Chapter 2
Veers glanced around the Admiral’s office, and considered the individuals present.
Ozzel’s aide—a snivelly, narrow faced officer whose only skill set, as far as Veers could make out, was listening to other people’s conversations and narking to the Admiral.
The chief weapons officer was also there—a big boned woman with intensely purple eyes and a cruel mouth.
The Captains of both Devastator and Tyrant were also present—-the first, a white haired man with the most Core credentials in Death Squadron and a personal friend of the Admiral’s. The second was an attractive woman from Corellia. Veers had never met her personally, but her reputation as a fiercely staunch Imperial and a rising favorite with the Emperor preceded her.
Finally, Veers himself, and the second officer—-another Core worlder and an Ozzel syncophant.
Every one of Veers’ instincts warned ‘danger’ and he kept his expression at its most ‘Iron’ as Ozzel began to speak.
“I appreciate you all joining me,” he said, smoothing a hand over his moustache. It was something he prided himself on and he was always stroking it during meetings. “I am sorry for the nature of this gathering, however.”
He sounded anything but saddened. Indeed, Veers got the impression he was doing his best to suppress his delight. His mouth kept twitching at the corners.
“It has come to my attention,” Ozzel continued, “that we have a traitor among us. Oh, not this gathering—-” he hastened to add with a deprecating laugh. “But within the highest level of command in the fleet. I trust you all the most as individuals with the ah…right backgrounds. I would ask you to discreetly begin looking into your ships, starting with the senior bridge crews. I will of course, make certain that the flagship sets the tone for vigilance, and shall have all senior officers investigated thoroughly. I would ask you to help facilitate this smoothly.”
A traitor.
Veers knew it wasn’t impossible—-even in Lord Vader’s personal squadron. But it was interesting that Ozzel had chosen those assembled based on their backgrounds.
“General Veers.”
He met Ozzel’s gaze impassively.
“Sir.”
“You have been included in this meeting because of your exemplary record, and the high esteem in which your family name is held within the Empire. I trust you will not allow any personal sentiments to interfere with this investigation.”
Ozzel could mean only one thing by that—-Piett was among those who would be investigated.
A test of loyalty then.
The General’s mind worked furiously, but outwardly he remained cold.
“Of course not, Admiral,” he replied.
Was this also a warning to him? Possibly. Though it was a small crumb of comfort that he had been included at all. Ozzel may question his judgment in befriending the Axxilan captain, but the prestige of the Veers’ family name going back several generations was clearly enough to make the Admiral believe he would be on his side.
Ozzel gave him a pretentious little nod.
“Very well. That is all. I trust you all not to speak of this outside your most discreet investigations. I would prefer to deal with this internally.”
A murmur of agreement sounded all around and they rose.
Veers lingered to say a few forgettable words to Devastator’s Captain. The man had known his father and they were able to explain distant pleasantries. This allowed Veers not to look as though he was rushing from the meeting, though he was keen to do so and warn Piett.
As he was striding toward the Captain’s office, he remembered that Piett was on the bridge and cursed his luck. No chance of a private conversation there without raising suspicion.
He ate his dinner in the officer’s mess alone, still ruminating on all the angles that Ozzel’s meeting had brought up. When he rose and bussed his tray, a very unwelcome thought had won out over all others.
Was there really a traitor at all?
It was not impossible that Ozzel was actually trying to be subtle for once in his life. But…
A traitor in the highest ranks was utterly the purview of ISB.
Veers’ mind played boonta ball back and forth.
If the Admiral was not certain where the traitor was in the Fleet, bringing in ISB could scare them off.
Typically, however, Ozzel was an incredibly by the book officer. It allowed him to not have to think very hard.
So why did he want to find this so called traitor WITHOUT ISB?
So preoccupied was he with these thoughts he almost ran directly into Tom Venka who was striding hurriedly in the opposite direction.
He emitted an awkward squawk and flailed slightly on the polished deck.
“Veers! I was just coming to find you! We need to talk.”
The man had the air of a hunted animal, face strained and eyes wide.
“My office,” Veers replied curtly, his stomach rolling with unease.
He strode toward the office he rarely used as he was usually to be found with his Herd near the hangar bay. He had a small office here in the command tower however, as it could be useful sometimes during busy periods.
Once they had both entered, he activated security protocols and gestured at Piett’s first officer.
“Out with it. What’s happened?”
“Sir,” Venka said, visibly striving to compose himself, hands clenched together tightly in front of him. “I overheard something. Something I would take to the Captain normally, but I—-”
“Venka—” Veers interjected, just about managing not to grind his teeth. “Get. To. The point.”
