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| The Elusive Silver Fox |
“. . . and it really gave me the most positively dreadful headache,” says Lamont Powellyne, his voice just that exquisite pitch that almost
every language in the universe reserves especially for the purpose of whining. “I mean, really, Uncle Joe, there’s no reason it should even be
legal for them to do that! Can’t you do anything about it? Make it illegal or something — I mean, really! Right there in the streets, I tell you.
Positively scandalous.”
“Lamont, please,” says the target of this particular linguistic assault, His Excellency the Right Honorable Josef Moff Powellyne EW,
Governor of Cingetorix Sector. He looks up from his desk — he’s shuffling datacards and sheets of flimsi around, more or less just shoveling
them unceremoniously into the briefcase his aide is holding open for him — and fixes his brainless nephew with a look of strained patience.
“Now is not a good time, young man. Shouldn’t you be wasting your inheritance on jabots or something?”
“We’ve only half an hour until Your Excellency’s desired departure time,” says his aide deferentially, clad in the gray uniform of the Civil
Service but still managing to look for all the world like a painted tin soldier, right down to the picturesque face and ruby lips.
“I know that,” says the great man with a growl, and the aide’s back stiffens ever so slightly: one does not lightly annoy a member of the
College of Moffs. The Moff opens another drawer in his desk and shuffles the contents around, looking for something or other. He reaches
over and touches a flashing key on his desk. “Yes? What is it?”
“Special Agent Chambertin is here, as you requested, Your Excellency,” says the radio-conveyed voice of his invaluable executive secretary,
the unflappable Mrs. Huntington — quite possibly the only sapient being in the Sector whose power rivals his own.
“Good,” says the Moff of Cingetorix, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Send her in, please.”
Not many people in the galaxy rate a genuine ‘please’ from one of the Emperor’s own.
At the far end of Powellyne’s huge office a door opens and in walks Special Agent (Colonel) Tallisibeth Chambertin, Imperial Security
Bureau, looking flustered for once in her relatively short life — apparently she’s not accustomed to being summoned at such an ungodly
hour. That’s reassuring; up ‘til now, Powellyne’s been more than half-sure she doesn’t actually sleep.
“Ah, there you are. Good, I’m glad you could make it,” he says, as though there were ever any question that someone summoned by a Moff
of the Empire would be ‘able to make it.’ “Lamont, I wonder if you’d be so kind as to fetch the General from the balcony?”
His witless nephew leaves the room, and Powellyne resumes rummaging through his desk drawers. “I’ve been called away suddenly to
Imperial Center,” he explains, “because that idiot Chief Ideological Monitor you people sent to spy on me gave me a ‘below standard’ rating
on the last quadrennial review.”
“But I thought you were being nominated for a third term, Your Excellency,” says she.
“I am,” he says. “Listen, young lady, don’t try to understand court politics if you don’t already. It’s complicated, it’s messy, and it’s
unpleasant. To make a long story short, I’m going to have to go attend the confirmation hearings in person.”
Tallisibeth doesn’t even flinch at this. Oh, she’s heard about his nomination for another term as Sector Governor, but even she hasn’t heard
about the CIM’s rating on the quadrennial. She immediately suspects that Powellyne’s bad grade has more than a little to do with the
ongoing Silver Fox situation, and she wouldn’t be surprised to hear it if Grand Moff Selit also received a bad rating — especially after that
scandal with the certificate of immunity — although he, being a direct appointee of the Galactic Emperor himself, is more or less immune to
the unpleasant side-effects of a bad mark. Powellyne still has to go through Privy Council confirmation after the Minister President
nominates him.
And the Silver Fox situation is her responsibility. It’s the reason she’s even in the Sector in the first place. It’s very likely her fault he’s
gotten a bad grade on his report card.
“The Privy Council does not holovize its proceedings, Excellency,” she says guardedly. “Do you know how many nominations are on the
docket ahead of yours?”
“Of course I don’t,” he says, plainly annoyed. “No, that would be useful. I’m expected to just loiter about the Court of Courts until they’re
ready for me, but heaven help anyone who’s not there when they want him. Lieutenant Governor Bel Ma’awiya will be Acting Governor
until I return. There’s something else I want to direct your attention to before I go.”
Lamont is returning now, an older man trailing behind him — a man with a deeply lined face, thinning black hair, and a bit of a portly figure
crammed uncomfortably into a too-small white tunic, the tunic of a general of the Imperial Security Bureau.
“General Tarkin, this is . . . Colonel Tallisibeth Chambertin, special agent in charge of the Special Security Office detailed to assist me by the
Central Office,” he says to the older man, and then turns to her. “Special Agent Chambertin, this is General Gerard Tarkin, the Ministry of
Security’s Chief Inspector of State Security for the Seventieth District.”
“No relation to the Tarkins of Eriadu,” he says gruffly.
“General Tarkin just arrived this morning,” says the Moff, straightening at his desk and closing the drawer. He nods to his aide and closes the
briefcase. “He — ”
“I’ve heard of this ‘Silver Fox’ nonsense you’ve been dealing with,” says the General. “I must say, Colonel, I’m none too impressed by your
handling of the matter. You’ve been slow, sloppy, and stupid.”
“I hardly think that’s a fair appraisal of the matter, General,” says Moff Powellyne in a dark tone of voice; only his patrician’s good breeding
prevents his irritation at being interrupted by an inferior from erupting in a manner not unlike a volcano.
But the General remains oblivious to the Moff’s tone of voice and waves aside his objection with a contemptuous sneer. “State security isn’t
your specialty, Governor Powellyne, and this is an internal matter. None of your concern.”
White-hot fury lurks behind Powellyne’s eyes. “I will decide what is and what is not my concern, General Tarkin. And if you ever address
yourself to me in such disrespectful tones again, I will have you clapped in irons and publicly flogged. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Governor,” says the General stiffly.
“Agent Chambertin,” says the Moff, continuing now as though it were nothing to threaten a whiteshirt general with corporal punishment and
public humiliation for the crime of rudeness — and indeed for him it actually was nothing — “General Tarkin has generously offered to
oversee your operations during my absence,” says he, quite obviously not pleased about the General’s generosity, “You will accord him
every professional courtesy, of course, and brief him as you would me.”
“As you command, Your Excellency,” she says, offering the customary short bow; at this she notices that General Tarkin’s brow darkens
further still.
“Now, then,” says the Moff of Cingetorix. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a shuttle to catch.”
“Ah, gentlemen,” says General Gerard Tarkin — no relation to the Tarkins of Eriadu — but without standing to address the assembled leaders
(as is customary throughout the Inner Rim). “It has come to my attention that this Sector has long been plagued by a counterrevolutionary
thought-criminal actively working to subvert the Imperial State by interposing his anarchical activities between its lawful authority and its
legitimate competencies, thereby wilfully nullifying the efficacy of the ultimate measure for the protection of the state — ”
The others wait patiently throughout this lengthy introduction, not really listening. Most of them have practically memorized the whiteshirt’s
conversation in advance, since whiteshirts usually use the same phrases and speech patterns, stringing soundbytes together like staccato bursts
of gunfire, talking without even thinking about what it is they’re saying.
The Three Pillars of Correct Thought are, after all, Unity, Stability, and Conformity.
“Now, then,” he says at great length, finally coming to the point. “It has also been brought to my attention that attempts to deal with this
thought-criminal’s foolery by applying. . . conventional methods. . . have met with spectacular failure.”
“With all due respect, General Tarkin,” says one of the admirals, “I have a great deal of important work to do, and I haven’t got all day to sit
around listening to a lecture about the history of our ‘special problem’ — ”
“On the contrary, Admiral, I submit that this is precisely what you need,” snaps the General. “Colonel Chambertin, how many times have you
failed to capture this thought-criminal?”
“General, there’s no need to humiliate — ” begins the Acting Sector Governor, Jehan Bel Ma’awiya, a Myke advanced in years wearing
clothes of a decidedly civilian cut.
“How many times, Colonel?” says the General more firmly, completely ignoring Bel Ma’awiya.
“Forty-two,” she says quietly, staring at the table.
“Forty-two what?”
“I have failed forty-two times, General,” she says, still not looking up.
“Forty-two times, gentlemen. Forty-two! Do you know what you learn in the Outer Rim? You learn that if a subject doesn’t conform to the
conventional forms, why then, it’s useless to pursue him with conventional methods. The counterrevolutionary thought-criminal often doesn’t
keep a militarily orthodox lair, you know, he hides among the citizenry, using them like shields. So you’ve got to deny him this shield, you
see, you’ve got to disregard conventional methods. That’s how you catch an unconventional thought-criminal.”
“‘Deny him this shield,’ General?” Bel Ma’awiya shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not quite sure I follow what you mean by that, sir,”
he says.
Captain Tan Percival Avonstale stiffens in his seat as he hears the General muttering something about the Acting Sector Governor being a
feeble-minded, inhuman imbecile. “He means, sir,” says the newly-promoted post captain to the elderly Myke, “that when a Rebel takes the
hostage, he shoots the hostage first to get a clear shot at the Rebel.”
“Crudely put, but Avonstale’s more or less on the same page,” says the General, not glancing at the well-bred Navy man seated by his side,
not seeing the slight twitch beneath his eye or the way the others shift in their chairs uneasily at his quite deliberate failure to use Tan
Avonstale’s rank or title — the sort of deliberate insult that can very easily provoke a duel if one isn’t careful.
“Shoot the hostage!” one of the generals says in disbelief. “I don’t know what kind of barbarities they permit in the Outer Rim where you’re
accustomed to fighting, General, but this is civilized space, sir! What you’re suggesting is right close to a war crime.”
“War crime, Admiral? Just who, precisely, are you afraid of offending? We represent the sole galactic superpower in existence. I represent the
Ministry of Security. Who is to charge us with war crimes, sir?”
“It’s counter to law,” one of the generals begins.
“Law? What do we care about law, sir? Haven’t we got the power?”
The other general stiffens. “If you are suggesting, sir, that we violate Imperial law — ”
“There is no violation, General,” says Tarkin. “It’s perfectly defensible under the Capital Powers Act, or the Senatorial Amendments, or the
Emergency Powers Act.”
“Ah, yes,” says Tan Avonstale. “Shifty law — the last refuge of the scoundrel. Hoping to play fast and loose with the legal system, are you,
General? Courts martial have rejected that defense before, do you know it?”
“I find that courts martial are more often than not populated by oldthinking reactionaries,” says the General dismissively. “The question is not
can it be done, but how. I am, after all, the Minister’s representative here.”
More uncomfortable shifting. Tarkin’s throwing his weight around now, and there’s no one in the room with the clout to really resist him.
Moff Powellyne could, of course, if he were present; a member of the College of Moffs trumps a Government Minister’s Chief Inspector with
ease — one of many reasons that Moffhood is so coveted. But the Acting Sector Governor — Lieutenant Governor Bel Ma’awiya — isn’t a
Moff, and he isn’t even really an employee of the Imperial State; he’s been elected by the Sector Assembly, not appointed by the Minister
President and confirmed by the Privy Council. He has some limited authority to act in Powellyne’s stead, yes, but he lacks the clout to
effectively oppose a whiteshirt general and chief inspector of state security.
A wicked smile creeps across Tarkin’s lips. “So, we’re agreed, then. I shall make the necessary arrangements to deny this so-called ‘Silver Fox’
his shield.” He flashed his teeth in a predatory grin. “General, I’ll be obliged if you’ll order your men to arrest — oh, say a thousand people. I
don’t care who, just pick them up from the streets if you have to. We’ll flush this thought-criminal out by striking at his sentimentality.”
“Ah, Colonel Chambertin,” says Captain Tan Avonstale, clad elegantly in an officer’s cloak over his dinner dress uniform. It’s a chilly night
on Pemberly this evening, and one can see one’s breath in puffs of white. Tallisibeth, too, has made concession to the weather, donning her
distinctive white frock coat.
“I hope this isn’t meant as some sort of liaison, Captain,” she says distastefully. “Citizen Powellyne wastes enough of my time with such
romantic rubbish as it is.”
“You flatter yourself, Colonel,” he says easily, his marble-like voice as cold as the night air. “I, with a commoner? Preposterous.”
Not for the first time, Tallisibeth is reminded of why she hates Tan Avonstale, the arrogant aristo — born to wealth, born to power, born to
influence. Born to greatness, never having to work for it. The aristocrat.
“No, I’ve something a little more substantial to discuss with you.” He says nothing about the fact that his note arrived to her while she was
already in the restaurant; if he’s noticed who’s brought her to the most exclusive of restaurants on the planet, he gives no indication of the fact.
Her eyes dart around, looking for signs of danger. She is a highly-placed state security officer, and she cannot dismiss the possibility that Tan
Avonstale has lured her out to this balcony for the sake of fraternal espionage — the ISB has kidnapped Navy officers and men before, to spy
on their activities, and she doesn’t put it past the preening knight to do the same.
“General Tarkin is a madman,” he says.
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice is sharp. “Captain Avonstale, I remind you that General Tarkin is a general officer and a chief inspector for
the Ministry of Security! For you to speak of him in such disrespectful terms is nothing short of insubordination. Regulation prohibits any
person from using contemptuous words or gestures — ”
“Contemptuous words or gestures!” Tan Avonstale’s voice turns equally sharp — the first time she’s ever heard him raise his voice. He
reaches into his tunic for a silver cigarette box, lights one, holds it to his lips — a curious habit, Tallisibeth reflects, uncommon among the
upper classes (most of them prefer handmade cigarras or else more exotic brands of spice); she notes with interest that there is a slight bulge
beneath his glove around the ring finger on his right hand.
