Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [29]
Vader inhaled, holding the dry and slightly bitter air for as long as his scarred lungs could manage it. When he allowed the breath to be drawn from him by the respirator, he thrust his right hand toward a nearby mirror.
The aluminized densecris shattered into a thousand pieces, struck by the dark side as if by a metal fist.
Vader was aware of the “unbreakable” substance splintering and falling, tinkling onto the floor, myriad reflections sparkling in the light as they seemed to move in slow motion. At the same time, the Force alerted him to the presence of someone in the doorway behind him.
“Yes?” he said, without turning to look. He knew who it was by the greasy feel of the man’s thoughts. Had he been unable to sense those, the mere fact that the intruder had come here to interrupt his exercises would have been enough to reveal his identity. No one else would dare.
“My lord,” said Admiral Motti. “Grand Moff Tarkin requests a word with you.”
Vader turned, surprised. Why would Tarkin seek an audience now? Yes, the man knew he was on the way to the construction site, but it was bad protocol to break comm silence.
Whatever the ostensible reason, it was a certainty that a hidden agenda lay behind it. Tarkin’s deviousness could flummox a roomful of Neimoidian barristers, Vader reflected. Fortunately, the Force was a most useful tool against such intrigue.
Without a word, Vader swept past the admiral and headed for the privacy of his quarters. Motti’s mind was not weak, but the emotions roiling beneath the calm exterior made his thoughts easy enough to sense: could he have struck Vader dead in that moment, he would have. The man’s mind was a cauldron of seething anger, of hatred and envy, most of which was directed toward Vader. A pity Motti had no connection to the Force, the Dark Lord mused. He could have proved most useful.
“Lord Vader,” the holo of Tarkin said. The greeting and the slight bow with it were stiff and formal. The image was full-sized, if a bit transparent and fuzzy, occupying the holoplate in Vader’s anteroom as if the governor were standing before him.
Vader studied the simulacrum. Whatever the issue was that had prompted Tarkin to call, it wasn’t a small one. The man’s face was even more dour and saturnine than usual.
“Grand Moff Tarkin,” Vader said. He made no effort to disguise an edge of contempt for the title. The military did love its pecking order.
Tarkin wasn’t a man to dally with pleasantries; he got straight to the point. “There has been an explosion on the battle station—sabotage. Significant damage.”
“And …?”
“We have determined several suspects in its cause.”
“And …?”
“Our medical teams have not yet received the first supply shipment of mind-probes.”
Vader nodded. “I see. You wish me to examine these suspects.”
“Yes. If there are any preparations you need to make, speed is of the essence. It is paramount that we determine who caused this incident, and why, and deal with it forcefully.”
“I need no preparations. My ship will arrive in a few hours. I shall speak to the prisoners as soon as I board your vessel. Have them ready. I will determine who among them are responsible.”
Tarkin gave him another crisp military nod. “We look forward to your visit, Lord Vader.”
Vader gestured for the comm unit to disconnect without responding. Yes, he thought. I’m sure you do.
This was most interesting news. If the Rebel Alliance was responsible—and who else could it be?—this action certainly gave the lie to the official image of the dissidents as disorganized rabble posing no real threat. Vader felt a small ember of satisfaction glow within him. He had known for some time that the malcontents were growing both in organization and in power. They had staged guerrilla raids on space stations and