AUTHOR'S NOTE: As with many other fics I preface this with, I struggle with titles and summaries so basically read the tags and the relationships and you'll get your gist from there. Follows the plot somewhat of Return of the Jedi.
To those who read my other Imperial fic, you'll see some repeat elements, but that can't be helped. I'm probably shooting myself in the foot trying to get this fic on the map when it's still in developmental stages and I have two or three other stories on this website I'm currently working on, but it's been sitting as a draft on my computer for a few years now, so why not?
Expect slow(er/ish) uploads. I've got life to take care of, but post when I can. Also, I do my best to stay true to as much as I can, but I take certain liberties because it's basically free real estate.
And to any Game of Thrones readers, I'm still vigorously working to finish that. I just wanted to get this posted so I wouldn't have an excuse to abandon it.
/ / /
ADMIRAL PIETT
Though he was not one to speak ill of his fellow officers, Firmus Piett firmly believed that Kendal Ozzel was one part ambitious, three parts fool and all of it got him killed. How he had risen to the rank of admiral was anyone's guess, though Piett strongly suspected it was due to Ozzel's connections at the Academy. Ozzel was fifteen years Piett's senior and had already achieved rank of lieutenant by the time of Piett's enrollment but when Piett made lieutenant himself and was assigned to serve directly under the then Captain Ozzel, the captain had all the same experience as Piett's own underlings. Many republic credits had passed hands for Ozzel to gain his squares.
The same could be said of Admiral Conan Motti, but where Motti had at least proven his worth several times over in ambition, fortitude, and dedication, Admiral Ozzel had proven himself an unworthy gamble to those who had made his position possible. He was impatient, arrogant, and often blindsided in how his blunders had landed him in precarious situations. He was always passing off his ineptitude on underlings and it was just luck that Piett had managed to avoid incurring the wrath of the Sith lords up to that point.
Piett's intense dislike of his commanding officer had to be put aside daily, but it was both difficult and terrifying working under Ozzel when Piett expected for the admiral to accuse him of some misdeed at any moment and inform Lord Vader that Piett had made an unforgivable error. Piett had no fear of Ozzel, only what sort of damage the idiot's arrogance could do if gone unchecked, which was why he made it a habit to double check all orders given to him by Ozzel and have them recorded in the logs and made no independent calls of his own. As a superior to many but a subordinate to Ozzel, Piett could fly under the radar as long as no mistakes were made on his watch that Ozzel could pass off on him.
His good friend General Maximillian Veers did not care for Ozzel, either. As stoic and unbothered a man as Veers was, those who knew him well could see the distaste he had for Ozzel with their every interaction and yet the oblivious admiral was none the wiser due to Veers's impeccable professionalism. Veers simply addressed everyone in the same unbothered manner with titles and ranks given in order to those who held the positions.
It was no secret that Lord Vader himself held a great amount of respect for the general, something that the likes of Ozzel could only dare dream of and never achieve. Veers had never made a single misstep from his days at the Academy to this exact point in his service to the Empire and Vader admired and commended that. The last person who Lord Vader held in such high esteem was Grand Moff Tarkin, so for a man holding only the rank of Imperial General, it was the highest honor.
Piett himself hoped to one day have no fear of Lord Vader by earning the Sith's respect as Veers had. If Piett composed himself accordingly and took great care to advance himself as Veers had, Lord Vader would reward his efforts and then Piett need only fear the Emperor who rarely, if ever, put in an appearance, even by hologram. Veers was a god among men for being able to walk about so freely in Lord Vader's company and while most men revered him for that fact, Ozzel resented him, which was largely why Piett secretly believed the admiral had met his end.
So unsatisfied with his own attempts to locate the new rebel base was he, that Ozzel had openly berated Piett for his discovery on the ice planet in the Hoth system loudly enough that the entire bridge could hear. Veers had stood by and listened to Ozzel give him such an earful, but Piett could see the general watching him with sympathy out of the corner of his eye for his friend's unfortunate lot in life to be the punching bag for the most inept of admirals to ever step foot aboard any vessel of the Imperial fleet. Then, in what Piett could only consider to be a rescue of sorts, Lord Vader had dignified Piett's discovery, admonished Ozzel, and given the command for Veers to prepare his men without another word.
