Galaxies Apart
Three
Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, the galaxy's most feared warrior, had finally discovered an enemy against whom there was no defence.
Boredom.
He fought back derision as he scanned through the reports of the destruction of the Rebel base on Hoth. The icy world had proved no haven for the ragtag bunch that had settled there. Just four prisoners had been taken, and none had survived interrogation.
His quarters on the Super Star Destroyer Executor were littered with similar reports. Only occasionally were there even enough Rebels to put up a fight worth noting. These days the Executor served mostly as a reminder to lazy worlds that the word 'rebel' sounded a lot like the word 'rubble' in the ears of the Empire.
Even the job of feared symbol of authority had been usurped these days by the Death Star. Thinking of that soulless battle moon, that stately sphere of invincibility which murdered en masse at the whim of his Master, did not improve his mood. They hadn't even bothered to name the abomination beyond the Death Star.
The Emperor would indeed be naming the next incarnation, practically complete on Sluis Van. The Death Star Palpatine, he mused. How spectacularly imaginative. He supposed that if a third were ever built – it hurt to even consider such a possibility – would be given his name.
The Death Star symbolised everything he had come to despise. The rumblings were growing, he knew, that as a tactical commander he was obsolete. Mortality rates around those who worked around him guaranteed that those unfortunate enough to land the honour had usually been manipulated into that position by their more capable peers.
What that meant was that those bottom of the class were the surprised individuals who found themselves (briefly, in most cases) thrust into the centre seat of the most powerful warship in the Empire.
Now that they were not in a time of war, the Empire's personnel were not expendable resources any longer; they were investments. The supremacy of the Empire was all but absolute. If reports of the demise of minor Alliance cells halfway across space carried out with no fuss and minimal risk failed to inspire him, Commander In Chief of the Empire's combined military forces…
Today the Emperor crippled half of the Empire's worlds with taxes to fund his armies and build his Fleet. How long would that continue, in the face of total victory?
How long before the Empire became as complacent and as relaxed as its predecessor had been?
Vader longed for nothing more than the opportunity to engage himself in a genuine challenge. He didn't trust peace. He'd never felt at home within it.
A message interrupted his thoughts.
"Lord Vader," the hologram said in solemn greeting. Vader recognised the figure in the armoured suit.
"What is it, Fett?" these days, even his ominous sarcasm sounded bored.
Fett's helmet hid his expression behind four inches of Mandalorian composite, the strongest material the galaxy knew. "I have information you may be interested in, Lord."
"The Empire no longer gives payment to your kind."
Fett waved a hand. "No payment is required. Call it a goodwill gesture. I received it from a reliable source only yesterday."
"Transmit the information. I will judge its usefulness for myself."
The transmission ended. Vader dimly felt his fist smash something to his right. He detested scum like Fett, but particularly Fett himself, who was unfortunately blessed with guile and intelligence. His 'gift' was, as usual, very well timed; the Emperor had made it known that with the Alliance destroyed, and presumably for lack of better targets, the Imperial Fleet would begin to target all smuggling activity.
His personal holo-display surged into life. Vader felt his interest ebb when he saw it was a shaky holo-recording, probably taken by a tourist. The information string at the bottom informed him this world was called Ryxx (which meant nothing to him), and that the date was three days previously.
The cam swung back, and Imperial soldiers jerked into view. Quite a lot of them, and apparently not on a drill. Interesting. Almost half a legion, if his estimates were correct. They seemed to be engaged in a flanking manoeuvre around a small, squat building – a cantina, much like those on Mos Eisley. The cam moved to zoom in on the local commander. There was no sound.
The picture changed again. The cam tilted upwards, showing five TIE bombers circling the area. Any military operation these days that required this many troops and air support piqued his interest. The cam remained in that position as one of the bombers dived and fired two charges. The shaking tourist endeavoured to follow each all of the way down.
And it suddenly became an interesting day.
When the recording had finished, he played it again. And again. And again. Finally convinced of what he was seeing, he contacted Admiral Piett and bade him to lay in a new course. The Executor jumped to hyperspace, heading for Ryxx.
Staring at the mottled chaos of the faster-than-light wormhole outside, Vader steepled his fingers and wondered why he, Commander in Chief, had been told nothing of this incident by his Admirals…or by the Emperor.