Star Wars: The Loyalty Officer
by Dash Nolan
4 ABY
There were many things Commander Sinjir Velus hated about the Empire, but one of the things he loved was their psychotic obsession with cleanliness. Every surface shined bright enough that even the smallest ceiling light was reflected as though the wall had caught the direct rays of a near-by star. The ones who maintained this obsessive cleanliness were sometimes droids, and other times living creatures, always alien, never human. He found it both sad and comical, the image of a massive Wookie on cleaning detail, its shoulders slumped and back bowed, weighed down by the accepted inevitability of its future in Imperial service. It was a time when being born human and male was like winning the galaxy's ultimate lottery.
The idea of luck was one of many things that the Empire tried its hardest to drive out of the minds of its soldiers, but Sinjir knew how truly foolish it was to ignore the universe's random sense of humor. He was well aware that things were dropped into peoples' laps just as often as they were earned, and the Loyalty Officer tried to keep his lap as unoccupied as possible to accommodate such fortune, but it was difficult, what with his devious smile and deep eyes that simultaneously threatened and invited. Sinjir was nearly as attractive to others as he was to himself, and he knew it, used it. His looks were a polished tool that hung alongside many others on his utility belt.
Sinjir moved through the polished halls as he always did, tall and confident, but with a hint of unmistakable ease. If one watched long enough, saw him walking alongside his more rigid comrades, they might even find his gait casual. Again, it was another honed tool. The Empire was a cruel and precise machine, openly violent to creativity and individuality, and walking with even mild carelessness was a sign of either suicidal tendencies or utter confidence. For Sinjir, it was the latter, because he was a Loyalty Officer. He was the grease that silenced the squeaky wheel, the hammer that righted the bent nail.
The Imperial Communications Center on the planet Iyuta was Sinjir's current assignment, though it looked hardly different than the hundreds like it spread around the more civilized parts of the galaxy. Just a few hundred kilometers from the installation was the planet's capital city, Takari, a squared-off jungle of gunmetal and neon. It was a city choked by its own waste, its citizens preferring the drinks below and the smog around them to the stars above. Sinjir imagined it to be what Nar Shaddaa would look like if it were within the firm grip of the Empire, and not the slimy, aloof fingers of the Hutt families.
Sinjir always knew when someone was looking at him, and as he walked, many looked his way, only to immediately turn elsewhere, their feet suddenly together, their backs suddenly straighter. Everywhere he went, obedience followed in his wake, like the head of a gale that righted crestfallen trees. This was not the effect of his rank, the small bar of red squares pressed against his lapel signifying him as a Commander in the Imperial Navy's Officer Corps. Rather, they were shaken by his other title, Loyalty Officer, a title given to him by the Imperial Security Bureau. To those both enlisted and commissioned, the ISB was a nebulous, all-knowing shadow with a thousand eyes. With its seeming omnipotence, the ISB would occasionally reach out from highest reaches of Imperial Center with a precise, stabbing claw, and pluck away anything that slowed the great Empire's progress. Loyalty Officers were those claws.
As an agent of the ISB, Sinjir Velus was almost entirely above reproach. While he held the rank of Commander, this was mostly cosmetic, as he had been assigned to deal with Commodores, Master Chiefs, and even a Vice Admiral. After several years of walking freely through those who stiffened and silently cowered at his arrival, he was growing apathetic to things like rank and insignia. At this point, Sinjir felt that the only thing that could truly scare him was a sudden stop in his smuggled ale supply, or the Sith Lord Darth Vader reaching out towards him, in that order.
Up some stairs, he hung a right and headed for the turbolifts. He pressed the button for the ninth basement level, and felt dust come off the button on his fingertip. The floor was used for "storage", a word used in the broadest sense. Certainly, there were crates of rations and extra armor and spare tools and even weapons, but there were other, smaller rooms. These rooms had blast doors and full security locks that seemed out of place in the quiet, disused hall. Sinjir found the room, the last one on the left, and placed his hand on the faintly-glowing security panel. On the tiny monitor, only his last name and the logo of the Imperial Security Bureau appeared, no face, no rank. The door slid away.
The air was tinged with moisture, natural, warm, and desperate. The room had no air circulation and was nearly vacuum-tight when closed. Sinjir stepped in and the door closed behind him, his eyes falling upon the sole source of life in the tomb. Atop a large slab of metal, risen at a steep angle, a young man panted. A Lieutenant in his early twenties, the man watched Sinjir enter the room with chilling calm, his wide blue eyes shifting between confusion and terror. The Loyalty Officer took a moment to look the shackled man over, then took several more.
Cillen Prut was the young Lieutenant's name. Sinjir said the name aloud, "Cillen", though not in any particular direction. The name was soft, nearly effeminate, and it seemed to fit the man's image, a slim, tight build, perhaps a frequent swimmer in his free time. Cillen's uniform top was open, exposing a light gray undershirt that was soaked and clung to soft, heaving abs. Drops weighed down the short-cut curls of fiery orange atop Cillen's head, his officer's cap somewhere else, irrelevant now.
Sinjir lifted away his own cap and placed it on a near-by crate, running his hand over his exposed prickly black crew cut. He was taking his time, letting his eyes drift half-closed to take in all the younger officer's sounds, his short, almost choking breaths, his semi-conscious shifting within the remnants of his uniform and the uncaring shackles. These were cues, little pieces that would come together with others to give Sinjir a picture of who Lieutenant Cillen Prut really was. He would ask Prut questions, but the answers would tell the Loyalty Officer only a fraction of what the man's restless body had to say.
The toolbox at Sinjir's disposal was wide and deep, a mix of polished edges, blunt surfaces, and piercing words, but for now he simply watched. He walked and watched, making a maddeningly-slow lap around the restrained man. Sinjir reached the back side of the slanted table and was now out of the sweating officer's view. He was invisible to Cillen, but Sinjir's presence was palpable, overbearing, somehow worse than if he was standing before him.
Velus completed his lap around Cillen and paused at his risen feet, tracking his eyes up and down the young officer with feline patience. Cillen twitched at the scanning look, recoiling here and there as if Sinjir's eyes were projecting a physical hand. Once his eyes reached his target's, the next phase of his work would begin, so instead Sinjir took another lap around the table. Just as he reached the shaking man's left shoulder, a second before he would disappear from view again, Cillen spoke up. His words were individual, each with their own awkward intonation.
"I know who you are."
The Loyalty Officer stopped at the edge of Cillen's peripheral vision, letting his boot fall crisply, the slap of his heel against the metal floor causing Cillen to jerk. Sinjir forced back a smirk. He loved watching the cowardly make their first attempt at true, open defiance. It was like a wrapped gift under a tree, not knowing in which direction the man would crumble, or how soon.
Sinjir's tone was smooth, neutral, but not unkind. "Who is it they say I am?"