Chapter VI

It was mid-day, but Major Taugge of the French Army could never have guessed it in the darkness of the room where he sat, where not a trace of sunlight was able to penetrate. Here, it was as gloomy and as shadowed as the dead of night, yet all the more unsettling because it was so unnatural. A few lamps bolted to the cold metal walls sputtered an eerie glow across the scene, illuminating the Major and his companion, Captain Mottie, an older officer of the Navy. All around them were the clanks and clangs of machinery, and the floor beneath their feet vibrated ominously. Taugge shuddered and felt not at all himself, for his eyes were tense and his fingers twitched restlessly. As an Army officer he had never felt comfortable at sea, and he had never been aboard a vessel such as this.

“Il n'est pas sage!” he insisted to his companion suddenly, and the vehemence in his voice owed not a small amount of its sharpness to his displeasure at his uncomfortable surroundings, “It is unwise to be so confident before our victory is assured. We do the gravest injustice to our Empire if we do not take every threat seriously.”

“Mais oui, Taugge,” replied the Navy officer, “But la Resistance of the puny English? Don’t be a fool, mon ami. We broke their spirits twenty years ago. You are too young to remember, but trust me – their defeat was total and complete. Look around you. Look what we have made! They will not dare to rise against us now.”

“I still say that such confidence can only do us harm,” argued the Major, “Our forces in England are stretched thin, and the English are many. The Army cannot keep everyone in check.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Captain Mottie with a condescending smile, “but the Navy have no such concerns. Now that this battleship is complete, there can be no doubt that we rule the seas. England is an island, Major, in case you have forgotten. With all her ships destroyed years ago, she is at our mercy with no hope of outside support or supplies. Even the smuggling problem will vanish once word of this ship’s power is made public.”

“With respect, capitaine, the Resistance is not a threat to dismiss so quickly.”

A new voice echoed into the room, startling both men. “I agree, Major. Which is why we must act quickly.”

Both officers rose to their feet immediately to salute the newcomer, for the presence of a commanding officer gives fire to his inferiors. Admiral Tarquin was a thin, pale man of advanced years whose wrinkled eyes had seen much of the world in his long years of service. Medals from a hundred battles decorated his uniform and he possessed an unmistakable confidence and authority, all of which was, in Taugge's opinion, exactly fitting for the trusted military advisor and friend of Napoleon himself. Behind Tarquin stood a mountain of a man, dark, foreboding and hideously scarred, and who made the other two French officers cringe nervously. This large man wore an eye patch and a large black cloak, under which Taugge could just make out the shape of an ornate and impressive sword hanging from his belt.

“It is of foremost importance that we locate the heart of la Resistance and crush it at once,” Tarquin continued, seating himself at the head of the table and nodding to the others to be at ease. “In this matter, the princess will no doubt prove to be the key to our success.”

Taugge took a deep breath. “Mon amiral, with respect, I must protest in the strongest terms. Holding the English princess captive will only outrage the people and cause trouble for our troops stationed there. Why, when their parliament hears of this-“

Tarquin raised a single gray eyebrow. “Oh? But have you not read the latest decree from l’Empereur?” He nodded to the big man behind him, who smoothly produced a document from his cloak and handed it to the young Major.

“C’est impossible!” Taggert muttered as he read. “Parliament disbanded permanently? How can we possibly maintain control over the English now?”

“Quite simply,” the Admiral replied, “La peur de les controler! Once the full power of French ingenuity, exemplified in this peerless battleship, is demonstrated, it will become clear to our English friends that their only future will be to seek our favor rather than invite our ire. It is time for any semblance of autonomy in our provinces to be wiped out. So says the Emperor.”

The Major glanced nervously at Mottie, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground but feeling his duty was to continue to voice his doubts. “You place much faith in this ship, Amiral, and I will confess I marvel at what we have created. But what of the rumors that the blueprints have been stolen by English spies? Could it be possible that with such information they may find a weakness?”

