It was a surreal thing to stand atop a machine that annihilated cities and erased planets; to have command over a power wholly unique in all of history.
Since the first civilization had ascended into the void there had been millions of warships, thousands of Jedi, and dozens of galactic conquests… but there was only one Death Star. It was a manifestation of power so great that the likes of it had never before been seen in all of recorded history, and Wilhuff Tarkin - a Grand Moff of the Galactic Empire - stood at its helm.
Perhaps he was biased in his own favour, but if Tarkin was pressed on the matter he wouldn't hesitate to identify himself as one of the precious few that had the resolve to use the station's might in the name of peace and stability for the galaxy. He was keenly aware that such a thought was a treacherous one when allowed to grow unchecked. To credit himself with being unparalleled in dedication was to invite a corruption of the sort that could drive oneself to megalomania. Tarkin had to trust he was be above that, because there were few others that could be relied on to wield the Death Star without succumbing to its temptations of power, and to start second-guessing himself would be liable to leave him paralyzed with indecision at a crucial juncture.
Tarkin had lost count of how frequently in his preparations to assume control over the Death Star that he had found some sonorous reminder of the Death Star's importance hidden in his endless logistics reports. Almost without fail, it would leave his thoughts derailed, as he was preoccupied by yet another new perspective of the scope of the power at his fingertips.
The thought that came to mind was that he was akin to a mountain climber, stopping for the evening just short of the summit, knowing that with only a touch more effort the next day, he would be at the peak. Whenever it struck, he would have to lay his datapad aside to properly consider the magnitude of his success, and what more was still to come.
It wasn't a thought Tarkin would ever voice, as to do so would be to describe himself as a 'climber', and Tarkin had always prided himself on advancing his position without any of the pathetic political climbing that was the common tactic of his former peers, who were now his subordinates. He had brought himself to his current position – passing through such exemplary rest stops as governor of Eriadu and Moff of the Greater Seswenna - through deft political alliances with the likes of Senator, Chancellor, and then Emperor Palpatine, offering his allegiance for Palpatine's in turn. He had not grovelled or supplicated himself at the feet of the powerful; he had made himself powerful, and let others prostrate themselves before him instead.
But - as if summoned by the very thought of political climbers - Moradmin Bast appeared in the periphery of his vision, approaching from one of the Overbridge's duty stations. Likely he was bringing some petty matter that was best left to one of the others among his staff.
Tarkin had spent almost two decades of work wading through the backstabbing of naval politics, rebel sabotage, and the grandiose delusions of Orson Krennic. He had spent Two decades waiting for the day that he would bring an end to the plague of dissidence that gnawed at the galaxy; an end to rebellion, treachery, and disorder. And now, when Tarkin stood at the precipice of victory, a man whose accomplishments were rooted in his connections rather than his achievements had come forward to stand in his light and cast a shadow across his success.
That man was General Moradmin Bast, a protege of Joint Chief and High General Cassio Tagge, Chief of Army Operations aboard the Death Star, and begrudged member of Tarkin's staff. He was - to Tarkin's disdain - the embodiment of a political climber, having been whisked to the lofty heights in which he now squatted by Tagge's favour.
None of this was to say that Bast was wholly incompetent. Indeed, sometimes he could be downright capable, but Tarkin couldn't help but dislike his appointment through connections rather than merit. Bast's appointment to his staff had been an act of cronyism, done as a favour to Tagge. Hence, his presence was a constant reminder that he had compromised his own values.
Tarkin was displeased with Bast for having made use of Tagge to get his position, with Tagge for having requested it, and with himself for having agreed to it. The result of this was that Bast often found himself on the receiving end of Tarkin's ire. Though he was Tarkin's personal aide, most of the work that should have gone to him actually went to Hurst Romodi, Tarkin's Adjutant. Bast instead functioned as a glorified secretary, tasked with work which had been deemed too menial or otherwise beneath the notice of the other members of Tarkin's staff.
