Star Wars: Tarkin

Red, in tooth and claw

THE EMPEROR, Vader, and Tarkin — the Empire’s newly formed dark triumvirate — met in private in the pinnacle chamber of the spire. The Emperor was in his customary chair, with Tarkin seated opposite him across the table. Vader remained standing, as he usually did when in the presence of his Master. Three weeks had passed since the attack on the convoy, most of which Tarkin had devoted to interrogating the captured conspirators and collaborators, with some assistance from Vader and ISB specialists. None had died during the process, though all had since been executed in secret. The ISB had advocated for making a public spectacle of their deaths, but the Emperor had ultimately rejected the idea, if only to deny the dissidents martyrdom. The details of Rancit’s death, too, became a closely guarded secret, even among his peers in the intelligence community. But most got the message: No rank or position was a guarantee of privilege or exemption.

Everyone was expendable.

“It’s clear that he felt passed over,” Tarkin was explaining to the Emperor. “First he was forced to disappoint his former operatives on Antar Four due to a squabble between Military Intelligence and the ISB, and then he lost command of Sentinel Base, which he perceived as a demotion for having objected to the actions the Empire took on the Gotal moon.”

“So the plot began with him,” the Emperor said.

Tarkin nodded. “In a sense. He was informed through back channels of the conspirators’ attempts to procure proscribed armaments, confiscated Separatist matériel, and communications jammers. When he learned, however, that the prospective buyers were former Republic intelligence operatives, he facilitated their access to Imperial depots and armories.”

“The warehouse workers and salvagers who supplied the conspirators have been dealt with,” Vader pointed out, “including several scientists at Desolation Station who violated the terms of their security oaths.”

Tarkin waited for Vader to finish. “We’ve also determined that the warship was assembled at shipyards in the Bajic sector, jointly owned and operated by the Tenloss Syndicate and lower-level members of the Crymorah syndicate. Along with those, our operatives discovered two clandestine facilities located elsewhere in the Outer Rim, both of them long abandoned. We did, however, succeed in tracing the whereabouts of some of those involved, and they have since been eliminated.”

“Good,” the Emperor said. “Let that be a lesson to all of them”—he narrowed his eyes at Tarkin—“including the one who apparently got away.”

“The Headhunter was found on Christophsis,” Tarkin said, more defensively than he had planned.

“You are certain the starfighter belonged to Teller?” Vader asked.

“His genetic fingerprints were all over it,” Tarkin said.

“An intelligence officer of Teller’s skill would know better than to leave his ship to be found, much less his fingerprints.” Vader paused, then added: “He left us his calling card.”

“He’s gone to ground,” Tarkin said.

Vader regarded him. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

Tarkin took a breath and blew it out. “I don’t suppose I do.” He paused. “Finally there is the matter of funding for the warship, droids, and other matériel. Evidence points to the fact that Rancit played a role in diverting funds allocated to Naval Intelligence’s black budget, but the investigation is ongoing. Others may have been involved.”

The Emperor gestured in impatience. “Was it Rancit who brought these malcontents together?”

“No, he wasn’t responsible for assembling the cell,” Tarkin said. “The idea appears to have originated with Knotts or Teller, or perhaps they were in league with each other from the start. But Rancit may have contributed the names of people known to be on ISB’s watch lists for acts of sedition or sabotage. That may explain how the Mon Cal engineer came to be part of the cell, though it’s possible that Artoz was enlisted while Teller was head of security at Desolation Station. The Mon Cal’s involvement certainly explains their familiarity with the Carrion Spike, as well as with the convoy route.”

“But not the battle station,” the Emperor said.

“No, my lord,” Tarkin said. “Many are aware that an Imperial construction project is in progress at Geonosis, but the mobile battle station is not in jeopardy.”

The Emperor steepled his fingers and fell silent for a long moment. “I will give the matter consideration.”