Ozzel had looked like he would very much like to smack Piett upside the head or worse, but had stomped off shortly after and then called for Piett to attend to him as they navigated through hyperspace to arrive on the threshold of the rebels' base. Muttering darkly about how Lord Vader did not show respect where it was due and how he would never achieve any greatness with the likes of Veers hanging about and overshadowing his efforts, Ozzel had distractedly ordered the fleet to move out of light speed a touch too early, which would be his final and most costly mistake, though Piett only learned why after the fact.
He acted ever the obedient captain, remaining silent when the projected hologram of Lord Vader appeared behind him on the bridge and only stepping forward when addressed by the Sith himself. With his new commands being given to him in one ear and the sound of Ozzel choking for breath in the other, Piett understood that command of Lord Vader's flagship, the Executor , and by extension, the entirety of the Death Squadron Imperial fleet. He was promoted seconds before he heard Ozzel gag on his last breath.
It was not quite the promotion he had hoped for, as he had wanted to gain recognition and advancement on his own terms for his own achievements, not the failures of others. Assuming the rank of Fleet Admiral because his superior was a narcissistic blockhead would not do him any favors and only put him closer to his own demise if he made any mistakes from here on out. There was no one to hide behind now.
In the aftermath of Ozzel's death as Piett went to collect the squares that would signify his ascendance to the rank of admiral, he found Veers waiting for him.
A man of not many words, he had only asked, "Dead?" to which Piett gave a silent nod as he traded in his plaque for one with three additional blue and red squares. Veers watched him don his new plaque with a look of foreboding on his face that gave Piett absolutely no confidence. They both knew that promotion was one step closer to execution and twice as deadly aboard the Sith's flagship. Piett was now in far more dangerous of a situation and a prime target, surpassing Veers's own.
"I must prepare for disembarkment."
It was not a statement, but a request. Asking permission to be dismissed since Piett was now in command of the ship and all of its inhabitants, save for the Sith. As a general in the Imperial Army, Veers technically ranked the same as Piett but in space, aboard the ship, seniority deferred to the fleet and not the army. Had they been on solid ground, the situation would be reversed and Piett would be much more comfortable since he was not at all used to this man three years his elder awaiting his dismissal.
As unprepared as he was, Piett could only muster a nod to send Veers on his way and only after he watched his friend go did he realize he had not given a thought to the fact that Veers was about to enter battle. He spent the duration of the battle pacing the bridge and awaiting news of survivors of the assault, trying his best to appear in control despite having absolutely none of it. This would be a test, his first major test for Lord Vader to observe how he handled himself under duress.
The bridge was receiving live feed from the battle below, which meant Piett had the pleasure of watching every nail-biting second from each AT-AT walker, including the exact moment that Veers's viewscreen went dark. It was the worst possible thing to happen on Piett's first day as Fleet Admiral: a distraction. A distraction in the form of the unknown in that he had no idea if his friend had just been killed.
If he was alive, Piett would not know until the rebel base had been secured and the battlefield was scoped for survivors, which could very well be hours away. Veers was supposed to be the one to greet Lord Vader when the Sith landed on the icy planet, but if he was dead…
Piett never got the chance to wait around for news of survivors, for the rebels had scattered to the winds and Lord Vader commanded that the fleet give chase immediately and so with the thought of Veers threatening to overtake him, Piett had done the impossible and proceeded as instructed. He watched the troublesome freighter ship, the Millenium Falcon evade them, lose them, and be recaptured by them over the span of a few days, though he was unsure why Lord Vader was so adamant about capturing the rebels aboard this particular ship. And when he had assurances that his men had disabled the hyperdrive and relayed this information to Lord Vader, only to watch the ship make the jump to hyperspace right in front of him, he had feared that he might lose control of his bowels and his bladder all in one go, waiting for the Sith to turn on him and deliver the same fate as Ozzel.
