Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [72]
“Yeah, well,” he replied, “if they can build it so it holds together, I’ll shoot it.”
“Let me show you how it works. You and your team will be practicing on the simulator until the real thing here’s online.”
As Doan explained the intricacies of the sequencing relays, Tenn found it somewhat difficult to concentrate on what the other man was saying. He wasn’t sure why. After all, he’d dreamed of this moment for months: the day he’d finally stand in the control chamber of the superlaser and be officially given command of it. Even though construction wasn’t finished yet, you couldn’t tell it from in here. He listened to the susurration of the klystron tubes and thermistor couplers, smelled the astringent scent of insulation lube, felt the breath of conditioned air adjusted to a constant twenty degrees, and wondered why he was not content.
There was only one reason that seemed remotely feasible.
The Battle Lance.
His nephew, Hora Graneet, had been a navy spacer on the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Mark II class vessel, which had been selected for a shakedown cruise testing one of the improved prototype hypermatter reactors. Tenn didn’t know the specifics of what had happened, and didn’t have anything close to the math needed to understand it anyway. He knew that hypermatter existed only in hyperspace, that it was composed of tachyonic particles, and that charged tachyons, when constrained by the lower dimensions of realspace, produced near-limitless energy. How this “null-point energy” had become unstable he didn’t know. He only knew it had been powerful enough to turn an ISD-II and its crew of thirty-seven thousand people into floating wisps of ionized gas in a microsecond.
So? Don’t tell me you’re scared, Graneet. You knew the risks. This is a war, declared or not. Wars have casualties.
No. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t even so much that Hora had been a favorite nephew, or that the younger Graneet had admired his uncle so much that he’d enlisted, which made Tenn feel a considerable amount of responsibility for his death. It was the thought of that much power, and the possibility of it becoming uncontrollable. Again Tenn surprised himself. He’d never been overly concerned about fallible technology before. His was not to reason why; he was the trigger man. And he was being handed the biggest gun in the galaxy—with the safety off.
But was he capable of wielding such power wisely?
Was anyone?
34
DOCKING BAY 6, ALPHA SECTOR, DEATH STAR
Daala came down the ramp looking every centimeter the Imperial admiral. She didn’t just walk, she swept, and it was a joy to watch her stride. Strong, smart, ambitious, dedicated, funny, and beautiful—what more could a man possibly want in a partner?
Well, a bit more proximity would be good. But they were both creatures of duty, and Tarkin knew that wasn’t apt to change anytime soon; certainly not until the battle station was finished and unlimbered. Perhaps not even then. He knew that Daala looked upon him with much favor, but the relationship had always been secondary to her career. He understood that. More; he admired it. He wouldn’t want a woman who thought any less of herself. That was the ultimate paradox, of course.
“Grand Moff Tarkin. So good to see you again, sir.”
Tarkin held his smile in check. One had to be proper about such things out in plain sight. “Admiral Daala. The pleasure is mine. I trust your trip was uneventful?”
“Yes, sir. Nothing untoward whatsoever.”
“Excellent. Allow me to show you to your quarters. Your suite, as it happens, is right next to mine.”
He saw a flicker of anticipation cross her face—hardly enough to notice unless one was standing right in front of her. In a very quiet voice, without moving her lips, she said, “How convenient, Wilhuff.”
He couldn’t keep from smiling, despite his best efforts. “This way, Admiral.