ADMIRAL PIETT
To say that he was more than a little pressed about General Veers's accusations was a grave understatement. Piett was a forgiving man, understanding, reasonable, and not one to rise to the bait. He considered himself quite level-headed and composed and anger was not an emotion he ever found the need to display, for it led to rash decision-making at best, but he had felt a wave of the stuff flood over him as he sat there listening to Veers essentially call him a coward and a traitor for not thinking of the Empire in those desperate moments in the clearing.
He had felt like uncharacteristically retorting that some of them remained human enough to not be mindless drones with no other goal than to die for the Empire, but even in the little alcove of the medical wing, he did not feel safe saying anything quite so rebellious aloud. He owed everything he had to the Empire: his status, his standing, his station. But what did he have outside of that? Who was he, but another soldier among millions who did as he was told? How would he be picked out from the masses? If his own mother–bless her departed soul–had had to find him as he stood to attention amongst the thousands of men under his command, even she would not know him. She did not know what the squares meant, so she would not know to look for him as an admiral. She had not seen him since he was a boy of eighteen and his face had changed since then, so even if she walked from soldier to soldier, she would not be able to identify him.
He blended in and was lost to the crowd. He was unremarkable. He had no identity other than the one the Imperial Academy gave him. If he had not chosen to join, he would be known to those who had chosen to stay on Axxila. Power, authority, and responsibility stripped him of his name.
He thought of his younger sister, just a girl of ten when he graduated, and how now as a woman approaching her mid-thirties, she might be thriving back home with the money he sent her, for what was he supposed to do with his wages?
Power-hungry, he was not. He had not thought to be Fleet Admiral, imagining that he might have peaked at the rank of captain and lived out the rest of his life in mediocrity, but alive. However, he was beginning to wonder what sort of existence was worth living if it had no purpose and was lived out in fear of being murdered for trivial mistakes? He had fought today like a man who desperately did not want to die, but that was for his own sake, not because he thought that his survival could serve a greater purpose for the Empire. Like any man, Piett feared what happened after death, if anything happened at all. He feared to leave this life, however meaningless it was.
And damned if he left it being belittled by one of the men who knew him best and longest. As decorated of a man Veers was, it seemed that the only possible way for him to earn any higher honors was to die in the line of duty. If that was the only way Veers saw his life progressing–or ending–that was none of Piett's concern to tell him otherwise. If the man had a death wish, nothing Piett could say would talk him out of it, but Piett would not let him throw away his life or the lives of those around so needlessly.
Piett stared into the reflection of the black screen over his desk without seeing himself. It saddened him that perhaps he didn't know Veers as well as he thought he did or at least, did not know the man he had become. Veers was driven by a maddened passion that none of the rest of them could share, and rightly so, but his passion bordered on obsession to fight in the Imperial Army until every last rebel in the universe was dead and as skilled and tactical as he was, Piett did not put it past him to finally snap one day and endanger the lives of others.
Today had not been that day, but he had seen a brutality in Veers that only came out in battle and it did not sit well at all. Veers was dangerous and as capable as he was in battle, Piett was not entirely sure that he would feel safe in the man's company if ever they were caught in a skirmish again. True, Veers had saved Piett's life as well as Needa's and Jerjerrod's, but only because it was his duty, not out of some dedication to the childhood bond they all shared. If any of them had been in a situation where it did not immediately serve the greater good to rescue them, Veers would have left them and of that Piett had no doubt.
As a man who spoke very little and observed far too much, Piett made many calculations before arriving at assumptions and conclusions but as a man who knew Maximillian Veers better than most, he knew that no single individual meant more to the general than the cause that he served. If it meant leaving men he knew, men he considered friends behind to accomplish his goals, Veers would do so and that thought made Piett want to vomit.
He suddenly could no longer stand to be in these quarters specifically designed for visiting officers and with his uniform still smelling of smoke and stained with both grass and mud, he exited his chambers in search of something to occupy his thoughts. Since it was the only place he had visited apart from his temporary quarters, he quickly found his way back to the medical ward and saw that Jerjerrod was the only one who had not left from earlier, standing before the bacta tank at parade rest with his hands clasped behind him.
"He must be nearly finished," said Piett in observance of Motti's progress. He never could quite manage to watch a full healing session, as gore was something that churned his stomach, but he could see that the lacerations on Motti's back did not look nearly as awful as they had several hours ago.
