“The shipjackers chose Lucazec over Nam Chorios or even Belderone, and they transmitted their attack live over the HoloNet. If, then, their plan is to spread both destruction and propaganda—”
“Gromas would be the expected choice, if only because of its relative importance.”
Tarkin nodded slowly. “It’s certainly the target we should provide to the intelligence agencies.”
Vader nodded slowly, in full understanding of Tarkin’s implication. “I’ll inform the Emperor.”
“The Carrion Spike may already be in motion,” Tarkin said, squaring his shoulders.
As if in echo of Tarkin’s posture of readiness, Vader planted his fists on his hips. “Then we have no time to spare.”
Negative capability
THE CARRION SPIKE DRIFTED above a lifeless, volcanic planet in a star system designated by number rather than by name. The crew was already assembled in the conference cabin when Teller entered, wearing the uniform of an Imperial commander.
“Turn around so we can get the full effect,” Anora said from one of the chairs that surrounded the cabin’s circular table.
“Doesn’t fit you like it used to,” Cala said.
Teller stared down at himself in disappointment. “Poverty will do that to a being.” He raised his head to speak to all of them. “But I’ve got good news—”
“Good news from a human dressed as an Imperial,” Salikk interrupted, fingering the tuft of fur on his cheek. “That has to be a first.”
“What did our ally have to say?” Dr. Artoz asked.
“A task force has jumped for Gromas.”
Artoz’s side-facing eyes grew vivid with interest. “Confirmed?”
Teller nodded once. “From multiple sources.”
“Then you were right about Tarkin,” Hask said.
Teller hitched up his trousers and straddled a chair. “When he was with Outland in the Greater Seswenna, they used to track pirates by calculating fuel consumption. Outland would track them to a fuel depot and swoop in. The Jedi did the same. You just have to know how much fuel a ship started out with and you have to be reasonably certain of its itinerary. Doesn’t always work, but when it does, it works like a charm.” He glanced at Cala. “You glad now about taking the extra time on Murkhana?”
The Koorivar wrinkled his face but nodded.
“Even with Imperials jumping for Gromas,” Hask said, “every depot between here and Centares has got to be on the lookout for this ship.”
Teller compressed his lips. “I never promised a sure thing. The altered transponder signature worked at Lucazec, and there’s no reason to think it won’t work again. To most Imperial installations, we’re just another corvette running low on fuel. But that doesn’t mean something can’t go wrong. If that happens, we have enough fuel to jump at the first sign of trouble.”
“To where, and then what?” Salikk said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Teller told everyone. “For now, we follow the plan.”
Hask was shaking her head, her slanted eyes narrowed. “We should have stashed fuel somewhere. Refueled ourselves.”
Teller scowled at the Zygerrian. “We broke the bank getting that shipment to Murkhana.” He gestured to himself. “Like I said, poverty wreaks havoc with a diet.”
Hask looked away from him, a frown contorting her angular features, so Teller turned to Anora. “Good job with the holovid. It’s getting attention all over.”
She shrugged. “Just doing my job, Teller. Same as ever.”
Teller grew serious as he swung to Cala. “Speaking of jobs …”
“Done,” the Koorivar said. “Although I had to spend extra time in decontamination.”
“I thought your complexion looked ruddier than usual.”
“No joke, Teller,” Cala said. “That stint could cost me a couple of years.”
“If it’s any consolation, there’ll be a higher cost to the Imperials.”
“That part doesn’t bother you at all, does it?” Hask said with a sneer. “The indiscriminate killing, I mean.”
Teller frowned. “Indiscriminate? What, because not all of them are soldiers? This is where you draw the line?”
“People have to work, Teller,” the Zygerrian said.
“Don’t kid yourself, Hask. These aren’t civilian targets. They’re Imperial installations staffed by people who have bought into the Emperor’s sick vision of the future — for you, your queen, me, and everyone between here and the Unknown Regions. You’ve seen the recruitment posters: Serve the Empire and be a better being for it! That doesn’t turn your stomach? Anyone who willingly serves is a traitor to life, Hask. And don’t tell me they don’t know what they’re signing up for, because it’s as clear as those posters on the wall. It’s enslavement, suppression, military might the likes of which none of us has ever seen.” He worked his jaw. “I won’t go peacefully into that future, and neither should you. Hell, why are you even with us if you haven’t thought this through by now?”
Anora made a conciliatory gesture. “She knows. She just forgets sometimes.” She glanced at Hask. “Don’t you?”
Hask returned a brooding nod.
But Teller wasn’t through. “Look, whether they’re mining ore for TaggeCo or refueling Imperial warships, it comes down to the same thing: standing with the Emperor. Our high-minded leader, who on his most benevolent day is still worse than Vader. The idea, Hask, just in case you’ve forgotten, is to put the fear into anyone who’s even contemplating joining up. To slow the death toll, Hask. And as payback. Do you get it or not?”
“I get it,” Hask said finally.
Anora slapped the tops of her thighs and laughed shortly. “Teller, sometimes you are so straight out of a holodrama I can’t decide whether to cheer or applaud. My production team on Coruscant would have made good use of you.”
Teller glanced from her to Hask and snorted in derision. “Artists. If the Emperor has his way, you’ll be the first ones targeted for eradication.” He waited a long moment. “Are we done?”
Heads nodded in assurance.
Teller looked at Anora. “Speaking of holodramas, let’s see how I look with red hair.”
Tarkin, dressed in a black flight suit, was waiting in the hangar command center when the ship reverted to realspace at the Rimward edge of the Phindar system. Floating above a holoprojector was a one-quarter-scale holopresence of the tanker facility’s administrator, a yellow-eyed, lugubrious-looking humanoid sporting a pair of thin green arms that dangled past his knees.
“Refueling has been completed, Governor Tarkin,” the Phindian rasped in Basic. “The corvette is preparing to detach as we speak.”
“Good work, Administrator. You performed the refueling according to my instructions?”
“We did — though it took considerable effort.”
“The Empire looks kindly on those who cooperate in such matters.”
“And I look forward to whatever kindness you’re willing to dole out, Governor. But you should know that the ship is assailable. My workers and the stormtroopers here are more than willing to take the crew head-on.”
“No, Administrator,” Tarkin said in a way that brooked no argument. “You mustn’t raise any suspicions. What’s more, the people aboard that ship have had plenty of time to prepare for this. You and your workers would be killed.”
“If you say so, Governor.”
“I do say so. Have you a recording of the commander?”
The Phindian nodded his huge, snub-nosed head. “Transmitting it now.”
Tarkin squinted at the hologram that appeared alongside the holopresence of the facility administrator. Dressed in an Imperial uniform, the man was tall and lean, with thick red hair and a raised scar on his left cheek that ran from the corner of a full mouth to a bionic eye not unlike the one worn by Vice Admiral Screed.