The bridge of the Executor was quiet, very quiet, as Lord Vader casually strolled up and down the central catwalk. The crew knew that the Dark Lord did not customarily stroll, and there was a definite sense of anticipation in the air as they waited for a senseless act of random strangulation.
"Lord Vader," said Admiral Piett, approaching the Dark Lord with impunity. Not only was Piett Vader's favorite admiral, he was the only competent one that had ever commanded the Executor, and that made him exempt from a SAoRS. Vader's black helmet swung around, looking the admiral up and down before his gloved hand gestured for Piett to continue.
"It seems, Lord Vader, that the Emperor's Grand Filing Assistant has just arrived on the Executor. He . . . he has some issues he needs to speak with you about."
"Where is he?"
"I'm right here, my lord!" said a short, swarthy man with a loud, overbearing voice. Piett groaned. The Grand Filing Assistant grabbed Vader's hand, pumping it excitedly. "It's really an honor to meet you, my lord, really an honor. But there's just one thing I need to talk to you about. It's those darned TPS reports . . ."
"Dammit!" Piett and Vader muttered as one.
". . . again. You sillies—you keep forgetting the covers! Didn't you get the memo?"
"You see," said Piett, "it was really just an honest mistake—"
"—just a really crazy week killing Rebels and all, and we did get the memo—" Vader continued.
"Yeah. You see, what we're doing now is putting these new covers on all the TPS reports—really helps the people down in Filing."
"Look," said Piett, "I understand—"
"Uh-huh. So if you could get right on that, that'd be great." The Grand Filing Assistant smiled with great warmth. "Also, I wanted to talk to you about the new cutbacks in Personnel—"
The Grand Filing Assistant was dead before the two smoking halves of his bisected body hit the floor. Vader nodded to himself, deactivating his lightsaber and reattaching it to his belt.
"That's the way you have to do it," the Dark Lord's voice rumbled.
"Well, that's just great," Piett said, nudging the left piece of the Grand Filing Assistant with a booted toe. "Hey, you!" He pointed at a stormtrooper. "Get over here and clean this crap up—right now."
"Uh . . . but I was on my way to a dice game . . ."
"Dammit, you, did you hear what I—" Piett stopped. "Did you say dice game?"
"Yes, sir. Sir, I'm off-duty . . ."
"A stormtrooper is never off-duty! Didn't they brainwash that into you? No matter." Piett shook his finger disapprovingly. "Go, get the broom out of the closet, and blow our friend out the airlock before the next one gets here. Damn Rebels, they're always destroying our Grand Filing Assistant Shuttles. They just have to be so anti-administration . . ."
"Sir, isn't that why they're Rebels?"
"Quiet you," Piett said with a scowl. "Get the broom!" He turned to Vader, who was playing quietly with his Gameboy. "If you don't mind, sir, I'll, ah, take my coffee break now."
Vader laid a hand across Piett's shoulder. "Admiral . . . admiral . . . uh . . . Piett, yeah, that's it, look, we've been through some times together, you and I. You remember that night at Mos Eisley? When we were so drunk that nice fellow with the tusks had to carry us off to his tribe on that bantha?"
"Yes," said Piett. "Shame we had to kill them all."
"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Look, Piett, ol' buddy, what I'm saying is that I know about your gambling addiction. So if you ever want to, you know, get a beer and talk things out, or something . . ."
"Sure. Okay. That sounds great." Piett slipped out of Vader's grasp, heading for the turbolift. "I'll, uh, just go get some coffee. Be back in five minutes."
If I don't lose my shirt, Piett added silently.
When Piett returned to the bridge ten minutes later wearing his pink-heart boxers, socks, and white undershirt, Vader was lighting up a cigarette. The admiral glanced at him, shivering on the air-conditioned bridge.
"Those things are bad for you, you know," he said.
"Not really like my lungs could get any worse." Vader jammed the butt of the cigarette through the grill of his faceplate, taking a long drag. "Do any better this time?"
"I think my skills are improving."
"I hope so." Vader pointed at a stormtrooper. "You. Go get the admiral a new uniform. And get me one of those meatball sandwiches from the mess hall, you know, the ones that smell funny."
"Yes, sir."
"And be snapper about it!" Piett snapped as the stormtrooper hurried off.
"Rebels," said Vader.
"Hmm?"
"Rebels, I said."
"I know what you said," groused Piett. "But what does it have to do with anything we've been talking about?"
"Rebels. It's why we're out here."
"Well, that and keeping the peace, I suppose."
"Look." Vader pointed. "Rebels."
"Jesus! There are Rebels out there?" Piett ran to the viewports. Indeed, a Rebel Mon Calamari Star Cruiser was lining up for an attack run to the Super Star Destroyer's port side. "Weapons! Commence firing on that Star Cruiser! Dammit, Vader, why didn't you tell me?"
Vader giggled for a moment, then squished the half-smoked cigarette beneath his booted heal and lit another one.
"And Sensors, why didn't you warn me?"
"Sensors is in the restroom, sir," Weapons answered. Piett frowned.
"Oh."
