Tarkin

A case of Do or Die

ITS TIERED ROOF a canopy of scanner, sensor, and communications arrays, Naval Intelligence headquarters heaved from Coruscant’s metallic crust as if thrust up by tectonic forces from the depths of the planet. Along with the Palace and the byzantine COMPNOR arcology — which housed the Imperial Security Bureau, the Ubiqtorate, and other ambiguous organizations — Naval Intelligence was the third point of the Federal District’s supreme triangle. The fact that the shielded, hardened, near-windowless complex more resembled a prison than a fortress had given rise to speculation that its sheer walls were designed as much to keep the agency’s staff of tens of thousands of military officers inside as to keep ordinary Coruscanti out.

Constructed soon after the end of the war atop monads that had once made up the Republic’s strategic center, Naval Intelligence was a nexus for gathering and analyzing transmissions that poured in from across the ecumenopolis and from all sectors of the expanding Empire. And yet its operations were not conducted in complete secrecy. During the construction phase, micro-holocams had been installed in every nook and cranny so that the actions and conversations of every staffer could be monitored at any hour of the day or night; not by the members of the Senate’s various oversight committees, however, but by the Emperor and the most trusted members of the Ruling Council. Everyone involved with Naval Intelligence knew that the cams were there and had gradually grown accustomed to their presence. While the officers and others no longer played to the spy eyes as they had early on, they went about their business well aware that at any given moment they might be on stage.

Just now the Joint Chiefs of the Empire’s military were gathered — Admiral Antonio Motti, General Cassio Tagge, Rear Admirals Ozzel, Jerjerrod, and others — along with several top officers from COMPNOR, including Director Armand Isard, ISB deputy director Harus Ison, and Colonel Wullf Yularen. Naval Intelligence was represented by Vice Admirals Rancit and Screed, who had requested the meeting.

With the bright light of late afternoon pouring through the tall windows of the Palace spire’s pinnacle room, Sidious studied their holograms from his chair, using controls in the armrest to choose from among several cams and to provide alternative vantages. The droid, 11-4D, stood by him, one of its appendages plugged into an interface socket that routed holofeeds to the summit from what had been a Jedi communications suite in the base of the spire.

“Tint the windows,” Sidious said without taking his gaze from the projected holograms.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

With the daylight dimmed, the cyan-hued holograms acquired more detail. The intelligence officers had asked for an audience in the Palace, but Sidious had turned them down. Similarly he had declined to attend their meeting virtually. As nettlesome as it was to have learned that the dissidents in possession of Tarkin’s starship had embarked on a killing spree in the Outer Rim, Sidious found the cachet-driven spitefulness of the intelligence chiefs to be even more tedious. So he had dispatched Mas Amedda and Ars Dangor in his stead.

“I accept the dissidents have managed to wreak havoc in an isolated star system,” Ison was saying, “but the fact remains that they brought only one ship to bear on our facility.”

“One ship capable of hiding itself from scanners,” Rancit said, “outmaneuvering our starfighters, outracing a Star Destroyer …”

“Permit me to amend my statement, then,” Ison continued as Rancit allowed his words to trail off. “One fast and powerful ship. Still, they used it to launch an attack on an unimportant outpost.”

“The start of a campaign of destruction,” Screed interjected.

The officers were grouped around a large circular table, with Mas Amedda and Ars Dangor occupying prominent seats. Above the center of the table floated 3-D star maps, wire-frame displays, and plotting panels, some showing the locations of Outer Rim bases and installations, others the disposition of ships of the fleet, with symbols denoting Star Destroyers, Dreadnoughts, corvettes, and frigates, on down to pickets and gunboats.

“We’ve no proof that the shipjackers are on a campaign,” Ison said, taking up the challenge. “Targeting the space station may have been their way of evading capture by Governor Tarkin and Lord Vader.”

“As a diversion, in other words?” Screed said in elaborate disbelief, his ocular implant glinting in the light from the holograms. “Governor Tarkin came close to losing his life to his own ship. Given his experience and expertise, we have to assume that the Carrion Spike is in the hands of a very competent and dangerous group.”