“Of course, my lord,” Tarkin said. “For Rancit the plan entailed nothing more than allowing the conspirators to attack a few Imperial facilities. He promised them Carida, but he never had any intention of allowing them to fire on the Imperial academy. In fact, he attempted to betray them earlier by incapacitating the Carrion Spike at Nouane, but the dissidents managed to escape.”

“What case did the dissidents make for attacking the academy?”

“That an attack would send a message to potential enlistees,” Tarkin said. “But of course their principal target all along was the convoy. They were counting on the fact that Rancit would go to great lengths to assure that his subterfuge was beyond suspicion, as was his wont during the Clone Wars. Thus, the starship allocations and redeployments. We suspect that the conspirators had a short list of secondary targets, as well, and were monitoring Rancit’s ship dispositions. When he inadvertently fulfilled their hope that the battle station convoy would be left relatively unprotected, their decision was made.”

The Emperor’s furtive smile gave Tarkin pause. Had he actually seen through Rancit’s and the dissidents’ schemes from the beginning? Had the events of the past few weeks been less about unmasking a cell of traitors than testing Tarkin’s ability to foil the plot and to work effectively with Vader?

“Along with planning to betray two of the men he worked most closely with during the Clone Wars,” Tarkin went on, “Rancit outwitted the Naval Intelligence’s security cams, and also managed to dupe both Deputy Director Ison and Vice Admiral Screed.”

“Perhaps I should have made him a Moff, after all,” the Emperor said with obvious sarcasm. “He might have had a brilliant career, if ambition hadn’t brought him down.”

Tarkin adopted a tight smile. “My lord, the fact that you saw fit to promote me certainly figured into his plan to even the score, as it were.”

The Emperor nodded. “Ironic, is it not, that his attempts to increase his own cachet should end up benefiting so many of his seeming competitors?”

It was true. Naval Intelligence had been folded back into Military Intelligence, and Colonel Wullf Yularen had been designated to take Rancit’s place as deputy director; Harus Ison had been moved into the Ubiqtorate; Admiral Tenant had been made a Joint Chief; Motti, Tagge, and others had received similar upgrades … Yularen’s promotion, especially, had come as a relief to Tarkin, who had feared that the Emperor might assign him to Rancit’s former position.

“We need to tighten our hold over the Outer Systems,” the Emperor continued. “You will be in charge of that, Moff Tarkin. Or should I say Grand Moff Tarkin.”

Tarkin’s gaped in genuine surprise. “Grand Moff?”

“The Empire’s first.” The Emperor spread his sickly hands. “Was it not you who suggested the creation of oversectors and oversector governance as a means of enhancing our control?”

“It was, my lord.”

“Then your wish is granted. The Outer Rim is yours to oversee — and with it, Grand Moff Tarkin, the whole of the mobile battle station project.”

Tarkin rose from his chair so he could bow from the waist in frank obedience. “I will not fail you.” When he looked up, he saw that the Emperor was leaning forward in his chair.

“It will be a momentous responsibility,” the Emperor said, drawing out the words. “For once the battle station is fully operational, you will wield the ultimate power in the galaxy.”

Tarkin’s gaze moved from the Emperor to Vader and back again. “I don’t believe that will ever be the case, my lord.”

Considering that the Emperor had created the title Grand Moff for Tarkin, he had not been promoted so much as escalated. No secret was made of it, in any case, except regarding his oversight of the battle station project, and for the two weeks that he remained on the galactic capital following the meeting with the Emperor and Vader, he was honored and feted wherever he went.

He granted lengthy interviews to top media outlets throughout the Core, announcing his intention to embark on a tour of the major systems of the Outer Rim, beginning with his native Eriadu. None of the interviewers pressed him about where he had spent the past three years, and no one brought up Antar 4. It was as if the postwar events that had occurred on the Gotal moon had passed into ancient history — or mythology. The recent attacks on facilities in the Outer and Mid Rim, as well as the holovids that had been circulated, were made to seem part of an Imperial plan to root out dissident cells.