Captain Mottie, who had until this point remained quiet, burst into laughter. “A weakness? Mon Dieu! I can assure you, Major, that this battleship is utterly indestructible. It is larger, faster, and stronger than any ship man has ever made, with enough firepower to wipe out an entire city. Let the English have the blueprints. The only thing they will learn from them is that they have no hope against us. Should they make one false move, they shall feel the full wrath of l’Etoile de la Mort.”

The large man standing behind Tarquin suddenly spoke, his voice a deep basso mixed with the wheezing of labored breath. His tone was soft, and yet at its sound the others grew still as death so that his words echoed as loudly as though he shouted. “The blueprints you speak of shall soon be recovered. I shall see to it personally. I have men closing in on their only possible location.”

The captain cleared his throat and addressed himself to Tarquin. “With respect, Amiral, perhaps another would be more suited to such a delicate task? After all, your traitorous English pet has not proved himself capable of finding the hidden outpost of la Resistance let alone these stolen blueprints. Perhaps les chevaliers such as he are no longer needed in our modern world – they are obsolete relics!”

The large man suddenly leapt into action, his massive bulk moving with such incredible speed that in the space it took the others to blink he had crossed the distance to Mottie, pulled his sword free, and placed the sharp edge of the blade against the Captain’s throat.

“You were saying, capitaine?” Monsieur le Vader hissed, a grim smile tightening his scarred face. “You think your metal monstrosity shall last forever? You are a fool, and you know nothing of true power.”

Mottie’s face was drained of color and he struggled to speak. A single drop of blood slipped down his neck from underneath the blade.

“Cease this at once,” Tarquin said irritably, “We have too much serious work to do for us to be squabbling like children.”

Le Vader sneered one final time at the officer under his power, then pulled the blade away with a flourish. Mottie gasped with relief and brought a hand to his throat, covering the small cut that now sprouted there in bright red.

Tarquin stood and spoke with finality. “Monsieur le Vader will find the blueprints. He will persuade the princess to tell us the secret of la Resistance. And then we will use this battleship to stamp out all who would oppose our Emperor’s rule. Vive la France!”

The others rose to their feet and echoed him. “Vive la France! Vive la France!”

The flickering light of the torches cast their shadows in impossible lengths across the floor. Yes, their shadows stretched long indeed, across the waters of the Channel, across the face of England, and reached all the way to remote Tatooineshire and the unsuspecting people of Anchorhead.

It has previously been mentioned that in small, provincial towns, the locals are aware of the outside world and the affairs that take place there more or less as much as they are aware of the moon and that it rotates our sphere; that is to say, with knowledge that such a thing exists, but as a distant phenomenon without any direct influence on the course of familiar affairs. Every citizen of Anchorhead, therefore, was aware that England was now under the thumb of the French Empire just as they knew that the King resided in Coruscant Palace in London, but it was not to be expected that either the Empire or the Palace were ever to hold a place in their collective lives more than as a topic of conversation to while the hours away on dull winter evenings.

Imagine, then, the shock and horror that attended the community at the sight of an entire battalion of French troops in complete battle dress, fully armed and with the look in their eyes of hardened veterans, marching into town without so much as a warning or without any explanation of their presence there. The panic such a sight engendered in the poor inhabitants of Anchorhead caused a commotion the likes of which the town had never seen, nor was likely to experience ever again. Men ran to and fro from house to house, unsure where to hide or what to do, while mothers called anxiously for their children, held them to their breasts in dread, and raised fervent prayers to Heaven in a sudden burst of devotion.

The commanding officer of the battalion signaled for a halt in the center of town, and called out in heavily accented English to be immediately addressed by the local mayor, which official, trembling and feeling suddenly very small, approached at once with his hat in hand and his head respectfully bowed. The officer inquired of the mayor if he could speak in French, and sniffed disdainfully when the humble official replied with a red face that he could not. He then produced a parchment and read aloud a description of two men: one, a tall and wiry middle-aged man of the servant class, light of hair and complexion, with sharp nose and chin; the second, a short and stocky sailor with the hardened and browned skin usual to his profession, dark of hair, and copiously tattooed in the Eastern style; most likely traveling together, or perhaps separately, and likely to have arrived in the vicinity within the last day or two at the latest. The officer demanded that the mayor make the following generally known: in the name the great French Empire which they all now served, those in possession of it should come forward with any information regarding the two that had been described.