"They were just about to bring him out," said Jerjerrod with a nod at the meddroid moving into position beside the tank. It placed a sensor against the curved exterior of the tank and Motti jolted awake with a snap of his eyes.
Piett could see him process the fact that he had been put under against his will and then the admiral shot for the surface. His upper body was out of eyesight, but after a few moments in which he was likely unhooking himself from his apparatus and reaching for a towel to dry off, he came stomping down the spiral staircase to no ill effect, which told Piett that at least his ribs were in better condition than they had been when Motti went in. Motti had hardly been able to stand upright on his own before the bacta session but now he was moving at a bit of an alarming rate, headed directly for Piet and Jerjerrod who exchanged looks that they knew a storm was coming.
"You're moving well," said Piett in an attempt to cut the head of the charging reek off before it could gain momentum.
"Did I or did I not explicitly say that I did not want to be sedated?" Motti seethed.
Piett, who felt no such loyalty to Veers right now as to spare him from Motti's wrath, sold the general out in an act of pettiness that Piett knew was not in his nature, but felt safe knowing that the only consequences would be Veers receiving a long-winded dressing down from Motti. "The order for your sedation came from the commanding officer of this bunker, so you may air your grievances with him."
"See if I don't. The utter audacity–"
"Your ribs are nearing completion, currently at the stage as if they had been healing naturally for five weeks, sir," said the meddroid assigned to Motti's case and interrupting what was likely to be an extensive tirade. "One more session should completely reseal any breakage. Your nose has mended well, though some bruising will remain, and the lesions on your back are now surface-level deep."
"Marvelous. Where's Maxim?" Motti demanded.
"I believe he went to make another report to Lord Vader," said Jerjerrod without meeting Motti's eye, and through Motti's new, shining coat of skin, he appeared to go temporarily pale, though Piett had no idea why. "You should sit," Jerjerrod continued, gesturing at the table that he and Piett had sat at earlier.
"I'd like some clothes first."
The meddroid handed him a patient gown while a request for a new uniform was processed, but Motti regarded the gown with distaste and instead secured his towel around his lower torso as he sank down onto the bench across from Jerjerrod and Piett. As the bacta dried, it emitted steam, giving the impression that Motti was building up pressure from within and was preparing to explode. Though his broken nose was nearly healed, he still had dark bruising under his eyes, giving him a rather unhinged appearance and making his eye sockets look hollow, almost skeletal-like.
"How do you feel?" asked Piett, wondering why Jerjerrod would still not bring his gaze up to Motti's.
"How do I look?" Motti returned.
"A little battered, but in recovery," said Piett as optimistically as he could. "And as the droid said, another few hours in the tank and you won't have a mark on or in your body."
"That's if they allow another session. I was given priority because of my rank and my injuries, but bacta is a limited resource here and now that I'm healed to a manageable degree, they likely won't clear me for a second round. Which is also why I suspect you received stitches for that laceration on your face."
Piett had accepted that there would be heavy scarring, but he wasn't one much for appearances anyway as far as appealing looks. It was imperative that he always be presentable in uniform, but his face made little difference so long as it remained passive. He and Veers had nearly matching scars now, though the thought did not make him feel any better.
"I'm assuming Maxim and Lorth had no injuries?" Motti guessed when his tablemates said nothing in regards to his earlier statement.
"None so awful as yours."
"And you?" Motti posed the question to Jerjerrod whose neck still bore very slight bruising and whose eyes were tinged with pink. With a swallow that looked as if it might still be painful despite the bacta he had applied to it, Jerjerrod ran his hand silently over his throat and Motti's hardened eyes softened with empathy. "How?"
"The one who tried to impale you got the upper hand on me when I knocked him aside. I couldn't break free until Maxim shot him."
"And how did that lead to what happened after?" Motti asked in a forward manner. "I saw the body. I know what you did."
"Are you complaining?" asked Jerjerrod.
"I think the phrase I would use is 'morbidly curious'. You're the most composed officer I've ever known to the point where it's actually quite annoying at times that you don't break so easily but whatever that was at the landing site, it wasn't you."
