A Certain Point of View

Chapter 17: Last Remnants

Tarkin was back in the boardroom, eyeing his computer terminal, when Motti found him.

"Magnificent," the admiral said, beaming. "Everything we dreamed and more."

"You are easily pleased," muttered Tarkin. His mouth was drawn tight with impatience as he turned.

"Easily?" Motti echoed. "It took the destruction of a world to—"

"A magnificent defeat for the Rebellion," said Tarkin, "but a modest victory at best for us. I am convinced in the Death Star's utility as a weapon. But Alderaan was a core world in spite of its insurgencies. A wealthy one, in fact. As a mere demonstration, this display was an expensive one for the Empire."

"It is the only demonstration we will ever need," said Motti, pacing around the table. Tarkin hastily shut his data screen as the admiral approached.

"Perhaps," said Tarkin. "But if the Rebels listened to reason, we would not be in this position in the first place." He paused in his speech as his keen ears picked up the unmistakable sound of the Dark Lord approaching.

"Lord Vader," Tarkin announced cordially, leaving Motti just enough time to scurry from the room before the Dark Lord's towering black form filled the hallway.

"I have dispatched a scout force to Dantooine," said Vader. "They will reach the system before a station of this mass has calculated its own jump."

"And needlessly alert the Rebels to our coming," warned Tarkin.

"You will not like what you find there," said Vader. "She will not betray the Rebellion."

"She's little more than a child," said Tarkin. "And we have been most severe in our persuasion."

"Even so," said Vader, "she is stronger than you know. I sense it."

Tarkin knew better than to question Vader's power—not after Motti had exhausted his mercy twice in one day.

"On that account, Lord Vader, I am beginning to believe you."

"What do you mean?"

Tarkin paused as if calculating something. "She is more than a mere source of information—and I am beginning to think, much more. I dare not say more until I am sure."

"My patience is wearing thin, Governor," said the Dark Lord. "Whatever your suspicions, see to it that they are answered quickly. If she is the Rebel sympathizer her interrogations reveal her to be, there is no reason to keep her alive. If she is a young leader of the Rebellion, as I suspect, there is an added risk to it."

"We will know soon enough," said Tarkin. "I am awaiting top clearance from Imperial Centre.

Vader stood motionless for a long moment. "It is unwise to hide things from me," he breathed. But Tarkin was not easily cowed.

"It is the Emperor himself to whom I speak," he said. That was always the trump card that put Vader in his place—at least, when he could sense it was true.

Vader might have bowed—but only to the Emperor's name, not to Tarkin, whose cold smugness was beginning to bore him.

"I await the Emperor's command," said Vader. "But do not test my patience in his name."

Tarkin was a quick wit, and had much to say in response—but Vader was an unpredictable ally, and pushing him in any direction—towards rage, towards cruelty, even toward too much calculated thinking—was usually a mistake. Tarkin bowed curtly, placing himself with false humility beneath the brutal Dark Lord, and let the restless Vader be the first to take his leave. His breathing echoed in the hall and, finally, faded.

The comm built into the glistening table chirped as Tarkin hit it.

"Sir?"

"Give me an update on my data clearance," said Tarkin.

"The Emperor has reviewed the matter and approved your request," said the voice. "Royal Clearance came through just two minutes before the, uh, planetary event."

"Excellent work," said Tarkin—it was nearly the highest praise he ever offered. He shut his eyes tight and savoured those words—Royal Clearance. He was Vader's equal in one more way, now. There were few Imperial powers left that he did not command, and absolute access to Imperial data had been one of them.

"Prepare for transmission," he said, grinning. "I am sending you a medical print. I want it cross-referenced—" here even the rational Grand Moff lowered his voice superstitiously, as if to speak the magic words would summon Vader back— "with every medical print on file in the Jedi Temple archives."

"The..."

"Problem, Captain?"

"The... Sir, the Jedi Temple archives do not exist."

"That's right, Captain. But just the same you will transmit the order, Royal Clearance, to the receiver address I'm attaching. And you will instruct them to limit search to human, match for the highlighted gene sequences, and transmit the results immediately to my personal chambers."

"Milord—my... sir..."

Tarkin rolled his eyes: more power, more problems. "Spit it out, Captain."

"All Royal Clearance communication is off-grid. Transmitted by HT wave."

"Damn," Tarkin spat, punching the console. The planetary debris.

"Clear transmission is blocked by the... uh, last...remnants." Tarkin could nearly hear the captain searching for the words to describe an entire world that wasn't there. He frowned, considering his options.

"I'm sorry, sir. The Emperor's personal frequencies are completely off-spectrum. Asteroid fields and the like disrupt the signal. The active planetary matter is still very volatile. It's directly between us and the Core. We can navigate around the edge of the disturbance and reach clear signal in...fifty-one minutes."

No good. It was too large a swing. Motti, Vader—all of them would notice such a sudden and sharp deviation. There would be questions he was not ready to answer until he had the truth in hand. He chewed at his finger thoughtfully.

"I think not, Captain," said Tarkin. He brought up the visual display onscreen, studied the position of the Death Star and the whirling chunks of the former world. Around the Death Star's perimeter, squadrons of TIE fighters escorted supply ships in and out of the station's orbit as long-range jump ships satisfied its insatiable hunger for food, fuel, the building blocks of life that a dead world could not make for itself.

He counted, briefly, the hundreds of little specks in flight, then hit the comm again.

"Change of plans," he said.

"Standing by, Sir."

"Royal Clearance transmit and receive, as directed. Load the comsat onto a TIE Line fighter from my personal shuttle escort. Send it around the perimeter of the debris field, and T/R from the far side, as soon as you reach a clear signal."

"Shall I prepare an escort?"

"Send it alone," said Tarkin. "I don't want it to be missed."

"At once, sir."

Tarkin released the comm signal and slumped into his chair. The feeling of power was euphoric—better than any spice in the galaxy. He knit his fingers, twisted his mouth in delight, and switched frames on his terminal to the security feed from the detention block.

There she was, the fierce little woman, stretched out in numb misery on the flat slab of her cell. She had been crying, perhaps, but there was even now a pervading calmness about her. Not a hair on her head was out of place: for a woman whose adoptive homeworld—for all she knew, her real homeworld—had been torn asunder, the false Princess radiated an almost preternatural calm.

What was it they used to say in his youth, when he had served as a lowly captain in the Grand Army of the Republic? The Force was strong in her. He could nearly see it, he thought with distaste, as she slept—slept!—after the destruction of her world.

"Who are you?" he asked the monitor silently. "My dear girl, what is your story?"