Duty may take the strangest forms, occasionally even that of amusement.
This is a joke!
It has to be.
I mean, there is no way in all nine of the Corellian Hells for something that is, for all the official language (You are hereby required etc., etc....), basically a dinner date with Lord Vader, to be serious.
Except ... It was sent using his lordship's official com-code, is signed by one of his aides, and neither the Sithlord nor the handful of men assigned to the highly responsible job of channeling his lordship's paperwork, including sending off low priority orders on his authority, are known for their excessive sense of humor. And it would take an extremely competent – and rather suicidal – hacker to hijack said com-code, who in turn would probably not waste the opportunity to play juvenile pranks.
Which leaves me stuck with an order, straight from the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces, to appear in Hangar Bay 58 at 1900 sharp tomorrow, wearing something that conforms to "dress code: formal, no uniform", and accompany the aforementioned Commander to a dinner given in his honor on Ersho Ir.
I reread the message for the umpteenth time to confirm that yes, it's still there, yes, it's still addressed to me, and yes, the text is still the same and worded in a way that makes alternative interpretations rather hard to accomplish. Then I com Petra.
Senior Tech Chief Petra Tarszum is, as a non-commissioned officer whose worksphere lies approximately 5 kilometers from my own station, not the sort of company I, as an astronavigation officer, am likely or even encouraged to keep. But the first unwritten rule of the Navy girls is: Always look after your own. Otherwise you get ground up really fast – more than a quarter million men aboard, less than ten thousand women, you do the math.
Petra takes those rules very seriously. In the loose network spanning the entirety of the Lady Ex, she is the undisputed team mom in the clique I hang around with most. Everyone who learns that her name means 'bedrock' in her native language finds it scarily appropriate.
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
Ten minutes later, I have one-and-a-half meters of Tech Chief pouring over the ominous invitation, reach the same conclusions as I did, and spring into action.
First order, we relocate to Petra's cabin – bigger because non-coms, even at that level, have to share – and hold a proper war council. With about two and a half decades of service, Petra knows someone who knows something for pretty much any occasion. I've seen perhaps half of the faces before.
There is remarkably little jealousy, once the situation has been explained to everyone. Well, his lordship may be technically speaking a bachelor, with a private fortune that exceeds that of several star systems and literally second in power only to the Emperor, but I don't think the term eligible has ever been used in context with his name.
There is, however, a tiny bit of doubt floating around. "No offense, darling," a tall, thin lady from Decryptions says, "but why you?"
A very good question – I'm happy enough with my appearance, but I know my face is more interesting than conventionally beautiful, and while I'm fit as per regulations and have enough curves to be not mistaken for a male, I'm not exactly typical arm-candy material.
I shrug. "Be sure to tell me if you find out."
The lady takes that for a challenge – solving puzzles is a passion turned job description for her, after all – and by combining the forces of an astronavigator, a medic with a fascination for anthropology, and an administrative clerk from Supplies who went to the Academy with one of Vader's aides, she has a credible theory within twenty hours.
The rest begins preparations. Starting with: what to wear? I have the jewelry for that kind of occasion, but merely by chance, found it on my last shore leave. Cost me one month's pay – so what, I don't have to support a family with what I earn, and while the Navy provides bed and board, I can indulge myself, occasionally! I didn't foresee the need to pack an evening gown, though, as a serving officer that's what the dress uniform is for. But this is Vader's flagship, and the Lady Ex never delivers anything but the best.
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
The next evening, at 1730, finds me in a tech ready room near the hangars, surrounded by yet another set of only half familiar faces, and pretty much in the same situation as a dress-up doll at a little girls party. Input on my part isn't much asked for, autonomous movement very much frowned upon, and lots of fun is had by anyone but me – they get to feed their much-starved sense of girlishness, but I get dinner with Lord kriffing Vader! Who is not only my superior officer – if so many levels above me you can barely see him on a clear day – but a Sithlord with a rather strict No Failures policy. And in the last few days, scuttlebutt has been ... tense.
I do not presume to question His Majesty's wisdom, but while the Emperor's right hand man may be perfectly qualified to sign a major treaty, and to arrive for the aforementioned signing in 19 km worth of death and destruction has its merits, too – the Ershoi have a thing for military prowess – to assign Lord Vader to a diplomatic mission – and a fancy dinner, to boot – is putting the Sithlord off-balance. And that is a bit hard on the crew.
On the plus side, though, if the worst comes to pass, at least I will make a pretty looking corpse.
My hair, always a deep bronze with copper highlights, now resembles the highly polished versions of said metals. It's done up in what Kora from Supplies calls an Alderaani Lily Twist – I'll have to take her word on that. Something that involves a complicated twist, a number of small braids and … let's just say it looks like three people just spent the better part of an hour working on it.