"I don't think either of us know what is or is not me–or any of us–when it comes to battle, as that was our first. I never would have expected Firmus to have such a quick reaction time as he did to kill a man with so little warning, especially since I distinctly remember him receiving consistently low marks in target practice, yet here he is. I also never would have expected you to handle yourself as well as you did, but I saw that you hadn't forgotten your training. Grunt work is far above your station, yet you could have fooled me into believing that you had the training and experience of a trooper."
"Don't change the subject; we aren't talking about me."
"Yes, we are. I am saying that neither us nor Firmus and Lorth could have expected how we would react in such a desperate situation because the likelihood of such a thing happening was so miniscule. We did what we had to in order to survive and some of us handled it better than others. You were the only one to take on someone else in close combat and win. I nearly had my neck snapped. Both of us rushed in without hesitation to save the others when it appeared that they were about to be killed and did whatever was necessary to defend them. I did the same for you at the end and there's nothing else to it."
"I'm not denying that you were protecting me, but that body was a charred mess. You went too far."
The gravity of the accusation hung heavily on the air. Here was Motti, perhaps the least moral of them all, the most likely to unwind, the most capable of engaging in any type of fight, and he was accusing arguably the most composed of them all of savagery.
"I don't think the man who served under Grand Moff Tarkin and saw what sort of atrocities he got up to such as destroying an entire planet has much room to be speaking on what is 'going too far'," said Jerjerrod heatedly.
"You can admit that you lost control. We both know I have on numerous occasions."
"I beg your pardon, but I would like to remind the two of you that I am sitting right here and would very much like to be included in this conversation," said Piett rather indignantly. It was not that he felt like the odd man out between the three of them since he and Needa corresponded in much the same way as Jerjerrod and Motti did, a product of working closely together on the same ship or within the same fleet assignments. He knew Jerjerrod and Motti had been closer in age during their time at the Academy and came up together and therefore, had their own repartee, but it was glaringly obvious that there was some crucial detail that they had not told him and he was irked that they did not see the need to fill him in.
"The admiral seems to be under the impression that the act of saving his life earlier today was poorly handled by his commanding officer. Do see fit to contribute at your discretion, Admiral," Jerjerrod invited in a sardonic tone that did not suit him at all.
Piett was given no time to add to the conversation, for Motti plunged right ahead and cut him off. "My 'impression' is a fact. Those blaster shots were intentional and personal."
"What I did was a necessity, otherwise we would not be having this conversation. You were quite capable and willing to do the same, had the rebel not bested you."
"The odds weren't in my favor to win that fight, but my hands are clean of–whatever you would call the manner in which you disposed of that rebel."
"You should be used to having blood on your hands. Yours are just as stained as mine with the destruction of Alderaan and you helped to make that possible."
"As irrelevant as this is, I don't believe I have ever seen any two individuals bicker as much as you two do," said Piett impatiently. Among the many things he did not think he would be doing this day, scolding his fellow officers like they were schoolboys was quite high on the list. "How do you accomplish anything with this incessant back and forth? I'm inclined to think that the Death Star is behind schedule due to the both of you harping on each other."
"This so-called harping is a new and unwelcome habit Admiral Motti has started to participate in as of late," said Jerjerrod. "Did I not warn you that your insubordination will not be tolerated, Admiral?"
"I think, given my condition, that I am allowed to ask questions that I deserve the answer to and all I need to know is why you killed that man in the way that you did. I'm waiting for you to admit that you are just as human as the rest of us. You reached a breaking point."
"I made a rash decision; that is not the same as breaking. The latter would suggest that I remain broken and I assure you that I am still very much in control of my actions."
"Your requested change of uniform, sir," said the meddroid, having finally returned and offering Motti's new clothes out to him. Swiping the under tunic first, Motti jammed it over his head with such ferocity that he was in danger of ripping it.
"Conan," said Piett suddenly as the light caught some dark coloring around his neck, "what happened here?" He pointed out the familiar bruising.
"That is none of your concern," said Motti brusquely, fastening his uniform collar up high enough to conceal the bruising.
"Apparently, nothing is this night," said Piett, now thoroughly irked that he was deliberately being excluded from a much deeper and darker secret. "Tell me what you did to upset Lord Vader to the degree that he would find the need to strangle you?"
Motti dropped his boots and belt with a loud thud on the stone floor and watched Piett as if expecting him to suddenly sprout fangs and attack.