Tom swallowed and blew out a breath.
“Sir, I have reason to believe that Admiral Ozzel is trying to get rid of Captain Piett.”
And there it was.
The very concern Veers had been battling since that meeting in Ozzel’s office.
“Why do you think so, Commander?” he asked, doing his best to keep his tone neutral.
Venka wiped sweat from his forehead and Veers moved to his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a bottle of the Ryndulan 10 BBY. He poured two fingers into the basic glasses he kept just for this purpose and handed one to Venka.
The man took it gratefully and downed it in one swallow.
“I was just around the corner from the bridge, sir,” he said, fiddling with the empty glass. “I’d realized that I hadn’t finished filling out a requisitions form that the Admiral required, so I was quickly doing it before I entered the bridge. And I heard Admiral Ozzel and someone else I couldn’t see—it sounded like Colonel Jymrea. She was asking him something and I am not sure what as I was only half paying attention. But then Ozzel said, ‘oh it’s done. Shrriever planted it earlier. We’ll be rid of that Axxilan blight soon enough’. And then the Colonel said– ‘and after that?’ The Admiral just laughed, sir, and said ‘the Lady is a big ship’.”
Veers took a measured sip of the whiskey and allowed the burn to fill his senses.
“Sir—” Venka said, lifting haunted eyes to his, “Do you think they planted a bomb? And if so, where?”
But Veers wasn’t worried about a bomb. Ozzel was a fool, but not that much of a fool. An assassination was messy and would require the sort of investigation that could go wrong. No, accusations of treason and disloyalty were far more effective. It was the fact that Ozzel had said that last comment which troubled him the most.
But given the tenuous situation and the need to not reveal what he knew…
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Commander,” he said, draining his glass, “I will take things from here. We must be as discreet as possible.”
“But, sir, if there is a bomb…” Venka protested. Veers appreciated the man’s loyalty to the Captain. But he had to move fast now to get ahead of Ozzel and didn’t have time to reassure Venka.
“It’s not a bomb,” he said confidently. “Ozzel wouldn’t do that. Thank you, Tom. I have this.”
And he ushered the very stressed Commander out of his office, then moved to the middle of the room and frowned in thought.
‘Evidence’ of the Captain’s betrayal would be difficult to plant in his personal quarters. Which meant that his office was the more likely place. The cameras aboard the Lady would show that Tom had come to him in distress. His actions now would make sense for what he had in mind.
And he hated this plan.
But it was the only thing he could think of to do. Because he was rather certain that Ozzel intended to arrest Piett and then have him…disappear. Dealing with the matter internally…
No, he couldn’t risk that.
Piett had to get off the ship.
And that meant Veers must go ‘by the book’.
So he tapped secure comms to the senior ISB officer. They agreed to meet in the man’s office several decks down to go over Veers’ ‘evidence’.
By the time they had agreed on a course of action and arranged for transport, it was late.
Veers rose and volunteered to lead the arresting party. The understanding look of admiration he received from the ISB officer made him want to vomit.
He was about to betray his dearest friend in the worst way possible.
Piett’s welcoming smile as he entered the familiar office made his lungs constrict in pain.
It was nothing however, to watching the destruction of Firmus’s office—it was as though little pieces of Piett were murdered before his eyes. But it could not be Veers himself who searched—-to save his friend, he must be the ruthless bastard.
When the ship he’d spent uncountable hours carving smashed to the floor, Piett made a small pained noise in his throat that wounded Veers to the core.
And the betrayal in those hazel eyes when Piett said his name—-willing Veers to be the man that he’d known.
But he was not the ‘Iron General’ for nothing, and even though Piett could not possibly understand his actions at this moment, he must lean wholly into that persona to save his friend’s life.
So he did not even look at the diminutive figure of the Captain as he was hauled roughly aboard the shuttle by the ISB. Refused to think about what he was condemning Piett to.
He must recall that he had personally placed a tiny tracking device on that shuttle. His friend was not wholly lost to him. But he must endure.
Once it had departed, he swung around, saluted Ozzel and made his way to his office in the hangar bay housing the Thundering Herd.
Only then, with the door closed and no one to witness, did he break.
Veers placed his palms on his desk and bowed his head, taking deep breaths. Then the rage took over.
He flung holo frames and datapads across the room. His low wooden table smashed into the far wall and he yelled before he turned and punched his weapons locker until his knuckles bled.
At last he stood panting in the midst of the wreckage.
This wouldn’t help Piett.
Glaring at the damage he’d caused, he fetched his medkit and bound up his hand. Then he seated himself in front of his computer.
