Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [46]
He left the barracks building and walked into the yard, which had a grassy, genetically engineered short lawn that felt cool under his bare feet. The charged fence surrounding the compound gave off a pale glow, punctuated now and then by a spark as Despayre’s equivalent of an unlucky insect blundered into the field.
The night was cloudy, the overcast sky keeping it dark where there was no artificial light and also acting like a blanket to keep the day’s heat in. In the distance a thunderstorm rumbled, following heat lightning that flashed dimly at this remove. A little rain would be welcome—it would cool things off.
Nova timed the flashes to the thunder, to gauge the distance. He made it fifteen to sixteen kilometers, moving closer. It’ll probably rain itself out before it gets this far, he thought. Too bad.
There was a bright pool of light at the dock, where the supply ship was still being off-loaded. They used prisoners for that, droids being in short supply and prone to breaking down in the tropical heat and humidity quicker than they could be replaced. The prisoners were guarded, of course, to make sure none of them decided to hitch a ride offworld when the transport left—not that they had anywhere to go, since the transport was a short-hop vessel incapable of making the jump to lightspeed.
Nova did some stretching, sinking down into a split on the cool grass, rolling over onto his back and then into a shoulder stand, then letting his legs drop until his knees rested by his ears. He held the pose for a few minutes, then rolled to his feet without using his hands.
He felt a little better after that. His shift started early, so he turned to head back to bed. Maybe the coolers were working again.
He caught a glimpse of movement to his left. He glanced that way, toward the South Gate.
Nothing. Nova stood still for a moment, waiting, looking …
He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Had he imagined it?
Probably a flit, one of the flying poisonous reptiles that sometimes got past the fence and into the compound—no one knew how. If it was a flit, then he’d best take himself inside; the critters were almost impossible to dodge in the dark, and one prick of their poisonous dorsal barbs could put down even a man his size.
Nova headed back for bed.
SECTOR N-THREE, DEATH STAR
“Where are the prisoners?”
Tarkin looked back at Vader. “Don’t you want to finish the tour?”
Vader dismissed this question with a wave of his hand. “I trust you can manage the assembly without my help. The prisoners?”
Vader could see the muscles in the governor’s lean jaw tighten. “This way,” Tarkin said. He was irritated, but did not allow it to show overmuch on his face. And while his mind was perhaps not as flexible as it should be, it was hardly weak. Amazing, Vader reflected, how many highly ranked naval officers did have weak minds. They were good at following orders, but he could read them easily, even without the Force. The language of their bodies spoke volumes about their inner thoughts.
Not everyone here was weak-minded, however. Quite the contrary, in fact. One of the architects, the Mirialan woman, had surprised him. She had put up a powerful shield to cover her thoughts, even though she was untrained at it. He couldn’t feel the Force flowing in her—she was no Jedi—but her mind was strong. Stronger than that of any woman he’d encountered in a long time; ever since …
Vader quashed the memory that threatened to rise. He did not allow such thoughts any longer. He had made an ally of pain over the past two decades; had let the physical and emotional trials he’d been subjected to make him stronger, instead of destroying him. But stoic though he was, even he had limits to what he could stand.
He looked about him at the huge, curved wedge of the section,