Pleased that he had finally gotten his friends' attention, Piett dismissed the meddroid and continued in a hushed voice, "I oversaw the incineration of Admiral Ozzel's body after he displeased Lord Vader in the act that made me admiral in his place. I was standing right beside him when the Sith crushed his throat; I know what it looked like in the aftermath and yours is identical, but how recent, and for what?"
"That's not relevant," said Motti quickly.
"Really? Incurring the Sith lord's wrath enough for him to consider ending your life by means of the Force is not relevant, or just too shameful to admit? There is no use lying when I can see it so plainly and judging by Tiaan's lack of reaction, I would say that he knows why those bruises are there, so this is not a secret you are keeping to yourself anyway. What happened?"
For the first time since sitting down, Jerjerrod and Motti regarded each other in agreement rather than argument as they silently considered whether or not they could trust Piett with this information.
"Most recently, he questioned Lord Vader's motives in a less than respectable manner," said Jerjerrod.
"Most recently?" Piett repeated. "How many times has he done this to you?"
"Twice," responded Motti. "The first time was some years ago to make an example of me, but the scarring hasn't faded. The second time was purely for his own entertainment and not warranted."
"Nevertheless, if there is a third time, you will not survive the end of it," warned Jerjerrod. "You speak without thought of consequences for your words."
"And you act in the same manner, it would seem," Motti retorted.
And they had arrived back at the previous argument.
"What does it matter, Conan?" asked Jerjerrod with a wide-eyed look of delirium as if any further discussion on the subject would make his mind cave in on itself.
"It matters because being reprimanded for the very thing you did today makes you a hypocrite and doesn't sit well with me," said Motti. "You would lead me to believe that anyone who has any emotion whatsoever in accordance with their actions or anyone whose emotions feeds their actions is somehow inferior to you and I'll not have you believe that you are superior to the rest of us just because you have the emotional range of a spoon."
Standing up with a weight to not only his posture but also his words as if a much older, wisened individual was speaking through him, Jerjerrod said in a level voice, "I never claimed to be a better man than any one of you, but I do claim to be different. I am an individual, as are you, and therefore, I do not strictly adhere to your ideals, as you do not adhere to mine. I do not act, react, speak, or think as you do and the maker forbid anyone disagrees with your point of view, Conan. If we all let our pride do our talking for us, we all would be walking around with twice-over bruised necks and there would not even be a quarter of a Death Star hovering over this moon if you were left in charge. I will continue to handle things the way I see fit, as it has served me well while you continue to handle things the way you see fit and see what sort of progress you can glean from it."
Motti's pallid face had turned a ruddy shade of red as if he were building up steam from within and Piett figured he had best interject before the argument could sour any further.
"All men have their breaking point, which I believe is what Conan was trying to imply. All men can be pushed too far, forced to act without thinking, and their actions show what sort of person they are."
"Be that as it may, Conan doesn't have an inkling of what being pushed too far would entail, as he has yet to come to that threshold. He did not have to make that choice to end a life today as you and I did, Firmus, and therefore, he has no ground to stand on in this argument. I was pushed to make a decision, but it was not all-defining. I made a choice because I was forced to. Conan's choices were a result of his own lack of self awareness. And I will not be interrogated or have my motives questioned for doing my duty, least of all by a man who serves under me. We will not be having this conversation again in any capacity. Get some rest, both of you."
As it was a command to him and more of a suggestion to Piett, Motti adhered to what looked like a very pained salute, as he was still shaking with inner fury, but for once, he held his tongue. Snatching the last bits of his uniform up off of the floor but conveniently leaving the kepi, he turned on his heel and marched out. Anyone who saw him from behind would never know that there were scars underneath his uniform or that bottled rage was simmering below the surface.
Jerjerrod's posture dropped just a fraction of an inch once Motti had gone, a sign of fatigue that was not acceptable in such a high ranking officer when other officers were present, yet Jerjerrod allowed himself that small sign of vulnerability in front of Piett as a symbol of trust, for which Piett was grateful. Jerjerrod, at least, still saw him as a close confidant–or however close they could be as Imperial officers.
"Tiaan," said Piett carefully as he observed the fleeting flash of weariness on his friend's face, "those were not your actions today, were they? You say that you made a choice, but the look on your face in the aftermath…you didn't realize what you had done. You had no idea. You didn't mean to kill that man in the manner that you did, did you?"
