Favourite

by Retro_Hussy (retro_hussy)

Summary:

Firmus Piett is troubled enough by the risks posed working beneath Darth Vader, but it does seem strange that all the men getting executed recently are those he isn't exactly going to miss.

Takes place around ESB events.

Notes:

I know I should be focusing on Divided rn but this idea overtook my week instead!

So I posted this prompt which was basically: "Piett can’t help noticing that all the fellow Imps Vader’s killed recently were guys who at some stage bullied him for being Outer Rim trash or whatever." Full prompt is on the post but it does kinda spoil the ending (although you've probably guessed it already.)

Like my other fics this has a lot of made up stuff as I'm not familiar with the extended universe or whatever disney replaced it with BUT I admit I do borrow things sometimes. I have also created a new character (who doesn’t last long) to act as admiral before Ozzel.

Chapter 1

Admiral Wilkun shakes his head, looking decidedly fed up. “My lord, I am sympathetic to your frustration but this is like searching for a needle in a haystack!” he says.

 

“Wrong,” replies Vader. “The rebels are not a collection of inanimate objects. They have needs: they move and communicate. Eventually they will reveal themselves, and we only need to be ready for them.”

 

Piett stands silently by the door, listening nervously. The conversation has been going on like this for a while now. Essentially they have made no advances in their search, and Vader is asking Wilkun why. Or, more accurately, Vader has had enough.

 

Ozzel, who has also been listening to the proceedings with a rather sour look on his face, suddenly catches Piett’s eye and scowls. “Are you still here, Piett?” he spits at him.

 

Piett straightens up at being addressed but doesn’t fall for it. He remains still and looks to Vader instead, who finishes speaking to Wilkun as he turns to the vice admiral.

 

“In the high-commander’s presence the captain is dismissed on my orders, Ozzel,” drawls Vader, sounding like he rather enjoys it. Piett has grown accustomed to his odd sense of humour and as such he knows that it does not signify a more favourable mood, in fact it’s usually the opposite. Nevertheless he wouldn't mind escaping the uncomfortable atmosphere—he only came here to deliver a status report—but when Vader doesn’t then give him permission to leave the dread in the pit of his stomach rises sharply.

 

Both Wilkun and Ozzel are too agitated to pick up on the signs. Wilkun shoots his own irritable, almost pained look towards the captain, the one that Piett is sure means he is remembering, although neither of them has ever brought it up. If he is reminiscing, his silence is not out of shame—Piett is certain—although he’s likely aware it wouldn’t cast him in the most flattering light should the story get about. The cream of the best academies may be running much of the Imperial Army at large, but even Wilkun understands that the Executor is not one of his private social clubs.

 

The same, perhaps, cannot be said for Ozzel, whom very nearly shrugs in irritation, pulling it back only in time to reply to Vader with, “Well—of course, sir. If you need him.”

 

Vader steps away from Wilkun, almost circling the man as he walks between him and Ozzel towards the exit where Piett still stands in the doorway. The captain makes way for him, stepping neatly to the side just as Vader turns back to the other two. “We don’t appear to be of the same mind, Admiral,” he says, still with that casual mocking that has Piett so on edge. “I have sensed a distinct lack of enthusiasm on your part for a while now.”

 

That comment visibly lands with Wilkun. He blinks and splutters out, “I-I think we can agree I have always been loyal to your cause!” and then abruptly his face goes white, eyes bulging, and then he’s clawing at his throat.

 

Wilkun falls to the floor, and Piett spies the high-commander’s outstretched fingers curl in just a fraction tighter.

 

It’s horribly quiet save for the little cracks and gargles that escape the admiral.

 

“No, Wilkun,” says Vader. “We cannot.”

 

Eyes now bloodshot, and leaning on an unsteady elbow, Wilkun reaches out towards Ozzel—his old friend—but gets not so much as a last look. Ozzel won’t even make eye contact with him, instead favouring somewhere to the left of him as he grimaces. Quaking with the strain of keeping his head up, Wilkun’s gaze shifts to stare wildly in Piett’s direction. A peculiar look overtakes his face—a kind of vague recognition as though he hadn’t known the captain was there—and he opens his mouth as if to say something.

 

Just die, thinks Piett, trembling himself at the spectacle. Please don’t let this go on.

 

As if on command Wilkun promptly slumps, motionless. His head makes such a loud thud that Piett is certain the man must have died before it struck the floor.

 

“Dismissed, Captain,” says Vader, before he finally sweeps out.

 

Piett wastes no time turning from the room and trailing after Vader for a few steps while making sure to give him plenty of leeway, until finally the dark lord turns a corner ahead of him out of sight.

 

He’s grateful Vader dismissed him in the end. His high commander knows how by the book he is, and Piett’s quite certain that not even witnessing an old friend’s murder would have stopped Ozzel from checking him for attempting to leave without permission.

 

It’s a cruel thought, but he cannot bring himself to feel sorry for it.

 

He stops a couple of Stormtroopers on the way back to the bridge and sends them to collect Wilkun’s body. It’s the only gesture he’s willing to make. There isn’t a chance in hell he’d ever step up to comfort Ozzel but he thinks if it had been his friend killed he would wish to be alone. Assuming Ozzel is actually mourning Wilkun back there.

 

Another unkind thought. Maybe it had been too painful—too horrifying—for Ozzel to look. His and Wilkun’s friendship may have been rather brash and showy but that hardly means it wasn’t genuine.

 

Piett begins moving at a light jog, wanting to put as much distance between him and the meeting room as possible.

 

Needless to say there’s no love lost his side, but while he can’t say he’s happy Wilkun’s dead he does feel a spike of validation that the man went like this: unprotected by his status, connections or money in the end.

 

He quickly reins the feeling in. It could have been anyone in that position. If someone else happened to have shared the same sentiments out loud, or if Wilkun had managed to convince Vader the blame lay with another.... Damn it, it could even have been him left writhing on the floor back there.

 

When he arrives on the bridge he doesn’t say anything. News travels fast, and soon everyone will learn that he was present when Wilkun was killed. He thinks most people will know not to bother asking him questions, but he expects Veers will bodily drag him to the officer’s lounge for a drink.

 

He ends up wandering over to the viewports, finding calm in drowning himself in the mass of stars beyond for just a moment. He can admit he’s shaken up. He’d known Vader executed people on the spot for failures or disrespect, but he’s never witnessed it before until today.

 

He sees Wilkun’s face—that curious last expression he wore before it was cut off forever—and wonders if the man had even been able to see him in that last moment.

 

He’s called away from his brooding by an ensign, and decides it’s time to go back to work.

 

~

 

If Ozzel shed any tears over Wilkun’s death, Piett thinks he must have got them all over and done with. Perhaps the old Core Camaraderie doesn’t count for much after all, or perhaps Ozzel is just giddy that with his friend gone, he has been pronounced admiral.

 

Piett already knows this won’t be an improvement.

 

He already has plenty of reasons to dislike Ozzel, but there is another more pressing cause for concern. The new admiral is not competent. Like a lot of people who come from money he thinks himself untouchable, and that his achieving high status was mere inevitability. He doesn’t understand Vader (who does, really) and he will make no effort to. Out of all Piett’s superiors he is the haughtiest of them all; a pumped up version of Wilkun but without skill or common sense. A testament to the fact he cannot possibly have been Vader’s own choice for the job. Of course they’re not supposed to talk about it, but Piett knows full well there are two strains of higher command in Death Squadron; those selected by Vader and those selected for him.

 

Nevertheless Ozzel’s time as admiral begins and Piett is ready to do his duty. He isn’t about to stick his neck out covering for the man, but they must progress in their mission, and soon. It is plain that Vader has a single goal; capture Luke Skywalker alive. And he’s growing impatient.

 

It is tempting, of course, to deliberately set Ozzel up for total humiliation at the very least. But Piett knows the risks are too high; other people as well as himself could be implicated, and having all these officers dropping like flies is hardly good for morale on board. If they can only satisfy Vader’s demands and quickly, it might afford everyone a bit of stability. Not that they’re likely to feel stable with a man like Ozzel in charge.

 

But perhaps, Piett muses in the immediate days after Wilkun’s death, if they advance enough in their objective Vader won’t take as much notice of Ozzel’s screw-ups? And if Ozzel merely thinks he’s making all the right decisions, surely it will be enough for him?

 

It isn’t.

 

Ozzel has learned absolutely nothing from Wilkun’s execution. He disagrees with Vader on almost everything and takes no particular trouble in hiding it. He has enough sense to be cautious in front of their high-commander—or perhaps that’s just fear—but does not guard his tongue once Vader’s out of sight. He says they’re wasting their time searching for the rebel base, that they should let them come out of hiding and be obliterated by the Empire’s artillery and have done with it. He seems to habitually forget that Vader explicitly ordered Skywalker and his friends to be captured alive, and so therefore, in the event of battle, shooting blindly at every rebel ship in sight would be a fatal error. He contests everything; where they should be searching, their use of resources, the number of ships sent out, which tactical movements to employ in an attack, the amount of money to spend and where... the list goes on.

 

Piett works harder than ever running to and fro checking things that have been forgotten about or just plain ignored. He makes no complaint—there would be little point in doing so anyway—and he also stubbornly refuses to show things are getting to him. Ozzel has, after all, been promoted to admiral more or less on the Emperor’s blessing. It would be a mistake not to support him publicly in any case, but it does make Ozzel all the more insufferable. He believes this means he’s in favour with their ruler, and that therefore Vader can’t kill him. Piett believes it’s simply bought the idiot a little extra time.

 

Ozzel’s so very terrible that once or twice Piett catches himself wondering if by appointing the man whomever responsible actually planned this—intending for him to fail—and has simply prolonged his demise, knowing Vader’s temper won’t withstand his blunders. Or perhaps it’s to punish the rest of the crew for being unsuccessful: that is possible, because Ozzel does not make things easy on the other officers, either. The military is not for the faint of heart, but the new admiral goes out of his way to be unpleasant, especially to anyone of much lower rank... or those he feels are not deserving of the position they’re in. He thinks he’s ruling through fear, like Vader does. Thinks he’s doing an excellent job.

 

It would be funny if he didn’t have almost complete authority.

 

Unlike Wilkun, there is no doubt Ozzel often thinks on the altercation with Piett all those years ago. He never mentions it either, but there’s an amused glint in his eye sometimes when he looks at Piett, and if there is the slightest suggestion of disagreement brewing between them, he always makes a point to get a little too close. He also shouts in Piett’s face a lot; any mistake or misunderstanding enough to cause the tiniest hint of embarrassment and he’s off – yelling and spitting rage – seeming to feel he’s achieving something through it.

 

Piett finds it helpful to hark back into his early training days, when the slip-up might have been as simple as not turning your bed down properly, or failing to salute accurately. He hadn’t respected his first drill instructor, either, and it’s almost soothing to stand there and watch Ozzel rave and rant, wondering what it must be like to know that’s all he has.

 

Eventually, while they get absolutely nowhere finding the rebel base, things do settle into a routine of sorts. Ozzel runs things like he thinks half of the ship functions automatically, while Piett delicately tries to steer the man—and therefore many others no doubt—away from certain death. Ozzel has a fit a handful of times a week, but seems quite pleased with the new status quo even with Vader breathing down his neck. He seems to think he has Piett under control now: most likely mistaking his captain’s silence in the face of his tirades as submission.

 

But even Piett’s tolerance has its limits.

 

The day Ozzel catches on to what he’s up to, it’s over a disagreement about the frequency of their scans along the Anoat sector. It’s the same problem Wilkun had; the more obscure and unknown the territory, the less willing he was to consider it might be exactly where they should be looking. Rinse and repeat.

 

When Piett tries to argue his point for the third time, daring to use the word ‘but’ yet again, Ozzel just about stamps his foot in rage. Instead, he grabs Piett by the arm and leads him just beyond the communications consoles to a more secluded area. “Let me remind you,” he hisses, going purple in the face, “of exactly which one of us is admiral!”

 

Piett can’t even be bothered to try and retract his argument, and instead gives an apologetic nod and says, “Sir.”

 

Ozzel fumes for a moment longer, looking him up and down with contempt, and then he seems to calm as he looks around them and an unpleasant smirk overtakes his expression. “Of course you have aspirations, and I’ll tell you now to give them up. You seem to have forgotten the little lesson we kicked into you, do you need a reminder?"