“I’ve known Governor Tarkin for over twenty years,” Rancit said in reinforcement, “and I can assure you that if he considers the group to pose a serious threat to the Empire, then they are nothing less.”

Ison blew out his breath and shook his head. “Repositioning our resources from Belderone to fortify a couple of minor installations was reckless. We can’t run the risk of curtailing pacification campaigns or hunting down former Separatists for a strategy of defeat-in-detail at the edge of civilized space.”

“And what if the shipjackers’ campaign should expand into the Mid Rim?” Rancit said. “The ship gives them the ability to strike almost anywhere in the galaxy.”

Ison gaped at him for a long moment. “Is it the navy’s aim, then, to redeploy the entire fleet to effect system-denial to a handful of dissidents?”

“In major star systems, yes,” Rancit said. “Should the situation warrant it.”

Rear Admiral Motti spoke to it. “At the risk of sounding too cavalier about this, Governor Tarkin’s ship does not have unlimited firepower.” The traditional cut of his brown hair and the boyish features of his clean-shaven face belied an attitude of perpetual sarcasm. “Whatever course we take, the ship will eventually cease to be a threat.”

“I concur,” Ison chimed in. “It’s one ship. I recommend we let it go.”

Mas Amedda came to his feet in anger. “Clearly all of you are oblivious to the real danger posed by this group of privateers. We are not concerned about remote outposts or even important installations. The ship must be captured or destroyed because of the danger it poses to the Emperor’s unchallengeable reign!”

“That is just the point I was about to make, Vizier,” Rancit said when voices around the table had quieted. He was facing Amedda, but in such a way that he seemed to be speaking more to one of the monitoring cams, as if aware that Sidious was observing, and addressing him directly. “Imperial Security initially stressed that the communications cache on Murkhana could potentially be used to disseminate anti-Imperial propaganda. Now Deputy Director Ison fails to grasp that the intent of the dissidents may be to use Governor Tarkin’s ship for that very purpose.”

Raven-haired man’s man Director Armand Isard was about to intervene when a junior intelligence officer seated at a comm board spoke first. “Sirs, sorry to interrupt, but we’re receiving reports of another unprovoked attack in the Outer Rim.”

“Nam Chorios,” Screed said. “Just as Governor Tarkin predicted.”

“No, Admiral,” the comm officer said. “Lucazec.”

It was General Tagge’s turn to rush to his feet. The scion of a wealthy, influential family, he was tall and thickly built, with a broad face defined by long, flaring sideburns. “TaggeCo has operations at Lucazec!”

“We’re in reception of a live holofeed,” the junior officer updated.

Rancit had amplified an area of the star map and was gazing up into it. “They’ve jumped clear across the sector, inward of the Perlemian Trade Route!” He looked at Motti. “Do we have any resources there?”

Motti had a datapad in hand and was gazing at the device’s display screen. “A small garrison of ground troops and a squadron of V-wing starfighters protecting TaggeCo’s mining interests.”

“The holofeed is streaming,” the junior officer said.

Above the table’s inset projector a holographic video of the attack resolved and stabilized. Centered in the field floated TaggeCo’s city-sized orbital processing plant, an entire section of it engulfed by spherical explosions, the company logo effaced by melted metal. Quanta of unleashed energy were raining down on the facility, blowing chunks of it into local space. Drifting into view between the continuous barrage of beams were pieces of V-wing starfighters and prosaic ore haulers, one of which was falling toward dun-colored Lucazec in flames, its ablative shields glowing red hot. Farther below, clouds of thick black smoke were coiling into the smudged sky.

“They’ve targeted surface operations, as well,” Tagge said, still on his feet and clenching and unclenching his hand.

Ison glanced from him to the junior officer at the comm board in visible alarm. “Who’s transmitting this holovid? Is it being sent live by an orbital facility? An outlying ship?”

“The transmission is arriving on an Imperial HoloNet frequency,” the junior officer said.

“Yes,” Ison said, “but the point of view … It looks as if one of our own ships is the aggressor.”

Screed and Motti traded worried glances.

