Death Star (43 page)

Nova hadn’t really been surprised to be assigned as one of the guards for the conference room on the Command Level. It wasn’t his normal duty, but he was a senior sergeant, and when one of the men normally at the post developed a sudden illness Nova had been tapped as a temporary replacement. He was the kind of guard they liked, adept with either weapons or his bare hands.

Mostly the room was empty the entire shift, and there was little to do but think; however, toward the end of the shift, Governor Tarkin and Darth Vader had arrived. Nova could not help but overhear, of course, as the two had a discussion that ranged across several topics—mostly concerned with the next target for the Death Star. It seemed that the Rebels’ main fortress had been located, and they were awaiting reports from the scouts before spacing there to destroy that planet as well.

Nova was still reeling from the results of the most recent test. He had passed out in his sonic shower at precisely the instant that the superlaser had shattered the peaceful world of Alderaan, and he was certain this was no coincidence. The doctor’s diagnosis about midi-chlorians had to be connected. He’d done research on it with the station archivist’s help, and had come to the reluctant conclusion that he was somehow receptive to the pervasive energy field the Jedi had called the Force. A
Force-sensitive
was the term. It explained
why he sometimes could anticipate the moves of his opponents, the skill he called Blink.

He wasn’t sure what to do about this—he wasn’t even sure that anything could be done. It had evidently been with him to a certain degree for his whole life; it wasn’t just going to go away. Since he seemed to be stuck with it and the visions it brought, maybe there was something he could do with it besides just dodge incoming fists.

The door opened and a senior officer marched in, as stiff as if he had a durasteel rod for a spine.

The man gave his report, and Nova kept his face stolid as he listened. So the girl that the doctor had spoken of in the cantina had given Tarkin and Vader a false lead. Brave, but not very smart, since Tarkin was now irritated enough to tell Vader to execute her.

Once upon a time, Nova would have shrugged that bit of news away. It wasn’t his business how the higher-ups behaved; he just followed his orders and did his job, a good and loyal soldier. But if blowing up Despayre had been terrible, killing Alderaan was several orders of magnitude more horrifying. Billions of innocents had died there, not hardened and convicted criminals—billions of civilians of all ages—and how could you in good conscience serve somebody who thought that was the way to wage war?

It had rocked him to his core, maybe more because of the whole Force thing. But he hadn’t been the only one. Sure, there were always some kill-’em-all types who said they must have deserved it, else it wouldn’t have been done; but there were a lot of people on this battle station who couldn’t accept these actions as things even to be contemplated in a sane and rational universe. It wasn’t supposed to have gone this far. From everything he’d heard it was to be merely the
threat
of mundicide. Blowing up a planet—killing everything that lived on it—just to make a point?

This was his last tour, Nova decided; he wasn’t going to
stay in a military that would commit such atrocities. And if there was anything he could do to help prevent it from happening again, he ought to seriously consider it.

Killing civilian populations on a planetary scale was evil beyond comprehension. Nova could fight a room full of men straight-up, face-to-face, and if he had to kill half of them to survive, he’d do it. But he hadn’t signed on to slaughter children asleep in their beds.

Atour Riten considered himself a man of the galaxy; he had traveled far and wide and seen much. He had toured the spice mines of Kessel, explored the ruins of Dantooine, and witnessed the death of stars in the Bi-Borran Cluster. Even though most of his working days had been within the walls of libraries and archives, he had also breathed the outside air of scores of worlds in the course of his years. And he had remained apolitical for all those years, going his own way, avoiding commitments to things he didn’t think he could influence yea or nay.

But not anymore. Not after Alderaan.

The destruction of Despayre had been bad enough, as much for what it had portended as for the act itself. But Alderaan had been a peaceful world; its government had sympathized with the Rebels, true enough, but the Empire’s reaction had been overkill in the most horrifyingly literal sense imaginable. The immensity of it overwhelmed him each time his imagination started down that killing road: mothers, babies, grandfathers, pets … all wiped out in a heartbeat.

He could not help but be reminded of the Mrlssi saying:
Evil compounds exponentially
. It was true. Such horrors inevitably fed upon themselves, mushrooming into the unthinkable
in very short order. Atour could not stand to see this happen again. He was old, he had lived a long and full life, and he decided now that whatever days he had left, he would dedicate to defeating an Empire capable of such abominations.

“Persee, initiate a search for weak points in this battle station—those that might be most vulnerable to internal sabotage.”

“That would be unwise, sir. Such a scan would almost certainly be detected, and Imperial intelligence operatives would undoubtedly wish to engage in conversation with the initiator of such a search. It would not be a pleasant conversation.”

“Then I suggest you do it cautiously.”

“Sir, I feel compelled to point out again that the risk of such a venture would be great.”

“And I appreciate your concern,” Atour said. He leaned back in his formfit chair and steepled his fingers. “Do it anyway.”

The droid acknowledged this order and shuffled away to implement it. Atour sighed. He realized that P-RC3 was going to suffer a traumatic memory loss in the near future. That would be a shame—he’d actually become rather fond of the droid—but given the gravity of what the Empire had done and must be made to pay for, the price of a droid’s memory—and one old man’s life, come to think of it—was small enough.

The intercom cheeped, and Tarkin activated it. “Yes?”

The voice from the comm said, “We’ve captured a freighter entering the remains of the Alderaan system. Its markings match those of a ship that blasted its way out of Mos Eisley.”

