Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [21]
Most of the Jedi had been destroyed. Some of the few who mattered the most, however, had not. Some had escaped, among them Yoda. This was disturbing. Old as the green little imp with the querulous voice was, he could still be a threat.
More important, though, was the knowledge that Vader’s nemesis still lived. He would have felt it through the Force if the old man had died, of that he was certain. And this was a good thing, a very good thing indeed. Because someday, somehow, Obi-Wan Kenobi would pay for what he had done to Anakin Skywalker, and it would be Darth Vader who collected the toll. He would strike down Kenobi as he had so many of his fellow Jedi, be they Masters, Knights, or Padawans. Eventually the inevitable would become reality, and the Jedi would be no more.
That thought was worth another painful smile behind the ebon mask.
8
GRAND MOFF’S SUITE, LQ FLAGSHIP HAVELON
“Sir, there has been … an incident.”
Seated behind his desk next to the panorama of his viewport, which occupied most of the wall to his right, Tarkin stared at the captain. “An incident?”
“Yes, sir. An explosion in the oxygen supply tanker arriving from the planet. It was just off the northeastern quadrisphere’s Main Dock when it happened.”
“How much damage?”
“Uncertain, sir. There is still a lot of debris flying about. The tanker was destroyed. Fortunately, most of the crew were only droids. A few navy beings and officers—”
“Don’t address trivial matters, Captain. How much damage to the station?”
“So far, what we know for sure is that the dock portal and bay took the brunt of the explosion. Our security teams can only guess at—”
“Then do so.”
The captain looked uneasy. Officers had been sent to the front for lesser offenses than delivering bad news, and he knew it. No doubt this was why the admiral in charge of security had not come to deliver the report himself.
“Sir, both the portal and dock are demolished. The bay is a mass of twisted girders and ruptured plates. Easier to tear it apart and start from scratch than to repair them.”
Tarkin would have spoken aloud the curse that rose from his throat had he been alone. But of course, a mere captain could not be privy to such utterances from a Grand Moff. He simply said, “I see.”
“Emergency construction teams have arrived and are doing an assessment,” the captain continued. “A full report will be tendered as soon as possible.”
Tarkin nodded. Outwardly, he was calm, collected. His voice was cool and even as he said, “I want the cause determined, Captain. Without delay.” A millimeter below the surface, however, he was seething with rage. How dare anyone damage a single bolt, or rivet, or weld of his station!
“Of course, sir,” the officer replied.
“If it was a failure due to someone’s error, I want to know. If it was sabotage, I will have the entire life history—or histories—of whoever caused it, and the name of the senior officer who slipped up and allowed it to happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are dismissed, Captain.”
“Sir!” The captain saluted, turned, and departed, a lot quicker on his feet than when he’d arrived.
Tarkin stood and stared through the viewport at the infinite blackness, shot with points of light. So cold and empty out there. Well, before too long it would be fuller, by an infinitesimal degree, with the frozen and contorted body, or bodies, of whoever was responsible for this outrage. Retribution would be swift and certain. That was the only way there would be even a remote possibility of making other would-be saboteurs think twice about imitating such