In the summit of the Palace spire, Sidious sat back into his chair, folding his arms across his chest as sinuous currents of the dark side played through him, and as if he meant to contain them.

“Have you puzzled out what is happening, droid?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” 11-4D said, simultaneous with a further update from the junior officer.

“Sirs, we have confirmation that the holovid is being transmitted by the Carrion Spike.”

Sidious swiveled toward the tinted windows, behind which the sky above and Coruscant below were the color of ash. Narrowing his gaze, he reached out for Darth Vader, whom he sensed was observing the holovid, as well.

Yes, Lord Vader, Sidious sent through the Force, you shall have your starfighter.

Moving with fierce purpose, Tarkin exited the Liberator’s hangar command post and walked briskly along the dorsal flight deck, passing starfighters and ground-effect vehicles as he closed on the shuttle craft awaiting him. The Star Destroyer’s massive overhead doors were closed, and the light on the flight deck was dim. The captain of the Liberator was standing at the foot of the shuttle’s boarding ramp. A short man with gray hair and a meticulously trimmed beard, he saluted as Tarkin approached.

“Sorry we couldn’t be of more help, Governor Tarkin.”

Tarkin gestured in dismissal. “You’re not to blame, Commander. You came when called, and for that alone you have my gratitude.”

The commander nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Tarkin extended his hand, and the commander shook it decorously. “Are you returning to Belderone base?” Tarkin asked.

“No, sir. Coruscant has ordered us to jump directly to Ord Cestus.”

Tarkin’s brow furrowed in question. “Why so far down the Perlemian?”

“Triage redeployments,” the commander said, “as a result of what happened at Lucazec, I suppose. The same at Centares and Lantillies. No telling where your — uh, the missing ship is going to revert next.”

“Perhaps,” Tarkin said, and let it go at that.

He ascended the boarding ramp and walked aft, settling into a seat in the main cabin, the Theta-class shuttle’s only passenger. High overhead, the Liberator’s hangar doors parted down the middle and retracted, and the shuttle rose off its skids on repulsorlift power, dropped its wings, and sped toward its rendezvous point, a pod-shaped support carrier named the Goliath, which had recently arrived from deepdock at Ord Mantell. Tarkin had a port-side glimpse of bleak Nam Chorios as the shuttle angled away from the Star Destroyer, the system’s sun providing barely enough light to illuminate the planet let alone warm it to human standards.

Tarkin turned inward to consider the commander’s remarks. Capital ships redeploying from bases as distant as Centares and Lantillies, all because of the Carrion Spike. He trusted that naval command knew better than to disperse the fleet too thinly, though there was no denying that the shipjackers had once again taken everyone by surprise.

That might not have been the case if Coruscant had placed Lucazec on alert, but no one, including Tarkin, had given much thought to the possibility that the dissidents would target a lightly defended TaggeCo mining concern. Entering the star system with an altered transponder signature but transmitting authentic Imperial codes, the Carrion Spike had opened fire on both the orbital facility and groundside operations before Lucazec could react. Jova would have applauded the shipjackers’ tactics, the idea of masking oneself in the scent of one’s enemy.

He could still summon the odors of musky excretions he had been forced to smear over himself during hunts or surveillance exercises on the plateau. The rodent Jova had struck with the airspeeder one night had only been the beginning. After that had come the dizzying, often nauseating scents of sly vulpines, antlered ruminants, squat felines … But in countless situations the excretions had given them the upper hand, allowing them to kill or infiltrate as needed.

Except at the Spike. But of course that wasn’t the idea.

At Lucazec, the shipjackers hadn’t even bothered to activate the Carrion Spike’s stealth systems until they had reached their target. They were experimenting, perhaps in preparation for their next attack. Deflector shields had protected the mining facility for a time, but its fate had been sealed. The destruction and casualties the ship had left in her wake were consistent with what she had wrought at Galidraan.

