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Chapter Text

General Maximillian Veers sat in a quiet corner of the Capital-ship Squall’s officer’s mess gently running his fingertips along the wings of a small wooden owl. Originally the rough carving from a child’s artist hand, the wood had become touch-smoothed over the years as Veers carefully carried it from deployment to deployment. Over the last fifteen years, he and his little owl had suffered through quagmire swamps, battled wintry blizzards and summer sandstorms, marvelled at crystal caves and delighted in bringing Duellona, his beautiful and powerful lady, and her sisters of the Thundering Herd to life. Their travels had come at high cost, however, and during the Festival of Light, Veers was reminded of that cost more harshly than at any other time of year.

Watching Myra slowly lose her battle with the tik-tik parasite had been difficult for both him and Zevulon, but his darling wife had made them both swear that they would not try to follow her prematurely. Both husband and son had sworn their promise and had stayed true to both it and the oath they had sworn each other to be friend, confidant and protector but less than a year after the pair had said their final goodbyes to their morning star, Veers had found himself sitting on the unforgiving deck-plating of a Star Destroyer hangar cradling his dying son, Stormtroopers and naval ratings all yelling their versions of why a ten-year-old boy was laying with a blaster shot to his abdomen. Zevulon, with his mother’s stubbornness and gentle heart, had wasted precious energy in trying to comfort his distraught father and the medics had arrived too late to save him. Veers did not have much memory of the ensuing hours, just a blur of cries, yells, crunching bone and flesh and cracking plastoid-composite armour, everything shrouded in a red mist and seared with white-hot pain. As Governor Tarkin would later tell him (and the security footage would confirm), he had carefully lain Zevulon’s body on the medical stretcher and tucked him in as if merely putting him to bed after an exhausting day, before single-handedly attacking every single one of the Stormtroopers and naval ratings that had been surrounding them. He had succeeded in taking several of them out of commission for at least the next rotation before the newly commissioned Lieutenant Piett had risked injury by tackling the taller officer and taking them both back to the floor whereupon Veers had released a bloodcurdling scream of agony.

The little owl Veers carried with him, despite the impracticality when wearing a cuirass, had been the last project Zevulon had set his mind to, the child inspired by the flighty creatures of Endor that Veers had encountered when supervising an ecological survey of the forest moon when Zevulon had been a toddler and who had made their way into the night-time tales Veers’ had told his son. Now, Veers told those stories to the owl and hoped, somewhat naïvely, that they would reach Zevulon and Myra and bring them a little joy even if peace was no longer his to grant.

“General!” cheered a bordering-on-intoxicated Naval Lieutenant as he and his dancing partner swung past Veers’ chosen corner though, if the young lady’s expression was any judge, their destination was clearly not her choice. “I hadn’t noticed you arrive. Come, join us! The Festival is no time for someone as distinguished as yourself to sit in the shadows alone!”

“I have been here longer than you, Lieutenant,” said Veers, curtly, as he careful curled his fingers around the owl, hiding it from prying eyes. “And I am not alone.”

“Oh?” said the Lieutenant with a leer. His dance partner flushed and tried to tug them away but the Lieutenant was having none of it, determined for an explanation as to where Veer’s company was. “Freshening up, are they? Special plans for after the main event?”

“If he does,” interjected Governor Tarkin from behind the couple. “They are of no concern of yours, Lieutenant Ozark.”

“Governor!” exclaimed the Lieutenant, swinging around and pulling himself up into an impressive, but highly ill-advised, salute. His dance partner quickly shouldered her way back under his arm so as to prevent him face-planting the deck before his commanding officers.

“Your vision and coordination are still working adequately,” surmised Tarkin, straightening his cuff dismissively. “I suggest you use both and return to your companions. They have some fresh caf awaiting your return.”

“But that’ll ruin the buzz,” complained the Lieutenant. “I put a lot of credits into achieving it.”

“And you will rue every one of them when you’re attending Bridge combat drills with a hangover,” said Piett as he joined Tarkin, looking a little more harassed than the Governor. The Lieutenant looked ready to complain again when one of his fellows appeared to tug him away, sending the three senior officers an apologetic look as they did so. The young lady bobbed a small courtesy to trio before scurrying after the pair while Tarkin took a seat beside Veers.

He immediately caught sight of the owl’s wing peeking through Veers’ curled fingers.

“And what tales has Bubo collected this evening?” he asked, gently.

“He saw the fireworks,” replied Veers, his tone tender as he opened his hands again so Tarkin could see the owl properly. “Enjoyed the musical accompaniment so much that he nearly flew to dance with the blue and gold cascades himself this time. Still not keen on the red ones though.”

“That certainly seemed to be a favourite this year,” mused Tarkin before glancing at the three spirit glasses on the table, two of which were empty. “I prefer the colour green myself. And what of the food? Or have you two been sitting here indulging in a more liquid diet?”

“I ate!” protested Veers with a small chuckle. “Firmus caught up with me as the viewing platform emptied and refused to let me sit anywhere except at his side. Made sure I emptied my plate and that I didn’t drink more than a couple of glasses of wine.”

“A diligence that will serve him well in his new posting,” said Tarkin, approvingly.

“He’s been counting my glasses all night,” said Veers, waving to the three before him. “That’s why the empties are still here. Promised I wouldn’t hide any of them. Think he’s really going to subject his men to Bridge drills the morning after the Festival?”

“You do have a reputation of becoming a little boisterous at these kind of soirées,” reminded Tarkin with a wry smile. “Admittedly not this one but our gallant Captain is probably of the opinion that the one time he doesn’t keep an eye on you will be the one where you do something unexpected.”

“And yes, I’m running drills tomorrow,” announced the returned Piett, offering out a flute of crisp white wine to Tarkin and holding a whiskey tumbler for himself. “Death Squadron officers need to always be prepared.”

“You got selected too?” asked Veers, his small smile one of pleasure.

“Yep,” confirmed Piett as he took a seat. “Got word this morning. And I am now seriously debating whether I should practice holding my breath for extended periods.”

“Planning on making your Destroyer an amphibious force, Captain?” Tarkin asked, raising an eyebrow. Piett’s expression was one of nervous excitement as he shook his head.

“I’m on the flagship,” he said, causing Veers’ smile to deepen.

“Well at least there’ll be a friendly face around,” he said, reaching for the full glass in front of him, raising it in toast. “Here’s to an interesting deployment.”

“Max!” whined Piett even as he chinked his glass against Veers’ in acceptance of the toast, Tarkin tipping his own glass as well. The Governor took a dignified sip of his wine while his two companions threw back their whiskey, Piett choking slightly on the burn.

