Death Star (37 page)

“Doctors. What is Admiral Daala’s condition?”

Uli and Roa looked at Banu. He was the head of the team, so it fell to him to explain it.

“Sir,” the Cerean said, “Admiral Daala sustained a neurological injury that chiefly impacted her right medial temporal lobe. She’s in good condition and stable.”

“What long-term damage will there be to her?”

“We can’t be sure yet. That portion of the brain is called the hippocampus—humans have two hippocampi, one on each side. This area is, in large measure, responsible for functions of memory.”

Tarkin looked impatient. “Yes. And?”

Banu looked at Uli and Roa, then back at Tarkin. “It’s all conjecture at this point, sir. She is in a medically induced coma, so that we may treat her properly to prevent swelling of her injured brain. When she wakes up and recovers, the chances are good that there will be no loss of function, either neurologically or physically; however, there will likely be some memory loss.”

“Some? How much is
some
?”

Banu shook his head. “We are not fortune-tellers, Governor. We won’t know until the admiral recovers consciousness and can be tested.”

Tarkin’s face clouded, and Banu apparently saw it. The Cerean hurriedly added, “If I had to guess, I’d say she won’t remember the traumatic event, and that she’ll likely lose at least some of the past year.”

“I see. Well. Keep me informed. Admiral Daala is a valuable officer.”

“Of course.”

Tarkin turned and left.

“A valuable officer,”
Roa said. He chuckled. “I heard that she can—”

“Ease up on that,” Uli said. “Don’t know who’s listening.”

That sobered all three of them, and with good reason, Uli knew. You didn’t want to be making jokes about the Grand Moff’s girlfriend and have it get back to him. Not if you didn’t want to wind up with your organs harvested.

As he headed back to the Command Center, Tarkin was both relieved and worried. He felt great affection for Daala, to be sure, and he was most pleased that she would survive. That she might not recall her most recent visits here and their enjoyable time together was regrettable, but considering the possibility that her injury could well have killed her, not so bad.

It was not so good, though, that whatever she had learned during her investigation of the spies in their midst would also likely be gone. Since she had never been here, officially, there would not be any files tucked away where that data might be found. She was too smart for that.

And it was not the least bit good that she was here and injured, since she was supposed to be at the Maw. That would have to be addressed.

As he walked, Tarkin considered his options. He needed to manage this in a way that would not come back to haunt him. He had not gotten to where he was by pretending politics did not exist. He had enemies, and they would glory in anything that might present him in a bad light to the Emperor.

Daala would recover swiftly; she was young and strong. As soon as she was sufficiently well to travel, he would have her transferred back to the Maw. A story would be put in place—an accident there had caused her some injury. She would go along with that, since her coming to see him would look as bad for her as it did for him. Travel logs could be adjusted, and there wouldn’t be any official record that she had ever been here, much less wounded in an action against the Rebels.

And if she didn’t remember it, well, not to be hardhearted, but perhaps that was for the best. Even a truth-scan couldn’t find a contradiction if the person undergoing it didn’t know it had happened. Regrettable, yes, but one
had to make the best of bad situations and, by so doing, keep them from getting worse. He could fill her in later, once the war was over and things had settled down. For now he did not need anybody looking at him askance—not this close to having the station completed and about to begin its mission. That simply would not do.

His decision made, he felt better. Daala would not blame him in the least—she would do as much, were she in his place. Tarkin was sure of that.

“L
ord Vader, the blockade-runner is in range. Should we open fire?”

“Yes—but do not destroy her. Target the drives and control systems—I want the passengers and crew alive. Once we have disabled them, we will capture and board the ship.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The captain returned to his business, and Vader moved to stand in front of the forward viewports to watch the fleeing vessel. It was critical that he prevent the plans for the battle station from falling into the Rebels’ clutches—and while he was at it, he would find out where they were being taken. Princess Leia Organa was at the core of this operation, and she would divulge what he needed to know—of that he had no doubt. Her mind might be resistant to persuasion by the Force, but there were other ways.

The Rebel ship was no match for Vader’s Destroyer, either in speed or firepower. In a matter of moments the drives and control had been crippled by laser strikes of surgical accuracy, their main reactor shut down, and a tractor beam from the
Devastator
generated to envelop the fleeing blockade-runner.

The
Tantive IV
was drawn inexorably into the Destroyer’s main cargo hold, gripped tightly in a pressor field
that would jam any attempts by the Rebel crew to blow up the captured ship. Vader doubted they were that desperate, but he wasn’t going to take the chance.

An assault commander arrived. “Lord Vader, we have entry teams breaching the ship locks.”

“Good.” Vader turned away from the viewport. “Come with me,” he told the commander.

The
Tantive IV
rested in the middle of the huge hold, looking small and defenseless, her white exterior marred by the scorched and blackened areas on the engines. Vader, followed by several stormtroopers, strode up the ramp to the air lock. The lock’s hatch had been shattered moments before; clouds of vaporized sealant, paint, and metal still hung in the air. He stepped through the smoke into the corridor and surveyed the damage. The bodies of both Rebel defenders and stormtroopers littered the deck of the blockade-runner. Vader paused to look at one of the Rebels crumpled at his feet, then at a second. They had been brave. Foolish, since there was no escape and no chance of victory, but brave.