When the shipjackers’ HoloNet transmission had been received by the Liberator, Tarkin had tried to convince himself that it was another counterfeit, that the holovid had been cobbled together from wartime news feeds and created images, as had been the case at Sentinel and on Murkhana. In his eagerness to prove himself correct — and to the bewilderment of some of the Liberator’s petty officers — he had practically placed himself inside the blue holofield, searching for evidence of corruption that would have identified the feed as a fake. But he found no such signs. It had taken some time to disabuse himself of the notion that the shipjackers were deliberately provoking him, and to accept that they were merely making use of the Carrion Spike’s sophisticated communications suite to call attention to their agenda, as Count Dooku had managed to do early on in the Clone Wars. And like Dooku, the shipjackers had succeeded in broadcasting the Lucazec holovid live over civilian HoloNet frequencies to thousands of Outer and Mid Rim star systems before Coruscant was able to shut down vast portions of the communications grid.

Still, the damage had been done. According to the latest reports from Naval Intelligence, the shipjackers were already attracting media attention in some of the outer systems, and certain members of the Ruling Council were worried about blowback: that disaffected factions might begin to think that the Empire was vulnerable, and that imitators would spring up, convinced that they, too, could make themselves heard far and wide.

Tarkin had also learned that the contentious debate between Imperial Security and Naval Intelligence on how best to proceed had yet to subside, especially with the Carrion Spike on the loose once more, hiding in hyperspace or lurking in some remote or unpopulated star system. It appeared, however, that Vice Admirals Rancit and Screed were currently the gears getting the most grease, as the Admiralty had been granted permission by the Emperor to deploy forces to unprotected worlds along the Perlemian Trade Route and the Hydian Way. That, in any case, was how the Goliath came to be at Nam Chorios, and apparently why the Liberator had been deemed needed at Ord Cestus.

No sooner had the support carrier arrived than Vader had had himself ferried aboard, as it had brought from Coruscant his personal starfighter.

Tarkin had been busy since he and Vader had parted company, speaking with Commander Cassel at Sentinel Base, with intelligence assets on Murkhana, and with the commanders of Imperial posts throughout the sector; and as well with Wullf Yularen — who had his hands full keeping the peace among the intelligence agencies. Tarkin had spent the past ten hours in the Liberator’s data center, poring over star maps and charts and performing complex calculations.

He needed sleep, but sleep would have to wait until after he met with Vader.

The shuttle’s wings folded upward as it lazed through a magcon field into the support escort’s main hangar. The ship’s commander and a dozen of his top officers and black-uniformed noncoms were standing eyes-front on the deck as Tarkin descended the ramp. Alongside the group stood a full company of stormtroopers, in addition to Sergeant Crest and the remaining six members of Vader’s personal detail.

“Welcome aboard, Governor Tarkin,” the commander said, stepping out of line to greet him.

“Good to see you again, Ros. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“We’ll just have to make them better.”

Tarkin smiled without amusement “Where is Lord Vader?”

“Starfighter bay. I’ll escort you.” The commander turned to dismiss the others, then gestured politely to Tarkin and set off across the deck.

It took only moments to reach the starfighter bay, where the commander left Tarkin to his business. Tarkin didn’t need to look far for Vader’s starfighter, as it was the only Eta-2 among a squadron of V-wings. The absence of color might have struck Tarkin as a dramatic choice had black not been the Dark Lord’s preferred color. What’s more, many pilots during the war had made an effort to distinguish themselves, so why not Vader now?

Vader was standing between the weapons arms of the craft’s split prow tinkering with something, while a silver astromech droid stood by, plugged into a portable diagnostics unit. Without so much as a word of greeting from Tarkin, Vader turned and stepped out from between the forward laser cannons.

“I trust that your fighter weathered the jump from Ord Mantell in good repair,” Tarkin said.

“Not entirely, Governor, but the starfighter’s troubles do not concern me at the moment. What have you learned?”

Tarkin lifted an eyebrow. “An interesting question, Lord Vader.”

The foul humor Vader had been in since the attack at Lucazec hadn’t faded. “I am not referring to lessons, Governor. Do you have new information?”

Tarkin nodded. “Something we need to discuss in strict confidence.”

Vader turned to respond to a series of urgent twitters from the droid, then wordlessly led Tarkin to a small unoccupied situation room adjacent to the starfighter bay. The room featured a holotable and an array of communications modules.