Only, he was still breathing several seconds later and Lord Vader had left the bridge. All present breathed a sigh of relief, namely Captain Lorth Needa who would have taken on the role of admiral if Piett had been executed right then and there. Instead, Piett received news of the wounded and the deceased from the Hoth battle and found Veers to be among the living, which nearly sent him into upper respiratory failure from so much emotion in such a short space of time. He and Needa had celebrated the news of their friend's survival with an almost nonexistent smile and sigh of relief and then returned to their duties.
However, they would not be reuniting with their friend this day. In fact, it was several weeks before Piett met Veers in person again for which he was quite surprised since he believed that he had earned himself a death sentence from Vader on more than one occasion since then. His surprise was nothing to Veers's when the general saw him approaching but it was Piett who was in for more of a shock at the jagged scar jutting from above Veers's left eyebrow down his cheek and into his collar.
"I expected to have to relay the sad news to the others," said Veers with no allusion to his scar from which Piett quickly averted his eyes. As an outlier of a tall man already in a sea of like-sized men, Veers did not appreciate being stared at.
"Only the sad news of my promotion, unless they already know."
"They do. None of them send congratulations."
As none of them should, for this was hardly something to celebrate. Piett had displeased the Sith once and avoided death the second time only because of some infinitesimal amount of mercy nurtured deep within the Sith which caused him to ignore Piett on the bridge the evening the Millenium Falcon escaped. The only reason he yet drew breath was because the Sith's mind had been preoccupied, though he had expected to be killed several times since then once Lord Vader sought him out in the aftermath of the unfortunate incident.
Bypassing any conversation related to his promotion, Piett instead quipped, "I'm rather relieved that I won't be needing to send a message of condolence to your family. Apparently, Lieutenant Harwen already composed quite a moving piece about the fearless, selfless soldier you were."
"He can delete that piece for all eternity, as I'm not dead yet and even if I were, there would be no one to send the message to," said Veers with an almost indiscernible shadow on his face.
"Still?" asked Piett in an allude to the tense and strained relationship (or lack thereof) that he had with his estranged family. Service to the Empire did not often leave one time to lead a life outside of Imperial duty, but as a decorated soldier, Veers had managed to start a family some ten years ago and had been home exactly once to meet his son, the product of his ill-fated marriage to a woman who had hoped to see more of her husband than once every decade.
"Always," said Veers curtly in response. With a wife who wanted nothing more to do with her absent husband, a son who had no living memory of his father, and a mother who was being kept alive by machines in her old age, Veers had no one who shared his blood who would have grieved for him if he had died on that ice planet. He had four good friends who would have mourned him, but none of them could acknowledge that fact, so it would have brought him little comfort.
"Why did it take so long to confirm that you were alive?"
"My walker was hit by a kamikaze pilot. I managed to pull myself out of the rubble, but lost a foot in the process. I broadcasted my position and was picked up by friendly forces after they had cleared the rebel base. None the worse for wear apart from an artificial foot that takes some getting used to."
"I might never have known if you hadn't told me," Piett admitted. "But I am…relieved to see you on your feet–or, one of them, at least."
That was all he felt safe saying. Friendly relations were discouraged and discussing anything not strictly duty-related was prohibited, but Veers understood and gave a grateful nod.
That had been their last private interaction for quite some time and as Piett dressed for duty for the day and checked the morning log before reporting to the bridge, he took notice for the first time in what surely had to be months of the date and felt an unpleasant jerk in his stomach. A year. One whole year had passed since the escape of the rebels and Piett's very narrow encounter with death. One year since he had last had an unmonitored conversation with anyone. In that time, he had been given command of the entire fleet of Star Destroyers that were positioned over their newest assignment, the forest moon of Endor which housed the shield generator that protected the second Death Star.
Piett had attended several Joint Chiefs meetings during that time now that he was Fleet Admiral, and had the pleasure of seeing other old friends just as often. Commander Tiaan Jerjerrod, who more or less had unwillingly taken on the roll of Moff, Admiral Conan Motti who was the sole survivor of the first Death Star (apart from Lord Vader), and Veers who had command of all ground forces on Endor. Men who Piett had grown up with, trusted, considered his friends and like Veers, the only people who would spare a moment to grieve for him if he met his untimely end. Them, and Captain Lorth Needa who was not a part of the Joint Chiefs council, but whose opinion and friendship Piett valued just as highly.
