As a kid, Tarkin got tossed into the planet’s lethal forests by his uncle with a cold send-off: “Either you kill, or—” and then he was on his own. Those hunts left him with a body mapped by scars and a mind tuned to survive.
From then on, he measured worth the same way the wild did—by what you could endure and what you could do when it counted. Strength meant continuation; hesitation meant removal. That frame shapes every order he gives once he becomes the Empire’s first Grand Moff and takes command of the Death Star, and it’s showed fully in Star Wars: Age of Rebellion – Grand Moff Tarkin #1 (Marvel, 2019).
Scars Check In The Hangar
Right after Scarif, the station runs a live-style firing drill. Tarkin has Admiral Motti brief everyone over all-hands:
“The planet before us is Rango Tan… population 45 million… they have remained neutral in recent conflicts.”
Tarkin answers with the line we all know: “You may fire when ready.” The gunners call it out—“Commence primary ignition… five, four…”—and then the sequence collapses. The chief gunner tries to explain, “There are 168 gunners… each of whom needs to execute his protocol.” Tarkin cuts through the excuses. “I want to see these gunners. Now.”
All 168 gunners line up. Tarkin locks onto Chief Gunner Endo Frant and takes the helmet from his hands.
“Push up your sleeves.”
“Sir?”
“Push up. Your. Sleeves.”
No scars. Frant offers one on his knee from a grav-ball tournament. Tarkin’s response is clinical and cold:
“You’re a quarter meter taller than me. At least twenty years younger. But you have just one scar on your knee… from a grav-ball game.”
Then Tarkin peels off his tunic. The panel shows a chest webbed with old wounds—Eriadu’s report card. He orders a stormtrooper: “Give him the vibroblade.” The terms are simple: “If he survives, he is to be released unharmed—and promoted to Captain.”
Frant stammers, “I’m not going to fight you.” Tarkin moves him to the real point of the station:
“We’re fighting for survival against rebel traitors who would murder each and every one of us in our sleep and dance on our graves. Now you stand and fight… or I’ll kill you where you squat.”
In his mind, the duel starts. He uses a fang-handled blade from Eriadu and carves the younger man down with practiced cuts. The urge is to purge weakness with his own hands—every day if needed. Then the fantasy snaps. Frant is still pointing at his knee, trying to show the sports scar.
Tarkin doesn’t let the mask slip. He turns the urge into policy:
“You are Death Star gunners… Your one and only job is to fire when commanded. If you are unable to do so, report for decommissioning and shipment to the labor colonies. This will be your only warning.”
That warning is the quiet version of the fight he wanted.
Alderaan: Doctrine In Action
Soon after, we’re at the scene with Princess Leia. She resists. Tarkin moves forward.
“Since you are reluctant to provide us with the location of the Rebel base, I have chosen to test this station’s destructive power on your home planet of Alderaan.”
Leia tries to deflect to Dantooine. Tarkin dismisses it: “Dantooine is too remote to make an effective demonstration.” He gives the order: “Continue with the operation. You may fire when ready.” The superlaser cycle runs clean: “Commence primary ignition… five, four, three, two, one.” Sensors confirm total destruction.
What I pay attention to next is the follow-through. Tarkin asks for the mission report reaction data and any “blue flags.” Why? Because he already had bio-trackers installed in every gunner’s helmet to record hesitation.
Six gunners show measurable delays. They argue, “We did our job. We destroyed Alderaan exactly as ordered.” Tarkin interviews Frant and then pins the standard to the wall:
“How would you feel if you were ordered to destroy your home planet?”
“…I would do my duty. With pleasure.”
No one meets him where he stands. That ends the discussion. Stormtroopers move the group into the airlock. The doors cycle. Hesitation leaves the roster. In the comic’s closing beat, Tarkin returns to his quarters, tunic open, Eriadu fang-knife on the table—calm again because the station is trimmed the way he thinks it needs to be.
