Star Wars: Death Star

by Michael Reaves

  He didn’t want to be on the side that performed such atrocities.

  He was going.

  THE HARD HEART CANTINA, DEATH STAR

  Ratua’s comm buzzed. He looked at Memah. Nobody had the number but her—and Riten, the archivist. She looked back at him, her lovely teal face expressionless.

  He answered it. “Yeah?”

  “Go.”

  “I have Memah and Rodo right here.”

  “Then I won’t call them. Get to the rendezvous point.”

  “On our way.”

  ELECTRONICS CORRIDOR 7B, DEATH STAR

  Nova was standing guard on a restricted corridor when his comlink cheeped. Since he was in duty black instead of whites, he was able to answer it without routing it through a helmet comm. “Stihl.”

  It was the archivist. “Time to take a walk, Sergeant.”

  “Copy.”

  Nova left his post and started toward the turbolifts.

  “What’s up, Sarge?” the guard at the lifts asked.

  “Sudden call of nature,” he said. “Those lamitos at the mess hall last night.”

  The guard laughed. “I hear that. I’ll keep an eye on your hall till you get back.”

  “Thanks.”

  COMMAND CENTER CORRIDOR

  As Vader strode down the hall, one of his own crew officers hurriedly approached.

  “We count thirty Rebel ships, Lord Vader. But they’re so small, they’re avoiding our turbolasers.”

  Vader’s burned face twisted into its unseen, stiff smile. Once again, Tarkin had been overconfident, so certain his beloved monster was proof against anything. A fly could sting you if you missed swatting it. He had his own personal wing of TIE fighters on board. He would lead them out, and they would deal with what Tarkin could not.

  “We’ll have to destroy them ship-to-ship. Get the crews to their fighters.” His officer knew the command referred only to Vader’s elite fliers. A squadron would be more than enough.

  68

  ARCHITECTURAL OFFICES, DEATH STAR

  Somebody with access or clout or both had installed a first-rate holoprojector in the conference room that had access to external cams, and a small crowd had gathered around the images flashing across the screen.

  Teela walked into the room. She said to one of the drafting droids, “What’s going on?”

  “The station is apparently under attack by Rebel fighters,” the droid said. “And the station’s gunners seem to be having little success hitting them.”

  She nodded. Of course. The turbolasers were designed and timed to track larger targets. She had seen the specs. “Why haven’t they scrambled TIE fighters? That’s what they’re for, isn’t it?”

  The droid said, “That is beyond my capability to comment on. I do drawings, not military tactics.”

  As she watched, a pair of the attacking fighters, both X-wings, dived into one of the surface trenches, firing all the while.

  One of the architects laughed. “They’re wasting their ammunition. Their guns’re too small to penetrate very far into the armor.”

  Teela frowned. That trench looked familiar …

  She stepped out of the conference room and moved to her office. She tapped her computer console, waved her hand over the reader, and brought up a schematic.

  Why would those fighters think they had a snowflake’s chance in a supernova against the Death Star? If they had the plans, like she’d heard, they’d know the ship could withstand anything they could possibly fire at it without sustaining major structural damage—they could shoot themselves dry and whatever harm they did would be repaired in a couple of shifts as if it had never happened.

  Something nagged at her, tugging at the edge of her memory. Let’s see, that was the trench that led to the main heat exhaust vent, wasn’t it? Of course that vent was heavily shielded by both plate and magnetics, so no fighter would be able to penetrate it.

  So why would they try—if they had the plans, they’d know it would be futile, wouldn’t they?

  She blinked and looked closer. Oh.

  Oh!

  The secondary port, the unnecessary one that she’d tried to keep from being built! It was just beyond the main!

  Teela Kaarz was an architect, and a good one, and she had an engineer’s eye. That portal was small, only two meters or so. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never spot it. The ray shielding at the mouth was minimal, meant to stop stray particle beams. And even if one of those got through, it would be absorbed by the anisotropic walls of the tube before it traveled half a kilometer, so no problem there.

  But if something like, say, a proton torpedo were to be fired directly into it …

  Her comlink chirped. The sound’s clarity surprised her, because it wasn’t coming from her pocket, where she’d thought she’d put it. She felt a quick surge of panic upon the realization; what if one of her co-conspirators had tried to call? She looked about, spotted it on a shelf, grabbed it.

  “Yes?”

  It was Riten. He sounded very agitated. “I’ve been trying to reach you—why haven’t you answered?”

  “Sorry. I left the comlink in my office.”

  He hissed in exasperation. “It’s past time to go, Teela!”

  “In a few minutes. I have to—”

  “You don’t have a few minutes. You need to get to the rendezvous now!”

  “Listen, the Rebel attack—I know what they’re up to!”

  “It doesn’t matter what they’re up to. Go!”

  “You don’t understand! They could destroy the station!”

  There was a short pause, no more than a couple of heartbeats. Then: “So?”

  Teela blinked, confused by his response. “Riten—”

  “We live on a battle station called the Death Star, Teela. It’s already killed billions of people, and you know it can and will do worse. Anybody who tries to stand against the Empire will feel its teeth. There’s no limit to how many this abomination could slaughter.”

