by James Luceno
Orson should have known better than to leave him to waiting and wanting, his mind restless and ravenous for data. In search of diversion he had turned to the facility’s database, which housed exanodes of information regarding Project Celestial Power, including details on personnel, requisitions, credit allocations, even the names of subcontractors. Taking care to cover his tracks, Galen had wormed his way into the transportation hub in an effort to follow up on the mining operations that were under way in remote systems of the Western Reaches, and had been puzzled to discover that while some of the shipments of the unrefined ores could be traced from system to system, the bulk of the mined doonium and dolovite didn’t appear to be ending up in any of the program’s processing plants, or on any of the worlds on which Orson had maintained energy facilities were being readied. Instead it was as if the rare ores were vanishing into some sort of operational black hole. Which had left him wondering whether the records were being deliberately cooked to hide cost overrides and bureaucratic expenditures, or something more nefarious was occurring.
As he moved away from the sun sculpture, it began to occur to him that Lyra had probably run the very path he was following, and had certainly walked it with Jyn. But in fact any semblance of a shared path between her and Galen had disappeared in the same way the ores seemed to have. Since her recent return from the Central District apartment, Lyra had become as distant as she had accused him of being following the excursion to Malpaz, withdrawn and no longer interested in hearing about the research, even when Galen had tried to engage her; even after long sessions spent transcribing his personal notes, Jyn was caught between the two of them in a gulf her young mind couldn’t fathom.
Had Lyra seen through his lie? Had she instinctively diagnosed the illness he had brought on himself, and decided to keep Jyn and herself safe from contagion?
Perhaps there was another B’ankora sculpture somewhere on the facility grounds that could furnish him with a way forward.
—
“Zerpen Industries and its moon are now the property of the Empire,” Tarkin told the holopresence of Mas Amedda. “The local militias of Salient Two have been able to hold out longer than expected, but the tide has turned and we anticipate a complete victory there as well.”
The vizier’s delay in responding had nothing to do with the many parsecs that separated Coruscant and Salient. Amedda was turning the news over in his mind.
“Perhaps you should conclude your advance while you’re still ahead, Governor Tarkin, since this incursion has already proved costly enough. Furthermore, it is our understanding that those beings who haven’t fled deeper into the sector have been destroying the very mining operations and industries you have risked so much to acquire.”
Tarkin had expected as much. The Chagrian would like nothing more than to see him withdraw. “Some of us complete what we begin, Vizier.”
“A commendable quality, to be sure. But in this instance, we are not convinced that you should have started down this course in the first place.”
Tarkin steadied himself for a reply, spreading his legs wider and planting his booted feet firmly on the bridge deck.
“Is everything in order?” Amedda asked before Tarkin could utter a word. “Your transmission is quite disrupted—as if the holocam is being shaken.”
Tarkin managed to maintain his balance. “Salient Strategic Command is still employing countermeasures to jam our communications.”
Amedda grunted. “So long as you have the upper hand.”
In fact, Tarkin’s standard weeks at Salient had constituted some of the fiercest fighting he had engaged in since the Clone Wars, and had already resulted in more casualties than some of his campaigns in the Western Reaches to root out entrenched Separatists.
Outside the ship’s viewports local space was crosshatched with destructive hyphens of energy and was strobing with short-lived explosions. Salient’s warships were too distant to see with the naked eye, but the screens and holoprojectors on the Star Destroyer’s bridge displayed four cruisers unleashing ion and turbolaser fighters against squadrons of ARC-170 starfighters deployed from the older-generation Venator-class Star Destroyers that had finally arrived from Telos to reinforce the Executrix.
It was true that Salient II had been brought to its knees, but months of combat against guerrilla groups might be necessary before an occupying force of stormtroopers could be garrisoned. Relentless hammering from the Imperial capital ships had ultimately overwhelmed the planet’s defensive shields, and once the generators and ground-based planetary turbolasers had been destroyed, the government had sued for a cease-fire to forestall additional civilian deaths. As Amedda had pointed out, the locals had made matters worse for themselves and for Tarkin by obliterating almost everything of industrial, agricultural, or commercial value.
