Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [134]
“So what does a person with any sense of justice do?” Memah asked. “Shrug it off and go on about his or her business?”
Riten, who had been quietly nursing his drink, shook his head. To Nova, he said, “As a martial arts expert, what do you do if you have an opponent who is bigger, stronger, faster, better trained, and armed—and who has many friends?”
Nova shrugged. “Haul your glutes away, fast.”
“Precisely,” Riten said.
They all turned to look at him.
“At the very least, you don’t have to abet a murderous thug.”
Dance, the TIE pilot, spoke up: “Refusing a direct order gets you sent to the detention cells. How’s that going to do you or anybody else any good?”
“Well,” Riten said, “you might not be part of the solution tucked away in a cell, but at least you won’t be part of the problem.”
“Some choice,” Dance said.
“There are other choices,” Riten said.
“Really? What?”
The archivist regarded his drink as if it were possible to read the future in it. “You could leave.”
Dance laughed, and it was far more bitter than amused. “Yeah. And just how would you pull that off? Nobody leaves the Death Star without the express permission of the powers-that-be. Even pilots like me—you can’t get far in a TIE fighter, unless you have one of the new hyperdrive-equipped x-ones I’ve been hearing about, and there aren’t but a couple of those on the whole station. We have more weapons than a naval armada—tractor beams, turbolasers, and a bunch of bored, trigger-happy gunners who’d like nothing better than to shoot anything that moves. Leaving isn’t exactly an option.”
“But if it was? What if you could go? Would anybody here exercise that choice?”
There was a moment of silence. “We’re talking hypothetically here, not real conspiracy to treason, right?” Nova said.
“Of course. Just a what-if conversation among friends.”
“I’d go,” Memah said.
They looked at her. “You aren’t in the military,” Ratua said. “You didn’t have anything to do with blowing up Alderaan. You’re a civilian. It’s not like you pulled the lever.”
“Imagine what that must feel like,” Kaarz said.
“But I am here,” Memah said, in answer to Ratua. “And I know what the Death Star can do—what it’s already done. I serve drinks to people like that soldier the little guy knocked down, who not only think it’s okay to kill planets full of innocents but actually take pride in it.” She shook her head hard enough to swing her lekku. “I’d go in a heartbeat.”
Kaarz nodded. “Me, too. Of course, I’m a prisoner, and when it all settles down, I doubt that the Empire will have much use for me.”
“Assuming the Empire wins,” Rodo said.
“Can’t really assume anything else,” Dance said. “We all know what this battle station can do. If they can build one, they can build more—maybe even bigger than this one. The Rebels don’t have a chance.”
“Perhaps,” Riten said. “But wars are not won by technology alone. There’s always a new version of the ultimate weapon being developed, and historically they’ve never been enough to put an end to war.”
“Peace is found neither in hot blood nor in cold sweat,” Nova said.
Riten looked at him in mild surprise. “The Fallacy of War, by Codus Romanthus. One doesn’t often encounter a soldier who can quote obscure philosophers.”
Nova drained the last of his ale. “I’m sensitive.” He belched.
“I’d go,” Uli said. “I’d have bailed a hundred times already if there had been any real opportunity.”
“Me, too. What about you, Sarge?” That from Ratua.
“Yeah, count me in. Not just because my head nearly exploded when they burned Alderaan, but because it’s wrong. People get killed in war, but it’s one thing to shoot a guy shooting at you; it’s another to go to his house and burn it down with his wife and kids inside.”
Dance said, “Yeah. One on one against another pilot, I’m good. What the Empire did to Despayre and Alderaan? That’s not right. Next planet might be one of our homeworlds—nobody’s safe, anywhere.”
“All very high-minded of us,” Rodo said, “but we don’t have that