These were the small instances he looked forward to, those hours spent listening to the other Joint Chiefs argue just to be in the presence of men who were just as tired of the war and just as uneasy about its end as he was. He, Jerjerrod, and Motti would not be sorry to see the years of fighting come to an end.
Not like General Veers. Unlike the rest of them, his life had been driven by the existence of enemies. A proud man, an ambitious one and an intelligent one, he had the makings of a decorated war veteran, and yet he would not have seen one moment of service in the Imperial Army if not for the rebels.
During the fall of the Jedi Order, loyalists to the ancient knighthood had infiltrated the warehouse where Veers's father was an overseer and his elder brother worked as an underling. In one of the first open displays of the clone army as Imperial troops under the newly formed Galactic Empire, heavy siege had been laid to the warehouse where the loyalists had taken hostages, Veers's father and brother being some of them, and when surrender was imminent, the loyalists who had been named as rebels, had committed suicide rather than hand over the information they knew and subject themselves to torture by detonating the factory and all those inside. Veers had been nearly twenty-three and three years out of the Academy, well on his way to becoming the youngest battlefield lieutenant colonel in the history of the hallowed halls.
He had been sent on assignment almost immediately upon graduation after putting in a request to be placed on the front lines as a way to enact vengeance upon those who had killed his family. Had his father and brother not been casualties that day, Veers likely would have been a tactician and not a frontman, but his fate had been chosen that day for him. The blood lust was never enough and Piett feared for him, for what might become of his mind once there were no more rebels to fight and Veers's one purpose in the universe was extinguished. The man was not impulsive, but he was determined, and he would find some way to find someone to kill well past the age of retirement, if he was lucky to live that long.
His hatred for any band of resistance fighters across the galaxy had spread like a poison. Anyone who opposed the Empire, anyone who brought conflict and unnecessary death to those who would otherwise have had no part in any of it, were subject to Veers's deepest loathing. He had no sympathy for rebels and as a result, no mercy either.
Piett could not empathize with Veers, as his own upbringing was not nearly as tragic, but he shared his friend's distaste for needless death. He might have turned out to be of a similar vein as Veers if he had been subject to his family being one of the first casualties of the resistance, but he did not possess quite the aptitude for being such a commanding force on the battlefield as Veers did. Veers had opted to join the army and not the navy, as he had more desire for the personal aspect of battle and not the secondary viewpoint from the command deck of a starship.
They all had taken mandatory battle simulation courses at the Academy and had to maintain a strict regimen to keep up a fit physique, but it was a sad fact that some of them were simply not built for hand-to-hand combat and while Veers most assuredly was, Piett absolutely was not. He had no physical prowess or power and did not like his chances if he was suddenly forced to fend for himself against larger, more skilled opponents, which was why he needed the might of a battleship to do the fighting for him.
As Piett saw the sun rising behind the flag ship, the Executor, he had to wonder if and when his own combat skills would be called into question if their gathered intelligence was to be believed that the rebels were planning on launching an attack on the Death Star. They would not be able to destroy it as they had last time, a fact Admiral Motti had seen to in great detail, but their goal would be to at the very least, disable the battle station and Piett would be in charge of bringing the fleet to counter the rebel attack. The rebels would not be able to do much as long as the shield remained intact, but Lord Vader anticipated that they would attempt an assault on the shield generator located on Endor below. The airspace around Endor was strictly monitored and no ships were given permission to land unless they had specific clearance codes which were being changed daily for added security.
If the rebels managed to evade all those traps and precautions, then a fight would be sure to happen on the ground, which was where Veers would be, in his element. The bunker protecting the shield generator was accessible only by a three hundred foot long bridge, as it stood on a cliffside that was heavily guarded and impregnable. Only by air and by the bridge could the rebels launch an attack and given that three thousand troopers patrolled the surrounding area for several dozen miles, a breach seemed impossible.
Yet, it was still possible. The rebels had shown their capacity for obtaining forbidden information in how they had procured the plans for the first Death Star and four years later, Piett doubted that their growth in numbers had stunted their ability to gain access to such vital plans. Motti was the only living proof that the impossible was indeed possible and they all were gathered here to see to it that the impossible did not become possible again.