“It’s nothing short of murder, Colonel,” he says, apparently having recovered his ironclad control over his voice.
“A duly appointed officer of the executive power may exercise certain extrajudicial — ”
“Oh, don’t come the space lawyer with me, Colonel Chambertin,” says he, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I know all about your petty
tricks, I know the Capital Powers Act, the Extraordinary Defense Authorization — I know all of it. I read law before I became an officer, do
you know it? Does it not strike you as odd that Tarkin’s sealed the Sector’s borders completely? That he’s closed all communications to
Imperial Center? That he very obviously doesn’t want Moff Powellyne to know what’s going on here? Does it not strike you as odd,
Colonel, that neither you nor I nor Moff Powellyne ever imagined taking such a step? Only General Tarkin — fresh from the uncivilized
Outer Rim — has the disease of mind to suggest holding a thousand people’s lives hostage against the surrender of one man — ”
“Oh, that’s just it, isn’t it, Captain? ‘The uncivilized general’! You can’t stand the man because he doesn’t fawn all over you and your
expensive pedigree, your eugenics. He hates your hereditary privileges and your inbred contempt for the lowborn proles, the very same
people whose labor — ”
“This is not about caste and class!” Tan Avonstale hisses, throwing his cigarette down in anger. “This is about Tarkin’s insane plan to commit
mass murder! Yes, Colonel, murder! You dance around it, try to make this about me, and it’s not.”
“Death happens, Captain. It’s a part of our trade. Do you know how many criminals have died because of me? Do you know how many men
I’ve shot? Have you ever commanded a ship before, Captain?”
“Death in the course of duty does not concern me, Chambertin. It’s an accepted part of our work. If some Rebel or some Separatist dies
because we blow up his ship or bomb his base — very well. I accept that. But that’s spurious, Chambertin, that’s not what this is. This is a
savage-fighting madman preparing to put a thousand innocent people to death. Innocents, Chambertin — ” she doesn’t notice that the sang-
froid Tan Avonstale, the very picture of scrupulosity in protocol, has stopped using her courtesy rank of colonel — “Completely innocent
Imperial citizens. People who have broken no law, violated no statute, at any level, from the Imperial Charter all the way down to the local
traffic laws. These are the people we’re supposed to protect from anarchy and corruption, Chambertin. We’re not supposed to stand by and
allow them to be murdered by the state.”
Tallisibeth clutches her arms around herself and shudders — not from the cold, but rather because this arrogant aristo is saying the very things
she herself has been trying not to think.
“But I can’t do anything,” she finds herself saying, startled by the pleading tone in her voice. “He’s my lawfully appointed superior.”
“Oh, great stars — doesn’t the ISB train you people on ethics? Your responsibility is to obey lawful orders. You have no obligation to obey
unlawful orders.”
“But — but the first principle of Correct Thought — ”
“Doesn’t Correct Thought have anything to do with thinking? There’s a point where lawful authority ends and becomes capricious and
tyrannical.”
“You’re starting to sound like a Rebel, Avonstale!” Tallisibeth says hotly, her knee-jerk reaction surprising even her; the fact is that he isn’t
talking like a Rebel at all — he’s talking about a man overstepping his bounds and abusing the rightful power the Empire has given him.
“Oh, really? ‘The principle of complete wilful submission to lawful authority is qualified by the recognition that some expressions of properly
constituted authority may be materially or morally unmutual to the welfare of the New Order and the virtues of Correct Thought,’” recites Tan
Avonstale, quoting verbatim from the most-recent edition of the Manifesto. “Does that sound familiar? Does that sound like a Rebel talking to
you, too?”
“But it’s not my place to judge that,” she says, wringing her hands — the thought of questioning authority sets her stomach to turning, her
brow covered in sweat despite the cold. She almost totters on her feet. To question the Voice of Authority runs counter to everything she’s ever
believed and been taught. “They’re supposed to tell us that!”
“They’re supposed to tell you when an expression of authority is unlawful, you mean?”
“Yes! That’s not for us to judge! It is Correct Thought that we must obey completely until directed otherwise by higher competencies.”
“So what you mean to say,” Tan Avonstale says icily, “is that it is Correct Thought that you must never think for yourself.”
“What? No! No, that’s not what I’m saying — ”
“Yes, it is. Yes, it is! You want someone else to tell you it’s okay to stop Tarkin’s insane plan. Do you realize that by the time that word
comes, it will be too late? You’re trying to use Correct Thought as a crutch, an excuse to avoid responsibility. Thinking Correct Thought is
just another way of saying someone else will do the thinking for you.” He looks at her, contempt written all over his handsome face. “I can
see I’ve misjudged you, Tallisibeth. You’re more of a coward than I thought.”
The meeting is ending now, and the players begin to drift out of the conference room. General Tarkin and his aide begin to collect all the
various sheets of flimsi on the table, when the General notices that Tallisibeth has not yet departed with the others.
“What is it, Colonel?”
“Sir,” she says, her voice marred by a hint of uncertainty. “General, I wish to — I — ”
“Come, come, out with it, man,” says the General impatiently. He seems blissfully unaware that it is a matter of fact and public record that
Tallisibeth Evelyn Chambertin is not a man.
“General, does Correct Thought permit an operation such as this one?” she manages finally, practically trembling. It is not in her nature to
question her superiors. That sort of thing is unmutual. Tallisibeth Chambertin is not unmutual.
“What do you mean by that, Colonel?” he says gruffly, glancing at his wrist chrono. “Do you mean to suggest that you are questioning my
orthodoxy? Is that what you’re getting at?”
“Of course not, General,” she says hastily, her determination wavering. “But General, how can we justify taking law-abiding citizens prisoner
and — ”
“It is justified because I say it is justified,” the General growls. “I’m disappointed in you, Colonel. These aren’t citizens we’re talking about,
these are parasites. They’re cancer cells sucking the life out of our great society. These are the same privileged elites, the same corrupt, self-
important vermin that plagued the decadent old Republic. This is the very detritus that the New Order exists to sweep aside in the first place,
the Names and Numbers that smack of the old ways.”
“But General — ”
“Silence, Colonel,” he says, brushing her interruption aside, his eyes alight with zealotry. “They’re the worm that eats away at the core of the
New Order. The despicable aristos and their patrician lackeys, the multistellar corporate whores — just look at this Sector, man! You have the
nepotistic, inbred Powellynes in Government Palace — there was a Powellyne in Valorum’s Cabinet for space’s sake! What business do they
have being Moffs and Grand Moffs in the New Order? You have despicable lawyers and bankers like Avonstale and Praji and Brehan and
Krouse and Shahanshah and Vierdekaare — these are cancer cells, man, don’t you see?”
Tallisibeth blinks uncomprehendingly; she doesn’t understand why he’s talking about the New Order and Cingetorix Sector’s leadership when
she’s asking him about the citizens he’s holding hostage against the Silver Fox surrendering himself.
“You don’t understand, do you?” He shakes his head. “In time, you’ll see. We all do, eventually. The Incorruptible promised us he would
sweep all this decadence aside. But he’s been captured by the system, you see, he’s become surrounded by boot-licking tories that isolate him
and use his name to feather their nests. He’s controlled by favor-merchants and capitalists now, can’t you see? The New Order has become a
tool of the upper class, the Names and Numbers. Can’t you see, Colonel? Nothing’s changed. Names and Numbers. The Revolution is dying,
Colonel, we’re being sold out, betrayed. The Names and Numbers are still here. Bel Ma’awiya — that disgusting, inhuman thing — he’s been
Lieutenant Governor of this Sector since before Finis Valorum became Chancellor. The same spineless functionaries that plagued the old
Republic, they’re the same decadent aristos and patricians that still have a stranglehold on the State and the military now, and the same human
sellouts and Muuni usurers that still control the economy. Just look at it, Colonel — our own leader is an aristo.”
At this Tallisibeth rocks back on her heels at this scandalous outburst — Has the General really just criticized His Royal Highness the
Marquess Vandron of the Blood Royal — has he really criticized the Iron Marquess, patron of the Commission for the Preservation of the
New Order, vanguard of Palpatinism-Tarkinism, of Correct Thought? Has he really just criticized His Imperial Majesty himself? Has he gone
mad? Her heart races, her knees go weak, horror fills her stomach. Has the General really just committed thoughtcrime?
“General,” she says unsteadily, “General, I must ask you to surrender your sidearm. I am placing you under arrest for seditious — ”
He slaps her.
Tallisibeth totters back and strikes a chair, but, still unsteady, she falls to the floor in shock. She can feel a trickle of blood making its way
down from her lip.
“Don’t presume to arrest me, Chambertin,” says General Gerard Tarkin. “I represent powers you cannot possibly imagine.”
Tallisibeth looks around herself furtively, and pulls her coat more closely around herself. She glances around uncomfortably; the heavy
snowfall is cutting visibility to a minimum. She doesn’t feel comfortable out here by herself — not that she’s afraid for her safety, of course;
she can take care of herself, certainly. Rather, it’s the fact that no one knows she’s here, she’s not in uniform, and what she’s come here to do
is something that is entirely out of the field of the Sword and Shield of the New Order. There isn’t any backup, any ideological treatise
justifying her actions, any article in Truth or The Vanguard or The Social Observer. There’s no whiteshirt, there’s no CompForce. There’s
nothing.
There’s just Tallisibeth Chambertin, feeling naked, in her civilian clothes, standing in an alley.
And for the first time since she graduated from the ISB Academy, she feels really and truly alone.
She looks around again, and begins to debate whether or not she should go.
Why go, though? It’s not like she hasn’t already compromised herself. It’s not like she hasn’t already betrayed her Emperor and his New
Order. The mere fact that she even thought to do this is proof enough of her failure. Thoughtcrime! How could she have done this? What was
she thinking? She shivers — this time, not from the cold — and resolves to turn herself in. She’s a thought-criminal now. It’s her duty to her
Emperor.
But that isn’t entirely true, is it? Avonstale did have a point — she isn’t obligated to obey unlawful orders, and Correct Thought does
recognize that not everything done by a superior is necessarily mutual with the welfare of the New Order. General Tarkin’s plan does threaten
innocent Imperial subjects, that’s certainly true. And she could have told him from the beginning that it just isn’t going to work. Had he asked,
of course.
And really, the more she thinks about it, the Silver Fox isn’t nearly so dangerous as having a madman like Tarkin in power. After all, the
Silver Fox has never threatened the lives of one thousand law-abiding Imperial citizens. The Silver Fox’s thoughtcrime isn’t nearly so acute
and malignant as General Tarkin’s — but no! That’s not for her to judge. Unity, Stability, Conformity! She must submit to the Voice of
Authority! She must!
No, no — General Tarkin is not the Voice of Authority. Is he? She can’t really say for sure anymore. Hearing the man’s thoughtcrime from
his own lips has shocked and scandalized her. If a general of the Sword and Shield of the New Order can be a thought-criminal, can’t anyone?
How is she supposed to recognize the Voice of Authority when she hears it? Couldn’t they all be thought-criminals? You can’t always
recognize thoughtcrime when you talk to someone. After all, she herself is doing it right now. Isn’t she?
An old man is shuffling near her now, huddled under in his heavy coat, moving slowly in the heavy snow. Irrelevantly, she wonders why the
absurdly wealthy upper class of Pemberly has never invested in a weather-control network, like most of the Core Worlds have. Probably don’t
want to pay for it, she imagines.
“What are you doing here, Tallisibeth?” asks the old man, and immediately she becomes aware of the fact that his voice is decidedly not that
of an old man. It is clear, rich, elegant, polished. Received. Beneath the heavy winter coat and the old, weatherbeaten and careworn face,
somewhere beneath this façade, is the Silver Fox.
“I — I came to — ” her words catch in her throat. What is she doing here?
“To do what? To warn me about Tarkin’s insane plan to catch me? Oh, I already know all about that, it’s been plastered all over the
newsnets ever since he started arresting people. You know, I assume, that he’s cut off all out-Sector communications.”
“I — I know,” she says, her voice still eluding her. This is harder than she thought it was going to be.
“So what is it you want, Tallisibeth? You’re here alone, I already know that. None of your goons are nearby, and I can tell you’re unarmed.
You’re not here for sparkling conversation, not when you’ve got Diego Antilles and Lamont Powellyne for that. Hoping to convince me to
turn myself in?”
“I came to ask your help,” she says finally, feeling a little part of herself die inside.
“I think you’ve been standing outside in the snow too long,” says the Silver Fox. “You are quite insane, do you know it?”
“General Tarkin is a thought-criminal,” she says weakly, “but I’m the only one who knows. No one will believe me if I challenge him
directly, and he’s already taken control of our communications and traffic control systems. I need you to — I need. . . ” Her voice trails off as
tears well up in her eyes. She swallows against a lump in her throat. “I need your help. I can’t think outside the system.”
“Hm,” says the Silver Fox. “I wonder if that has anything to do with what color your shirt is. Maybe? Do you think? Really, though, you
arrest enough people for the whole outside-the-box routine, you ought to be familiar with the theory of it, at least.”
“This is hard enough for me as it is already,” she says, her voice dropping in temperature to match the weather.
“Do I lecture you about how inconvenient it is to have you trying to kill me on a weekly basis? Do you know how much easier my hobby
would be if you’d decided to stay in that ballet academy?”
“Not many criminals have the chutzpah to complain about police — wait, what did you say? How do you know about that?”