 

Piett blinks. It’s the first time anyone’s mentioned the incident in over fifteen years, and it’s come in the form of a direct threat. But he isn’t afraid. Try as he might Ozzel only ever had the stomach to fight with back up, if he tries anything Piett will be ready. It took three of them to subdue him last time, and Ozzel must remember that: must think he’ll easily find a group to do his bidding like he stepped up for Wilkun. But what he doesn’t realise is that he isn’t surrounded by ‘his sort’ of people anymore. There was evidently only so many Vader would put up with.

 

Piett may not be afraid, but he is suddenly furious, and for a couple of seconds he considers encouraging Ozzel to do it; to goad him into striking. Maybe they could both just beat on each other until Vader finds them and strangles them both, he thinks almost hysterically.

 

Good sense wins out.

 

“I remember, sir,” he says flatly.

 

Ozzel sneers, and tugs sharply on the hem of his jacket to straighten it. “Listen, Piett. I don’t care about whatever mess up in admin landed you as captain, but you can give up any fancies you’re entertaining for higher command. It’s not for someone like you.”

 

It’s at that moment Piett realises Vader must kill Ozzel. It may not be today or the next day, but the man is already on a self-built route to disaster with no return. The insult doesn’t infuriate him like it might have done when he was younger, although there is the pang of angered pain – dulled by time and willpower. But he understands now that Ozzel is threatened by him—not because Piett might take his position from him—but because deep down, perhaps only subconsciously, he knows he’s out of his depth. The centre of his disdain for Piett may be his background and lack of breeding, but what galls him more is that in spite of that, this low-born, Outer Rim trash has the audacity to be clever and good at his job. Piett isn’t afraid of Ozzel but he can finally admit to himself he was for a while. The man has done him wrong, and he wants retribution.

 

Several weeks later when he sees his chance he decides he will push it; a signal that eventually reveals a man-made structure on the apparently deserted planet Hoth. He doesn’t care what Ozzel throws at him, and while he’s not sure if he’s after a promotion anymore, he wants Vader to know he’s loyal.

 

As Ozzel and Veers walk past he calls the admiral over, loud enough that it should reach Vader by the viewport.

 

Ozzel is predictably unimpressed. “We have thousands of probe droids searching the galaxy, we need proof not leads!” he says, and Piett starts arguing his case.

 

“You found something,” booms Vader out of nowhere, interrupting them.

 

Piett jumps and masks it by going straight into showing him the monitor.

 

“That’s it,” says Vader firmly. “The rebels are there.”

 

Piett supposes he shouldn’t be taken aback Vader’s so sure. He might not understand the Force-thing Vader talks about sometimes, but he’s certainly seen enough to know it’s for real.

 

“My lord,” Ozzel begins about as carefully as he can manage before voicing his doubts, and Piett suppresses a groan. He doesn’t dare look at Veers, knowing his friend will be thinking along the same lines.

 

“That is the system,” Vader cuts across Ozzel, effectively shutting him up, “and I’m sure Skywalker’s with them. Set your course for the Hoth system. General Veers!” He swivels to face the general. “Prepare your men.” He leaves, shortly followed by Veers.

 

Ozzel shoots Piett a hateful look, coming to lean into his space, but Vader must have cowed him because he doesn’t say a word before he storms away.

 

Piett almost smiles.

 

His minor victory is short lived, however. Angry at being shown up in front of Vader, Ozzel orders a ‘surprise’ attack on Hoth by pulling out of hyperspace almost directly above the planet’s surface. This isn’t anything to do with their mutual hatred anymore; with this single command Ozzel could potentially destroy this one chance they have.

 

“Admiral,” he calls out urgently. “I don’t think you—”

 

“Do as I say, Captain!” is all he gets in return.

 

~

 

Just as Vader said, the rebels are on Hoth, and as Piett expects, they have been alerted to their arrival by Ozzel’s bumbling tactics. Ozzel is strangled for his mistake. It happens right beside Piett, with Vader somehow doing it from the other side of the ship, and there’s no time for relief or satisfaction as he is promoted several ranks to admiral, seconds before—he’s certain of it—Ozzel actually dies. While he’s dazed he does not waste time asking why or how. Instead he says, “Thank you, Lord Vader,” and nods like it’s any other day.

 

When Vader ends the commlink Piett risks a look down at the body. Ozzel is red-faced, eyes dull, tongue lolling, and still with a perturbed expression as though he refuses to believe a man like him could be discarded so easily.

 

He used to, as Ozzel would have put it, fantasise about being promoted beyond captain, but under the circumstances he isn’t quite sure what it is he’s feeling. For now, he pushes such thoughts away. There is work to do, and the day will bring little respite.

 

The battle commences on Hoth. Veers’s AT-AT’s prove formidable, and despite some losses and an injury for the general they successfully breach the hideout. Vader himself goes down to the planet’s surface, but with Ozzel’s shenanigans having given them away too soon he does not catch Skywalker. The Millennium Falcon, however, is seen evacuating and the Star Destroyers and TIE Fighters give chase. The light freighter evades much of the firepower and this Han Solo must be a complete lunatic because he flies straight into an asteroid field. It makes Piett wonder if Skywalker is on board with them, or at least someone else who knows how dangerous Vader really is: someone who would rather face being torn apart by floating rocks than be captured by him.

 

Perhaps the strangest moment during the chase comes when Vader is back on board the Executor, and Piett goes to report to him inside his private chambers.

 

He’s been here before and is familiar with the meditation pod, but what throws him is that Vader is without his helmet. A bald, pale head covered in scars unlike anything Piett’s ever seen faces away from him as Vader takes oxygen from an external mask. He’s shocked, both at what can see and the fact he is seeing it. Vader must know he’s there; he allowed him entry. Piett can’t recall anyone else mentioning seeing him like this... certainly Ozzel wouldn’t have done because he would have spread it around like wildfire. He catches himself staring when the helmet is lowered back onto Vader and the man is rotated to face him.

 

He straightens up and fights to keep his face and mind blank.

 

“Yes, Admiral?” Vader rumbles sounding irritated, perhaps at Piett’s gawking or from the events of the invasion.

 

“Our ships have sighted the Millenium Falcon, lord,” says Piett, “but... it has entered an asteroid field and we cannot risk—”

 

“Asteroids do not interest me, Admiral. I want that ship, not excuses.”

 

Piett nods, “Yes, my lord.”

 

When he leaves he’s unclear of what startled him more; Vader's criticism, the old wounds on his skin and the fact he was allowed to see them and live, or that—from what little he glimpsed—Vader appears to be human.

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

Thank you so much for the responses to this! I'm really enjoying this one.

Warning for Piett thinking inaccurate and unflattering things about Mandalorians. Further notes at the end!

The smaller Star Destroyers pursue the rebels through the asteroid field, the TIEs leading the way. It’s clear that the Millennium Falcon must have a damaged or malfunctioning hyperdrive or they would surely have jumped to lightspeed by now, which Piett thinks bodes well. While the freighter is much hardier than its appearance would suggest and its pilot and gunners undoubtedly skilled, there is no way it can outrun the fleet at regular speeds. With every command he gives he stresses that any further damage to it must not be fatal: this is a capture and its destruction would be considered a failure.

 

Things are looking promising: the Avenger reports that it has the freighter in range, and while Piett wishes it was any other vessel in pursuit he relays encouragement and further instruction as their little sister ship prepares to take the Millennium Falcon in.

 

Vader rejoins them on the bridge and strides to the viewport, seeming to have heard or sensed the favourable news. Piett is careful to guard his thoughts when he sees him, still extremely curious from what he saw earlier that day. He refocuses on the task at hand, checking in with the information channelling from the Avenger and its TIEs. They’re going to catch them, he realises suddenly. The mission is finally coming to an end, and they have succeeded.

 

Suddenly there’s a change: something happens—some confusion from the crew pit as the officers struggle to understand the messages—and then finally the next audible words over the comlink are, “But how—?” and then there’s silence and Piett’s heart sinks.

 

They can’t fail—he can’t fail—especially not now, so soon. He hasn’t even had a chance to prove himself in his new position.

 

“I want an immediate update on the Avenger’s progress,” Vader growls at communications officer Terret, who has the all the appearance of a small child from down in the crew pit as he relays the message while also looking very much as though he shares Piett’s suspicions it will not be good tidings.

 

Maybe this is the price of wishing for Ozzel’s demise, Piett thinks grimly, as the name of every other Star Destroyer followed by “no sighting!” is repeatedly called out.

 

Some time later, when things are still tense and quiet he’s crossing the security foyer for another useless check of the scanners when he nearly runs straight into Lorth Needa, the Avenger’s captain.

 

There’s a moment of terrible awkwardness: Needa is white-faced and visibly startled to see him, as though he’d forgotten Piett serves aboard the Executor. The two men just stand there in silence for a few seconds, blinking at each other. Needa’s expression morphs from surprise into something closer to embarrassment, and Piett is taken aback when the man opens his mouth as if he’s actually going to speak, which he never does: not to him, anyway. But then Needa’s gaze moves to something over Piett’s shoulder and his eyes widen with trepidation at precisely the same time the temperature dips.

 

“Captain Needa,” comes Vader’s voice from behind Piett, the words laced with anger. “I do not recall summoning you here.”

 

Needa quickly moves around Piett; knocking into the shorter man slightly and breaking the strange atmosphere between them. While the collision was most likely accidental Needa does not pause to offer an apology nor does Piett expect one. Instead he recovers neatly from the impact and heads over to the communication consoles like nothing happened, until he gets there and ends up gazing numbly at a monitor. The encounter, on top of everything else going on, has left him shaken and he finds himself vaguely recalling how protocol dictates that they should have acknowledged each other—on Needa’s part more given Piett’s promotion—as if it matters now.

 

“Lord Vader,” says Captain Needa, his deep voice sounding perfectly calm. “We have lost all sight of the Millennium Falcon.”

 

There’s a pause, during which only Vader’s respirator and the usual noises of ship’s activities can be heard, but Piett can feel the man advancing on Needa. He tries to tune out and concentrates as hard as he can on the scanner feedback console. What is Needa doing, he thinks? Why didn’t he just report to Vader from his own ship?

 

“Nobody can think how it happened, but it disappeared without a trace,” Needa continues, still steady as anything. “I claim full responsibility for its loss and I offer my sincerest apologies, my lord.”

 

Oh, dear.

 

Vader still doesn’t say anything, yet the buzz around them seems to dull for a few moments as whatever is taking place across the room distracts a few and stops many others in their tracks. The air grows thick and still for a second, and then a dull thud sounds.

 

“Apology accepted, Captain Needa,” drawls Vader, and then he’s making his way over and Piett has to quickly gather himself before straightening up.

 

As Needa’s body is dragged away Piett stoically confirms they’ve lost all sight of the Millennium Falcon, and states with surety that they will catch up with it.

 

“Don’t fail me again... Admiral,” is the last thing Vader says to him before sweeping off.

 

Everyone deflates slightly once he’s out of earshot. A few officers shoot curious and sympathetic looks Piett’s way, which he ignores as he dishes out a few commands of his own. While Vader’s threat still rings clear, Piett tries to settle himself with the knowledge that he gets to live another day. He’s not entirely sure how or why, but he does.

 

~

 

In the days that follow he comes to find he’s surprised Vader didn’t spare Needa. Despite holding a lingering allegiance to the self-styled ‘Core Commanders’ (Ozzel and Wilkun among them), Needa had become an efficient captain in his own right; channelling his insatiable aggression into his work with favourable results. He’d become known for being harsh but fair with his subordinates no matter their backgrounds: slightly ironic given that he chose to ignore Piett completely rather than acknowledge the unfortunate episode from their past. In some ways Piett had always been thankful; he didn’t know if he could have faced it again any more than Needa, not even for an apology if the other man did harbour any regret. Needa’s last move before his death could be put down to sheer foolishness, but Piett has to admit it had seemed decent in intent; like the man had genuinely meant to accept all blame and protect his officers from their high-commander’s wrath.

 

Even so, Vader must be truly irate to have killed him, and Piett is very, very lucky to be alive. In fact, had Needa not come here perhaps it would have been his neck instead. He may not have been the one leading the pursuit of the Millennium Falcon at the time but he is admiral, and usually the one in the direct line of fire. He doesn’t for one second suppose Needa meant his apology to extend any defence to him, but it is an odd thing to consider it ended up doing so all the same.

 

And what is even more odd to consider, is that they’re all dead: Wilkun, Ozzel and Needa. All three of them.

 

A foolish thought springs into his head; the kind of notion that a child might entertain.

 

He dismisses it.

 

He’s just been thinking about the past a lot in the last few weeks: Ozzel has been a constant, all too eager reminder. Vader had specific reasons for killing him and the other two men. That each of them shared a rather distasteful little link with Piett.... Well, it didn’t mean anything to Vader. They were hardly the only snobs Piett has encountered and they won’t be the last. It’s stupid to imagine that the dark lord would even care what sort of men they were; he valued only what his officers could offer to his cause. He did not socialise or care for any of them on a personal level.