“Our isolation is assured,” Vader said. “Now: What have you learned?”

“I believe I have discovered a way to predict where the Carrion Spike will next emerge.”

“Your prediction will need to improve greatly on our hunch at Galidraan, Governor.”

“I’ve removed some of the guesswork.”

Vader waited.

“Several things before I speak to my forecast. First, the device serial numbers we recorded on Murkhana indicate that the components were in fact part of a Separatist communications cache confiscated by the Republic during the war and warehoused in an Imperial depot until they disappeared sometime within the past three years.”

“Disappeared,” Vader said. “Like the warship modules and droids you traced from Sentinel Base.”

“Precisely. Sold, stolen, or perhaps given away.”

“All three possibilities imply the conspiracy of insiders.”

Tarkin smiled with purpose. “There’s more. The dissidents’ attack on the Galidraan wheel was especially well timed, in that a Victory-class Star Destroyer had jumped from the system not an hour before the Carrion Spike arrived.”

Vader considered it. “The dissidents knew.”

Tarkin nodded. “They may be working in tandem with a scout ship. Or perhaps with the warship observed at Sentinel Base.”

“Or receiving help from the same insiders who provided them with confiscated equipment.” Vader paused. “The Emperor wishes to make an example of them, Governor. But he demands that we reel all of them in, not simply those who pirated your ship.”

“And so we shall, if my calculations are correct.”

Again, Vader waited.

Tarkin prized his datapad from the pocket of his tunic and tasked it to interface with the holoprojector table. A rotund star map resolved in midair, which Tarkin manipulated from the datapad. The Carrion Spike’s movements were indicated by a zigzagging red line, annotated by measurements and calculations.

“Fuel consumption,” Vader said after a moment.

“I should have known you’d be ahead of me.”

“I am not unfamiliar with the method, Governor.”

Vader didn’t offer an explanation, so Tarkin went on, using his forefinger to highlight his statements.

“The ship was fully fueled when it left Sentinel Base. We didn’t bother refueling on Coruscant for the jump to Murkhana, as there was more than an ample supply for the round trip. From Murkhana, however, the ship jumped first to Fial, then to Galidraan, and then to Lucazec. We have no way of assessing let alone knowing where the corvette is at present — whether it is in hyperspace or parked in some local star system — but either way its fuel is in short supply. And unless the shipjackers have completed their mission — a supposition I find highly unlikely — fuel has to be their next priority.”

Tarkin made adjustments to the star map, magnifying an area of the local sector. “Fuel requirements for the Carrion Spike are not ordinary, and replenishment sites out here are few and far between. In fact, calculations suggest only two options: here”—Tarkin pointed—“at Gromas, in the Perkell sector, or here, at Phindar, in the Mandalore sector.”

Vader circled the star map twice before coming to a halt and looking at Tarkin. “As it happens, Governor, I am acquainted with both worlds.”

Now Tarkin waited, but once more the Dark Lord offered no explanation.

“Like Lucazec,” Tarkin continued, “Gromas supports a mining operation — for phrik, I believe—”

“Yes,” Vader said.

“The Empire has a depot there that includes a full range of fuel options. Phindar, by contrast, was attacked by Separatists during the war, and hosts what is little more than a large tanker in fixed orbit. The property of a criminal cartel some twenty years ago, it is now operated by subcontractors as a fuel and service facility for Imperial starships.”

“Two options,” Vader said, “Gromas presenting more difficulties.”

“The shipjackers chose Lucazec over Nam Chorios or even Belderone, and they transmitted their attack live over the HoloNet. If, then, their plan is to spread both destruction and propaganda—”

“Gromas would be the expected choice, if only because of its relative importance.”

Tarkin nodded slowly. “It’s certainly the target we should provide to the intelligence agencies.”

Vader nodded slowly, in full understanding of Tarkin’s implication. “I’ll inform the Emperor.”

“The Carrion Spike may already be in motion,” Tarkin said, squaring his shoulders.

As if in echo of Tarkin’s posture of readiness, Vader planted his fists on his hips. “Then we have no time to spare.”