BOTTLENECK

John Jackson Miller

“AMBUSH!”

The driver’s warning was hardly necessary—not when the Imperial troop transport was already off-kilter, knocked sideways by the impact of hate on eight thunderous legs. A second monstrosity, five meters tall, struck from the darkness. Prodded by its feral Tsevukan rider, the slick-skinned kivaroa rammed the transport hard. The repulsorcraft flipped over and splashed into the swamp, shedding the stormtroopers riding in its exposed exterior racks as it tumbled.

The impact snapped the driver’s restraints, sending her smashing headfirst into the ceiling of the command cabin. The harness of her passenger held—but as brackish water gushed in through the shattered viewport, there was no way he was going to stay buckled in for long. Wilhuff Tarkin, Grand Moff and governor of the Outer Rim for the Galactic Empire, had many things on his agenda. Drowning in a fetid bog wasn’t one of them.

Unhooking his restraints, Tarkin struggled to get his bearings. He was uninjured, but in the darkness with water rising, he was forced to feel around for the escape hatch. He hadn’t yet found it when another of the angry Tsevukan natives outside obliged by ramming his beast into the damaged hovercraft, knocking it back upright.

Tarkin landed atop the motionless driver as the emergency lighting flickered on. Was she dead or unconscious? He didn’t know, nor was there time to find out. Shoving her crumpled body out of the seat, he quickly grabbed the throttle. The repulsorcraft’s engines, still running, whined with acceleration. The Grand Moff had no idea where he was going, but moving was better than sitting still. The transport clipped something ahead—another kivaroa, whose rider went flying into the muck.

Good riddance. Tarkin found his comlink. Before he could call for help, stormtroopers aboard speeder bikes screamed past, firing their vehicles’ blasters. As the Tsevukans and their beasts charged off into the night, the Grand Moff determined his location by satellite and drove the battered transport the last kilometer to his destination.

The garrison was the last stop on his tour of Tsevuka, the Empire’s newest Outer Rim possession. He’d thought an overland transit between its outposts would be more efficient—but clearly, the natives were not as pacified as his general here had led him to believe. The great Empire, menaced by mindless creatures aboard beasts of burden lurking in swamps? Ridiculous. It was foremost on Tarkin’s mind as the base commander dashed up, wearing an expression between concern for his superior and outright panic.

The latter was the right choice. Removing his soiled jacket, the Grand Moff let his aggravation show. “Where was the patrol, Commander? There should have been more troops stationed along this route!”

“I don’t have enough people for that detail.” The commander swallowed hard. “Or in general.”

“Nonsense. Recruiting has been going well.”

“If you’ll forgive me, sir, that’s the problem. I’ve got troopers taking shifts because there aren’t enough suits of stormtrooper armor to go around.”

Tarkin had no patience for this. “Take it up with requisitioning.”

“I have. They don’t have enough either. The Empire’s just—well, it’s grown too fast.”

Tarkin scowled. “The Empire is doing what it should, Commander. But perhaps some inside it are not.” He called for his shuttle before leaving to seek a clean uniform.

—

“So we are punctured by the speed of our success,” the Emperor said.

Sitting in his office aboard the Star Destroyer Executrix, Tarkin nodded. He had said something similar to open the holographic call, but Palpatine had put it more bluntly, as he often did. “It seems to be so,” Tarkin replied. “My forces in these sectors rely on output from Gilvaanen, on the Inner Rim. But armor production there is only up fifty percent this year—half what is required.”

The jungle world of Gilvaanen had been a smallish thorn needling Tarkin for some time. Private corporations, most employing Ithorian colonists who’d settled there long before, handled most of the armor production. To Tarkin, the way to improve output was obvious. “The corporations should be dissolved and production brought fully under Imperial control.”

“Your control, you mean,” the Emperor said, a trace of impatience in his voice. “You’ve said this before. But I’m not convinced it is the right path—and neither is Count Vidian.”

Vidian. Tarkin watched as the count, an up-and-comer in Imperial administration, appeared in the hologram alongside the Emperor. He had been there the whole time. It had to be Vidian: No one else looked like that.

Deformed years earlier by some malady, the count had remade himself in more ways than one. The fiftyish man’s destroyed face had been replaced with a pallid, featureless mask of synthflesh stretched across metal and reconstructed bone. His artificial eyes seemed to burn, macabre yellow-on-crimson orbs that provided him with data networking in addition to sight. But those were only the start of his enhancements. Surgeons had encased his battered organs in a powerful cybernetic body, protecting him not just against age and illness but also most kinds of physical harm. There was no telling how long Vidian might live—or what he might do.

And he had already done so much. A cutthroat financier in the last years of the Republic, Vidian had built a cult around his management ideas and his forceful artificial voice. Now, he was continuing his role as a corporate fixer, operating as one of Palpatine’s efficiency specialists. It was his word that had kept the corporations in control of Gilvaanen’s production.