“And to plenty of celebrations where I can teach you to do that properly,” laughed Veers, setting his empty glass back on the table while Tarkin patted Piett on the back. The Captain scowled at his friend before being caught in a coughing fit.

Bubo continued to silently watch the party from the cradle of Veers’ palm, gathering to him all the wild adventures that Veers started to outline once Piett had calmed down, the General’s thumb continuing to brush gently across a wing.

Chapter Text

The key to survival in either branch of the Imperial Military was to learn – quickly – how to adapt. It was a trait that those assigned to Death Squadron soon came to deem essential given that their mission had them deploying to planets of every climate imaginable, carefully laid out attack plans had the audacity to go wrong at the slightest provocation, re-supply routes rarely followed the path or pattern they were expected to and chains of command developed the habit of changing without warning – their Supreme Commander did not suffer fools among his officers and with Tarkin assigned to a posting on Coruscant, he had freer rein in how he dispensed discipline.

The broken plans and ever-changeable weather conditions were nothing new to either Veers or Piett but the Executor had to be the first Flagship that either of them had been assigned to where officers prayed for demotion over any other form of punishment.

Currently on patrol in the Mid-Rim, Veers was fine tuning Duellona to cope with the lighter gravity that existed on Sneeve in anticipation of being deployed to roust a nest of Rebel Sympathisers, his gunner beside him making the appropriate adjustments to the targeting computers and his second-in-command, Brigadier Nevar, somewhere down on the deck supervising the rest of the Thundering Herd as they made similar modifications to their own AT-ATs. Piett sat in a largely unoccupied corner of the transport bay surrounded by datapads updating supply lists, ostensibly there to ensure that the ground-pounders were completing Lord Vader’s orders but the reality – given that it was, technically, his day off – was that he was avoiding his own Admiral.

The Thundering Herd had no need for a Navy babysitter.

With bonds of trust and fellowship that only close-combat battle and mutually-endured bloodshed could form, they were all unquestionably loyal to each other and their General who, in his turn, was loyal to Lord Vader and protective of his unit. It was a dynamic that wound Admiral Ozzel up no end, especially when he’d worked out that Piett was, to varying degrees of success, more inclined to follow Veers’ pattern of behaviour over his own.

“You might want to stow the pads and grab hold of something, Captain,” said Nevar as the pilot, gunner and commander trios scrambled into their AT-ATs.

“That was fast,” remarked Piett as he did as Nevar suggested. Nevar chuckled and shook his head.

“Do things in small stages, things are less likely to go wrong,” he said. “And it’s easier to catch them when they do.”

“When?” repeated Piett. In the Navy, and especially under Ozzel’s command, that was almost always an ‘if’. Nevar snorted.

“Mods have never gone smooth the first time through,” he said. “We just like to catch and sort as many as we can before we get stuck dirt-side rather than after. Want to go on to the balcony or just hold tight?”

“I can hold tight,” said Piett, wrapping one arm firmly around his collection of datapads while grabbing hold of a wall-embedded handle. Nevar gave him a succinct nod before turning for his own AT-AT while the maintenance crews found themselves an anchoring point as an alarm started to sound around the bay and hold doors sealed closed.

Piett closed his eyes against the swoop of his stomach as the gravity level dropped, opening them again just in time to notice Blizzard Four wobble slightly as her pilot overcompensated for the lack of gravity and slammed the front larboard foot into the deck harder than necessary. All maintenance crews winced and one of Four’s grabbed for a datapad to see exactly what wasn’t calibrated properly. Piett was absolutely certain that if doing so wouldn’t send her entire body off-kilter, Duellona would have swung her head in her sister’s direction in mimicry of an action Veers was doubtlessly doing in her cockpit. He tried not to laugh when Four’s neck retracted slightly, as if hanging her head in embarrassment, before the entire unit took another step forward. When a third step again saw Four’s front larboard foot hit the deck with a loud clang, Piett felt the gravity be reengaged to usual levels and Veers’ head popped out from Duellona’s cockpit as soon as she was steady.

“Colonel Starck!” he barked and waited for Four’s commander to pop their head up through their own cockpit hatch. “Get your feet back on the deck and sort out that calibration. I will confine you and your crew to the Executor for the duration of our Sneeve mission if you haven’t sorted it by then.”

“Yes, Sir!” acknowledged Colonel Starck as his gunner and pilot scrambled out the cockpit behind him, the pilot all but jumping from Four’s knee joint as they hurried to their maintenance crew and the tech who was holding the datapad. Piett noted their cheeks to be a faint shade of red.

“Anything damaged?” asked Piett as he joined Veers as the General examined Four’s labouring foot.

“Nah,” said Veers as he straightened up, little Bubo swinging gently from where a braided twine held him to Veers’ epaulet. “Takes more than a couple wrong steps to damage any of our girls. And they’ve all got scars to prove they’ve survived worse.”

“Is that why some of your people have taken great pride in marking them with paint?” said Piett, swinging his arm out to point at Alala (officially designated as Blizzard Three) who bore a forest green vine twisting around the upper two-thirds of her rear-right leg and Oya (Blizzard Six) whose left flank was mottled in various shades of blue.

“Scars have stories,” shrugged Veers. “Can’t give them medals or commendations the same way I can their command trios – paint’s the next best thing. Whether that inspires awe or fear depends on which side of this war folks are on.”

“Then why not leave this one a little unbalanced?” asked Piett, waving at Four. Veers cocked his head and folded his arms.

“Because a drunk and clumsy looking AT-AT will do wonders for the Herd’s reputation,” he said. “Or are you sailors looking for some new gossip that doesn’t involve your own?”

“If her cannons and targeting controls are accurate, what’s a little limp?” asked Piett, ignoring the jab at his service branch. “Keep her in the middle of the pack, give her a couple of troopers to pick off the Sneevel who get a little too cocky and when you come home with the spoils of victory, you’ll have shown just how hardy your girls are.”

“It would work, Sir,” said Nevar as he joined them. “I’d prefer it as a last resort kinda thing but it would work.”

“And I explain the deployment to Lord Vader, how?” asked Veers’ with a raised eyebrow.

“Jamil’s one of our best gunners,” shrugged Nevar. “She’s well practiced in shooting from far more precarious positions than a slightly listing AT-AT.”

“That covers Jamil,” said Veers. “What about Starck and Marek?”

“She can’t pilot and shoot,” said Nevar.

“And it’s well known the Herd works are trios,” added Piett. Veers chuckled and turned his gaze back to Four’s larboard foot, following the leg up to the cockpit where a brilliant splash of orange adorned the chassis just below the window.

“Alright,” he said, dropping his gaze back to his fellow officers. “But it’s a last resort – Starck doesn’t find out until we deploy.”

