Equally worrisome was the question of how the counterfeiters had known about Lieutenant Thon, whose recent posting to Rampart should have been top secret. The creators of the false holovid had been able to improvise by transmitting a real-time hologram of the young officer in response to Tarkin’s order that he show himself. Was Thon involved in the conspiracy, or had the attackers merely doctored existing footage of him, lifted perhaps from the public HoloNet or some other source?
As troubling as it was to accept that the locations of Sentinel and Rampart bases had been compromised, he still couldn’t make sense of the attack itself. What would pirates or privateers stand to gain by launching an ill-fated drone attack? What, for that matter, would political dissidents stand to gain?
Was it a case of vengeance?
One group fit the bilclass="underline" the Droid Gotra, a lethal band of repurposed battle droids with what some considered legitimate grievances against the Empire for having been abandoned after their service during the Clone Wars. But recent intelligence reports stated that the Droid Gotra was still confined to an industrial complex in the bowels of Coruscant, serving as muscle for the Crymorah crime syndicate in robberies, protection, kidnapping, illegal salvage, and extortion. It was possible that the Gotra was branching out — it was even possible that the group had learned about Sentinel Base — but it was unlikely that the droids would make use of obsolete weapons to send a message to the Empire.
Tarkin shook his head in aggravation. In part, the deep-space mobile battle station was meant to put an end to harassments of any sort, whether driven by greed, political dissent, or revenge for acts committed during the Clone Wars or since. Once everyone in the galaxy grasped the weapon’s capabilities, once the fear of Imperial reprisal took hold, discontent would cease to be a problem. But just now — and notwithstanding the covert nature of the Geonosis project — the Imperial Security Bureau and Naval Intelligence were continually trying to quash rumors and prevent information leaks. In the three years Tarkin had been commanding Sentinel and hundreds of nearby supply and sentry outposts, as well as administering a vast slice of the Outer Rim, no group had been successful in penetrating Geonosis space.
The chance that that could change shook him to the core.
If establishing the identity of Sentinel’s enemies was already proving daunting, getting to the truth of the battle station’s origin was nearly impossible. Everyone from celebrated ship designers to gifted engineers wanted to take credit for the superweapon. Tarkin himself had discussed the need for such a weapon with the Emperor long before the end of the Clone Wars. But no one outside the Emperor knew the full history of the moonlet-sized project. Some claimed that it had begun as a Separatist weapon designed by Geonosian Archduke Poggle the Lesser’s hive colony for Count Dooku and the Confederacy of Independent Systems. But if that was the case, the plans had to have somehow fallen into Republic hands before the Clone Wars ended, because the weapon’s spherical shell and laser-focusing dish were already in the works by the time Tarkin first set eyes on it following his promotion to the rank of Moff — escorted to Geonosis in utmost secrecy by the Emperor himself.
All the same, he had no compelling reason to solve the enigma of the battle station’s beginnings. What bothered him was that, compliant with a strategy that no base commander — Moff, admiral, or general — should have unrestricted access to information regarding shipments, scheduling, or construction progress, no single person was in charge of the project, unless of course the Emperor was considered to be that person. But the Emperor’s visits had been few and far between, and it was anyone’s guess just how much information was getting past the Imperial Ruling Council the Moffs and others answered to and actually reaching the Emperor’s ear. Certainly he was being briefed, but briefings were no longer enough. The project had reached a point where it had to rely on countless suppliers; and though each was being kept in the dark regarding the final destination of their contributions, millions of beings, perhaps tens of millions of beings galaxywide, were now involved with the battle station in one capacity or another. Yes, the project required the on-site presence of a think tank of scientists, weapons specialists, and habitat architects, but what did any of them know about protecting the station from saboteurs?
If Tarkin had his way, and at this point it was uncertain he ever would, he would adopt the hegemonic arrangement that was in place on Coruscant and elsewhere, and appoint an overseer to coordinate all construction and defense considerations. A single overseer to whom others would answer — or be damned if they didn’t.
If whoever was responsible for the dubious attack on Sentinel was simply hoping to get his attention, then that part of the plan had succeeded, for in the end he was left with more questions than answers.
His restless pacing subsided as his adjutant hurried into the maintenance hangar’s safe area.
“A communiqué from Coruscant, sir.”
Tarkin assumed that it was Military Intelligence, responding to the after-action report he had filed, and said as much.
“No, sir. Higher up the chain of command.”
Tarkin arched an eyebrow. “How high?”
“Nosebleed altitude, sir.”
Tarkin stiffened slightly. “Then I’ll take the transmission in my quarters.”
Where Tarkin’s own uniformed holopresence had stood two days earlier, the holotable now projected a towering apparition of Vizier Mas Amedda, swathed in rich maroon robes, the cyan tint of the holofield darkening the Chagrian’s natural blue pigmentation. From bulging extrusions of flesh on either side of Amedda’s thick neck dangled tapered horns that matched the pair crowning his hairless cranium.
“We trust all is well at Sentinel Base, Governor.”
Tarkin couldn’t be certain if or how much Amedda knew about the recent attack. On Coruscant information was closely guarded, if only as a means of maintaining one’s cachet, and even the head of the Ruling Council might not have been made privy to details known to Military Intelligence and the Admiralty.
“Rest assured, Vizier,” Tarkin said.
“No surprises, then?”
“Only the expected ones.”
The ambitious amphibian vouchsafed a tight-lipped smile at his end of the duplex holocomm. Obstructive and fault finding during his years as vice chancellor of the Republic Senate, he had become one of the Emperor’s most valued advisers, as well as the Empire’s most formidable intermediary.
“Governor, your presence is required on Coruscant,” Amedda said after a moment.
Tarkin moved to his desk and sat down, centering himself for the holocam. “I’ll certainly try to make time for a visit, Vizier.”