The same had occurred on Epiphany’s moon, and there, too, Tarkin had been ill equipped to install an occupying army. Nor could he afford to leave a capital ship at Epiphany to serve as a kind of sentinel. Salient I, the innermost of the system’s inhabited worlds, had only a few major population centers, but local militias were known to be gearing up for what Tarkin assumed would be a protracted ground war.
“With Salient Two on the brink, we need additional battalions of stormtroopers,” he succeeded in saying without swaying too much as the Executrix was harassed by starfighter fire.
Amedda’s enormous head was already shaking. “That’s impossible, Governor. We simply haven’t enough stormtroopers to allocate. Unless, of course, you are suggesting that we send cadets from the academies.”
“And why not, Vizier? They need to be field-tested at some point.”
Amedda started to stay something but changed his mind and began again. “Are you certain everything is in order? We’re having trouble stabilizing your presence.”
Tarkin realized that it was pointless to try to remain motionless on the bridge walkway. “The transmission will be better in one of the command pits.”
Amedda made a fatigued sound. “Please be quick about it, Governor. I have much to attend to.”
Like licking the Emperor’s boots clean with your forked tongue, Tarkin thought as he negotiated the stairs leading to the nearest duty station. Once in position he supported himself against the console and wedged his boots beneath it.
“Still unstable, but somewhat improved,” Amedda said.
Tarkin took up where he had left off. “An enduring occupation cannot be achieved without sufficient forces. If you can’t spare stormtroopers, then send me a wing of TIE fighters.”
Amedda lowered his horns in anger. “You ask too much. They are in even shorter supply than effectives.”
Tarkin grimaced for the cam. “If I didn’t know better, Vizier, I might almost think that you’re attempting to undermine my efforts.”
Amedda’s blue eyes widened. “On the contrary. We are doing our level best to shore up your adventurism.”
“Adventurism, is it?”
“Grandstanding, then. The Senate is up in arms.”
“The Senate is a fiction, Vizier,” Tarkin said with contempt. “The Emperor isn’t facing a revolt. What’s more, my grandstanding, as you call it, is part of the cost of moving the battle station project toward completion.”
“That may be true,” Amedda allowed, “but others involved in the project are seeing to their responsibilities without asking for the impossible.”
Krennic, Tarkin surmised.
Amedda had become the engineer’s champion. Perhaps the two were even in collusion to weaken him. Amedda was certainly unaware of the role Krennic had played in transforming Salient into a battlefield, but saying as much wasn’t likely to serve Tarkin’s interests.
“You have advocated that the moffs be entrusted with sector control,” Amedda was saying, “when it appears that you are incapable of subduing a single star system without Coruscant’s help.”
Tarkin drew himself up, folding his arms across his chest. “All of Salient
will soon belong to the Empire—with or without your help.”
Amedda showed his pointed teeth. “I will be certain to reassure His Majesty, the Emperor.”
“He doesn’t require reassurance from you, Vizier. I’m certain you’ll find that I have his complete support. Salient’s resources, in whatever state we inherit them, are trivial against the necessity of sending a message to other systems in this sector that autonomy is at the pleasure of the Empire, and that that privilege can be revoked whenever the Emperor sees fit.”
Amedda took a long moment to reply. “We concede your point about the importance of an enduring occupation, and will dispense what we can afford.”
“Be quick about it, Vizier,” Tarkin said. “I have much to attend to.”
No sooner did the holopresence of the Chagrian vanish than Tarkin swung away from the cam and hurried back up the staircase to the shuddering forward bridge.
“Battle damage assessment.”
“The shields are holding,” the ship’s commander updated.