This cool indifference did not foster a robust working relationship. Tarkin understood that - perhaps as an outlet for his frustration - Bast was known to deride some of Tarkin's decisions as a result. Just the previous day, Tarkin had been made aware that Bast had disparaged his plan to break Leia Organa by showing her the destruction of Alderaan, calling it foolish, and a waste of time. He had said as much to Darth Vader, of all people, clearly not understanding the pair's strong working relationship would result in his disrespect quickly being brought to Tarkin's attention. He and Vader had enjoyed a long discussion regarding how best to inspire respect and loyalty in their subordinates, and Bast had found himself buried under a dozen triplicate petty requisition forms that same evening.
Evening. There was that word again. Now, it was a different kind of evening, and that thought occupied his mind again. The sun was setting on the Rebellion, and Tarkin's peak was within reach. In short order, he'd be up on the summit and have his flag planted. The Rebellion would be destroyed. If Tarkin had to suffer through the General's petty concerns before that, he would do it gladly.
Tarkin proffered Bast the briefest of glances as he approached, then set his gaze squarely on the viewscreen again, more interested in watching for the moment that would spell the end of the Rebel Alliance than hearing what the man had to say.
"We've analysed their attack, sir, and there is a danger," Bast said, his face a mask of meticulously cultivated professionalism. "Shall I have your ship standing by?"
Tarkin took a moment to reply, not really parsing what had been said, but still fighting to keep his irritation hidden - or at least, none more apparent than usual. Then he whipped his head around to stare at Bast, incredulous.
"Evacuate?" he scoffed. "In our moment of triumph? I think you overestimate their chances."
Bast bowed his submission and retreated, and Tarkin turned back to the viewscreen.
The moment, however, was ruined. Total victory inches from his fingers, yet tainted by the suggestion of retreat. Bast took far too much after his mentor. Where Tagge would advise caution, or warn against overconfidence, Bast would turn tail and flee. As if the Rebels were not only a tangible threat, but something to be feared. Preposterous.
Tarkin seethed. It was the height of cowardice; a disgrace to the Empire. When the Rebel Alliance was done away with, he'd see to it that Bast was removed from his staff. Such a lack of fortitude could not go without reprisal, and unlike when he had first voiced doubts at Tagge's recommendation of Bast for Tarkin's personal aide, this time he would not spare a thought for the consequences. Tagge would accept his decision, he would accept his explanation, or if he could do neither then he would suffer through it. The matter was no longer negotiable.
Tarkin glared at the viewscreen, and the vibrant red sphere of Yavin Prime stared back at him. On the far side, the forest moon - Yavin IV - continued its laconic final orbit. Only a few minutes now, and the work would be done.
As slowly as Yavin IV edged closer to destruction, his anger began to ebb, and a cooler thought came to mind. It mused that Bast was many things, but he was not an analyst… and nor, Tarkin had to admit, was he a coward. Then, was his suggestion truly one borne of fear, or was he the courier for another?
Tarkin continued to eye the viewscreen, the idea bouncing through his mind like a ricocheting blaster bolt. If Bast was carrying the warning for another, then who was it? The squadron commander, having analysed the ratio of TIE fighters lost to Rebel fighters destroyed? The gunnery overchief, having lost an inordinate number of turbolaser turrets?
No, no. Both were officers that Tarkin had appointed. They were men he trusted to understand their roles and the pettiness of their losses compared to the scope of the resources they oversaw. But if not them, then...
The engineers examining the station plans?
A chill ran down Tarkin's spine, and he clenched one hand into a fist as he fought against the urge to shiver. Not that. Anything but that.
The Rebels had, of course, been desperate to procure the plans for the battle station; they'd snatched them right out of the data vaults at Scarif, and ferried them from world to world in order to get them somewhere that was safe enough - for long enough - that they could be scanned for weaknesses. Tarkin had, of course, trusted that there would be no flaw significant enough to keep the battle station from performing its grim task, and that if there was, the Rebels would have little time to find it amongst the immense and complicated plans, or lack the capability to exploit it.
But if the Imperial engineers, tops of their field and handpicked for their loyalty and confidentiality, were flagging something as a worthwhile threat...
And then, there was the matter of the scientist, Erso, and his collusion with the defector cargo pilot. They had had gone to great lengths to get out a message, the contents of which Tarkin could only guess at. It couldn't just be a warning of the battle station itself; the rebellion had been aware of the scale and portent of the project almost as soon as Sentinel Base - the original construction site - had been established.
