Star Wars: Death Star

by Michael Reaves

  “Excellent.”

  “I have not, however, been able to bypass bay door controls for egress. Those systems are not yet linked to the main computer.”

  “That’s no good,” Atour said. “If we can’t get the shuttle launched, the rest doesn’t matter.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Atour considered the problem. “What is the procedure for standard emergency medical transport launch?”

  “The onboard crew sends a copy of its orders to Bay Door Control and requests permission to depart. The flight plan is checked via comlink to Flight Control and, if valid, the officer in charge gives the order to his technicians. A force field sufficient to retain atmosphere but permeable enough to allow vessels to penetrate is produced. The vessel exits, the doors are closed and sealed, the field is shut off.”

  Atour nodded. “So the only reasonable solution here is to have the doors opened by the BDC crew.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. Can you produce a bogus flight plan and order for transmission?”

  “I can, but I cannot insert that plan into the Flight Control systems, which are independent of the main computer. They will have no record of them.”

  “But you can jam or redirect communications if you have the op-chan frequencies?”

  “Certainly, sir. Even you could do that.”

  Atour gave him a look. “So if the door crew sends a signal to the Flight Control crew and instead of getting to them it goes somewhere else, then whoever gets that call could verify the orders?”

  “In theory,” the droid said.

  “Well, then that problem is solved. You’ll just have it set up so that that call comes here.”

  The droid turned to regard him.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that—I won’t be here. You will take the call and verify it.”

  “That would be illegal, sir. I cannot knowingly violate Imperial law.”

  “But if I am on that shuttle and you don’t confirm the order, then I’ll be arrested, and possibly even executed.”

  “In that case, my primary programming, which is to protect you from harm, would allow such illegal activity.”

  Atour slapped P-RC3 on the back. “Good man. I knew I could count on you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Set it up, Persee. I have a feeling we won’t have a lot of time. Once this station comes out of hyperspace, things will get very active around here.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “I’m going to pay a visit to the local cantina now. Let me know when you get everything done.”

  CONFERENCE ROOM, COMMAND CENTER, DEATH STAR

  Vader was still attempting to come to terms with the disappearance of Obi-Wan. His moment of triumph as he’d cut the old man down had been short-lived. How ironic that he’d been constantly telling nonbelievers like Tarkin not to underestimate the power of the Force, and now he’d witnessed an event that made him realize he was guilty of just such heresy himself.

  His Master had never spoken of Jedi just vanishing into nothingness. This bespoke a power that Vader had not yet seen, even in the dark side. But surely it must exist there. Perhaps it had something to do with the darksome hints that his Master had dropped, from time to time, about Darth Plagueis, the Sith Lord who had been Darth Sidious’s Master. Plagueis had been, according to the Emperor, obsessed with the preservation of the immaterial ego after the physical death of the body. Vader determined to ask his Master about it as soon as this distracting foolishness with the Rebels was—

  The intercom beeped. Tarkin answered it. “Yes?”

  “We are approaching the planet Yavin,” a tech said.

  “The Rebel base is on a moon on the far side. We are preparing to orbit the planet.”

  Tarkin smiled as he disconnected and looked at Vader. “Well, Lord Vader, it seems you were correct. We are almost in position to break the back of the Alliance. I am sure the Emperor will be pleased.”

  “If the station performs as it is supposed to,” Vader said. He believed that it would, but Tarkin seemed a bit too smug and sure of himself. It served him to keep the man slightly on the defensive.

  “Oh, it will,” Tarkin said. “I guarantee it will.”

  66

  THE HARD HEART CANTINA, DEATH STAR

  Memah had closed the cantina again, this time ostensibly to repair a malfunctioning cooler unit.

  Ratua came back to the bar, waving a small electronic device. “Sniffer says we’re still clean. No listening devices have been brought in since we got here.”

  “That’s good,” Rodo said, “because if we weren’t involved in a conspiracy that would get us all shot before, we sure are now.”

  Memah looked around at the others: Riten, the instigator; Dance, the TIE pilot; Kaarz, the architect; Stihl, the guard; Divini, the doctor; Rodo, Ratua, and herself. Eight of them, against the might of the Empire. Not very good odds, Memah thought. One misstep and they were all dead.

  “Any questions?” Riten asked.

  “It seems too easy,” Rodo said.

  “Not really,” Nova said. “The station is designed to withstand massive attack from without, but nobody worries too much about security within. The place is full of stormtroopers, guards, army and navy personnel, even a few bounty hunters thrown in. Plus, the only ways in or out are well protected. And if you do manage to get out, there are enough guns to turn you into subatomic particles, and twenty-four tractor beam batteries to hold you still while they do it.”

  There was a small jolt. Everyone reacted uneasily. “What now?” Uli asked.

  “Just came out of hyperspace,” Vil observed. “Wherever we were going, we’re probably there.”

  “The Yavin system,” Riten said. “Three planets, the only one of which concerns us being Yavin Prime. A gas giant with a number of habitable moons.”

  “And why is this important?” Ratua asked.

  “Remember the Rebel freighter that ‘escaped’? The one with the doc’s girlfriend on it?” Nova asked.