While good news was always appreciated, it was clear that the battle in deep space was continuing to test the mettle of both sides. Salient’s home group was made up of some twenty capital ships protected by powerful shields developed by Zerpen Industries, which therefore had to be challenged one by one. At the same time, Tarkin was deploying squadrons of starfighters to prevent the smugglers from delivering medical aid, arms, and even volunteer soldiers from neighboring star systems—the same smugglers who by rights should have been locked away in an Imperial prison helping to make the case for the Imperial appropriation of Salient. Each time Tarkin’s task force of ships attempted to move closer to Salient I, they were forced to backtrack to put out fires, literal and otherwise, ignited by the resupplied militias.
Like guerrilla fighters themselves, Salient’s ships—miscellanies of modules and wartime weaponry—would race in to exchange fire or destroy another wing of starfighters, only to jump to more defended areas of space. Without the requested reinforcements, Tarkin didn’t see how he could take Salient I in six standard months, and that wouldn’t do—not with Krennic still on the loose.
“Long-distance scanners are tracking a couple of smuggler ships inserting at Salient One,” the commander said.
Tarkin turned to the command pit screens. “How is it that they are continuing to avoid our screening blockades and patrols?”
“Salient Strategic Command has to be providing them with hyperspace exit points unknown to our navicomputers.”
Tarkin walked forward to the trapezoidal viewports to sight down the lancet bow of the Executrix, as if by narrowing his eyes he could discern the rogue ships. “This isn’t a theater for amateurs. Tell me again who’s leading them?”
The commander called up a holo of a Dressellian male from his datapad. “According to Commander Krennic’s data, it’s the same smuggler who laid the groundwork for us at Samovar and Wadi Raffa. Captain Has Obitt.”
—
Salient’s volunteer band of smugglers and mercenaries had maneuvered their freighters and cargo vessels down into a wide valley that coursed along an enormous tectonic fault line in the western hemisphere of the innermost world. Escarpments a thousand meters high made of red and gray stone walled the valley on both sides, and the broad floor was mottled with shallow lakes that in the dry season were the gathering places for millions of birds. Farther south the valley debouched into a vast savanna, interrupted by stands of dense forest, the grazing grounds for ruminants and other creatures who had that part of Salient One largely to themselves.
Stretches of the western escarpment had collapsed, resulting in enormous falls of boulders and scree, buttressing sheer cliff faces. The gushing waters of a long-vanished river had over the eons eaten deeply into the base of the eastern escarpment, hollowing out a tall and spacious indentation sheltered by an immense overhang of rock and honeycombed with expansive caves that ran for kilometers under the soaring wall. It was on the sandy soil beneath the roof of rock that the smugglers’ ships had set down, concealed from patrols of ARC-170s sprung from Imperial ships in deep space. From sectors as distant as the Tingel Arm, the volunteers had brought munitions, medical supplies, foodstuffs, and, in some cases, ragtag mixed-species groups of freedom fighters.
Light was late in arriving to the valley floor, but the air was already warm. A thin layer of mist hung over the shallow lakes, swirling and evanescing in the glow of morning. The cooling engines of the ships pinged, sweat bees bombinated, and the ground swarmed with black-bodied ants every bit as busy as the sentients and doing their best not to be crushed underfoot in the frantic bustle. Laser cannons had been hastily installed in the scree fields, and lookouts equipped with blaster rifles and rocket launchers were posted on the ledges above.
Despite the cargo hold’s climate regulator, Has was sweating profusely under his enviro-suit, his puffy face beaded with drops of moisture as he wrestled crates from his ship and lowered them into the waiting arms of locals or droids, or set them atop repulsorlift sleds. Something was off in Salient I’s mix of atmospheric gases, and he felt light-headed. Lines of humans and aliens and droids ran from the assortment of ships to the gaping mouths of the caves, in which much of the merchandise would be stashed until needed. Alongside Has was Saw Gerrera, doing the same at his own craft, shouting orders, organizing activities, making everything run smoothly and efficiently.
“You told the Hiitian commander on Salient Two that you’d done this sort of thing before,” Has shouted to him between breaths.
