A Certain Point of View

Chapter 13: One Swift Stroke

The boardroom sectioned off from the Death Star's command deck was never unstaffed. The computers built into the outer lip of the round presentation table had full access to the Death Star's central network—and through that, phantom access to a hundred thousand Imperial datavaults scattered throughout the galaxy. It was in that regard a strategic as well as a tactical superweapon, capable of far more subtlety and guile than a man like Admiral Motti would ever possess.

From the far side of the table, Grand Moff Willhuff Tarkin watched with quiet amusement as the admiral rubbed nervously at the skin of his neck, clearing his throat as if by habit. Obsessively proud of the station's technical specifications, he was browsing the schematics of the superlaser now, as if fixating on the size of the weapon under his command brought him an unsettling amount of comfort.

Tarkin paid him no mind at first, glancing up only casually from his work. The IT-O Interrogator had provided him with a wealth of medical data to cross-reference, but he did not want to appear too curious, even in front of Motti. Vader had his eye on Motti now, and anything that Motti could discern, Vader would soon know, too.

"There are aides to do that work," Motti offered, "whatever it is. Men of our stature need not concern themselves with—"

"I warned you," said Tarkin with cold detachment. "I told you Lord Vader is no one to be trifled with."

Motti tugged at his neck. "What was that?" he asked.

"You could ask him, I suppose," said Tarkin. "But if I were you, I'd consider myself lucky, and conduct my business from a safe distance for a while." He thumbed lazily through an endless string of genetic data.

"I shall not save you again," he warned.

Motti fumed. "I will not sit idly by while the Emperor's attack dog undermines the supremacy of this battle station," he said. "I remain the commanding admiral of the Death Star. I am a destroyer of worlds, Tarkin. Let him crush the Rebellion one neck at a time if it pleases him, by whatever trickery he likes."

"Lord Vader's power is one of the great mysteries of the galaxy," said Tarkin laconically. "Much like the love my wife bears for your family. But neither is a thing you should dare to test a second time." He smiled softly as the display beneath the table lit up a cool blue. "Besides which, he does have his practical limitations."

Motti leaned forward. "Such as?"

Tarkin waved him away. "If overthrowing him is your plan, Admiral, our conversation is over. I shan't preside over your squabbles, save to advise you I would not want to be remembered to Imperial Centre as the man who broke the Emperor's favourite toy." He paused, as if gauging his own chances. "Or was broken by it, perhaps," he finished.

"But you said—"

"That is not what I meant by limitations," said Tarkin. "He is a tool of brute force. You cannot hope to contend with him. And yet in his single-mindedness he can overlook the most obvious tools."

Motti frowned. In his cold heart, Tarkin knew he ought to speak no further. But his arrogance cried out for an underling to boast to, and Motti, having nearly been strangled to death by the Dark Lord, was likely to avoid him at all costs until the Emperor recalled his chief agent for another secret errand.

"Take the princess, for instance," he said. "She is invaluable to us. I have long suspected her as a sympathizer for the Rebellion. But her unexpected presence at the battle of Scarif suggests she might occupy a far more central role than I had anticipated. She is our strongest link to finding their hidden fortress—yet Vader himself was unable to procure its location from her."