Belated thanks to Duc for setting up the relationship between Piett and Double Agent Vader in their delightful "Many Meetings," available on AO3.

IV. In the Shadows, Before the Stars

What is whispered in secret will be shouted from the housetops. Also, Firmus Piett is a lightweight.

Home One had been built as a deep-space exploration ship, and parts of it were still distinctly non-military. The starboard promenade on Deck 6, the oxy-breathers' exercise room by day, was left unsecured and unlit during the mid-watch for anyone who cared to take in the view-or find a discreet hideaway among the weight-training machines and simulators. Although he could hear nothing behind him, Firmus kept his gaze on the panorama outside.

Sometimes, if he stood there long enough, he could stop thinking and go back to sleep.

It was customary for people who came in at this hour in order to stand at the rail to ignore one another, but something about the figure halfway down the absurdly long window-wall niggled at his attention. Tall, pale, broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back, feet firmly braced as if a storm were brewing around him...

Oh.

Vader-Skywalker, dammit!-noticed him in return and held up a bottle.

Oh, why not.

"Tzai?" he asked when he was within comfortable speaking distance.

"Felt like something stronger," Skywalker said. The Outer Rim twang was more evident in his speech than usual. "This is Kenobi's Special Blend." He handed it over.

The smell was most certainly not tzai-like. "What is this?"

"Commissary tea and a few slugs of whatever you have. Corellian brandy is best if you can get it."

Firmus bared his teeth at the taste. Corellian this was not. He took another drink, turned the bottle, and handed it back. "That's good."

"When it's good, you know you need it," Skywalker said. He took a healthy swig himself.

If it hadn't been kriff-it-thirty after a long day, he might never have followed up on that. But it was, and things were different here. He leaned against the rail. "Twenty years I've been in space more often than not," he said to the starfield outside, "and I still have rathtar-dreams about vacuum."

There was a pause broken only by the soft sound of Skywalker's oxygen concentrator. "Fire, mostly," he said at last. "And-well. Mostly fire."

They passed the bottle back and forth again.

"When I was twenty," Firmus said to the frigate holding formation low on the flank of Home One, "I was a shiny new officer fresh out of the accelerated Academy program, learning how to march to that thing Garanus wrote." He whistled a few bars. Kenobi's Special Blend was pretty damned good.

"Could be worse," Skywalker murmured. "It amplifies pretty well."

He chucked humorlessly. "Yes, and the uniforms aren't bad either. At least they got rid of that fussy bit across the front." He traced the path the line of black piping had followed. "My point is," he said, and had to flail after his train of thought. "My point is, when I was twenty, you were twenty-three. General."

Skywalker was silent. The air in the room seemed to grow a little heavier, but that was nothing new. Without the cape and the murder suit, it was only slightly unnerving. Or maybe that was the drink talking.

In for a credit, in for the whole ingot. He plunged onward. "One way or another, you've been at war for more than half your life. But you're still here. How do-how do you do it?"

More silence, long enough for Firmus to feel the first stirrings of dismay. But there was no censure in Skywalker's voice when he spoke again.

"I don't."

There was a trick to saying nothing in an inviting way that Firmus had used on nervous juniors before. Hopefully it worked on brooding generals (and so forth). (Skywalker!)

"I expected to die on the second Death Star. I was there to soak up the Emperor's attention so my children could kill him." He sighed. "Didn't work out that way."

A little voice deep in Firmus's mind gibbered, Oh, shavit.

"I've been killing in the name of one Republic leader or another since I left Tatooine," Skywalker rasped in that incongruous Outer Rim accent, staring into the shadows of the room. "Half the time I damn well knew better, but I did it anyway. And when I saw my way out, I kept on killing so I could get there. And then the old depur went and fried me for good and all"-he absentmindedly rubbed his chest-"and all I could think was, 'Well, finally.' " He slanted a look at Firmus. "Don't worry; I'm not suicidal. Just-surprised."

Because Vader could pick his worries right out of his brain.

"Well, I try not to, but you're a lot louder than usual. How much of this did you drink?" He shook the bottle gently, listening to the level of the sloshing inside it.

"Either too much or not enough," Firmus said dazedly.

"Not the conversation you were expecting to have?" He was smiling sadly. "I don't have any wisdom for you, Piett. I'm here because...somebody...sacrificed herself to keep me alive, and I won't waste it. I've got a whole team of doctors, physical therapists, robotics consultants, and a couple of headslicers all trying to put me back together, and they're with the Fleet. Then there's the analysis work Intelligence wants done, and some PR, of all the damn things." He sipped a bit more. "And then I'll be going home. I'm done."

"Believe it or not," Firmus said, "I'll miss you."

Skywalker's smile became a crooked grin. He handed over the bottle. "Okay, I gotta hear more about this."

Firmus did not drink. "Really, though, I never did thank you. For my life."

"Stang, Piett, don't thank me for that! If my cover required it, I'd have sent you to the pit and you damn well know it!"

"I mean afterward." He shook his head, remembering. "After the announcement, all the venomous scavengers came squirming out of the ductwork. I'm sure you can name most of them. Some nights I went to my bunk not knowing who I would be answering to the next morning. It was only a matter of time until one of them issued a directive I couldn't follow. And then-well." He sipped, grimaced. "I never had the necessary connections. I think you got me out just in time. So, thank you." The big man shrugged, embarrassed. It was bizarrely endearing, and he didn't care whether he could hear that, either. "I just have to know why. Why me in particular?"

"Back when the war started-the first war, I mean-I would've given the rest of my limbs for another officer like you. There are never enough officers like you."

Suddenly he had to blink back tears. No more Kenobi's Special Blend! He cleared his throat. "So you put me on your list."

"Uh-huh. It's a short list, Piett."

"Well. Considering we've been baring our souls at each other, I think you ought to call me Firmus."

The brilliant smile brought to mind the old publicity holos of the Hero With No Fear. "Then I'm Anakin."

"Well, Anakin, good night. I hope you drowned your rathtars." He stood up from the rail and staggered. "Whoops!"

Anakin laughed at him. "Come on, drunky. Tell me where your quarters are and I'll get you there."

Some time later, somebody poured him into his bunk and pulled off his boots. The dream about Midshipman Tarniss and the breached flight deck did not come to him again that night.