Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [23]
“Thank you, sir.” The man smiled.
“But don’t pat yourselves on the backs too much just yet. I want to know what kind of bomb it was, who made it, who planted it—everything.”
The major stiffened again. “Yes, sir. We will report as soon as we have new information.”
“You’re already late with it,” Tarkin said. “Dismissed.”
The holo blinked off, and Tarkin stared into the blank space that was left, as if looking for answers. Sabotage was, of course, to be expected. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it almost certainly would not be the last. A project this size, no matter how tight the security, was impossible to keep entirely hidden. An astute observer could gather a number of disparate facts from far-flung sources—shipping manifests, troop movements, vessel deployments, and the like—and from those, if he had even the cleverness of a sunstroked Gungan, deduce some general ideas. He might not know exactly what, or precisely where, but he could figure out that something big was being constructed. And with sufficient resources, time, and cunning, this being, and others like him, could discover a trail that led back to this system and this station.
There were shrewd beings among the Rebels; Tarkin had no doubt of that. And there were, more than likely, Rebels among the human detritus down on the prison planet. Perhaps even traitors among the Imperial Navy or troops.
A very tight lid was being kept on this project. Communications had been, and continued to be, squeezed tighter than a durasteel fist. But somebody had blown up that cargo ship, and had not done so just because they were bored and had nothing better to do.
Such travesties could not be abided. Nor would they be.
9
INTERIOR OFFICE ANNEX, ASSEMBLY HALL, CONSTRUCTION SITE BETA-NINE, DEATH STAR
He had a name—Benits Stinex, and anybody who knew anything about architecture recognized it. Stinex? Oh, sure, the designer. The one who still gets written up regularly in Beings Holozine. The one whose price was always more than one could imagine, let alone afford. Among themselves, the staff doing the interiors referred to him as “the Old Man.” Old he was, too—Teela guessed his age at three, maybe four times her own, and she was nearing twenty-five standard years. Human, with more wrinkles than hyperspace, the chief architect was; the head of interior design and construction, and still mentally as sharp as a vibroblade.
He waved at the holo, which glimmered blue and white over the projector in front of them, depicting the schematics for the finished assembly hall. “What do you think, Kaarz?”
Standing next to him in the recently pressurized but still-cold office annex, Teela knew she was once again being tested. Every time she was around the Old Man, he did that. She’d heard that it took awhile for him to trust you—but once he did you were golden in his eyes. It seemed that everybody worth the salt in their bodies who worked for him wanted him to feel that way.
And why shouldn’t they? A missive of recommendation from Stinex, even just a line or two, was worth just about any conceivable torture one could imagine and endure. It was a ticket for the hyperlane that could lead to wealth, fame, and the most desirable thing of all:
Freedom.
The freedom to design what one wished, to give free rein to one’s artistic expression, to create something that might truly outlast the ages, that might—
Teela realized that the Old Man was waiting patiently for an answer to his question. She shrugged. “It’s standard Imperial design; works enough to serve.”
The Old Man gave her a slow, disappointed look.
“But,” she continued, “if you want it to work well, then the egress and exit portals need to be relocated.” She pulled the finger-sized electronic scribe from her belt, thumbed the eraser stud, and waved it at the drawing. “Here, here, and here,” she continued, “and