IV: FIRST STRIKES

Inside the cold, gray, sterile meeting room, the Death Star's Leadership Council was, once again, squabbling amongst itself. The argument was along familiar lines: just how great a threat the so-called Rebel Alliance was to their ultimate weapon.

"Until this battle station is fully operational," whined Cassio Tagge, one of the triumvirate that commanded the weapon itself, "we are vulnerable! The Rebel Alliance is too well equipped. They are more dangerous than you realize," he spat at the man directly across from him, Admiral Conan Antonio Motti, his equal and chief rival.

Motti sneered. "Perhaps these...what's the term...Browncoats are dangerous to your Starfleet, Commander, not to this battle station. We beat them in the Clone Wars, we'll beat them again."

"The Separatists did not have the support of the Senate," Tagge retorted. "But the Rebellion will continue to gain even more—"

A new voice, high, smug, and cold, spoke. "The Imperial Senate is no longer any concern of ours, gentlemen," spoke Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin, the true head of the battle station's leadership, as he entered the conference room, flanked by his massive, black-robed crony Vader. "I have just received word that the Emperor has given the order to dissolve the Senate completely. The last remnants of the old Republic have been swept away." A satisfied smirk formed on his skeletal face.

Tagge, always one for a debate, gasped slightly. "But—that's impossible! How will the Emperor maintain control without the bureaucracy?"

"The regional governors now have direct control over their territories," Tarkin replied, his smile growing wider. He very well should be happy, Motti thought, as a Grand Moff governed dozens of systems. Motti himself had been expecting this change for some time, and relished the chance for the military to act without being reined in by greedy and corrupt politicians, as it had been during the Clone Wars. Yes, the Republic had needed to die.

Tarkin continued. "Fear will keep the local systems in line. Fear of this battle station."

Tagge was not to be easily deterred. "And what of the Alliance? If they have obtained a complete technical layout of this station, it is possible, however unlikely—" he paused to throw a glare at Motti—"that they may find a weakness, and exploit it!"

Vader spoke, his rumbling voice slightly irritated. Good, Motti thought; he should be irritated at his lack of competence. How that man has advanced so far I'll never know. "The plans you refer to will soon be back in our hands."

Motti spoke up again, focusing on Tagge. "Any attack made by the Rebels against this station would be a useless gesture, no matter what techinical data they've obtained! This station is now the ultimate power in the universe!" He settled back into his chair. "I suggest we use it."

Before Tagge could butt in again, Vader gave a retort. "Don't be too proud of this technological terror you've constructed. The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the Force."

Motti chuckled. The Force, the Force, how the Jedi and Sith alike went on about it! "Don't try to frighten us with your sorcerer's ways, Lord Vader. Your sad devotion to that ancient religion hasn't helped you conjure up the stolen data the Rebels escaped with, and has not given you clairvoyance enough to find their hidden fort—"

He stopped. The room had been cold when he came in, but he was growing rather hot. Was it stuffy in here? He was having trouble breathing...

He looked at Vader, and saw that the Sith's hand was raised and making a grasping motion. No...no, that can't be it...my collar is just a bit too tight, that's all...

Motti tugged at his collar. It did no good. His breath was coming in small, labored gasps now; his throat was almost entirely constricted. It can't be...it can't be...

Vader's voice sounded as if it were coming up from the bottom of a deep well, and Motti could hardly hear it over the sudden ringing in his ears. I find your lack of faith disturbing.

Enough of this. Vader, release him!

As you wish...

The unrelenting pressure suddenly, mercifully stopped, and Motti sagged forward, gasping and clutching his throat, overwhelmed by the sudden intake of air.

Tarkin spoke as if Vader had done no more than badly insult Motti. "This bickering is pointless! Now, Lord Vader will provide us with the location of the Rebel fortress by the time this station is operational. We will then crush the Rebellion with one swift stroke!"

Motti massaged his throat, staring at the black-masked man before him. Who is this man?

— — — —

Mal was done with his two Andoan ales, and was about to get up and assure Adlai Niska that business was, once again, running smoothly, when a distinctly ugly silhouette fell in front of him and he felt cold metal press against his chest. "Going somewhere, Reynolds?" asked the bug-eyed, fringe-scalped Rodian as he forced Mal back into his seat.

"Yes, Greedo," Mal replied with the air of a parent speaking to a particularly thick-headed child. "In fact, I was just on my way to go see your boss. Tell Niska I've got his money."

"Too late," replied the alien, gesticulating violently with his piece. "You should have paid him when you had the chance. Mr. Niska has put a price on your head so large that every hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you." The Rodian snickered. " I'm lucky I found you first."

Mal growled. "Yeah, except this time, I've got the money."

"If you give it to me, I might forget I found you."

"I don't have it with me! Tell Niska—"

"Niska's through with you! He has no use for a smuggler who drops his shipment at the first sign of an Imperial crusier."

Mal sighed. Slowly, surely, as he talked, he began to slide his blaster out of its holster—it was carefully concealed under the table of course. Greedo hadn't thought to check him for weapons. "Seems to me that it was after certain words and certain laser blasts had been exchanged that I dropped that spice. Even I get boarded sometimes. Do you think I had a choice?"

The blaster was out now. Mal disengaged the safety, praying that Greedo wouldn't hear the click. "Tell that to Mr. Niska. He may only take your ship."

This wouldn't be ending peacefully, Mal decided. "Over my dead body."

"That's the idea. I've been looking forward to this for a long time."

"Yeah, I'll bet you have—"

There was a flash of red light, a smell of ozone, and the alien's head exploded.

Wait. His head?

Mal looked up and saw the blaster-toting woman coming towards him, her shotgun still trained on the alien's corpse. "Zoe, what are you—I wanted to do that!"

"He was two feet away from you, Sir" she replied. "He wouldn't have missed."

"Yeah, but I would have shot first!" He shook his head. "Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? I told you—"

"I had a feeling something like this would happen. Decided to stick around." She bent down to check the corpse. "If it makes you feel any better, you did shoot him. I just got him a bit faster."

Mal stood, tossed a few coins at Wuher. "Sorry about the mess." He gestured at Zoe, and they headed for the exit. "You know, I get very few attempts to be a dashing gunslinger in my line of work, and I don't appreciate it when others mess those opportunities up for me."

"You know what? If it means that much to you, Sir, we'll say you shot first. And I'll never try to save your life again."

"Good. Now let's go reassure Mr. Niska of our good intentions." Mal muttered to himself as they left. "It was me.I would have shot first."

"Whatever you say, Sir."