“I have read your service record, Tallisibeth, remember? Some of those holos are pretty funny. But that’s beside the point. The point being,
what is it that you want me to do? Kidnap the General and hold his life ransom against his revocation of the ransoms?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t threaten the life of a psychotic zealot,” Tallisibeth snaps. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
“Smart enough to escape from you, my dulcet darling,” says he, “forty-two times, no less. And I’d like you to know that I’m writing down
what you just said, about threatening psychotic zealots. Coming from a whiteshirt, that might be one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you grow up for ten, maybe fifteen seconds? We’re talking about a thousand people’s lives here, all because you think it’s fun to play at
subverting law and order.”
“Oh, that’s quite rich, indeed, Special Agent (Colonel) Chambertin, of the Imperial Security Bureau,” he says with a laugh. “An Imperial
whiteshirt, lecturing me about people’s lives being in danger? Ordinarily you have to pay for comedy this good. How many people have you
shot, Tallisibeth?”
“Twenty-five,” she says, annoyance flashing over her face. “Which is twenty-five more people than you’ve shot, is that your point? Are
you going to lecture me about the morality of the State monopoly on the use of violence? Has it occurred to you that I’m a police officer?
Why do you think I carry a pistol? Because it flatters my figure?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but the pistol belt does go nicely with your jackboots. Très chic, I must say.”
Tallisibeth rolls her eyes. Oh, the sick feeling of fear and disgust is gone now,yes: replaced by annoyance. This is the man she’s been chasing
all this time? This immature snark? Why is she even here? “Are you interested in doing anything about this, or are you having too much fun
making fun of me?”
“I’ve told you before, Tallisibeth, I’m laughing with you, not at you.”
“I’m not laughing, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“You’re laughing on the inside.”
“I can’t believe you are worth so many people’s lives. You. The grinning idiot with an attitude stolen from some sub-adult schoolboy.”
“You know, Tallisibeth, I’ve seen a lot of things in this galaxy, and let me tell you what I’ve realized: You can laugh, or you can cry. I choose
to laugh.”
“You know what? I’ve just realized that you’ve used this disguise before.”
“Have I? You know, I think you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. You used this one on Deltrapad, when that slicer malefactor was scheduled for termination. Seditious libel, if I recall
correctly.”
“You do. I note that you forgot to mention that she was sixteen. And let the record show that you didn’t even come close that time.”
“I hit you with a chair.”
“That was dumb luck and you know it.”
“Oh, and I suppose the fact that I’d had the entire bar surrounded for twenty minutes was pure happenstance? Face it, you degenerate
thought-criminal, I know you better than you know yourself. The only reason you’ve ever escaped from me is that I have to rely on the
involvement of incompetents to actually physically catch you.”
“Well, hello, Miss Fancy-Pants! If you know so much about me, why haven’t you figured out who I am beneath this mask, eh? Why haven’t
you ever recognized me when I’m not wearing it, eh? If you know so much about me, why do you need my help at all?”
“Because I can’t do this alone, you twit! Do you know how hard it was to get out here by myself, without being followed?”
“I’m sorry, what was that? I was too busy being the Silver Fox. You know, eluding surveillance and capture by the ISB. I’m sure what you
were saying was important, though.”
“Be serious for once in your misspent life, will you? This is a matter of life and death. Listen, the General is a thought-criminal, I’ve heard it
from his own lips.”
“Oh, I know. He’s one of the Impartials.”
“The what?” Tallisibeth blinks as she looks at him, the steam of his hot breath between them — not unlike the fog of incomprehension that
surrounds everything he says and does.
“The Impartials. Never heard of them? No, I don’t suppose you would’ve had the opportunity. Not something the Party likes to talk about,
I’ll certainly grant you that. To make a long story short, they’re the old guard, the old fighters, the camisas viejas of the New Order Party. I
don’t know many names, but all of the ones I do know were highly placed even back in the days of the Galactic Movement. Before the Clone
Wars made a mess of everything. A lot of them felt betrayed when Augie Palpatine crowned himself Emperor. Well, cowled himself, I
suppose; he doesn’t wear a crown. Still called the Crown Equerry, though. Probably because Cowl Equerry doesn’t sound as good.”
Tallisibeth’s mind is racing now. Yes, this sounds familiar. Tarkin — Tallisibeth has finally become comfortable of thinking of him as that
alone, without the ‘General’ affixed to it — he’d said something about how ‘the Incorruptible’ had promised them he’d sweep the decadence
of the Old Republic aside; that certainly sounded like an old-fighter talking. Nobody else called him ‘the Incorruptible’ anymore, for one
thing. For another, he’d talked about His Imperial Majesty being ‘captured by the system,’ as though something had changed once he’d been
acclaimed Galactic Emperor. Even when he was granted emergency powers, nobody in the old Galactic Movement had talked about making
him a monarch; certainly some of those old-liners might be resentful of that.
“And I’m sure the way things turned out after Windu’s Cloister Coup didn’t exactly please them, either. Plenty of barve to be handed out to
the megacorps that’d stuck by him during the war, you know. They all got rewarded quite handsomely for their patriotism, made fortunes that
could’ve made Dooku blush. A lot of the camisas viejas thought he should’ve Imperialized the lot of them, like he did to the TradeFed and
the others. To say nothing of the continued existence of the Banking Clan of Moneylend. And then there’s the fact that a lot of the people at
court are blue-bloods — you know, in the Household and Great Officers of State sinecures, the grace and favors, that sort of thing. The upper
class hasn’t done poorly for itself since the war. A lot of the Imperial upper class was the Republican upper class. A lot of the Houses Major
and Minor have as much power now as they ever did before, if not more. No point even mentioning the Old Families.”
Oh, this sounds familiar all right. Tarkin had talked about the Names and Numbers, gone on at length about the number of oldthinking, unmutual
holdouts from decadent days of the Old Republic. ‘Boot-licking tories,’ he’d called them.
“So, basically, the Impartials’re convinced that Augie’s betrayed his own revolution, got caught up by his own court, surrounded by blue-
bloods and money-bags. Still can’t bring themselves to try to kill him, though — in their hearts of hearts, he’s still their hero, their leader,
their founder. He’s pretty out of the loop these days, anyway — you know, what with his health being what it is. From what I can gather,
the Impartials decided that they don’t need to kill him off, they just need to undercut and get rid of the Names and Numbers controlling him.
The Privy Council, the court, that sort of thing. Undermine them, give them the old trip to the booth, and you’ve got control of the Empire
itself. Then you can turn back the chrono to the heady days of yesteryear, when you could just purge anybody you wanted and call them
sympathizers of the Separatists, Jedi power-mongers, unmutualists, what-have-yous and whatnots. Long story short, kill the court and you
can get the Revolution back on track. Crazy stuff, but then, consider the source.”
Oh, yes indeed. Ranting about the Names and Numbers? Check. The Incorruptible betraying the revolution? Check. Republican holdouts?
Check. This certainly sounds like Tarkin.
“You’re not lying, are you? This isn’t some sort of elaborate plot to embarrass me?”
“Aside from the obvious epistemological difficulties associated with asking someone if he’s lying to you, what do I have to gain from doing
that? Honestly, Tallisibeth, if I wanted to embarrass you, I’d publish those holos of you from that Homecoming dance — you know the one.”
“You’re a horrible person. I just want you to know this.”
“Coming from you, my dear, I’ll take that as a compliment. It’s occurred to you, no doubt, that the people he’s arrested aren’t random
citizens at all, despite what he said. They’re carefully calculated to cause an enormous amount of damage to the upper class in this Sector —
important people, people whose offices and homes are being plundered by Tarkin’s men even as we speak.”
“Yes, I know. There’s nothing I can do about that. Tarkin’s taken control of most of my people.”
“Here’s the real question — Is there any actual record of Tarkin’s presence here? I haven’t checked, but I’d be willing to bet there’s not.
Whose signature was on the orders for all this?”
“Um,” Tallisibeth’s fair skin goes a little bit paler. “Mine.”
“Oh, very clever, Tallisibeth. What did he do, order you to make the necessary arrangements? He did, didn’t he? Oh, well done. Besh Zerek,
my dear! You’ve been suckered, Tallisibeth, entirely without incident, and when the waiter comes with the check, you’re going to be the only
one still at the table. Oh, you’ll probably be cleared of any responsibility in the end — just following orders, like a good whiteshirt should. But
it won’t be Tarkin they blame — a Chief Inspector of State Security? I think not. Who do you think is going to be blamed when the Special
Security Office of the Executive Office of the Moff Governor of Cingetorix murders 1,000 prominent citizens in a botched attempt to catch the
Silver Fox? Especially when the failure to catch the Silver Fox has just gotten him a bad grade on his report card?”
“Moff Powellyne,” Tallisibeth breathes. “The House of Powellyne is just shy of being a Great House. Tarkin called them nepotists. Names
and Numbers! Of course — if he really is one of these Impartials you talked about, then Moff Powellyne is a perfect target! He’s politically
vulnerable right now, but he’s got connections to who knows how many companies and people at court. It’s like a gem — if you hit it hard
enough at the right place, the whole thing could shatter.”
“Precisely.”
A pause. Shuffling in the snow. Tallisibeth waits for him to say something more.
He doesn’t.
“Well?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re not going to do anything?”
“I’m not the one coming here asking for help, my dear. I assume you have some sort of crackpot scheme in mind, one that you think only I
could pull off? What do you want me to do, kidnap Tarkin and replace him with a Whiphid playing the ukulele?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If Tarkin really is an Impartial, like you say, then there must be information of some kind I can use against him.
Datacards, communications protocols, something. Some way of identifying his conspirators, verifying his involvement in this.”
“Knowing how obsessive-compulsive you whiteshirts are, he’s probably keeping a log of all the comm traffic he’s done since he’s been here.
Not good security, but then, he’s probably never met someone who’d question his orders before. It’s probably never come up. I do so love
an Imperial who’s complacent in his power. He’s so smug and so very, very vulnerable.”
“So, then, you could infiltrate his quarters, and steal it, couldn’t you?”
“Couldn’t you?”
“Of course not! The very idea is outrageous! How dare you suggest — ”
“Well, obviously you’re not as accomplished as I am at doing things that require subtlety or skill, but I’d think that — ”
“‘Not as accomplished’? ‘Not as accomplished’? I don’t see you graduating from the ISB Academy! What, you think that because you can
run circles around the local cops and Sheriff Nightstick Bel Nepotism that you’re a ghost in the darkness? I’ll have you know I’ve caught you
every single time you’ve tried to sneak past me.”
“Yes, because having a budget roughly the size of the Tingel Arm and enough Enforcements thugs to field a small army is really comparable
to outsmarting the entire Sector Government, armed only with my dashing good looks and rapier-like wit. I’ve pickpocketed the Tombat, for
space’s sake, and you really think that you can compare to me in terms of subtlety?”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you there. Your ego is so massive its gravity must have pulled the sound of your voice back into the black hole of
your vanity. I have a Silver Medal from the Imperial Games. You have a few baubles you’ve stolen in the dead of night from half-drunk
grandees. I think I’m a little bit above your level, you egomaniac. Anything you can do, I can do better.”
“Oh, really? Well, then, Colonel, maybe you’d like to explain why it is that you can’t get a hold of Tarkin’s comm log?”
“Apparently you’ve forgotten the part where he’s been keeping me under surveillance. Do you really think I’m going to just sneak into his
quarters and — ”
“Why not? I would.”
“You’re also a thought-criminal. Some of us don’t have experience with breaking and entering, compromising state security, or other
reputable pastimes of that sort.”
“You’re right, I must have forgotten that I’m talking to someone who would never consort with thought-criminals in poorly lit alleys after
sneaking away from her ISB-appointed watchdogs. In the future I’ll try to remember what a good citizen you are.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m only doing this for the good of the New Order. Certainly not because I enjoy your company.”
“Really? And here I thought you loved me for my wit and candor. No, in point of fact, I have noticed. You’re about as good a conspirator as
you were a dancer.”
“I’ll have you know I was a superb dancer, thank you very much. I didn’t have a rich daddy to buy my way into the academy, I had to work
to get there.”
“And yet, somehow, you still can’t tango.”
“I beg your pardon? What was that?”
“You heard what I said, my dear. I said it. You nearly tripped on your feet when you were trying to tango with me.”
“Trying? Trying to tango? You were trying, I was succeeding.”
“Anything you can do, I can do better,” he says, his voice so perfect a mimicry of her own she actually takes a step back in surprise. “You’re
awfully cute when you’re outraged, has anyone ever told you that before?”
“Oh, grow up! Can’t you go five minutes without mocking me? What are you, twelve? This is not about me, this is about what I can do to
stop Tarkin!”
“Don’t you mean what we can do, O partner-in-crime?”
“I don’t even know why I came here,” she growls. “I should have known better than to expect any help out of you. I came here in good faith,
against every instinct and principle I’ve ever had, and what do I get? Insults and immaturity from a man who hasn’t got anything better to do
with his time than root around through my personnel record and look for holos of me from sub-adult school. What are you, some sort of
perverted stalker?”
“Do you really want to know why you came here? Because you wanted to know if I’m going to embarrass him like I’ve embarrassed you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’ve never embarrassed me.”
“You’re a terrible liar, you know. It just doesn’t agree with your angelic disposition. Do you want to know the funny part, Tallisibeth? You
didn’t need to come here at all. You weren’t far from the mark, you really do know me well. Well enough to spot me.”
“It isn’t nearly as hard as you think it is, you know.”
