Chapter 11

Athara had to remind herself to breathe, forcing breath after breath into lungs that suddenly felt crushed. The ripples the blast had sent through the Force were staggering and it took a surprising amount of willpower to keep herself from sagging beneath the sensation. But she wouldn't allow herself to react outwardly. She couldn't. Not in her current company. As the Force calmed around her, Athara was able to reach out again to take stock of her surroundings. Only to recoil as her consciousness brushed up against Tarkin's.

There were no words for the level of pride and delighted vindication surging through the gaunt-faced man.

Behind them a technician was apprising them of the Death Star's performance, but Athara barely heard a word. She didn't care about whether or not it had performed within the expected parameters or whether output was consistent or whatever other such nonsense the man was rattling off. She was transfixed by the sight below—the blast front possessing a terrible beauty that she couldn't manage to look away from—still struggling to rein back her horror at what she was seeing and her rage at the man standing smugly beside her.

It was then that another technician—or was it an officer; she couldn't be bothered to pay attention to that detail—informed them that the Rebel ships were beginning to jump to hyperspace. At that exclamation her rage deepened, and her gaze snapped darkly to the Grand Moff to her right. He merely turned an ambivalent glance and dismissing gesture in the direction of the officer before resuming his study of the blast front as it scoured across the planet's surface.

He didn't care. He'd gotten to unleash his new weapon. Anything else was secondary to him.

It was very nearly too much for her, her seething anger beginning to spiral even as her fist began to tighten beneath the folds of her cloak, the Dark Side humming around her. Tarkin's brow twitched, a faint perplexed look tightening his features. She knew she was getting perilously close to doing something she would probably regret, but Athara couldn't think of a reason in that moment not to do it…

Until one of the other officers called out that another ship was emerging from hyperspace.

She didn't need him to say what it was or who it carried. She didn't need the officer to say another word.

She knew who it was.

Without another word she was striding from the overbridge. She only paused on the way to her shuttle to commandeer a squad of Stormtroopers to fill out her compliment beyond the honour guard that had accompanied her to Jedha.

Thankfully, she had managed to get her temper back under control by the time she reached the hangar. As she informed her pilot to take off with the intent to rendezvous with the Devastator, the only sharpness left in her voice was from her impatience.

As her ship was manoeuvring out of the hangar bay, the co-pilot was ducking out of the cockpit to inform her that the Devastator had made contact and had relayed that Lord Vader was heading a boarding party set to take the Rebel flagship, the massive Mon Calamari cruiser having been disabled by a concerted attack by the Sith Lord's Star Destroyer. She had expected as much, having sensed her Master's intent even as she'd been making her way to her shuttle moments before: hence her commandeering of the set of Death Star Stormtroopers.

It was only natural that she instructed her pilot to coordinate with her Master's shuttle and support his efforts with an assault of her own.

So it was that she soon found herself storming the Rebel flagship with instruction to secure the bridge, her handful of loyal Stormtroopers at her back and an array of troopers appropriated from Death Star fanning out behind them.

She was utterly appalled, really. The Death Star Stormtroopers she had enlisted to accompany her to the Rebel flagship weren't able to hit the broad side of a Sandcrawler. No sooner had the Rebels started fighting back then Athara was wishing she had some more of her own or her Master's troopers at her disposal beyond the handful that had accompanied her to the Death Star…at least they had experience and discipline on their side. And decent marksmanship…

It didn't help that the Rebels knew their ship was lost. She could sense it in their desperation and their conviction to fight to the last. It made for a bitter fight, that was for certain.

But there was more to it than just desperation; there was an urgency in the air that left her perplexed. It was only when one of her troopers passed along a message from her Master's Stormtroopers that they had taken the communications centre of the ship that she started to clue in to what was happening, especially given that the bridge hadn't even been secured yet. That her Master considered the communications array the priority over the bridge? All it took were a few quick instructions to her squad commander and a brief exchange between him and his counterpart among Vader's men and Athara's suspicions were confirmed.

The Rebels had gotten their hands on the Death Star Plans. And they were on this ship.

The desperation fuelling the Rebel suddenly found a home in Athara's chest.

With a few snapped orders and sharp gestures, her troopers swept ahead of her, securing the final corridor that held the turbolift access to the cruiser's command bridge.

