Galaxies Apart
Seven
The Falcon swept gracefully (or at least, as gracefully as it could) into the binary system of Tatooine.
Han did his best to ignore the memories. The last time he'd been here…he'd scooted out with his tail between his legs, three Star Destroyers in pursuit and a strange cargo of two humans and two droids on board. It was a trip that had changed his life.
Should have, he corrected himself angrily. It was a journey which should have changed his life. Truth be told it was a trip which had completely destroyed his life. He wondered why he didn't regret it, and gave up. These days he'd long since surrendered to his psyche.
Five years ago, Han Solo was the most talked-about smuggler for years, the man who'd made the Kessel run in record time by skating across the gravity field of a few local black holes. One of the fastest draws in the galaxy, the best pilot not flying under a flag and captain of a ship fast carving a name for itself in folk legend.
Now, Han Solo was a loner, a wanted man, a fugitive. Forgotten. Pilot of a crumbling ruin, a prisoner of the past who had been exiled from whatever future awaited this galaxy.
No, Han thought defiantly. Not after today.
Behind him Artoo whistled a hello. Han swivelled to face the astromech. He'd actually grown quite fond of Artoo; the little guy was hard-working, dedicated, and skilful. Best of all, he spoke in a language only the Falcon's computers could understand. Unlike, for example-
"Master Solo!"
Chewie rumbled awake. Han gritted his teeth. Artoo shifted from one wheel to the other.
"Yes?" Solo asked.
Threepio jerked to a halt, his dented exterior dull in the half-light of the approaching planet. His eyes flickered wildly. Threepio had been running on one-quarter power for almost eight months, and the strain was showing on his internal systems.
Han suspected the droid's neural net had been permanently damaged, but he wasn't going to tell Artoo that. It didn't make dealing with an insane robot easier.
"Sir, I must protest. You neglected to inform me before dropping the Falcon out of hyperspace again."
"So sorry," growled Han, turning back to his displays.
"Really," Threepio sniffed. "It isn't too much to ask, is it? My motor circuits are probably done for."
Han and Chewie exchanged glances. Hyperspace deceleration produced no G-Force. If it did, they'd all be thin protein streams by now. That meant that whatever breakdowns Threepio was going through were spreading to other systems.
Artoo gave a few low, mournful clicks and wheeled off.
He knows.
"Well I'm telling you now. We're coming in to land. Get back and strap in, Goldenrod."
"This is the Misdemeanor," Han said, flicking a switch to activate the comm system as Threepio bustled away. "Requesting permission to land at Mos Eisley."
He waited impatiently while one Imperial technocrat or another got round to answering. "Granted, Misdemeanor. You're cleared to land in Docking Bay 94."
Bay 94. The same bay he'd blasted out of three years ago. What were the odds?
Chewie growled softly.
"Yeah," Han said, activating defensive scans and prepping shields, "I know exactly what you mean."
The Falcon skirted the edge of the atmosphere. Han hesitated. Not now, he thought, please. The cargo of corrosite ore stored in his hold would pay off Jabba and let Han live his life again. Two hundred and fifty thousand credits worth. It was more money than Han had ever held in his life. It wasn't for him. It was, he hoped, enough to convince Jabba to forgo any thoughts of a double-cross.
But you never knew with a Hutt.
Chewie growled. It's your call.
Han grinned. He'd never been one for playing it safe, had he? "We're going in," he informed his co-pilot. The words had a certain nostalgic appeal. "Full throttle."
Chewie growled an exasperated response. Han tilted his head to the Wookiee and chuckled softly.
"I guess it's because 'we're going in at three-quarters sublight!' doesn't quite have the same ring."
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Tarkin seethed in silence. He'd been waiting for an audience with Vader for almost eight minutes, been kept stewing in this cramped, ridiculous little room on the Executor whilst the Dark Lord completed a 'relaxation cycle'- in other words, Tarkin thought, while his batteries recharged.
Have someone rushed over, and then have them wait until it was convenient for you to see them. It was one of the most classic insults in the book, and one which possibly only Darth Vader would have dared to perform upon a Grand Moff as senior and as respected as Tarkin.
Perhaps he's gone insane, Tarkin mused. It was certainly not a notion to be dismissed offhand. These days Vader was under increasing pressure to retire; the Emperor had offered him a top bureaucratic post on the new Imperial Council, a post which he had refused.
Should he step down, the resulting power vacuum would not last very long before several made the leap. Tarkin was, of course, one of the favourites to jump.
