratua. Life in a warehouse won’t be any better than here. You do know that every now and then, they open the doors to vac and let it get real cold in the noncritical storage units? Just to get rid of, uh, vermin?”

  Ratua shrugged. “Yeah, I know.” He wasn’t going to stay in the stores area, but he saw no point in telling Brun his plans. The less the squat humanoid knew, the better. “Let me worry about that. Do we have a—”

  Brun waved the cup. “Hold up, hold up. Haven’t said I’d do it. If they catch you alive and you give me up, I’m back in the pack, with no perks. Why would I risk that?”

  Ratua had expected him to make just that point. He went back to his stashbox and dug out a small electronic device, which he showed to Brun. “Know what this is?”

  Brun was in for a raft of crimes, one of which was piracy, specializing in stripping and then reselling the electronics from captured ships. He nodded. “Looks like an embedder.”

  “Exactly right. Onetime spy-killer. Check it out.” He handed it to Brun to examine.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “You know me; here, there, I get around.”

  Brun nodded again. That was Ratua’s talent, everybody knew that. He could scrounge just about anything. Brun touched some controls on the hand-sized device and nodded at the readout. “Charge is up. Looks good. How much you want for it?”

  “Not for sale. It’s your guarantee,” Ratua said. “I’ll let you embed me and set the implant to your name.”

  Brun looked thoughtful. With a spy-killer installed, Brun didn’t need to worry much about Ratua ratting him out if he was caught. The embed unit, about the size of a baby’s fingernail, would sit harmlessly in Ratua’s skull for the rest of his life. But it would be tuned to a certain word, and if that word was spoken by Ratua, and only Ratua, the device would explode. Not much of an explosion—just enough to fry his brain up nice and crispy.

  “So what do I get out of it?”

  Ratua waved at the interior of the shack. “I’ve got some prime stuff here—food, drink, electronics, death sticks. And I’ll give you a list of my dealers. I’m gone, they’ll talk to you; there’s nobody else. It’s worth a lot.”

  “All that’ll happen is you’ll freeze to death up there.”

  “That’s my worry. Do we have a deal?”

  Brun sat there, his short, thick legs barely reaching the floor, wine cup in one hand and embedder in the other. Ratua knew he was weighing the risks. There were some, yes—but if Ratua was dead, he wouldn’t be pointing fingers. Greed fought with worry, and Ratua watched the battle play out on Brun’s face.

  Greed won.

  “All right. South Gate, midnight, and keep out of sight until you see me. You see anybody else with me, stay away.”

  Ratua let out the breath he’d been holding. “Done.”

  “Don’t pack a big bag,” Brun added. “Now turn around.”

  Ratua took the last drink of his wine and did as he was told. Brun put the embedder’s muzzle against the back of Ratua’s head; he could feel the cold pressure, and then a moment of mild pain as Brun injected the unit into his skull.

  “So,” Brun said, pocketing the embedder, “how do you know I won’t just kill you anyway?”

  “Because you’re not a killer,” Ratua replied. “One reasonably civilized being can usually recognize another.”

  Brun grunted. “Lem’ scan th’ fiddymon,” he said. Let me see the goods. He didn’t reply to Ratua’s evaluation of him, but Ratua knew it was the truth. He didn’t have to worry about the device going off and painting whatever room he was in with his brains. Even if Brun was a killer, it still wasn’t a worry, because the device wasn’t properly armed. That little bit of reprogramming, and the part needed so that the embedder showed that the chip was armed when it wasn’t, had cost him a small fortune in trade goods, and would have been cheap at twice the price. He could jump up and down and yell “Brun!” until his lips fell off and nothing would happen—at least not as far as that bogus implant was concerned. No way was he going to walk around the rest of his life with a bomb in his head, waiting for a slip of the tongue. Brun wasn’t a killer, true enough. He also wasn’t the brightest star in the cluster, not by several orders of magnitude.

  If they captured Ratua, he’d give Brun up in a Jawa’s heartbeat. As much as the little humanoid was going to make on this deal, he could stand a little risk for it.

  As long as he didn’t know about it.

  18

  J BLOCK BARRACKS, GUARD POST 19, GRID 4349, SECTOR 547, QUADRANT 3, DESPAYRE

  Sergeant Nova Stihl had slept badly. A dream had troubled him; he could not recall the full substance of it, only that he had been in danger, his weapons empty and his fighting art useless. That was all it took to qualify as a nightmare for a soldier.

  Likely it was the heat. Even this late, near midnight, the air outside was near body temperature, and the barracks’ air exchangers were malfunctioning yet again. There was something wrong with the transformer, apparently; the techs had not been able to keep the coils harmonized properly. When they fluctuated, the coolers couldn’t keep up, and it quickly grew hot inside the windowless rooms. Probably hotter in here now than outside.