If, by some miraculous chance the rebels managed to bypass all of those precautions and disable, destroy, or otherwise cause damage to the Death Star, Piett knew that no amount of respect could protect those Imperial officers responsible and given that he was one of them, he was determined to leave no room for mistakes.
/ /
COMMANDER JERJERROD
"The fleet is approaching from the far side of the forest moon now, Commander," said Admiral Conan Motti at the bridge.
Turning just in time to see the expanse of Endor stretching out in front of the viewport before it extended to the full bridge windscreen, Commander Tiaan Jerjerrod swallowed a small, content sigh.
Mostly consisting of green but speckled with a respectable amount of blue, Endor was the first largely uncivilized system he had seen in many years and though it may not be the moors and rough seas of his home planet of Tinnel IV, it was a far cry closer in its ecosystem than the last several planets he had stepped foot on. As a man doomed to live in a floating hunk of metal in the thick of space, small pleasures like greenery were a rare thing to come by.
"Quite a sight," he observed conversationally as he and Admiral Motti admired the seemingly peaceful existence of the moon.
"About the same as every sight of every planet and moon," said Motti with a shrug.
"You come from a rocky desert wasteland scattered with skyscrapers, how is the sight of forests and seas not astounding to you?"
"It's just nature. Not a wonder like this station."
Of course, Motti put so much stock into his and Jerjerrod's shared creation: the Death Star. It was Jerjerrod's design in conception, his proudest creation, but Motti had an equal part in making it a reality, as his family had provided the starting funds to begin construction. They were still relatively young by Academy standards when they brought the design to the chief architect in the hopes of exceeding expectations for an assignment that was never meant to move past the blueprint stage.
At sixteen and thirteen respectively, Jerjerrod and Motti were positively shocked that the architect had been so impressed with their project that she had pulled some strings and had it sent it to the board to ask for permission to begin collecting funding.
Motti's family, a well-connected and wealthy family from the Outer Rim planet of Seswanna, had agreed to begin funding with the understanding that Motti would receive a promotion as soon as he graduated from the Academy and would be stationed underneath one of the more promising commanders of the time–Wilhuff Tarkin.
Jerjerrod's family was not as influential as Motti's, but they had done well for themselves and also agreed to contribute so long as it was remembered that Jerjerrod had conceived the plans for the Death Star at such a young age.
He and Motti were closest in age and therefore, had grown up in their formative years together, but their chosen professions and admittedly Motti's family's influence, had separated them for almost eleven years.
Until four years ago when Jerjerrod had been an admiral aboard the Star Destroyer, Ravager, on patrol to locate any nearby systems for signs of rebel activity.
The message had gone through that Grand Moff Tarkin and Lord Vader had tracked a freighter ship to what very well could be the rebel base, but communications had cut off and Jerjerrod was working overtime to try and bring the connection back online. He knew quite a few individuals aboard the Death Star and had been told that the rebels had gained valuable information regarding the battle station's inner workings, but was assured that the rebels would not be able to use that data to their advantage.
He was confident in his ship's design, yet he had an uneasy feeling when his communications officers told him that no one on the Death Star could be raised. He would be lying if he said that his first thoughts hadn't been of the humiliation he would face being the Death Star's chief architect if the entire thing had been blasted into space dust, but a very close second thought had been spent in dread that if something devastating had happened, Admiral Motti was likely dead, as he had been serving directly under Grand Moff Tarkin.
More than a decade had passed since Jerjerrod had last seen Motti in the flesh, but to think of his oldest friend drifting forever as particles of light and nothing more in the vast vacuum of space, it brought a hard lump to his throat. He tried to set thoughts of the man aside, but they continued to creep up on him as he attempted to go about his duties.
"Admiral, we received a distress signal from the last known location of the Death Star," said the young and as yet inexperienced Lieutenant Vorlock after what seemed like hours on the communications deck. "And we are picking up a faint signal from what appears to be a small shuttle approaching from hyperspace."
"Is it one of ours?" asked Jerjerrod.
"We don't yet know, sir. Our request for a clearance code hasn't been answered. Shall we shoot it down?"
"No, let it land in docking bay 7. Make the necessary preparations to receive."
