His strategy of flying boldly into the face of adversity was studied and taught, and during the Clone Wars would come to be known as “the Tarkin Rush,” when it was also said of him that his officers and crew would willingly follow him to hell and beyond. He might have remained a Judicial were it not for a growing schism that began to eat away at the department’s long-held and nonpartisan mandate to keep the galaxy free of conflict. On the one side stood Tarkin and others who were committed to enforcing the law and safeguarding the Republic; on the other, a growing number of dissidents who had come to view the Republic as a galactic disease. They detested the influence peddling, the complacency of the Senate, and the proliferation of corporate criminality. They saw the Jedi Order as antiquated and ineffectual, and they yearned for a more equitable system of government — or none at all.
As the clashes between Republic and Separatist interests escalated in frequency and intensity, Tarkin would find himself pitted against many of the Judicials with whom he had previously served. The galaxy was fast becoming an arena for ideologues and industrialists, with the Judicials being used to settle trade disputes or to further corporate agendas. He feared that the Seswenna sector would be dragged into the rising tide of disgruntlement, without anyone to keep Eriadu and its brethren worlds free of the coming fray. He began to think of his homeworld as a ship that needed to be steered into calmer waters, and of himself as the one who should assume command of that perilous voyage. The time had come to accept Palpatine’s invitation to join him on Coruscant, for his promised crash course in galactic politics.
Entering one of a bank of turbolifts that accessed the centermost of the Palace’s quincunx of spires, Tarkin was surprised when Mas Amedda charged the car to descend.
“I would have expected the Emperor to reside closer to the top,” Tarkin said.
“He does,” the vizier allowed. “But we’re not proceeding directly to the Emperor. We’re going to meet first with Lord Vader.”
Masters of War
TWENTY LEVELS DOWN, in a courtroom not unlike the one in which Tarkin had tried to make a case against Jedi apprentice Ahsoka Tano for murder and sedition during the Clone Wars, stood the Emperor’s second, Darth Vader, gesticulating with his gauntleted right hand as he harangued a score of nonhumans gathered in an area reserved for the accused.
“Was this where the Jedi Order held court?” Tarkin asked Amedda.
In a voice as hard and cold as his pale-blue eyes, the vizier said, “We no longer speak of the Jedi, Governor.”
Tarkin took the remark in stride, turning his attention instead to Vader and his apparently captive audience. Flanking the Dark Lord was the deputy director of the Imperial Security Bureau, Harus Ison — a brawny, white-haired, old-guard loyalist with a perpetually flushed face — and a thin, red-head-tailed Twi’lek male Tarkin didn’t recognize. Bolstering the commanding trio were four Imperial stormtroopers with blaster rifles slung, and an officer wearing a black uniform and cap, hands clasped behind his back and legs slightly spread.
“It appears that some of you have failed to pay attention,” Vader was saying, jabbing his pointer figure in the chill, recirculated air. “Or perhaps you are simply choosing to ignore our guidance. Whichever the case, the time has come for you to decide between setting safer courses for yourselves and suffering the consequences.”
“Wise counsel,” Amedda said.
Tarkin nodded in agreement. “Counsel one dismisses at one’s own peril, I suspect.” Glancing at the Chagrian, he added: “I know Ison, but who are the others?”
“Riffraff from the lower levels,” Amedda said with patent distaste. “Gangsters, smugglers, bounty hunters. Coruscanti scum.”
“I might have guessed by the look of them. And the Twi’lek standing alongside Lord Vader?”
“Phoca Soot,” Amedda said, turning slightly toward him. “Prefect of level one-three-three-one, where many of these lowlifes operate.”
Vader was in motion, pacing back and forth in front of his audience, as if waiting to spring. “The liberties you enjoyed and abused during the days of the Republic and the Clone Wars are a thing of the past,” he was saying. “Then there was some purpose to turning a blind eye to illegality, and to fostering dishonesty of a particular sort. But times have changed, and it is incumbent on you to change with them.”
Vader fell silent, and the sound of his sonorous breathing filled the room. Tarkin watched him closely.
“The Tarkin heritage will grant you access to many influential people, and to many social circles,” his father had told him. “In addition, your mother and I will do all within our power to help bring your desires within reach. But nothing less than the strength of your ambition will bring you together with those who will partner in your ascension and ultimately reward you with power.”
Since the end of the war, Vader had on occasion been such a partner in Tarkin’s life, both in Geonosis space and in political and military campaigns that had taken them throughout the galaxy. Tarkin had long nursed suspicions about who Vader was beneath the black face mask and helmet, as well as how he had come to be, but he knew better than to give open voice to his thoughts.
“Lest any of your current activities infringe on the Emperor’s designs,” Vader continued, “you may wish to consider relocating your operations to sectors in the Outer Rim. Or you may opt to remain on Coruscant and risk lengthy sentences in an Imperial prison.” He paused to let his words sink in; then, with his gloved hands akimbo and his black floor-length cape thrown behind his shoulders, he added: “Or worse.”
He began to pace again. “It has come to my attention that a certain being present has failed to grasp that his recent actions reflect a flagrant disrespect for the Emperor. His brazen behavior suggests that he actually takes some pride in his actions. But his duplicity has not gone unnoticed. We are pleased to be able to make an example of him, so that the rest of you might profit at his expense.”
Vader came to an abrupt stop, scanning his audience and certainly sending shivers of fear through everyone — Toydarian, Dug, and Devaronian alike. As his raised right hand curled slowly into a fist, many of them began nervously tugging at the collars of their tunics and cloaks. But it was the Twi’lek prefect, standing not a meter from the Dark Lord, who unexpectedly gasped and brought his hands to his chest as if he had just taken a spear to the heart. Phoca Soot’s lekku shot straight out from the sides of his head as if he were being electrocuted, and he collapsed to his knees in obvious agony, his breath caught in his throat and blood vessels in his head-tails beginning to rupture. His eyes glazed over and his red skin began to pale; then his arms flew back from his chest as if in an act of desperate supplication, and he tipped backward, the left side of his head slamming hard against the blood-slicked floor.
For a long moment, Vader’s breathing was the only sound intruding on the silence. Without bothering to gaze on his handiwork, the Dark Lord finally said: “Perhaps this is a good place to conclude our assembly. Unless any of you have questions?”
The stormtrooper commander made a quick motion with his hand, and two of the white-armored soldiers moved in. Taking hold of the prefect by his slack arms and legs, they began to carry him from the room, tracking blood across the floor and passing close to Tarkin and Amedda. The vizier’s blue face was contorted in angry astonishment.
Tarkin hid a smile. It pleased him to see Amedda caught off guard.
“Lord Vader,” the vizier said as the Emperor’s deputy approached, “we’ve refrained from requesting that you grant stays of execution to those in your sights, but is there no one you are willing to pardon?”
“I will give the matter some thought,” Vader told him.