  For a moment, he considered his holos—he was halfway through a discourse on eclectic deontology by Gar Gratius—but he knew that wouldn’t put him back to sleep. He arose and pulled on a pair of shorts. Maybe there was a breeze outside; at the least, even though it was warm, the air probably wouldn’t be so stuffy in the yard.

  He left the barracks building and walked into the yard, which had a grassy, genetically engineered short lawn that felt cool under his bare feet. The charged fence surrounding the compound gave off a pale glow, punctuated now and then by a spark as Despayre’s equivalent of an unlucky insect blundered into the field.

  The night was cloudy, the overcast sky keeping it dark where there was no artificial light and also acting like a blanket to keep the day’s heat in. In the distance a thunderstorm rumbled, following heat lightning that flashed dimly at this remove. A little rain would be welcome—it would cool things off.

  Nova timed the flashes to the thunder, to gauge the distance. He made it fifteen to sixteen kilometers, moving closer. It’ll probably rain itself out before it gets this far, he thought. Too bad.

  There was a bright pool of light at the dock, where the supply ship was still being off-loaded. They used prisoners for that, droids being in short supply and prone to breaking down in the tropical heat and humidity quicker than they could be replaced. The prisoners were guarded, of course, to make sure none of them decided to hitch a ride offworld when the transport left—not that they had anywhere to go, since the transport was a short-hop vessel incapable of making the jump to lightspeed.

  Nova did some stretching, sinking down into a split on the cool grass, rolling over onto his back and then into a shoulder stand, then letting his legs drop until his knees rested by his ears. He held the pose for a few minutes, then rolled to his feet without using his hands.

  He felt a little better after that. His shift started early, so he turned to head back to bed. Maybe the coolers were working agai
n.

  He caught a glimpse of movement to his left. He glanced that way, toward the South Gate.

  Nothing. Nova stood still for a moment, waiting, looking …

  He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  Had he imagined it?

  Probably a flit, one of the flying poisonous reptiles that sometimes got past the fence and into the compound—no one knew how. If it was a flit, then he’d best take himself inside; the critters were almost impossible to dodge in the dark, and one prick of their poisonous dorsal barbs could put down even a man his size.

  Nova headed back for bed.

  SECTOR N-THREE, DEATH STAR

  “Where are the prisoners?”

  Tarkin looked back at Vader. “Don’t you want to finish the tour?”

  Vader dismissed this question with a wave of his hand. “I trust you can manage the assembly without my help. The prisoners?”

  Vader could see the muscles in the governor’s lean jaw tighten. “This way,” Tarkin said. He was irritated, but did not allow it to show overmuch on his face. And while his mind was perhaps not as flexible as it should be, it was hardly weak. Amazing, Vader reflected, how many highly ranked naval officers did have weak minds. They were good at following orders, but he could read them easily, even without the Force. The language of their bodies spoke volumes about their inner thoughts.

  Not everyone here was weak-minded, however. Quite the contrary, in fact. One of the architects, the Mirialan woman, had surprised him. She had put up a powerful shield to cover her thoughts, even though she was untrained at it. He couldn’t feel the Force flowing in her—she was no Jedi—but her mind was strong. Stronger than that of any woman he’d encountered in a long time; ever since …

  Vader quashed the memory that threatened to rise. He did not allow such thoughts any longer. He had made an ally of pain over the past two decades; had let the physical and emotional trials he’d been subjected to make him stronger, instead of destroying him. But stoic though he was, even he had limits to what he could stand.

  He looked about him at the huge, curved wedge of the section, which was slowly being filled with girders and columns and vast plates of duralumin. The observation catwalk, and the small area around it, had been fielded off and supplied with gravity, as had a number of other decks and platforms. Vader could see one directly across the wedge from them, with several people garbed in the traditional white smocks and gray jumpsuits of scientists and engineers discussing something. Their local A-grav field made it appear that they were standing upside down relative to his party.

  The vast majority of the wedge, however, was still in zero-g and vacuum. Vader watched construction workers—Wookiees, mostly, judging from the size of their vac suits—floating from one level to another, or welding struts and bracework. Droids of various makes and models also moved about on various errands. It was an image of well-organized industry, one calculated to reassure him that work was proceeding smoothly and on schedule. No doubt it had all been carefully orchestrated by Tarkin, but no matter. Vader knew that it took workers who were at least competent to give the illusion of exemplary work.

  He would return with a favorable report for his Master. Tarkin and his construction teams would be able to continue building the station. Sabotage could not be allowed. He would examine those suspected of having a hand in the recent explosion. If their mental defenses were feeble, he would pry every thought in their heads loose and act on what he found. Anyone connected to the disruption would be made to pay the ultimate price. One, ten, a thousand—it didn’t matter how many. All would regret it.

  All would pay.

  19

  BRIG INTERROGATION CHAMBER, DETENTION BLOCK AA, DECK 5, DEATH STAR

  “For whom are you working?”