“Yes, it is,” he says, grinning. Though the mask he wears is different this time, it’s still that same grin he always has, the grin of a man who
could swagger standing still. “Oh, yes it is. It just so happens that you’re the only person who can tell when it’s me and when it isn’t. Now
isn’t that a remarkable thing?”
“Brothers and sisters,” says General Tarkin, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he regards the indistinct holograms that represent some of his
fellows — others who feel as he feels, others who realize that the Revolution is dying, others who have the vision and the dedication
necessary to seize control, to right the course of history. His fellow Impartials.
He can still remember those heady days of yore, when the Galactic Movement had seen an explosion in membership, when more and more
young humans had come together, seeing that the decadence of the Old Republic could not continue, could not be sustained. He can still
remember those days of populism, of grassroots organization, back in the days when the New Order had promised to sweep away the
entrenched nepotism, the cronyism, the old-boyism. He can still remember when Iosif Antonys introduced him to their mysterious
benefactor, who’d provided access to the money and infrastructure they’d needed to fashion the Movement into a truly galactic political force
to be reckoned with. He can still remember when they’d merged the Movement into the Commission for the Preservation of the Republic —
back before they’d been able to truly embrace their role as the vanguard of the New Order Revolution.
And he can still remember his disgust when he’d discovered who that mysterious benefactor had really been — the foppish, blue-blooded
aristo, Crueya Vandron, a snake-oil politician of the old school, a man who’d never believed in the New Order, who’d been using it for his
own ends. He can still remember the days when he and others had led the reaction within the Select Committee, ousting the oldthinking half-
breeds who’d never been able to truly embrace the principles of Palpatinism-Tarkinism. That was back in the days when he’d believed —
mistakenly, it turned out — that the Incorruptible and his factotum Wilhuff Tarkin — no relation — had fully understood their own
principles. He doesn’t really hold that against them, though; after all, both were ultimately products of their own environments, having been
raised within the exploitative aristocratic system.
He remembers the betrayals, the stopgap measures and half-solutions. He remembers the political fights between the true believers like
himself and the sell-outs, the spineless company men and their blue-blooded masters. He remembers the struggles for power, he remembers
the setbacks and disappointments.
The Incorruptible was no longer in control, no longer able to lead. Well, that was all right, then, wasn’t it? There were others who could step
in now, take control, and take the Revolution to where it needed to be, where it was always meant to go. Himself, for instance, and his
colleagues. His fellows. The Impartials.
“Brothers and sisters,” he repeats, gathering his thoughts. He gazes at the indistinct forms — secure hyperchannel aside, it is not wise to meet
in forms that could be easily recognized, in the event that one of them should be compromised. Imperial Intelligence remains the last bastion of
the sell-outs, the half-measureists, impenetrable to their agents, their infiltrators. The eyes of Imperial Intelligence are everywhere. There
persist rumors of an intelligence czar in the Ubiqtorate with limitless access to the HoloNet systems.
“Plans in Cingetorix proceed apace, I assume,” says the well-manicured man. Highly-placed in the banking industry, he is one of their most
valuable assets. An Impartial in the very heart of the enemy citadel, he is even now in his office on Aargau.
“Everything proceeds precisely and exactly according to plan,” the General answers coolly.
“Splendid work, brother,” says the lady in red, a bit more static than normal in her transmission. She must be in her office aboard one of the
space stations orbiting Kuat, he guesses. Proximity to the shipyards always degrades signal quality somewhat.
“How soon before you leave?” the cigarra-smoking man asks, from his office within the Galactic Courts of Justice Building in the Plains of
Imperial Center, not far from where the decadent and immoral Jedi Order had made their home.
“Only a few days, I think,” says he, “Before this whole mess is sorted out.”
“And Powellyne will be finished,” says the mustachioed man, tapping his fingers nervously against his desk, somewhere in the labyrinthine
offices of the Galaxy News Service. “I’ll see to it that word gets out well before he’s called to testify before the parliament of whores.”
Not a very flattering description of the Privy Council, but it happens to be one that everyone present agrees with.
“I’ve made the necessary arrangements to discredit claims about your presence,” says the woman in uniform, a stalwart figure in the Office of
Naval Intelligence. “There are no significant deviations from the prearranged alibi.”
“Superb,” says the General. “Then everything has proceeded precisely and exactly according to plan.”
“You know, even though that’s not redundant, it’s not exactly good prose, either.”
For a moment, the General thinks his heart has skipped a beat, because that certainly wasn’t his voice, and it wasn’t the voice of any of his
fellow Impartials. The holos wink out of existence immediately — even with code scrambling and image distortion, none of them can risk
being identified as members of this secret brotherhood, not yet. If General Tarkin must be sacrificed for the greater good, then so be it. He’d
do the same thing in their place.
“Who’s there? Who goes there?” The General turns, in a manner best described as flailing. His eyes sweep the darkened room, seeking the
form of his stalker — seeking, but not finding. “Answer me!”
“Conspiracy against the Imperial State,” says the voice, “Unlawful assembly, seditious libel, aggression against employees of the Imperial
State, and — lest we forget — tyrannical and capricious abuse of authority, with just a dash of conspiracy to commit murder thrown in for
garnish. You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Chief Inspector? How very unmutual of you.”
“You’re a coward,” growls the General, yanking his comm log datacard out of the holoproj and hurriedly shoving it into his tunic’s inner
pocket. “Come out and face me like a man!”
“Like a man, eh? And what kind of man strikes a woman for doing her duty? What kind of man betrays his oath to be the Sword and Shield of
the New Order? What kind of man plots to murder a thousand innocents so he can take his revenge against a man born with a silver spoon in
his mouth? Shall I come out and face you like that kind of man?”
“The Silver Fox,” Tarkin says, mostly to himself. He turns and tries to head to the light switch, but stumbles against the chair — affectations
can be dangerous, and the fondness of the Impartials for secrecy and obscurity often leads them to meet in darkened rooms, even when
meeting via holo only. He recovers, and makes it over to the wall.
Just as he flips the switch and throws light all over the room, he feels a cold metal blade press against his throat from behind.
“I’m not all talk, you know,” whispers the voice.
“You can threaten my life all you want,” he says with a sneer. “Go ahead and kill me. You will have accomplished nothing. My orders are
irreversible — those civilians will be executed, whether you kill me or not.”
“Oh, I’m not going to kill you, my porcine friend,” says the voice. The General tenses as he feels a hand snake across his chest, reach into his
tunic’s inner pocket and extract the datacard.
That datacard contains a log of all the General’s communications in the past month. Not only does it prove that he was here in Cingetorix, it
contains the communications data from every meeting he’s had with his Impartial brethren in that time.
The General tenses again, ready to try something — anything — to stop his assailant, but a little bit of pressure on the knife presses its sharp
edge just a bit harder against his throat. He can feel a slight trickle of blood against his neck, and knows that if the blade can break skin with
that little pressure, the slightest jarring will slice his jugular wide open.
“Go ahead,” he says through clenched teeth. “You can prove nothing. The ISB will never trace those calls. You will have discredited me,
maybe even sent me to the booth, but in the end, we’ll march on. We always do. We’re a hydra. Cut off one head, two more will take its
place.”
“Oh, I’m familiar enough with the ISB and its methods. I know you’ve infiltrated it with your vermin. I know they’ll never track the rest of
your swarm of traitors — ” there’s a pause, and in the voice Tarkin can almost hear the grin — “which is precisely and exactly why I’m going
to give this little bit of incriminating evidence to Imperial Intelligence instead.”
A thin trickle of sweat makes its way down the side of the General’s face. Imperial Intelligence, the last bastion of reactionary oldthinkers.
The one organ of the Imperial State that the Impartials have no presence in, have no influence in. The implacable enemy, the scourge that’s
nearly wiped them out once already. The black hole, the impenetrable opacity that they hate and fear, because they cannot see inside it,
because they do not know what lurks beneath its monolithic façade.
All communications between the Impartials are code-scrambled, heavily encrypted, usually using unregistered holoprojs and network nodes.
But there’s always the possibility that the cryptoanalysts of Imperial Intelligence can crack those codes, trace those signals, identify and
liquidate the Impartials that lay beyond them. It would not destroy the brotherhood — no, it’s too decentralized for that, much the same way
that it’s impossible to identify all the members of the Ubiqtorate, since not even its own members know who and how many are counted
among its number. But it would eliminate many among the brotherhood’s most powerful and influential members, and — worse yet — reveal
to their enemies that the Impartials still exist, are still active, and still dangerous.
“What do you want?”
“I’m sorry, what was that, General? I didn’t understand you there. What without the blustering and all.”
“You have no reason to be involved in this,” General Tarkin says tersely, another bead of sweat making its way down his face.
“Haven’t I? Funny how you’re not talking about being a martyr anymore.”
“Listen to me — I’ve got no quarrel with you, Fox. Silver Fox. Whatever you want to be called. Just back out of this, and I can see to it that
you’ll get whatever it is you want. Trust me. I’ve got the connections. Money? Power? Women? Just give me that datacard and you’ll have it.
I swear it.”
“What exactly do you think you can give me, General,” says the voice, drawing nearer, its hot breath against the back of his neck, “that I
cannot simply take?”
Tarkin’s chest rises and falls now, his breathing fast and heavy. Amazing, isn’t it — a threat to his life just makes him grit his teeth, but tell
him that you’ll turn over information to the All-Seeing Eye of the Empire. . . and all of a sudden he is human, after all.
“Listen,” he says, licking his lips, the sensation of swallowing distinctly uncomfortable as his throat moves against the blade. He can feel part
of his skin being scraped off by the movement. “Just give me the card. I’ll give you — I’ll get you what you — Listen, man, just give me the
card. You can have anything. Anything you want, I swear it. Anything.”
“Typical,” says the voice. “You laugh and posture and flaunt yourself, but when the time comes to answer for it, you’re all cooperation. All
begging and supplication. Shall we talk philosophy, General? I don’t believe in last-minute reprieves. You can’t drink all night and then beg not
to pay the bill. As you’ve sown. . . well, so shall you reap.”
“Please,” the General breathes, his voice turning into a hoarse whisper. “This has nothing to do with you. This is a private disagreement
between me and Powellyne. You don’t need to be involved in this.”
“You involved me in this, General,” says the voice. “So let me tell you what you’re going to do now. You’re going to call your aide, and you’re
going to countermand your irreversible order. You’re going to release the hostages, and you’re going to compensate them for the trauma that
you’ve so thoughtlessly caused them. And then, you’re going to leave Cingetorix Sector and never come back, and when you get back to
Imperial Cen— when you get back to Coruscant, you’re going to resign from the Ministry of Security and the ISB.”
“I see,” says the General, very quietly.
“Because if you don’t,” says the voice, “Well, I’m sure you’ll find that Imperial Intelligence will be neither impartial nor disinterested when it
comes to tracking down and rooting out your pack of Impartial traitors. You have twenty-four hours to do as I say, General, before the Isard
family business gets something very interesting in the mail. I suggest you hurry.”
The arm reaches forward from behind the General and he sees a black-gloved hand touch the light switch, bathing the room in shadows once
more. The knife vanishes from against his throat, and by the time he turns the light back on and whirls around to see the voice’s owner —
He is alone once again.
“ . . . whereupon he countermanded his order and then immediately left, Excellency,” says Tallisibeth Chambertin, hands folded
neatly behind her back, standing in front of Josef Moff Powellyne’s desk. He looks up at her from the datapad he’s reading — that being her
written report on the matter. He glances from her to the other occupants of his office — Captain Tan Percival Avonstale, his liaison from
Supreme Headquarters Cingetorix Sector Command, with his own report, and Diego Antilles, Esquire, the negotiator, retained by several of the
families involved to look after their interests in the Moff’s office.
“I see,” says the Moff of Cingetorix, pursing his lips.
The negotiator speaks up in a smooth and eminently reasonable voice. “You can see, of course, why my clients might be anxious about the
potentially damaging nature of the incident. It is now a matter of public record that they have been detained in connection with an official
investigation. Naturally, Your Excellency, nobody wants to drag the courts into this, but my clients are anxious that — ”
“Yes, yes,” says the Moff, waving this aside. “I’ll give the necessary orders. The incident will be expunged from their records, and I’ll have
the Sector attorney’s office look into monetary compensation for damages. Special Agent Chambertin, all records and materials confiscated
after the, ah, detention of these individuals have been returned?”
“Not all of them, Your Excellency,” she says. “Some materials disappeared after confiscation. I’ve already notified His Imperial Majesty’s
Attorney General for the Inner Rim, and the matter is being prosecuted as we speak. I expect that a number of General Tarkin’s men will be
convicted of charges of looting, misuse of privileged information, and official corruption. Unfortunate that it should be necessary, but
nevertheless unavoidable. Correct Thought does not permit the misuse of official power for personal gain.”
“Yes, how thoroughly ethical of it,” says Tan Avonstale, looking at her via side glance.
“I don’t think I like your tone, Captain,” she says.
“Enough,” says the avuncular Powellyne. “Every time I see you two together, you remind me of why I only procreated once. Back to the
matter at hand, has anyone got any idea why the General countermanded his orders and left so abruptly?”
“Perhaps it had to do with why he resigned,” offers Antilles, drawing a suspicious look from the Moff; Diego Antilles always knows more
than he lets on, and never makes idle suggestions. There’s something shifty about a professional meddler and busybody making idle talk.
“Your Excellency, he took a thousand citizens hostage trying to catch the Silver Fox.” Tan Avonstale says, cocking his head to the side.
“Perhaps the Silver Fox paid him a visit?”