Jerjerrod's collar bulged slightly as he gave an almost indiscernible swallow. "If I had had it my way, one shot from the blaster would have been enough."
"What could possibly have made it not your way? There was no one else there to influence your actions."
"No one," Jerjerrod agreed, though his inflection on the second word was obviously a hint that he could not speak aloud or elaborate on. What's more, Piett knew Jerjerrod wanted to tell him, but as Motti had been reluctant to do so concerning his bruises, so was Jerjerrod about whatever was ailing him. This was a secret he did not even feel safe hinting to Motti, but he held enough faith in Piett to give him the most subtle clue he could. It was a plea for help, for understanding, and Piett was now tasked with figuring it out.
He gave Jerjerrod a slight nod to acknowledge the task set before him, but added as Jerjerrod turned to leave, "Did he deserve what Lord Vader did to him?"
Almost as if he had been expecting the question, Jerjerrod had a ready answer. "I don't believe anyone deserves that fate. I believe that there are other ways of dealing with insubordinate officers or individuals who have failed in their duty. After this most recent altercation, I think Conan is upset that I had to intervene on his behalf and that that is a form of weakness. Added to the events of today, I think he's ashamed to have been rescued twice by me."
Yes, Motti certainly did not like being vouched for. Even as a schoolboy, he did not care to have others speak in his place or come to his defense. He considered it to be the highest form of shame to not be able to fight his own battles and that a man who could not do so was a man who did not deserve a place in the Empire's army. Motti did not care to be the first and only man to make certain mistakes, though he did care to be the first man to make certain achievements, and for him alone to be the survivor of an altercation with the Sith, that had to be a difficult capsule to swallow. That did not, however, explain why he was so adamant that Jejerrod admit to losing control. The urgency with which he had taken to that argument suggested that his reasoning stemmed from something deeper, though Piett could not imagine what.
It was not pride that made Motti so angry. He was quite a proud man, even to a fault to the level that Veers was, but this went beyond something so recognizable. If Piett didn't know any better, he would have said that Motti was exhibiting caution, perhaps even fear from what Jerjerrod had done. No doubt, it was quite a sight to see someone Piett thought he knew quite well resort to such savagery to kill a rebel that was dead after the first blaster shot, but Motti had not even seen it happen as Piett had, so why was his reaction far more severe?
On his way back to his quarters to while away the rest of the evening, Piett was intercepted by a trooper who gave him the news that he was being summoned to confirm the identity of the rebel he had killed. Piett was of a mind to flat out refuse, but knew that the rebel's identity could prove to be of some importance if he had had a higher price on his head. Bypassing the medical ward, he found himself at the morgue where the recovered bodies of all the dead had been lined up on opposite sides of the room, stripped of any useful items and personal effects, and identified to the best of their abilities.
Piett was able to pick out his kill despite not being able to remember much of the man's face up to this point. He was young, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four with rich brown eyes that were now misted gray with the film of death hanging over them. His face was not familiar to anyone, but a quick scan of his retina revealed him to be Lykar Voss, a name unknown to Piett. Just another soul who had joined a lost cause, and a young one at that, but then Piett reminded himself that he had become lieutenant at the same age as Voss and some fifteen years later, he was now Fleet Admiral and one of the most powerful officers serving the Empire. And Luke Skywalker had been younger than that when he destroyed the first Death Star, if sources were accurate. Being young meant nothing, for Voss had chosen to ally himself with the rebels and known the consequences of those actions.
Piett affirmed that he had indeed killed the man on the table and then he was ushered out of the room. The whole process had taken less than three minutes, yet it left a sour taste in the back of his mouth.
Weighted down with so much to think about, Piett lay awake for hours past nightfall that evening. His body was exhausted from the physical toll taken on it by the battle of the day, the mental strain of navigating his new reality as a man who had killed another human being, and the emotional turmoil of piecing everything together and arriving at several harsh conclusions. When he finally did drift off, he knew it would be a fitful sleep. He would come awake without knowing where he was, have a moment of panic, and then see the moonlight bathing his floor in a cool blue beam and collapse back onto his cot. His mind subconsciously was preparing to rouse him at his normal waking time but his body was begging him for more sleep.