 

Still, a strange peace overtakes the new admiral for a few moments a day as he allows himself the grim satisfaction that at the very least he got to outlive them all. He finds he needs it: he’s started having nightmares about it again. It’s so stupid; so idiotic and infuriating that he can’t free himself from the memory. It was a beating, that was all. The kind of thing that was happening every night somewhere when the bars emptied and tempers and alcohol levels in the blood ran high. And he hadn’t even had anything taken—save perhaps for a little dignity—but he’s gained it back.

 

Perhaps that’s why, although he repeatedly dismisses the idea that keeps bothering him, he can’t help wondering if Vader knows about the incident: he can essentially read minds, after all. He expects Ozzel projected the memory loud and clear whenever Piett annoyed him. Still, he hopes not. The event had been humiliating enough just being between the four of them.

 

But what would it mean if Vader knew anyway? He doesn’t seem the pitying kind. Piett doesn’t want to be pitied for such a stupid thing: he is fine, not even a scar, and the matter is settled.

 

Whatever the truth he needn’t think on it too much, he knows. It will be him next if he fails to deliver. His intuition about the structure on Hoth might have bought him some approval, but he knows these things come with a timer. A little pity—if it exists—will not halt the countdown.

 

He has no backing or recommendation from anyone powerful. His elevation to command is down to Vader and Vader alone. His death, if or when it comes, will be a truly one-to-one affair. No one will question it. No one will protest: not if they hope to keep breathing.

 

~

 

Two weeks after the Battle of Hoth Veers finally returns to the Executor, sporting a limp and some bruises but otherwise looking fit and well. Piett meets him on the landing bay, having secured a few hours off work, and is keen to see the general.

 

“Hello, Admiral,” says Veers teasingly, and Piett feels himself smile for the first time in weeks.

 

“General, ” he replies, and is abruptly tugged into a one-armed hug. He laughs, a little embarrassed by the show of affection, but pleased at the contact all the same.

 

It feels strange to think now but he hadn’t liked Veers when they first met. On the surface the general appeared to merge in with all the other core-worlders with his large build and brash sense of humour. Maximilian Veers is the Empire ideal, really; hailing from a decent planet, a solid education, tall, strong, well spoken, and to cap it all extremely talented and hardworking. He's self-made, but not by ‘too much’. Even Ozzel—a fact that hadn’t recommended him to Piett at all—had admired him.

 

But after working with the man for the first six months, and when Piett realised Veers’s jokes and persistent invitations to drinks nights were friendly—actually friendly—he’d relented, and Veers has become the person he’s probably closest to.

 

“How’s the leg?” he asks when Veers releases him.

 

Veers grunts, patting the offending limb. “Bloody nuisance if you must know.”

 

“And the rest?”

 

“Fine. Bit singed here and there.”

 

They head to Piett’s quarters, discussing Veers’s experiences over the last few days. Piett is pleased to learn that Zevulon got in touch after hearing about Veers’s injuries, knowing that things have always been strained between the two. He can imagine his friend as a forbidding parental figure, but also knows that he cares a great deal for his son.

 

“We spoke more about you than anything else,” says Veers with a bitterness that isn’t entirely exaggerated.

 

“About me?” asks Piett. “Why?”

 

“Well, your big promotion got us onto the subject. He was all over it: ‘Oh yes, Firmus will make a brilliant admiral. He deserves it. Not like all those other toffs in the admiralty’.”

 

Piett elbows him gently for the pompous impression of Zevulon. “He didn’t say that.”

 

“Word for word. Couldn’t shut him up, he adores you. In fact I think he’d much rather you were his father than me.”

 

“Oh, come off it, Max.”

 

“No, really. He kept singing your praises and then shooting me dirty looks as though I was sullying a lovely moment between the two of you.”

 

“Well I’m not surprised he was if you had that pathetic look on your face the whole time.”

 

“Oi!”

 

Piett’s new quarters are mercifully not the same ones Ozzel had—he’d eagerly moved into Wilkun’s much larger, cushier abode upon becoming admiral—and so Piett was quite happy with his new modest-sized, comfortable room.  There’s a double bed: the first one he’s ever had in fact, that he likes to curl up in the centre of on quiet nights. There’s also a cosy living space with two armchairs and a holoprojector beside a round viewport, a private refresher, and most importantly, a small bar.

 

Piett gets them both a drink and they sit in the two chairs.

 

“You look exhausted, Firmus,” Veers tells him.

 

Piett looks at him wryly. “You always say that.”

 

“Well it’s true. But you look worse.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“How are things here?”

 

Piett sighs, leaning back in the chair. “We’re so close, I know it.”

 

Veers nods. “I think everyone does. You can feel it in the atmosphere. Of course, that might just be our leader motivating us, but—I think things are about to change.”

 

Piett suddenly remembers the incident in the meditation chamber; when Vader had allowed him to see what he looked like beneath the helmet, and he opens his mouth to tell Veers, but then he stops. He recalls red wounds stretched across white flesh, untouched by sunlight in who knows how long, and realises he would inevitably be sharing something he has no right to. Vader’s appearance, his true nature, is unknown by almost everyone. For him to have let Piett see anything of it—assuming it wasn’t a rare oversight on his part—hopefully signals he has some actual trust in him. Piett knows he shouldn’t get ahead of himself, but it had seemed in that moment, despite Vader’s impatience, that there was something curiously fragile in the air between them.

 

“Now you look like you’re drunk already,” asks Veers knowingly, frowning at him as he places his drink down on the small table between them. “What were you about to say?”

 

“I’m just... stressed. I don’t know how this is going to end if we don’t find the rebels soon.”

 

Veers grunts in agreement. “You’re telling me. It’s almost systematic the way people are dropping round here.”

 

“It is systematic, Max. Everyone who’s died was in command in some way when they failed to deliver what Vader wanted. He killed them.”

 

Veers looks at him pointedly. “You’re still here.”

 

For an awful moment Piett wonders if his friend has spotted the ‘other’ link between the three deaths, but then realises he can’t have done. Veers doesn’t know about that. He shivers. “Barely. I think if one other thing had gone wrong at Hoth we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

 

There’s a pause, and then Veers says, “Do you really think so?”

 

“Of course.” Piett sighs when he sees Veers is just watching him. “What?”

 

Veers takes another moment before replying, seeming the weigh up his response. “...Did you not think it strange the way you were hustled into Death Squadron, having specifically not applied?”

 

Piett frowns. “Not really. Plenty of people get drafted who didn’t ask for it.”

 

“Only if they’re any good, Firmus. And you weren’t just installed in any old position; they didn’t stuff you in some poky little office somewhere. You were made captain. I’d say someone sat up and took notice of you.”

 

“...What are you trying to say?”

 

“That perhaps Vader values your talent? Maybe that’s why you’re still alive?”

 

Piett blinks. He thinks about the moment in Vader’s quarters again. He shakes his head. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that gets men killed—sooner, anyway. Thinking, ‘Oh, I’m safe. Vader wouldn’t hurt me, I’m too good.’”

 

“That’s not what I mean, Firmus.” Veers sounds serious. “He’s an intense fellow, that’s for sure. But not without reason. I don’t believe he promoted you because you happened to be right there in front of him. And I don’t believe he spared you just because bloody Needa got in front of him first.”

 

“Max....” Piett begins, not sure he’s comfortable with where this is going.

 

“Even before all of this he would listen to your opinion over everyone else’s. You were stuck doing paperwork for nearly two years before coming here.”

 

“Sometimes. Sometimes he listens to me. That doesn’t mean I’m in favour. You know there’s no such thing for Vader.”

 

Veers continues as though he hasn’t heard him. “He plucks you out from behind the desk no doubt having researched your old hunting days—”

 

“I’m sure he personally didn’t—”

 

“—makes you captain of our Lady of all ships, and then the second Ozzel’s down he goes and makes you admiral. That’s five ranks up, Firmus!”

 

“Yes, I know, but—”

 

“Don’t you think it seems as though he.... You know?”

 

“What? Can’t wait to choke me, too?”

 

“No.... As though he wants to... show you off a bit?” Veers gives a rather suggestive nod, and Piett almost reels back.

 

 “I think you should get your head checked again.”

 

~

 

Veers’s return prompts Piett to look over his personal documents. He got his affairs in order a long time ago: he started with so little anyway there wasn’t much apart from his military papers, but he finds himself digging up his will to check it over. Everything looks acceptable; most of his savings will go to his sister and her children, and then some to his old school on Axxila. He may have had a rough start in life, but they taught and provided for him and many of his family members as well as they could, and they deserve some payback. He adds on a couple of things; a little money for Zevulon—he finds himself endeared by the boy’s championing him—and his reasonable liquor collection to go to Veers.

 

When he emerges from personnel he feels more determined to prove all those bastards—the ‘toffs in the admiralty’ as Zev would put it—wrong than ever.

 

He must succeed. If he doesn’t and is killed... what has he really achieved? He’s done well in his career, he supposes, for what he began with but it isn’t enough. He wants to show he’s more than a pencil-pushing no name from some backwater planet, desperate to prove himself. Even though... that’s what he is, really, isn’t it?

 

So, what is it that he really wants? Is this about success, if he succeeds? Is this about validating his past and securing things for his remaining family? Or is this about afterwards; when he might just scrape the chance to find happiness and safety and indulge himself in all the things he’s previously swept aside in favour of work?

 

The questions trouble him as weeks pass with no sighting of the Millennium Falcon, along with hazy night terrors that begin with him walking down a darkened street, only to hear an angry shout from behind him and the realisation he is not alone.

 

~

 

Piett already knows he isn’t going to like the explanation when Vader tells him they finally have a lead. The sight of the two bounty hunters on the Lady’s bridge is all the more offensive for the fact that his high-commander has admitted them on board. He almost feels betrayed. Mandalorians have no loyalty to the Empire—they are a secretive and self-interested race—they can’t be relied upon! There will be no reimbursement for damages or loss if things get ugly, either. As for bounty droids: they are frankly unstable, so why are they dealing with them?

 

The Mandalorian serves one purpose. He tells Vader the rebels are most likely to head to Bespin, and from there it’s a flurry of activity as they prepare for the journey.

 

“Admiral,” Vader calls him over onto the walkway above the crew pit.

 

“Yes, Lord Vader,” he says, wishing he was allowed to ask his lord one question with a guarantee of no choking.

 

“It seems that we cannot underestimate the smuggler’s piloting skills. I’ll leave it to you to organise a team to deactivate the Millennium Falcon’s hyperdrive.”

 

“Yes my lord.”

 

Piett nods and goes to turn away, when Vader speaks again.

 

“You seem restless, Admiral.”

 

Piett’s heart lurches unpleasantly. Vader commenting upon a person’s mood was never a good sign. “—I am eager to get to work, my lord,” he says, wincing at how feeble the explanation sounds. It’s not really a lie, at least.

 

Vader’s helmet tilts up slightly. “Very well. Take care not to overexert yourself.”

 

Piett swallows and nods again before leaving. While he knows Vader just issued a warning to him, he allows just a small frisson of irritation. He’s ‘restless’ because he could be doing more—so much more—but that doesn’t mean he intends to argue. Surely Vader knows he would never dare? He isn’t Wilkun or Ozzel. He refuses to stamp his feet or make petty demands. He will always do exactly as commanded, doesn’t Vader realise that? And apart from anything else the presence of the bounty hunters galls him because Vader is relying on someone else: is he so desperate? Or is this in part to show Piett his diminishing faith in him? If so, why not just kill him?

 

Naturally, he takes care not to think any of this until he’s three doors away from his high commander, and he takes just a few breaths before heading down into the crew pit.

 

In comparison to Hoth their plan for Bespin is handled with the utmost delicacy. Vader has decided everything; he will allow the rebels to think themselves safe on Cloud City, giving them a day or two to allow for Skywalker to catch up (he seems confident the boy isn’t with them), and then conduct an ambush. The Executor will hide close by in case the Millennium Falcon doubles back for any reason, but hopefully after Piett’s team has had a chance to sabotage it.

 

At first, things go well. Very well.

 

They arrive at Bespin before the rebels by several hours—the Millennium Falcon apparently limped its way through space when it eventually gets there—and Vader and the Stormtroopers take control of Cloud City.

 

Piett instructs a group of technicians to go down and disable the freighter’s hyperdrive. He specifies that it be compromised beyond repair, and the technicians nod affirmatively before departing.