“I think Captain Avonstale may be onto something,” says Tallisibeth, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Perhaps he did.”
every language in the universe reserves especially for the purpose of whining. “I mean, really, Uncle Joe, there’s no reason it should even be
legal for them to do that! Can’t you do anything about it? Make it illegal or something — I mean, really! Right there in the streets, I tell you.
Positively scandalous.”
“Lamont, please,” says the target of this particular linguistic assault, His Excellency the Right Honorable Josef Moff Powellyne EW,
Governor of Cingetorix Sector. He looks up from his desk — he’s shuffling datacards and sheets of flimsi around, more or less just shoveling
them unceremoniously into the briefcase his aide is holding open for him — and fixes his brainless nephew with a look of strained patience.
“Now is not a good time, young man. Shouldn’t you be wasting your inheritance on jabots or something?”
“We’ve only half an hour until Your Excellency’s desired departure time,” says his aide deferentially, clad in the gray uniform of the Civil
Service but still managing to look for all the world like a painted tin soldier, right down to the picturesque face and ruby lips.
“I know that,” says the great man with a growl, and the aide’s back stiffens ever so slightly: one does not lightly annoy a member of the
College of Moffs. The Moff opens another drawer in his desk and shuffles the contents around, looking for something or other. He reaches
over and touches a flashing key on his desk. “Yes? What is it?”
“Special Agent Chambertin is here, as you requested, Your Excellency,” says the radio-conveyed voice of his invaluable executive secretary,
the unflappable Mrs. Huntington — quite possibly the only sapient being in the Sector whose power rivals his own.
“Good,” says the Moff of Cingetorix, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Send her in, please.”
Not many people in the galaxy rate a genuine ‘please’ from one of the Emperor’s own.
At the far end of Powellyne’s huge office a door opens and in walks Special Agent (Colonel) Tallisibeth Chambertin, Imperial Security
Bureau, looking flustered for once in her relatively short life — apparently she’s not accustomed to being summoned at such an ungodly
hour. That’s reassuring; up ‘til now, Powellyne’s been more than half-sure she doesn’t actually sleep.
“Ah, there you are. Good, I’m glad you could make it,” he says, as though there were ever any question that someone summoned by a Moff
of the Empire would be ‘able to make it.’ “Lamont, I wonder if you’d be so kind as to fetch the General from the balcony?”
His witless nephew leaves the room, and Powellyne resumes rummaging through his desk drawers. “I’ve been called away suddenly to
Imperial Center,” he explains, “because that idiot Chief Ideological Monitor you people sent to spy on me gave me a ‘below standard’ rating
on the last quadrennial review.”
“But I thought you were being nominated for a third term, Your Excellency,” says she.
“I am,” he says. “Listen, young lady, don’t try to understand court politics if you don’t already. It’s complicated, it’s messy, and it’s
unpleasant. To make a long story short, I’m going to have to go attend the confirmation hearings in person.”
Tallisibeth doesn’t even flinch at this. Oh, she’s heard about his nomination for another term as Sector Governor, but even she hasn’t heard
about the CIM’s rating on the quadrennial. She immediately suspects that Powellyne’s bad grade has more than a little to do with the
ongoing Silver Fox situation, and she wouldn’t be surprised to hear it if Grand Moff Selit also received a bad rating — especially after that
scandal with the certificate of immunity — although he, being a direct appointee of the Galactic Emperor himself, is more or less immune to
the unpleasant side-effects of a bad mark. Powellyne still has to go through Privy Council confirmation after the Minister President
nominates him.
And the Silver Fox situation is her responsibility. It’s the reason she’s even in the Sector in the first place. It’s very likely her fault he’s
gotten a bad grade on his report card.
“The Privy Council does not holovize its proceedings, Excellency,” she says guardedly. “Do you know how many nominations are on the
docket ahead of yours?”
“Of course I don’t,” he says, plainly annoyed. “No, that would be useful. I’m expected to just loiter about the Court of Courts until they’re
ready for me, but heaven help anyone who’s not there when they want him. Lieutenant Governor Bel Ma’awiya will be Acting Governor
until I return. There’s something else I want to direct your attention to before I go.”
Lamont is returning now, an older man trailing behind him — a man with a deeply lined face, thinning black hair, and a bit of a portly figure
crammed uncomfortably into a too-small white tunic, the tunic of a general of the Imperial Security Bureau.
“General Tarkin, this is . . . Colonel Tallisibeth Chambertin, special agent in charge of the Special Security Office detailed to assist me by the
Central Office,” he says to the older man, and then turns to her. “Special Agent Chambertin, this is General Gerard Tarkin, the Ministry of
Security’s Chief Inspector of State Security for the Seventieth District.”
“No relation to the Tarkins of Eriadu,” he says gruffly.
“General Tarkin just arrived this morning,” says the Moff, straightening at his desk and closing the drawer. He nods to his aide and closes the
briefcase. “He — ”
“I’ve heard of this ‘Silver Fox’ nonsense you’ve been dealing with,” says the General. “I must say, Colonel, I’m none too impressed by your
handling of the matter. You’ve been slow, sloppy, and stupid.”
“I hardly think that’s a fair appraisal of the matter, General,” says Moff Powellyne in a dark tone of voice; only his patrician’s good breeding
prevents his irritation at being interrupted by an inferior from erupting in a manner not unlike a volcano.
But the General remains oblivious to the Moff’s tone of voice and waves aside his objection with a contemptuous sneer. “State security isn’t
your specialty, Governor Powellyne, and this is an internal matter. None of your concern.”
White-hot fury lurks behind Powellyne’s eyes. “I will decide what is and what is not my concern, General Tarkin. And if you ever address
yourself to me in such disrespectful tones again, I will have you clapped in irons and publicly flogged. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Governor,” says the General stiffly.
“Agent Chambertin,” says the Moff, continuing now as though it were nothing to threaten a whiteshirt general with corporal punishment and
public humiliation for the crime of rudeness — and indeed for him it actually was nothing — “General Tarkin has generously offered to
oversee your operations during my absence,” says he, quite obviously not pleased about the General’s generosity, “You will accord him
every professional courtesy, of course, and brief him as you would me.”
“As you command, Your Excellency,” she says, offering the customary short bow; at this she notices that General Tarkin’s brow darkens
further still.
“Now, then,” says the Moff of Cingetorix. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a shuttle to catch.”
- * * * * *
“Ah, gentlemen,” says General Gerard Tarkin — no relation to the Tarkins of Eriadu — but without standing to address the assembled leaders
(as is customary throughout the Inner Rim). “It has come to my attention that this Sector has long been plagued by a counterrevolutionary
thought-criminal actively working to subvert the Imperial State by interposing his anarchical activities between its lawful authority and its
legitimate competencies, thereby wilfully nullifying the efficacy of the ultimate measure for the protection of the state — ”
The others wait patiently throughout this lengthy introduction, not really listening. Most of them have practically memorized the whiteshirt’s
conversation in advance, since whiteshirts usually use the same phrases and speech patterns, stringing soundbytes together like staccato bursts
of gunfire, talking without even thinking about what it is they’re saying.
The Three Pillars of Correct Thought are, after all, Unity, Stability, and Conformity.
“Now, then,” he says at great length, finally coming to the point. “It has also been brought to my attention that attempts to deal with this
thought-criminal’s foolery by applying. . . conventional methods. . . have met with spectacular failure.”
“With all due respect, General Tarkin,” says one of the admirals, “I have a great deal of important work to do, and I haven’t got all day to sit
around listening to a lecture about the history of our ‘special problem’ — ”
“On the contrary, Admiral, I submit that this is precisely what you need,” snaps the General. “Colonel Chambertin, how many times have you
failed to capture this thought-criminal?”
“General, there’s no need to humiliate — ” begins the Acting Sector Governor, Jehan Bel Ma’awiya, a Myke advanced in years wearing
clothes of a decidedly civilian cut.
“How many times, Colonel?” says the General more firmly, completely ignoring Bel Ma’awiya.
“Forty-two,” she says quietly, staring at the table.
“Forty-two what?”
“I have failed forty-two times, General,” she says, still not looking up.
“Forty-two times, gentlemen. Forty-two! Do you know what you learn in the Outer Rim? You learn that if a subject doesn’t conform to the
conventional forms, why then, it’s useless to pursue him with conventional methods. The counterrevolutionary thought-criminal often doesn’t
keep a militarily orthodox lair, you know, he hides among the citizenry, using them like shields. So you’ve got to deny him this shield, you
see, you’ve got to disregard conventional methods. That’s how you catch an unconventional thought-criminal.”
“‘Deny him this shield,’ General?” Bel Ma’awiya shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not quite sure I follow what you mean by that, sir,”
he says.
Captain Tan Percival Avonstale stiffens in his seat as he hears the General muttering something about the Acting Sector Governor being a
feeble-minded, inhuman imbecile. “He means, sir,” says the newly-promoted post captain to the elderly Myke, “that when a Rebel takes the
hostage, he shoots the hostage first to get a clear shot at the Rebel.”
“Crudely put, but Avonstale’s more or less on the same page,” says the General, not glancing at the well-bred Navy man seated by his side,
not seeing the slight twitch beneath his eye or the way the others shift in their chairs uneasily at his quite deliberate failure to use Tan
Avonstale’s rank or title — the sort of deliberate insult that can very easily provoke a duel if one isn’t careful.
“Shoot the hostage!” one of the generals says in disbelief. “I don’t know what kind of barbarities they permit in the Outer Rim where you’re
accustomed to fighting, General, but this is civilized space, sir! What you’re suggesting is right close to a war crime.”
“War crime, Admiral? Just who, precisely, are you afraid of offending? We represent the sole galactic superpower in existence. I represent the
Ministry of Security. Who is to charge us with war crimes, sir?”
“It’s counter to law,” one of the generals begins.
“Law? What do we care about law, sir? Haven’t we got the power?”
The other general stiffens. “If you are suggesting, sir, that we violate Imperial law — ”
“There is no violation, General,” says Tarkin. “It’s perfectly defensible under the Capital Powers Act, or the Senatorial Amendments, or the
Emergency Powers Act.”
“Ah, yes,” says Tan Avonstale. “Shifty law — the last refuge of the scoundrel. Hoping to play fast and loose with the legal system, are you,
General? Courts martial have rejected that defense before, do you know it?”
“I find that courts martial are more often than not populated by oldthinking reactionaries,” says the General dismissively. “The question is not
can it be done, but how. I am, after all, the Minister’s representative here.”
More uncomfortable shifting. Tarkin’s throwing his weight around now, and there’s no one in the room with the clout to really resist him.
Moff Powellyne could, of course, if he were present; a member of the College of Moffs trumps a Government Minister’s Chief Inspector with
ease — one of many reasons that Moffhood is so coveted. But the Acting Sector Governor — Lieutenant Governor Bel Ma’awiya — isn’t a
Moff, and he isn’t even really an employee of the Imperial State; he’s been elected by the Sector Assembly, not appointed by the Minister
President and confirmed by the Privy Council. He has some limited authority to act in Powellyne’s stead, yes, but he lacks the clout to
effectively oppose a whiteshirt general and chief inspector of state security.
A wicked smile creeps across Tarkin’s lips. “So, we’re agreed, then. I shall make the necessary arrangements to deny this so-called ‘Silver Fox’
his shield.” He flashed his teeth in a predatory grin. “General, I’ll be obliged if you’ll order your men to arrest — oh, say a thousand people. I
don’t care who, just pick them up from the streets if you have to. We’ll flush this thought-criminal out by striking at his sentimentality.”
- * * * * *
“Ah, Colonel Chambertin,” says Captain Tan Avonstale, clad elegantly in an officer’s cloak over his dinner dress uniform. It’s a chilly night
on Pemberly this evening, and one can see one’s breath in puffs of white. Tallisibeth, too, has made concession to the weather, donning her
distinctive white frock coat.
“I hope this isn’t meant as some sort of liaison, Captain,” she says distastefully. “Citizen Powellyne wastes enough of my time with such
romantic rubbish as it is.”
“You flatter yourself, Colonel,” he says easily, his marble-like voice as cold as the night air. “I, with a commoner? Preposterous.”
Not for the first time, Tallisibeth is reminded of why she hates Tan Avonstale, the arrogant aristo — born to wealth, born to power, born to
influence. Born to greatness, never having to work for it. The aristocrat.
“No, I’ve something a little more substantial to discuss with you.” He says nothing about the fact that his note arrived to her while she was
already in the restaurant; if he’s noticed who’s brought her to the most exclusive of restaurants on the planet, he gives no indication of the fact.
Her eyes dart around, looking for signs of danger. She is a highly-placed state security officer, and she cannot dismiss the possibility that Tan
Avonstale has lured her out to this balcony for the sake of fraternal espionage — the ISB has kidnapped Navy officers and men before, to spy
on their activities, and she doesn’t put it past the preening knight to do the same.
“General Tarkin is a madman,” he says.
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice is sharp. “Captain Avonstale, I remind you that General Tarkin is a general officer and a chief inspector for
the Ministry of Security! For you to speak of him in such disrespectful terms is nothing short of insubordination. Regulation prohibits any
person from using contemptuous words or gestures — ”
“Contemptuous words or gestures!” Tan Avonstale’s voice turns equally sharp — the first time she’s ever heard him raise his voice. He
reaches into his tunic for a silver cigarette box, lights one, holds it to his lips — a curious habit, Tallisibeth reflects, uncommon among the
upper classes (most of them prefer handmade cigarras or else more exotic brands of spice); she notes with interest that there is a slight bulge
beneath his glove around the ring finger on his right hand.
