James Luceno - Tarkin

Twenty soldiers complemented the half dozen who were holding weapons on Vader and Tarkin, with several repurposed Separatist battle droids augmenting the hall group. Their apparent leader lounged on a gaudy throne of coral, clicking orders to his minions.

Vader came to a halt five meters from the throne and spent a moment taking in the overstated surroundings. “You have done well for yourself since the demise of your former competitor, crime lord,” he said at last.

“And for that I owe you a debt of gratitude, Lord Vader,” the Sugi answered in heavily accented Basic. “That is the sole reason I have allowed you entry to my abode — to thank you personally for killing my predecessor and persuading Black Sun to abandon Murkhana for safer realms.”

“You are as insolent as he was, crime lord.”

“Given that I enjoy the upper hand here, Lord Vader, I can well afford to be.”

Vader folded his arms across his massive chest. “Don’t be too sure of yourself.”

The Sugi dismissed the warning. “I have been apprised by my associates of your prowess, Lord Vader. But I doubt that even you could triumph over so many.” When Vader said nothing, he continued: “Now, what is this drivel about commandeering my starship?”

Tarkin stepped forward to speak. “We take your meaning about being outnumbered. But perhaps there’s a healthier way to persuade you to do as Lord Vader asks.”

The Sugi’s large eyes expanded. “I have not had the pleasure …”

“Meet Moff Tarkin, crime lord,” Vader said. “Sector governor of Greater Seswenna and more.”

The Sugi sat back in his chair. “Now I am impressed. That Murkhana should play host to two such luminary Imperials … Though many might say I would be doing the galaxy a favor by eliminating you here and now.” He fixed his gaze on Tarkin. “But you were saying, Governor Tarkin …”

“That in meetings of this nature there are always alternatives to using brute force.”

“I can’t imagine any alternatives that will convince me to surrender my fanged beauty of a starship, Governor Tarkin.”

Cautiously, Tarkin drew a portable holoprojector disk from the pocket of his tunic. “If I may?”

The Sugi waved permission.

“Sergeant Crest,” Vader said toward the device. “Are you in the crime lord’s warehouse?”

“Yes, Lord Vader. Ready to bring the entire place down on your command.”

“Then you have redeemed yourself, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, Lord Vader.”

The crime lord’s expression approximated entertainment. “You can’t be serious. Or do you actually believe that I would surrender my ship for a warehouse full of weapons?”

“Your Crymorah associates on Coruscant might encourage you to do just that.”

“I’ll take my chances, Lord Vader.”

“You’re right of course,” Tarkin said quickly. “But just now your warehouse contains more than weapons. We’ve arranged for your wives and brood to be present as well.” He called up an image of the Sugi’s family members huddled in a circle on the warehouse floor and surrounded by stormtroopers with raised weapons. “We understand that you are very attached to them. A product of your genetics, I suspect.”

“You wouldn’t!” the Sugi said.

His earlier doubts about Vader’s plan beginning to fade, Tarkin lifted an arrogant eyebrow. “Wouldn’t we?”

The Sugi fidgeted in apprehension. “I can have both of you killed where you stand!”

“We’ll take our chances,” Tarkin said, grinning slightly. “Your ship for their lives.”

After a long moment of rapid clicking and nervous hand wringing, the Sugi broke the tense silence. “All right, take the ship! I will purchase a replacement. I will purchase twenty replacements. Just let them live — let them live!”

Tarkin’s face grew deadly serious. “You’ll need to furnish us with all the necessary launch codes and order all of your underlings to leave the landing field at once.”

“Then I will do it,” the crime lord said. “Whatever you ask!”

Vader leaned slightly in the direction of the comlink. “Sergeant Crest, transport the crime lord’s family to the landing field and let me know when your troops are in possession of his ship.”

“Let them live,” the Sugi repeated, rising halfway out of his throne in supplication.

“Take heart,” Tarkin said. “They most certainly will survive you.”

OUTBOUND FROM MURKHANA, the Carrion Spike ’s new pilot and three members of the new crew were gathered in the command cabin marveling at the wonders of the ship. The shipjackers — a human, a Mon Calamari, a Gotal, and a Koorivar — some standing, others seated in the chairs that fronted the curved instrument console, could hardly keep still, having pulled off an act of piracy that had been close to two years in the planning.

The human, Teller, was a rangy, middle-aged man with thick dark hair and eyebrows to match. His long face was perpetually shadowed with stubble, and his chin bore a deep cleft. Dressed in cargo pants, boots, and a thermal shirt, he stood between the principal acceleration chairs, watching as the Gotal pilot and the Koorivar operations specialist familiarized themselves with the ship’s complex controls. The bulkhead left of the forward viewports bore traces of carbon scoring and blood from the brief blaster fight that erupted when the shipjackers had had to burn and battle their way through the command cabin hatch to deal with Tarkin’s defiant captain and comm officer.

“Getting the hang of it?” Teller asked the Gotal, Salikk.

The twin-horned, flat-faced humanoid nodded without taking his heavy-lidded scarlet eyes from the instrument array. “She flies herself,” he said in accented Basic. A native of the moon Antar 4, he was short and dark-skinned, with tufts of light hair on his cheeks and chin. He wore an old-fashioned but serviceable flight suit that left the clawed digits of his sensitive hands exposed.

“It will fly itself, but we’re going to tell it where to go,” Dr. Artoz told him.

The Mon Cal wore a flight suit whose neck had been altered to accommodate the amphibious humanoid’s high-domed, salmon-colored head, and whose sleeves ended mid-forearm to allow passage for his large webbed hands. Pacing the length of the instruments console, Artoz was pointing out individual controls, his huge eyes swiveling independently of each other to focus simultaneously on Salikk and the ops specialist, Cala.

Teller had known all three of them for years, but what with Salikk’s sweaty scent and the saline smell Artoz emitted, he was grateful for the spaciousness of the Carrion Spike ’s command cabin. Then again, from what he’d been told by his nonhuman friends, humans weren’t exactly a picnic when it came to body odor.

“Computer-assisted fire control for the lateral lasers and in-close weapons,” Artoz was saying, indicating one set of instruments after the next. “Full-authority navicomp, stealth system initiator, sublight ions, hyperdrive.”

“State-of-the-art Imperial technology,” Cala said. Jutting from a headcloth that fell past the Koorivar’s shoulders, his spiraling cranial horn was twice the height of Salikk’s conical projections and thicker than both of them combined. He wore pouch-pocketed pants not unlike Teller’s under a roomy tunic that reached his thick thighs. “This corvette will easily exceed a Star Destroyer.”

“Nothing less than what I promised,” Artoz said, though without a hint of self-importance. He gestured to the auxiliary controls. “Sensor suite, rectenna controls, alluvial dampers, reverse triggering acceleration compensator—”

“Which one empties the toilets?” a second human asked as she stepped through the scarred cockpit hatch. Fit and scrappy looking, she had a narrow frame and skin the color of a tropical hardwood. Her short curly hair was naturally black but had been lightened to a mishmash of brown and blond. She wore a white utility suit and ankle-length ship-tread boots. The Zygerrian female who followed her into the command cabin was also slender, though somewhat taller, and distinctly feline in appearance. Pointed, fur-covered ears sprang straight up from the sides of a narrow-nosed, triangular face. Her innate exoticism was enhanced by reddish coloring.