“Profit is powerful,” Vidian said, his perfectly modulated digital voice amplified just enough to avoid offending the Emperor. “Financial reward—and the illusion of competition—can motivate in ways force cannot.”

Tarkin sniffed at the suggestion. “You’re playing games when the growth of the Empire is at stake.”

“There are occasions where state control is preferable, and I have recommended it,” Vidian said. “But rivalry has made the armor sector a high-innovation zone. Imperialize, and you could end that.” He looked to the Emperor. “Gilvaanen is in my portfolio, Your Highness. I can go at once to sort out the troubles.”

“Not good enough,” Tarkin said. “Count Vidian should have acted before. I must insist on a stronger hand.”

Vidian faced Tarkin and flexed his metallic fingers. “Whole industries have seen how strong my hand is, Grand Moff.” He barely hid his disdain in saying the title. “Your military might only exists because of the production I have wrested from the—”

“Enough.” The Emperor seemed amused rather than angry. “Rivalry indeed produces better results—by raising the penalty for failure.” He looked to Tarkin. “Grand Moff, I am directing both of you to Gilvaanen. You will work together to find what’s gone wrong with armor production—and you will see the targets met. Or I will know the reason why.”

Tarkin bowed his head. “By your command.”

The Grand Moff knew he would do as commanded, of course; the Emperor’s choice of agents was his prerogative. Tarkin would work with Vidian. But too much was at stake for him to permit delays from some nuisance interloper.

He would find out what he was up against.

—

“Forget the old way!”

Vidian was a man with two false faces, Tarkin saw as he watched one of the slogan-spouting count’s motivational holos. He’d requisitioned them to see more of what he was up against. Vidian wore a ruddy, healthy face in his bestsellers, thanks to image trickery. The holographers had also changed his garish eyes to look natural: magnetic and brown. It was no secret that Vidian had a reconstructed face, of course; his rebound from illness was part of his legend. But the frightening visage he wore in person was almost certainly part of the true story of his motivational success. That record, leavened with lesser-publicized outbursts of violence in the name of efficiency, had made him as popular with the Emperor as he was with the people.

Tarkin was surprised how little else was known about the man. Several of Vidian’s Republic-era corporations still supplied the Empire, but conflict of interest was hardly scandalous anymore. He had no friends, no living relatives: He lived for work, surrounded mostly by aides on his base orbiting Calcoraan. He kept his most trusted lieutenant, Everi Chalis, constantly traveling on assignment. It all meant few people knew the real man, a fact that might be meaningless—or suspicious. Yes, Vidian was an early and vocal proponent of the Empire, but Tarkin wondered about his loyalty.

Where there are two false faces, perhaps there are more.

A chime sounded. Tarkin froze the holo. “Yes?”

“We’ve arrived at Gilvaanen,” said the ship’s executive officer. Commander Rae Sloane stepped into the room and looked at the hologram. “Were the research materials satisfactory?”

“Sufficient.” Tarkin templed his fingers. “I won’t have time to study everything. How would you summarize his recent Imperial career?”

“He’s a miracle worker. He got the Gozanti freighter program launched on time, and under budget—and straightened out several shipyards. He’s an icon in his community.”

“He’s in my community, now.” Tarkin dismissed the hologram and looked up to see the young woman standing inside the door. “Something else?”

“This is my last flight on Executrix, sir. I have made captain.”

“At your age? Admirable.” But not surprising, Tarkin thought. A natural at starship navigation, Sloane had graduated high in her class at the Imperial Academy on Prefsbelt—and as a lieutenant, had studied navigation with the legendary Pell Baylo’s last class of cadets. “Where do you go?”

Sloane shuffled uncomfortably. “I…do not know, Governor. I will be returning to Coruscant to await an assignment. But there are more captains than postings, right now.”

“And you expect me to recommend you for one?”

Dark eyes widened. “No, sir, I wasn’t asking—”

He stood to leave. “Accept no favors, and you’ll never owe any.”

—

Blasterfire resounded through the halls of the factory. The stormtroopers flanking Tarkin quickly moved in front of him, raising their weapons in defense. But the hammer-headed Ithorian at the reception desk stood and waved his spindly arms. “It’s normal,” he said, pointing to double doors behind. “She’s expecting you.”

As the doors opened, the shooting continued. Tarkin saw the source: three Ithorians fired blasters at close range at a bipedal figure standing atop a fancy antique desk. It was a human woman, as near as Tarkin could tell, but she was wearing a black helmet designed for something with two very large, bulbous cranial lobes—as well as a bulky triangular breastplate that was ably absorbing the Ithorians’ shots.

