Chapter 3
“Well this is not particularly convenient is it, Veers?” Ozzel puffed, tapping the computer screen on his desk.
Veers stood at attention on the other side of the desk, face impassive as he waited for the Admiral.
“No, Admiral, but it is expected. I will, naturally, cooperate in all ways possible.”
Ozzel nodded ponderously in approval, moving away from the desk and toward the viewport.
“Unfortunate you did not heed my warnings about the sort of…company you kept, General,” he mused, hands clasped behind his back.
Veers breathed out slowly, reminding himself of the long game here and keeping his rage at bay.
“It is indeed, Admiral. Once again, you have my apologies for my error in judgement. Colonel Travis has already been briefed that I will be gone for a few days and is admirably suited to running the Herd in my absence.”
“Good, good,” Ozzel agreed, turning back to face him. “Well—who am I to deny High Command a review of their officer?” He laughed in that pretentious way of his, and came to slap Veers on the back.
“Glad you’ve seen the error of your ways, General. I have put in a good word for you—mentioned your zeal to make things right once you realized the sort of traitorous filth we were dealing with.”
He pictured himself punching Ozzel in the face so hard that his nose flattened. Or—more pleasing—Vader throwing him through a viewport.
“I appreciate that, sir,” he said outwardly, ever the faithful Imperial officer.
“Report in when you return,” Ozzel said, already turning back to his computer.
“Yes, sir,” Veers replied stiffly and left the office to make his way down to the hangar decks.
Travis was waiting beside his shuttle, looking quite sober. Understandable. As far as he knew his commanding officer was potentially going to a career ending meeting—kriff, possibly a life ending one if they felt he was complicit in Piett’s ‘treason’.
But now was not the time to enlighten Travis.
“Best of luck, General,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’ll be here when you return.”
He put extra stress on that last statement and Veers gripped his hand gratefully.
“I appreciate that, Colonel,” he said, and returned the sharp salute that he received.
Then he boarded the shuttle and initiated the start up sequence.
And did he imagine that, or did those bay lights straight ahead just flicker at him?
“I’ll bring him back, Lady,” he murmured as the shuttle moved forward. “Or die trying.”
He cleared the energy barrier and then piloted to the edge of the fleet before he pulled on the hyperdrive.
And only then did he allow himself to relax his rigid posture.
The first hurdle had been completed flawlessly. The next would prove just how capable the Lady was in her forgery efforts.
Veers set his course, following the tracking beacon he’d placed on the ISB shuttle and then slept fitfully, his dreams plagued with Piett’s battered body—his friend having died before he could reach him. In some versions Veers’ shuttle exploded. And in one nightmare, he was throttled by Lord Vader.
At last he got up and spent a long time in the fresher, allowing the sonic waves to soothe tense muscles before he got dressed once again. There was a small water supply for the shower, but he was saving that for Piett.
He checked all his supplies for the millionth time, and then the proximity alert beeped and he moved to seat himself in the pilot’s chair once more.
He took the shuttle out of hyperspace and was glad to discover his theory had been correct—-this was an orbital station. He would have been willing to brazen this mission out planetside, but a getaway was easier if one was already in space and could go to lightspeed.
He’d arranged for the Lady to send his ‘orders’ to the station commander about two hours before he was due to arrive. He had to hope she had done exactly that.
“Imperial Shuttle, please identify,” came the dry voice over his comms.
“This is Shuttle Achilleus,” he said, tapping the switch. “General Maximilian Veers requesting landing permission.”
There was a brief pause.
“Permission granted, General. Pad 4.”
He followed the landing codes he was sent and brought the shuttle down as smoothly as he could. He was an army man. He stayed current with his piloting requirements, but there was a reason he wasn’t in the navy.
As the landing ramp hissed down, three officers exited the station and waited for him at the head of the walkway leading to his landing pad.
Veers had no intention of being intimidated by ISB.
He made certain his sidearm was firmly in the holster and then tugged his cap a little before he squared his shoulders and strode down the ramp with a stately pace.
They waited for him, the Commander who had arrested Piett, standing at their head.
“General,” he said.
“I trust you received the same orders that I did,” Veers returned with a curt head nod.
Had he?
“Quite,” the Commander replied. “Follow me please, Veers.”
He turned and Veers joined the group to enter the space station. It was soulless in the extreme. Veers had seen a great deal of Imperial engineering and architecture, but this made Star Destroyers look positively welcoming.