"One or two?" Vader asked.
"What? Why does that matter?" Piett sniffed the air. "What're you smoking there?"
"Oh . . . nothin'."
"Damn it all, Vader, are you high?"
The Dark Lord seemed very busy staring at his boots. "Define 'high,' " he finally said after a long silence.
"Stoned. Smashed. Shit-faced. Hammered. Buzzed. Wasted. Trippin'. Under the influence of marijuana!"
"Hey man," Vader said, "leave me along. It's for medicinal purposes. My lungs. They hurt every day." He giggled again.
Piett shook his head in disgust. He glanced out the viewport, suddenly remembering the Rebel Star Cruiser. "Weapons! Why can I still see that thing?"
"Just fixing that little problem right now, sir." As one, a healthy percent of the Executor's turbolasers swiveled in their turret mounts and fired, blasting the Star Cruiser to very small pieces. Piett nodded approvingly.
"That's more like it."
"Sir, we've got escape pods on our scopes. Shall we bring them aboard?"
"Absolutely." Piett rubbed his hands in anticipation—there was nothing he liked more than interrogating Rebels. "Bring their leader to me."
"Sure."
"Hey, sir," said the stormtrooper, "here's the stuff you wanted." He handed Piett a new uniform. "And here's your sandwich, Lord Vader."
"Thanks, man. Damn, but I'm hungry!"
Piett put on the uniform, and stopped shivering. Presently, a detachment of stormtroopers arrived with a bloodied Mon Calamari. A scruffy-looking young man with a man-child beard, a green shirt, and red pants followed them. A large brown dog with black spots and a blue collar followed him.
"Who are you, Rebel?" Piett demanded.
"You'll never break me! I'll never talk!"
"Uh-huh. What's your name?" Piett raised an eyebrow. "Name and serial number—isn't that what you're supposed to tell us? So we can tell your kin after we blow you out the airlock?"
"You'll never break me! I'll never talk!"
"Fantastic." Piett glanced to Vader for help, but when he saw the spaghetti sauce splattered across the Dark Lord's helmet, he turned back around. "Okay, so let's try the taser, huh? You fish-folk don't like tasers, do ya?"
"You'll never break me! I'll never talk!"
"That's what I thought." Piett grabbed one of the stormtrooper's tasers and let the Mon Cal have a nice, long shock. After it stopped twitching, and regained control of its bowels, he looked it over. Not a bad looking specimen—maybe it would be good eating in the monthly barbeque. "What's your name?"
"You'll never break me! I'll never talk!"
"Okay." Piett zapped the Mon Cal again. Behind him, Vader giggled.
"Name?"
"You'll never break me! I'll never talk!"
"This is just getting repetitive. Okay, let the fish-man rest for a while." He looked to the man who had followed the stormtroopers onto the bridge. "What about you?"
"Zoinks, man, I'm not a Rebel, or whatever. Name's Shaggy. I'm with Mystery, Inc."
"Mystery, Inc.? Is that some mercenary thing?"
Shaggy was confused. "A what? Mercenar-what? Zoinks, do you have any more of those sandwiches? I'm so hungry I could—"
"That's wonderful. And what the hell is that thing?"
"That?" Shaggy asked. "Why, that's just my ol' pal Scooby."
"Rooby-Roo!"
Piett blinked. "Did the dog just talk?"
"Yeah, he does that," Shaggy said apologetically.
"I'm sorry, but am I the only one who thinks that a bit weird?" Piett looked around. Vader giggled. So did the stormtrooper, who was burning shapes in the deck with his blaster rifle on low power.
"Is he high too?" Piett said, pointing.
"Nope," answered a second stormtrooper, "he's just genuine stupid. One hundred percent pure."
The stormtrooper giggled.
Vader giggled.
Scooby licked Piett's boot.
"Now what the hell's he doing?"
"Well, ol' Scoob, he's probably hungry too."
Piett pointed. "Hey, hey Scooby. Eat the fish."
"You'll never break me! I'll never talk!"
"Rooby-Roo!" Scooby took a bite out of the Mon Cal. "Raggy, ris rastes rike ralmon!"
"Really? Let's have a taste!"
"Oh, God," Piett groaned, "that's the grossest thing I've ever seen! You didn't even cook him!"
Vader giggled.
So did the stormtrooper. Piett punched him in his white helmeted face.
"You'll never break me! I'll never talk!" screamed the Mon Cal, one last time, before Scooby went for his throat.
"Oh, that's just uncalled for." Piett shook his head and stepped away. "Have you no decency?"
"Recency? Rhat's rat?" Scooby asked, with a mouthful of fish-man.
"Hey, sir," said the second stormtrooper, "I betcha my helmet against your hat that Scooby finishes his half before Shaggy does."
Piett's head snapped around. "What?"
The stormtrooper tilted his head back, looking at the admiral in the corner of his eye. "You heard me, sir."
Down in the mess hall, TK8897 looked at the officer's cap perched upon TK4920's helmet. "Hey, TK4920, how'd you get that?"
"Well," said TK4920, "damnedest thing happened on the bridge the other day . . ."