It was a stroke of luck indeed that her troopers were able to secure the command pod turbolifts before the Rebels had a chance to disable it. As the first batch of her troopers descended—three of her personal guard and the rest filler from the Death Star contingent—Athara took a moment to centre herself for the final impending offensive, reaching out as she did so to check in with her Master. It was easy enough to locate him. The Darkness that convalesced around him was the antithesis of a beacon, a dark stain near the heart of the ship. He paid little mind to the brush of her consciousness against his, his focus wholly on whatever objective he was set on.

But before she could reach out further to discern his intent, the second lift was hissing open and Athara and the second group of troopers were filing in; the third and last set were waiting with poorly masked impatience for the first car to return.

Soon enough she was exiting the lift into the pod-like structure that held the command bridge of the Rebel ship. Already her first batch of troopers were sweeping ahead, clearing what little resistance was to be had and clearing the way for her to proceed directly to the bridge itself. With a sedately satisfied smile, Athara stepped into the dying fray, striding past the odd fallen Rebel along the blaster-scorched corridor that led from the turbolifts to the bridge.

Just as she turned the final corner that brought the bridge itself into view, the blastdoors ahead began to inch closed, hiding the fear she felt wash through the Rebel command crew. Their last glimpse of the hall before the doors slid shut was of her ominous cloaked figure appearing amid a gauntlet of smoke, Stormtroopers and blasterfire.

As she came to a stop before the thick blastdoors guarding the command bridge, Athara briefly considered activating the lightsaber already waiting in her hand. A small part of her exalted at the fear watching her cutting through their last defense would bring the Rebels on the other side. But it would also be a messy, inelegant course of action. Besides, she considered, there was a possibility that, given that they were genuine blastdoors and likely shielded in someway in addition to being correspondingly thick—especially given the peculiar vulnerability of the bridge's location in relation to the bulk of the ship itself—it would take far too long to simply cut through them, even with a lightsaber.

No. She had a much better idea. One that she suspected would be just as unsettling to the Rebels as well as being more efficient than crudely cutting through the doors.

As her troopers worked to finish clearing the corridor, the blasterfire still screaming periodically around her as the stinging scent of burning plasteel and acrid one of charred flesh flooded the hallway, Athara's eyes slipped shut as she raised her hand.

Palm flat and fingers splayed and hovering little more than an inch from the hub-like centre of the doors, she called on the Force, the rage and helpless frustration she'd been pushing away since that awful moment on the Death Star surging forward to fuel the Dark Side as she bent it to her will.

And channelled it directly into the blastdoors' locking mechanisms.

The Dark Side of the Force poured through her body and down her hand where she set it to work on opening the sealed door. Everything around her seemed to fade as she concentrated, using the Force to manipulate the mechanisms and bypass the electronics, her only movement the occasional rotation of her wrist, as though her flattened hand were influencing a large, invisible dial.

With a clank and a reluctant groan, the doors disengaged with a final, calculated turn of Athara's wrist. At her silent, mental command, the doors eased apart.

As her gleaming, yellowed eyes opened to take in the Mon Calamari crew watching in horror as she was revealed, hooded and ominously still with the Dark Side radiating from her slight form, Athara loosed her mental grip on the doors, her hand falling slowly back to her side. The Darkness within her seemed to tremble as it sensed imminent death in the air.

She pushed it aside. She didn't need it to complete her mission. She did not revel in death.

With a handful of measured steps, Athara entered the bridge, her troopers filing in behind her. Not one of them bothered to raise their blasters, not without her command. Directly ahead, an old Mon Calamari—Admiral Raddus, if Athara remembered correctly from their intelligence on the Rebel Commanders; the Admiral of the Rebel Fleet—sat in his suspended command chair, chin high and eyes fixed challengingly on her. This was a male unafraid of what she was about to do, she realized with an odd sort of twist in her stomach, a male who knew his death would not be in vain, who knew the fight would go on thanks to his actions.

A male who, somehow, knew the Rebellion had won a victory today and was proud of that, even knowing that the price was his ship and his life.

But Athara pushed it aside, unable to allow the distraction the seditious admiration that realization sparked in the recesses of her mind.

Instead, she focused on her mission and what she knew her Master expected of her as she faced what she knew was about to happen. What had to happen.