Down in docking bay 7, Jerjerrod had stood at the forefront of a team of medics, troopers, and officers as a type of T-4a shuttle was brought in by the Ravager's tractor beam and landed looking quite abandoned and with scorch marks from some powerful energy beam along its hull. It had taken some damage from a heavy blast and judging purely from its outside condition, it was a wonder that the ship remained in one piece long enough to finish the leap from light speed.
"It's Imperial-made," Jerjerrod observed. "It may be one of ours, but stand by all the same."
"Sir, our scanners are detecting one life form aboard ship," said the lieutenant.
The ramp lowered and steam had not even begun to issue from within the shuttle when a body tumbled down the ramp and Jerjerrod threw out his arms instinctively to catch it. He stumbled back a few paces into three troopers who helped to steady him as he got a proper look at the man in his arms.
"Conan…"
Bleeding from a knock to the head, bruised from what looked like several hard collisions with solid objects, and half-delirious, Admiral Conan Motti seemed to come out of a daze just long enough to recognize his friend before he looped an arm around Jerjerrod's neck for balance and began to spew out a hurried explanation as if his life depended on it. His voice was panicked but also raspy as if he had lost use of it quite recently.
"The rebels infiltrated the Death Star and stole the plans. They launched an attack on the trenches and Grand Moff Tarkin would not evacuate as they moved past our shields. I found the fastest and smallest shuttle I could and fled just moments before the rebels managed to penetrate the reactor. The explosion rattled my ship, sent it spinning, and threw me out of my seat. I only had just enough power to match my coordinates to yours and make the jump to hyperspace. I don't know how long I've been in there. I started to go blind and…"
Motti squinted at the docking bay lights and touched a hand to some of the fresher blood on his forehead. "Are there any survivors?" he asked desperately, and Jerjerrod saw remorse, guilt, and shame on the admiral's face. If there had been no warning and Grand Moff Tarkin had not sanctioned an evacuation, Motti had disobeyed a direct order but more than that, he might be the only survivor of a station that was home to over a million men. No man alive would suffer such survivor's guilt as Conan Motti would in the days to come.
Appealing to Jerjerrod who helped him to stand, Motti leaned on him slightly for support and winced as if the hundreds of masked stormtrooper faces staring at him were scrutinizing him, accusing him of cowardice.
"Admiral, isn't there anyone else?"
"None yet," said Jerjerrod quietly as he adjusted Motti's hold around his neck. It was difficult to have such a public reunion with his old friend and in such fragile circumstances. Motti could very well be court martialed and executed for fleeing and if he wasn't, he would be branded a coward and a traitor. He had escaped with his life, but was that worth a life of being whispered about behind his back? He might have been better off blowing into oblivion with the rest of his men aboard this station's predecessor.
To be reunited in such a manner with Motti near hysterics, Jerjerrod felt for his friend. He felt the uncertainty and bewilderment that Motti projected, felt his fear mounting. It was almost tangible, this weight that had fallen onto Jerjerrod's shoulders as he empathized with the admiral.
Motti drew his sleeve across his upper lip to wipe away the sweat collected there and then his hand trailed down to his high collar at his throat. He touched it gingerly and a distant look claimed his eyes once again as if he were caught in an unpleasant memory. No doubt, seeing the destruction of a station with thousands of souls on board and knowing that each particle of that explosion could be someone he once knew would have a devastating after-effect on a man's mind and Jerjerrod had always harbored the belief that Motti was not a man of sound mind to begin with.
"We had best have that head wound looked at," said Jerjerrod to bring Motti back to the present. He called the medical team forward, for they had been standing by to receive anyone in need of proper care and they brought a hovering gurney up beside Jerjerrod who tried to coax Motti onto it.
"I'll walk," said Motti, and it was obvious that he did not want to be sent off anywhere in such a compromising position as lying down when he was being so closely watched by countless eyes.
"You won't make it," Jerjerrod assured him.
"I may yet surprise you."
"If you won't lie down, at least sit on it. You can hardly stand as it is."
Ever prideful, even as disoriented and frightened as he was, Motti refused, and so Jerjerrod had to be firm with him, pulling on his arm and stepping close enough to knock Motti's legs out from under him if he needed to.