Over the din, the Ithorians’ target noticed Tarkin and his escorts and raised a hand. The Ithorians stopped firing. Her helmet removed, Tarkin saw the perspiring face of a brown-haired woman in her late sixties. She smiled. “Welcome, Grand Moff.” She wiped sweat from her brow. “Sorry, there’s not much air in this helmet.”

“Thetis Quelton, I presume.” Tarkin stepped into the office as the Ithorians stored their weapons in a cabinet. He was rarely amused by shows for his benefit—but from what he understood, this was vintage Quelton: testing systems herself.

She clapped the breastplate. “Not even singed. It’s rare—confiscated from some species called the Pikaati. I have a full suit at home.”

“Hmm.” Tarkin had heard she was eccentric, a collector of all things historical—and the exotic suits of armor lining the office walls showed it. As the Ithorians helped Quelton down and out of her gear, he walked to the window and got his first real view of Gilvaanen. A once-lush jungle world, it was quickly being reshaped into its role for the Empire. Forests were being clear-cut for their trees’ elastic polymers, while the mountains beneath them were being stripped for materials for ceramic composites. Gilvaanen was the perfect place to make suits of armor.

The Pikaati outfit removed, Quelton swore at her aides. “What are you standing around for, oafs? Get back to work!” The Ithorians mawkishly withdrew, careful not to jostle her historical displays. Tarkin dismissed his troops.

Quelton deposited the alien helmet on a shelf. “The Pikaati did nice work. There should be some ideas I can wrest from it.”

“Surely there are more orthodox ways to study armor,” Tarkin said.

“You’ve got to wear it to believe in it,” she said. She approached another display, a massive maroon suit that once protected a six-legged beast. She ran her wrinkled hand lovingly along the ornate metalwork. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it? From an archaeological find; I had it restored. It shows that armor is common to sentients throughout history. Either as protection from elements or the void or enemies, all beings have designed things to protect themselves.”

“Yes, yes,” Tarkin said. “But while you amuse yourself, your Empire’s troops go without on the Outer Rim.”

She took a cloth and began shining the giant display piece. “Quelton Fabrication isn’t your problem.”

“You don’t grasp the trouble you’re in.” Tarkin crossed his arms. “The production shortfalls—”

“—you told me about in your message. And the other fellow told me earlier.”

“Other?”

“She refers to me,” announced a voice from outside the office. Tarkin recognized it—but moments passed before Count Vidian entered. The cyborg’s augmented hearing was acute. And just as impressive was the man himself: Dressed sparely but richly in a ruby tunic and black kilt, Vidian had metal limbs that glinted beneath the office lights. He bowed perfunctorily. “Good of you to join us, Grand Moff.”

“When did you arrive?” Tarkin asked.

“Midnight. I’ve been here since, reviewing the facility and its workers.” He turned his glowing eyes on Quelton. “I have just sent you a list of seventeen different practices that should be revised for maximum efficiency.”

Quelton picked up a datapad from her desk. “So you have.”

“And the employee break room should be converted to warehousing.”

Tarkin raised an eyebrow. “You allow your employees leisure?”

Quelton laughed. “I scrapped breaks soon after I contracted with the Empire.”

“Old news, Grand Moff.” Vidian walked to the desk. “You must sanitize the room before using it for storage. The filtration system in my artificial lungs detected several different biological agents there.”

Quelton was unruffled. “The Ithorians tracked them in, however long ago. It’s a jungle planet—or it was. You’ve already seen that the fabrication area, with the actual armor components, is sterile.”

Tarkin looked wryly at Vidian. “That should satisfy our safety inspector.”

“I am no mere—” Vidian started in aggravation, before stopping. He returned to his list, rattling off other recommendations. The Grand Moff recognized the act: Vidian was trying to establish territory, to show he knew more. Now he led Tarkin and Quelton from the museum she called an office onto a tour of the inefficiencies he’d found.

Tarkin thought Vidian a self-impressed popinjay, but Quelton seemed dazzled by him, remarking offhandedly to the Grand Moff about the wonderful work Vidian’s armorers had done. For her part, Quelton seemed to match Vidian’s brusqueness with the Ithorians on her factory lines. Was it a show for the inspection? The creature Quelton smacked with her baton probably didn’t think so.

At last, Tarkin tired of the pantomime. “These are changes at the margins,” he said. “Gilvaanen is underproducing by far more than this.”

“Battles are won at the margins,” Vidian said. “I would expect a military man to know that.”

Tarkin didn’t rise to the bait. “I want Quelton’s answer.”

“It’s not us,” she said, pointing out a window. “Cladtech’s the problem.”

Tarkin knew the name. Quelton’s rival across town, Cladtech had the lucrative contract to do final assembly of all interior armor parts. “Problems with the workers’ guild?”