Feeling far too heated in the three blankets adorning the bed top, he turned over and came face to face with the bloodied, motionless body of Lykar Voss. He gave a short, clipped exhale as he tried to shout out in alarm, but nothing came out of his throat. Actively now trying to scream, he felt a rawness in his throat as if he had been gargling out silence for hours, but even then, he found his mouth to be sealed shut at the lips. He fought to pry it open to no avail and as he lay there, Voss's blood began to latch onto his nightwear like an infection.
He threw himself backward to dislodge himself and landed painfully on his already bruised tailbone. The shock sent a message to his brain and he found himself awake on his cot, stuck to the sheets in cold sweat. He pried himself out of the tangle of bedding, went to the faucet across the room, and splashed water over his face. In his reflection, he saw that the ever-present bags under his eyes were more pronounced, his thinning hair looked quite disheveled, and his pulse was beating madly in his neck. And the new addition to his face in the shape of the unsightly scar seemed to look worse than it had yesterday, perhaps a product of him clawing at it in the night.
A once-over concluded that there was no blood on his nightshirt, no blood in his cot, and no body besides his own in the room. He gave himself a harsh slap to the cheek and his mind firmly told him to get a hold of himself, for he was not a man prone to distractions and hallucinations. He always had a strong grasp on reality and he could not let a cadaver shatter that illusion.
His act of killing Voss had been no different from any other kill that had occurred with him at the helm of a Star Destroyer. Any rebel ship that had been obliterated by his command was a body added to his personal count, even if he had not pressed the button that fired the fatal shot. The only difference was that he had seen the lights of Voss's eyes leave, had seen his body crumple, had seen his blood splatter out…
Stop that, he scolded himself. There was no difference. He had done what he had done for survival. He would not allow himself to feel guilt about doing the right thing.
That was not to say that he could not feel exhausted from doing the right thing, as he made his way to the council chamber which was far less spacious than the one aboard the Death Star to the point of being quite cramped, even with just the five of them who made up the emergency Joint Chiefs council. Piett was usually an early riser, but his nightmare had left him unsteady and he felt as if he was walking into this meeting on no sleep whatsoever.
Jerjerrod appeared next some ten minutes later, as he was known for being prompt but not unwelcomingly early like Piett. Veers was not far behind and then they had to wait for Motti and Needa, the former of whom arrived two minutes before the council was scheduled to convene. As he slid into his seat between Piett and Jerjerrod, Piett could see that he seemed to have deliberately left his kepi in his quarters (assuming that one had been delivered to him after he initially left his replacement in the medical ward).
"You might at least pretend that you hold some stock in uniform protocol," said Jerjerrod quietly at the sight of Motti's uncovered head.
"I might, but for some reason, having my face nearly caved in makes the minor inconvenience of wearing all parts of my uniform–if it's possible– even more mundane and meaningless."
Unlike the secluded corner of the medical ward where they had spoken last night, this was a highly monitored room where their conversations would be recorded and relayed to Lord Vader, among others and for Motti to unflinchingly say such a bold thing with undertones of rebellious nature, it was no small wonder that he had twice incurred the wrath of the Sith. The man simply had no disabling switch.
The arrival of Needa started what would be for the next two hours a ceaseless back and forth later discussing the same subjects in a roundabout way. After only thirty minutes, however, Piett was feeling that Motti might have been onto something in claiming that certain procedures were mundane and meaningless. The better part of the morning had been spent in this room and they had achieved absolutely nothing. Though he normally would have been invested in every second of such a meeting, Piett was finding it difficult to focus when random seats at the table were suddenly and alarmingly overtaken by the corpse of Lykar Voss. Every time Piett spotted the body, he would turn his attention back to the speaker in hopes of engrossing himself in the conversation, but the task was proving to be extremely difficult.
"If we are pushed back to the bridge, it is the only point of regrouping we have before final defenses," said Needa after a while during which Piett was finally able to ground himself in the debate happening around him.
"I would rather not rest all of our hopes on making sure our men clear the bridge before we block it off from rebel access," said Motti.
"Then just where do you suggest my men retreat to in the event of rebel attack?" asked Veers, and the fact that he had said my men while Motti had said ours did not go unnoticed by Piett. "Are you suggesting that we leave those caught in the skirmish to die?"
"I am certain no one is suggesting that," intercut Jerjerrod.
"What I am saying is that the bridge is a liability, not a fail-safe, and a glaringly obvious one at that," said Motti.