“It’s nothing short of murder, Colonel,” he says, apparently having recovered his ironclad control over his voice.
“A duly appointed officer of the executive power may exercise certain extrajudicial — ”
“Oh, don’t come the space lawyer with me, Colonel Chambertin,” says he, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I know all about your petty
tricks, I know the Capital Powers Act, the Extraordinary Defense Authorization — I know all of it. I read law before I became an officer, do
you know it? Does it not strike you as odd that Tarkin’s sealed the Sector’s borders completely? That he’s closed all communications to
Imperial Center? That he very obviously doesn’t want Moff Powellyne to know what’s going on here? Does it not strike you as odd,
Colonel, that neither you nor I nor Moff Powellyne ever imagined taking such a step? Only General Tarkin — fresh from the uncivilized
Outer Rim — has the disease of mind to suggest holding a thousand people’s lives hostage against the surrender of one man — ”
“Oh, that’s just it, isn’t it, Captain? ‘The uncivilized general’! You can’t stand the man because he doesn’t fawn all over you and your
expensive pedigree, your eugenics. He hates your hereditary privileges and your inbred contempt for the lowborn proles, the very same
people whose labor — ”
“This is not about caste and class!” Tan Avonstale hisses, throwing his cigarette down in anger. “This is about Tarkin’s insane plan to commit
mass murder! Yes, Colonel, murder! You dance around it, try to make this about me, and it’s not.”
“Death happens, Captain. It’s a part of our trade. Do you know how many criminals have died because of me? Do you know how many men
I’ve shot? Have you ever commanded a ship before, Captain?”
“Death in the course of duty does not concern me, Chambertin. It’s an accepted part of our work. If some Rebel or some Separatist dies
because we blow up his ship or bomb his base — very well. I accept that. But that’s spurious, Chambertin, that’s not what this is. This is a
savage-fighting madman preparing to put a thousand innocent people to death. Innocents, Chambertin — ” she doesn’t notice that the sang-
froid Tan Avonstale, the very picture of scrupulosity in protocol, has stopped using her courtesy rank of colonel — “Completely innocent
Imperial citizens. People who have broken no law, violated no statute, at any level, from the Imperial Charter all the way down to the local
traffic laws. These are the people we’re supposed to protect from anarchy and corruption, Chambertin. We’re not supposed to stand by and
allow them to be murdered by the state.”
Tallisibeth clutches her arms around herself and shudders — not from the cold, but rather because this arrogant aristo is saying the very things
she herself has been trying not to think.
“But I can’t do anything,” she finds herself saying, startled by the pleading tone in her voice. “He’s my lawfully appointed superior.”
“Oh, great stars — doesn’t the ISB train you people on ethics? Your responsibility is to obey lawful orders. You have no obligation to obey
unlawful orders.”
“But — but the first principle of Correct Thought — ”
“Doesn’t Correct Thought have anything to do with thinking? There’s a point where lawful authority ends and becomes capricious and
tyrannical.”
“You’re starting to sound like a Rebel, Avonstale!” Tallisibeth says hotly, her knee-jerk reaction surprising even her; the fact is that he isn’t
talking like a Rebel at all — he’s talking about a man overstepping his bounds and abusing the rightful power the Empire has given him.
“Oh, really? ‘The principle of complete wilful submission to lawful authority is qualified by the recognition that some expressions of properly
constituted authority may be materially or morally unmutual to the welfare of the New Order and the virtues of Correct Thought,’” recites Tan
Avonstale, quoting verbatim from the most-recent edition of the Manifesto. “Does that sound familiar? Does that sound like a Rebel talking to
you, too?”
“But it’s not my place to judge that,” she says, wringing her hands — the thought of questioning authority sets her stomach to turning, her
brow covered in sweat despite the cold. She almost totters on her feet. To question the Voice of Authority runs counter to everything she’s ever
believed and been taught. “They’re supposed to tell us that!”
“They’re supposed to tell you when an expression of authority is unlawful, you mean?”
“Yes! That’s not for us to judge! It is Correct Thought that we must obey completely until directed otherwise by higher competencies.”
“So what you mean to say,” Tan Avonstale says icily, “is that it is Correct Thought that you must never think for yourself.”
“What? No! No, that’s not what I’m saying — ”
“Yes, it is. Yes, it is! You want someone else to tell you it’s okay to stop Tarkin’s insane plan. Do you realize that by the time that word
comes, it will be too late? You’re trying to use Correct Thought as a crutch, an excuse to avoid responsibility. Thinking Correct Thought is
just another way of saying someone else will do the thinking for you.” He looks at her, contempt written all over his handsome face. “I can
see I’ve misjudged you, Tallisibeth. You’re more of a coward than I thought.”
- * * * * *
The meeting is ending now, and the players begin to drift out of the conference room. General Tarkin and his aide begin to collect all the
various sheets of flimsi on the table, when the General notices that Tallisibeth has not yet departed with the others.
“What is it, Colonel?”
“Sir,” she says, her voice marred by a hint of uncertainty. “General, I wish to — I — ”
“Come, come, out with it, man,” says the General impatiently. He seems blissfully unaware that it is a matter of fact and public record that
Tallisibeth Evelyn Chambertin is not a man.
“General, does Correct Thought permit an operation such as this one?” she manages finally, practically trembling. It is not in her nature to
question her superiors. That sort of thing is unmutual. Tallisibeth Chambertin is not unmutual.
“What do you mean by that, Colonel?” he says gruffly, glancing at his wrist chrono. “Do you mean to suggest that you are questioning my
orthodoxy? Is that what you’re getting at?”
“Of course not, General,” she says hastily, her determination wavering. “But General, how can we justify taking law-abiding citizens prisoner
and — ”
“It is justified because I say it is justified,” the General growls. “I’m disappointed in you, Colonel. These aren’t citizens we’re talking about,
these are parasites. They’re cancer cells sucking the life out of our great society. These are the same privileged elites, the same corrupt, self-
important vermin that plagued the decadent old Republic. This is the very detritus that the New Order exists to sweep aside in the first place,
the Names and Numbers that smack of the old ways.”
“But General — ”
“Silence, Colonel,” he says, brushing her interruption aside, his eyes alight with zealotry. “They’re the worm that eats away at the core of the
New Order. The despicable aristos and their patrician lackeys, the multistellar corporate whores — just look at this Sector, man! You have the
nepotistic, inbred Powellynes in Government Palace — there was a Powellyne in Valorum’s Cabinet for space’s sake! What business do they
have being Moffs and Grand Moffs in the New Order? You have despicable lawyers and bankers like Avonstale and Praji and Brehan and
Krouse and Shahanshah and Vierdekaare — these are cancer cells, man, don’t you see?”
Tallisibeth blinks uncomprehendingly; she doesn’t understand why he’s talking about the New Order and Cingetorix Sector’s leadership when
she’s asking him about the citizens he’s holding hostage against the Silver Fox surrendering himself.
“You don’t understand, do you?” He shakes his head. “In time, you’ll see. We all do, eventually. The Incorruptible promised us he would
sweep all this decadence aside. But he’s been captured by the system, you see, he’s become surrounded by boot-licking tories that isolate him
and use his name to feather their nests. He’s controlled by favor-merchants and capitalists now, can’t you see? The New Order has become a
tool of the upper class, the Names and Numbers. Can’t you see, Colonel? Nothing’s changed. Names and Numbers. The Revolution is dying,
Colonel, we’re being sold out, betrayed. The Names and Numbers are still here. Bel Ma’awiya — that disgusting, inhuman thing — he’s been
Lieutenant Governor of this Sector since before Finis Valorum became Chancellor. The same spineless functionaries that plagued the old
Republic, they’re the same decadent aristos and patricians that still have a stranglehold on the State and the military now, and the same human
sellouts and Muuni usurers that still control the economy. Just look at it, Colonel — our own leader is an aristo.”
At this Tallisibeth rocks back on her heels at this scandalous outburst — Has the General really just criticized His Royal Highness the
Marquess Vandron of the Blood Royal — has he really criticized the Iron Marquess, patron of the Commission for the Preservation of the
New Order, vanguard of Palpatinism-Tarkinism, of Correct Thought? Has he really just criticized His Imperial Majesty himself? Has he gone
mad? Her heart races, her knees go weak, horror fills her stomach. Has the General really just committed thoughtcrime?
“General,” she says unsteadily, “General, I must ask you to surrender your sidearm. I am placing you under arrest for seditious — ”
He slaps her.
Tallisibeth totters back and strikes a chair, but, still unsteady, she falls to the floor in shock. She can feel a trickle of blood making its way
down from her lip.
“Don’t presume to arrest me, Chambertin,” says General Gerard Tarkin. “I represent powers you cannot possibly imagine.”
- * * * * *
Tallisibeth looks around herself furtively, and pulls her coat more closely around herself. She glances around uncomfortably; the heavy
snowfall is cutting visibility to a minimum. She doesn’t feel comfortable out here by herself — not that she’s afraid for her safety, of course;
she can take care of herself, certainly. Rather, it’s the fact that no one knows she’s here, she’s not in uniform, and what she’s come here to do
is something that is entirely out of the field of the Sword and Shield of the New Order. There isn’t any backup, any ideological treatise
justifying her actions, any article in Truth or The Vanguard or The Social Observer. There’s no whiteshirt, there’s no CompForce. There’s
nothing.
There’s just Tallisibeth Chambertin, feeling naked, in her civilian clothes, standing in an alley.
And for the first time since she graduated from the ISB Academy, she feels really and truly alone.
She looks around again, and begins to debate whether or not she should go.
Why go, though? It’s not like she hasn’t already compromised herself. It’s not like she hasn’t already betrayed her Emperor and his New
Order. The mere fact that she even thought to do this is proof enough of her failure. Thoughtcrime! How could she have done this? What was
she thinking? She shivers — this time, not from the cold — and resolves to turn herself in. She’s a thought-criminal now. It’s her duty to her
Emperor.
But that isn’t entirely true, is it? Avonstale did have a point — she isn’t obligated to obey unlawful orders, and Correct Thought does
recognize that not everything done by a superior is necessarily mutual with the welfare of the New Order. General Tarkin’s plan does threaten
innocent Imperial subjects, that’s certainly true. And she could have told him from the beginning that it just isn’t going to work. Had he asked,
of course.
And really, the more she thinks about it, the Silver Fox isn’t nearly so dangerous as having a madman like Tarkin in power. After all, the
Silver Fox has never threatened the lives of one thousand law-abiding Imperial citizens. The Silver Fox’s thoughtcrime isn’t nearly so acute
and malignant as General Tarkin’s — but no! That’s not for her to judge. Unity, Stability, Conformity! She must submit to the Voice of
Authority! She must!
No, no — General Tarkin is not the Voice of Authority. Is he? She can’t really say for sure anymore. Hearing the man’s thoughtcrime from
his own lips has shocked and scandalized her. If a general of the Sword and Shield of the New Order can be a thought-criminal, can’t anyone?
How is she supposed to recognize the Voice of Authority when she hears it? Couldn’t they all be thought-criminals? You can’t always
recognize thoughtcrime when you talk to someone. After all, she herself is doing it right now. Isn’t she?
An old man is shuffling near her now, huddled under in his heavy coat, moving slowly in the heavy snow. Irrelevantly, she wonders why the
absurdly wealthy upper class of Pemberly has never invested in a weather-control network, like most of the Core Worlds have. Probably don’t
want to pay for it, she imagines.
“What are you doing here, Tallisibeth?” asks the old man, and immediately she becomes aware of the fact that his voice is decidedly not that
of an old man. It is clear, rich, elegant, polished. Received. Beneath the heavy winter coat and the old, weatherbeaten and careworn face,
somewhere beneath this façade, is the Silver Fox.
“I — I came to — ” her words catch in her throat. What is she doing here?
“To do what? To warn me about Tarkin’s insane plan to catch me? Oh, I already know all about that, it’s been plastered all over the
newsnets ever since he started arresting people. You know, I assume, that he’s cut off all out-Sector communications.”
“I — I know,” she says, her voice still eluding her. This is harder than she thought it was going to be.
“So what is it you want, Tallisibeth? You’re here alone, I already know that. None of your goons are nearby, and I can tell you’re unarmed.
You’re not here for sparkling conversation, not when you’ve got Diego Antilles and Lamont Powellyne for that. Hoping to convince me to
turn myself in?”
“I came to ask your help,” she says finally, feeling a little part of herself die inside.
“I think you’ve been standing outside in the snow too long,” says the Silver Fox. “You are quite insane, do you know it?”
“General Tarkin is a thought-criminal,” she says weakly, “but I’m the only one who knows. No one will believe me if I challenge him
directly, and he’s already taken control of our communications and traffic control systems. I need you to — I need. . . ” Her voice trails off as
tears well up in her eyes. She swallows against a lump in her throat. “I need your help. I can’t think outside the system.”
“Hm,” says the Silver Fox. “I wonder if that has anything to do with what color your shirt is. Maybe? Do you think? Really, though, you
arrest enough people for the whole outside-the-box routine, you ought to be familiar with the theory of it, at least.”
“This is hard enough for me as it is already,” she says, her voice dropping in temperature to match the weather.
“Do I lecture you about how inconvenient it is to have you trying to kill me on a weekly basis? Do you know how much easier my hobby
would be if you’d decided to stay in that ballet academy?”
“Not many criminals have the chutzpah to complain about police — wait, what did you say? How do you know about that?”