Tarkin was quoted as saying:

The factor that contributed most to the demise of the Republic was not, in fact, the war, but rampant self-interest. Endemic to the political process our ancestors engineered, the insidious pursuit of self-enrichment grew only more pervasive through the long centuries, and in the end left the body politic feckless and corrupt. Consider the self-interest of the Core Worlds, unwavering in their exploitation of the Outer Systems for resources; the Outer Systems themselves, undermined by their permissive disregard of smuggling and slavery; those ambitious members of the Senate who sought only status and opportunity.

The reason our Emperor was able to negotiate the dark waters that characterized the terminal years of the Republic and remain at the helm through a catastrophic war that spanned the galaxy is that he has never been interested in status or self-glorification. On the contrary, he has been tireless in his devotion to unify the galaxy and assure the well-being of its myriad populations. Now, with the institution of sector and oversector governance, we are in the unique position to repay our debt to the Emperor for his decades of selfless service, by lifting some of the burden of quotidian rulership from his shoulders. By partitioning the galaxy into regions, we actually achieve a unity previously absent; where once our loyalties and allegiances were divided, they now serve one being, with one goal: a cohesive galaxy in which everyone prospers. For the first time in one thousand generations our sector governors will not be working solely to enrich Coruscant and the Core Worlds, but to advance the quality of life in the star systems that make up each sector — keeping the spaceways safe, maintaining open and accessible communications, assuring that tax revenues are properly levied and allocated to improving the infrastructure. The Senate will likewise be made up of beings devoted not to their own enrichment, but to the enrichment of the worlds they represent.

This bold vision of the future requires not only the service of those of immaculate reputation and consummate skill in the just exercise of power, but also the service of a vast military dedicated to upholding the laws necessary to ensure galactic harmony. It may appear to some that the enactment of universal laws and the widespread deployment of a heavily armed military are steps toward galactic domination, but these actions are taken merely to protect us from those who would invade, enslave, exploit, or foment political dissent, and to punish accordingly any who engage in such acts. Look on our new military not as trespassers or interlopers, but as gatekeepers, here to shore up the Emperor’s vision of a pacified and prosperous galaxy.

The media took to calling it “the Tarkin Doctrine,” and some commentators began to wonder if he wasn’t destined to become the new voice of the Empire.

He made it his business to meet with senators representing star systems over which he now had authority. Most seemed relieved about having to answer to him rather than the Emperor or the Ruling Council, but he made clear to one and all that he wouldn’t tolerate acts of sedition or anti-Imperial propaganda, and that he would be merciless with all perpetrators.

He met, too, with the Joint Chiefs of the Army and the Navy, and with the directors and top officers in the intelligence agencies. Through them he instituted changes at Desolation Station, replacing many key personnel and altering supply schedules and convoy routes. He authorized reevaluations of every scientist and technician and established new parameters for both secrecy and security. He ordered that no convoys were to move without adequate protection. And to the dismay of countless beings in systems along the supply routes, he limited the HoloNet to Imperial use. The populations of those worlds viewed his actions as the start of an Imperial conquest of the Outer Rim.

At Geonosis, he enacted procedures that would limit contact between workers — whether contractors, employees, or slaves — and the outside galaxy; leaves were canceled and communications of any sort were strictly monitored. He reinforced Sentinel Base and the marshaling stations, and deployed patrol flotillas to the nearby systems. His most trusted officers were sent in search of pirates and smugglers, with orders to eliminate them on sight.

To complement his new station, he designed and had made a gray-green uniform whose thick-belted, round-collared tunic featured four code cylinders and a rank plaque of twelve multicolored squares, six blue over trios of red and gold. In all dealings with the Emperor he was referred to as Grand Moff, but for ordinary interactions with military personnel he retained the honorific Governor.

His agenda on Coruscant complete, he traveled from the Core to the Greater Seswenna sector aboard the Executrix, which was now his personal vessel—“The least the Empire can do to compensate you for the loss of the Carrion Spike,” the Emperor had said on awarding him the Imperial-class Star Destroyer. In addition to the thousands of troops and technicians who staffed and crewed the massive ship, he had a personal bodyguard of thirty-two stormtroopers who accompanied him wherever he went — or at least when he allowed as much.