My make-up, on the other hand, though the result of just as much labor, looks barely there. Granted, my complexion is usually not quite that perfect nor my cheekbones as chiseled, but the only obvious touch of color lies around my eyes, turning their usual hazel into almost amber.
The color compliments the dress. It's shimmer-silk and a vibrant maroon, a rich, warm autumn color that should contrast nicely with the shades of grey of the dress uniforms, without being overly garish. With V-neck neck-holder and a half-bared back, it fits snugly from throat to waist and then flares into a wide skirt ending at mid-calf. I have no idea whose it is.
Petra produced it without comment, but then, the Lady Ex has workshops that can customize everything up to hull-strength armor. For all I know, the dress might have started the day as window drapes in one of the – never used since the ship's maiden voyage – guest suites just beneath the bridge. A see-through stole of the same color covers my arms and back, and matching shoes, with moderately high heels, complete the ensemble.
A stream of myriads of tiny silver beads pools across my collarbone, and forms droplets hanging from my ears, catching the color of the dress as a rivulet of molten metal.
The dropping jaw of the stormtrooper sergeant that has been set to the task of escorting me to the hangar bay, to ensure the unusual outfit won't cause any … accidents on the way, confirms the image the full-length mirror tried to convey.
Petra hisses like an enraged swan, and her significant other, Master Sergeant Zech Ijuha stiffens into parade-grade posture and formally holds out his arm. The man is as tall as she is diminutive, as laid-back as she's fierce – the whole opposites attracts gamut. In his full white armor he makes for an impressive escort, and his size gives me a first try run for walking next to Lord Vader.
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
The most direct route to Hangar Bay 58 makes use of a tech elevator within the hangar itself, that is entered from a platform near the ceiling. I catch a fleeting glimpse of a solid knot of grey near Lord Vader's personal shuttle, and my first impression – nothing concrete, just a bit of body language and plenty of intuition – is that the rest of tonight's deputation is just as enthusiastic about the whole charade as I am – or, apparently, his lordship. The notion is strangely reassuring.
"Eyes left, Admiral, our dinner date is here," is the first thing I hear when we step onto the hangar floor.
It creates the second impression, which is that some members of the congregation of high-ranking officers in full dress uniform are hell-bent on making the best of the unwelcome order to attend a party. None of them are on the blacklist of men-a-smart-girl-keeps-away-from-when-he's-drunk, thankfully, nor on the (much shorter) blacklist of men-a-smart-girl-keeps-away-from-period[1].
The voice belongs to General Veers, highest-ranking officer present – Admiral Piett, right next to him, has the same level of rank but less seniority – and the general now gives me a once-over as thorough – and about as lewd – as any troop inspection he might do.
I return the favor, if a bit more subtly – I hope. There are about equal parts of blood and adrenaline running through my veins right now, making me feel a bit … off. For a man about two decades my senior, the general looks pretty sharp in his dress greys, adorned with battle honors and other decorations in every color of the rainbow. The admiral, on the other hand, looks dignified. His collection is not quite as extensive, but impressive, too. The officers in the background display more of the same in toned-down versions.
The inspection completed, Veers nods approval, dismisses the stormtrooper beside me – by name, despite the helmet – and turns towards Piett. "I can see why the Navy keeps labeling so many posts as 'non-combat positions'. But now, Firmus, if you'd do the honor …."
First name basis, I note, and confident enough in both the friendship and his authority to use it in front of subordinates – that's rare. Interesting.
As is the way Piett shoots the general a wary look before nodding. He goes for the ladies first approach, while still mentioning my proper rank, which leads to the somewhat unique introduction of "Lieutenant Cudak, may I present General Veers."
Slight bow from said general, which I return, and the admiral goes on, "Colonel Adge, Commodor …."
Nine in all, who all outrank me. Vastly. I know exactly one of them by sight, Captain Bjoseu is occasionally the commanding officer of the secondary bridge. Oh joy.
"And where does the good admiral here usually hide you away, Lieutenant?" If I didn't know better, I would say the general has a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
"Please, Max, that was uncalled for. You make it sound as if I'm keeping an illicit harem, or something," Piett protests, before I can say something.
There is mischief in Veers' eyes, definitely, when he catches my eyes for a moment, before replying, lightly, "Firmus, half of the Army's rumor mill is running on speculations about the Navy officers' harems. As an Admiral you're entitled to at least, uh, twenty-five I think is the latest estimate. That right, Colonel?"