“Making plans and contingencies, Sir,” grinned Nevar before he turned for the gaggle of techs who were comparing notes in an attempt to work out why Four was being uncooperative.

“You have a comlink on you?” Veers asked of Piett, the Captain clearly being in no hurry to leave the hangar.

“Yes,” said Piett. “Why?”

“Want to give Nevar a hand with those plans and contingencies?” asked Veers.

“On the condition that I don’t get landed with the blame should things go awry,” said Piett.

“I’m not Ozzel, Firmus,” Veers chided gently. “And neither is Nevar. Despite its name, the Thundering Herd is a fine-tuned instrument not a battering ram. The more options we have going in to the field, the easier we can adapt should things not pan-out like our intel would suggest and the greater our chances at decisive victory.”

“Then my input is yours,” agreed Piett as he checked the chrono-read on his datapad. “For the next four hours, anyway.”

“Then follow me,” said Veers, striding in the direction of his pilots who were pouring over various topographical maps. “I’ll make the introductions.”

Chapter Text

Piett was, to put it mildly, exhausted.

With their mission to Sneeve being a success – two suspected Rebel hideouts destroyed and numerous transmission logs and pieces of radio-transmission equipment confiscated – Lord Vader had rewarded the Thundering Herd with a week of leave which had included permission to go dirt-side on any of the planets of the Chommell sector. None of the Herd had required a second telling and all but three of them had jumped on to the first transport heading their preferred direction.

With ‘spectacular defeat’ being the polite term for the most recent Naval engagement, Admiral Ozzel had taken the command decision that Death Squadron would make use of the time to run various battle drills and simulations. Vader had authorised the plan, taking on a more observational position than a participant, and after three days of randomly-initiated drills and watching the vein in Ozzel’s temple grow increasingly desperate in its bids for freedom, Piett was found himself wondering if it was too late to transfer to the Army or offer his services to the ISB. He was convinced Ozzel had muddled the definition of training exercise with ceremonial display somewhere in his earlier career and his higher-ups had never sought to correct the error. Mistakes were meant to be made in battle simulations – that way they could be rectified and improved before they were required in the field – and flashy manoeuvres that did little more than use fuel were utterly useless during active battle (in some cases they were actually dangerous as they increased the size of vulnerable targets available to enemy fire). Ozzel was not a man inclined to listen to his officers, however, and that left his Fleet Captains scrambling to find ways to follow his orders and prevent damage and/or loss to their own ships and crews.

And running themselves ragged in the process.

Piett was happily picturing the moment where he would be able to face-plant his pillows as he entered his quarters and he was going to blame that on why he failed to recognise he wasn’t alone in his quarters and was oblivious to the fact that his metal command console had sprouted some kind of evergreen growth. He did notice the mug of spiced tea that was pressed into his hands and gratefully absorbed its warmth as strong arms guided him down on to the sofa.

“Max?” he asked as his groggy mind registered the scent of black mint and lemongrass.

“I’m here,” the General confirmed.

“Why?” asked Piett even as his tired muscles revelled in the heat Veers was emitting.

“To check how close to spacing Ozzel you are,” said Veers with a small smile. “My groundhogs have been bitching about effectively being reduce to skivvies by the vac-heads.”

“Because the Fleet hasn’t gone close to planetary atmospheres during the training scenarios,” said Piett, his tone faintly apologetic.

“Got it in one,” said Veers. “My TIE-pilots are used to playing second fiddle – they don’t like it but they’re used to it. If they have been wound up enough to come directly to me with their complaints, I hate to think what it’s like to be the one directly in Ozzel’s shadow.”

“I’m not any further than imagining tripping him out an airlock,” assured Piett. “Admittedly in acute and graphic detail but it’s gone no further. You haven’t cut your leave to play mediator, have you?”

“No,” chuckled Veers. “The Herd deserve some time away from their COs. Nevar has family in the sector so I’d be staying ship-side regardless of what Ozzel was plotting and putting into action. Being on leave does mean I can rant at him without being brought up on too heavy a charge so I’m counting it a small victory.”

“Just don’t hit him,” warned Piett, giving in to his urge to curl tighter into the Veers’ heat and taking a hearty drink from his tea, feeling the two sources of warmth work together to further ease his aching shoulders.

“That I will leave for battle,” said Veers, shifting so they could both remain comfortable. “More for me to blame it on.”

“We need to find you a better hobby,” laughed Piett. “Breaking and entering isn’t one I intend to encourage.”

“Or discourage apparently,” said Veers with a warm smile as Piett continued to erase the boundaries of personal space. Piett’s shrug was nonchalant.

“I currently have a use for you,” the Captain said before he was caught in a yawn. Veers chuckled again and dragged Piett the remaining distance between them, catching up the now empty tea cup and setting it on the table beside them, swapping it for a datapad.

“Glad to be of service,” he said. “Want me to put in a request to the galley?”

“Would be lovely,” said Piett as he yawned again. As he fidgeted to get comfortable, he finally noticed the greenery decorating his console.

“I hope you don’t expect me to keep that alive.”

“It’s preserved,” Veers reassured with a chuckle, looking up from the tablet he was punching the food request into. “Found it at a market stall on Naboo. The evergreen is to wish health and vitality and the wooden pyramid in the middle represents the peace and paradise we’re all fighting for.”

“It’s not new,” said Piett, the tea he had drunk briefly working to heighten his awareness and he noticed the soft edges of the pyramid as well as a touch-dulled look that no artisan would sell as a gift.

“The greenery is,” said Veers, setting the datapad aside and resetting Piett properly against his shoulder. “And you can check the transport logs from this afternoon if you don’t believe me. The pyramid is older than the Empire. One of the first pieces I ever made.”

“And why is it on my desk?” asked Piett.

“A reminder,” said Veers. “That the Galaxy has done this all before, only the names have changed. We made it the last time, we can do it again. We just need to remember what it is we’re fighting for.”

“For peace,” said Piett, canting his head so he could properly look at Veers. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“It makes a good stress cube,” said Veers. “Ozzel’s face won’t be the first one its worn.”

“Oh, now I need that story,” said Piett, perking up slightly.

“Pick a number between zero and twenty-one,” said Veers with a chuckle.

“Twenty,” Piett decided after a moment’s thought.

“Jabiim,” said Veers with a grimace. “Alto Stratus.”

“You were there?” asked Piett not quite able to hide the awe in his voice.

“The AT-AT’s maiden mission,” said Veers with a sardonic smile. “Was a complete disaster on all fronts. But it did mean the Herd can now cope with mudslides and swamp terrains.”

“No better teacher than experience,” agreed Piett. “Seventeen?”

“Orson Krennic,” said Veers. “He’s the reason one of the corners in flattened.”

“Oh?” enquired Piett.