 

Vader succeeds in capturing the rebels and for a while things are quiet. Everyone waits with baited breath.

 

And then the message comes in.

 

Skywalker has come to Cloud City, and it’s from there that everything seems to go wrong again just as fast. All Piett knows is that Vader has the man—boy really, from the holos Piett’s seen of him—cornered, and then suddenly reports on all sides of Princess Leia, the Wookie, two droids along with the city’s administrator all escaped start coming in.

 

Piett remains calm. The rebels may give them another game of chase, but their hyperdrive is deactivated. They will not get away.

 

For some reason the rebels take their time leaving the planet’s surface, and the explanation becomes clear when Vader rejoins them on board. Skywalker has also got away. Vader orders that the weapons be set for stun, as Piett expected.

 

Everything’s in place. They’re set and prepared. Piett orders for the tractor beam to be readied.

 

And then, before his very eyes the light freighter’s engines light up, and it disappears into hyperspace.

 

He can’t believe it.

 

He doesn’t understand.

 

But then he supposes it doesn’t really matter. He’s going to die.

 

Vader turns from the viewport, giving one last look back at empty space.

 

Piett watches him, feeling sick. His time has come – too soon. A sentiment felt no doubt by all the officers who have perished at Vader’s hand. How quickly events can turn.

 

He decides he won’t beg. He won’t apologise. He won’t argue. He’s going to behave like he always does; professionally. This is just another report. Just another bit of bad news.

 

Vader begins the journey along the command walkway. At the weapons station Piett takes a deep breath and stands straight as....

 

Vader doesn’t stop. The dark lord keeps walking, passing everyone along the command bridge, the security foyer and the main corridor in silence. And then he is gone.

 

Everyone is quiet.

Notes:

So, I know I kinda threw Needa under a bus here which some people may not like. I’ve always been inclined to feel sorry for the dude, but for the sake of the plot I decided to include him as one of Piett's bullies (ex/whatever).

I also know that Zevulon Veers is a canonical character in the comics but I actually only know him from fan fiction where I’ve become very fond of him, so I’ve included his existence here too.

Chapter 3

 

It takes a few seconds for anyone to move. They’re all wondering if Vader will return, but he does not.

 

Piett ignores all the stares that gradually redirect towards him, and then he does the only thing he can think of: get back to work. After a quick rendezvous with Captain Salc—Needa’s successor—he sends both the Avenger and the Terror off in the direction of the Millennium Falcon’s trajectory and prepares to start the hunt for any other signs of rebel activity from scratch. While they have failed today, Skywalker must still be alive judging by Vader’s orders to stun only on capture. That means that although this is a setback, a major one, they have not lost all hope.

 

He, however, suspects that his own time is up. When his shift finally comes to an end, he cannot face the thought of going to the mess hall, and when he returns to his quarters he forgets to order dinner. He spends the next few hours lying wide-awake in bed, processing the day’s events and trying not to think about what awaits him tomorrow.

 

It’s infuriating. He wants to know how the hyperdrive on the Millennium Falcon was fixed: how it was fixable in the first place after he’d explicitly told his technicians.... But it’s no good thinking about that now. It’s done. Skywalker and his friends have escaped, and it’s disastrous news for them all. And besides, he knows the team he sent: they would have done everything they could.

 

The only thing that went smoothly was the smuggler’s capture and handover. The thought leaves a sour taste in Piett’s mouth: the bounty hunter got what he needed and left, and it’s that vile scum he’s delivering to. Still, it occurs to him then that they may yet have some leverage to lure Skywalker or one of his associates back. In fact, he’s surprised Vader actually allowed the Mandalorian to leave. He could very easily have overpowered him: unless of course in the confusion of the day the bounty hunter slipped away unnoticed?

 

Who knows? Many of the events on Bespin are a mystery and will no doubt remain so forever. Vader will hardly be sitting down with them all in the officer’s lounge to regale them with tales of his adventures.

 

At the thought of his high-commander, Piett shivers. Whatever emotions kept Vader from killing him on the spot will surely have expired by his next shift. The least he can do is accept total responsibility—like Needa did—so that the new admiral gets the luxury of a fresh start on the job, but he doesn’t want to.

 

He doesn’t want to die.

 

He will stand by his resolve to not apologise unless Vader demands it, but if he has even a chance of surviving he must also offer something, and fast. Even just a suggestion of what they might do now to relocate and capture Skywalker might do.

 

And he thinks the smuggler might hold the key.

 

The next morning he feels weak with hunger, sleeplessness and fear, but he gets up, showers, shaves and dresses like it’s just another day.

 

When he starts his shift he finds a general malaise has settled across the bridge. Many of the officers look up as he enters, some with pity, others obviously surprised to see him. Again, he keeps his head down and busies himself with directing everyone into action and starting the paperwork that has accumulated since yesterday, all the while trying not to think too hard about much else. He’s grateful to a young technician who presents him with a caf during his short morning break, and he imagines Ozzel smirking down at him as he fills out a report, and feels a rush of anger again. They came so close yesterday.

 

He’s devastated, he realises. Absolutely devastated.

 

At about mid-morning, his comm goes off and he hastily grabs it up.

 

“Piett speaking,” he says.

 

“Admiral Piett, sir, the Emperor is in communication with Lord Vader and your presence is desired.”

 

More worried glances come his way, everyone having apparently got the gist of the call.

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

The Emperor.

 

He’s been so worried about what Vader will do to him for yesterday’s loss, but what of higher authority? He’d have thought Emperor Palpatine would be happy to leave any disciplinary action to Vader, but then again, having had the rebels in custody only to then lose them could easily warrant a more official reprimand. He’s never met the Emperor in person but he knows full well that the descriptions of him as a ‘just and merciful leader’ during ceremonies, festivities and anything broadcast over the HoloNet have always been just words. Vader may be his favoured means of terrorising the rest of the galaxy into submission, but Piett suspects that his high-commander is only the tip of a rather unstable iceberg.

 

He straightens his uniform, keeping his demeanour calm, and begins the walk towards the holosuite reserved for royal communications. He tries to push the dread away in favour of his curiosity. Throughout the search for Skywalker it has been plain this is Vader’s great quest. It’s something more than a simple mission for him; something personal. But Piett wonders if their sovereign will exhibit anything of the same drive and urgency on the matter, and if he will live to witness it.

 

His breath hitches.

 

If they mean to execute him now, at least it will be in relative privacy.

 

He considers what it might be like to die. He was once put in a chokehold as a kid for picking up someone else’s toy speeder: not badly enough to injure him, but it hadn’t been pleasant. Maybe he’ll faint from fear or lack of oxygen before it gets really painful.

 

When he reaches his destination he finds the doors are shut and flanked by two of Vader’s red guards: a signal that the Emperor himself is calling. and Piett feels distinctly uneasy as he approaches.

 

The guards merely stand aside, however, and let him through without question. If they can question, he thinks to himself anxiously as he passes them, it’s hard to tell.

 

He winces as the doors click shut behind him, and walks across the antechamber and into the suite beyond. There is a chill unlike anything he’s ever felt before, even from Vader’s presence. Before setting foot in the space he makes an effort to clear his mind of as much damning thought and emotion as he can.

 

The first thing that captures his attention is the life-sized holo of a shrouded, slight bent figure, shimmering in blue light upon the holopad. A pair of sunken eyes glint back at him, and a sneer twists the rest of the visage he can just barely make out beneath the hood.

 

Upon entering Piett stands to attention, and then kneels.

 

“Ah,” says the Emperor, his voice a high-pitched croak and goose pimples break out across the surface of Piett’s skin. “This must be our Admiral... Piett?”

 

“Yes,” says Vader from somewhere to Piett’s left.

 

“Rise,” says the Emperor, and Piett does so. “Come closer.”

 

Piett walks further into the room, stopping a little more than a meter in front of the Emperor’s holoprojection. “Your Majesty,” he says. “It is an honour.”

 

He spots Vader watching him, about the same distance from the Emperor but to the other side of him. The only indication of movement is the slightly undulating blue light reflected off his armour. There is a slight tilt to his head, almost as though he is confused by Piett’s appearance, but maybe he’s imagining it.

 

The Emperor ignores his comment and hisses at Vader, “I wanted to get a look at the man you felt a better fit for the job than poor Ozzel.” He glances back at Piett sharply. “Tell me, how were the rebels able to escape yesterday, admiral?”

 

Piett swallows, trying to keep his voice level. “Because they repaired the damaged hyperdrive on board, Your Majesty.”

 

The Emperor bears his teeth, no longer any pretence of a good humour upon his face. “And how can this be? Did your technicians fail to grasp the orders given them?”

 

“—Their report reveals they did everything as instructed, Your Majesty.”

 

The glinting eyes flare at that. “The rebels’ escape proves otherwise. Unless your instructions were inadequate, or Vader’s commands to you were unclear?”

 

Piett braces himself. “No, Your Majesty.”

 

Vader speaks then, his voice curiously flat and indifferent. “Calrissian was the previous owner of the Millennium Falcon. He may have known how to make such repairs.”

 

The Emperor waves a hand irritably. “I care not for your excuses. The rebels are lost... for now.” His gaze drifts off to the side for a moment, an even sourer expression overtaking his shrivelled features. When he looks back at Piett, it is as though he is regarding something rather annoying. “I hear you have already begun the search again. You were the one who found their base the first time around, is that correct?”

 

“It is, Your Majesty.”

 

“Well, I hear you are familiar with the Outer Rim territories: perhaps your fortune will turn again?” Piett is not sure how to respond to that, but the Emperor speaks again before he can, his voice almost a snarl. “We must have results, admiral. Ones that endure, do I make myself clear?”

 

Piett nods stiffly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

The Emperor smirks again, looking him up and down. “Very good. It will be beneficial for our fleet to maintain some permanence for a while.” His eyes flick in Vader’s direction, and Piett tries to ignore the way his heart skips a beat. The Emperor heaves a sigh, and then glares at him again. “Call back the ships you sent after the rebels. I do not need Star Destroyers aimlessly trawling deep space.”

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Piett replies, trying to conceal his surprise and disappointment. It was hardly ever likely they would have found them—even if the Millennium Falcon’s hyperdrive malfunctioned again the Star Destroyers would easily overshoot and miss them anyway—but it had felt right to try.

 

For the next few minutes the Emperor quizzes him, mainly regarding whether he will restructure the admiralty, which Piett answers with extreme precaution, and then issues a few commands on how he wants the renewed search conducted.

 

“You each have your orders,” he finally hisses at both Piett and Vader. “Find the rebels. And make sure you do not become overwhelmed the next time they are in your grasp.”

 

The hologram disappears before either of them can reply, leaving them in the quiet. Piett releases the breath he’s been holding since he first arrived, and then promptly straightens up when he realises Vader may have noticed.

 

It appears that Vader is still in the same peculiar mood from yesterday, because he says nothing, still staring at the empty holopad. Piett would guess his commander is far more aggravated by their orders than he is, but he knows better than to speculate too much on that in his company.

 

“My lord?” Piett asks after a few moments of silence.

 

Vader’s helmet turns in his direction.

 

Piett licks his dry lips. “...May I ask: what of the smuggler?”

 

“What of him?”

 

“Is there a plan to retrieve him, as... he may yet prove useful?”

 

Vader’s head tilts back slightly, making white light stream across his helmet. “You intend to take on the Hutts, admiral?”

 

Piett considers his response carefully. Going against the Hutts would be a violation of the Empire’s agreement with them—not that he cares for it—and would stoke controversy. But they have the artillery to do it, and nothing usually stops Vader where Skywalker is concerned... and then there’s Vader himself. He, surely, could get Solo back if he wanted to?

 

“If it was called for, my lord,” says Piett finally.

 

Vader regards him for a while, and then replies, “The Emperor will not risk jeopardizing the peace with them. Perhaps we may be able to negotiate with them at a later date, but for now we must be patient.”

 

Piett swallows, aware that the terms ‘peace’ and ‘negotiate’ are loaded on Vader’s tongue. “What if Skywalker attempts a rescue?”

 

“He does not yet know where Solo is headed. He may guess, but he will not attempt anything soon. He is weak after our battle. He was not ready to face me, nor is he ready to infiltrate the likes of Jabba’s fortress.”

 

Piett feels a leap of shock, even as Vader’s voice tightens in anger at Jabba’s name.

 

Skywalker battled Vader? The boy took on Darth Vader and lived?

 

Vader speaks again. “You did not suggest your idea to the Emperor.”

 

“...I thought it might be unwelcome, my lord.”

 

Another head tilt. “How so?”