"Sit, Admiral, or I will have the medical team sedate you."
An indecisive, unhinged Motti was one that Jerjerrod was not familiar with and so he was not sure what sort of reaction to expect from his friend. Motti looked quite mad right now and Jerjerrod did not like his chances of avoiding an insanity plea if he was deemed incompetent for his actions in the next few moments.
Sit down before something worse happens, Conan. Just sit. You're safe.
Though he could not say the words aloud, Jerjerrod willed Motti to hear them all the same, putting pressure into the hold he had on Motti's arm and hip as a reassuring gesture and hoping Motti would be calmed by him.
A slow blink, an almost sleepy expression, and then Motti conceded. Jerjerrod breathed an inward sigh of relief when Motti sank slowly onto the gurney to where his boots barely scuffed the floor.
"Lieutenant Vorlock, see that Admiral Motti is properly tended to and have the head medic send for me when the admiral is ready to receive visitors. I must go and make my report to the Emperor," said Jerjerrod as he placed the hand that had been around his neck in Motti's lap. Then, remembering that the Emperor would want to know the whereabouts and well-being of his fellow Sith, Jerjerrod called for the medics to halt as he hurried over to ask Motti in as quiet of a tone as he could, "Was Lord Vader among the dead?"
Motti's hand jumped subconsciously to his collar and his dull blue eyes dilated. He swallowed hard and replied in hardly more than a mutter, "He had gone to battle the rebels in the trenches. I don't know if he was shot down or survived the attack."
"If he did, he would be attempting to signal us. We received a distress signal–"
"That was me," said Motti, crushing Jerjerrod's hopes that the Sith had survived.
"What sort of ship would we be expecting a transmission from? This is crucial information, Admiral, as it is what I must tell the Emperor and make no mistake that he will ask."
"I–I don't know," said Motti earnestly. "A TIE-fighter, I would imagine, but I can't say for sure. I did not see him board his ship." He knew what it would mean for Jerjerrod if the Emperor was displeased with his report and Jerjerrod felt the panic begin to rise again as Motti scrambled to remember for his friend's sake. "It might have been the prototype that Lord Vader had requested be made especially for him: a form of TIE-fighter, but more advanced."
That information would have to be good enough.
And it was, for Jerjerrod and Motti were both still alive four years later, but not without consequences. There had been an inquisition, verified in fact by the resurgence of Lord Vader a week later, and Motti had escaped execution by the skin of his teeth thanks to Jerjerod's interference. Four years had passed and still, Jerjerrod did not know what had given Motti reason to be so panicked even once he knew he was safe. Four years and he still wore his collar high, still refused to be seen as a coward, still had an air of loathing whenever in the presence of Lord Vader or when discussing him.
Motti had managed to keep his rank, though he had been given strict orders to serve under Jerjerrod as a result of the Emperor's findings during the trial. His demi-demotion angered him, but he kept his silence on any sort of rebuttal, thankful to still be breathing. Though he had held a higher position than Jerjerrod for a small handful of years, he was now Jerjerrod's second-in-command despite the two of them having vastly different roles in the war.
Jerjerrod was sent to begin construction on a new Death Star and Motti was assigned to point out the flaws that had enabled the rebels to destroy the first one and ensure that no such mistakes were in the blueprints this time. Motti followed orders as any obedient officer would, yet Jerjerrod could sense the festering hatred for his lot in life, having been so close to becoming a Moff himself, only to have the promotion ripped from his hands and reassigned to overseeing construction detail. Though he had not been in constant contact with them, Motti's family were surely disappointed that all of their investments had amounted to having their last living heir as little more than a designer of space ships.
Meanwhile, Jerjerrod had been offered the position of Moff but given the recent brink of extinction Imperial Moffs had been brought to and how he knew it would greatly upset Motti, he was inclined to decline since he wanted to fare better than his predecessors. The rank of Commander suited him just fine, as it was the one he had retained during the majority of his time serving in the Imperial fleet, but in actuality he ranked somewhere between Fleet Admiral and Grand Admiral and his squares reflected that position. He had about as much experience as a commander, yet had been granted a more respectable rank due to his favor with the Emperor in constructing a second Death Star in less than a quarter of the time it took to build the first one. Though, it made for some confusion when underlings addressed him first as Commander but then saw his squares and realized he held a much higher rank, garnering nearly as much respect as Grand Moff Tarkin had and yet evading the reputation.