Even the flooring was flat, gunmetal grey—no glossy black corridors here. He was led into a very intimidating office full of sharp angles and heavy furniture.
All designed to instill fear.
But Veers was not someone who had been intimidated in his life (with the exception of wooing Myra, but that was different) and he calmly waited as the doors hissed closed and the Commander lifted a data pad from the massive desk.
“Highly unusual, General,” said, frowning at his pad. “I’ve never heard of a senior General being ordered to retrieve a prisoner.”
Veers breathed out and inclined his head.
“Agreed, Commander, but then mine is not to question why. Lord Vader was quite clear.”
The Commander put down the datapad and folded his arms.
“He was your friend wasn’t he? The Captain?”
“That is a stronger term than reality, Commander,” Veers lied. “But it is possible I am being punished for making the mistake of becoming friendly with a traitor. If so, I will carry out Lord Vader’s orders, come what may.”
The other man shook his head, mouth curling a little.
“You’re a cold kriffer, Veers. But that is what makes you an ideal Imperial officer. Any idea why Lord Vader wishes to question the prisoner himself? I can assure you we are doing good work. He’ll break anytime now.”
Veers thought unprintable things.
“Lord Vader does not tend to take me into his confidence, Commander,” he replied glacially. Time to remind this Huttsucking bastard who he was speaking to. “I merely carry out his orders to the best of my ability. And if that includes this task, I am honored to complete it.”
“Very well,” the Commander said. “He’s a stubborn one. A good challenge. I’m a bit disappointed not to crack him myself, but ah well.”
There was one mad, furious moment where a red haze crossed Veers’ vision, and he considered throwing all caution to the wind in favor of murdering every ISB agent aboard with his bare hands.
Instead he merely smiled his most predatory smile at the Commander and gestured toward the door.
“Shall we?”
It was minutely gratifying that the man swallowed uncomfortably before he moved ahead of Veers and out the door.
They entered a lift and plunged down ten levels to the rounded cylindrical base of the station where the cells were located.
It was dark and unpleasant, the only light spots located where guard stations were.
“Wait here,” the Commander said at one of these stations, and then proceeded to go a ways further down one of the corridors to the right.
Veers was itching to follow him, but he must do everything by the book until he had Piett safely away from this hell.
And so he waited.
********************
Piett couldn’t stop the shivering now.
He was well aware he had a fever—even in the cold of his cell he would get too warm and then plunge back into near hypothermic chills.
He lay helplessly against one of the walls, unable to move given the damage they’d done to his right knee with his one escape attempt.
How long had it been?
Likely no more than three days, Piett estimated. They’d given him some water this morning for the first time. But nothing to eat. The ISB knew how to walk the thin line of keeping a prisoner alive for torture, but too weak to resist.
The fire was growing in his lungs.
He’d known it would given how cold they kept the cells and his proclivity to chest infections. He’d imagined Henley giving his tormenters a piece of his mind for many happy hours. He might have to tell the Doctor that. That picturing the CMO eviscerating the ISB had kept Piett going.
Of course, he was never going to see Henley again. Or his Lady. Or—-
The door hissed open.
He blinked against the light, unable to even raise his arm to shield his eyes.
“Well, Piett. Seems that Lord Vader is impatient.”
The Commander stepped into the cell and smirked down at him.
Piett stared at him, completely confused.
“He wishes to question you himself. You’re going to wish you had told me everything. Now you’ll find out what it’s like to have a Sith Lord turn your mind inside out. And you’ll be conscious while he does it.”
He turned to speak over his shoulder. “Cuff him.”
Two guards stepped in and twisted his arms behind his back. Piett cried out in exquisite agony at this as they placed binders around already lacerated wrists and gripped his ruined arms to haul him upright.
“Stand up, damn you!” snapped one.
“Can’t,” Piett panted, bending over to cough. This caused pain so violent he really thought he might pass out.
“Drag him,” the Commander said curtly, and Piett was hauled up, his body sliding along the smooth floor and head hanging so that he could only see the boots of his guards and the grooves of the metal joins passing by beneath him.
At last they reached a desk and someone spoke with a voice so familiar that Piett thought he must be hallucinating.
“He is alive, isn’t he? Lord Vader will not be best pleased if I show up with a corpse.”
Laughter sounded above his head, but Piett did not have the strength to lift it and confirm the voice’s identity.
“Oh yes. We’re quite good at what we do.”
There was more dragging and they entered a lift. Piett focused on being able to breathe, the agonies running through his body making this difficult.