 

Piett swallows. “...His Majesty... seems more focused on locating the rebels as a unit. He wants to prioritise locating their base and any other operations. I’m not certain of how Solo is regarded by them, but we now know Skywalker cares for him.... That he, at least, would come for him.”

As he talks, Piett understands the full weight of what he’s saying, and he finds that—while he means to save his own neck—there is a truth to it. He is stating his loyalty specifically to Vader, directly after receiving the Emperor’s own orders, and the thought sits with him far more comfortably than he could ever have predicted.

 

Vader breathes in and out, walking closer to loom over him, and then says, “Solo must be delivered to Tatooine.” Piett feels another small stab of disappointment, and Vader continues. “But your gesture has been recognised, Admiral Piett. Am I to understand that I can still rely on you?”

 

Piett blinks. Vader isn’t talking about him failing anymore, he realises—not exactly—and he’s also potentially forgiving him, again.

 

“You can, my lord,” he replies, feeling confident for the first time since yesterday.

 

Vader inclines his head. “Good. We will work together closely.”

 

As he looks up at him, Piett feels a rush of something through his body: nerves, his mind insists frantically.

 

Vader’s voice is troublingly knowing as he continues, “You realise this understanding must remain between the two of us?”

 

Another surge of... something.

 

“—Yes, my lord,” says Piett as quickly as he can get out while staring up into those black lenses.

 

Vader nods again. “Good. Return to your work, admiral. I will call upon you soon.” He stalks away, cape sweeping after him.

 

Piett only dares release the full body-shudder when he knows he’s gone.

 

-

 

“Still here, Piett?” asks Commodore Treta as Piett enters the officer’s lounge later that evening. The man is seated with Commanders Peladi and Dyllot, and General Cates.

 

“That’s Admiral Piett to you, Commodore,” he replies coolly without stopping.

 

“Not for much longer, I’ll wager!” calls Treta after him.

 

He hears General Cates growling, “Treta,” reproachfully, and Treta scoffing in response.

 

Mood somewhat dampened, Piett continues towards the bar. Ozzel might be dead, but there are many remaining in high command that think the way he did, and who probably feel they ought to be the one with his job. He’d never felt especially welcome visiting here as captain, and he knows he won’t now, but he refuses to be cowed by the likes of Treta and his cronies. There are other lounges he usually chooses to frequent, but he’s making a point by agreeing to meet Veers here, and when he spots his friend sitting by a viewport and the way his face breaks into a relieved smile at the sight of him, he knows he’s made the right decision.

 

“Firmus!” booms Veers, standing up and limping up to him for one of his tight embraces. “Glad to see you’re all right.”

 

He lets Piett go, and the smaller man shrugs. “Well, I haven’t been strangled yet.”

 

“I knew you wouldn’t be.”

 

Piett raises an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t really know that.”

 

Veers slings an arm around his shoulders and herds him towards the bar. “Yes I did, I’m always right.”

 

Piett orders a scotch and then they take a seat, a little way off from all the other occupied tables.

 

“How was your audience with the Emperor?” asks Veers, keeping his voice low.

 

“It was... fine. He did check me for yesterday, of course, but... I seem to be getting a second chance.”

 

“That’s... that’s good.”

 

Piett side-eyes him. “I thought you knew I’d be all right?”

 

“Vader is one thing. The Emperor is... another matter.”

 

Piett snorts. “That’s true.”

 

Veers frowns. “Look—you must be able to see there’s something more going on here. Ozzel and all that lot: they’ll answer to Vader when it suits him, but they’re the Emperor’s men. They’re not... believers where Vader’s concerned. But you... I don’t know what you believe, but you understand what he’s asking and you’re too damn modest for your own good. It’s no wonder you’re still alive.”

 

Piett raises an eyebrow, pointedly looking down into his scotch and feeling that particular kind of guilt at being unable to share information with his friend. Meeting the Emperor has only confirmed that Vader's interests lie almost entirely—purely—with Skywalker. And while he has no inkling of why that might be, he finds he is somehow compelled to assist. It should seem ridiculous, selfish, even, but it doesn't. He feels almost as though he has been invited to be a part of this... whatever this is. He remembers Vader's parting words to him earlier that day, and feels himself grow hot under the collar.

 

“What do you think of him?” he asks Veers suddenly, swigging some of his cool drink down. “Really?”

 

Veers looks at him. “Vader?”

 

Piett nods.

 

Veers sighs, pausing for a moment before speaking again. “...He’s a brilliant strategist. I think he makes a better comrade than he does a leader. You know, he’s not the best at... managing his crew, but he does fight with us. Not behind us, or just... in spirit.”

 

His voice has lowered again. The treasonous words carry no further than Piett’s ears, and it’s extremely fortunate, because at that moment Treta is making his way over to the bar, scowling at the pair of them as he passes.

 

He understands Veers’s meaning, though. They are Death Squadron. The job is their duty and destiny; an inevitable risk. They go where they’re told. Do as they’re ordered.

 

But having finally met the Emperor and received his instruction directly, he has never felt more like simple fodder to their sovereign’s eyes. Were the Executor to go up in flames Piett has a feeling the only thing he would mourn is the loss of artillery.

 

“I agree,” he says softly, and Veers nods his head once, closing the subject for now.

Chapter 4

 

Gradually things return to, not exactly normal, given that Ozzel is no longer there to throw his weight around constantly, and Vader mostly keeps to his newfound solitude, but Piett can feel everyone beginning to settle into the new routine with each passing day. Oddly though it does remind him a little of just after Wilkun died, when everyone had suddenly had to adjust for the newly arranged command, except this time they’re mostly winding down instead of being roared at to make it seem as though things are happening. Of course they were never supposed to be relaxed on board exactly, but Piett strives for a vigilant yet composed crew and environment, and for the most part it seems to be working. Although they are still under the same pressures as before, even Vader himself seems to have accepted they are pretty much back to square one.

 

Piett doesn’t spend a lot more time with him at first. As is customary he reports to him at least twice daily, the only major change being that he usually goes to Vader’s private chambers to do so. For the first few weeks after Bespin there is nothing remarkable about these meetings despite their newfound understanding. They discuss their progress; occasionally one of them will have an instinct about where to check for leads (although Piett is very cautious about doing so) but without much expectation of an actual find yet.

 

Despite his battle with Skywalker, Vader does not seem to think it will change anything about how likely they are to come across him and the rest of the rebels. Piett is happy to trust his instincts but he’s still rather perturbed at how the matter with Han Solo was handled. He honestly hadn’t expected Vader to honour any agreement with the bounty hunters, at least not until Skywalker was definitely in his custody. The final word on the matter, he suspects, must have come from higher up.

 

Vader neither confirms nor denies anything, and Piett does not ask. As eager as he is to know more about his high commander he finds the same cannot be said where the Emperor is involved. Even their appearances, both striking and intimidating, affect him differently. It’s said that Palpatine’s strange visage was the result of an attack many years ago, but whatever the precise injuries received they seem to have manifested very differently to Vader’s. There is something about the claim that does not quite satisfy Piett – maybe it’s the cruel, hissing drawl of his voice, or the frenzied hatred emanating from him that fits the leering exterior rather too well.

 

Piett’s exchanges with Vader and Veers that day would certainly mark all of them as traitors, and the more he thinks about it the less of a shock the idea seems. The conversation around one’s faithfulness to the Empire was always centred on whether a subject could be trusted by the Emperor, but not if the Emperor could be trusted by their subjects. And Piett imagines that the answer to the latter is absolutely not.

 

With each day that passes, the sourer the memory of his first meeting with Palpatine becomes. He wonders what sort of terrible power could be keeping someone like Vader in (relative) check, and again finds all the possibilities that spring to mind too frightening to dwell on. He is distracted, however.

 

He must be careful. His newfound fascination with Vader is likely dangerous, and he mustn’t forget that if he fails in some way over the next few weeks it could still be the last straw. He must not begin to assume that they share some kind of special relationship now, and indeed their private meetings remain straight forward and to the point. Nothing very different from how they communicated before.

 

Things remain basically the same until the day Piett is marching along to Vader’s quarters, when someone abruptly steps out in front of him, cutting him off.

 

Immediately, Piett grabs the person by the collar, yanking them down to his own level as he readies his hand to strike.

 

“Wha–wha—just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Piett?!” squawks Commodore Treta, his smug expression completely vanished in favour of cowering at the sight of Piett’s raised fist.

 

Piett’s heart is thumping heavily, his skin still prickling with alarm. Humiliation begins to sink in as he recognises Treta, and then where he is. He lowers his arm and releases the taller man. “Commodore Treta, my apologies,” he replies mildly, already knowing there is absolutely nothing he can say that will fix this. “How may I help you?”

 

Treta reels back from him, massaging at a probably cricked neck and glaring. “You can never come near me again, you moron!”

 

Piett nods. “Please do not step out in front of me like that in future.” He turns and continues walking away.

 

“He’s a bloody hooligan!” the commodore howls at some passerby.

 

Piett keeps moving, utterly furious in that moment with Treta for existing, and with himself for losing control.

 

He’s sweating; maybe from the scare or the embarrassment, he isn’t sure, and he feels slightly nauseous. He tries to breathe deeply and evenly as his feet carry him almost automatically towards his destination.

 

It’s not like he doesn’t understand what just happened or why. For a while he’d thought he was over this, but in wake of Bespin his nightmares have grown more and more frequent. They aren’t always specific, but they are violent and he knows full well what lies at the root of most of them. It seems odd that he hasn’t moved on in some way: even transferred his subconscious fears completely onto Vader who is a more immediate and deadly threat. But strangely enough, he hasn’t, not even during the fraught weeks between Hoth and Bespin when he was really terrified for his life. Nevertheless, he is positive that some mornings he recalls his high commander’s shadowy presence from somewhere along the perimeter of his sleeping mind.

 

For some reason the idea does not bother him.

 

He arrives the elevator he needs sooner than he expected, and takes a few more moments to breathe in and out, soothing his still pounding heart and trying to stem the resounding mortification as best he can. For a moment there is a hint of bitter satisfaction that Treta may have been frightened off his case for a while, but then he comprehends that the episode will probably be being talked about in the officer’s lounge for some time.

 

He sighs and looks at the elevator controls, trying to stop his shaking by clenching his hands. He cannot be late, and Vader will wish to get to business.

 

After riding the elevator up, Piett steps out and walks in the direction of Vader’s quarters. Soon he spots the doors and the guards on either side of them. These two are death troopers, and Piett wonders for a moment why the red guards are not always used instead or vice versa. Vader is rarely accompanied by any kind of security, and it’s hardly surprising. You would have to be a fool or a madman to attack him.

 

As usual, the doors open for Piett without him even saying anything and he walks through, stands to attention and then descends the shallow steps into the room.

 

The meditation pod is open, but empty. Its glowing interior, and the idea of shutting himself away from the world feels extremely inviting to Piett as he moves past it.

 

Vader is standing towards the other end of the chamber with his back to Piett, staring out of the view port. It reminds the admiral of the day they lost the Millennium Falcon again, and he shivers. Vader turns as Piett comes to a halt before him.

 

“Lord Vader, I have this morning’s report,” says Piett, wishing not for the first time that his voice were a little deeper.

 

Vader raises a hand. “In a moment, admiral,” he says taking a couple of steps towards him. “Something is troubling you.”

 

Piett’s stomach does a little flip. “—My lord?”

 

“You are agitated.”

 

“Oh—I....” Piett hesitates. He isn’t terribly keen to share his embarrassment but he expects it will get about soon enough. And, he realises with another unpleasant sensation in his belly, what with Treta probably telling everyone he’d attacked him it could get serious. Still, he knows grovelling will not appeal to Vader, and so he’d better play it down as his own misstep. “I’ve had a bit of an awkward encounter, my lord.”

 

“An awkward encounter has caused your current state?”

 

Piett tries to cease his internal cursing, realising he must look as shaken as he feels. “It’s just.... I was taken by surprise and I... may have overreacted.”

 

Vader regards him for a moment. “If you do not wish to share, do not force yourself.”

 

Piett nearly falls over. Vader had just said that, right? Did he really mean it? He can’t have done. “It’s... all right, my lord, but... I should probably tell you before it gets about: just now someone blocked my way in the hall and I... almost struck them.”

 

There’s a beat. “You almost struck them?”

 

“Yes—I wasn’t expecting it and I just reacted automatically. I grabbed him and... well, I didn’t go through with it, and I let him go as soon as I realised, but... rather understandably I think he got the wrong impression.” Piett gulps, remembering the flash of blind terror and rage as he made sure to be ready, and then the horrid moment of recognition. He prepares himself to explain how he intends to put this to rights, knowing full well Treta will likely not accept anything other than his resignation and exile to some god-forsaken moon on the Outer Rim. “...It was my own fault, my lord, and I understand I displayed a loss of self-control that is not befitting my station.”