  Uli shook his head. “Not my girlfriend, alas. Although she made Atour’s point about not being part of the problem well enough to convince me to join this raggedy crew.”

  “Yeah, well, the scut in the guard shack is that the ship was bugged and let go so we could follow it. Tarkin thinks there’s a Rebel base here somewhere.”

  “Bad for them if it’s so,” Rodo said.

  “But perhaps not for us,” Riten said. “If the navy is busy fighting off Rebel attack ships, it might make it easier for us to escape.”

  Nova said, “Nothing the Rebels have can get close enough to scratch the finish on the Death Star—anything bigger than a fighter’ll get blown apart a thousand klicks out.”

  “Still, during a battle, ambulance ships sometimes get dispatched without causing undue concern.”

  Rodo shook his head. “I hope you and your droid got all this right,” he said to the archivist. “Otherwise even an ambulance won’t do us much good.”

  Teela said, “So what do we do now?”

  “Go on back to your routine, keep your heads down, and don’t cause any fuss. Set your personal comlink to the library’s data channel—that’s five-five-seven-point-nine. As soon as everything is in place, I’ll call, and with any luck, that call will be very soon.

  “You’ll have thirty minutes to make it to the transport. If everything goes well, we’ll be in deep space a couple of minutes after that—and free.”

  “If everything goes well,” Vil said. His voice was dry.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES, DEATH STAR

  Two black-clad security guards were waiting, flanking P-RC3, when Atour arrived.

  Atour felt his insides freeze. “What’s going on here?”

  “Is this droid assigned to you, sir?”

  Stay calm. “Yes.”

  “Apparently it is malfunctioning, Commander. Our computer security monitor detected it attempting to access restricted data.”

  “This must be a mi
stake. This droid has been performing in an exemplary manner. I couldn’t be happier with—”

  “That may be, sir, but our orders are to take the droid into custody and arrange for a memory scan.”

  Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Persee.

  He tried, knowing that it was fruitless. “That may disrupt its ability to function. And it is a most valuable assistant.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we have our orders,” the guard said. “Come along,” he added to the droid.

  P-RC3 said, “I’m sure it’s a simple mistake, Commander Riten, and a scan will straighten it all out. Oh, by the way, I did finish those filing chores you asked me to do. I hope they will be of assistance to you.”

  “Good luck, Persee.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  The guards led the droid away.

  Atour sighed in regret. Pretty soon P-RC3 was going to have a mental meltdown. Atour felt bad about it. Yes, the droid could be reprogrammed, but it wouldn’t be the same. Sad. He had liked P-RC3, more than he did most people.

  But there was a bigger problem to consider. If P-RC3 wasn’t here to take the call to verify the medical transport’s right to leave the station, it wouldn’t be going anywhere. And P-RC3 was gone.

  It seemed that somebody else would have to be here to take that call.

  SUPERLASER FIRE CONTROL, DEATH STAR

  “Ready to crank it up, Chief?”

  Tenn Graneet looked steadily at his CO. “Absolutely, sir,” he said.

  It was a lie, of course. He was not ready. Not after Alderaan. The destruction of the prison planet had been gut wrenching enough, even though he’d known the place had been home to killers and spice dealers and other scum of the galaxy. He reminded himself of that often, trying to find comfort in it, trying not to think about the thousands of guards and other personnel stationed on Despayre, some of whom had been his friends, not to mention the considerable number who had been wrongfully convicted and exiled there, all of whom had also died in fire because he had thrown the lever. Try as he might, he couldn’t justify their massacre simply as collateral damage.

  And even if he could, there was still Alderaan. That hadn’t been collateral damage. That had been genocide on a planetary scale, an entire world wiped away, and for what? Why did all those millions of people have to die?

  As an object lesson. To show the galaxy that the Empire meant business, that Palpatine was not to be trifled with. To make sure that Tarkin’s fear doctrine was taken seriously.

  And to punish—no, to torture—a young noblewoman who was part of the Rebellion.

  He’d heard the story from more than one source. There had been no Rebel force hidden on Alderaan—if he could have believed there had been, it might have helped. But there had been guards there when Tarkin had told Motti to drop the hammer. They had heard the truth.

  And it had been Tenn who’d pulled the trigger. He had sent the beam that killed at least a billion people, maybe more; he didn’t know what the planetary population had been. No doubt there was an up-to-date census in some datafile somewhere, but he wasn’t going looking for it. He didn’t want to know the figures. The bottom line was that he had done it.

  That knowledge was worse than gut wrenching. Much worse. Tenn hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since he’d done it, and he didn’t see how he ever could again.

  “Scut is we’re on the trail of the Rebels,” his CO said. “Just wanted to give you a head’s-up. Stay frosty.” He turned and descended the steep stairs—almost a ladder—back down to the deck, leaving Tenn alone in the control room.

  Alone, he thought. If only. Tenn knew he would never be alone again.

  Yes, he was a good soldier, a cog in the well-oiled machine that was the Empire. He followed orders. He did his job. But how could a man live with the knowledge that he, personally, had dropped the curtain on more people at once than anybody had ever done before?