“I have read your service record, Tallisibeth, remember? Some of those holos are pretty funny. But that’s beside the point. The point being,
what is it that you want me to do? Kidnap the General and hold his life ransom against his revocation of the ransoms?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t threaten the life of a psychotic zealot,” Tallisibeth snaps. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
“Smart enough to escape from you, my dulcet darling,” says he, “forty-two times, no less. And I’d like you to know that I’m writing down
what you just said, about threatening psychotic zealots. Coming from a whiteshirt, that might be one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you grow up for ten, maybe fifteen seconds? We’re talking about a thousand people’s lives here, all because you think it’s fun to play at
subverting law and order.”
“Oh, that’s quite rich, indeed, Special Agent (Colonel) Chambertin, of the Imperial Security Bureau,” he says with a laugh. “An Imperial
whiteshirt, lecturing me about people’s lives being in danger? Ordinarily you have to pay for comedy this good. How many people have you
shot, Tallisibeth?”
“Twenty-five,” she says, annoyance flashing over her face. “Which is twenty-five more people than you’ve shot, is that your point? Are
you going to lecture me about the morality of the State monopoly on the use of violence? Has it occurred to you that I’m a police officer?
Why do you think I carry a pistol? Because it flatters my figure?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but the pistol belt does go nicely with your jackboots. Très chic, I must say.”
Tallisibeth rolls her eyes. Oh, the sick feeling of fear and disgust is gone now,yes: replaced by annoyance. This is the man she’s been chasing
all this time? This immature snark? Why is she even here? “Are you interested in doing anything about this, or are you having too much fun
making fun of me?”
“I’ve told you before, Tallisibeth, I’m laughing with you, not at you.”
“I’m not laughing, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“You’re laughing on the inside.”
“I can’t believe you are worth so many people’s lives. You. The grinning idiot with an attitude stolen from some sub-adult schoolboy.”
“You know, Tallisibeth, I’ve seen a lot of things in this galaxy, and let me tell you what I’ve realized: You can laugh, or you can cry. I choose
to laugh.”
“You know what? I’ve just realized that you’ve used this disguise before.”
“Have I? You know, I think you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. You used this one on Deltrapad, when that slicer malefactor was scheduled for termination. Seditious libel, if I recall
correctly.”
“You do. I note that you forgot to mention that she was sixteen. And let the record show that you didn’t even come close that time.”
“I hit you with a chair.”
“That was dumb luck and you know it.”
“Oh, and I suppose the fact that I’d had the entire bar surrounded for twenty minutes was pure happenstance? Face it, you degenerate
thought-criminal, I know you better than you know yourself. The only reason you’ve ever escaped from me is that I have to rely on the
involvement of incompetents to actually physically catch you.”
“Well, hello, Miss Fancy-Pants! If you know so much about me, why haven’t you figured out who I am beneath this mask, eh? Why haven’t
you ever recognized me when I’m not wearing it, eh? If you know so much about me, why do you need my help at all?”
“Because I can’t do this alone, you twit! Do you know how hard it was to get out here by myself, without being followed?”
“I’m sorry, what was that? I was too busy being the Silver Fox. You know, eluding surveillance and capture by the ISB. I’m sure what you
were saying was important, though.”
“Be serious for once in your misspent life, will you? This is a matter of life and death. Listen, the General is a thought-criminal, I’ve heard it
from his own lips.”
“Oh, I know. He’s one of the Impartials.”
“The what?” Tallisibeth blinks as she looks at him, the steam of his hot breath between them — not unlike the fog of incomprehension that
surrounds everything he says and does.
“The Impartials. Never heard of them? No, I don’t suppose you would’ve had the opportunity. Not something the Party likes to talk about,
I’ll certainly grant you that. To make a long story short, they’re the old guard, the old fighters, the camisas viejas of the New Order Party. I
don’t know many names, but all of the ones I do know were highly placed even back in the days of the Galactic Movement. Before the Clone
Wars made a mess of everything. A lot of them felt betrayed when Augie Palpatine crowned himself Emperor. Well, cowled himself, I
suppose; he doesn’t wear a crown. Still called the Crown Equerry, though. Probably because Cowl Equerry doesn’t sound as good.”
Tallisibeth’s mind is racing now. Yes, this sounds familiar. Tarkin — Tallisibeth has finally become comfortable of thinking of him as that
alone, without the ‘General’ affixed to it — he’d said something about how ‘the Incorruptible’ had promised them he’d sweep the decadence
of the Old Republic aside; that certainly sounded like an old-fighter talking. Nobody else called him ‘the Incorruptible’ anymore, for one
thing. For another, he’d talked about His Imperial Majesty being ‘captured by the system,’ as though something had changed once he’d been
acclaimed Galactic Emperor. Even when he was granted emergency powers, nobody in the old Galactic Movement had talked about making
him a monarch; certainly some of those old-liners might be resentful of that.
“And I’m sure the way things turned out after Windu’s Cloister Coup didn’t exactly please them, either. Plenty of barve to be handed out to
the megacorps that’d stuck by him during the war, you know. They all got rewarded quite handsomely for their patriotism, made fortunes that
could’ve made Dooku blush. A lot of the camisas viejas thought he should’ve Imperialized the lot of them, like he did to the TradeFed and
the others. To say nothing of the continued existence of the Banking Clan of Moneylend. And then there’s the fact that a lot of the people at
court are blue-bloods — you know, in the Household and Great Officers of State sinecures, the grace and favors, that sort of thing. The upper
class hasn’t done poorly for itself since the war. A lot of the Imperial upper class was the Republican upper class. A lot of the Houses Major
and Minor have as much power now as they ever did before, if not more. No point even mentioning the Old Families.”
Oh, this sounds familiar all right. Tarkin had talked about the Names and Numbers, gone on at length about the number of oldthinking, unmutual
holdouts from decadent days of the Old Republic. ‘Boot-licking tories,’ he’d called them.
“So, basically, the Impartials’re convinced that Augie’s betrayed his own revolution, got caught up by his own court, surrounded by blue-
bloods and money-bags. Still can’t bring themselves to try to kill him, though — in their hearts of hearts, he’s still their hero, their leader,
their founder. He’s pretty out of the loop these days, anyway — you know, what with his health being what it is. From what I can gather,
the Impartials decided that they don’t need to kill him off, they just need to undercut and get rid of the Names and Numbers controlling him.
The Privy Council, the court, that sort of thing. Undermine them, give them the old trip to the booth, and you’ve got control of the Empire
itself. Then you can turn back the chrono to the heady days of yesteryear, when you could just purge anybody you wanted and call them
sympathizers of the Separatists, Jedi power-mongers, unmutualists, what-have-yous and whatnots. Long story short, kill the court and you
can get the Revolution back on track. Crazy stuff, but then, consider the source.”
Oh, yes indeed. Ranting about the Names and Numbers? Check. The Incorruptible betraying the revolution? Check. Republican holdouts?
Check. This certainly sounds like Tarkin.
“You’re not lying, are you? This isn’t some sort of elaborate plot to embarrass me?”
“Aside from the obvious epistemological difficulties associated with asking someone if he’s lying to you, what do I have to gain from doing
that? Honestly, Tallisibeth, if I wanted to embarrass you, I’d publish those holos of you from that Homecoming dance — you know the one.”
“You’re a horrible person. I just want you to know this.”
“Coming from you, my dear, I’ll take that as a compliment. It’s occurred to you, no doubt, that the people he’s arrested aren’t random
citizens at all, despite what he said. They’re carefully calculated to cause an enormous amount of damage to the upper class in this Sector —
important people, people whose offices and homes are being plundered by Tarkin’s men even as we speak.”
“Yes, I know. There’s nothing I can do about that. Tarkin’s taken control of most of my people.”
“Here’s the real question — Is there any actual record of Tarkin’s presence here? I haven’t checked, but I’d be willing to bet there’s not.
Whose signature was on the orders for all this?”
“Um,” Tallisibeth’s fair skin goes a little bit paler. “Mine.”
“Oh, very clever, Tallisibeth. What did he do, order you to make the necessary arrangements? He did, didn’t he? Oh, well done. Besh Zerek,
my dear! You’ve been suckered, Tallisibeth, entirely without incident, and when the waiter comes with the check, you’re going to be the only
one still at the table. Oh, you’ll probably be cleared of any responsibility in the end — just following orders, like a good whiteshirt should. But
it won’t be Tarkin they blame — a Chief Inspector of State Security? I think not. Who do you think is going to be blamed when the Special
Security Office of the Executive Office of the Moff Governor of Cingetorix murders 1,000 prominent citizens in a botched attempt to catch the
Silver Fox? Especially when the failure to catch the Silver Fox has just gotten him a bad grade on his report card?”
“Moff Powellyne,” Tallisibeth breathes. “The House of Powellyne is just shy of being a Great House. Tarkin called them nepotists. Names
and Numbers! Of course — if he really is one of these Impartials you talked about, then Moff Powellyne is a perfect target! He’s politically
vulnerable right now, but he’s got connections to who knows how many companies and people at court. It’s like a gem — if you hit it hard
enough at the right place, the whole thing could shatter.”
“Precisely.”
A pause. Shuffling in the snow. Tallisibeth waits for him to say something more.
He doesn’t.
“Well?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re not going to do anything?”
“I’m not the one coming here asking for help, my dear. I assume you have some sort of crackpot scheme in mind, one that you think only I
could pull off? What do you want me to do, kidnap Tarkin and replace him with a Whiphid playing the ukulele?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If Tarkin really is an Impartial, like you say, then there must be information of some kind I can use against him.
Datacards, communications protocols, something. Some way of identifying his conspirators, verifying his involvement in this.”
“Knowing how obsessive-compulsive you whiteshirts are, he’s probably keeping a log of all the comm traffic he’s done since he’s been here.
Not good security, but then, he’s probably never met someone who’d question his orders before. It’s probably never come up. I do so love
an Imperial who’s complacent in his power. He’s so smug and so very, very vulnerable.”
“So, then, you could infiltrate his quarters, and steal it, couldn’t you?”
“Couldn’t you?”
“Of course not! The very idea is outrageous! How dare you suggest — ”
“Well, obviously you’re not as accomplished as I am at doing things that require subtlety or skill, but I’d think that — ”
“‘Not as accomplished’? ‘Not as accomplished’? I don’t see you graduating from the ISB Academy! What, you think that because you can
run circles around the local cops and Sheriff Nightstick Bel Nepotism that you’re a ghost in the darkness? I’ll have you know I’ve caught you
every single time you’ve tried to sneak past me.”
“Yes, because having a budget roughly the size of the Tingel Arm and enough Enforcements thugs to field a small army is really comparable
to outsmarting the entire Sector Government, armed only with my dashing good looks and rapier-like wit. I’ve pickpocketed the Tombat, for
space’s sake, and you really think that you can compare to me in terms of subtlety?”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you there. Your ego is so massive its gravity must have pulled the sound of your voice back into the black hole of
your vanity. I have a Silver Medal from the Imperial Games. You have a few baubles you’ve stolen in the dead of night from half-drunk
grandees. I think I’m a little bit above your level, you egomaniac. Anything you can do, I can do better.”
“Oh, really? Well, then, Colonel, maybe you’d like to explain why it is that you can’t get a hold of Tarkin’s comm log?”
“Apparently you’ve forgotten the part where he’s been keeping me under surveillance. Do you really think I’m going to just sneak into his
quarters and — ”
“Why not? I would.”
“You’re also a thought-criminal. Some of us don’t have experience with breaking and entering, compromising state security, or other
reputable pastimes of that sort.”
“You’re right, I must have forgotten that I’m talking to someone who would never consort with thought-criminals in poorly lit alleys after
sneaking away from her ISB-appointed watchdogs. In the future I’ll try to remember what a good citizen you are.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m only doing this for the good of the New Order. Certainly not because I enjoy your company.”
“Really? And here I thought you loved me for my wit and candor. No, in point of fact, I have noticed. You’re about as good a conspirator as
you were a dancer.”
“I’ll have you know I was a superb dancer, thank you very much. I didn’t have a rich daddy to buy my way into the academy, I had to work
to get there.”
“And yet, somehow, you still can’t tango.”
“I beg your pardon? What was that?”
“You heard what I said, my dear. I said it. You nearly tripped on your feet when you were trying to tango with me.”
“Trying? Trying to tango? You were trying, I was succeeding.”
“Anything you can do, I can do better,” he says, his voice so perfect a mimicry of her own she actually takes a step back in surprise. “You’re
awfully cute when you’re outraged, has anyone ever told you that before?”
“Oh, grow up! Can’t you go five minutes without mocking me? What are you, twelve? This is not about me, this is about what I can do to
stop Tarkin!”
“Don’t you mean what we can do, O partner-in-crime?”
“I don’t even know why I came here,” she growls. “I should have known better than to expect any help out of you. I came here in good faith,
against every instinct and principle I’ve ever had, and what do I get? Insults and immaturity from a man who hasn’t got anything better to do
with his time than root around through my personnel record and look for holos of me from sub-adult school. What are you, some sort of
perverted stalker?”
“Do you really want to know why you came here? Because you wanted to know if I’m going to embarrass him like I’ve embarrassed you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’ve never embarrassed me.”
“You’re a terrible liar, you know. It just doesn’t agree with your angelic disposition. Do you want to know the funny part, Tallisibeth? You
didn’t need to come here at all. You weren’t far from the mark, you really do know me well. Well enough to spot me.”
“It isn’t nearly as hard as you think it is, you know.”
“Yes, it is,” he says, grinning. Though the mask he wears is different this time, it’s still that same grin he always has, the grin of a man who
could swagger standing still. “Oh, yes it is. It just so happens that you’re the only person who can tell when it’s me and when it isn’t. Now
isn’t that a remarkable thing?”