 

“Why did this individual block your path?” asks Vader, and despite not expecting the question, Piett winces. He’d meant to pretend the blocking hadn’t been deliberate, but he suspects Vader has already sensed the truth, and lying will not be rewarded.

 

“—I’m afraid I didn’t find out, my lord. I’m sure it was nothing.”

 

An odd, doubtful noise sounds from Vader’s vocoder at that. “Incidents described as ‘nothing’ where the other party goes unnamed do not reassure me. Why am I beginning to feel I ought to be concerned, Piett?”

 

He does not sound irate yet but Piett swallows, feeling humiliation begin to burn across the surface of his skin again. “There... is a personal difficulty between myself and this officer, but I generally try not to engage with him. Of course, that’s why I fear he may have interpreted it as a confrontation on my part, which is unfortunate.”

 

“Deliberately cutting you off suggests this person sought a confrontation, and given that you are currently the second highest-ranking individual on board, also displays a lack of respect.”

 

Piett bites his lip. He’d sort of forgotten that detail. He sighs slightly. “Yes, my lord. I suppose it does.”

 

“Why might that be?”

 

“This—officer, he... has been openly against my promotion to admiral, and I assume that’s behind why he wanted to stop me, although I’m not sure of that.”

 

Another pause. “So, he has caused you problems before.”

 

“Since my promotion he has been outspoken against it, my lord.” This was not entirely true, but Vader was hardly going to be concerned with a bit of name-calling, and anyway, Piett could handle it. “But nothing more.”

 

“I have had yet to hear complaints about you.”

 

“Well, perhaps he will formally query my promotion now.”

 

“And what were his initial protests?”

 

 “Well, you know... me becoming admiral – I suppose it was always going to raise a few eyebrows, my lord.”

 

Vader’s voice tightens dangerously. “Your promotion was on my authority. Who is this man or anyone else to question it?”

 

 Piett tries hard not to grimace. “...You know how it is in the admiralty, my lord, there are many opinions about who is in command... and I was promoted several ranks up—”

 

“All the more reason they should trust my confidence in that decision. If they do not, these people should come to me with their complaints.”

 

“...I suppose some just assumed it would be temporary, my lord.”

 

“Temporary? They believed I would make you admiral for a month?”

 

“I think it was more that they believed I wouldn’t... last a month, my lord... not just in the job.” It is distinctly uncomfortable referring to Vader’s track record with his officers, and Piett sees Wilkun, Ozzel and Needa’s terrified faces flash before his eyes.

 

“And so this scum presumed to attack you?”

 

Piett blinks, surprised at the phrasing and venom in Vader’s words. “—Not attack—”

 

“You interpreted it as such.”

 

Ah, now they came to it. “As I said, lord, I overreacted. It was irresponsible and—”

 

“You went to defend yourself.”

 

“—Yes, my lord, but that’s really nothing do with Treta. He has his opinions but he’s not the fighting type.”

 

“I see, so it’s the commodore who has been critical of my choice!” Vader’s voice rises triumphantly, and Piett’s eyes widen as he realises his slip up.

 

He hadn’t wanted to name Treta right now. Given the way Vader has taken all the news it will look like Piett’s gone crying to him, and that will not invite sympathy from a big proportion of high command. He steels himself and tries again to refocus the conversation. “My lord, I am certain that his quarrel lies solely with me and not you.”

 

“Indeed? And what is it about you that Treta finds so offensive?”

 

“Well, we’ve never been friendly.”

 

“Does he base his criticisms on your performance as admiral, or solely on the fact that you are now in the position? Given that I gave it to you, you don’t think the latter would suggest his quarrel very much is with me?”

 

Piett’s fear is quickly giving way to confusion. This discussion really hasn’t gone the way he’d imagined. He understands Vader’s anger at being ‘challenged’ for promoting him, but this all seems rather... overblown to say the least. Surely his lord would have known this kind of gossip would surface?

 

“Who else?” asks Vader suddenly.

 

“—My lord?”

 

“Who else takes issue with you?”

 

With Vader in this mood Piett does not want to invite it towards himself, but he really, really can’t have Vader blasting through half the admiralty looking for those who might have looked at him funny once or twice. “I really believe it’s mostly just loose talk between officers, my lord. I’m not the only one on the receiving end... it’s a competitive place.”

 

The atmosphere in the room finally seems to relax just slightly at that. “You are trying to pacify me,” says Vader, and Piett tenses again. “I do not need to explain to you why I have no wish for another Ozzel on my ship.”

 

Yet again it’s jarring to think about his predecessor: not least to discuss him with the man’s own executioner. “I understand, my lord. If it helps, Treta wasn’t even friendly with him. According to Max they had an extremely tedious rivalry.”

 

Vader looks at him. “General Veers?” he says eventually.

 

“Oh—yes, forgive me,” Piett corrects himself hastily. He’s making a lot mistakes today, it seems. “The General.”

 

“...You and he are close?”

 

“We are friends, my lord.” Piett feels uneasy again. There’s something odd about the way Vader asked the last question, and with how he is still staring. He worries suddenly that perhaps Vader does not want him and Veers to socialise given this new secrecy between them.

 

When Vader doesn’t say anything more Piett clears his throat. “My lord, I... understand that you are offended by Treta’s stance, but it is a common enough problem among the admiralty. Most of us are happy to keep the peace, and, well.... I too have compromised it today.”

 

Vader is still for a few moments longer, and then finally whirls around to face the viewport again. “Your report, admiral.”

 

“—Ah.” Piett shakes his head, remembering why he came here in the first place. “Yes, my lord.”

Chapter 5

Notes:

This is ridiculously long in comparison to the other chapters but I really didn’t want to split it so here it is!

I really, really hope you guys like it!

 

Two days later, enjoying his free time after a rare half-shift, Piett is sitting in his quarters with a book when there’s a knock at the door.

 

“Yes?” he calls, lowering the hardback as the door slides open and Veers steps through.

 

“Coming for a drink?” Veers asks.

 

Piett pulls a face. “I think perhaps I should steer clear for a bit.”

 

Veers rolls his eyes, walking up to him. “Listen, anyone with half a brain knows you wouldn’t punch someone without good reason.”

 

“I didn’t actually punch anyone, Max.”

 

“You should have done. You had a perfectly decent excuse.”

 

“Yes, but I realised it was just Treta in time.”

 

“As I said, a perfectly decent excuse.”

 

Piett snorts. “I’d just like to give it another day or two. I think my last appearance was a bit premature.”

 

“Not a bit. You did the right thing. Shows you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

 

“It wasn’t very relaxing, though. Like trying to unwind with an escaped rancor on the loose.”

 

Veers sighs. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

 

Piett closes the book and places it on the table. “Sit down, I’ll get you something.”

 

Before they’re even settled with a drink each Veers starts complaining about the lack of funds for his next project and how it’s blatantly because Director Selz hates him. Piett listens to same old problems, agreeing with him faithfully and relaxing in their shared company. It’s a relief, after the week he’s had, just to be. He doesn’t even mind that his reading was interrupted. Well, not too much.

 

Another of Veers’s minor tirades about Captain Venka not respecting either of them is cut off by a second knock at the door barely twenty minutes later. When Piett calls out, it is communications officer Terret who enters.

 

“Hello,” says Veers, looking the youngster up and down.

 

Terret’s dark eyes are bright and eager as he stands to attention. “Admiral Piett,” he says. “General Veers, sir. I was wondering if you’d both join me and the others for sabacc?”

 

“Well, we might,” says Veers. “If you can confirm the attendees for us. We’re avoiding a certain commodore and friends.”

 

Piett shoots a glare at him before turning a restrained but kind smile towards Terret, about to decline.

 

The young officer is still looking at Veers, however. “Commodore Treta, sir? Well... he won’t give you any grief, he’s in the medbay.”

 

“—Oh?” says Piett frowning.

 

Terret nods just a little too enthusiastically. “Broken leg, sir.”

 

Piett looks at Veers. “...Well, I didn’t do that.”

 

“No, no, sir, it was an accident. He—erm—fell into the crew pit.” Terret is now clearly trying not to laugh. Piett’s getting the impression this is the real reason he came.

 

“What?” Veers laughs, sitting up.

 

“I didn’t really see what happened. I wasn’t far off finishing my shift and I was packing up and—next thing I knew there was a bang and....” Terret stifles another laugh, encouraged by Veers’s chuckling. “And then Lord Vader told me to comm for medic and a stretcher.”

 

Piett stares. “Vader was there?”

 

“Yes! I thought it was funny, he didn’t give anyone any orders or say anything to anyone, he just stood at the front looking—you know—how he does sometimes. He left right after they took Treta away.”

 

“Ha!” roars Veers, raising his glass as if to toast the occasion.

 

Piett, meanwhile, is silent. He feels peculiar, like someone has recently raked their nails across his scalp and left it tingling.

 

Treta does not frequent the bridge. Given that his duties usually take him between each of the many Star Destroyers in Death Squadron—and previously, his friction with Ozzel—it is unusual to see him around the Lady’s command tower. So what had he—and Vader for that matter—been doing there?

 

I do not need to explain to you why I have no wish for another Ozzel on my ship.

 

“...Firmus?” asks Veers, and Piett realizes he’s been staring into space. Terret looks a bit worried, too. “Come on, this is hilarious!”

 

Piett downs the small amount of whiskey left in his glass and stands up. “...Sorry, gentlemen, I’m going to have to leave you both.”

 

Veers frowns. “Everything all right?”

 

Retrieving his jacket and hat from the back of his chair, Piett puts them both on and checks the code cylinders are tucked in before heading out.

 

“Where are you going?” calls Veers,

 

Piett pauses by the door and says apologetically, “...Please, finish your drink. You have one too if you like, Terret. I may be a while.” He activates the door controls and steps through.

 

Just before the door slides shut behind him, he hears Veers saying, “Come on lad. Tell me the story again.”

 

He starts walking.

 

It can’t be, he thinks to himself distractedly. The idea is far too ridiculous—whatever the idea actually is—he can’t quite get an angle on it.

 

All he knows is that he told Vader about the incident with Treta fully expecting to be punished, and yet not even an informal reprimand came his way. And judging by the standards set by all the officers killed by Vader, Piett has failed him, and more than once. And yet still he has not been punished. Isn’t that terribly... out of character for Vader, at the very least?

 

He knows—knows—he is a better admiral than either Ozzel or Wilkun ever were. But has he really delivered that much more to Vader’s interests than they did? And then there was Needa; a perfectly skilled and competent officer, no matter his past behaviour. His death could be attributed to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and yet something about it was just... off.

 

Piett has this new understanding with Vader now, but what about before then; before he swore his loyalty to him practically under the Emperor’s nose?

 

...Why the hell isn’t he dead?

 

He reaches Vader’s private quarters in record time, and as usual the death troopers merely stand aside, the doors parting for him without missing a beat. As he enters and the doors close again after him, Piett’s suspicion begins to mount.

 

The meditation chamber is empty again.

 

He walks past it, in the direction of the viewports but Vader is not there either.

 

“Lord Vader?” he calls out uncertainly, wringing his hands. He’s forgotten his gloves, he realises. They are not mandatory like the cap, but he has always preferred to wear his at all times, both to stave off the slight chill in space and for the sense of security he gets from doing so.

 

Suddenly, the outline of a pair of blaster doors illuminate in the darkness just to the left of the screen behind the meditation pod, before they hiss open. Piett stares at the space beyond, but no one appears. He approaches, steps through and jumps when he turns a corner and yet another pair of blaster doors open with a groan. He stands at the entrance and looks in.

 

The room beyond seems to be a sort of medical facility combined with an engineering workshop. Towards the opposite end of the space a bacta tank sits upon a raised platform, even larger than the standard ones carried by the fleet. Leading off from it and from a couple of other apparatus Piett cannot guess the function of at present, are a mass of tubes and cables of varying sizes.

 

No one else has ever been back here, he’s certain of it. He suddenly wonders if he’ll be allowed to leave.

 

There is the gentle humming and whirring of machinery, and over that, the breaths of the individual seated in the centre of the room. Piett remembers to stands to attention, but cannot take his eyes off the spectacle. Even sat down, Vader completely dominates the area around him. One of his legs sprawls outwards, the foot surpassing the end of the long workbench beside him by a good few inches. He has a glove off, and is holding his uncovered right hand out for a mechanical arm affixed to the bench. The arm appears to be screwing something into the palm of the proffered hand, which throws Piett until it becomes clear that said hand is completely prosthetic.

