When I made ensign, the Imperial Navy offered me a simple choice for reassignment. I could scan cargo over Ord Mantell in some dinged-up patrol boat; or serve aboard the Empire's crown-jewel and flagship, the Executor Super Star Destroyer. I wish the stupid Eriaduan kid I was had picked the blasted patrol tug. I really should be proud; I'm the central targeting officer in charge of maybe 8,000 turbolaser batteries, maybe more, stationed on the main bridge of the most powerful ship in the galaxy. Every day, the feet of the Empire's greatest heroes and most terrible enforcers pass right by my station. Contrary to what the excited naval recruit inside of me thought, this may just be the most cruel burden to carry out of any assignment I could have taken. The men who take command of this vessel may as well be the only crew aboard, as far as I can tell. They may as well be the only living soul in this entire fleet, this "Death Squadron." The name is supposed to be intimidating, to terrify any pirate flotilla or rebel cell into submission; they think that it represents their own death. After serving aboard this flagship's bridge for years, I honestly and truly believe that it may just be the reverse.
From the moment the Executor was launched and put into the gloved hands of a figure I may not have clearance to know exists, I was reminded that I was destined to be yet another Verpine drone, set out to work endlessly to satisfy the rest of the hive. The man, machine, whatever it is; Darth Vader. Frankly, he's insane. I don't know what drives him, how he became The Emperor's personal bloodhound; nothing. All I know is that the moment he stepped aboard the polished durasteel of the Executor's bridge, with the crew still shocked by the loss of the Death Star, Death Squadron was a part of his madness. I was still ignorant by this point; I assumed we were just out for revenge on the Rebel Alliance as a whole, I mean, they destroyed the battlestation that was supposed to keep us safe. I felt like we were really accomplishing something, leading the fleet through the Outer Rim, spreading probes across the galaxy. And then, we found their base, frozen in the middle of Hoth. It's disgusting, really, how infatuated I still was with the Imperial Navy. I really think that the moment that changed was when we were coming out of hyperspace for what was supposed to be our final assault, and I peered up from my terminal to see Admiral Ozzel, the temporary commander of the fleet, speaking into a holoscreen. Mid-sentence, he honestly just seized up and died. I'm not exaggerating this at all. One moment he was speaking, and the next he was on the floor, hand against his throat. Later, in the officer's mess, I heard plenty of rumors about the late admiral. He had been poisoned, Darth Vader had cast a spell on him, he simply lost the will to live.. Maybe it wasn't Ozzel's death that got to me; it may have been the stupidity of my fellow crew.
After Hoth, Vader's madness had truly began. Most of the personnel and equipment from the base on Hoth had been evacuated, and Death Squadron didn't go anywhere near the dazed and disorganized rebel fleet. Our half-a-dozen Star Destroyers, along with the magnificent Executor, went after a lone freighter which had separated from the rest of the evacuation. I still don't know what the hell was going on throughout that mess. Even once the banged-up YT-1300 had ducked into the Hoth system's asteroid belt, we gave pursuit. First it was with a TIE-fighter squadron; I suppose that Vader still had a bit of sense behind that glossy dome of his. Then he really, truly lost it. The TIE flight was lost, and the Emperor's pet didn't give a moment of hesitation before he sent the entire fleet into the asteroid field. I still remember the stress of those few hours; every turbolaser aboard was dedicated to trying to incinerate any hunk of rock that was hell-bent on ripping a hole through our hull. It still wasn't enough, either. One of the Executor's wing ships got hit, right in the command bridge. I had a few seconds of "break-time" from communicating with overheated turbolaser batteries, and I spent it peeking over my console, just like I did when Ozzel bit the dust. It was a similar scene. Captains of the fleet, speaking via hologram. Just as the asteroid hit our wing ship, I saw one of the holographic officers get this look of pure, absolute terror; in the same moment I noticed it, the hologram was gone. Not a single other captain, nor Vader, showed a hint of acknowledgement.
Everything since then was one big blur. That's all my station is, really. Point the guns where I'm told them to point them, make sure they keep firing. Then, I was jerked out of the dream. Death Squadron was stationed over a forest moon of the gas giant Endor; the Death Star was being rebuilt. I couldn't even feel pride, just the soft, escalating terror I've felt since that asteroid field. Now, the fear has reached its apex. We caught the rebel fleet, coming in on some suicide run to knock out the Death Star II. Even with Death Squadron and many more vessels backing us, I know that it's my turn to go. Darth Vader isn't on the Executor anymore; we're expendable now. All I can do is keep at my station. Divert power to this battery, shift batteries to target the latest rag-tag squadron of junk heaps. They're targeting us, all of them; the entire enemy fleet is after this shining flagship. It's backed them into a corner and they're going to fight their way out, tooth and nail, fighter and bomber. There's a cruiser coming into range on the port bow, two more squadrons are maneuvering just above the hull, turbolaser sectors sixty-eight and three-hundred and twelve are overheating, shields are diverted all over the ship; no protection for the bridge. My head shoots up, Admiral Piett screams an order, "Intensify forward fire power!" An officer gives a panicked reply, they both dive to the floor; I see a rebel starfighter, in a crazy spin, looking as if it's only meters away. Blast, I should've taken that Ord Mantell assignment.