So, then, what if Erso's message had been something else? Information, perhaps, on a flaw in the station's design? Instructions on where in the plans to check for the flaw; hence, perhaps something that the Rebels would be able to confirm with only a few hours' possession of the plans.
The idea was daunting to wrap his head around; that this metal hulk which represented the full power and might of the Empire could have a mortal fault. Something that the Rebellion felt it could exploit for their own victory, even now, with Yavin IV mere minutes away from destruction.
It was too much. He almost rejected the notion outright, rather than consider the possibility that his victory was anything other than the certainty that it seemed to be. Then the rational side of him - the side which had guided his every decision since he had joined the Galactic Republic all those decades ago - took its place at the helm once more. Tarkin knew what he had to do; the steps he had to go through until the problem was either solved, or shown to have never existed.
He took a single step back from the viewscreen and turned toward the rear wall of the overbridge, where the members of his staff were leaning over the various consoles and terminals. Bast was hunched over a podium terminal, looking worried. This time, Tarkin didn't feel anger, or disdain. That would come later, or not at all.
"Bast," He called, and the officer snapped upright, his face a caricature of surprise.
"Yes, sir?" Bast replied, making a hesitant salute.
"That risk that you mentioned," Tarkin said, his voice as cold and collected as that first thought that had pierced his fog of irritation. "On whom's analysis was it based? I would like to hear the breadth of their recommendation."
The other officers on the overbridge were watching now. Admiral Motti – who stood at the same console as Bast – quickly glanced back and forth in total bewilderment. Others, such as Wullf Yularen or Siward Cass, were more furtive in their observations. It was not uncommon for Tarkin to foist some mildly interesting punishment on Bast for a minor mistake, but the timing was unusual to say the least, which made the exchange all the more confusing.
Tarkin didn't care. All that mattered now was the truth.
"The, uh…" Bast looked down at his terminal, and irritation threatened to break Tarkin's composure as it had before. Then Bast looked up again and said "The 'Special Engineering Review Task Force', sir."
Now it was the chill that threatened to break him, not attacking just his spine, but shocking his whole system. While Tarkin had previously heard the idiom of one's 'blood running cold', he had never appreciated the accuracy of the description until now. The feeling was so profound, it was as if ice water had been poured directly into his veins. His head and extremities tingled, then felt detached, as if everything his body did now came on a slight delay.
"And their recommendation, general? What is it?" Tarkin asked, keeping his voice even.
Bast looked down at his terminal again, thumbed at it twice, then looked up again, his face visibly paler. "Th-they say that, uh, they have identified a potential flaw in, uh-" he glanced down and back up again. "The-the shielding on the reactor exhaust system. Uh, a precision strike could cause…" another glance at his terminal. "A 'cascade reactor breach', and 'subsequent catastrophic failure'."
The quiet that followed was like a physical weight settling on Tarkin's shoulders. His head threatened to droop, which he disguised by holding a fist in front of his mouth and resting his head against it, eyes downcast in thought.
Several heads shifted between him and Bast, the others in the room not yet understanding the magnitude of the threat.
"The reactor exhaust system… and where is that located?" Tarkin looked up at his staff. "Anyone?"
Motti glanced around the room, failing to conceal his confusion. For him and the absent General Tagge, such a question was unanswerable, even if they could have consulted with their own staffers. As the Chiefs of the Imperial Navy and Army respectively, they had nobody within their spheres of influence that could provide technical information on the Death Star. It was Tarkin's Adjutant, Hurst Romodi, who was first to consult his terminal.
"Thermal exhaust ports are located in the polar longitudinal trenches, si-"
"And," Tarkin snapped, cutting off Romodi. "Where are the rebel fighters concentrating their attack?"
"The meridian trench, sir." Bast had a nervous sheen on his brow. "A... a polar longitudinal trench."
Tarkin raised a hand to his own brow and rubbed it with unrestrained vigour, taking as long as he dared to collect his thoughts. "I want an immediate report on Lord Vader's pursuit of the rebel fighters."
"Trying to raise him now." Siward Cass was bent so deeply over his console that he could have been sprawled across it and Tarkin wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.