"I wasn't the one who designed that architectural disaster, Admiral," said Veers loftily. "And I will not sacrifice my men because of the incompetence of the architect who did design this bunker."
Piett was about to point out that leaving men to die and hold off the rebels for however long it took to get the majority of the soldiers across the bridge was the exact sort of thing Veers expected of any man who called himself a soldier of the Imperial Army. Veers had admonished Piett for not wanting to do that very thing but was now acting like each and every life was precious, but he had practically admitted the opposite yesterday and Piett did not want his claim to go unchallenged.
He didn't know where this confrontational persona had come from and was by no means happy about its arrival, but he knew that it would not let him sit by without saying something. He had remained passive for too long and no doubt spurred on by the man sitting in the morgue thanks to him, Piett could maintain that personality no longer. He had a few choice words he planned to say to his duty-driven companion when he noticed Jerjerrod staring somewhat intently at him almost as if he knew what Piett was about to say. Seeing that he had caught Piett's eye, Jerjerrod gave the slightest, almost indiscernible shake of his head.
No. But no, what?
He couldn't possibly know the inner battle waging on inside of Piett's head of whether to confront Veers or bite his tongue as he always did. Piett turned in his seat to address Veers when he could have sworn he could actually hear Jerjerrod's words telling him to remain silent. More to the point, Piett heeded those unspoken words as if Jerjerrod had actually told him not to speak and instead allowed Jerjerrod to carry on.
"We can't very well do anything about the integrity of the bridge or its purpose now that it's built and is admittedly and regrettably the only ground access point to the bunker," said Jerjerrod. "Our only choice is to explore our options in a worst-case scenario if the rebels were to launch an assault."
"Their aim is to dismantle, if not destroy the bunker in its entirety," said Motti. "The only way to accomplish that is to set detonators in the core and the only way to access the core is to take the shaft down from the topside control room which is then only accessible from the bridge and all of this is only possible to get to if they succeed in dismantling the shield around the bunker. That shield protects us from an aerial assault, if they were to take the ships they commandeered and launch a surface attack. Say the shields fail, then they would send ground forces to the bridge because if they drop missiles on the control room, they risk destroying and blocking the shaft. They need the control room intact, so they won't attempt to drop anything on us from above, leaving all of our forces to defend the bridge. As previously stated, the bridge is equipped with explosives that can be triggered from the control room if it appears that we are losing ground. From there, the only way in or out of the control room is from a very long, treacherous, heavily guarded and armored climb, or from the landing pad located on the roof. We would be able to shoot down anything not authorized to land, so they would not try to send in a ship. We would be at a stalemate."
"Is that the better option, or would we be better served in defending the bridge to the last man?" posed Needa.
"Why are we still entertaining this notion that we will even be in a situation where we would need to do that?" asked Piett.
"As Commander Jerjerrod said, we are exploring our options in the event of the worse-case scenario, which would involve a sequence of unfortunate events happening first. But none of you will be present for those events, as you will return to your ships while I maintain control of ground forces. Once you have secured your access codes and leave the bunker, the shield generator will be fully activated and then the rebels will have to forfeit any hope of launching an assault."
If only all of them could have such blind faith that an Imperial-made bunker was the solve-all for this very obvious problem. Everything relied on the bunker being secure: the shield around the bunker protected the generator which powered the deflector shield currently encasing the Death Star. If the bunker fell, everything else would naturally fall in quick succession.
"If you are confident that the bridge will hold, then, General…" said Piett, opening the floor for Veers to admit that he was, in fact, not equipped to handle such a responsibility and that they needed to call for reinforcements but like Motti (and privately, Piett believed that Motti had been heavily influenced by the general), Veers was a proud man. Too proud.
"The bridge will hold. Final inspections are underway and the access codes should be ready this afternoon, then the four of you can be on your way and the deflector shield will be at full strength. And for those of you who still hold doubts, we have thorough coverage of the moon spanning miles in all directions. The rebels were able to jam our communications on a small scale at the landing site, but don't have the technology or the means to do the same to an entire bunker with a much more powerful signal. We will not be caught unprepared as we were last time. Any impending threat will be eliminated like the petty scum they are."
"And we have your assurances that you are in command of this bunker with the intention to defend it, not take unnecessary risks to eliminate a threat to meet a self-serving quota?" asked Piett to deafening silence. It was far too bold of a question to ask, especially to the man in charge of the entirety of ground forces on the forest moon, a man who was a decorated general, the most formidable general in the Imperial Army, the man who had just proven how unstable he actually was, the man Piett had lost confidence in.
