Galaxies Apart
Six
"Commence primary ignition."
Tarkin felt the floor beneath his feet begin to shake, ever so slightly, as the raw power of the Death Star's superlaser began to charge. Right now entire teams of engineers were supervising the coagulation of turbolasers in over one hundred tertiary chambers. Once successfully merged these huge veins of light would be released simultaneously. The next stage saw the hundred beams re-form again into just six, which finally were blasted into a single spot, targeted and fired.
The beauty of this system was that the Death Star could vary the power it used. While the Full Intensity beam was usually required for the destruction of worlds, one of the six Final Stage beams would more than suffice to take care of a Star Cruiser.
His pet moon was much more than a showpiece of terror; it was the jewel in the crown of the Imperial Navy, surpassing the much-vaunted Executor as the most feared vessel in the galaxy.
Tarkin's cold eyes surveyed the readouts before him, as the shudder in the deck grew more persistent. He began whispering a countdown to himself. The Death Star had fired just seven times in the last three years at full intensity, and he had made sure that he supervised each blast.
A few months ago, when word had broken that the construction of a new Death Star had begun, the Emperor had contacted him and offered him promotion and transfer to oversee the construction process. He had stared into those terrible eyes and firmly refused.
"Stand by," one of his chief technicians said, as the readouts reached optimum levels. "Stand by…"
Tarkin kept his balance with bored ease as the deck gave one final sympathy heave, then released. He watched the immense laser scythe across space, as if his eyes were the thrust behind the charge.
Impact.
He sighed in satisfaction as the planet came apart. The shockwave, a huge ripple of force, arced out and flicked an angry tendril at the Death Star. It was nothing the station's shields couldn't cope with.
Tarkin cast a glance back at the rows of technicians. "Well done, gentlemen. That makes eight out of eight, I believe. Let's see the Palpatine try to match that precedent, eh?"
There was a short burst of polite laughter from the amassed scientists. Tarkin turned away, smiling. His grin faded a little as he remembered the nature of this mission. Oh, well. Total victory was bound to bring this sort of thing along with it, sooner or later.
Using the Death Star as a mining tool…it just didn't seem right. Financially it was invaluable; the remains of the carefully-selected moon the Death Star had just broken up would be rich in all sorts of rare minerals, now much easier for Imperial mining ships to get at. For the price of one superlaser blast the Empire's credit-counters had estimated a net gain of twenty-eight million credits.
Economics. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. There were times when Tarkin harked back for the days when the future was uncertain and the threat of the Alliance lurked around every corner.
Like that business at the Battle of Yavin, for instance. When the Alliance's attack had paralysed him with fear for the briefest of instants. For one moment, he'd been certain that he was going to die that day. It hadn't happened.
And now…what was this of a device the Emperor's personal guards had discovered on his Death Star? His sources at the Imperial Court were raving about the effect it had on the Emperor; apparently he'd spoken to no-one but his closest advisors and scientists for the last few weeks.
Certainly there had been no communication between Palpatine and Vader for quite some time now. Tarkin fanned the fires like everyone else in the Imperial Navy. Vader had to go. He wasn't needed anymore. Retire him off with a nice quiet fleet somewhere, just like…
…just like Palpatine had done with Thrawn. Tarkin's pale complexion flushed slightly at the name. There was a dangerous man, now. Like all of his peers in the hierarchy, Tarkin fancied his chances of one day taking the centre seat.
The way he saw it, the man they all had to watch was the alien with the glowing red eyes who had the audacity to wear the white uniform of a Grand Admiral. Never before had Tarkin, in his considerable years of military service, seen a man who exuded leadership quite like Thrawn did.
His performance in battles as a tactician was, quite simply, unreal. Palpatine had gone so far as to have the man thoroughly checked for Force talent, so uncanny was his knack for totally foxing an opponent.
"Sir…" a tremulous voice interrupted his musings. Tarkin broke from his thoughts with something approaching relief.
"Yes? What is it?"
The young lieutenant gestured to his panel. "The Executor has just dropped out of hyperspace two million kilometres aft, sir. I've just been hailed by them, to inform you…" he hesitated.