At last they exited, and he was dragged further until he realized they had reached a landing platform.
He was going to Lord Vader.
He supposed he should be more frightened about that than he was, but he found he just didn’t have the strength to care that deeply.
He was dumped on the deck of a passenger hold and his binders shackled to a ring beneath one of the seats.
“Traitorous scum,” muttered one of the guards, kicking the bad leg as he exited and Piett bit the inside of his cheek to stop the scream.
The thud of boots on metal radiated through his body, and then a man moved past him to the cockpit while Piett heard the landing ramp go up.
The engines whined to life and Piett breathed in the scent of plasma and metal and a particularly Imperial smell that he associated with the Lady.
Gravity pressed upon him as the shuttle lifted and then trembled a little as it achieved distance from the space station.
Then—
Hyperspace.
The boots were back—shiny Imperial boots right in front of his face.
Then they bent and someone was kneeling before him, reaching to unshackle his hands.
“I’m sorry. Oh, Firmus. I’m so karking sorry. Those sadistic Sithspawn. I hope they all rot in hell for eternity.”
His arms were free, but it made no difference—-he couldn’t move them anyway.
He blinked up into the face of Maximilian Veers and found once again, the friend in that guilt stricken expression.
“Is…this real?” he croaked.
In answer, Max slid his arms beneath Piett’s body and lifted him swiftly to lay on the medbunk. The pain this brought had him gasping and keening.
“I’m sorry,” Veers repeated in anguish. “Yes, that pain should tell you it’s real, Firmus.”
“All blurs…” he mumbled. This could be another ploy to get him to talk after all. A hallucination.
Something pinched at his collarbone and he saw that a drip line was inserted.
“Sorry, but I can’t possibly try to set up these lines in your arms,” Veers said apologetically. “I’m getting the nutrient one set now…there.”
Then he bent close to Firmus, large hand resting lightly on his matted hair.
“This is real. You can know that because…because your Lady helped with all of it. I could never have done all this without her. And only I would know that, Piett. You told me she was special. And…she is. Gave me um…a green light. I don’t know what it means though.”
Piett processed this slowly with a mind that had been through too much.
The Lady had helped Veers.
The ISB would not know what she was. Only Max did.
“Green…is her color for…you,” he managed. “Max—-”
“Right here,” Veers told him, pulling out several large boxes and removing the tops. Then he lifted out real blankets—not just silvery emergency ones—real thick blankets that he tucked around Piett carefully.
Heat packs were cracked next and laid along his body giving him blessed, blessed warmth.
“Oh…” Piett groaned. As his circulation improved, the pain intensified.
“Almost there for the moment, friend of mine,” Veers told him, rummaging further. “And then—-”
But Piett had to know one thing.
“Max…” he croaked. Veers’ face appeared over his.
“Why?” Piett whispered piteously.
The General closed his eyes briefly and bowed his head before meeting Piett’s gaze again.
“I’ll tell you, Firmus,” he answered, face unbearably sad. “I will. But not until you have rested and are able to listen. Suffice it to say—I had to save your life and this was the only way I could think of. I wish I had a better plan, but it was all that I could come up with in the time I had…”
What?
“I know it doesn’t make a great deal of sense for you at the moment,” Veers continued, unrolling a pair of socks and proceeding to slide them on Firmus’s feet with aching gentleness, “And I will not forgive myself for what I have made you endure. Nor do I expect your forgiveness. But you will get your explanation once you have slept and I have dealt with your injuries.”
He opened another kit and pulled out a purple hypo.
Piett thought about pushing for the explanation now. But his body was already failing him and he merely nodded in exhaustion as the hypo pressed to his neck, sending him into oblivion.
**************
Veers watched the thin face of his friend tilt away as he lost consciousness. He clenched his hand around the empty hypo and took several deep breaths, wiping angrily at his eyes a few times before he straightened.
It was so much worse than he’d pictured. Not the injuries. They were awful, but not as terrible as they could have been. No, the reality of his friend—so broken and helpless— was threatening to undo him.
So he must instead focus on Firmus—-on helping him not to be broken. Time to start putting him back together so he could share his plan.
He shrugged out of his duty jacket and laid it on the opposite row of seats before he rolled up his sleeves and dug through his extensive medical kit.
Veers started by checking him for any broken bones, running the scanner slowly over the blanket covered figure. It was unnerving to have Piett so still before him. He paused occasionally to watch the blankets move up and down with his breathing even though the scanner told him that his friend was alive.