“We lost Galen Erso because of him,” said Veers. “He was a brilliant engineer, spent his entire career looking to better the galaxy and bring some kind of prosperity to the Outer Rim, he just had a vision that looked further than the end of a gun barrel. Krennic all but ruined his career then stole the research, deliberately weaponising it with the interest of furthering his own career and curry favour with the Emperor.”

“Did you throw it at him?” asked Piett, his amusement clear even if he didn’t actually laugh.

“Zev did,” said Veers with a small smile of fond remembrance. “He and Myra lived on Coruscant for about a year back when we were still stabilising the Empire. He all but adopted Galen’s little girl as his sister and was not happy when he found out they’d disappeared. Krennic had shown up at the apartment demanding answers from Myra and Zev took exception to it.”

“Defending his Mamma,” said Piett, looking pleased with the idea. “Was he a good shot?”

“Hit him right between his knee and the top of his ridiculously shined boots,” said Veers, his smile turning proud as the indicated the blow’s placement on his own leg. “The missing piece is from when Krennic kicked it away and it hit the skirting.”

“Did he know what he’d thrown?”

“Not immediately,” said Veers. “It was just a simple piece that he associated with me when I was away on tour. He apparently became quite distraught when Myra explained it to him though, carefully hunting the broken piece out of the carpet and guarding the two until I came home again. The tears in his eyes as he confessed and apologised were more than enough for me, Krennic earned himself another bruise and Zev got some earlier-than-planned target practice.”

“Target practice?” blinked Piett.

“From an impressed Admiral Tarkin,” grinned Veers. “He didn’t just teach him the shooting part though – Zev had to take care of his weapon and if it wasn’t kept to Tarkin’s exacting standards, he didn’t get a lesson that day. The habits became transferable and I honestly think my son had the neatest quarters and footlocker in his class.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” said Piett with a chuckle, reluctantly pushing himself back up and out of Veers’ personal space as his door chime sounded. Veers’ expression slipped as he pushed to his feet.

“Certainly made it easier when he started traveling with me,” he said before opening the door to retrieve their food from the galley service droid. Piett’s stomach twisted despite the pleasant smell of roast garlic and thyme that started to dance around his living space. Silently, he quickly recalculated the years of both Myra and Zevulon’s deaths while Veers set out their meals on the low laying table in front of the sofa.

“Six?” he asked carefully as he lowered himself to the floor.

“Kassius Konstantine,” replied Veers with a small, thankful, smile. “Him I actually did throw it at.”

Chapter Text

Veers was not a fan of his dress uniform. None of the Thundering Herd were. The fashionable cut and braid, medal and rank plaque placements made something as routine as presenting a salute a bit of a challenge if one wanted to remain smart. Add in the fact that lack of regular usage meant the material remained coarse and unbiddable and it made for an uncomfortable outing for all concerned.

Veers subsequently left attendance to formal events up to the individuals of his Herd, even if he couldn’t excuse himself from quite the same number. Celebrations for the Emperor’s birthday, however, were a little trickier to excuse one’s self from. Especially when they came accompanied with the personal invitation of their Supreme Commander and they were currently in Core World space where AT-AT deployment was typically reserved for parade. The result was fifty percent of the Herd – Lieutenant Jamil now cursing her skills in the gunner’s rig – uncomfortably occupying one of the tables in the ornate banqueting hall, drawing on every single scrap of academy training and diplomatic experience they remembered to at least appear like they were enjoying the festivities.

“Stories!” declared Nevar as the third round of drinks circulated and the Herd were looking no more relaxed than when they arrived. “Our victories are far more impressive than anything an air-dale or swabbie can come up with.”

“But most of us were there,” said Lieutenant Tarbek, the pilot for Blizzard Seven.

“But most of these folks weren’t,” replied Nevar. “And who are we, as humble servants of the Empire, to deny them the tales of victory?”

“Not so humble servants,” replied Starck, collecting a glass of wine from a passing server. “We getting the Corps involved in this?”

“Speak loud enough and they’ll be joining in on their own,” said Nevar with a wave in the direction of the black uniformed cluster of Stormtrooper officers. Sergeant Marek glanced in their direction, his expression a little envious as he noticed their infantry cohorts looking decidedly more comfortable in their dress uniforms.

“Jamil, yours is the most recent victory,” said Major Zeppos, Nevar’s pilot. “I doubt much beyond ‘we won’ has made it past the debriefs. Want to explain that ingenious bit of shooting you did?”

“Well, I……” began Jamil, flushing slightly as she looked at Starck.

“Not my victory, Lieutenant,” the Colonel said as he sat back in his chair, cradling his wine glass against his chest. “If it weren’t for your skills in the rig, we’d’ve spent the Sneeve mission stuck ship-side.”

“So, spill,” prodded Zeppos. “How does a lame foot become an asset?”

“I would tell you to relax, General,” said Tarkin as Veers sent his hawk-eyed gaze darting across his subordinates once again. “But I feel it would be a waste of time.”

“Because it’s me?” asked Veers, turning back to his friend. “Or because it’s Nevar once more playing ringleader and the results are inevitable?”

“A little of both,” replied Tarkin, a faint smile of amusement on his lips. “But if the Brigadier’s behaviour has a predictable pattern to it, I am going to assume you have an equally predictable pattern of repercussions.”

“All I need to know is how far I need to take said repercussions,” said Veers, leaning forward to collect his newly refreshed glass of wine.

“Well, for the moment you need do no more than remind them that a banquet hall does not require them to talk at battlefield volume,” said Tarkin. “Though I must admit, their tales are interesting ones and should rightly be lauded and celebrated.”

“They’re bragging,” Veers said, chuckling into his glass. “Deliberately at volume – they’re looking for a confrontation.”

“No, they are looking for recognition,” corrected Tarkin as he took up his own glass. “They are just better skilled at getting it than the groundhogs.”

“They know better,” said Veers, smartly.

“Or are just better at listening to their Commanding Officer,” said Tarkin, glancing along the main table where Admiral Ozzel was alternating between scowling at the Corps and Army officers and sycophantically talking to Moffs Nyall, Ghadi and Raythe. Nyall and Ghadi were lapping up whatever flattery Ozzel was giving them while Raythe wore an expression of dismissive disinterest and mild disgust.

“Did you teach him that?” asked Veers with a grin.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s the same expression you wear when you’re plotting someone’s demise but aren’t quite ready to carry it out,” said Veers, carefully waving his wine glass to indicate Raythe. “Last person I saw you aim it at was Tagge.”

“I assure you, the Imperial Council has more pressing matters to occupy our time than to sit around mimicking each other facial expressions,” said Tarkin, taking a drink of his wine. Veers laughed.