The Death Star was in danger. They were poised to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. There were more orders to give; more steps to take; more questions to ask, but Tarkin couldn't think of what they were, and that disgusted him. They could be at the mercy of a lone snub fighter at that very moment and all he could do was hope that Vader was as prodigious in dispatching them as Tarkin had come to expect of the Sith Lord.
But, no, perhaps there was something that he could do… but it was unspeakable. It was an admission of defeat. It would be like slaughtering an enemy army to the man, then surrendering because he feared that the survivor was holding a blaster behind his back. Better to shoot him and be done with it.
On the other hand, there was that favoured idiom of Tagge's... 'caution in the face of the unknown is never caution misspent.' If he made this choice, it did not mean that the Rebellion would not be destroyed the next day instead. When the choice was between the possible destruction of the Death Star and the end of his own life, and the chance that the threat would come to nothing and he would lose face. The choice was obvious, but painful nonetheless.
This was the right kind of thinking, the same quality of thought that had brought him to his current position. Not hubris, nor denial of obvious dangers. It was dignified, rational evaluation of the situation that would bring them through it, even if it meant losing face or delaying the inevitable crushing of the Rebellion.
"Grand Moff, sir," Siward said. "I am unable to raise Lord Vader. It would seem that he is still engaged."
"He's refusing the connection?" Tarkin frowned. That didn't bode well. If Vader was having so much trouble dispatching the Rebel pilots that he was-"
"No," Cass corrected him. "I'm unable to establish a signal."
"What?" Tarkin turned his head so quickly his neck clicked. Vader was out of contact? Darth Vader, Sith Lord, ruthless fighter and crack pilot, had been taken out of the equation? It was almost as unthinkable as the idea that the Death Star could be vulnerable. Whether it meant he was disabled, dead, or otherwise defeated, Tarkin had to assume was that - as long as he was unable to communicate with Vader - the Rebel forces must now have free reign to carry out their strike.
"I want him raised as soon as possible," Tarkin ordered. "I need a report on the defence before my hand is forced. I don't want to have to do something drastic."
Then the announcement came through from fire control - "Rebel base in range." - and Tarkin's hand was forced.
A few minutes before, this moment was all Tarkin had wanted. He could feel the order pushing at the hinds of his lips. You may fire when ready, or just fire. Say it, and Yavin IV would be destroyed. The Rebellion would be no more. The Death star couldn't possibly be threatened by a handful of snub fighters. He could still give the order. He should.
But… no. He shouldn't. Whether it was his saving grace or greatest shame, Tarkin knew what had to come next.
"Take the station down to reserve power," He ordered, the words poison on his tongue. "I want a full reactor shutdown."
Nobody moved, everyone looking somewhere between confused and alarmed, and Tarkin balled his hands into fists.
"I will not repeat myself."
For a few seconds more, nobody moved. Then the men stirred to do his bidding, though their actions were sluggish and halting. The room was filled with the chirping of commlink connections being established, and then the rumble of the men murmuring into their terminals. Those who had nobody under their command to contact continued to look bewildered. Admiral Motti appeared especially shocked, repeatedly looking at his colleagues as if unable to understand why they were following Tarkin's order. He seemed to settle his eyes on Zi Sturgist and Trech Molock who – as the Death Star's Chief of Navy and Army Operations respectively – were conferring on preparing an evacuation of the station's personnel. Judging by the Admiral's expression, he seemed to find the suggestion that something could require a mass evacuation the very height of absurdity.
Tarkin, for his part, couldn't understand why his staff seemed incapable of following his order satisfactorily. They weren't urgent enough, yet they were too loud. They worked too slow, yet he wanted them to stop. It was folly, and it was reasoned. It was cowardly, and it was sensible. He switched back and forth between these absolute truths almost as fast as the thoughts could manifest, and the result of this internal chaos was that he stood absolutely still, still resting his chin against his fist, ready to lash the very next person that spoke to him.
The wall lights dimmed, came back up, dimmed again, flickered, dimmed further. The readout on the viewscreen disappeared for a moment, revealing the window view of the gas giant and its small, vulnerable moon, and then reappeared at half the brightness. The wall lights flickered again and then went out, leaving the overbridge in the artificial twilight of the viewscreen and recessed emergency lights. Half the terminals in the room shut off, their backlighting fading out over a few seconds.