It took him only a few minutes to see that he would not be able to prepare the message he’d been planning on sending. It had to seem as though it was from Imperial High Command, but he could not find a way to eradicate a trace back to his console.
After shouting profanity at the ceiling for thirty seconds, an idea suddenly lanced into his mind so brightly he was almost dizzy.
Piett had always said she was…more.
Time to see just what that meant.
He breathed out and looked up.
“Lady…?” he began tentatively. “I feel foolish doing this, but…this is your Captain we’re talking about. And he says you are special. More than an advanced AI. And if that is so—what I’ve done has likely looked pretty bad from your perspective.”
He paused and considered.
“Of course, if you are—-what I think, then you know what Ozzel was planning. I have to save him. I intend to bring him back. But I need this command to look genuine, Lady and I can’t—-”
The screen before him shifted, the heading of the message now bearing the official seal of the Imperial High Command. A new tab opened to the side, displaying the routing—-
—which looked utterly official.
Holy Kark.
He felt hope grow within him. If SHE was on his side…
All things were possible.
“All right,” he said, sending a small smile upward. “Thank you. I’m going to write this and then, can you send both Ozzel and myself a copy?”
The lights actually did the little flicker.
She gave him that little flicker he often saw around Piett.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmured, renewed energy flowing through him. “There’s another command message I’ll need. But this one— Well. It must look as though Lord Vader sent it. Is that…something you can do?”
Immediately a new tab opened on his computer, this one bearing a heading he didn’t recognize.
He blinked.
Just how powerful was this mysterious conscience?
“Is that…are you certain that is his?”
Briefly, a generic image of a woman with a look of utter disdain appeared on his screen.
He held up his hands, still filled with incredulity.
“All right. All right. I believe you. Let’s set about saving your Captain shall we?”
His office was bathed momentarily in a warm green light which he took as approval.
“This is what it needs to say…” he began.
A short time later, he was ready to put everything into action and he prayed that his friend was as strong as Veers knew him to be.
*******************
Piett felt the moment that they exited light speed, but knew nothing else.
They had blindfolded him tightly, so he had no idea which ISB station he was arriving at.
His arms were gripped firmly and he was hauled out of the shuttle.
The air that hit his nose smelled stale and he suspected, therefore, that he was on one of the orbital stations ISB maintained around the galaxy.
They walked for a long time in silence until at last he heard the sound of a heavy door sliding open and he was shoved forward, someone ripping the blindfold from his head while someone else used a code cylinder on the binders.
He blinked in the light of a very stark and standard Imperial cell. The officer who had taken him into custody stared at him dispassionately while Piett tried to ignore his incredibly sore shoulder muscles.
“Strip,” snapped the man. “Then put on the jumpsuit.”
Piett’s face burned, but he knew he must not give in. Must not let them see his humiliation. They would see his pain soon enough. But what parts of himself he could preserve, he would fight to do so.
He removed his boots first and then his jacket and henley. As with all Imperial prisons, his cell was cold and he couldn’t help the shiver as he pulled his white t shirt over his head.
The officer smirked at him.
“Hurry up,” he said. “I have more important things to take care of.”
Piett tightened his jaw and removed the rest of his uniform, ignoring the cruel eyes of the guards as he slipped on the white jumpsuit. His feet were bare on the cold metal of the floor, but that was all part of their process.
“I suggest you cooperate fully,” the officer sniffed as the guards gathered his discarded uniform. “Or this will be very long and very unpleasant for you.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” Piett said quietly.
“Hard way then,” the man returned, and his smile was full of awful promise as the cell door hissed closed, leaving him in the dark.
Piett paced for as long as he could stand it.
The cold was already punishing, but he needed to keep his blood flowing.
At last he was forced to feel for the comfortless bench and seat himself upon it to keep his feet from getting frostbite. The only positive with his lack of height was that he was able to pull the legs of the jumpsuit over his toes in an attempt to keep them slightly warmer.
He thought of the Lady.
He tried to picture himself on the bridge—-walking around the deck in his mind and noting all the details of a well run crew.
But inevitably as hunger and cold increased, his mind replayed his arrest once more. He tried not to recall the terrible contempt written on Veers’ face as his office had been searched.
Surely…surely there was some explanation? Max couldn’t truly believe he was guilty?
But as ever, Piett’s doubts were winning.
He’d never been the sort of person who was actually…valued.
He was a competent leader—he knew that—but that only meant he could be useful. He’d been useful to the Axxilan forces, but there had not been any real friends. Part of that was due to high death rates, but equally, he was not the tall, strong, notable type.
His family had never seen much use for him with the exception of Rilla.
Piett rubbed at his arms, trying to dispel the goosebumps.