  Vader stood in front of the lieutenant who had been in charge of the night watch at the Despayre air production facility. Tarkin watched as the Sith Lord interrogated the prisoner about the evening when the ship that had blown up had been loaded.

  “Th-th-the Imperial Navy,” the man managed, in response to Vader’s question.

  “I think not.” Vader’s deep and distorted voice carried such an overtone of menace, it made Tarkin want to take a step back. Some of the officers behind him actually did so.

  The lieutenant, old for his rank, turned to look at Tarkin. The fear in his eyes was obvious—as was his desperation. He had to be desperate if he thought there would be any help for him from Tarkin. Tarkin held his own gaze cool and steady. The man belonged to Vader now.

  “Look at me,” Vader said. The lieutenant turned back to stare at him. “This is your last chance.” He raised his right hand, fingers spread wide.

  “My lord, please! I know nothing!”

  Vader closed his hand into a fist.

  The lieutenant’s voice faded to a choked whisper, his throat muscles straining visibly against the unseen vise that had suddenly gripped them. “Ugghh …” His face purpled, his eyes and tongue bulged, and after a moment, he staggered and fell to the durasteel plate floor. One didn’t need to be a medic to see that he wasn’t going to be telling anybody anything, ever again.

  Tarkin said nothing. He had seen Vader do this before, and, as before, he had no idea how it was accomplished. Whether the Force was some form of telekinetic power or psycho-physiological hypnosis or something else altogether, it was certainly impressive.

  Vader turned to Tarkin. “He had nothing to do with the sabotage.”

  Tarkin frowned. “You know this?”

  “His mind was weak. Easily read.”

  “Then why kill him?”

  “He will be an object lesson for those who follow.”

  Tarkin raised an eyebrow. “A bit harsh.”

  “The incident happened on his watch. He is responsible. He should have known about it.”

  There was a line of causality that didn’t bear too close an examination, Tarkin reflected. By that logic, anybody who had been on duty at the time, at any point in the construction process, could be found guilty. Taken to extremes, even Tarkin himself might be. And somehow, though Vader’s mask was as impassive as ever, Tarkin knew that the Sith Lord was thinking just that.

  “I will wait for a time before I examine the remaining prisoners,” Vader continued. “Give them a chance to learn of this man’s fate. See that they hear of it ‘accidentally.’ ”

  Tarkin nodded. It was ruthless, but certainly he could see the value of it. After all, was not this battle station the grandest example of the doctrine that fear itself was the most potent of weapons?

  “I will return to my ship now,” Vader informed him.

  “We have quarters for you here, Lord Vader—”

  “I prefer my own.” With a swirl of his cape, Vader turned and departed.

  Tarkin quelled the annoyance he felt at Vader’s dismissive attitude; he’d expected no less. He glanced at the dead man, and then looked at the coterie of guards and officers crowded into the small chamber, several of whom were obviously still stunned by what they had seen. “Take the body to the recycler level and dispose of it. And see to it that the guards allow the prisoners to overhear conversations about what happened here—in florid detail.”

  For a moment, no one moved. Tarkin looked about the room. “Am I talking simply to hear my own voice?”

  That got results. Quickly, a pair of guards bent to gather up the corpse.

  Tarkin left the brig, striding down the narrow corridor, flanked by his adjutants. Vader was about as controllable as a rogue reek, but he did get results. Tarkin would be surprised if the other personnel being held in connection with the sabotage were not quick to give up what they knew after hearing of this.

  If they knew anything at all …

  Still, if it cost a handful of prisoners to help keep this from happening again, that was a small price to pay. There were plenty of others to replace them.

  TERMINUS FOURTEEN ACCESS CORRIDOR, DEATH STAR

  Master Chief Petty Officer
Tenn Graneet was in the corridor leading away from the shuttle that had brought him to the battle station when he saw a lone figure striding toward him, all in black, with a cape rippling behind. He recognized the man immediately, from innumerable news holos he’d seen.

  It was Darth Vader, the Emperor’s enforcer.

  Son of a bantha, Tenn thought. He’d known the man was here on an inspection tour, but he certainly didn’t expect to encounter him walking down a corridor all by himself, with no protective entourage. Although, given everything he’d heard about Vader’s highly touted skill with that Jedi akk-sticker hooked to his belt, why shouldn’t he be?

  Tenn kept walking. So did Vader. The corridor, one of the peripheral passageways that led from the shuttle terminus, wasn’t exactly narrow, but it wasn’t terribly wide, either. Tenn realized that Vader’s course was such that the mysterious cloaked figure would run smack into him unless one of them shifted to the side.

  For a moment, Tenn considered holding to his path, just to see what Vader would do. It was a common game among navy personnel, a test of will and dominance, to see who would veer away first, and CPO Tenn Graneet seldom had to give space to anybody—save, of course, superior officers. Vader, however, wasn’t in the navy, so technically he didn’t outrank Tenn.