 

Piett stares. From where he’s standing the appendage appears to be completely made of metal, and it has the effect of looking as though Vader has a completely silver skeleton beneath his armour. It’s well known that the suit functions as a life support—although even with the audible breathing system the fact seems to fade into obscurity somehow—and not just a means to intimidate, but Piett has never considered that it might be concealing more extreme injuries. His high-commander does not give the impression of bearing any such grievances, and the prosthesis moves so fluidly one would never guess about its true nature beneath the glove. Piett once thought it possible that Vader always had the breathing difficulties, but as he recalls the scars that also cover the man’s head and looks around at the variety of equipment surrounding them, he now wonders if they and the missing hand share any connection.

 

“They do not,” says Vader abruptly, and Piett feels a spike of horrible realisation that his last thought had been heard. “The loss of this arm was somewhat of an anomaly in that respect.”

 

Unsure of what that’s supposed to mean, Piett straightens up. “Please forgive my intrusion, lord, I did not mean to pry,” he says quickly.

 

“If I did not want you to see I would not have admitted you in.” The mechanical arm completes its repairs and withdraws into a folded position. Vader’s metal fingers flex as he tests their movements or the sensation. “What brings you here, Piett?”

 

Piett gulps, his earlier confidence rather stifled in light of his discovery. This could be a big mistake. “—Well, I....”

 

Vader holds the hand aloft, beckoning him. “Come inside.”

 

Piett hesitates. He’d have thought Vader might prefer some space given that he’s having repairs done, but he won’t risk declining in case this is an order as opposed to an invitation.

 

As he approaches he can see the mechanism of the prosthesis extends way beyond Vader’s wrist. There must be a good proportion of his right forearm missing at least. It speaks volumes that he can still channel his powers through a synthetic appendage, not that Piett understands how the Force really works. Perhaps having limbs of any kind has nothing to do with it at all.

 

“I can tell you about the Force if you wish,” says Vader making Piett quiver, “but I sense you’re here for a different reason.”

 

For a moment Piett is tempted to forget his purpose for coming and find out more about Vader’s abilities, and in turn the man himself. He’s wanted to understand ever since they first met, and was told in advance by Tarkin never to cross the man, or even think disrespectfully of him, if he hoped to live.

 

“Because I will not devote much effort into interfering on your behalf,” he remembers the Grand Moff saying coldly. And that was about as friendly as he ever got.

 

 But recalling all of Tarkin’s warnings in that moment, the sincerity of Vader’s offer only strengthens Piett’s resolve. “Yes, my lord,” he answers finally. “It’s just that I heard about Commodore Treta’s accident.”

 

“Indeed?”

 

“And... I heard you were present on the bridge at the time.”

 

“That is true.” Vader isn’t looking at him, instead watching his arm as he extends and retracts it a few times.

 

“I was wondering if you saw what happened, my lord?”

 

“Regrettably not.”

 

Frowning, Piett tries again. “...It was just an accident then?”

 

“Yes. The commodore should pay better attention to where he’s going in future.”

 

Piett raises an eyebrow at that. He thinks about going to leave, wondering how to excuse himself from this random visit, when Vader speaks again.

 

“You seem oddly concerned for his wellbeing.”

 

Piett fights off a grimace. “Not concerned, my lord. But....” He licks his lips. He could drop this now, if Vader will let him. He could walk away and head to the officer’s lounge, play a game of sabacc while ignoring the steely looks from Treta’s group and relax properly for the first time in weeks. “I know you were unhappy after our last conversation... and I just thought it was odd he should have a severe accident so soon afterwards.”

 

Finally, Vader looks up at him. Piett’s heart pounds hard against his ribcage, reminded that Vader could snap at any moment. Could snap him at any moment. “Is this an accusation, admiral?” he asks.

 

“I’m not here to accuse you—”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

Piett sighs. Vader does not sound angry exactly, but there is an edge to the tone of his voice that gives the curious impression this has turned into some kind of game. “My lord... if we are to work closely together from now on it would be preferable if we can be... direct with each other.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

 “...Was there anything you wanted to share with me?”

 

Vader taps a finger upon the bench.  “I see. I am to explain myself.” The admiral blinks. “You already suspect the truth, Piett. That’s why you’re here.”

 

Piett’s heart lurches. His suspicions have ranged from the fairly unremarkable to the impossible. From the ridiculous to the horrifying. He mustn’t get ahead of himself. “About Treta, my lord?”

 

“Not just Treta. Needa. Your two predecessors. Tell me, what did they all have in common?”

 

“...They failed you?”

 

“Wrong. The commodore is the exception, so far.”

 

“Then they offended you.”

 

“Not quite, Piett. They offended you.”

 

Piett falters.

 

After a few moments, Vader continues, “You thought it a strange coincidence that Needa, Ozzel and Wilkun ended up dead, but you continue to stubbornly reject the possibility that it isn’t.”

 

Piett’s mouth is dry. “...Is...” he begins, having to take a moment before continuing. He must know the truth. “Is this about.... I mean, do you know—?”

 

“I sensed your discomfort around both Wilkun and Ozzel early on, and all three thought about the incident to which you’re referring in my presence at least once.”

 

Piett cringes a little at the thought of Vader hearing—or seeing—any of it. “Oh.”

 

Vader stands, and Piett notices he is not wearing the cape, just the tabard beneath the pauldron. “Know that I did not set out with the intention of meddling in your personal affairs. But yes, I know.”

 

Piett isn’t sure how he feels about Vader knowing this. He isn’t sure how he feels about anyone else knowing. He tries to focus on the matter at hand, not wanting to let Vader give him the run-around here. “But you... didn’t kill them because of that, my lord?” he stammers.

 

“There were other offences, of course, but few amounted to that one.”

 

“I don’t understand?”

 

Vader’s voice grows tight with anger. “From the moment you caught my attention I have watched you be sidelined and disrespected, your talent and potential wasted. After learning of their actions I found myself pressed to find a solution.” Noticing Piett’s expression, Vader leans in slightly. “Before you assume I did it out of pity, understand that there is not a single person aboard this ship that I would have in your place.”

 

Hearing this, Piett finds he cannot maintain eye contact. He has never known praise like this from anyone, least of all from Vader who rarely voices his satisfaction on anything. He’d known his high commander was no fool: that he must have been aware of Piett’s track record even before placing him into the captaincy, but this is something else completely. At best he’s been called efficient, modest, thorough, but never that he was someone’s first and only choice for a position. This is not Vader telling him he was made admiral because of mere proximity or convenience, or that he is anything like as disposable as his deceased colleagues were. He remembers Veers’s words from weeks ago:

 

I don’t believe he promoted you because you happened to be right there in front of him. And I don’t believe he spared you just because bloody Needa got in front of him first.

 

“But you had your own reasons with each of them,” he says rather breathlessly.

 

“I did. There are repercussions for killing one’s subordinates, even for me. I simply took each opportunity as it presented itself.”

 

Piett’s mind whirls with all the new information. He thinks back to how things were only a few weeks ago; of how terrible Ozzel was and how he had sometimes wondered why anyone would put him in the job, even his powerful friends. “...Is that why you took your time with Ozzel?”

 

A strange sound, a bit like static and the roar of distant thunder comes from the vocoder. A chuckle, Piett thinks incredulously.

 

“No doubt I would have disposed of him anyway,” says Vader. “But given that he was so publicly hostile towards you I did not wish to give anyone cause to think that was my reasoning.”

 

Yes, thought Piett. It would be a rather absurd explanation for the high commander to fix the issue so violently; because the admiral was picking on his captain. Which was—wait—Vader’s actual reasoning, so....

 

Vader gives a knowing tilt of the head. “However, his and the others’ actions dictated the manner of their deaths.”

 

“—And... Treta?”

 

Vader takes a step towards him. “Please do not be affronted that I took matters into my own hands. It has been a pleasure and I will continue, except where you ask that I do not.”

 

It’s not quite a dismissal; more an invitation for Piett to leave. “My lord, are you saying you... that you—” Piett can’t work up the nerve to verbalize what he thinks Vader is saying, or what precisely his next question will be and if he dares ask it. He inhales deeply and tries again. “So, that’s why you did it; because you wanted me to take the admiralty? N–no other reason?”

 

Vader pauses. “Is this a part of the directness you wish for?”

 

Piett licks his lips. “Yes.”

 

“Very well. I killed those men because I refuse to restrain myself while those I care for are threatened.”

 

The world seems to shift slightly. Piett has to check his feet are still firmly planted on the floor. “My lord—”

 

“I have no expectations on your part. There are those who would attempt to intervene—by any means—were they to understand the strength of my regard for you. I could not allow this to happen, hence why I took my time.”

 

“But you do want—?” Piett still can’t say it, and when Vader does not respond, he rubs the back of his neck distractedly. “How long have you felt this way?”

 

“Long enough to be certain.” Another pause, like Vader is actually nervous. “Have I offended you?”

 

“No, I–I don’t know what to say.”

 

“I said I do not have expectations.”

 

“It’s just, we don’t even really know each other.”

 

“I disagree. We may not socialise, but through shared experiences—dangers—exchanges, observation, you can begin to understand who a person really is.”

 

Piett nods thoughtfully. In their line of work it’s inevitable that everyone show their true colours at some stage down the line. He also thinks of how he’s able to detect the slightest nuances in Vader’s voice; how he’s come to understand when and when not to approach him for certain things. “Where it counts.”

 

“Yes. And you may come to hold them in the very highest esteem.”

 

Piett looks down at his hands, stunned. He has an answer, finally. Vader is not wrong about him rejecting the suspicions he’d had about everything, although they had certainly never extended as far as the actual truth. Even Veers had gotten closer to it when he said he didn’t think Piett would be killed by Vader, and... what else had he said? That it seemed Vader wanted to show him off a bit. The thought sends a shiver down Piett’s spine—very different to the fear he’d felt when he arrived—and he wonders at himself for a moment. Perhaps he ought to be wracked with horror and guilt for the three men strangled on his account.

 

“They had their chance to repent,” growls Vader, stalking forwards and taking Piett by the shoulders.

 

Piett looks up, startled by the contact. The difference in their heights is such that he feels enveloped by Vader’s shadow, yet unafraid. “I don’t know why I let it bother me all these years.”

 

“What they did was unforgivable.”

 

“I learned from it, though. I never talked back ever again.”

 

“Surely you would not justify their actions?”

 

Piett actually laughs quietly at that; hearing Darth Vader of all people being indignant, and on his behalf. “No. It’s just that I thought I’d dealt with all of it. When they found me, afterwards, the medics assumed I’d been mugged, but my commander at the time... he was sceptical and asked around. I think the three of them realised there could actually be consequences. Except I didn’t, so I kept my mouth shut. The upshot was they left me completely alone for a long time. I think they felt they’d made their point anyway.”

 

In retrospect, he wonders if he should have said something. He’d been all right in the end, but there could have been others who received similar treatment, and it’s plain to all who met him that Ozzel’s behaviour should have been reined in long ago. But then he remembers that all three of his attackers had had a lot of friends and approving superiors to back them up. The fear and anger he’s held onto all this time is not solely from the memory of what happened.

 

“I’m glad you did it,” he whispers in realisation.

 

“As am I,” Vader replies, and his large hands squeeze Piett’s shoulders ever so gently. “And I would do it again.”

 

“What does that say about me? They didn’t even break my nose.”

 

“They left you bleeding and unconscious in an alleyway.” Vader’s gloved left hand moves from Piett’s shoulder and cups his jaw. “Tell me, if you had been found dead, do you think any of them would have come forward?” The question chafes at something raw inside Piett; something he hasn’t given attention to in many, many years. He chokes slightly on his next inhalation, and he swallows in order to keep his composure. Vader’s thumb brushes against his cheekbone. “Your injuries run deeper than scores or fractures, and they are all the more painful because they are still with you.”

 

Sniffing, Piett takes a few moments to calm himself before asking, “Did–did any of them regret it?”

 

“Not enough.”

 

Piett stares, and then finally nods, blinking away tears at the resulting sensation of warming leather rubbing against his skin. He finds he agrees with Vader’s statement, and that he doesn’t want to dwell anymore. He ponders at how calm he feels having the other man so close and touching him, when before now he hadn’t even known Vader was capable of tenderness. The hand on his shoulder is the prosthetic one, and he turns his attention to it for a moment, fascinated by the push and pull of the inner-mechanisms as Vader pulls away slightly.