“And my Herd and Corps have enough duties to keep them occupied,” he said before spreading his arms out to encompass the two units in question, Major Zeppos completely disregarding the solemnity of his location to adopt a decidedly inelegant position on his chair as he illustrated whatever story he was telling. “Yet here we are, listening to their tales of on-mission hijinks.”

“Someone once told me that if missions go exactly according to plan, then something’s been missed,” said Tarkin before turning his attention to the table that was hosting the Death Squadron Naval Captains. The two more junior Captains were largely ignoring the conversations around them, quietly engaged in their own on one side of the table. Needa and Lennox, however, were observing the Herd and Stormtrooper Officers with obvious disdain (Starck was currently illustrating something with whatever salt-and-pepper pots and cutlery he was able to get his hands on) while Montferrat appeared to be paying such avid attention to whatever was being boasting that one would be forgiven for thinking he was listening to a battle-tactics lecture. Piett was caught somewhere between fondly listening to the recollections and remembering both where he was and which uniform he was wearing. Tarkin chuckled lightly as he took another sip of his wine.

“So tell me,” he said. “How fairs our dear Captain?”

“Piett or Fel?” replied Veers, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I wasn’t aware you thought of Fel in such affectionate terms,” responded Tarkin.

“I don’t think of Piett in such ‘affectionate terms’ either,” said Veers, his expression one of exasperation. Tarkin chuckled lightly.

“And yet his is the first name that comes to mind when you hear the salutation,” he said. “One might think you are protesting a little too much.”

“He’s my Captain,” replied Veers, neither his pride nor possessiveness in such a claim going unnoticed by Tarkin. “Fel is the only other that you’d ask me about.”

“I know you are more adept at subterfuge than you are currently displaying,” said Tarkin, taking another drink of his wine as he waited for Veers to admit momentary defeat.

“You are as bad as Nevar,” Veers declared a moment later, slouching as much as his uniform and decorum allowed. Tarkin raised an eyebrow.

“Given your previous complaint about the man, I believe you need to clarify that,” he said.

“He is strongly of the opinion that there is something more than friendship between myself and Firmus,” replied Veers. “And he isn’t shy about voicing said opinion in any environment he thinks he can get away with.”

“In that case, I am happy with the association,” said Tarkin. “The exact nature of your relationship is your own business until it starts to affect your duties. I am happy to encourage whatever is between you until that point. For both your sakes.”

“No lecture about fraternisation and how it’s bad for morale, command and discipline?” said Veers even as he allowed his gaze to fall on the lightly chuckling Piett, his affection for the Captain badly concealed and giving credence to whatever it was Nevar was seeing. Tarkin brushed the comment away.

“I shall send you the academy holo,” he said. “But for the moment, I shall continue watching you enjoy something in our days of battle and turmoil. Now, I was meaning Captain Piett but if you have tell of Captain Fel, I will be delighted to hear it.”

Chapter Text

How Admiral Ozzel had avoided being put out an airlock or even Force-choked by Lord Vader was a mystery to several of the officers who served under him. His allies were typically from Core World families of a similar wealth and political standing, Captain Needa of the Avenger being the most prominent in the Death Squadron. His detractors were more likely to be from the Mid and Outer Rims, were all veterans from the three branches of the military and had direct battle experience with the Rebel Alliance.

Normally, the interpersonal conflicts didn’t spill further than heated words during briefings and debriefings, professionalism and chains of command stilling most tongues and stalling a majority of the insubordinate actions during battle engagements. During patrols, the mere size of the Executor and her flotilla ships made it easy for the disagreeing officers to remain apart, only the TIE squadrons having standing orders to stay away from their counterparts.

The aftermath of the Coyerti Campaign, however, saw that professionalism being hurled out the airlock as officers turned on each other, each one blaming another for the losses their own commands had suffered. Even the Stormtrooper Corps, who understood from the start of their careers that as frontline ground troops that they would bear the brunt of any casualties, had taken exception to just how high those numbers had climbed. Lord Vader finally reached the limit of his already minimal patience when he discovered officers brawling in one of the hangar bays roughly a week after their forced retreat.

Every Fleet Captain, Executive Officer, Stormtrooper Commander and Army General was summoned to the Executor where they stood to attention, making the conscious effort to ignore any injuries they were carrying (especially if they were gained off the battlefield). Vader paced in front of them, not speaking but the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive as the Sith prowled.

He finally came to a halt before Ozzel. Piett and Needa, who were of the unfortunate rank to be flanking the Admiral, swallowed almost in unison but Ozzel remained largely unaffected by the menacing presence of his superior. If anything, what expression he allowed was inappropriately smug.

Several officers clenched a fist in an effort not to introduce the man to his own deck-plating.

Vader continued to remain silent, apart from the menacing rhythm of his respirator, but it was obvious that his focus had narrowed to the men in front of him, Ozzel dropping to one knee before their Lord and clearly straining against something. Piett and Needa had both staggered but managed to remain upright, if a little dishevelled. Once Ozzel had been forced to both hands and knees, and clearly still straining, Vader slowly lifted his helmeted gaze to the rest of his officers.

Veers dropped almost immediately as an unseen force slammed across his shoulders, Nedar grunting quietly as it was his turn to stagger. In front of the Corps officers, High-Colonel Nelani Trene was also forced to her knees. Clenching his fist and shifting the angle of his foot, both in deliberate efforts to aggravate the still bacta-wrapped injuries to his forearm and leg, Veers focused on keeping his breathing steady as the pressure across his shoulders increased, determined that he would not end up cowering before Lord Vader like a whipped cur – he had his pride too and, unlike Ozzel, he had earned his rank through blood, sweat and sacrifice rather than political connections. The pressure across his shoulders increased just as he felt himself able to bear it, but he remained upright even as his spine started to protest the burden it wasn’t remotely designed to cope with.

Veers was thankful that there weren’t phantom fingers holding around his throat.

Vader stalked around the gathered officers for a further ten minutes, still not speaking but by now words were unnecessary – the three commanders had been reduced to their knees, their second-in-command’s left staggering under a fraction of same force. Vader’s message was received loud and clear and was left ringing in their ears as he strode out the hangar.

“Your orders, Sir?” asked Nevar as Veers carefully regained his feet.

“Gather the Herd and our TIE-pilots,” said Veers. “Lord Vader will not remain so understanding should he find any further breeches of discipline and I will not have our personnel be the ones to be made example of.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Nevar, saluting crisply and turning smartly on his heel to fulfil the order while Veers turned to Trene.

“Can I leave you to relay Lord Vader’s instructions to your Legion?”

“Actually, Sir, I was going to request we do so together,” replied Trene. Veers raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Our chains of command do not intersect outside the battlefield,” he said.