Arriving by Imperial shuttle at Phelar Spaceport, he was greeted by cheering crowds, media representatives, and a military marching band. In Eriadu City he visited with family and old friends and granted more interviews. The local governor, who happened to be a relative, awarded him the key to the city and held a parade in his honor. While residing at his former home, he sat for a sculptor who had been commissioned to create a statue that would stand in the city’s principal public space.

He had one last mission to carry out before he left his homeworld, and with some effort he managed to persuade his platoon of personal guards that it was an undertaking he needed to fulfill alone, as it was a kind of personal pilgrimage. The stormtroopers were not pleased, as it was their duty to protect him, but they relented inasmuch as he would be spending his time on ancestral ground. Potential assassins notwithstanding, he made no show of secrecy the morning he left for the plateau, in an old airspeeder that had gone unused for years by anyone residing at the family estate. Once removed from the confines of Eriadu City, he relaxed into the journey, almost as if in an attempt to reexperience the annual trips he had made to the plateau as a youth. He even wore clothes of the sort he would have worn in those days, more suited to a hunter or trekker than to an Imperial Grand Moff.

When after several hours of ragged flight the plateau and surrounding volcanic terrain came into view, he felt as if he had never left; and indeed he hadn’t, because he had carried the place within him wherever he had ventured. He had been accused by lovers and others of being heartless, but it wasn’t true; it was simply that his heart was here, in this pristine part of his homeworld. His attachment to the place was not as one who worshipped nature; rather as one who had learned to tame it. And he would leave the area unchanged, the animals and riotous growth, as a reminder of the control he exercised over it.

He took the airspeeder through several passes over the plateau, observing herds of migrating animals. The day was bright and clear and he could see in detail everywhere he looked. Ultimately he landed the antique vehicle on the savanna, close to the hill of boulders he had come to climb. He set out on foot, with the legs of his trousers tucked into his high boots and the sleeves of his lightweight shirt secured at the wrist as protection against swarms of stinging insects. Arrived at the hill, he began to pick his way up over the pitted rocks, leaping over crevasses and finding finger- and toeholds as he bouldered to the summit. The hill seemed a lonelier place without its troop of guardian veermoks, but also a more sacred one — sanctified by what he had accomplished here.

He was breathing hard when he reached the top, the hot wind blowing across the rocks and garish light reflecting from the obsidian pool at the base of the Spike. He had given thought to scaling the column but realized now that it was enough simply to stand at its base and savor his recollections. He lingered for hours, as a veermok might have, sprawled on the warmed rocks, allowing himself to become nearly dehydrated in the heat. He left as that part of the planet was slipping into darkness, carefully picking his way down the boulders, a task more difficult than the ascent. One skid, one wrong step or stumble …

Returned to the tall grass, he followed traces of the path left by his earlier transit, then, as if avoiding obstacles concealed by the stalks, began to pursue a more zigzag route as he neared the airspeeder and an isolated patch of forest beyond. The noise of his legs swooshing through the grass competed with the buzz and drone of insect life. Otherwise there was only the sound of his respiration and a faint echo of his movements. He was fifty or so meters from the airspeeder when he heard the sound of branches snapping and giving way behind him, and the surprised exclamation of the human who had fallen into the trap.

Pleased with himself, he stopped, turned about, and started for the pit he had excavated so many years earlier.

“Welcome, Wilhuff,” someone said from the towering grass off to his left before he reached the pit.

Jova stood from where he had been hiding. He was gnarled, wrinkled, and deeply tanned, but still spritely for his age. Thirty additional years of living on the Carrion didn’t seem to have done him too much harm. Parting the savanna grass with leathery hands, he began to make his way toward Tarkin, proffering a sleek blaster when they reached each other.