A displaced knee with a hairline fracture.
Numerous bruises to his abdomen and chest.
But nothing like what had been done to his arms.
The scanner indicated deep tissue and nerve damage. Things that could be repaired, but they needed a full medical facility and surgery to do so. And they were on a clock. If left too long, the damage could be permanent.
However, if they managed to do what Veers had in mind, he was certain he could give Piett top tier medical care.
In the meantime, he would do what he could for those injuries.
He began with the knee, rolling back the flimsy fabric of the jumpsuit and applying ointment for the swelling. Then, following the scanner’s instructions, he wrapped it well, making sure Piett would not be able to bend it.
He replaced the blankets and checked his friend’s temperature. It was coming back to a normal range, but the scanner indicated that fever was present and that the Captain had a growing infection in the lungs.
Kark it.
Of course he did.
They kept those cells at frosty temperatures and Piett was prone to this sort of illness. Veers longed for Henley’s expertise, and pondered his desperation that he voluntarily wanted the company of the Lady’s CMO.
He laid out long bacta strips and proceeded to wrap Piett’s arms from wrist to above the elbow. It was a far cry from what he needed, but it would help with the pain and skin damage.
He relaxed at last and took several long pulls at a water bottle before he pulled out a self heating ration.
Piett needed to eat real food, but for now the nutrient drip would do. The other drip contained a broad spectrum antibiotic and fever reducer. Veers looked at the chronometer. That sedative would keep the Captain under for another five hours. He would grab some sleep and then see what Piett thought of his plan.
***************
Firmus woke feeling far too warm.
He shoved at the blankets covering him and promptly regretted it.
If he was warm before, his arms positively erupted into flames now, and he dropped his head back to the pillow, clenching his teeth.
A firm hand rested on his forehead and then removed a few blankets.
“You have a fever, my friend,” said Veers’ voice.
Veers.
Piett opened his eyes to meet compassionate grey ones as the General bent over him.
“Max,” he gasped, reaching for him and finding that his arm would not respond properly. It felt clumsy and strange.
Veers met him halfway, taking his fumbling hand carefully.
“Really here,” he said calmly. “You are safe. Hold on one moment.”
Something cool hissed into Piett’s neck and the pain drifted away, allowing him to relax.
“Oh,” he said in relief. “Thank you.”
He took stock.
It was a standard Imperial transport shuttle for about twenty people. He was lying on the medbunk that one could pull from the bulkhead in emergencies.
There were several large crates near the bunk, somewhat haphazardly placed as though someone had been working very quickly.
The IV lines had been removed from his veins and he found that the pounding headache he’d struggled with had abated thanks to hydration and nutrients.
Veers reached over and snagged a water bottle, opening it and then sliding his arm beneath Piett's head so he could drink without choking.
He did this and Veers laid him back before he rubbed at the five o clock shadow on his jaw.
“I had hoped to let you get a warm shower,” he said uncertainly, “but that knee is a mess and I don’t think you have the strength to hold yourself up. So. I can wash your hair and give you a bit of a wipe down.”
This made Piett smile a little.
“Like one of your AT-ATs?” he asked. “A little scrub and polish?”
Veers gave him an unimpressed look.
“Glad you’re more yourself. And it will take a lot more than that to put you right.”
His face immediately sobered again.
“I’m…I suppose I’ll keep saying this, but I’m so sorry, Firmus. For all of it.”
“You promised me an explanation,” Piett replied. “But Veers…I trust you. Yes, it was hell. And…and I wondered…” His voice cracked a little, but he cleared his throat. “I wondered how you could so readily believe the worst of me, I can’t deny it. But also—-here we are. And I have a great deal of questions as to how you left the Lady and proceeded to find me in an ISB station, before retrieving me without a shot fired.”
Max rubbed at the back of his neck, and looked at him soberly.
“You may still be kriffed with me, Captain.”
“Maybe,” Piett agreed, certain that he wasn’t. Max was here. Had come for him.
“All right. I’ll clean you up and get you comfortable. Then I’ll tell you what happened.”
Veers proceeded to fill a small crate with warm water from the little fresher before he eased Piett onto his side and helped him move so that his head was over the end of the medbunk. He lathered and rinsed Firmus’s hair with swift efficiency, but he was careful even so, not to hurt him.