“Yes, Sir,” accepted Trene. “But if we present a united front, both my troopers and your thunderers will not be left to feel singled out. There is enough mutual respect between them that they will censor each other as needed.”

“Very well,” agreed Veers, aware that Trene had a valid point. “How long do you need to gather your people?”

“One hour,” replied Trene. “If I can, I want to broadcast to the entire Legion at once. Less chance of misconceptions and miscommunications.”

“One hour,” said Veers with a nod. “The walkers’ hangar has the necessary space and communication equipment.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Trene, copying Nevar’s salute and striding away, her own second-in-command quickly falling into step one pace behind while her remaining officers re-joined their respective Fleet Captain and Executive Officer.

Veers took a steadying breath and carefully rolled his shoulders, wincing as the right one once more protested at its continued abuse. The movements combined to pull his uniform tunic tighter across his chest and the tips of Bubo’s wings pressed back into his pectoral. Veers blinked against the sudden prickling behind his eyes.

“I am sorry, my loves,” he murmured, briefly pressing a hand against the owl under the guise of ensuring his uniform was properly at rights before he re-joined the Executor’s general populace.

Vader wouldn’t accept any apology or explanation for the shocking behaviour of those under his command and Veers was well aware that he, Trene and Ozzel were damn lucky to leave the hangar conscious, let alone under their own volition. And Veers still had promises to keep to those patiently waiting for his arrival on the other side.

Pressing his hand to Bubo once more, he strode out the hangar and headed for the AT-AT bay.

The Herd and groundhogs were uncommonly subdued as they congregated among the towering forms of their silver goddesses, there being a very noticeable gap where Blizzard Five – Badb – had once berthed. The troopers were sporadically dotted among their cavalry and air-support comrades, their white armour a stark contrast to the subdued colours of the Army. Several were breaching protocol as they removed their helmets but each was prepared to accept whatever charge came their way – the Herd didn’t have the option of hiding their grief behind a visor, it was a dishonour to the fallen if they made the choice to do so.

Veers watched Trene curiously as the two of them stood before the assembled soldiers, Nevar and Colonel Tycho – Trene’s second-in-command – standing three steps behind them and in flanking positon. With their strict adherence to discipline and protocol being part of the reason Lord Vader had chosen Trene’s Legion for Death Squadron, Veers was interested in how the High-Colonel would respond to the public breach of a fundamental protocol.

“Legion, attention!” barked Tycho and every Corps trooper and officer pulled themselves up smartly, those who had removed their helmets merely holding them tucked into their hip. The Herd and groundhogs pulled themselves up to attention as well and Veers smiled slightly at the instinctual reaction to the barked command. Trene activated the ship-to-ship communicator, waiting for the six senior officers aboard the other Star Destroyers to flicker into view before turning to Veers.

“The Legion is yours, Sir,” she said and Veers didn’t miss the briefly confused expressions that crossed many of the officers’ faces.

“Soldiers of the Empire,” started Veers, taking a step forward. “I come with a message direct from Lord Vader. The Coyerti Campaign was a grievous loss but that does not excuse the appalling failures of discipline that have occurred since our forced retreat – you are highly trained members of the Imperial Military not a lawless rabble! On this occasion, Colonel Trene and myself have taken Lord Vader’s reprimand for you – what has already been given by your officers will stand but will not be added to. For this infraction only. Any further lapses and you will face disciplinary action and there will be no appeal should Lord Vader be the one issuing said reprimands. Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes, Sir!” acknowledged the soldiers before him and the holographic images of the Stormtrooper officers, the Herd pulling themselves up to salute their General.

“This is not an order to not grieve our fallen,” continued Veers, his voice gentling from that of an angrily disappointed commanding officer to the compassionate tone of someone who knew and understood the pain his soldiers were experiencing. “To do so is a dishonour to both you and those we have lost. It is an order that you do so with decorum and without rising to the bait cast by others.”

“The Navy have been given the same command and warning,” said Trene as she and Veers switched places. “But whether they heed and follow is not your concern – your responsibility is to your own behaviour and that of your squads. Anything out with those two instances are the concern of your officers and your duty extends no further than to report via your own chains of command. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” replied the soldiers.

“Grieve and mourn,” continued Trene. “But also remember – our fallen may have been lost to a defeat but that does not mean their sacrifice is a futile one, not if it is learned from. Honour them that way and you will bring victory and glory to them and the Empire.”

Silence fell across the hangar as Trene stepped back to stand shoulder to shoulder with Veers. After a few minutes, during which the Herd, Stormtroopers and the TIE-pilots remained smartly at attention, Veers turned enough to not to Trene, who in turn gave Tycho the same unspoken permission.

“Legion,” Tycho called. “Dismissed!”

As one vaguely terrifying unit, the Stormtroopers saluted the officers before them and the holograms flickered off while the Executor based troops filtered out of the hangars, those who had removed their helmets reattaching them at the last possible moment. Tycho briefly saluted his own commanding officer and Veers before following his troops.

“Parade, dismissed,” Nevar barked in his turn and while the groundhogs filtered out the hangar in their turn, the Herd once more turned helplessly to their silver goddesses, command trios huddling close together as they sought to comprehend the losses in their unit. Nevar gripped Veers’ shoulder briefly before moving to join his own pilot and gunner.

“You have my condolences, Sir,” said Trene.

“Thank you,” accepted Veers, his eyes darting across his troops in search of his own gunner, finding them under the sheltering wing of Major Covell.

His pilot hadn’t made it off Coyerti alive.

As Veers went to his gunner’s side, Trene quietly slipped away, not in the least offended by the lack of returned sentiment. Veers would offer them in time, along with profuse apology for the delay, but for the moment his human heart was clamouring louder than his commander’s head and it was keening with a pain too long ignored.

Chapter Text

Veers had mixed feelings as the Executor and the Conquest sailed into orbit around Kuat and its shipyards. The frontline ground commander was always on the lookout for updated tech that would increase the accuracy and impact of any attack while the curious mechanical engineer marvelled at the continuing ingenuity of his fellows. Large scale maintenance before and after a major campaign was standard practice but it had been a while since a new AT-AT had been ordered and it had been years since the reason had been so traumatic. Nevar and Starck were abroad the Tyrant and headed to the Corulag Academy to assess potential candidates to replace the crew of Blizzard Five, Majors Zeppos and Covell stepping up to temporarily fill the positions of Veers’ right and left hands. With the Executor temporarily confined to docks, Ozzel was reassigned to the Avenger – a move neither he nor Lord Vader were overly impressed with but had everyone else breathing a sigh of relief – and ordered to continue Death Squadron’s mission. Trene had also been reassigned to the Avenger though Piett, as the Executor’s Captain, was to remain at his post.