“He dropped this when he fell in,” the old man said. “A WESTAR, isn’t it?”

Tarkin nodded as he accepted the blaster, switched off the safety, and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. “Where’s his speeder, Uncle?”

Jova’s crooked finger pointed east. “Behind the trees. I thought he might follow you up the hill, but he stayed at the bottom, making a little nest for himself in the grass, then tracked you when you came down and started for your ship.”

Together they walked to the pit to gaze down at Teller, some four meters below them, somewhat stunned by the unexpected plunge but squinting up as their heads appeared over the rim. Fortunately for Teller, the sharpened stakes that had once studded the floor of the pit had rotted to mulch. The fall, however, had damaged some of the mimetic circuits of his camouflage suit, and he was alternately blending in with the mulch and visible to the naked eye.

“I made it as easy as I could for you to stalk me, Captain,” Tarkin said, using the rank Teller had earned during the Clone Wars. “I even left my stormtroopers behind in Eriadu City.”

“Very bighearted of you, Governor — or do I have to start calling you Grand Moff now?” Teller tried to get to his feet, but promptly winced in pain and sat back down to inspect a clearly broken ankle. “I knew you were leading me on,” he said through gritted teeth, “but it didn’t matter. Not as long as I had a shot at getting to you.”

“You had plenty of shots at getting to me, as you say. So why not when we were in the air? And why a simple hand blaster rather than a sniper rifle?”

“I wanted us to be looking each other in the eye when I killed you.”

Tarkin grinned faintly. “Sadly predictable, Captain. And so unnecessary.”

Teller snorted. “Well, this old fossil would probably have killed me before I got off a shot, anyway.”

“You’re right about that,” Jova said good-naturedly.

He and Tarkin stepped back from the rim. Jova stomped down an area of razor grass with his wide callused feet, and they sat facing each other.

“Were you surprised to hear from me, Uncle?” Tarkin asked.

Jova shook his hairless, nut-brown head. “I knew you’d return someday. I had to renovate some of your old traps. Lucky you recalled where you dug them.” He paused to grin. “Though I don’t suppose luck has much to do with anything.”

Tarkin gazed around him. “I remember my time here like yesterday.”

Jova nodded sagely. “I’ve tried to keep abreast of your career. Haven’t read or heard much about you the better part of three or four years now.”

“Imperial business,” Tarkin said, and let it go at that. “But whatever success I’ve achieved is to your credit for mentoring me. My memoir will make clear your contributions.”

Jova gestured in dismissal. “I don’t need to be singled out. I prefer being more of a phantom.”

“Phantom of the plateau.”

“Why not?”

Tarkin got to his feet and returned to the rim of the pit. “How’s the ankle, Captain? Swelling, I would imagine.”

Teller’s glower said it all.

“Need I remind you that we fought on the same side in the Clone Wars?” Tarkin said. “We fought to prevent the galaxy from splintering, and we achieved our goal. But where I’ve put that war behind me, you appear to be still waging it. You’d have the galaxy fracture again?”

“You haven’t put it behind you,” Teller said. “That war was nothing more than a prelude to the war the Emperor always had in mind. Subjugating Separatists was practice for subjugating the galaxy. You’ve known all along. And this time you’re going to crush your opponents before they have a chance to organize.”

“That’s called pacification, Captain.”

“It’s rule by fear. You’re not just demanding submission, you’re generating evil.”

“Then evil will have to do.”

Teller stared up at him. “What transforms a man into a monster, Tarkin?”

“Monster? That’s a point of view, is it not? I will say this much, however: This place, this plateau is what made me.”

Teller considered it, then asked: “What is the Empire building at Geonosis?”