Perhaps Vader had actually been informed that the time was near for him to move aside. Perhaps - Tarkin brightened somewhat at the thought - he'd also been told which candidate Palpatine was unofficially granting his approval to.
Vader being petty? Tarkin mulled it over for a moment, before filing it away. He would have less than a week before the Death Star took her place at the Victory Day Fleet Regatta celebrations to think about it. Any big announcements would be made there. Of that, he was certain.
The doors swished open. In swept Vader, unusually flanked by two stormtroopers. Tarkin doubted if any terrorist would be brave enough-or just plain stupid enough-to try his luck on Vader.
"Lord Vader," he said politely, inclining his head for a fraction of a second.
Vader halted his advance not two feet from Tarkin's pointed nose. "I demand an explanation."
"Lord is your official honorific; I believe Vader is your given name as a Sith Master..."
He felt it then; a fleeting, spectral presence across his larynx, tightening it for an instant, letting go.
"Do not test me again, Tarkin."
"I know of nothing which needs explanation," Tarkin responded, recovering from the icy touch and containing his rage.
Darth motioned. The stormtroopers, grateful beyond all words, cleared the room inside a few seconds.
"What was the Death Star doing at Ryxx?"
Tarkin frowned, genuinely puzzled. "We were scheduled to patrol the area. Routine fear tour, Darth, inspire a little terror in the local vermin and the crooked governor, that sort of thing. Is there a problem?"
Vader's breathing grew dangerously soft. "A routine patrol needed to dispatch five TIE bombers?"
Tarkin shook his head. "None of our TIE bombers were dispatched in the Ryxx system. In fact only two fighters were launched - TIE Interceptors - to clear a small asteroid patch in our path. You've been misinformed."
"You're telling the truth," Vader said.
"I'm so glad you think so."
"And the operation on the planet's surface?"
Tarkin shook his head. "I wasn't informed of any such exercise…" his natural curiosity prompted him to add, "Lord Vader - what is this all about? Did something happen on Ryxx while we were there?"
Vader's mask was as impassive as ever. "I have proof of a bungled Imperial raid on Ryxx. There is evidence of Jedi involvement."
Tarkin didn't reply for quite some time. He was a flawed man in many ways, yet he had an abhorrence for conspiracies; particularly those he himself didn't start, acquiesce to, organise or participate in.
"You're certain of the Jedi involvement?" Tarkin said, scowling. He mistrusted the Force, deeply.
"There is another Jedi out there. I had felt his strength in the Force before. We will meet again."
Tarkin didn't bother asking. Vader had been able to deal with Kenobi with the minimum of fuss, considering the old man's reputation, on the Death Star. This new Jedi would be no different. It was the TIE bombers which bothered him. Only an influential figure in the Imperial Navy with connections in Intelligence could possibly have ordered such a mission, and orchestrated the cover-up.
"I am no fool, Tarkin," Vader said. If that artificial tone could be said to have emotion, it almost seemed thoughtful now. "It has become all too clear to me," he said at last, "that my role in the Empire is diminishing."
Not insane, then. "We won, Darth," Tarkin shrugged. "We have no need for miracles anymore."
"Perhaps your confidence is misplaced," Vader warned. "The Rebellion may be gone, but the war is far from over."
That Ssi-ruuk nonsense again, Tarkin thought with a small sigh. To Vader he said, "You would like us, I presume, to come to some sort of investigative agreement over your claims. Very well. I have…extensive…contacts throughout the Empire. If a conspiracy exists, I will find it. You have my word."
Vader didn't bother to respond. He walked to the window that looked out to the Death Star, and the expanse of the starfield beyond.
"May I ask what you plan to do?"
"I will be taking my personal shuttle. Alone."
Tarkin raised both eyebrows. "Alone? Isn't that a little…risky?"
"I wish to travel unnoticed, Tarkin. Doing so in a fifteen-mile long Super Star Destroyer is surprisingly difficult."
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Admiral Piett stepped out of the office. He moved determinedly for his quarters, ignoring any and all greetings on the way. Once inside his personal domain he strode purposefully for a certain part of a certain wall. Grasping the chilled, cylindrical object stored inside, he set it carefully on the dining table and retrieved his crystal glasses, the pair given to him by his parents long ago.
Pop. Piett filled both glasses with the sparkling liquid.
"Here's to you, Darth," he said, hoisting the glass aloft, "wishing you a very happy and a very long vacation. Wherever you may go, rest assured the Executor will be right behind you."
He downed the first glass in one, and grinned with satisfaction.
"About fourteen sectors behind you."