“Ithorians all,” Quelton said, not hiding her disdain as she walked toward a large door. “Staging slowdowns over this or that.”

“Rubbish,” Vidian said. “The guild was dissolved years ago.”

“Cladtech’s owner tolerates their nonsense. He’s one of them. Meanwhile, my armor plating is piling up at the loading docks.” Quelton touched a control, and the door lifted, revealing exactly that. “I want to outfit your army, Grand Moff. I need you to help me do that.”

—

Whatever it was in years past, Cladtech appeared to Tarkin to be inferior to Quelton’s firm. Shabbier and unkempt—and that described its employees, too. The ones on the job, at least: Several had staged a sick-out on learning the Empire was inspecting. And where Quelton’s harsh treatment had made her staff work faster, Mawdo Larrth, Cladtech’s owner, treated his people more gingerly.

“They do good work if I leave them alone,” the maudlin Ithorian said, looking over a railing at the factory floor. Machines were running, but not every one was fully staffed. Larrth said the employees had been “working to rule,” doing what their contracts required and no more.

“Void the contracts,” Tarkin said. “This is a military necessity.”

“Then they’ll all walk,” Larrth said, his electronic communicator giving his translated voice the sound of defeat. “No one has to assemble armor for a living.”

“That can change.” Vidian said. “And how are they coordinating their protests? You already banned outside contact between workers.”

“My people settled this world,” Larrth said. “The connections of community run deep with Ithorians. I can’t stop what is said at the supper table.”

“You can add shifts and make the workers take their suppers here,” Vidian replied.

Larrth’s head bobbed as he evaluated the idea. “I don’t think the workers would go for that.”

“Who asked them?” Tarkin brushed at his shoulders. The oppressive heat in the factory was threatening the creases in his uniform.

“I apologize for the discomfort,” Larrth said. He gestured to the machines below. “The injection molds run hot, and your orders have had us working double shifts. They never cool except during work stoppages. I power down then—the energy to run them would break me.”

Vidian focused on the workers below. “Your average worker has been here eighteen years, correct?”

“The crew chiefs for thirty,” Larrth replied. “There’s a lot of experience here—it’s why the work that gets done is quality. But it also explains the unrest. People remember when things were…different.”

Tarkin turned his attention to the far doorway. “They will soon forget,” he said. The doors opened, and a team of stormtroopers entered, accompanied by several black-clad officers. Tarkin greeted them. “The personnel section is to the right,” he said. “The information should be there.”

Larrth was surprised. “What’s happening?”

“Imperial Security Bureau officers,” Vidian said of the darkly attired figures. He looked to Tarkin, puzzled. “You called the ISB?”

“And supplemented with stormtroopers from Executrix,” Tarkin said. “We will identify all truant workers and bring them in. They will not depart this facility again until their quotas are met.”

“It must be convenient, traveling with your own army,” Vidian said tartly. “You must’ve called them before our tour started.”

“Quelton said there was labor strife here,” Tarkin said. “That’s reason enough.”

“My review is not complete,” Vidian snapped. “I will call agents in myself—but when I deem them necessary.”

“Oh, they are necessary, regardless of your opinion.” Tarkin looked on, indifferent. He and Vidian had disagreed several times over tactics since their first meeting; he wasn’t going to be delayed any further. He gestured for the ISB agents to proceed. Larrth, fretful, followed the new arrivals.

A commotion rose from the factory floor. Stormtroopers entered, raising their weapons at any Ithorian workers who happened to be away from their machines. Frightened, they returned to work. Vidian clapped his metal hand on the railing, denting it. He looked back at Tarkin. “This is not the way.”

“We broke the guilds in this industry for a reason, Count.” Tarkin looked over at him. “The Emperor cannot brook any rival power centers to form.”

“Agreed,” Vidian said. “But this lacks finesse.”

“Finesse? You may seek marks on style, but I—”

“Precision. Punitive acts should be targeted at the poorer-performing, like that hapless CEO. We must carve away the scar tissue and leave muscle.”

Tarkin thought it an amusing analogy for a man whose anatomy was mostly mechanical. But he did not respond. He turned to follow the agents.

—

“Tarkin!”

The sound from far down the hall caused the Grand Moff to look up from his work, but he did not respond. Both desk and office had that morning belonged to one of Quelton Fabrication’s vice presidents, whom Thetis had fired peremptorily to give Tarkin temporary space and to show she was willing to cut fat. “Tarkin!” Vidian said again, now in the doorway.

“I will not be addressed in that fashion,” Tarkin said, eyes returning to his work. “I don’t care who you think you are.”

“I’ve received word from my aide on Calcoraan, Everi Chalis. You’ve been making inquiries into my background.”