Tarkin showed him a faint grin. “Unfortunately, Captain, you are not cleared to know that. But I’m willing to make a deal with you. I’m certain you’ll have a difficult time extricating yourself from this trap you stumbled into — what with the depth of the hole and now a broken ankle. But should you succeed, you will find your blaster, just here on the rim.” He made a point of setting the weapon down. “The most dangerous of the Carrion’s predators don’t appear until nightfall. They’ll sniff you out, and … Well, suffice it to say you don’t want to loiter down there. Of course, even if you manage to get out, it’s a long way to the edge of the escarpment.” He paused in thought, then added, “I’ll have Jova park your speeder at the base of the plateau. Should you make it off Eriadu alive, look me up and I’ll reconsider what I said about Geonosis.”

“Tarkin,” Teller said, “you will die horribly because you deserve nothing less. The more you try to coerce the disadvantaged to play by your rules, the more they will rebel. I’m not the only one.”

“You’re hardly the first to prophesize my demise, Captain, and I could certainly make an equally dire prediction about your death. Because here you are, trapped in a deep hole and crippled, and that’s precisely where I intend to keep the others of your ilk.”

Teller smiled with his eyes. “Then if I can escape, the rest will.”

Tarkin returned the look. “That’s an interesting analogy. Let’s see how it plays out in real life, and in the long run. Until then, farewell, Captain.”

Jova stood up as Tarkin approached, gesturing with his stubbled chin to the hole. “Broken ankle or no, he seems capable enough to escape. Do you want me to keep an eye on him, perhaps provide a hint or two of the lay of the land to better his chances?”

Tarkin stroked his jaw. “That might be interesting. You be the judge.”

“And if he makes it down off the plateau in one piece, and to his speeder?”

Tarkin mulled it over. “Learning that he’s actually at large will keep me on my toes.”

Jova smiled and nodded. “A good strategy. We’re never too old to learn new tricks.”

The epicenter of a bustling throng of construction droids, supply ships, and cargo carriers, safeguarded by four Star Destroyers and twice as many frigates, the deep-space mobile battle station hovered in fixed orbit above secluded and forbidding Geonosis. When viewed from mid-system or from even as close as the asteroid belt that further isolated the planet from celestial interchange, one could be fooled into believing that the irradiated world had added another small moon to its collection. Still youthful, the spherical station had yet to grow into the features by which it would be recognized a decade on. The northern hemisphere focus lens frame for the super-laser was scarcely more than a metallic crater; the Quadanium hull, a mere patchwork of rectangular plates, so that one could see almost to the heart of the colossal thing. The sphere’s surface city sprawls and equatorial trench might as well have been dreams.

By the time Tarkin arrived, at the conclusion of his travels through the Outer Rim systems, some of the hyperdrive components had been installed, but the station was far from being jump-ready. Nevertheless, work on some of its array of sublight engines had recently been completed, and those were ready to be tested, if only to determine how well the globe handled.

The project’s chief scientists and engineers had taken Tarkin on a tour of finished portions of the station that had lasted a week, and yet he still hadn’t seen half of it. From the interior of a repulsorlift construction craft, his guides had pointed out where the shield and tractor beam generators would be installed; they had laid out their plans for housing a staff and crew of three hundred thousand; they had described gun emplacements, mooring platforms, and defensive towers that would stipple the gray skin.

Tarkin was in his glory. If he felt at home on the bridge of a Star Destroyer, here he felt centered. The station was a vast technoscape, ripe for exploration; an unknown world awaiting his stamp of approval and his mastery.

While most of the construction work was done in micro-g, omnidirectional boosters supplied standard gravity to a large cabinspace near the surface that would one day become the overbridge, with designated posts for Tarkin and various military officers, a conference room featuring a circular table, a HoloNet booth dedicated to communicating with the Emperor, and banks of large viewscreens. There, in the company of the station’s designers and construction specialists, Tarkin gave the order for the sublight engines to engage.

A faint shudder seemed to run through the orb — though Tarkin thought that the vibration could easily be the effect of exhilaration coursing through him in a way he hadn’t experienced since his teenage years. Then, with almost agonizing sluggishness, the battle station began to leave its fixed orbit. Ultimately it surpassed the speed of the planet’s rotation, emerging from the shadow of Geonosis and moving into deep space.