THE CASE FOR REBELLION
His hands tightened behind his back, his lips curling in an uncomfortable twitch that he struggled hard to conceal.
Standing with his back rigid and his feet placed firmly apart on the durasteel deck, Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin remained the picture of military discipline, regardless of the anger that seethed within him.
Kenobi was here, General Kenobi was here.
The words beat within his mind like the sound of savage war drums, the veins in his temples throbbing. He remained paralysed by the revelation, unable, for all his presence, to react for fear of shattering the carefully constructed image he portrayed.
After all these years, Kenobi had finally crawled out of hiding and, with all the audacity that only a Jedi Knight could muster, had wormed his way onto Tarkin's grand battle station at the moment of what should have been his sweetest triumph. The insult was clear and intended. It was a matter that Tarkin would not take sitting down.
The last time he had come within striking distance of Kenobi had been during the conflict over Zonama Sekot. Tarkin's fingers had been burnt on that occasion, not least of all by the man who now stood behind him, spirit bound to powerful durasteel limbs and face concealed behind a ghastly black death masque.
The man had been but a boy then; a child full of all the ambition and anxiety of his years, a fact that Tarkin had attempted to manipulate. If the man who had become Darth Vader remembered the exchange, he had never made comment upon it, instead leaving Tarkin to avoid mentioning the event.
Kenobi's return was an unpredicted factor that neither man had ever taken into account and one that Tarkin feared would only disturb his dark armoured subordinate.
Already he could sense the subtle differences in Vader's reaction, the erratic nature of his filtered breathing, the agitated movements and rhythmic tightening and relaxing of his gloved fists. Tarkin did not need to be a Jedi to understand what the younger man was feeling.
That one old man, the general that had once lead soldiers upon the sands of a thousand countless worlds against a puppet separatist foe; the man who had once been allies with both Tarkin and Vader, albeit an uncomfortable one, had pulled himself up out of whatever purgatory he had descended into. Intentional or not, Kenobi had made a very deliberate show of defiance.
By arriving upon the Death Star, the old Jedi had not only dredged up the memories of that colossal betrayal but had also threatened the future. Should news of his return get out, it could possibly inspire an entire new generation of dissidents. A living Jedi Knight, a former general of the Clone Wars, had smuggled his way on-board the most significant Imperial technological advancement since the fall of the Republic and now was running amok; free to do as he pleased.
His knuckles turned white.
The Empire could not afford such scandal and neither could Tarkin personally, especially not after the official move to end the East Coruscant Company and the mutiny of natives on a number of outer rim worlds that had been crucial to the development and expansionist aims of the Empire.
Tarkin himself had been on the board of directors for the Company. Its inability to sufficiently suppress native rebels and the need for reinforcement from Imperial reserves had not gone unnoticed by the dread Emperor. Though order had been restored with the promotion of Imperial advisors to the positions of governors, the whole event was a black mark upon Tarkin's record – a black mark that the Emperor had made full use of.
The Death Star, symbolically and statistically, was crucial for Tarkin's continued peace of mind. Without the assurance of the colossal world destroying battle station, not only would Tarkin's political future be in doubt but his entire life would also be thrown into the balance.
He set his jaw firmly and pursed his lips, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the data upon the screen before him.
The breath rattled in what remained of Vader's throat again, the dull eyes of his masque staring blankly down at the older man.
"Obi-Wan is here," the Dark Lord hissed, "The Force is with him."
Tarkin's lips curled in distaste. Carefully, he lowered himself down into the seat at his desk, desperately struggling not to show any sign of emotional reaction.
He was uncomfortable with the sudden religious zeal with which Vader spoke. Though he did not doubt the armoured man's hatred there was always a modicum of doubt in his mind when issues of the Jedi were raised.
"If you're right, he must not be allowed to escape," Tarkin said carefully.
Vader was silent for a moment.
"Escape," he rasped, "Is not his plan. I must face him alone."
Without a further word, the Dark Lord turned and stalked from the room, his cloak billowing out behind him.
As the doors closed, Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin allowed himself an uncharacteristic look of despair and apprehension.