It was like the station was bowing its head in defeat, the disappearing lights its eyes closing in shame. Tarkin wanted to do the same. Perhaps in this darkness, it might even go unnoticed.
"Sir," came Wullf Yularen's clipped voice, a hint of shock in his voice. "The remaining rebel forces are breaking off their attack. They're retreating back toward Yavin IV."
Back toward what they should be a doomed world. What they should think is a doomed world. Would they go back unless they thought otherwise? Would any sentient be fool enough to return to the moon unless they thought it was no longer in danger?
"No… they aren't retreating." Tarkin replied, more for his own benefit than anyone else's. It was too obvious to be a coincidence. They were making their triumphant return. Mission accomplished.
And even though the back of his mind was certain that there was some other explanation, Tarkin began to speak, one hand questing out for something to brace himself against, even though the nearest fixture - Romodi's terminal - was four meters away.
"I think-" he began, but found himself interrupted as a low groan filled the room. It wasn't a sound that just reached his ears, but a wave of vibration that rolled through the durasteel construction, passing from the rear of the overbridge to the front like an almost tangible wall of sound. Tarkin could feel it in the soles of his boots, throbbing in his eardrums, and setting his skin crawling.
As quickly as it had come the groan transformed, becoming a ear-splitting shriek, and the vibration became a violent, bass juddering. Tarkin wanted to clasp his hands over his ears to block out the awful noise, but instead was forced to splay his arms wide to keep his balance as the floor bucked beneath him.
Tarkin's feet left the floor, and he was lofted into the air, given a brief moment to be unsure if the artificial gravity had failed or if the floor had thrown him off. He hung for a moment before returning to the floor with some force - though it didn't feel as if he had fallen; more as if he had been floating, and the floor had come up to meet him.
He failed to find his footing as he came down, and Tarkin landed on his back. Only a last second curling forward of his neck saved him from concussing himself on the floor, but he was nonetheless winded, gasping for a breath that refused to come. Tarkin reached a hand out to push himself into a sitting position, but found when he did that he merely parted ways with the floor entirely.
Drifting up into the air again and still winded, Tarkin made an undignified show of reaching out to grab hold of something - anything - to anchor himself, but he found no purchase on the polished floor of the Overbridge, and indeed only succeeded it in pushing himself further away.
Then Tarkin was falling, not just down, but toward the rear of the Overbridge where the floor met the hind wall; toward the core of the station. He turned over as he fell, orienting himself to this new 'down', and saw the other occupants of the room matching his movements. Their shouts of alarm mingled with the sounds of heavy impacts against the room's console stands.
Ahead of him Trech Molock – who had failed to properly right himself and was falling back-first – crashed into a terminal and folded over it backwards with a pronounced, ugly crunch. Then he continued toppling toward the hind of the Overbridge, now falling like a limp ragdoll. Tarkin's attention was so raptly held by this sight that he realized too late that he was about to suffer the same punishment.
Tarkin reached out a hand in an ill-conceived attempt to cushion the blow, and had his effort rewarded with a sharp, brittle pain in his wrist as it was crushed between the fixture and his midriff. He bounced off the console, unable to grab at it for his injured hand, and continued his tumble. Off to the left he saw someone else crash into another stand, though their impact was rougher, their head and neck catching on the fixture and being whipped back as they passed.
The rear wall was approaching far too fast. He'd only begun to fall a few seconds before, and he had at best another two before he reached its end. It wasn't long enough to even think about what was happening. Had Tarkin been granted a few seconds more, he might have been fearful that - aged as he was - what awaited him at the back-cum-bottom of the Overbridge would be far worse than what had befallen his hand.
Then his legs brushed against the polished floor once more. A moment later, he was sliding down it as if it were an exceedingly steep slope. Gravity was returning, or realigning, or otherwise righting itself.
As the direction of gravity swung back around to the correct orientation, he was slowing, but not by enough. The heel of his boot caught against the floor and his slide became a tumbling roll, his extremities being viciously beaten against the unforgiving floor.
Tarkin was granted a single second more to consider his chances of surviving the impact, and then he collided with the rear wall in a crumpled heap.