The temporary reorganisation of officers, along with approximately half of the Executor’s battle-station personnel across the still patrolling fleet, saw a slightly more talkative group of officers congregating in the various engineering areas of the two Star Destroyers as they liaised with the Kuat-based repair teams. Conquest’s Captain Alima was not as inept as his service history made him out to be and had assigned his own personnel to duty shifts according to their skills rather than their ship.

“What are you smiling at?” asked Veers, sounding amused as he came across Piett observing a mishmash of Lieutenants discussing the cannon repairs to both the Executor and Conquest.

“Just picturing Ozzel’s face when he reads the report on the repairs,” replied Piett. “What shade of puce do you think he’ll turn?”

“Depends,” said Veers. “On where Lord Vader is when he gets to this part. It’ll be an interesting one regardless.”

“I shall make a point of becoming our commander’s shadow until he forgets about it,” said Piett, sounding confident in his decision even as his expression flickered with trepidation at the prospect. Veers chuckled lightly.

“So no wishing luck to the Avenger?” he said.

“Wishing luck and wishing unbridled success are two very different things,” said Piett. “The former I feel they’re going to need in ample supply if they’re to deal with cocky resistance fighters and an Admiral who is desperate to remind people of the rank bars he wears. The latter I wish to a very select group, none of whom are currently sailing aboard the Avenger.”

“Good,” said Veers, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “Not sure how I’d react to him coming back with a history-book worthy victory so soon after Coyerti.”

“And if he did it from the bridge of the Executor?” asked Piett, cautiously. Veers expression turned pained.

“I could give the victory to the right people,” he said, gripping Piett’s shoulder before slipping away to where Covell was standing with the Kuat engineer in charge of bringing Blizzard Five back to the Herd.

Piett turned back to the gaggle of Lieutenants and the floating holo-frames of the gun turrets in various stages of deconstruction. Satisfied that they were all appropriately, and genuinely, occupied, he departed the bay, silently planning when he could make a brief visit to the surface.

--------------------

The opportunity arose five days later.

60% of the Executor’s cannons had been fully repaired, along with 90% of the Conquest’s. The flotilla ship was now out patrolling a wider area than an immediate orbit of Kuat while the more cosmetic damage was repaired by her engineers. Nevar had also reported back to Veers regarding candidates for Blizzard Five’s command trio, the General taking a, somewhat reluctant, break from the physical repairs to his Herd to focus of the personnel ones. The Brigadier had also sought, and been granted, permission from Lord Vader to visit Raithal Academy to check the validity of rumours surrounding a protégé-level cadet who – if the tales were even half true – might be a worthy successor to Captain Maes as Duellona’s pilot. They just had to pass Nevar and Starck’s protective exacting standards first.

Zeppos’ grin had been slightly feral grin as he relayed those troop movements to Piett moments prior to his departure to the planet’s surface and the Executor’s Captain had had to bit the inside of his lip to maintain his professional expression. Later, his private toast in the Kuat officer’s bar was to the Herd’s two absent officers and their unshakably loyalty and devotion to their General. Still not practiced enough to throw back a whiskey toast without choking on the burn, Piett decided against having a drink in each of their honours – he’d buy them their own round when they got back.

Organising his market-place purchases and checking his chrono for his departure time, Piett allowed himself a half-hour more just to breath something that wasn’t recycled air. He ordered a second drink which he raised in a decidedly more solemn toast to Captain Maes, Badb and her command trio.

“It was an honour,” he said quietly, this time savouring the burn of the alcohol.

Veers dropped his datapad carelessly on to his desk as soon as he returned to his quarters at the end of his duty shift (and evening meal, Covell having all but physically frogmarched him into the mess to make sure he ate something). He was no stranger to personnel replacements – he had been in the Army for over twenty-years, half of which had involved violent physical conflict of one form or another, needing replacement personnel was not a new thing. He had even had to select new members of the Herd before, both as replacements to those who had been permanently injured and retired from active frontline service as well as expanding the number of those who marched under his banner.

But it was different this time.

Veers was proud of all his personnel. Proud of their achievements and the skills they each brought to the Herd. Proud of their devotion to the Empire and their squadrons. They each brought honour to themselves, their peoples and the uniform they wore. Veers did his best not to pick favourites, taking care to make sure he passed out praise and reward as justly and equally as he could, but, if pressed, he would name Badb’s command trio as one he was most proud of. He had been a newly-promoted Colonel when they came to the Herd, all three bringing with them extensive disciplinary records and there had been bets openly taking place among various officers as to how long they would last under Veers’ strict command. Even the most generous offer had only been eight months, with the proviso that active combat wasn’t seen. Still needing to cement his own command, Veers had initially split them up – keeping three known troublemakers together was rarely the smartest of ideas – but it quickly became apparent that such a move was the reason for a substantial proportion of their disciplinary records. Digging into their pre-service life and observing them when they were off duty found that they were a symbiotic trio – that they had been their entire lives and splitting them apart was akin to asking Veers to function at peak efficiency while missing a limb or his sight. Veers, over the protestations of his own commanding officers, had placed the threesome as the command trio for the newly commissioned Blizzard Five with the warning that if their disruptive and disreputable behaviour continued, they would be dismissed from the Army with dishonour and no option for appeal.

They would honour Veers’ trust by becoming one of the Herd’s most highly decorated trios, their synchronicity of thought and action meaning that victory was all but assured when Badb was on the battlefield and hijinks were all but guaranteed when they were on leave.

Veers knew it would do the trio a great disservice to be so cavalier about who would become their successors but he couldn’t help but wonder if it would be easier on all of them if Tarkin or Vader just ordered who the replacements were to be.

He still couldn’t even think about having to replace Maes let alone give consideration to who would be given that honour.

He was just contemplating if he could get away with curling up under his blankets and hiding for a few days when his door chime sounded. Wearily pushing back to his feet, he shuffled to answer, quietly praying to any deity who cared to be listening  that he wasn’t required to give anything more official than a signature.

“It’s a conspiracy,” he declared as he opened the door to find a civilian-clothed Piett standing there with a waxed-paper wrapped parcel and a personal holo-projector.

“Oh definitely,” the Captain answered with a light chuckle and not a single ounce of shame. “Want me to tell you who else is involved?”

“I’m well aware of who your co-conspirators are,” said Veers, stepping aside and granting Piett entry. “None of you are subtle.”

“None of us are trying to be,” replied Piett, holding out the waxed-paper parcel. “I had a ‘saw this and thought of you’ moment.”

“And where did you have this moment?” asked Veers, accepting the parcel with a raised eyebrow.

“Artisan market place on the surface,” said Piett. “I cashed in a few hours.”

“And went in search of fresh air,” said Veers as he carefully unwrapped the gift. “Oh, Firmus.”