  “But—all the people on board—”

  “Don’t begin to approach the numbers who were on Alderaan. Go, Teela. Get off while you can. You don’t want to be a part of this any further.”

  Her emotions warred with themselves. All her work. All the dead of Despayre and Alderaan, and all those who might yet die. All her friends and colleagues. Civilians. Prisoners. A thousand worlds within easy reach of the Death Star.

  He was right.

  “I—”

  “Go, now!”

  “All right,” she said.

  She left the images floating over her desk and hurried out into the corridor.

  FLIGHT CORRIDOR SEVENTEEN, DEATH STAR

  Vader strode down the hall, where he came upon a pair of his own pilots. It was time for him to take the field. These Rebels were up to something—he could feel it. To the pilots he said, “Several fighters have broken off from the main group. Come with me.”

  His TIE fighter was fueled and ready—it was always fueled and ready—and he would personally show the Rebels what happened when you went up against Darth Vader. His prototype craft was the Advanced x1—faster, better armed, and equipped with short-range hyperspace capabilities that the older models did not have.

  Whatever the resistance upstarts had in mind, he was going to stop it.

  Vader gestured, and the hatch to his fighter slid open as if by itself. He climbed into the ship, fired up the engines, and, with his two wingmates, flew through the open bay doors and into the black coldness of space.

  MEDCENTER, DEATH STAR

  Uli, having just received the comm call from Riten, was in his office packing a small tote with the few mementos of a military life. Suddenly the door panel opened without buzzing first. Two military security officers, uniforms starched and creased, hair severely cut and wearing implacable frowns, stepped in.

  “Captain Dr. Kornell Divini?” one of them asked.

  Uli stared at them, feeling the hope that had burned in his heart for
the last few hours flare and go out. It was over. They’d been discovered. All that was left to look forward to now was a speedy military trial and then a blasting squad.

  He felt no fear for himself, oddly enough. What he felt was that he’d let two people down—two women who had made a big difference in his life: Princess Leia Organa and Jedi Barriss Offee.

  “Yes,” he said. No point in denying it; no point in denying anything anymore. “I’m Dr. Divini.”

  The other officer said, “You are under arrest for violation of Statute OB-CPO-One-One-Nine-Eight, illegal medical research.”

  “Come with us, please,” the first one ordered.

  Uli was too astonished to ask any questions, which was probably just as well. The two security officers marched him out of his office and down the passage toward the main conduit corridor. They fell in with the traffic flow of servicemen, civilian workers, and droids, most of whom gave Uli and his escorts a wide berth.

  Uli was relieved that his friends and co-conspirators were evidently not in the same jam that he was. They apparently still stood a chance of escaping. At least he wasn’t dragging them down with him.

  But illegal medical research? What could he have possibly done that qualified as—

  And then he remembered.

  Sergeant Stihl’s midi-chlorians. He’d put up an inquiry on the MedNet weeks ago concerning them. He’d never gotten a response, and, eventually, what with the workload and all, he’d forgotten about it. He remembered wondering at the time if posting the question had been a good idea.

  Evidently not …

  POLAR TRENCH TWELVE, DEATH STAR

  Vader said to his two wingmates, “Stay in attack formation.”

  There were three Y-wings diving at the station, making for one of the trenches. Were they mad? They couldn’t do any real damage even if they deliberately plowed into the hull. But they must have something in mind …

  Vader switched to the Command Channel: “All guns in the D-Quadrant cease fire immediately.”

  Three Y-wings, and they’d obviously chosen some kind of target they deemed vulnerable. To his wingmates he said, “I’ll take them myself. Cover me.”

  They acknowledged his order, but he wasn’t listening.

  The trio fell in behind the Y-wings. It was but the work of a few seconds to lock on to the rearmost fighter. Vader thumbed his firing buttons …

  A hit.

  The ship exploded into a fireball. He flew through it.

  He lined up on the second fighter. He didn’t even need to use the Force. There was no room for the fleeing Rebel pilot to maneuver.

  Vader fired. Another one destroyed.

  He lined up on the last Y-wing. Shot it. Another explosion.

  Too easy.

  Was this all they had?

  UPPER DECK CORRIDOR, DEATH STAR

  Uli walked with his two captors along the gently curving corridor. He’d often heard it said that once hope has been truly extinguished, once one realizes in one’s heart that the race is over, there comes with the realization a feeling of serenity, of acceptance, of peace. There’s often even a sense of relief at having the terrible uncertainty that is life resolved by death’s inevitability. He believed it; he’d stood at the side of too many deathbeds, watching the occupants’ final moments, to think otherwise. It wasn’t the way everyone died, of course. But of those who passed away at least semiconscious and reasonably in possession of their faculties, a surprising number reported, moments before breathing their last, that they had entered this state of grace.

  Not Uli. He wasn’t on his deathbed, but he certainly had reason to believe that his life had just ended. Maybe his value as a surgeon could save him, but he doubted it. His only chance at finally getting out of this lifelong insanity that was war had been snatched from him at the eleventh hour. Maybe it was because he was still in shock from the unexpected dashing of his escape plan, but what he was feeling certainly wasn’t serenity. It was anger.