 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t stare,” says Piett, remembering himself.

 

“Do not be sorry. You are interested.” Vader brings the hand to his remaining glove and works it off, revealing yet another mechno-arm.

 

Piett watches as he tucks the glove into his belt and extends his left towards him for a closer look. It’s different to the right one, both in design and by the appearance of it the materials. “Both of them,” he murmurs.

 

“And my legs,” rumbles Vader.

 

Abruptly, Piett recalls his earlier comment:

 

The loss of this arm was somewhat of an anomaly in that respect.

 

He stares at him. “They’re not from the same incident?”

 

“Yes. Along with the scars and the damage to my lungs.” At Piett’s startled expression Vader continues. “I fought my opponent on the slopes of a volcano. I was defeated, maimed and left to burn.”

 

Piett can’t believe what he’s hearing. He has witnessed enough of his high commander’s fighting prowess to realise that it must have been one hell of a battle for the man to lose. But all the same, how could anyone—even Vader—survive that?

 

Suddenly his own woes seem awfully pedestrian.

 

Vader tilts his head sternly. “My injuries resulted from a duel. I had the chance to defend myself. I failed.”

 

“But, if you were left—”

 

“I was found in time, barely clinging to life but conscious. I was healed, treated and given the prostheses and the suit.”

 

Piett cannot suppress a shudder. “...Conscious.” Suddenly it’s not quite as mystifying that Vader was so disgusted by what had happened to him.

 

Vader does not elaborate; perhaps not keen to summon up his past, either. “We cannot survive terrible things unscathed,” he says instead, taking Piett’s right hand and turns it, revealing the faded old blaster burn across the back.

 

“Oh,” says Piett, fascinated at the sight of his own pale hand cradled in Vader’s big, metallic prostheses. The sensation is hard and cold, but the touch is so very careful. “That’s just... from a run-in with some pirates about ten years ago.”

 

Vader reaches up and pulls Piett’s collar down slightly, revealing the tip of an old scar that runs jaggedly across his neck and then down towards his chest. The light brush against his throat makes the admiral’s breath hitch.

 

“Another mission. I was undercover and—Well, I got found out.”

 

“You see? We both have quite a collection.”

 

Piett meets his eye, hardly daring to believe what he’s about to say—hardly able to believe any of it—but given that Vader has clearly been looking at him enough to notice a very faded scar mostly hidden beneath his clothes, he’s feeling confident all of a sudden. “I think you win, my lord.”

 

Vader does not laugh, but his amusement is palpable in the air between them, and in the way he fondly captures Piett’s hand back between both of his own.

 

Although he’s satisfied he hasn’t offended him, Piett clears his throat and schools his expression once more. “There are so many stories about you... who you are, where you’re from. I’m sure you're aware?” Vader nods and Piett lifts his free hand to rest it over his pauldron. “There was one that said you fell into a volcano and survived. I’d never have thought that one would be closest to the truth.”

 

“All myths and legends have foundations in reality.”

 

“But they’re generally a lot more sensational than the facts.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Piett moistens his lower lip nervously. “—I think I’d like to know you better.” He’s sure that Vader will see his broader meaning for what it is, regardless of whether he can sense the frisson of excitement that runs through Piett as he strokes across his broad chest.

 

Two of Vader’s breathing cycles go past before he responds. “That is... pleasing to hear, but you must understand what you are asking. I am no ordinary man beneath the mask.”

 

“I know that, my lord.”

 

“I am not talking about the injuries.”

 

“I know.” Piett smiles up at him and gives one of his hands an affectionate squeeze.

 

“I would wish to offer you stability, happiness. I will do what I can, but there will be things that must take priority.”

 

Of course, thinks Piett. Skywalker. The Rebellion. Palpatine. It all seemed to have melted away for a while there.

 

“That’s all right,” he says. “I’ll help.”

 

“And there’s more I must tell you. Things that you deserve to hear.”

 

Piett nods again. “Well... you can do that in your own time. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

It’s the strangest thing, being in such an intimate pose; one of Piett’s hands gripped in Vader’s between them while his other one continues mapping its way over the larger man’s shoulder. He can just about glimpse Vader’s eyes behind the black lenses of the mask, conscious of the way they’re studying him intently.

 

“I should also like to learn more about you,” says Vader after a pause.

 

Piett huffs out a small laugh. “You probably know everything.”

 

“Even if that were true I would still wish to listen. And I’d also like to know your true appearance.”

 

Piett is confused. “...I—you see me as I am, my lord.”

 

“No. I have never seen you without the helmet in the way.”

 

The words take a moment to process, and then Piett’s heart clenches. “I think that can be arranged.”

 

Vader inclines his head, releasing Piett’s hand as he extends his own towards the entrance.

 

They walk side by side the whole way, only made possible by the extra width of the blaster doors. Piett feels odd knowing that the other man must be slowing his natural pace in order to not to overtake him, and he feels his face grow hot all of a sudden. Back in the antechamber, Vader gestures at the meditation pod and the upper half of it raises high into the darkness above. Now Piett thinks about it, it would be rather awkward if it didn’t and Vader had to crawl into the thing.

 

Vader directs Piett up the stairs and into the chamber first, and then once he follows, indicates to one of the raised ledges along the inside for him to sit. Piett does so, taking a moment to gaze upwards at all the equipment that was never visible from outside the pod. The seat in the middle is also raised off the floor, which he’s not seen before now. Vader sits on it as the upper hemisphere of the chamber begins to descend, soon adjoining neatly with the lower. A low hum sounds from various points around them, and Piett feels just a slight change in pressure and temperature. The faintly sweet smell of bacta is present in the warming air. Yet again, he finds himself comprehending more and more what has previously been an enigma. With the chamber sealed, they are now in a totally controlled environment.

 

From above, the familiar claw-like device sinks down until it encapsulates Vader’s helmet. There’s a slight fluttering in Piett’s chest as he sits back to allow him and the machinery as much space as possible. Vader does not voice or enter any commands, and so he assumes he is doing it all with the Force. There’s a small hiss as the top section of the helmet releases at the line running straight from the mask’s tusks towards the collar, and then it is pulled away.

 

The first thing Piett registers is the white, scarred flesh he already expected, but now he spots how Vader’s so pale that many of his veins are clearly visible in the chamber’s white light. The next thing he sees is an intense gaze that meets his own—two eyes—at first he thinks them sky blue, but captivated as he is, he soon spots the thin yellow rings around the pupils, hardly discernable unless you were looking at him head on.

 

Piett smiles. Vader gives his own. One of the more severe wounds curving across his left cheek is stretched slightly by the change of expression. His eye sockets are a little sunken and dark perhaps with fatigue, time or stress, or it is simply the contrast with the rest of his pale skin. His eyes themselves, however, glint brightly with amusement and something else that has Piett again having to break the contact for just a moment. When he looks again, he knows his face is positively burning and tries to focus.

 

Vader’s facial extremities look to be completely intact, which is remarkable considering his horrific experience. If there was any reconstruction done on those strong features, Piett cannot tell. It is a face that is distinctive, charismatic—and with an undeniable handsomeness—belonging to someone who is evidently not far off Piett’s age. And it is just ever so slightly familiar, although he can’t think why.

 

Vader is studying Piett with equal interest. The lower half of his face is still partially obscured by the remaining section of the mask, but there is space for him to speak, and he does. “This is an improvement,” he rasps. His voice does not have the usual volume that the vocoder provides, but it has the same tone; the same magnetism.

 

The same person.

 

A thoughtful look comes over his face. “It occurs to me, though, I have never seen you without your hat.”

 

Piett grins, the remainder of the tension broken. He hesitates, and then pulls his cap off, a little self conscious about the state of his hair; his slightly receding hairline and the way his curls tend to get squashed flat to his head no matter how close he trims them. Being without one’s hat on duty was unacceptable, but being without it in front of Vader feels akin to being almost naked. And he has the distinct impression from the glimmer in Vader’s eye that that is entirely the point. “This is also the first time we’ve seen each other without our gloves,” he says quietly. “I forgot mine.”

 

Vader glances down at the hand holding Piett’s cap. “I noticed.” He looks over him some more. “You are fairer than I thought.”

 

Piett almost remarks that he would be fairer—and a little coppery—if he’d seen the sun recently, before realising that would be rather insensitive thing to say to a man literally encased in durasteel for most of the time. He has never actively disliked his own appearance, save for the fact he has always been told how tired and nervous he looks. When he’d first been surrounded by all the great strapping officers from more prosperous home planets he’d wished he was taller, but being the stature he is hasn’t done his career any harm. Right now, under Vader’s appraisal he suspects it’s the very least of his worries. It’s a pleasant sensation, being admired. He hasn’t allowed for these sorts of feelings for a long time. He’s simply been too busy.

 

Vader tilts his head back slightly, and another mechanism descends. This one makes quick but painful-sounding work of the rest of the mask, collar, and then the pauldron. There’s another hiss and a few clicks, although Vader himself makes not even a gasp. Once freed, he merely gives his head a little tilt to stretch his neck as all the apparatus disappears into a hatch that closes above.

 

Having made his mind up Piett pushes off the ledge, leaving the cap behind as he stands and takes a couple of steps so that he’s facing him.

 

Vader stretches a hand out, metal stroking the side of Piett’s clothed thigh appreciatively for a moment before giving his uniform a small tug. Piett hesitates, looking at Vader questioningly until the other man more or less pulls him down onto his lap.

 

“What about—?” Piett begins, thinking of Vader’s scars and at what point the flesh and bone of his legs meets the other prostheses. He knows the other man has fought battles since receiving his more severe injuries but he hates the thought of causing him more discomfort.

 

“It’s all right,” Vader replies, steadying him with an arm behind his back. His breaths sound rather grating and laboured, but they’re steady.

 

Piett nods, still uncertain, and takes a few seconds to study Vader up close. While it is a most peculiar thing to put a face to someone he’s known and feared for so long, he thinks it definitely suits the man. There is still an air of danger about him, although that does not worry Piett, along with that ever-present glimmer of humour.

 

“I can’t believe you pushed Treta into the crew pit,” he hears himself say.

 

A raised, hairless eyebrow is what he gets in response to that. “I was nowhere near the vicinity at the time.”

 

“You don’t need to be near, my lord.”

 

Vader gives his chin a light tweak. “You may call me Vader when we’re alone.”

 

Piett smiles. “Firmus,” he says softly. He’s never been terribly fond of his first name. It lent itself to mockery at school and the academy rather too easily, but Vader is welcome to use it.

 

“Firmus,” repeats Vader, and Piett feels another spark of happiness, and he is happy, he realises.

 

He starts to touch Vader’s chest again, enjoying the way the musculature fills his palms and conscious of the control panel just beneath. While he wouldn’t describe his love life as prolific, especially not in the last few years, he has always liked to observe and enjoy the nuances in his partner’s physiques. It is probably the most obvious thing of all—but Vader is big—somehow even more so without the armour. Piett doesn’t favour any particular body type but it is undeniably exciting to be in the arms of someone so much larger than he is.

 

There’s a hungry gleam in Vader’s eye as he takes the opportunity to examine Piett from this angle, bringing his own face the tiniest bit closer.

 

Piett pretends, to the best of his abilities, that he hasn’t noticed. “You know,” he murmurs after a short while, “we are going to talk about this avenging business of yours at some stage. I do appreciate the gesture, but if you start breaking the legs of all the snobs around here we’ll have half the crew out of action.”

 

Vader huffs lightly. “I suppose you’re right. That would be a drain on our medical facilities.”

 

They both laugh, Vader so breathlessly that it might not be noticeable he is but for the wicked grin on his face. Still chuckling, Piett lifts a hand and traces the scarred cheek as softly as he possibly can. The other man blinks, and Piett stops the gentle swipe of his thumb in case the contact is unwanted or painful, but then Vader turns his head to press a kiss to his palm.

 

Piett swallows and slides the hand up and over his head, feeling a pang at how deep the scarring there runs. He can still taste a little Correllian whiskey at the back of his throat, and hopes Vader won’t mind. He wraps his free arm around Vader’s shoulders and leans in, Vader doing the same.

 

Their lips meet.

 

A few seconds into it, Vader pulls Piett tighter against him and their kissing grows more fervent.

 

Some time later Piett’s jacket is tossed to the floor, code cylinders clinking against metal.

 

Veers and Terret give up on waiting for their admiral and head to one of the officer’s lounges for a game.

 

Commodore Treta lies in the medbay, his mind somewhat hazy from painkillers as he tries to figure out how he can blame his embarrassment on somebody else.

 

The meditation chamber remains closed for many hours.

 

 

The End.