Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [47]
The vast majority of the wedge, however, was still in zero-g and vacuum. Vader watched construction workers—Wookiees, mostly, judging from the size of their vac suits—floating from one level to another, or welding struts and bracework. Droids of various makes and models also moved about on various errands. It was an image of well-organized industry, one calculated to reassure him that work was proceeding smoothly and on schedule. No doubt it had all been carefully orchestrated by Tarkin, but no matter. Vader knew that it took workers who were at least competent to give the illusion of exemplary work.
He would return with a favorable report for his Master. Tarkin and his construction teams would be able to continue building the station. Sabotage could not be allowed. He would examine those suspected of having a hand in the recent explosion. If their mental defenses were feeble, he would pry every thought in their heads loose and act on what he found. Anyone connected to the disruption would be made to pay the ultimate price. One, ten, a thousand—it didn’t matter how many. All would regret it.
All would pay.
19
BRIG INTERROGATION CHAMBER, DETENTION BLOCK AA, DECK 5, DEATH STAR
“For whom are you working?”
Vader stood in front of the lieutenant who had been in charge of the night watch at the Despayre air production facility. Tarkin watched as the Sith Lord interrogated the prisoner about the evening when the ship that had blown up had been loaded.
“Th-th-the Imperial Navy,” the man managed, in response to Vader’s question.
“I think not.” Vader’s deep and distorted voice carried such an overtone of menace, it made Tarkin want to take a step back. Some of the officers behind him actually did so.
The lieutenant, old for his rank, turned to look at Tarkin. The fear in his eyes was obvious—as was his desperation. He had to be desperate if he thought there would be any help for him from Tarkin. Tarkin held his own gaze cool and steady. The man belonged to Vader now.
“Look at me,” Vader said. The lieutenant turned back to stare at him. “This is your last chance.” He raised his right hand, fingers spread wide.
“My lord, please! I know nothing!”
Vader closed his hand into a fist.
The lieutenant’s voice faded to a choked whisper, his throat muscles straining visibly against the unseen vise that had suddenly gripped them. “Ugghh …” His face purpled, his eyes and tongue bulged, and after a moment, he staggered and fell to the durasteel plate floor. One didn’t need to be a medic to see that he wasn’t going to be telling anybody anything, ever again.
Tarkin said nothing. He had seen Vader do this before, and, as before, he had no idea how it was accomplished. Whether the Force was some form of telekinetic power or psycho-physiological hypnosis or something else altogether, it was certainly impressive.
Vader turned to Tarkin. “He had nothing to do with the sabotage.”
Tarkin frowned. “You know this?”
“His mind was weak. Easily read.”
“Then why kill him?”
“He will be an object lesson for those who follow.”
Tarkin raised an eyebrow. “A bit harsh.”
“The incident happened on his watch. He is responsible. He should have known about it.”
There was a line of causality that didn’t bear too close an examination, Tarkin reflected. By that logic, anybody who had been on duty at the time, at any point in the construction process, could be found guilty. Taken to extremes, even Tarkin himself might be. And somehow, though Vader’s mask was as impassive as ever, Tarkin knew that the Sith Lord was thinking just that.