- * * * * *
“Brothers and sisters,” says General Tarkin, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he regards the indistinct holograms that represent some of his
fellows — others who feel as he feels, others who realize that the Revolution is dying, others who have the vision and the dedication
necessary to seize control, to right the course of history. His fellow Impartials.
He can still remember those heady days of yore, when the Galactic Movement had seen an explosion in membership, when more and more
young humans had come together, seeing that the decadence of the Old Republic could not continue, could not be sustained. He can still
remember those days of populism, of grassroots organization, back in the days when the New Order had promised to sweep away the
entrenched nepotism, the cronyism, the old-boyism. He can still remember when Iosif Antonys introduced him to their mysterious
benefactor, who’d provided access to the money and infrastructure they’d needed to fashion the Movement into a truly galactic political force
to be reckoned with. He can still remember when they’d merged the Movement into the Commission for the Preservation of the Republic —
back before they’d been able to truly embrace their role as the vanguard of the New Order Revolution.
And he can still remember his disgust when he’d discovered who that mysterious benefactor had really been — the foppish, blue-blooded
aristo, Crueya Vandron, a snake-oil politician of the old school, a man who’d never believed in the New Order, who’d been using it for his
own ends. He can still remember the days when he and others had led the reaction within the Select Committee, ousting the oldthinking half-
breeds who’d never been able to truly embrace the principles of Palpatinism-Tarkinism. That was back in the days when he’d believed —
mistakenly, it turned out — that the Incorruptible and his factotum Wilhuff Tarkin — no relation — had fully understood their own
principles. He doesn’t really hold that against them, though; after all, both were ultimately products of their own environments, having been
raised within the exploitative aristocratic system.
He remembers the betrayals, the stopgap measures and half-solutions. He remembers the political fights between the true believers like
himself and the sell-outs, the spineless company men and their blue-blooded masters. He remembers the struggles for power, he remembers
the setbacks and disappointments.
The Incorruptible was no longer in control, no longer able to lead. Well, that was all right, then, wasn’t it? There were others who could step
in now, take control, and take the Revolution to where it needed to be, where it was always meant to go. Himself, for instance, and his
colleagues. His fellows. The Impartials.
“Brothers and sisters,” he repeats, gathering his thoughts. He gazes at the indistinct forms — secure hyperchannel aside, it is not wise to meet
in forms that could be easily recognized, in the event that one of them should be compromised. Imperial Intelligence remains the last bastion of
the sell-outs, the half-measureists, impenetrable to their agents, their infiltrators. The eyes of Imperial Intelligence are everywhere. There
persist rumors of an intelligence czar in the Ubiqtorate with limitless access to the HoloNet systems.
“Plans in Cingetorix proceed apace, I assume,” says the well-manicured man. Highly-placed in the banking industry, he is one of their most
valuable assets. An Impartial in the very heart of the enemy citadel, he is even now in his office on Aargau.
“Everything proceeds precisely and exactly according to plan,” the General answers coolly.
“Splendid work, brother,” says the lady in red, a bit more static than normal in her transmission. She must be in her office aboard one of the
space stations orbiting Kuat, he guesses. Proximity to the shipyards always degrades signal quality somewhat.
“How soon before you leave?” the cigarra-smoking man asks, from his office within the Galactic Courts of Justice Building in the Plains of
Imperial Center, not far from where the decadent and immoral Jedi Order had made their home.
“Only a few days, I think,” says he, “Before this whole mess is sorted out.”
“And Powellyne will be finished,” says the mustachioed man, tapping his fingers nervously against his desk, somewhere in the labyrinthine
offices of the Galaxy News Service. “I’ll see to it that word gets out well before he’s called to testify before the parliament of whores.”
Not a very flattering description of the Privy Council, but it happens to be one that everyone present agrees with.
“I’ve made the necessary arrangements to discredit claims about your presence,” says the woman in uniform, a stalwart figure in the Office of
Naval Intelligence. “There are no significant deviations from the prearranged alibi.”
“Superb,” says the General. “Then everything has proceeded precisely and exactly according to plan.”
“You know, even though that’s not redundant, it’s not exactly good prose, either.”
For a moment, the General thinks his heart has skipped a beat, because that certainly wasn’t his voice, and it wasn’t the voice of any of his
fellow Impartials. The holos wink out of existence immediately — even with code scrambling and image distortion, none of them can risk
being identified as members of this secret brotherhood, not yet. If General Tarkin must be sacrificed for the greater good, then so be it. He’d
do the same thing in their place.
“Who’s there? Who goes there?” The General turns, in a manner best described as flailing. His eyes sweep the darkened room, seeking the
form of his stalker — seeking, but not finding. “Answer me!”
“Conspiracy against the Imperial State,” says the voice, “Unlawful assembly, seditious libel, aggression against employees of the Imperial
State, and — lest we forget — tyrannical and capricious abuse of authority, with just a dash of conspiracy to commit murder thrown in for
garnish. You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Chief Inspector? How very unmutual of you.”
“You’re a coward,” growls the General, yanking his comm log datacard out of the holoproj and hurriedly shoving it into his tunic’s inner
pocket. “Come out and face me like a man!”
“Like a man, eh? And what kind of man strikes a woman for doing her duty? What kind of man betrays his oath to be the Sword and Shield of
the New Order? What kind of man plots to murder a thousand innocents so he can take his revenge against a man born with a silver spoon in
his mouth? Shall I come out and face you like that kind of man?”
“The Silver Fox,” Tarkin says, mostly to himself. He turns and tries to head to the light switch, but stumbles against the chair — affectations
can be dangerous, and the fondness of the Impartials for secrecy and obscurity often leads them to meet in darkened rooms, even when
meeting via holo only. He recovers, and makes it over to the wall.
Just as he flips the switch and throws light all over the room, he feels a cold metal blade press against his throat from behind.
“I’m not all talk, you know,” whispers the voice.
“You can threaten my life all you want,” he says with a sneer. “Go ahead and kill me. You will have accomplished nothing. My orders are
irreversible — those civilians will be executed, whether you kill me or not.”
“Oh, I’m not going to kill you, my porcine friend,” says the voice. The General tenses as he feels a hand snake across his chest, reach into his
tunic’s inner pocket and extract the datacard.
That datacard contains a log of all the General’s communications in the past month. Not only does it prove that he was here in Cingetorix, it
contains the communications data from every meeting he’s had with his Impartial brethren in that time.
The General tenses again, ready to try something — anything — to stop his assailant, but a little bit of pressure on the knife presses its sharp
edge just a bit harder against his throat. He can feel a slight trickle of blood against his neck, and knows that if the blade can break skin with
that little pressure, the slightest jarring will slice his jugular wide open.
“Go ahead,” he says through clenched teeth. “You can prove nothing. The ISB will never trace those calls. You will have discredited me,
maybe even sent me to the booth, but in the end, we’ll march on. We always do. We’re a hydra. Cut off one head, two more will take its
place.”
“Oh, I’m familiar enough with the ISB and its methods. I know you’ve infiltrated it with your vermin. I know they’ll never track the rest of
your swarm of traitors — ” there’s a pause, and in the voice Tarkin can almost hear the grin — “which is precisely and exactly why I’m going
to give this little bit of incriminating evidence to Imperial Intelligence instead.”
A thin trickle of sweat makes its way down the side of the General’s face. Imperial Intelligence, the last bastion of reactionary oldthinkers.
The one organ of the Imperial State that the Impartials have no presence in, have no influence in. The implacable enemy, the scourge that’s
nearly wiped them out once already. The black hole, the impenetrable opacity that they hate and fear, because they cannot see inside it,
because they do not know what lurks beneath its monolithic façade.
All communications between the Impartials are code-scrambled, heavily encrypted, usually using unregistered holoprojs and network nodes.
But there’s always the possibility that the cryptoanalysts of Imperial Intelligence can crack those codes, trace those signals, identify and
liquidate the Impartials that lay beyond them. It would not destroy the brotherhood — no, it’s too decentralized for that, much the same way
that it’s impossible to identify all the members of the Ubiqtorate, since not even its own members know who and how many are counted
among its number. But it would eliminate many among the brotherhood’s most powerful and influential members, and — worse yet — reveal
to their enemies that the Impartials still exist, are still active, and still dangerous.
“What do you want?”
“I’m sorry, what was that, General? I didn’t understand you there. What without the blustering and all.”
“You have no reason to be involved in this,” General Tarkin says tersely, another bead of sweat making its way down his face.
“Haven’t I? Funny how you’re not talking about being a martyr anymore.”
“Listen to me — I’ve got no quarrel with you, Fox. Silver Fox. Whatever you want to be called. Just back out of this, and I can see to it that
you’ll get whatever it is you want. Trust me. I’ve got the connections. Money? Power? Women? Just give me that datacard and you’ll have it.
I swear it.”
“What exactly do you think you can give me, General,” says the voice, drawing nearer, its hot breath against the back of his neck, “that I
cannot simply take?”
Tarkin’s chest rises and falls now, his breathing fast and heavy. Amazing, isn’t it — a threat to his life just makes him grit his teeth, but tell
him that you’ll turn over information to the All-Seeing Eye of the Empire. . . and all of a sudden he is human, after all.
“Listen,” he says, licking his lips, the sensation of swallowing distinctly uncomfortable as his throat moves against the blade. He can feel part
of his skin being scraped off by the movement. “Just give me the card. I’ll give you — I’ll get you what you — Listen, man, just give me the
card. You can have anything. Anything you want, I swear it. Anything.”
“Typical,” says the voice. “You laugh and posture and flaunt yourself, but when the time comes to answer for it, you’re all cooperation. All
begging and supplication. Shall we talk philosophy, General? I don’t believe in last-minute reprieves. You can’t drink all night and then beg not
to pay the bill. As you’ve sown. . . well, so shall you reap.”
“Please,” the General breathes, his voice turning into a hoarse whisper. “This has nothing to do with you. This is a private disagreement
between me and Powellyne. You don’t need to be involved in this.”
“You involved me in this, General,” says the voice. “So let me tell you what you’re going to do now. You’re going to call your aide, and you’re
going to countermand your irreversible order. You’re going to release the hostages, and you’re going to compensate them for the trauma that
you’ve so thoughtlessly caused them. And then, you’re going to leave Cingetorix Sector and never come back, and when you get back to
Imperial Cen— when you get back to Coruscant, you’re going to resign from the Ministry of Security and the ISB.”
“I see,” says the General, very quietly.
“Because if you don’t,” says the voice, “Well, I’m sure you’ll find that Imperial Intelligence will be neither impartial nor disinterested when it
comes to tracking down and rooting out your pack of Impartial traitors. You have twenty-four hours to do as I say, General, before the Isard
family business gets something very interesting in the mail. I suggest you hurry.”
The arm reaches forward from behind the General and he sees a black-gloved hand touch the light switch, bathing the room in shadows once
more. The knife vanishes from against his throat, and by the time he turns the light back on and whirls around to see the voice’s owner —
He is alone once again.
- * * * * *
“ . . . whereupon he countermanded his order and then immediately left, Excellency,” says Tallisibeth Chambertin, hands folded
neatly behind her back, standing in front of Josef Moff Powellyne’s desk. He looks up at her from the datapad he’s reading — that being her
written report on the matter. He glances from her to the other occupants of his office — Captain Tan Percival Avonstale, his liaison from
Supreme Headquarters Cingetorix Sector Command, with his own report, and Diego Antilles, Esquire, the negotiator, retained by several of the
families involved to look after their interests in the Moff’s office.
“I see,” says the Moff of Cingetorix, pursing his lips.
The negotiator speaks up in a smooth and eminently reasonable voice. “You can see, of course, why my clients might be anxious about the
potentially damaging nature of the incident. It is now a matter of public record that they have been detained in connection with an official
investigation. Naturally, Your Excellency, nobody wants to drag the courts into this, but my clients are anxious that — ”
“Yes, yes,” says the Moff, waving this aside. “I’ll give the necessary orders. The incident will be expunged from their records, and I’ll have
the Sector attorney’s office look into monetary compensation for damages. Special Agent Chambertin, all records and materials confiscated
after the, ah, detention of these individuals have been returned?”
“Not all of them, Your Excellency,” she says. “Some materials disappeared after confiscation. I’ve already notified His Imperial Majesty’s
Attorney General for the Inner Rim, and the matter is being prosecuted as we speak. I expect that a number of General Tarkin’s men will be
convicted of charges of looting, misuse of privileged information, and official corruption. Unfortunate that it should be necessary, but
nevertheless unavoidable. Correct Thought does not permit the misuse of official power for personal gain.”
“Yes, how thoroughly ethical of it,” says Tan Avonstale, looking at her via side glance.
“I don’t think I like your tone, Captain,” she says.
“Enough,” says the avuncular Powellyne. “Every time I see you two together, you remind me of why I only procreated once. Back to the
matter at hand, has anyone got any idea why the General countermanded his orders and left so abruptly?”
“Perhaps it had to do with why he resigned,” offers Antilles, drawing a suspicious look from the Moff; Diego Antilles always knows more
than he lets on, and never makes idle suggestions. There’s something shifty about a professional meddler and busybody making idle talk.
“Your Excellency, he took a thousand citizens hostage trying to catch the Silver Fox.” Tan Avonstale says, cocking his head to the side.
“Perhaps the Silver Fox paid him a visit?”
“I think Captain Avonstale may be onto something,” says Tallisibeth, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Perhaps he did.”
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This short story was originally published in early 2006. It was republished on 2 February 2007.