He spread a towel over the pillow and aided Piett to lie down once more before he simply cut away the hated jumpsuit. And then—miracle of miracles—he pulled out Piett’s own Imperial Navy sweats. ‘
“How…?” Piett began, ridiculously glad to have some of his own clothing.
“Part of the plan,” Veers returned, running the warm cloth over Piett’s bruised chest with care.
While a shower would have been ideal, Firmus was grateful for the makeshift bath, and felt tremendously better for getting the sweat and grime of the ISB station off of his skin.
Veers helped him to slide his arms into the sleeves of the sweatshirt before he zipped it up for Piett. The bottoms were a little trickier with the thickly bandaged knee, but they had enough give to slide up his legs without too much fuss.
He found he was quite tired after these exertions, but accepted another pillow so he could see better, and Veers gave him another water bottle.
The General then proceeded to give him the rundown of Ozzel’s plan and how he had heard of it.
“Poor Tom was quite distressed on your behalf,” he stated, stretching his long legs out from where he sat opposite the medbunk. “Obviously I couldn’t explain. And I wasn’t sure about your Lady. Would she protect you, do you think? If it came to it?”
“If she thought I was in imminent danger of dying?” Piett mused, sipping at his water. “I…am not certain. I think she is fond of me. But that would reveal her nature. I don’t know what she would do.”
“Well I couldn’t risk it,” Veers continued. “I knew that Ozzel would have you just disappear if he dealt with this ‘in house’ as he said. So…I went by the book. Because I knew you would be removed from the ship for questioning. I placed a tracker on the shuttle and…” he stopped, gesturing.
“You know the rest,” he murmured, unable to meet Piett’s eyes. “I…had to count on that durasteel spine of yours to endure so I could come retrieve you.”
Piett could feel all he had endured, though the pain killers were keeping it manageable.
“And the Lady’s part?” he asked.
“I needed two sets of orders to look authentic,” Veers said, looking at him once more. “One was from ‘High Command’ ordering me to my own review for fraternizing with a ‘traitor’. That allowed me to leave the ship with no questions. Ozzel even ‘put in a good word’ on my behalf.”
The thought of Ozzel had Piett’s stomach twist. For someone to hate him so much as to have him accused of treason and murdered…
He shouldn’t be shocked. He had plenty of bounties on his head as a result of his Axxilan Anti-Pirate fleet days.
“The other set,” Veers continued, “needed to be from Lord Vader. Ordering a transfer of custody from ISB to himself for one Captain Piett.”
Holy kark.
“And…clearly she was able to do that,” Piett mused. “Veers…”
He stopped. This friend of his had just thrown out his career, his life, to save Piett. Had done all these things on his behalf.
“I can’t thank you enough.”
Max shook his head, looking down at the deck.
“I condemned you to such agony, Firmus. And I did it knowing…!”
“You knew me,” Piett interrupted tiredly. “You’re a tactician. One of the best, it’s generally agreed. You made a plan and you saved my life. Veers. I can’t be angry at you.”
There was a long beat.
“I’m angry at myself,” Veers said in low tones.
“I…can’t pretend I don’t understand that,” Piett agreed. “If this was flipped, I would feel much the same. So…be angry at that bastard, Ozzel.”
“Oh I’m that too,” Veers said, looking him in the eye again. “But Firmus—”
“I forgive you,” Piett said abruptly, giving his friend a small smile. “Does that help?”
Veers snorted.
“Not sure anything will. But I’m grateful that you’re you.”
“So what’s the rest of the plan?” Piett asked, rolling his neck against the returning pain.
Veers rose and gave him another hypo without asking, the wonderful relief of modern drugs allowing him to be sleepy.
“Are we going to hop around the galaxy as fugitives?” Piett pushed. “Mercenaries maybe?”
This got a smile from Veers.
“Not a terrible idea. But no. I intend to see you reinstated as the Lady’s Captain.”
Piett held his gaze.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Veers, that’s impossible. You just went AWOL and committed treason in saving me. And no one will believe that I’m innocent—”
“There is one person to whom we can appeal.”
Piett frowned. No one would go against Ozzel. Admiral of the most prestigious fleet in the Imperial Navy. Corest of Core families. A personal pick of Palpatine’s.
“I don’t follow you,” Firmus said, drinking more water.
“That is because you are exhausted. Or you would. But I won’t appeal to him unless I have your consent to do so, because it does come with risks.”
“Max,” Piett said, a strange and terrible thought forming in his brain. “Where are we headed?”
Veers looked him in the eye.
“Mustafar.”