Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [54]
Before Vader had himself been transformed, he’d watched Mace Windu inflict ghastly injury upon his Master. Had that been a test, as Vader suspected, to see if Anakin Skywalker would commit himself to the Sith Lord’s cause? Had Darth Sidious been in control the entire time, only pretending to be losing, and willing to absorb such malevolent energies purely to make a point? If so, it had been a heavy price for his Master to pay to learn what he’d needed to learn.
But be all that as it might, there was no Yoda, no Mace Windu leading this insurgency … no one who shone so brightly in the Force that Vader could not miss him. Whatever few Jedi might be left in the galaxy had nothing to do with this latest attack.
He would tell Tarkin as much. The cadaverous administrator had little imagination, but he was doggedly methodical, give him that. He could keep things on track. The project was not slowed so much that it needed Vader’s personal attention toward its completion. He had come to see what he needed to see, had corrected the problem he had found, and now it was time to move on to other, weightier matters. There was a war being waged, after all.
In the hallway outside his suite, Vader found a captain. “Find the admiral and tell him we are leaving within the hour.”
The captain saluted. “Yes, my lord.” He hurried away.
Vader entered the suite. It was well appointed but scarcely luxurious; it had been many years since he had taken notice of such things. He moved to the comm station to contact Tarkin and tell him he was done here. With any luck at all, Vader told himself, he would not have to return until the battle station was finished.
GUARD POST, SLASHTOWN PRISON COLONY, DESPAYRE
“Say again?” Sergeant Nova Stihl asked.
“Pack, Sergeant,” the loot said. “You are being transferred.”
“To where?” Not that he cared overmuch—after all, one place on this pestilent world was as good, or bad, as another. But to his surprise, the lieutenant pointed at the ceiling. “To that pile of I-beams and durasteel plate in the sky.”
Nova blinked. “To the Death Star? Why?”
The lieutenant sighed. “These insignia look like a Moff’s ranking to you?” He gestured at his uniform. “Not yours to reason why, Stihl, yours is only to do and die. There’s a shuttle leaving at midday; your orders are to be on it and so shall you be. Kiss your favorite prisoners good-bye and stuff your duffel.”
Nova shook his head in disbelief. “This makes no kind of sense. I’m doing good work here; since I started the lessons, murders and general population violence have been down by twelve percent.”
“Yeah, and we’re all gonna miss watching you, Sarge, but the military wants you there and not here, so there you will go.”
Nova shrugged. No way to argue against that. Orders were orders.
In his room, he was able to pack his gear in half an hour; it wasn’t like he’d been able to put down deep roots or anything. He’d supposed he would be moving on at some point, but he hadn’t ever really considered it all that much. And now here it was, and, when he got right down to it, what difference did it make? Watching convicts here or working a brig on a station—same difference. He’d miss the open air and sunshine, and the very few folks, either prisoners or guards, whom he thought of as friends. But he could work out anywhere he had a space big enough to lie down in, and he’d always been able to make new friends.
Nova looked around. It was just a place. He’d spent some time here; now he was leaving. Such was life. If he’d learned nothing else from his studies, it was that one went with the flow.
He wondered what kind of duty he’d be assigned