There was a gasp from amidst the gathered crowd which prevented the mayor from making a reply, and which so echoed in the unnatural silence that followed the officer’s announcement that it drew every eye to its origin. The commander of the French made a silent motion, and two of his troops immediately pushed through the crowd and grabbed the man who had dared to gasp so loudly.

“What is your name and profession?” the Frenchman asked, once the fellow had been escorted to his presence.

“Jawa, m’lord,” the short man said, knuckling his forehead in respect, “Jasper Jawa, at your service. I am a merchant.”

The French officer furrowed his brow in suspicion. “And what do you sell, Monsieur Jawa?”

“Oh, bits and bobs, m’lord,” the Englishman stuttered, “Bits and bobs. Mostly I trade goods in Mos Eisley, you see, and sell them here to these fine people.”

“Legitimate goods, I trust? Bearing the seal of l’Empereur?”

The merchant paled. “Oh, certainly, m’lord! Anything else would be unthinkable! I'm a respectable businessman, I am, and honored by my clients and competitors alike, I assure you.”

“That is well. Let it be known that the Empire will tolerate no smugglers! We all know that the port of Mos Eisley has a certain reputation, do we not?” The Frenchman drew closer to the frightened Mr. Jawa. “And now, sir, do you not have something to report regarding the whereabouts of the two men we have described?"

Mr. Jawa nodded, eager to please the officer. "Yes, m'lord. Only yesterday I was returning from Mos Eisley where, sir, as I said before, it is my usual habit to practice my trade. On the road I passed two men who fit your description, m'lord, and who said they were bound for Anchorhead though in their ignorance of the roads hereabouts they were heading the wrong way entirely. I gave them a ride on my cart, m'lord, for nobody can say that Mr. Jawa is inhospitable or unfriendly to his fellows - why, show me the man who would dare to say such a thing, and I will show you a liar! One of the men told me that they were seeking employment as servants and I directed them to the finest gentlemen in our parish as the most likely to require their services."

"And what is the name of this fine gentlemen to whom you recommended these men?"

"Lars, sir," he replied, "The honorable Mr. Owen Lars, who owns quite a large acreage of property outside of town."

There was a rumble of murmuring and surprise amongst the crowd at the mention of their respected neighbor's name. The officer signaled again to his men, who immediately apprehended Mr. Jawa's person despite his yelp of protest.

"You will come along with us," the Frenchman said dismissively, "And lead us to this Lars of whom you speak. You and he are both arrested in the name of Napoleon for the duration of our investigation into these matters. Should you prove to be innocent of wrongdoing against the State, your freedom may be returned to you."

The poor merchant gasped again, and clutched his chest as though staggering from a blow. All around him, the townspeople of Anchorhead let out shouts of surprise and protestation, which the French officer silenced with a look.

"I remind you, sons and daughters of conquered Briton, that your lives and your liberty are now the toys of the father of our Empire, the jewel of Europe, Emperor Napoleon Palpatine. You exist only at his pleasure. Resistance of any kind will be put down quickly and without mercy. Submit, and you may yet live long and prosperous lives. Come, Monsieur Jawa, let us away."

And so the entire battalion descended upon the Lars Homestead, and news of the affair traveled quickly over the land, sounding in every ear and spreading fear in every heart. A business partner of Mr. Jawa, witness to the whole dreadful affair, returned to his home and told all to his wife, who in turn rushed to her neighbor to tell the news, during which time she was overheard by her neighbor's manservant, who himself told the cook and so on and so forth until at last the tidings found their way to Jundland Cottage.