  How could he live with all those ghosts?

  He, Master Chief Petty Officer Tenn Graneet, was the biggest mass murderer in galactic history. That was something to tell those hypothetical great-grandkids about, wasn’t it?

  And now he was about to add still more to the total. Hey, why not? What was a few hundred thousand, or even a million more, when you had already scragged the populations of two planets?

  He didn’t know if he could do it again. When the moment came to destroy the Rebel base, he wasn’t sure he could.

  He knew he didn’t want to—of that he was certain.

  But if he didn’t, somebody else would, and he’d get tossed into detention for disobeying an order. Then he’d have plenty of time on his hands to think about that moment when he had put every vile dictator or madman who had ever committed genocide to shame. General Grievous, the Butcher of Montellian Serat, Grand Admiral Ishin Il-Raz … pikers, all of them. None of them had ever slain so many, so suddenly.

  So easily …

  There was an old proverb his grandfather had taught him when he’d been a boy: Take care what you wish for, Tenn—you might get it.

  Now he understood exactly what that meant. He had wanted to fire the big gun, and he had gotten to do just that. The only man in the galaxy who had shot it for real, at real targets, and look what it had bought him:

  Misery beyond his ugliest dreams.

  Graneet, the planet killer. Two up, two down.

  People were already looking at him funny. Someday this war would be over, and what he had done couldn’t be kept a secret. Alderaan had been destroyed, and somebody had done it. The citizens of the Empire—or maybe even the Republic once again, though he didn’t see how the Alliance stood a chance, now—they’d want to pore over the details of the action. And once they did, they’d find him. They’d hold him up to the light and decry his hideous aspect.

  Graneet, the planet killer. Unique among men. Got a pest problem? Call the chief—guaranteed to get rid of ’em all.

  He wouldn’t be able to walk on a street on any civilized planet in the galaxy; people wouldn’t be able to abide his presence.

  Nor would he blame them.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He didn’t believe he would ever be able to stop thinking about it. The dead would haunt him, forever.

  How could a man live with that?

  67

  COMMAND CENTER, DEATH STAR

  Vader and Tarkin watched the schematic representation of Yavin Prime glowing in the air. The smaller image of the moon Yavin 4 behind the translucent gas giant moved in small increments toward the outer perimeter.

  The voice from the comm said, “Orbiting the planet at maximum velocity. The moon with the Rebel base will be in range in thirty minutes.”

  The countdown flashed on the screen.

  Vader had thought long and hard about his duel with Obi-Wan, and had come to a somewhat satisfying conclusion: whatever had happened to his body, his old teacher was no more. That was what mattered. Wherever his form had gone, whatever it had become, he would not be seen in this galaxy again. That was more important than anything else.

  To Tarkin, he said, “This will be a day long remembered. It has seen the end of Kenobi. It will soon see the end of the Rebellion.”

  Tarkin glanced at Vader. The latter did not need the Force to sense the Grand Moff’s pride—it shone from his face. The culmination of all his decades of work was about to take place. This had been his project from the beginning, and it was about to produce the result he had always said it would. How could he not feel proud?

  “Sir,” came the voice from the intercom, “we have picked up small Rebel ships leaving the moon and heading our way.”

  Tarkin smiled, a cruel expression.

  “Shall we scramble TIEs to intercept?” the voice asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Tarkin said into the intercom. “I believe our gunners can use the practice.”

  He turned back to Vader. “It will be like swatting flies.”

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES, DEATH STAR


  Atour felt a faint vibration in the deck beneath his chair. Whatever it was, he hoped fervently that it wouldn’t interfere with his work. He was almost finished with the final stage of the plan. He concentrated on programming, the monitor’s flickering light painting his face with pallor. Almost there … almost …

  Ah. He leaned back in satisfaction, feeling stiff back muscles protest. He had found the link in the comm system that P-RC3 had built for him, and had locked it down. A dedicated pipe for communications from the Door Control room.

  He picked up his comlink.

  TIE FIGHTER PILOT BARRACKS, DEATH STAR

  Vil Dance felt the vibration through his boots as he passed the watch commander. “What’s up, Commander?”

  “That’s what it feels like when the guns are locking and loading full power charges. We got company come to call.”

  “We scrambling?”

  “Negative. I guess they think we hogged all the fun last time—they’re letting the gunners deal with this. Too bad.”

  Vil’s comlink chirped. “Oops, sorry, need to take that. New girlfriend is supposed to be cooking me dinner.”

  The watch commander grinned and made a kissing sound.

  Vil grinned back. “I hope so,” he said. He took a few steps away, pulled his comlink from his belt. “Yeah?”

  “Go,” Riten’s voice said. “A little under thirty minutes.”

  “Copy. See you there.”

  There was a short pause. “Right.”

  Vil’s mouth was suddenly dry. This was it. If he was going to change his mind, this was the time. He could still back out, stay the best pilot in the fleet, on the fast track for promotion.

  No. He remembered blowing up that shuttle of escaped prisoners. He remembered the nightmares he’d had for weeks afterward. He remembered the slaughter of the attacking Rebel fighters. And of course, he remembered Despayre and Alderaan.