Saw nodded and paused to mop his brow. “On my homeworld, during the war.”
“Was it as bad as this?” Has asked, lifting his chin.
“Worse, because it was my own people fighting one another. But we had outside help in making things right. My being here is recompense.”
“Did it work?”
“Did what work?”
“Defiance. Was that enough?”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“What was?”
“Believing that your actions mattered, and believing that a good end would come of them, even if you didn’t live to see the results.”
Has snorted. “Cheery thought. Throw dirt in your enemy’s face, get crushed underfoot.”
Saw stopped what he was doing and walked over to him. “Look at it this way, Has. If we can persuade enough people to start throwing dirt…”
Realizing that he was supposed to finish the thought, Has considered it, then said: “Eventually we bury them.”
Saw grinned at him. “And folks say you’re just a smuggler.”
Has started to return the grin, then stopped. “Wait, what folks?”
Saw was still smiling. “Don’t worry, you’ve made a lasting impression on Woana.”
Saw’s mention of Wanton Wellspring’s captivating barmaid cheered Has, but only for a moment. Then the reality of their situation rushed back in. What was happening now wasn’t the same internecine fight Saw had fought, nor was it similar to what had happened during the Clone Wars. And Gerrera was right. The Empire was quickly becoming the other, a featureless gray enemy that species of varied sorts would be able to stave off only if they united, all differences set aside. It was almost heartening to witness the dawning of hope, as cautious and fragile as it was. If the oppressed could coalesce before the Empire’s burgeoning military grew too strong or its forces too widespread, then maybe it could be foiled.
Has hauled a smaller, lighter crate to the hatchway and placed it in the arms of a waiting furred and bucktoothed aquatic sentient. The Tynnan hefted it into the arms of a skeletal insectoid, and the Kobok passed it to a bipedal felinoid Trianii, and so on down the line, toward the dark maw of the cave system.
Distant thunder echoed in the canyon, the sound of explosions from starfighter strafing runs. Has accepted that it wasn’t a battle any of them could win, but assuming they could keep the Imperials tied up on a dozen fronts, maybe the Empire would ultimately give up
the idea of occupying the system.
Was that too much to wish for?
Remembering the discussion with Lyra and Nari in the cave on Alpinn, Has paused and took a long look around him; then he shut his eyes and stretched out in his own way in an effort to experience the sense of transcendence and interconnectedness the two women had described. Feeling hot and sticky, he gave up the effort. Could the Force be felt even in the midst of conflict? Was it even available to one who had strayed as far from the noble path as Has had? Assuming he survived, he would have to contact Lyra at some point and ask her.
Has was shoving the final crate toward the hatch when a blond-haired human approached his ship.
“How do we keep this going, Captain?”
Has left the crate on the edge of the ramp. “He’s determined, and Salient’s battle group isn’t going to be able to stop him. You’re set on making this place unlivable, but my guess is that he’ll be on the ground before you can bring that about. Unless we can keep delaying him with diversionary attacks. As more and more autonomous systems join the fight, he might think twice about establishing garrisons. We’re arranging for you to be able to communicate with militias on Salient Two and on the Epiphany moon.”
“We won’t abandon the cause,” the human said.
“Just remember to keep him guessing; strike, withdraw, and regroup,” Saw added from nearby. “When his troops advance, you attack from behind. When he sends his ships to reinforce his troops on the moon, you open up new fronts on Salient Two or here. You need to keep him as off balance as you can, so he can’t gain a foothold.”
Has realized that where he and Saw should probably be saying the Imperials or them, they had personified the battle in the figure of the task force admiral, whose name Has had learned was Wilhuff Tarkin. A tall gaunt man, emblematic of the Empire, an outspoken propagandist, a true believer, former governor of his homeworld, close to Palpatine before the war and now one of his moffs. Worse than Krennic, who could say? But probably equally responsible for appropriating the worlds Has had helped manipulate into subjugation.