"Twenty-six, sir," the next lower-ranking Army officer corrects, absolutely dead-pan. "Don't forget the Flagship of the Fleets bonus, sir."
The admiral has spent too much time in space to have enough of a tan to hide the blush creeping over his face.
"That's not right!" he starts, and though I'd call it very bad style, usually, to make jokes on a fellow officer's expense in front of said officer's subordinates, thanks to the general's antics I'm now trying hard not to laugh, instead of not to panic. Which was probably the idea.
The feeling holds until I see the assorted officers suddenly stiffen up to parade-grade attention, and hear the infamous ventilator hiss behind me. I turn – in high-heels and a neckholder dress my posture is already as straight as it gets – and find Lord Vader giving me a once-over, not unlike the one General Veers has given me a minute before.
The Supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces pronounces the sight that greets him "Adequate" and holds out his arm.
As compliments go, I've heard better, but never from so high up, so I join the collective breath of relief and take the offered appendage with only minimal delay. There's no discernible difference between his lordship's armored arm and that of the stormtrooper I held before, and some of my anxiety fades.
I manage the ten steps to the nearby shuttle, then up the ramp and into the main cabin without accident. Lord Vader leads me to a seat, I get a nod and then the Sithlord retreats into the cockpit.
The Navy officers share looks and start eyeing the crash webbing speculatively, though that would utterly ruin the pristine crispness of their uniforms.
"Safer to let him vent some steam," somebody mutters.
"Triple reinforced inertial dampeners, should keep up with the g-forces," says another one, and then Piett advises no one in particular to "keep away from the windows if you intend to enjoy that fancy dinner waiting planetside."
The Army immediately closes ranks. "We all have experience with dropships," Veers gives back somewhat acerbically, "I think, we can stand a little shuttle ride."
"You have never seen Lord Vader fly, Max, " the admiral replies evenly. "I have, regularly, and it is my professional opinion that his lordship flies every vessel he gets his hands on like he's trying to win the Boonta Eve Classic."
He nods at the viewscreen behind him. "Be my guest, but the sight of continents screaming past in a corkscrew is not for the weak of stomach."
The general still looks dubious. "Come on, Firmus, it can't be that bad."
"Max, if his lordship ever gets it into his mind to take direct control of the Lady Ex, he'll do barrel rolls in her."
Veers actually chuckles at that. "Please, Admiral, even an old dirt-pounder like me knows you can't do that with a ship of that size."
"Impossible is not part of his lordship's vocabulary," Piett gives back, and there is no viable comeback to that.
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
I spend the first part of the flight wondering if the two highest-ranking officers aboard are consciously trying to behave like poster-boys of their respective service branches – forward Army man vs. laid-back Navy – or if they chose their careers because each fit their pre-existing characteristics.
I snap out of my musings when the nearer object of my considerations turns towards me.
"Do you know why you are here, Lieutenant?" If I didn't know better, I'd say the admiral is fishing for facts because he wasn't told, either.
He obviously got a list of personnel assigned for this mission – scuttlebutt calls him conscientious to the point of pedantism, but no admiral knows everyone under his command, with a crew of more than a quarter million on the Lady Ex alone – but perhaps not the reasons for said assignments.
"My orders contained no explanation, sir," I reply carefully.
He doesn't buy it. "You must have formed a theory."
"Yes, sir. The Ershoi have an archaic tradition that for a first meeting of two major powers, each party's leader must be accompanied by a young female of his household as a token of goodwill. The crew of the flagship counting as Lord Vader's 'household' in this case, I suppose."
I do not mention that, while I'm an officer – can't have a grease monkey or a glorified clerk at an official dinner, might not show the proper manners – and match the age requirement, my personal presence is mostly owed to Lord Vader's rather stringent rules of what he does NOT want for company. She must NOT be petite, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Nor blonde and blue-eyed, and flaming redheads are a no-go, too. Which leaves the medium brunettes, and my name is pretty far to the front of the aurebesh.
There is a moment of stunned silence before the general says something that definitely isn't Basic.
"I'm going to repeat myself," he continues more intelligible, "where do you hide these girls, Firmus? They give Iceheart's goons a run for their money!"
"Navy girls," the admiral says cryptically, in a tone that is equal parts condescension for the poor, deprived Army folks and pride in his own. Makes me feel all warm and tingly inside.
Veers calls his friend something else I can't identify the language of, before turning ostentatiously away from him and towards me. "You never answered my question, Lieutenant."
"Astronavigation. Secondary bridge, sir."
His eyebrows shoot up at astronavigation – a standard reaction, it's not a very girly occupation, but yes, General, I followed the cool siren song of numbers into the abstract world of astronavigation, deal with it!
