“How charitable of you to make time for us, Governor,” the Chagrian said as Tarkin approached from the corvette’s lowered boarding ramp.
Tarkin played along. “And for you to welcome me personally, Vizier.”
“We all do our part for the Empire.”
With crisp turns, Amedda and the face-shielded guards led him through elaborate doors into the Palace. Tarkin was familiar with the interior, but the expansive, soaring corridors he walked years earlier had contained a rare solemnity. Now they teemed with civilians and functionaries of many species, and the walls and plinths were left unadorned by art or statuary.
Tarkin felt curiously out of step, perhaps because of the increased gravity, the pace, the crowds, or a combination of all those things. For three years the only non- or near-humans he had seen or had direct contact with had been slaves or recruited laborers at outlying bases or at the battle station’s construction site. He had heard that one needn’t have been absent from Coruscant for years to be startled by the changes, in that each day saw buildings raised, demolished, incorporated into ever larger and taller monstrosities, or merely stripped of Republic-era ornamentation and renovated in accordance with a more severe aesthetic. Curved lines were yielding to harsh angles; sophistication to declaration. Fashions had changed along similar lines, with few outside the Imperial court affecting cloaks, headcloths, or garish robes. By most accounts, though, Coruscanti were satisfied, especially those who lived and worked in the upper tiers of the fathomless cityscape; content if for no other reason than to have the brutal war behind them.
Tarkin’s most carefree years had been spent on Coruscant and neighboring Core Worlds before he had been elected governor of Eriadu, with some help from family members and influential contacts. He had a sudden desire to sneak outside the Palace and explore the precincts he had roamed as an adventurous young adult. But perhaps it was enough to know that law and order had finally triumphed over corruption and indulgence, which had been the hallmarks of the Republic.
Someone called his name as he and Amedda were moving down a colonnaded walkway, and Tarkin turned, recognizing the face of a man he had known since his academy years.
“Nils Tenant,” he said in genuine surprise, separating himself from the Chagrian’s retinue to shake Tenant’s proffered hand. Fair-skinned, with a prominent nose and a downturning full-lipped mouth, Tenant had commanded a Star Destroyer during the Clone Wars, and displayed on his uniform tunic the rank insignia plaque of a rear admiral.
“Wonderful to see you, Wilhuff,” Tenant said, pumping Tarkin’s hand. “I came as soon as I learned you were coming.”
Tarkin affected a frown. “And here I thought my arrival would be a well-kept secret.”
Tenant sniffed in faint amusement. “Only some secrets are well kept on Coruscant.”
Clearly bothered by the delay, Mas Amedda tapped the base of his staff on the polished floor and waited until the two had joined the retinue before moving deeper into the Palace.
“Is that the new uniform?” Tenant asked as they walked.
Tarkin pinched the sleeve of the tunic. “What, this old thing?” then asked before Tenant could respond: “So who let it be known that I was coming? Was it Yularen? Tagge? Motti?”
Tenant was dismissive. “You know, you hear things.” He moved with purposeful slowness. “You’ve been in the Western Reaches, Wilhuff?”
Tarkin nodded. “Still hunting down General Grievous’s former allies. And you?”
“Pacification,” Tenant said in a distracted way. “Brought back to attend a Joint Chiefs meeting.” Abruptly he clamped his hand on Tarkin’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt and encouraging him to fall back from Amedda and the guards. When they seemed to be out of earshot of Amedda, Tenant said: “Wilhuff, are the rumors true?”
Tarkin adopted a questioning look. “What rumors? And why are you whispering?”
Tenant glanced around before answering. “About a mobile battle station. A weapon that will—”
Tarkin stopped him before he could say more, glancing at Amedda in the hope that he and Tenant were, in fact, out of the Chagrian’s range.
“This is hardly the place for discussions of that sort,” he said firmly.
Tenant looked chastised. “Of course. It’s just that … You hear so many rumors. People are here one day, gone the next. And no one has laid eyes on the Emperor in months. Amedda, Dangor, and the rest of the Ruling Council have taken to dispatching processions of Imperial skylimos simply to maintain an illusion that the Emperor moves about in public.” He fell briefly silent. “You know they commissioned an enormous statue of the Emperor for Senate — I mean, Imperial Plaza? So far, though, the thing looks more terrifying than majestic.”
Tarkin raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the idea, Nils?”
Tenant nodded in a distracted way. “You’re right, of course.” Again he regarded the nearby columns with wariness. “The scuttlebutt is that you’re scheduled to meet with him.”
Tarkin shrugged noncommittally. “If that’s his pleasure.”
Tenant compressed his lips. “Put in a word for me, Wilhuff — for old times’ sake. A great change is coming — everyone senses it — and I want to be back in the action.”
It struck Tarkin as an odd request, even a trifle audacious. But in considering it, he supposed he could understand wanting to be in the Emperor’s good graces, as he was certainly grateful to be there.
He clapped his fellow officer on the shoulder. “If the occasion arises, Nils.”
Tenant smiled weakly. “You’re a good man, Wilhuff,” he said, falling back and vanishing as Tarkin hurried to catch up with Amedda and the retinue turned a corner in the hallway.
Tarkin attracted a good deal of attention as the group climbed a broad stairway and debouched into a vast atrium. Figures of all stripe and station — officials, advisers, soldiers — stopped in their tracks, even while trying not to make an obvious display of staring at him. Subjugator of pirates; former governor of Eriadu; graduate of Prefsbelt; naval officer during the Clone Wars, decorated at the Battle of Kamino and promoted to admiral after a daring escape from the Citadel prison; adjutant general by the war’s end, and named by the Emperor one of twenty Imperial Moffs … After years of absence from the Imperial capital, was Tarkin here to be forgiven, rewarded, or punished with another mission that would send him chasing Separatist recidivists through the Western Reaches, the Corporate Sector, the Tion Hegemony?
He sometimes wondered where fate might have taken him if he hadn’t entered the academy system after his years with Outland, when a move to civilian instruction had seemed the best strategy for introducing himself to the wider galaxy. Perhaps he would still be in pursuit of Outer Rim pirates or mercenaries, or slaved to a desk in some planetary capital city. No matter what, it was unlikely that he would ever have crossed paths with the Emperor — when he was still known as Palpatine.
It was while Tarkin was attending the Sullust Sector Spacefarers Academy that they met — or rather that Palpatine had sought him out. Tarkin had just returned to the academy’s orbital facility from long hours of starship maneuvers in an Incom T-95 Trainer when someone called his name as he was crossing the flight deck. Turning to the voice, he was astonished to find the Republic senator walking toward him. Tarkin knew that Palpatine was part of Supreme Chancellor Kalpana’s party, which included his administrator Finis Valorum and several other senators, all of whom were on station to attend the academy’s commencement and commissioning day ceremonies. Most of the graduates would be moving on to positions in commercial piloting, local system navies, or the Judicial Department. Dressed in fashionable blue robes, the red-haired aesthete politician flashed a welcoming smile and extended a hand in greeting.