“Like the Emperor, I am interested in all things in the Empire.” Vidian had continued to spar with him all week, repeatedly intervening to try to protect Cladtech workers he seemed to think had value. Tarkin thought such concern was misplaced. Indeed, suspicious. “After your outbursts in defense of the striking Ithorians, I wanted to know what kind of man I was dealing with.”

“You could buy one of my holos. It would save time.”

“I have seen them,” Tarkin said. He lifted a datapad. “I have also seen here a response from one of your other underlings. He suggests my curiosity is justified.”

Vidian paused. “Baron Danthe?”

“The same.”

The cyborg laughed. “Baron Danthe is a lying, disloyal hypocrite—and jealous of my position. In the business community, and now the Empire.”

“A wonder you allow him to work for you.”

“As you well know, we are not always given the choice of whom we work with.”

“Just so.” Tarkin smirked. He, too, thought Danthe was a lying, disloyal hypocrite, an opinion formed after their sole holographic encounter that afternoon.

“I have no time for political games,” Vidian said, artificial voice booming. “This is about finding the most efficient path to what the Emperor wants. Indeed, what he demands.” He stuck a metallic finger in Tarkin’s direction. “You’ve been interfering with my directives all week. You’re outside your department—and beyond your competence. Now step away.”

Tarkin simply stared at the cyborg. “Do those tactics work on the laborers?” he drily asked. “Because I assure you, they have no effect on me.”

“Step away, Grand Moff. I will fix this planet, myself!” Vidian spun on his heel and departed.

Tarkin clasped his hands and thought as Vidian’s clanking footfalls receded. The Grand Moff knew what his bailiwick was, but he had often found that others did not. Both the aristocracy and the industrialists retained some power within their spheres, and that muddled things. Vidian belonged to both classes and had a mandate from the Emperor.

Tarkin had no doubt whose side Palpatine would take in any conflict. Perhaps Vidian thought the same. If the count wanted to test their assumptions, so be it.

A knock outside his open door broke his concentration. “Excuse me, Grand Moff,” Quelton said.

“Yes?”

“There have been whispers of something on the factory floor here,” she said. “Something…well, treasonous. You may want to check it out…”

—

The ISB station chief walked through the night toward Tarkin. “We have them, sir. There’s no escape.”

“Go in.”

Tarkin watched as floodlights activated, illuminating the back alleys of Gilvaanen’s capital. The building ahead was dilapidated, an abandoned factory. No right-minded Ithorian would come to such a place at night. That so many had done so confirmed Tarkin’s suspicions. Quelton’s information was accurate. Stormtroopers emerged moments later to address him. “Secured, sir. You may enter.”

Inside, beneath the harsh lights of the security forces, more than a dozen Ithorians knelt, their elongated heads casting grotesque shadows across the dump of an office. “All supervisors of the Cladtech factory line,” the ISB chief said. “The meeting is illegal.”

Tarkin took the chief’s datapad and read from the list of names. He had seen most of them before: workers Vidian had identified as Cladtech’s best. They were here preparing another strike, this one in response to Tarkin’s measures earlier in the week. There was only one thing to be done. It would send Vidian into a rage, he knew—but there was no other option. Resistance could not be tolerated. “Eliminate them.”

Ignoring the shocked responses from the Ithorians, Tarkin turned toward the exit. The first blasters were being raised when sounds of a commotion came from the doorway to the street. The Grand Moff heard shouts—and then took cover as a human form went flying, hurled violently into the room from outside.

It was another ISB agent, Tarkin saw—and his assailant entered a moment later. “Stop this!” Vidian demanded, the volume of his neck-mounted public address system at maximum. “I tracked someone here—and I appear to be just in time. Do not kill these workers!”

Tarkin emerged from cover, disgusted. “This is a military operation, in conjunction with the ISB,” he said, brushing himself off. “It is definitely not—what was your term?—your department.”

“I said stop!” Vidian said, his voice’s volume lowered but his demand no less emphatic. He barged into the space between the stormtroopers and the terrified Ithorians, who now cowered on the floor. He turned, bringing his armored form between the troopers and their prisoners.

Tarkin stared, stunned. He’d wondered about Vidian’s loyalties—but this was shocking behavior the Emperor would never accept. Very well. “We see whose side you’re on.” Wondering how armored Vidian’s body really was, he looked to the stormtroopers. “You have your orders. You will—”

Vidian threw up his hands—but in disgust, not surrender. Spotting an overturned desk at the far end of the room, he charged toward it. Servomechanisms in his arms easily allowed him to lift its weight, revealing the hiding Ithorian figure huddled beneath. “I’m not the sympathizer. He is!”

Larrth?

“He’s in league with his own striking workers?” Tarkin watched as Vidian grabbed the Cladtech owner and pinned him against a wall. “How did you know?”