To his credit, Veers makes no comment, but turns lightly back to Piett. "Good taste in your replacements, Firmus."
I almost smile. Secondary bridge – classified a non-combat position because the nearest piece of hull is several hundred meters away – takes over in the unlikely case that the main bridge – and hence the admiral – is incapacitated, and for the first few months no one lets forget you that your job is to keep things working if everyone else is dead.
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
My opposite number is barely an adult, very pretty – and scared nearly out of her mind. I instantly feel much assured.
The leader of the Ershoi deputation gives introductions for everyone except his token of goodwill; Lord Vader at least gives my name if not my rank. Then the respective escorts change hands, so to speak, and the poor kid grows even paler, against all likelihood, when his lordship, perfectly civil, takes her arm.
The utter boor at my arm continues to treat me as purely ornamental – not a single word or glance in my direction – while we enter a great ballroom and aperitifs are served. I take the least potent of the alcoholic ones, I certainly don't want to get drunk, but being totally ignored isn't something I'll tolerate all evening while stone-sober. After an endless half-hour of small-talk – between my escort and Lord Vader, no other participants required – dinner is served.
Seating arrangements give Lord Vader the place of honor, naturally, at the head of the table next to the Ershoi leader and with their token of goodwill on his other side. It places me between the aforementioned leader and his second in command, and drapes the rest of both parties alternatingly along the table, aligned by their respective ranks.
The Ershoi leader keeps on ignoring me and focuses his entire attention on Lord Vader, who looms – uneatingly, of course – over the assembly, granting him curt replies. His lordship's one try to address the girl beside him almost ended with her fainting, which leaves Veers, on her other side, to valiantly try and pick up the slack.
His opposite number is an elder general with little interest in conversation until I hit the accidental strike of genius and have him explain the gigantic battle mural in the entrance hall. This leads to an exhaustive military history lesson, complete with dioramas sculpted from various food items, over the course of the next – eleven, I think – courses. I keep him going with encouraging nods and the occasional intelligent question.
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
Dinner is over, the bar is open and the previously rigid arrangements of company dissolve. For a kid in an overly elaborate dress, the girl does a decent job of diving for cover – behind me.
"How can you stand it?" she whispers urgently. "Having ... him around all the time?"
My first reaction is, you don't discuss your superior officers – doesn't get much superior – with strangers unless you are really fishing for trouble. My second is, you don't discuss the Emperor's second-in-command, period.
But I'm not here as an officer, am I? Still, I'm not really qualified to answer. Except for the highest echelons and perhaps a few select front-line troops, the Sithlord is more a force of nature than a person. And that should do nicely as an explanation, doesn't it?
"Have you ever been to the engine room of a capital ship?" I ask. The girl shakes her head minutely.
"No? I highly recommend to do that if you can manage, it's very educational." Very humbling, too. "The powers that accelerate a mass so large to lightspeed or beyond are so gigantic that they can be – have to be – carefully harnessed, but never quite contained. There are areas where the slightest misstep is instantly and absolutely fatal. Yet, the engine techs step into these areas every day, all part of the job. You get used to it."
You can fall in love with it, even, I certainly did when Petra once allowed me a brief glimpse at the deadly beauty of the plasma torrents dancing at the heart of the Lady's sublight engines. But that would be driving the simile too far, I suppose.
With a couple of drinks under their belts, some of the junior members of both deputations find the courage to propose a dance, and with the male to female ratio as unbalanced as it is, I barely get a quiet minute afterwards.
I'm very grateful for Lord Vader to depart at the earliest politely possible opportunity, and even lean a bit more heavily onto his arm than is strictly proper – I'm no longer used to high heels, my uniform boots barely have any. If his lordship notices the difference, he gives no sign.
The shuttle-trip back to the Executor is uneventful despite the Sithlord taking the pilot chair, again. In an unexpected display of chivalry, he then walks me to my cabin, where he departs with barely a nod.
I'm too tired to seriously wonder what the rumor mill will make of that, but my last thought, before falling into bed, is how much of a bonus is the post of Supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces probably worth?
[1] Whatever else their faults might be, guys on the latter list all seem to share a talent for getting into the Dark Lord's way while he's in one of his moods.
Published right next to April's Fools Day for a reason. In a recent discussion I maintained – I still do – that it is not possible to set up an actual dinner date with Lord Vader (not Anakin in a suit, just Vader) in a serious story keeping within movie canon. The counter-argument sounded something like "Just because you can't do it, doesn't mean it can't be done …" Well, here you are. It is doable, without resorting to romance (I don't do that), even. But I, personally, don't consider this a serious story.