The Birth of Rebellion

Chapter XIII - The Governor

Admiral Harkan stared out of the Devastator's observation window, the vast expanse of space doing little to calm the turmoil within him. Another failed attempt to capture Xon. Another inevitable meeting with the two figures who held his fate in their metal-clad hands. He could have easily lied, spun a tale of a glorious battle where Xon perished. But lying to Tarkin was a gamble, and to Vader...well, that was a fool's game.

The blast doors hissed open, and a young Ensign scurried over, datapad clutched in sweaty hands. "They're ready for you, Admiral," he mumbled, barely meeting Harkan's gaze.

They. The word hung heavy in the air. Harkan straightened his uniform, a futile attempt to bolster his crumbling confidence, and followed the Ensign.

The bridge was a tableau of starkness and power. Governor Tarkin, a predator in a crisp green uniform, stood before the viewport. Beside him, Darth Vader loomed like a dark god, his mechanical breathing a constant reminder of the consequences of failure.

Vader turned, his mask doing little to obscure the anger radiating from his form. "The opportunity to capture the inventor has slipped through your grasp once more, Admiral," Tarkin began, his voice smooth as polished obsidian.

Harkan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Governor, I believed--"

The words died in his throat as an invisible hand clamped around his windpipe. Harkan clawed at the emptiness, gasping for air, his vision blurring. The bridge crew watched, paralyzed by fear, as the Admiral writhed on the floor.

"Results, Admiral. Not excuses," Vader boomed, his voice echoing through the chamber.

Suddenly, as quickly as it started, the pressure lifted. Harkan collapsed onto the deck, gasping for air. "I... I found the Hunter," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "But..."

"Enough, Vader," Tarkin interjected, a hint of something akin to amusement flickering across his face. "We wouldn't want to deprive the Admiral of the opportunity to redeem himself, would we?"

Vader straightened, but the anger lingered. "The Mandalorian will have some knowledge of Xon's whereabouts," Harkan managed, his voice trembling. "My men apprehended him. He's currently in a holding cell aboard my flagship."

Tarkin's smile widened, devoid of warmth. "You may yet salvage your position, Admiral. Begin the interrogation immediately. And let us hope it yields the results we require."

Harkan, shaky and defeated, stumbled out of the bridge. The weight of Vader's unseen hand lingered on his throat, a chilling reminder that failure wasn't simply an option. It was a death sentence.

***

A stale, metallic smell permeated the brig. Fenrir, stripped of his armour and weapons, sat hunched on the cold durasteel bunk. The capture had been messy. He'd bulldozed through the Imperial blockade over Brakka with his usual bravado, only to be snagged by a Cantwell cruiser. Now, he awaited his likely execution.

The hiss of the cell door opening jolted him upright. Two Death Troopers marched in, their black armour a stark contrast to the dingy cell. But it was the figure trailing behind them that sent a jolt through Fenrir. Admiral Harkan, his face a mask of repressed fury, was flanked by a sleek interrogation droid.

Harkan stopped before the cell, his gaze pinning Fenrir like a cornered beast. "Mandalorian," he spat, his voice laced with a barely concealed snarl. "We seem to be reacquainted under less than ideal circumstances."

Fenrir's lips curled into a humourless smirk. "Admiral," he drawled, his voice gravelly with defiance. "Fancy meeting you here. Last time we crossed paths, you were begging for my help."

Harkan's face contorted further. He lunged forward, one hand grabbing Fenrir's chin with surprising strength. "Enough of the theatrics," he hissed, forcing Fenrir to meet his gaze. "Now, Mandalorian, we'll discuss any information you may have on the whereabouts of Science Officer Xon. And believe me, cooperation will be far more... beneficial than your usual brand of stubbornness."

The interrogation droid whirred to life behind them, its red eye scanning Fenrir with an unsettling intensity. The air crackled with unspoken threats. Fenrir, though a prisoner, wasn't about to crumble. This was a game of wills, and he wasn't about to back down, especially with the veiled reference to a past encounter hanging heavy in the air.