“I heard him breathing,” Vidian said, before taking Tarkin’s meaning. “I was reviewing my recordings and struck on something Quelton said: ‘He’s one of them.’ I’d thought it the remark of a bigot—but it made me look at the records I collected at Cladtech in a different way.” He glared at Larrth. “You said you cut power to the machines whenever there was a work stoppage. Your energy consumption records confirm that.”

Larrth whimpered in fear. “They’re too costly…to idle…”

“Those same records also confirm that you took them offline an hour before the shifts even started—before you knew a strike was coming!” He shook Larrth violently. “Do you have premonitions? Or did you know?”

“He knew,” Tarkin said, eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Vidian loosened his grip on Larrth for a few moments. “What you’ve been asking…of my people…is impossible,” Larth said between coughs. “Letting them strike…was the only way…to give them a break…”

“You acquiesced to revolt and thought it mercy,” Vidian said. “But you made a mistake. You were sacrificing profit already to collude with the unionists. But in trying to save a few thousand credits, you gave yourself away. That’s why I tracked you here.”

It made sense to Tarkin. He gestured to the stormtroopers—but before they could advance, Vidian brought his mighty hands together, snapping Larrth’s neck with a sickening crunch.

“Much more efficient,” Vidian said, releasing the Ithorian’s limp form. He turned back to look at Tarkin—who nodded slightly and opened his palm. Try it your way.

Given permission, Vidian turned on the remaining Ithorians. “You are not under arrest—and you are not fired. You will go back to work immediately and meet our production targets. If you fail, everyone you supervise will die.”

Terrified, the work supervisors rose. Stormtroopers hustled them from the room. “I think production will improve now,” Vidian said. “And I have some ideas on what we can do for management.”

“We’ll talk,” the Grand Moff said. The count turned for the exit, and Tarkin followed. Perhaps I underestimated you, he thought.

—

Once Tarkin gave it his grudging approval, Vidian proposed a free-market solution that absolutely delighted Thetis Quelton.

“Cladtech is hereby merged with Quelton Fabrication,” Vidian said. “And the final assembly contract is now yours.”

Tarkin had seldom seen anyone so pleased. Quelton had inhabited Larrth’s old office mere moments before she started barking out orders over her comlink to staffers at her own plant. “We’ll have this place shaped up in no time. And the Outer Rim will have all the armor it needs.”

“We need more all the time,” Vidian said.

“I guarantee it,” Tarkin added.

But the woman seemed invigorated by the challenge—and excited to begin taking over her dead rival’s operations. “It’s a good old historic building,” she said. “Just needs some work. It’s important to keep the past alive.”

“Older is not better,” Vidian said.

“I know your motto,” she said mildly, before sitting down at Larrth’s desk. Within moments, she was immersed in the new reports.

Yes, Tarkin saw sabotage in Quelton’s tipping him to the secret meeting; he wondered how long she had suspected Larrth was in league with the unionists. Vidian had seen nothing disloyal in it: a little self-interested patriotism. He’d speculated it would give Quelton more space for her burgeoning collection of useless historical relics. The cyborg prepared to leave for Quelton Fabrication, to help coordinate transition on that end.

“Count, wait outside for a moment,” Tarkin said. Puzzled, Vidian withdrew as the Grand Moff turned back to Quelton. “Thetis,” Tarkin called.

She looked up at him, startled to hear her first name. “Yes?”

“I leave in the morning—and it seems a celebration would be in order. I would like to see these historic suits of armor you spoke of.”

“The ones in my parlor at home?”

A trace of a grin crossed his face. “You needn’t move them. I could come to dinner.” He looked about. “If it wouldn’t delay your work here.”

Quelton smiled. “Of course. I have so much more, there—artifacts from this and a dozen other worlds, all fascinating. I’ll have the droids put together something nice to eat. Shall we say in four hours, at my estate?”

Tarkin nodded, and listened as she told him where to find the place. He already knew, of course; it was his business to know. Quelton returned to work.

Stepping out, Tarkin saw Vidian waiting. His electronic ears had picked up the whole conversation—and it clearly amused him. “So this is what you do? Award lucrative contracts to wealthy women and invite yourself over?”

Tarkin gave him a deadly look. “Keep your indecorous remarks to yourself. I have something for you to look into…”

—

At most mansions Tarkin had visited, butler droids had greeted him. He wasn’t surprised in the least when an armored Pikaati warrior opened Thetis Quelton’s door. It was the woman herself, wearing the gear she’d told him about. “I told you I had a full suit.” Apparently, Quelton had no fear of appearing the peculiar tycoon before him.

Helmet under her arm, the woman in her lumbering armor led him on a predinner tour of her home. Hall after hall held pieces of the past on Gilvaanen; how people had lived there since the planet’s settlement. And her massive parlor was her office display writ large, a museum of military history.