Tarkin frowned. Mos Eisley was on Tatooine, where the stolen battle station plans had, according to Vader, landed. Coincidence? Not likely. He looked at Vader, who said, “They must be trying to return the stolen plans to the Princess. She may yet be of some use to us.”

Tarkin considered that. Yes. While his anger at her deception had not abated, there were more important things at stake here than one prisoner’s life or death. Vader was right. She might be useful as a decoy.

“Best you go and personally deal with this, Lord Vader.”

Vader stalked into the bay as a lieutenant and several stormtroopers exited the captured freighter. The lieutenant said, “There’s no one on board, sir. According to the log, the crew abandoned ship right after takeoff. It must be a decoy, sir; several of the escape pods have been jettisoned.”

Vader nodded. “Did you find any droids?”

“No, sir. If there were any on board, they must also have been jettisoned.”

“Send a scanning crew aboard—I want every part of this ship checked.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vader was about to speak again when he felt a ripple in the Force. It was fleeting, too brief to grasp before it flitted away, but startling. Almost to himself, he said, “I sense something. A … presence I’ve not felt since—” He stopped. No. He must be mistaken. It could not be, after all these years …

Abruptly, he turned away. If the plans were on the ship, they would be found; if not, then the ship was of no importance. As for that tingle in the Force … well, if it was indeed
generated by who he thought it might be, then no doubt the man responsible had sensed Vader as well.

If Obi-Wan Kenobi was really aboard the Death Star, then it was inevitable that they would meet. The Force would draw them together as surely as opposite particles in a vacuum.

“O
dd,” P-RC3 said.

Atour looked up. “What?”

The droid turned away from the monitor, its data display reflecting from its blue durasteel chassis. “Someone has just accessed the main computer in a forward bay command office.”

“And this is unusual because …?”

“The access is via droid interface plug.”

“Which was put there for droids, if I am not mistaken,” Atour said. “So?”

“The accessor is requesting information on the location of terminals controlling a tractor beam recently used to capture a ship suspected of being a Rebel freighter.”

Atour frowned. “Who would do that? Is the tractor generator in need of repair?”

“Not that I can determine.”

“And why are you bringing this to my attention?”

“I have flagged operating systems to report unusual events for your protection, sir.”

“Hmm. Is there a security cam in that office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you access it?”

“Not without the security codes.”

“Oh, those. Here.” Atour tapped a ten-digit number into the computer console.

“Having that code is illegal,” P-RC3 said. “You could be arrested for it.”

“That would likely be the least of my crimes. Access the cam.”

The droid turned back to the terminal. “I have visual only. No sound.”

“A pixel is worth a thousand bytes—and isn’t that a strange saying to be coming out of the mouth of an archivist?”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. The cam. Put it on my terminal.”

The holo over Atour’s desk lit. What he saw was the interior of a command office in which were standing two stormtroopers, their helmets removed. They seemed unremarkable, although their haircuts were a bit long for regulation status. There were others as well who were not so unremarkable: a golden protocol droid, an astromech unit, a Wookiee with a bowcaster, and a balding and bearded older human in a hooded cloak with the cowl pulled back. Atour realized with slight surprise that the old man was dressed in the vestments of a Jedi Knight.

There were also the bodies of two Imperial troopers lying on the deck.

It appeared from their attitude that the humans were listening to the protocol droid. Then after a moment, the humans started talking to each other.

“Persee, can you lip-read?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Tell me what they are saying.”

Persee watched the image for a moment. “The oldest one just said to the younger of the stormtroopers, ‘Your destiny lies along a different path from mine. The Force will be with you, always.’ ”

The Force?

As Atour digested this, the command office door slid up and the old man exited. One of the stormtroopers and the Wookiee had a brief conversation.

“Sorry, sir, but I can’t see the Wookiee clearly enough to read what he is saying. The older human male just said to the younger, ‘Where did you dig up that old fossil?’ ”

Atour frowned, perplexed. What did that mean?

“The youngest one appears to be speaking now, but I can’t see his face. The two humans appear agitated, judging by their body language.”

Atour continued to watch as both men stopped arguing and looked at the droids.

“I surmise the droids are speaking,” Persee said. “Now the older human has just said, ‘Princess?’

“ ‘Where is she?’ the younger one asks.”

Princess?
“Persee, check the main computer for information on ‘Princess.’ ”

The droid tapped console controls as Atour continued to watch the image. The two men were talking now, both somewhat agitated. The younger one—no more than a boy, really—seemed to be trying to convince the older one of something.

“Sir, a human female, Princess Leia Organa, was recently brought aboard by Darth Vader. A Rebel, according to the files, and scheduled to be terminated.”

Atour shook his head in incredulity. It seemed obvious that the two men he was watching were not stormtroopers, and that they were here due in some part to Princess Leia. He knew the name, of course. Bail Organa’s daughter. Of the late planet Alderaan.

The protocol droid shuffled forward and handed the boy a pair of electronic stun cuffs. The boy moved toward the Wookiee and attempted to put the cuffs on him. The Wookiee did not seem at all pleased with the idea. The boy backed away quickly, turned to the older man—who wasn’t really all that old himself—and gave him the binders.

“Persee? What are they saying?”

“ ‘… Chewie, I think I know what he has in mind.’ That from the older one.”

The man put the cuffs on the Wookiee’s wrists. “Ah,” Atour said.

“Sir? I don’t understand.”

“They are apparently marching right into the nexu’s den.” He smiled. “They have come for the Princess.”