Veers had that scrutinizing but also disinterested look on his face as he always did, yet the cock in his eyebrow and the dangerous flash in his eyes gave warning, this time far less friendlier than it had been given before.
"Careful, Admiral."
"Your immense hatred for the rebels is no secret," Piett responded, unafraid and emboldened by his own daring. "I am asking if the purpose that you serve being stationed on this moon is for your own benefit or that of the Empire?"
As cold and calculated as he ever did, Veers spoke with an icy tone. "I have more reason than anyone at this table, on this moon, or in this Army to want the rebels dead, but I am patient and I will destroy them as the situation presents itself and not before and certainly not at the expense of the Empire. I am duty-bound to serve the Empire first and foremost and anything that falls in my favor is just coincidence. Now, if you've quite finished questioning my motives, I would make my report to Lord Vader in updating him on the finer points of this meeting."
Piett had more to say, but once again, he felt a concentrated set of eyes on him and saw that Jerjerrod was staring pointedly at him and could almost hear the commander's voice telling him to concede now. As the peacemaker he generally was, Jerjerrod knew that Veers would not be the one to back down and even if Jerjerrod could not come to an agreement with Motti, he could still recognize the need to amicably end a heated debate. And what's more, Piett found himself wanting to end things on good terms despite the feeling of animosity he had been harboring all morning.
"By all means, General," Piett invited with his gaze still on Jerjerrod.
Veers excused himself without another word and at Piett's request, Needa followed to report back to the Executor to expect him later that afternoon. Jerjerrod was third to leave and as he vacated his seat, Piett saw Voss claim it in the commander's stead. Rubbing at his eyelids to the point of pressing his eyeballs painfully into his skull, Piett tried to shake the image of the dead rebel.
"If you were a drinking man, you wouldn't have those waking nightmares," said the voice of Motti to his left. Blinking away winking white lights and some dizzying pattern, Piett brought Motti into focus and saw that he had a thin metallic cylinder in his mouth which he was coaxing to life with a pocket incinerator looking quite unbothered by the presence of recording lenses positioned around the room. Partaking in any sort of illicit drug or alcoholic beverage was strictly forbidden and cause to be court martialed, yet Motti did not seem the least bit concerned about being caught doing the former. A man who had twice stared down a Sith and been nearly throttled to death had to have such a rush of recklessness, thinking he was untouchable.
"I would ask how you procured that contraband, but I have a feeling that I would be happier not knowing," said Piett in resignation as Motti took a deep draw on the cylinder, inhaled, and then let smoke emit from his nostrils.
"Not happier, just safer," said Motti. "And before you ask, I have daily terrors visit me thanks to my interactions with the Sith, so I am all too familiar with trying to slap some sense into myself in a vain attempt to get rid of those visions."
There was no way he could know exactly what Piett was seeing, and the fact that he seemed to not care in the slightest about his own personal body count did not inspire confidence (yet he was very much concerned about Jerjerrod's and the manner in which that body count was achieved).
"Unless that's a hallucinogenic smoking device, I don't see how it helps you."
"It doesn't," answered Motti simply.
There was no point in asking why he continued to partake in it. Knowing Motti, he was doing it out of pure spite. As such a high ranking individual, he could not be punished for such a trivial thing when it would be far more trouble to replace him than to forgive a minor infraction. How freeing that sort of life must be to live, to do as you pleased without fear of repercussions.
Motti offered out the cylinder to Piett but he was pleased to find that he had no urge to take a pull. He still remained the same morally bound man with some faults, as anyone had. He was still in control of his actions…unless he wasn't.
Here was Motti asking him if he wanted to engage in a prohibited action and Piett had refused, knowing that that was what he would do regardless of the circumstances if he were sound of mind or in a state of delusion. But earlier he had wanted to be confrontational with Veers which was very much against his nature, and he surely would have said some much more damning things had it not been for the heavily influential stare of Jerjerrod. How could a simple look have so much power over his actions, though? It was almost as if he had not been in complete control in those moments, almost as if someone else had been making those decisions whether or not to speak up for him.
Piett surged forward in his seat as the realization hit him. Not some one but some thing.