James Luceno - Tarkin

Hask was shaking her head, her slanted eyes narrowed. “We should have stashed fuel somewhere. Refueled ourselves.”

Teller scowled at the Zygerrian. “We broke the bank getting that shipment to Murkhana.” He gestured to himself. “Like I said, poverty wreaks havoc with a diet.”

Hask looked away from him, a frown contorting her angular features, so Teller turned to Anora. “Good job with the holovid. It’s getting attention all over.”

She shrugged. “Just doing my job, Teller. Same as ever.”

Teller grew serious as he swung to Cala. “Speaking of jobs …”

“Done,” the Koorivar said. “Although I had to spend extra time in decontamination.”

“I thought your complexion looked ruddier than usual.”

“No joke, Teller,” Cala said. “That stint could cost me a couple of years.”

“If it’s any consolation, there’ll be a higher cost to the Imperials.”

“That part doesn’t bother you at all, does it?” Hask said with a sneer. “The indiscriminate killing, I mean.”

Teller frowned. “Indiscriminate? What, because not all of them are soldiers? This is where you draw the line?”

“People have to work, Teller,” the Zygerrian said.

“Don’t kid yourself, Hask. These aren’t civilian targets. They’re Imperial installations staffed by people who have bought into the Emperor’s sick vision of the future — for you, your queen, me, and everyone between here and the Unknown Regions. You’ve seen the recruitment posters: Serve the Empire and be a better being for it! That doesn’t turn your stomach? Anyone who willingly serves is a traitor to life , Hask. And don’t tell me they don’t know what they’re signing up for, because it’s as clear as those posters on the wall. It’s enslavement, suppression, military might the likes of which none of us has ever seen.” He worked his jaw. “I won’t go peacefully into that future, and neither should you. Hell, why are you even with us if you haven’t thought this through by now?”

Anora made a conciliatory gesture. “She knows. She just forgets sometimes.” She glanced at Hask. “Don’t you?”

Hask returned a brooding nod.

But Teller wasn’t through. “Look, whether they’re mining ore for TaggeCo or refueling Imperial warships, it comes down to the same thing: standing with the Emperor. Our high-minded leader, who on his most benevolent day is still worse than Vader. The idea, Hask, just in case you’ve forgotten, is to put the fear into anyone who’s even contemplating joining up. To slow the death toll, Hask. And as payback. Do you get it or not?”

“I get it,” Hask said finally.

Anora slapped the tops of her thighs and laughed shortly. “Teller, sometimes you are so straight out of a holodrama I can’t decide whether to cheer or applaud. My production team on Coruscant would have made good use of you.”

Teller glanced from her to Hask and snorted in derision. “Artists. If the Emperor has his way, you’ll be the first ones targeted for eradication.” He waited a long moment. “Are we done?”

Heads nodded in assurance.

Teller looked at Anora. “Speaking of holodramas, let’s see how I look with red hair.”

Tarkin, dressed in a black flight suit, was waiting in the hangar command center when the ship reverted to realspace at the Rimward edge of the Phindar system. Floating above a holoprojector was a one-quarter-scale holopresence of the tanker facility’s administrator, a yellow-eyed, lugubrious-looking humanoid sporting a pair of thin green arms that dangled past his knees.

“Refueling has been completed, Governor Tarkin,” the Phindian rasped in Basic. “The corvette is preparing to detach as we speak.”

“Good work, Administrator. You performed the refueling according to my instructions?”

“We did — though it took considerable effort.”

“The Empire looks kindly on those who cooperate in such matters.”

“And I look forward to whatever kindness you’re willing to dole out, Governor. But you should know that the ship is assailable. My workers and the stormtroopers here are more than willing to take the crew head-on.”

“No, Administrator,” Tarkin said in a way that brooked no argument. “You mustn’t raise any suspicions. What’s more, the people aboard that ship have had plenty of time to prepare for this. You and your workers would be killed.”

“If you say so, Governor.”

“I do say so. Have you a recording of the commander?”

The Phindian nodded his huge, snub-nosed head. “Transmitting it now.”

Tarkin squinted at the hologram that appeared alongside the holopresence of the facility administrator. Dressed in an Imperial uniform, the man was tall and lean, with thick red hair and a raised scar on his left cheek that ran from the corner of a full mouth to a bionic eye not unlike the one worn by Vice Admiral Screed.

“His code cylinder identified him as Commander LaSal.”

“One moment, Administrator,” Tarkin said, stepping out of cam range and turning to the nearest specialist in the command post. “Run the hologram through the roster database. If indeed there is a Commander LaSal, find out where he is currently deployed.”

“Yes, sir,” the specialist said.

Tarkin moved back into view of the holocam. “You were saying, Administrator …”

“Only that LaSal’s rank plaque insignia and command cap disk looked legitimate.”

Tarkin wasn’t surprised. With all the shipjackers had already accomplished, forging command cylinder codes and insignias must have been child’s play.

“Sir,” the specialist said from his station, “the roster shows a Commander Abel LaSal deployed aboard the Star Destroyer Sovereign , currently docked at Fondor. But the likenesses don’t match up the way they should. Shall I contact the Sovereign ?”

Tarkin shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

The words had scarcely left his mouth when a starfighter signals officer entered in a rush. “Governor Tarkin, Lord Vader requests that you join him in the bay soonest.”

Tarkin ended the duplex transmission and hurried through the hatch and across the deck to where a yellow-and-gray V-wing was powering up. The canopy was open, and a red astromech occupied a socket aft of the cockpit. Vader’s black Eta-2 warmed nearby. Catching sight of Tarkin, the Dark Lord grabbed a flight helmet and life-support chest pack and carried them to him.

“Highly recommended,” Vader said, handing over the gear.

Tarkin began to slip into the chest pack.

“It seems your calculations were correct, Governor.”

“Yes, but coming all this way had to be a stretch for them. There’s good reason to suspect that they did in fact refuel before launching from Murkhana.”

“Then someone may have warned them away from Gromas.”

“A point worth considering,” Tarkin said. “In addition, they’ve betrayed themselves in other ways. Not only are they conversant with the Carrion Spike ’s instruments, they are also well acquainted with Imperial procedure. The self-styled commander looks every bit an officer, and he used code cylinders to requisition the fuel cells.” He looked up at Vader. “Some of the Empire’s own?”

“The Emperor has limited patience for puzzles, Governor. Whoever they are, we need to put an end to their game.”

The tanker orbited above hospitable Phindar. A lengthy cylinder of unshielded alloy, the enormous station’s aft bridge was elevated above a trapezoid of shielding that protected a quartet of sublight engines and a generic hyperdrive. Pressurized radioactive gas, liquid metal, and composites were housed in proprietary sections. Extravehicular droids of several varieties carried out refueling operations by installing fresh fuel cells in starships and removing and transporting spent cells to storage bins anchored along the tanker’s starboard side. The Carrion Spike was still umbilicaled to the station, its bow facing the huge tanker’s trapezoidal stern, as Teller hastened through the docking ring air lock and into the main cabin.