  His life had gone wrong the moment he’d set foot on the pestilent dirt of Drongar two decades earlier, although he hadn’t realized it at the time. His plan had been to do his tour and rotate out, then start in private practice. Big Zoo on Alderaan had been his first choice. He’d seen himself, at this age, mostly retired save for the occasional consulting job, with a wife and kids.

  Instead his life had been one long series of bush assignments, front-line care, Republic and Imperial Mobile Surgical Units, and other work, most of it dangerous, wearisome, and thankless. And now, just when it looked like he might finally have the opportunity at last to change it, to be hoisted by an earlier attempt to do his job responsibly and morally, well …

  There was much to be said for it if one was a fan of irony.

  He might as well accept it—if such a thing as destiny existed, then his was obviously to be a military surgeon for the rest of his life—assuming said life wasn’t cut short by blasterfire in the very near future. Perhaps it was only in resignation, in bowing to the inevitable, that he would find peace. Because it would take a miracle to rescue him now.

  The sound of a muffled explosion, more felt than heard, rumbled around them. Several passersby reacted nervously.

  “What was that?” Uli asked.

  At first he thought he wasn’t going to receive an answer, but then one of the officers said, “Rebel fighters bombing the surface, is my guess.”

  “Or going splat on it,” the other suggested. This brought grim chuckles from both. Uli found the humor a little hard to appreciate.

  “All the good it’ll do ’em,” the first officer said. “Lord Vader’s out there with his elites—those Rebel scum are dead men flying.”

  “Let’s take a lift down to Three-A,” his partner suggested. “We can cut through Hydroponics and—”

  The wall exploded.

  Later Uli realized that it had to have been another bomb, or crash, on the surface just “above” them. At the time all he knew was that several nearby panels had erupted in a shower of sparks and shrapnel, causing panic among the nearby people. And in the smoke and general confusion, Uli found himself separated from his captors.

  There were many different deities worshipped on many different worlds, all supposedly capable of miracles. Uli had no idea which of them, if any, might have been responsible for this one, but he wasn’t taking the time to question it, that was for sure.

  Better let them know I’m coming, he thought. He pulled his comlink from a pocket as he ran through the panicked crowd, fumbled it, and saw it vanish into the stampeding chaos.

  According to his chrono he had less than fifteen minutes to reach the rendezvous point. No time to even think about looking for the comlink. He ran faster.

  69

  STORAGE ROOM 3181, DEATH STAR

  Teela tapped the access code into the pad next to the door, which slid up to reveal the others, all dressed in medical transport grays. She wondered briefly how they’d ever found a size big enough for Rodo, and then Vil practically knocked her over when he hugged her. “Where have you been? I was worried sick! Get changed—hurry!”

  The room had no other compartments, and this was hardly the time for modesty anyway. Teela stripped and quickly donned a set of pale gray coveralls. There were medical insignia on the sleeves and breast.

  As she dressed, she looked at the others, doing a head count. Vil, Memah, Ratua, Rodo, Nova …

  “We’re light two people,” she said.

  “We’ve noticed,” Ratua said. “We haven’t heard from either the doc or the old man.”

  Teela pulled her comlink and was about to input Uli’s code when the room’s access panel whooshed up again. Uli, red-faced and breathing hard, entered.

  “Cutting it kind of close, aren’t we, Doc?” Nova asked.

  Uli gave him a strange look, almost as if he blamed the sarge for his tardiness. But all he said was, “I’ve got to listen to the advice I give my patients, and exercise.”

  Teela’s comlink chee
ped. She thumbed it. “Riten?”

  “You made it to the rendezvous?”

  “I’m getting dressed now.”

  “The others?”

  “They’re all here. Except for you.”

  “Good, good. You have less than ten minutes to get from there to the ship.”

  “Where are you?”

  A slight hesitation. “In my office.”

  “What?” Teela looked about, saw that the others were as shocked as she was. “But—you can’t—”

  “I’m afraid there has been a glitch in the plan,” Riten’s voice said. “My faithful droid was a bit clumsy in its research, and as a result, it won’t be able to fulfill its part. Somebody has to be here to vet the call from the man who will open the door for you. That would be me.”

  “Can’t you take the call on your comlink?”

  “Alas, no. My droid set it up, and I’m not technically skilled enough with hard- and firmwire to jigger what it did. It doesn’t matter. I did a check on that possibility you brought up, and I think you’re right, Teela. If that happens, no one will be coming for me. If it doesn’t happen, well, I’ve had a long and enjoyable ride. No regrets.”

  “Atour—”

  “No, no, not now. You don’t have time. Get moving. Have a good life, child. Now go—all of you.”

  He shut off the link from his end.

  Nobody moved or spoke for a few seconds.

  “Can’t we go back for him?” Teela asked, fighting back tears. She knew the answer, of course, even before Memah said, “There’s no time. All we can do is make sure his sacrifice isn’t in vain.”

  “She’s right,” Rodo said. “Let’s go.”

  Vil opened the door, and they moved into the corridor. “I really hope somebody knows where we’re going,” Ratua said.