Tarkin had been ruthless where Jerjerrod was fair. Tarkin was feared where Jerjerrod was tolerated. But mostly, Tarkin demanded loyalty whereas Jerjerrod had earned it. Though his men did not see him as a great tactician or combat leader, they were immensely appreciative of how he took responsibility and did not allow others to suffer for his mistakes. Men put in transfers by the thousands to be serving under his command rather than under a more ambitious and bloodthirsty commander. They were not in immediate danger as had been the men aboard the first Death Star.
Or so they all hoped.
Motti's close brush with death was evidence enough that no matter the might and power of any man-made ship, there would always be those who opposed it and would fight to bring it down and so long as that resistance existed, no soldier serving the Empire was safe.
"Commander, we're receiving a message from the Executor," said the communications officer.
"Send it through."
The hologram projection of Admiral Firmus Piett appeared and though he was well practiced in concealing his expressions and emotions, Jerjerrod was nevertheless pleased to see his friend.
"Admiral," he greeted.
"Commander, Admiral," Piett returned with a nod at Motti. "The fleet is in place and will monitor all movement within the system for any signs of rebel infiltration. We await further instructions from Lord Vader."
"Very good, Admiral."
The transmission ended and Jerjerrod sighed that his life, though fulfilling in managing to create such a gargantuan feat such as two Death Stars, had amounted to fleeting human interactions. Despite his best efforts to maintain professionalism at all times, he did often feel starved for some semblance of normalcy, of the freedom to speak however he wanted about whomever or whatever he wanted without the omnipotent presence of the Emperor hanging over his head. He knew that his success was only recognized by the Emperor's good graces and that his power could be stripped away just as easily as if it and he had never existed if he displeased either of the Sith.
Gazing out once again at the forest moon, Jerjerrod said wistfully in an admittance that surprised even himself to be said aloud, "I'd like to see the bunker in person, if only to have a change of scenery for an hour or two."
"Scenery is hardly worth your time, Commander," said Motti in what might have sounded reprimanding but was more of a warning.
"It would make sense for me to see exactly how the shield generator is protecting this station and I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't personally inspect it. Though not yet, I suppose."
"Commander, Lord Vader's shuttle will be arriving within the hour," said the lieutenant who had followed him from his days aboard the Ravager, Lieutenant Vorlock.
Motti's sudden yet subtle movement of adjusting his collar did not go unnoticed by Jerjerrod, though he said nothing and opted instead to project his feelings of calm toward his friend as he always did when Motti grew anxious in Lord Vader's presence. Whatever history existed between the two of them, whatever mishap had occurred under Grand Moff Tarkin, it was still a plague on Motti.
"Admiral Motti and I shall receive him in docking bay 4," said Jerjerrod and then looked to Motti to see the heavy shadows under his eyes and the pallid look on his boyish face. Old habits died hard and Jerjerrod felt a fierce sense of protectiveness over the younger man as he had during their days at the Academy when Motti had been made the subject of much teasing due to his then-smaller stature. Squabbling was forbidden, but Motti engaged in it all the same when the bullying would go too far and Jerjerrod would see that light of battle in his eyes, that willingness to cause harm to those who had wronged him.
Jerjerrod, though tall, was not one to boast any physical intimidation with his sunken chest and narrow build, but he had been able to deflect some of the mockery because he was taller than most of the boys and young men and garnered a certain amount of respect, but Motti had had to endure the jests until he had grown into his own body and come out on the other side quite barrel-chested, broad shouldered, and taller than even Jerjerrod.
Still, his youthful features were still present and it did not help to look upon them now and be reminded of that boy who hated to be teased. The Emperor had made Motti Jerjerrod's responsibility, though what good would that do when Jerjerrod did not know what exactly he was supposed to be protecting Motti from?
"Shall we, Admiral?" asked Jerjerrod as a reminder to Motti to compose himself in preparation for the Sith's arrival.
"After you, Commander."
