Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [20]
Vader enjoyed staring into it.
He had, of late, become aware of the sound of his breathing, the rhythmic and even pulses of the suit’s respirator. The mechanical device that helped keep him alive was most efficient, and he usually tuned it out. Now and again, however, usually during quiet or contemplative moments, it would intrude, reminding him that it was the will of his Master that he had become what he had become. In many ways, so much less than he had been before.
And in other ways, so much more …
The creation and construction of the suit had been perforce hasty, since the maimed and burned thing that had been Anakin Skywalker was dying, and would not have survived for long even in a bacta tank. There had been no time to tailor all the life-support systems specifically to his needs. Many of the suit’s features were adapted from earlier technology, such as had been designed for the cyborg droid General Grievous over two decades before. It was hardly state-of-the-art. It could, Vader knew, be rebuilt now and made infinitely better, more comfortable, and more powerful. There was only one problem with doing so: to be completely excised, even temporarily, from the suit would kill him. Not even the safety of the hyperbaric chamber—indeed, not even his command of the dark side—could ensure his protection during such a procedure.
Like it or not, the suit and he were one, now and forever.
“Lord Vader,” came the voice of the Devastator’s captain from behind him. There was only the smallest hint of fear in it, but even that much was obvious to one steeped in the dark side of the Force. Vader felt it as an icy frisson along his nerves, a plangent chord that he alone could hear, a flash of lightning across a darkling plain. Fear was good—in others.
“Yes?”
“We are approaching the drop back into realspace.”
Vader turned and regarded the man. “And?”
Captain Pychor swallowed. “N-nothing else, my lord. I just thought to inform you.”
“Thank you, Captain. I am already aware of it.”
“Yes, my lord.” The captain bowed, and backed away.
Inside the helmet, Vader smiled, though it caused him pain to make the expression. But pain was always with him; a little more meant nothing. It wasn’t even necessary to call upon the dark side to deal with it. It was purely a matter of will.
The smile faded as he contemplated the immediate future. This trip, he felt, should not be necessary. Governor Wilhuff Tarkin—“Grand Moff Tarkin,” as he had been recently designated; a ridiculous rank, in Vader’s opinion—knew his duty. He had been charged by the Emperor to create this behemoth that was supposed to strike fear into the hearts of the Rebels, and certainly he knew what would happen to him if he failed in his duty. Tarkin’s philosophy was sound: fear was a useful tool. And the battle station would undoubtedly be useful, though the power all its vaunted weaponry and battleships could produce paled against the power of the Force. But the Emperor wished it, and so it would happen.
There had been, however, setbacks—accidents, sabotage, delays—and these were troubling to the Emperor. And so Palpatine had sent Vader to once again convey his displeasure at these setbacks to Tarkin’s pet project, and to suggest—strongly—that the Grand Moff find ways to avoid them in the future.
Tarkin was no fool. He would understand the message: Fail, and suffer the consequences.
The Devastator segued from the hallucinogenic chaos of hyperspace to the more stable vista of realspace. Vader turned away from the view, his cape swirling about him. Now that they were nearly at their destination, he would be