Tarkin took an interest in that, of course, but he was in fact biding his time. She was still in the Pikaati gear, atop a dais showing off an ancient suit of armor for some mammoth creature, when the Grand Moff received the message he was waiting for.

“I neglected to mention that Count Vidian will be joining us.”

Quelton looked down at him, startled, before her face brightened. “That’s wonderful. I have so much to ask. How they rebuilt his body is something of a legend in my circles.”

“He has superior capabilities, to be sure.” Tarkin paced the floor below. “And whatever else is in Vidian’s legend, I’ve seen that his reputation as a turnaround artist is well earned. But no one is my equal when it comes to spotting loyalty.”

“How do you mean?”

“Larrth was right about how Ithorians stick together,” Tarkin said. “Stern disciplinary measures from a human executive should have at least sparked some opposition. And yet protesters never troubled your firm. There had to be a reason.” He stopped beside a shield on a display. “You have been your workers’ protector. Your dislike of them, your harsh treatment: They’re a sham. Don’t deny it. ISB interrogators have heard it from the captured. You are no more devoted to profit than Larrth was.”

“You think I was putting on a show this week? Maybe I was harsher than I usually am, because of the inspection.” She chuckled. “And I tipped you to their meeting. How prolabor could I be?”

“True, your tip put Cladtech in your hands—and that’s what I believe you were really after. I know you’re not in it for the money. Oh, you did want money—to spend on this ludicrous collection of yours, and to thwart Imperial attempts to eliminate the past on this world. We know about those efforts.”

“I care about the past, yes—and my planet. But that’s normal, for a property owner.”

“Then shall we talk about the abnormal? We looked at your bid for the most recent stormtrooper armor-assembly contract. It was irrationally low—you would have lost millions of credits had you won.”

“I was trying to undermine a competitor.”

“You would have undermined your own firm at those prices. It’s why the Empire rejected your bid, a year ago. And you certainly couldn’t afford to buy Cladtech outright—and we know you tried. So why did you want that contract so badly?”

“So these did not go to waste.” The answer came not from Quelton—but from Count Vidian, who stepped through the far door. Between his left thumb and forefinger, he held a round black ring, less than a centimeter thick.

“I can’t see from here,” Quelton said. “What’s that?”

Vidian laughed. “You should know. There were twenty-seven million in your factory, waiting to be shipped to Cladtech’s assembly center.

Tarkin nodded, satisfied. “Where were they?”

“She was manufacturing them in an area off the Quelton employee break room,” Vidian said, “where my lungs had sensed antigens before.” He approached Tarkin with the small ring. “It’s a grommet for a stormtrooper helmet. It helps form the seal inside an atmospheric transduction nozzle. Possibly the lowest-tech item in the entire assembly—and it must have cost her millions.”

Tarkin took the ring and eyed it. “You’ve had it analyzed?”

“It’s quite clever. Alone, it is uninteresting even under close analysis. But when the helmet is worn, the wearer’s breath awakens and circulates the tiny spores infused in the ring.” Vidian gestured to the foliage outside the window. “They’re native to this planet, and cause a disease of the windpipe, known only to jungle explorers. They call it—”

“Bottleneck,” Quelton said. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “But it was soon to have another name: stormtrooper’s lung.”

Tarkin marveled at the tiny ring. “Ingenious. Because the rings are installed inside the armor, it would be beyond filtration. The armor’s pathogenic response systems would see nothing at all.”

“And neither would we, for some time,” Vidian said. “Bottleneck isn’t deadly. But it is debilitating.”

“Keeping your thugs from hurting anyone else,” Quelton said, turning to face the giant alien suit of armor behind her on the dais. “It would slow the Empire’s conquest of the Outer Rim faster than anything.”

“It would’ve been found,” Tarkin said, clutching the ring in his fist. “And traced back to you.”

“But not before it crushed recruiting. ‘Join the Empire and suffer.’ Not much of a slogan, is it? But then, it’s what you offer the galaxy now.” She looked around at the armor on display. “The warriors who fought in these suits had one thing in common. They were all defending their homeworlds against invaders—protecting their cultures, their histories. Gilvaanen was a peaceful world, with a people with a magnificent past. And you’ve ruined it. You’ve burned and you’ve buried, without a care to what you were throwing away.” She turned and glared at Vidian. “I don’t want to ‘forget the old ways,’ Count. Some of them were better!”

Vidian looked at Tarkin. “Another dissident! How novel. What a puddle of unhappiness this planet is.”

“The ISB has been studying her communications since I first suspected her,” Tarkin said. At their mention, several agents entered at the far end of the parlor, flanked by stormtroopers. He looked up at her. “We know you have spoken with other radicals offworld—but that you had cut off contact several months ago.”