It was just the unfortunate truth that he’d merely been useful to Veers. He’d made things more efficient between the navy and the army. Oh, there had been genuine friendly feeling, of that he was sure. Veers was not the sort to have shallow friendships, so the only conclusion Firmus could reach was that the General truly believed Piett had betrayed them all. Loyalty was one of Veers’ most prized values, and if he believed Piett had violated that, then any friendly feeling would be crushed in service to his duty.
He must have slept at some point, but he was not in any way rested when the doors hissed open, blinding him with the light from the corridor.
“Let’s go,” said a harsh female voice, and his arms were twisted behind his back once more and his ankles shackled with a short length of chain in between.
This made it very difficult to walk, but that didn’t bother his captors.
He was ushered into a steel grey interrogation room and temporarily freed so that they could shove him into a chair bolted to the floor.
His ankles were locked to the front legs and then they placed his arms on the metal table before him. Cold binders clicked home right above his elbows and the second set closed around his wrists, his forearms facing up.
He was left alone and he looked around.
Piett had never been in an ISB interrogation room and it was not that different from the standard rooms in any detention facility. He suspected that this was much more secure and that there were numerous cameras around hidden from his view.
At last, the door opened once more to admit the officers who had arrested him in the first place followed by two burly guards—-the sort who looked like they would be more at home in a wrestling arena than in uniform.
Force give him strength.
“I am Commander Praxis,” said the man, standing opposite Piett with his hands behind his back. “My colleague, Agent Yalla.”
The woman was very tall, easily five inches more than Piett. She narrowed her eyes at him.
“We have gone over the material hidden in your office,” Praxis continued while Piett worked on his most impassive expression. “Very sensitive material, Piett. The type only an officer of your rank could access. To whom were you going to give it?”
Piett breathed out slowly through his nose.
“That was planted there,” he said. “I have not betrayed the Empire.”
Yalla rolled her eyes.
“The evidence is overwhelming,” she drawled. “Even an Axxilan should have the intelligence to see that. This denial is futile.”
“And you will place us in the position to use force,” added Praxis. But he didn’t look reluctant. No, there was an eager light in those pale eyes. This man enjoyed causing pain.
“I am not lying,” Piett reiterated, glaring up at them both.
“Very well,” Praxis replied, nodding at one of the guards.
Piett had thought they would start with the interrogation drugs which were standard. Instead, the guard pulled a thick truncheon, coated in nerf leather, from his belt.
A small breeze touched Piett’s face as the man brought it down on his unprotected left arm. It was not hard enough to break bone, but it hurt sharply. Piett pressed his lips together.
Another blow on the same arm.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Piett clenched his fists and bowed his head, fighting the throbbing pain radiating up his arm. The guard was relentless and Piett was shaking a little before the order came to stop.
“Now then,” the woman said, leaning in close. She was a smoker, Piett noted distantly. “Trust me when we say, we are very good at what we do. We have no intention of breaking your bones. Yet. But soft tissue damage? That can go on for days.”
“To whom did you intend to give the drive?” asked Praxis once more, seating himself in the chair across the table and crossing one leg over the other.
“I am—innocent,” Piett panted.
The Commander nodded at the guard.
The same arm.
Blow after blow after blow.
Piett could not help but cry out this time, as tears of agony ran down his face.
His wrists were already raw and sore from his frantic tugging to escape the pain.
This continued for hours. They switched arms two hours into it. Four hours in they gave him a shot to keep him conscious, unable to escape from the excruciating feeling of increasing nerve and muscle damage. His left arm was already becoming a mottled canvas of bruises in dark reds and blues.
At last, barely conscious despite the drugs, he was released and dragged back to his cell to be dumped unceremoniously on the floor.
Darkness closed around him and he lay bonelessly, desperate to pass out, but unable to.
He found he could barely move his fingers and the terrible fear of truly being helpless—so damaged as to be unable to move—had him retching even though there was nothing in his stomach.
A distant part of him knew he should move to the bench so as not to risk more tissue damage on the cold floor.
But he had no strength.
What was the point anyway.
Perhaps he would just die of hypothermia.
No.
They wouldn’t let him.
And he was ashamed of himself for wanting to give up so easily. Even though there was no chance of salvation, he could make it hard for them. Be the stubborn bastard Veers had always said he was.
He used his shoulder to shove off of the floor. It felt as though he was being stabbed repeatedly, his arms nearly useless. He forced himself to flex the fingers on both hands to try and keep blood flowing.
This nearly had him pass out and he retched again, but it got easier as he did it. At last, Piett regained some semblance of control over his body and managed to make it to the bench, collapsing upon it and welcoming unconsciousness with a sob.