Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [66]
Memah smiled. Whoever had programmed SU-B713 must have had fun doing it. “Good. Run a final check on the credit interface, make sure all the readers are online.”
A multicolored light array sparkled on the droid’s computer screen. “Copy, money readers are green and mean. I’m going to go run internal systems checks and then defrag, keep my drive alive.”
After the droid rolled away, Rodo said, “Professional comedians starving on the HNE circuit and we get a head server droid who does stand-up.”
“Hey, if it keeps the troops happy.”
“Yeah, but how am I going to get my workouts if the patrons all behave themselves?”
She grinned. “Come on, you can help me adjust the scrubber in the oversized ’fresher stall. We get a couple of Hutts or a Drack in there, we don’t want the air circ to be overwhelmed.”
With the last few tasks completed, they were probably as ready as they were going to get, Memah decided. Everything she could think of had been seen to as best as could be managed, but she was still a little nervous. A new cantina opening was a fluttery-gut thing at best. True, it was just a cantina, nothing huge in the cosmic scheme of the Galactic Empire, but when it was your cantina, you wanted it to go well. A station like this would be around for decades, and a good reputation out of the box never hurt business. She was, after all, getting at least a small piece of the action, and the better things went, the more she would make.
ISD STEEL TALON
“Systems reports are all normal, Admiral.”
Motti nodded. This tiresome business on the ship had to be done, of course, but he wanted to get it done quickly and return to the station. He felt an almost superstitious concern when he was off-site for very long. Yes, Tarkin was the Moff, and he was in charge, but the real running of the station fell to Motti—as well it should. No man in the Imperial Navy had more of an interest and investment in the “Death Star” than Admiral Conan Antonio Motti.
The captain reporting saluted and departed, and Motti glanced up at the chrono inset into the bridge wall. In another hour he could leave, shuttle back to the station, and get back to important functions. Because, superstition aside, there were also practical, real-world reasons for Motti to be wary of long enforced absences from the station. The biggest being that he didn’t trust General Bast or General Tagge.
Both were officers from the Imperial Army contingent, and technically both outranked Admiral Motti, despite the fact that the station was a navy venture. Tarkin, of course, being Grand Moff, was above the petty distinctions of service branches. He outranked everyone.
Motti feared Tagge the most. The House of Tagge was an old and wealthy family, well respected in the corridors of power back on Imperial Center. Tagge held sway with the Emperor, and he knew how to use it. He’d used it to land his current position as adviser to Tarkin.
Bast, Tagge’s subordinate, was also a focus of worry. Although possessed of no personal aspirations beyond serving the Empire, he was loyal to both Tagge and Tarkin, and might become an obstacle at some future point.
Motti had tried to enlist Tarkin, subtly, in the idea that the man who controlled the battle station, once it was fully operational, would effectively be the most powerful person in the galaxy. It was true that the Emperor and Vader supposedly had that mystical connection with the Force, and Motti well remembered, as a young man, witnessing firsthand some of the astonishing accomplishments of the Jedi during the Clone Wars. But not even superhuman abilities could stand against a weapon that could blow a planet to pieces.
In any event Tarkin had either not picked up on the hints or, more likely, he had, but had chosen to keep his options open—and to himself. No matter. If Tarkin wanted to pretend loyalty to the withered old man who sat at