Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [120]
That was what was important. That way lay real power.
MAIN CONFERENCE ROOM, COMMAND CENTER, DEATH STAR
Motti wanted to reach over and smash in General Tagge’s face—the man was insufferable!
Tagge said, “Until this battle station is fully operational, we are vulnerable. The Rebel Alliance is too well equipped. They are more dangerous than you realize.”
Motti could have pointed out that the vaunted Rebel Alliance had sent a huge carrier against the station and that unfortunate vessel had been blown out of existence by a single, low-powered pulse of the not-yet-fully-operational Death Star’s main battery, from more than two thousand kilometers away. Which was nothing compared with the fact that an entire planet had just been destroyed with three partial-strength pulses, any one of which could blow an armada out of the galaxy.
But Tagge already knew this, of course. He was putting his objections into the record, covering his bets and his backside, just in case.
Two could play that game. Motti said, “Dangerous to your starfleet, Commander, not to this battle station.”
Tagge was as thickheaded as a durasteel plate. He just kept prattling on: “The Rebellion will continue to gain support in the Imperial Senate as long as—” He stopped as Grand Moff Tarkin, followed closely by Darth Vader, strode into the conference room. As he entered, Tarkin cut in: “The Imperial Senate will no longer be of any concern to us. I’ve just received word that the Emperor has dissolved the council permanently. The last remnants of the Old Republic have been swept away.”
Even that didn’t shut Tagge up: “That’s impossible! How will the Emperor maintain control without the bureaucracy?”
Tarkin said, “The regional governors now have direct control over their territories.” He smiled, ever so slightly. “Fear will keep local systems in line—fear of this battle station.”
“And what of the Rebellion?” Tagge kept on. The man was like a borrat with a bone: he wouldn’t let it go. “If the Rebels have obtained a complete technical readout of this station, it is possible, however unlikely, that they might find a weakness and exploit it.”
“The plans you refer to will soon be back in our hands.” That from the deep-voiced Vader, who stood behind the now seated Tarkin.
Motti couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Any attack made by the Rebels against this station would be a useless gesture, no matter what technical data they’ve obtained. This station is now the ultimate power in the universe. I suggest we use it.”
Vader said, “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 wanted to laugh. Vader had to be insane! How could he say that, especially with the rubble of Despayre still sweeping past the station? “Don’t try to frighten us with your sorcerer’s ways, Lord Vader,” he said, feeling safe in the presence of witnesses. He was aware that Vader was moving toward him, but Motti was committed. Even knowing what a bad idea it was to bait the man in black, he continued: “Your sad devotion to that ancient religion has not helped you conjure up the stolen data tapes or given you clairvoyance enough to find the Rebels’ hidden fort—ukk!”
Three meters away, Vader leaned forward and made a small motion with his hand, closing it into a fist.
Motti felt his throat clench and close up, as if it were being crushed by a steel clamp. He … couldn’t … breathe …!
He dug his fingers into his collar, trying to remove what felt like an unbreakable band around his neck. It didn’t work. The pressure was there, but there was nothing material around his throat to cause it.
“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Vader said.
Motti felt himself start to gray out. He wanted to scream, but he could not utter so much as a squeak as he slid toward the abyss of unconsciousness and death …
He barely heard Tarkin speak. “Enough of this. Vader—release him.”
“As you wish,” Vader said. He turned and strode away, and a moment later