With a snap-hiss, Athara's blood-hued lightsaber hummed to life in her hand. Around her, her troopers finally raised their blasters.

And without hesitation, she stepped forward.

It was over in moments.

And when it was, Athara indisputably had control of the Bridge.

But even as she was giving the order for her squad commander to alert her Master, he was turning to her, a sense of urgency bleeding from him as he in turn relayed a message from Vader's contingent.

"Ma'am! Several Rebels have managed to reach a shuttle and evade Lord Vader's forces." As he spoke she was anxiously gesturing her troopers to the different consoles scattered around the bridge. Another of her troopers unceremoniously shoved the lifeless form of a Rebel officer aside before adding his own urgent report: "systems show the tractor beam projectors are inoperable." It was a development of little consequence to her; Athara had little interest in capturing the diminutive ship. Not when she knew in her gut what was on it.

"Weapons!"

"Weapons systems are still online!" another bellowed out in response to her sharp demand. Now that was of interest to her.

Even as the shuttle was darting away, Athara was snapping out orders to open fire, to take it out, only to stop mid-sentence as yet another troopers gave a shout.

"There's a transmission signal coming from the shuttle!"

"Jam their transmissions, now!" There was no hiding the angry, nearly desperate snap in her tone. Out beyond the Rebel ship they'd stood on, Athara watched with a growing sense of unease as the shuttle was barely managing to evade the blasterfire that was intended to destroy it.

But all it took was one hit.

In a fiery cascade, the shuttle was no more and Athara felt the breath that had been trapped anxiously in her chest release.

But the trooper standing before the comm station turned to her slowly even as it did, anxiety suddenly radiating off him in waves.

She knew before he even spoke.

"It—it was too late, My Lady. The transmission completed just as the shuttle…" Through the viewscreen the shuttle's remnants had already vanished amid the darkness of space as the console near the trooper softly beeped out its confirmation of his words. Rage and, bewilderingly, a faint mix of unease and foreboding washed through her even as the trooper's nervous voice trailed off. Odder still, a minute, treacherous flicker of approval bubbled up in her chest to join her mounting fury.

A wet snap echoed through the silent bridge and the trooper collapsed in a boneless heap. Slowly lowering her fisted hand and releasing her Force-grip, Athara turned to the trooper nearest her.

"Trace that transmission, immediately. I want to know where it went. I will retrieve it mys—"

"No." Athara spun with shock and apprehension as Lord Vader stepped onto the bridge. He was silent for a moment as he surveyed the handiwork of his apprentice and her accompanying squad, his gaze not lingering any longer on the dead trooper with his snapped vertebra than on the bodies of the Rebel command crew before continuing. "No. I will inform the Emperor of the stolen Plans and I will recover them myself. You will find out how the Rebels managed to get past the significant defenses here to steal them and ensure those responsible for failing the Empire are appropriately…dealt with."

Athara nearly bristled at the order—it was little more than clean-up duty, her rebellious thoughts supplied—her immersion in the Dark Side and her unsettling reaction to the leaked Plans making her far more volatile and obstinate than usual. But Vader ignored her feelings, turning and striding from the bridge with one last order: "you may notify Grand Moff Tarkin that the situation is now in hand and Admiral Paxt is en route. You may also inform him that I am leaving it to him to apprise the Emperor on what has transpired here." Athara couldn't help but scowl at the order; just what she needed in her current mood…to trade more veiled barbs with Tarkin.

But just as the door was about to hiss shut behind her Master, he glanced back, fixing Athara with a look even as a wave of dark amusement reached out to brush pointedly against her thoughts.

"And remind him that he has a responsibility in his command of the Death Star to protect the interests of the Empire…not to destroy them. A responsibility he has so far shown himself to be falling short on upholding." Athara smiled darkly in response before dipping her head in pleased deference, her mood improving drastically.

"Of course, Master."


A/N: Yes. I went there…I significantly diverged from Canon…how unlike me, yeah? But really?! How could I not!? I adored everything about Rogue One…except for the Tantive IV being over Scarif (and a couple little details, but we won't get into that here). It bothers me to no end. So I changed it to what I think made far more sense. I am content. :D

So? Thoughts?

Be sure to let me know in a Review! You're running out of chances!

After all, next Chapter is going to be the last one.

See you next time!