Little good it would do them.

The sounds of blasterfire still echoed throughout the small ship; now and then a stray bolt was deflected from a bulkhead and across a cross corridor, the flash of red reflecting fleetingly off the white walls. Vader was not worried about stray fire—he could concentrate the Force enough to stop a blaster’s beam with the upraised palm of his gloved hand, if it came to that.

The conclusion was foregone—the Rebels could not possibly win against such overwhelming odds, and they had to know that. Why fight on?

There was some purpose to their continued resistance, of that he was sure. What was it?

Vader and his escort moved through the ship’s corridors, continuing his inspection. Some of the Rebel fighters had been captured, although most had gone down firing.

Enough of this. Vader stopped and, with a gesture to the commander, indicated that they bring him a Rebel officer who had just been captured. In another moment the man stood before him, still under guard. Without preamble, Vader reached out and grabbed the officer by the throat, easily lifting him clear off the floor. He gasped and struggled, but in vain, of course. None could escape the grip of the Force.

Before Vader could speak, a stormtrooper approached. He said, “The Death Star plans are not in the main computer.”

“Where are those transmissions you intercepted?” Vader asked him. “What have you done with those plans?”

The officer struggled. “We intercepted no transmissions!” he croaked.

Vader tightened his grip on the man’s throat, lifting him higher. The officer’s half-strangled words could barely be understood: “Aaah! This is … uhh … a consular ship. We’re on a diplomatic … agh! mission!”

Vader was not impressed by this pathetic attempt at deception. “If this is a consular ship, where is the ambassador?”

It was a rhetorical question. The man was not going to be helpful, so no more time needed to be wasted on him. Vader crushed his throat and tossed him across the corridor. The body bounced off the bulkhead and sprawled on the deck.

He could sense the reactions of the other nearby prisoners without having to look. Another object lesson: thwart Lord Vader and such would be your reward as well.

He turned to the assault leader. “Commander, tear this ship apart until you’ve found those plans. And bring me the passengers—I want them alive!”

Vader smiled under his helmet as a file of stormtroopers arrived with Leia Organa in tow. It was reported that she had
shot a trooper before they stunned her. It was hard to think of her showing such bravery—she was so young, so beautiful, dressed in that simple white gown. She reminded him very much of …

No. He would not allow that thought.

She glared at him, managing to look disdainful even though her hands were cuffed. “Darth Vader,” she said, making no effort to hide her contempt. “Only you could be so bold. The Imperial Senate will not sit still for this—when they hear you’ve attacked a diplomatic—”

He cut her off: “Don’t act so surprised, Your Highness. You weren’t on any mercy mission this time. Several transmissions were beamed to this ship by Rebel spies. I want to know what happened to the plans they sent you.”

She kept to her role: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a member of the Imperial Senate on a diplomatic mission to Alderaan—”

Vader’s patience was abruptly at an end. “You are part of the Rebel Alliance and a traitor!” He gestured furiously at the guards. “Take her away!”

After she was hustled off, Vader stood motionless, quelling his rage. Anger could be useful, but only when it was anger you brought forth on your own, shaped to your ends. Not when it was provoked by someone else.

He was somewhat surprised by the intensity of his response. There was something about her he could not quite put a finger on, something unusual. It troubled him. Organa’s mind was not weak; this he could tell even after a cursory attempt to probe it. And there was something oddly familiar about her, something just outside his grasp …

He mentally shrugged it off. It was not important. She would be dead soon in any event; Tarkin had signed the order already. It was only a matter of how much useful information they could pry from her before that came to pass. She was part of the past. He had the future with which he must deal.

He began to walk as he considered his next move.

Next to him the commander said, “Holding her is dangerous. If word gets out, it could generate sympathy for the Rebellion in the Senate.”

Vader wasn’t moved by such fears. “I have traced the Rebel spies to her. Now she is my only link to finding their secret base.”

“She’ll die before she’ll tell you anything.”

“Leave that to me. Send a distress signal, then inform the Senate that all aboard were killed.”

Another Imperial officer approached them. “Lord Vader, the battle station plans are not aboard this ship. And no transmissions were made.”

Vader stared at the officer. His anger started to burn again.

The officer seemed to sense this. Hurriedly, he added, “An escape pod was jettisoned during the fighting—but no life-forms were aboard.”

Ah. So that was why they had continued to resist—to give their precious Princess time to physically remove the plans. Of course. He turned to the commander. “She must have hidden the plans in the escape pod. Send a detachment down to retrieve them. See to it personally, Commander. There’ll be no one to stop us this time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vader strode through the lock and back into his ship’s cargo bay. At the least, they had prevented the Princess from delivering the Death Star plans to the Rebels. Imperial troopers would recover them—and even if they did not, there was little damage they could do on the worthless desert world of Tatooine. There was nothing of value on that world. Nothing at all.