“They didn’t approve of my plan,” Quelton said, as the stormtroopers advanced toward the steps to the dais. “They don’t know you like I do.”

“We’ll find out—when you tell us of them,” Vidian said.

“I don’t think so,” she said, eyeing the advancing troopers. “I can still protect something.” She put the Pikaati helmet back on her head. But this time, she activated the seal, which gave a low hiss. The stormtroopers raised their weapons—but Quelton wasn’t moving to attack. Her armored form shook violently, causing her to tumble from the dais onto the parlor floor.

Vidian rushed to her side. “She’s having a seizure!”

He began to work the helmet’s fastener—before Tarkin put his hand on the cyborg’s arm. “Don’t. She’s already dead.”

“Dead!”

Tarkin nodded. “The Pikaati breathe hydrogen cyanide. The helmet flooded as soon as she activated the seal. Open that, and you could put the rest of us in danger.”

Vidian stood and regarded the body. “You never expected her to tell us anything, did you?”

“We saw all we needed to in her communiqués,” Tarkin said. “Her contacts abandoned her. The trail was old.” He mused over the corpse. “But I was interested to see what she would do in her defense. True rebels are rare specimens. It pays to learn how they think.”

It was worth a moment’s contemplation—but only a moment. “Now,” he said, rising, “we have another corporate vacancy to discuss…”

—

The Emperor’s holographic form shimmered in Quelton’s former office. “Report.”

Count Vidian wasted no time. “I concur with the Grand Moff’s plan, Your Highness. Gilvaanen should be ‘imperialized.’ ”

“You had rejected that before. You now agree?” The Emperor seemed mildly surprised.

“I do. All parts of the armor-production chain will be brought under the Imperial Department of Military Research.” Vidian sat motionless. “It will be a lengthy transition; I am placing Everi Chalis directly in charge.”

The Emperor calculated for a moment. “A reduction in portfolio will free you for other activities.”

Vidian was quick to suggest some. “I’ve noted inefficiencies in Star Destroyer resource production. I can put them aright with a tour of mines and processors.”

“Not very glamorous work.”

“But necessary.” Vidian paused, before continuing. “It would entail relevant sectors being placed under my authority. And military support to enforce my edicts.”

The Emperor looked to Tarkin. “This meets with your approval, Grand Moff?”

“It does.” Tarkin straightened. “I propose a Star Destroyer be seconded to Count Vidian. I would detach one from my own complement for his use.”

A pause. Then the Emperor gave a chuckle, a dark throaty thing that chilled even those familiar with it. “I sense a bargain here, gentlemen.”

Tarkin and Vidian looked to each other. “Efficiency is what we all crave,” the Grand Moff said.

—

There had been a bargain. Tarkin had decided it was pointless to make an enemy of Vidian when a simpler solution existed: making sure their zones of influence didn’t overlap. Vidian had come to the same conclusion, offering to trade his oversight of Gilvaanen for a number of franchises Tarkin didn’t care as much about. If the count’s actions led to Star Destroyers being produced faster for the Outer Rim, it would be more than worth letting him have one today.

Tarkin had offered Vidian his choice of veteran captains, including several with experience escorting leaders of industry under the Republic. That’s when Vidian surprised him by requesting the greenest captain on the list. “Remember my motto,” Vidian had said. “I would rather have the aid of someone new, someone with no attachment to past practices.”

In other words, Tarkin had thought, you want someone you can push around. Very well.

Aboard Executrix, he awarded the assignment. And the recipient could not have been more surprised.

“But Ultimatum is to be assigned to Yale Karlsen,” Rae Sloane said. Not only was he already a captain, he was much senior.

“I have detached Captain Karlsen to the construction committee, which needs his wisdom.” It had required only a minute to arrange. “Karlsen will take Ultimatum in time. But the ship’s mission must proceed.”

Sloane, who had been sitting upright in the chair across from Tarkin since being invited in, sat back as she began to comprehend the tasks before her. Tarkin spelled them out. “You’ll have your hands full preparing the ship for flight. She is your responsibility, for however long you have her. The same can be said of your passenger, when he joins you.”

“Count Vidian,” she said, half whispering. “I’d be escorting one of the Emperor’s troubleshooters.”

“I’m told you once flew with the Emperor himself, and Lord Vader.”

“I was merely present, sir.” She paused, before straightening. “But I believe Lord Vader would endorse my performance.”

That’s some claim, Tarkin thought. It was daring enough that it was probably true—in which case she might not be the pushover Vidian expected. That was all well, too. For while Vidian offered no threat to him now, it couldn’t hurt to have a check against him for the future.

“To your command, Captain Sloane.” They stood—and Tarkin offered a last piece of advice. “Count Vidian’s eyes never close. And neither should yours.”