"Yes?" Tarkin prompted, slightly irritated at the youth's nervousness.
"…Lord Vader wants to speak with you, sir. He-he wants you to report to the Executor now, sir."
"Very well," Tarkin nodded calmly. "Please inform the Lord Vader that I will have a shuttle ferry me across at the earliest available opportunity. In future, please tell him to submit proper notice."
The young man almost choked. "Yes, sir. He's...he's, ah, he's already sent a shuttle for you. It's approaching us now."
"Give it clearance, then!" Tarkin snapped, walking from his vantage point in the control room's upper deck and descending the flight of steps. "Tell him, then, that I will take his shuttle across now."
Vader was skating on perilously thin ice here. No-one treated a Grand Moff like this, not even the Commander in Chief.
Tarkin entered the lift and clipped his destination to the waiting stormtrooper, lips set and thoughts darkened. Vader had better have a damned good reason for this…
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Dagobah was, in Luke's expert estimation, a dirtball.
He wondered if the planet contained any rock, or whether, as its appearance from orbit seemed to indicate, it was composed of multiple layers of goo and mud. He had been expecting…what?
A city world, he supposed, with glistening white towers of perfection and a stately population gliding around green parks in around seven layers of robe. Just about as far from Tatooine as you could get; the bright centre of the universe.
He whistled softly as the life form readings sprang up.
"There's something alive down there…" he said. Saying it sent an inexplicable shiver down his spine. Were Jedi especially prone to bouts of déjà vu? He wished he knew.
Dagobah was a large world, too, and one which did not exactly feature handy hundred-foot clearings in which to land the Privateer. A scan of the planet in that kind of detail would take about three days to complete.
Patience had never been one of Luke's virtues.
He started the descent protocols, deciding to trust to the Force to guide him to a suitable spot. If not, he could always zap the nearby foliage with a few quick bursts of turbolaser fire and make himself a landing spot.
The Privateer swooped gracefully into the upper atmosphere, barely raising a spark across the nose. Visibility was literally zero outside. He was thankful that he wasn't in his X-Wing; the snubfighter had no atmospheric sensors to speak of, certainly of the quality he'd need to land on this world. Privateer's sonar systems made sure he avoided the major storms on his way down into the lower atmosphere.
Something was wrong.
He flashed a puzzled glance at the readout panel to his left. Main radar systems showing nothing amiss, he shrugged it off as fatigue, residue of the punishing training programs he'd thrown himself into.
Luke's muscles tensed.
A heartbeat later, the bottom fell out of his world.
The Privateer plunged screaming in freefall around him. The sudden change of direction caught the ship's dampening field off-guard and meant Luke was ripped from his piloting station and placed on the ceiling in a fraction of a second. He felt G-Force press him against the hard duracrete surface as, outside, the total cloud cover parted briefly and allowed him to see the moist skin of the planet rocketing in entirely the wrong direction.
The Force flowed through him, soothing and easing his pain, whispering solutions in his ear. As the huge, slimy sea miles below grew closer with each passing breath Luke reached out through the Force and began to attack the air around the ship. He gritted his teeth as the excited molecules outside grated infinitesimally against the hull, producing the merest degree of friction wherever it did so.
Luke carried on, pouring his rage into the air, blaming it for everything that had happened, cursing it for the Death Star, for the Empire, for his father's death.
For Leia.
More and more of the heavy, swamp-like vapour joined the struggle as Luke writhed in effort.
Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the ship's runaway descent began to slow.
Luke became dimly aware that there was a huge concentration of bacterium contained in the almost-toxic mix. He attacked these too, made them squeal and writhe in pain. The air slowly turned a hue of red as the heat of the Force-induced friction grew and grew with each collision he caused. Still he pressed on, still his eyes were clamped shut until his whole universe was dedicated to slowing the ship. Veins stood out on his neck and forehead with the effort.
Why is this happening?, his mind cried out. It doesn't make any sense. This ship is too advanced - my powers...
Roaring with pain and paralysed in place with the immensity of the G-Forces, Luke gave it all he had.
It wasn't enough.
Impact.