“Nevar was very insistent that we keep you busy,” said Piett, causing Veers to give a weak chuckle. “I remember you complaining that your knife was getting worn.”

“And the wood?” asked Veers, running a careful finger over the rough blocks of Japor ivory, resinwood and syp wood.

“I have my sources,” said Piett. “Though those weren’t as spontaneous a purchase as the tools.”

“I realised that,” said Veers with another weak chuckle, selecting a knife to examine more closely. “What did you ask of the Ossan who gave you the syp?”

“I didn’t,” said Piett. “I bought it from a free-trader. I didn’t ask for previous transaction details.”

“Dare I ask why you’re carrying around random pieces of wood?” asked Veers. “I know your personal-items allowance isn’t any bigger than mine.”

“My best friend is a wood carver in his spare time,” said Piett with a shrug before holding out the holo-projector to a stunned looking Veers. “And he is hopeless to buy seasonal gifts for so I took advantage when I could. I thought these might help with inspiration.”

Veers slipped the knife back into its sleeve and set both the wood and tools aside, accepting the projector with tired curiosity, pressing the activation switch when it fell under his thumb.

Images of members the Thundering Herd displaying various examples of their comradery and battlefield heroics along with the occasional episode of hijinks sprang to life before them. Veers smiled slightly at the various reminders before nearly dropping the projector when Badb’s mischievously grinning trio appeared. He could feel the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as the images cycled through various hijinks involving the trio and the first one fell as Badb herself marched proudly across the image. When Maes’ equally roguish grinning façade appeared, his helmet clutched upside-down in one hand and his hair standing every-which-way indicating a successful endeavour, Veers lost what control he’d so far managed to maintain on his grief and he crumpled around the projector, sobbing uncontrolledly.

Piett neither knew nor cared how long he sat holding his friend, his only intention to keep Veers safe as he fought his way through the emotional quagmire. Eventually, tears and exhaustion saw Veers grow lax in Piett’s arms, not quite asleep but not that far away from it either. Piett carefully turned them so he was propped up in the corner join between the sofa’s back and arm and their bodies were stretched the length of the seater cushions. Veers moved with drowsy protest, his grip on Piett’s shirt flexing as if trying to stall any decision to separate. Piett gently shushed him, one hand coming up to gently tease at Veers’ nape hairline and the General grew still once more.

“Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before,” Piett murmured, lyrically, as he heard his mother singing a gentle funeral lullaby. “They are calling, from across the distant shore……”

Chapter Text

In all, the Executor was docked at Kuat for a month.

The Conquest had re-joined her sisters in their Mid-Rim patrols after approximately two-and-a-half weeks while the Tyrant had returned bearing the new members of the Thundering Herd. Veers had given Nevar and Starck a bemused look as they transferred back to the Executor with a dozen recently graduated officers. Piett, Zeppos and Covell were all quick to pick out the Raithal Academy graduate – Lieutenant Nyrox was standing wearing an obnoxiously smug expression that the two Majors were already plotting how to knock off him. They only hoped Nevar and Starck hadn’t mentioned anything about his proposed placement within the Herd.

Piett, after authorising the appropriate transfer paperwork that registered the new arrivals as members of the Executor’s crew, left the Herd officers to welcome their new recruits aboard. In the thirty or so minutes he remained in the cargo bay – supervising and authorising the transfer of Naval personnel, small munitions and general stores – Piett noticed that Nyrox maintained his apparent superior attitude and that Veers was not impressed by it in the slightest.

“That expression does not bring back fond memories,” remarked Lieutenant Aykroyd, the Chief Supply Officer for the Executor.

“Lieutenant?” queried Piett.

“The General, Sir,” said Aykroyd. “That’s the expression he wore every time the Cadets were hauled out on to inspection parade on Corellia. He was a prickly bastard, only time we were happy to see it was when he was going toe-to-toe with Admiral Konstantine.”

“Yet his troops are unwaveringly loyal,” said Piett, handing back the final datapad. Aykroyd accepted it with a small chuckle.

“They aren’t his troops,” he said. “Not yet anyway. They’re in-awe green-shoots who’ve yet to get dust on their uniforms let alone mud, sweat or blood. They’re gonna be ridden hard and Spirits help them if they complain where the officers can hear them.”

“Don’t crow too loudly, Lieutenant,” cautioned Piett. “We have our own dirtsiders to get up to speed. I would prefer that to be done before the Admiral returns.”

“We allowed to make that a competition?” Aykroyd asked. Piett shot him a mildly disgusted look.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask permission to start a betting ring aboard the flagship,” he said. Aykroyd had the grace to flush in embarrassment.

“Yes, Sir,” he acknowledged. Piett cast an appraising eye back across both sets of new personnel, all of whom looked too clean and horrifyingly naïve.

“Twenty on the Navy,” he said before striding out of the cargo bay. Aykroyd stared after him for minute before he grinned and tapped out a note on the top most datapad, Piett’s message heard loud and clear: keep it quiet and he wasn’t going to stop the pool – get caught and it would be every being for themselves.

Aykroyd wondered which of the Herd he could convince to take up the wager.

“So enlighten me,” challenged Veers three days later, not quite cornering his returned officers in the corner of walkers’ hangar but coming close. “What made you think our Raithal graduate would make a good addition to the Herd?”

“His scores are amongst the highest Raithal has ever seen,” said Never.

“And Sergeant Blazkowicz was nearly kicked out of Corulag,” replied Veers. “Not going to stop me having them in Nerio’s gunner’s rig. Next?”

“He’s made the AT-ATs something of a speciality,” said Starck.

“The entire Herd has done that,” said Veers. “What position did he take in the training simulations?”

“All three,” said Nevar. “His greatest achievements were when he was calling the shots.”

“Then why would you suggest him for Duellona’s pilot?” asked Veers. “Her commander is just fine, thank you.”

“We never mentioned any placements,” said Starck. “Not beyond unofficial notations that went nowhere near what new officers have access to.”

“Well, he’s picked the idea up from somewhere,” said Veers. “Was anything even hinted to with the Commandant?”

“Beyond placement within the Herd, no,” said Nevar. “But he is the only officer we took from Raithal – or honestly paid any significant attention to while we were there – maybe he’s drawing his own conclusions?”

“Permission to totally disabuse him of said conclusions, Sir?” said Covell, his expression near thunderous.

“On the condition the damage to anything is kept to a minimum,” said Veers.

“The best kind,” replied Covell, his grin definitely one with a malicious twist as he reactivated his resting datapad. Veers turned his attention back to Nevar and Starck.

“Did either of you actually watch any of his training simulations?” he asked.

“Just the one he took part in while we were there,” admitted Starck.

“He displayed on the spot ingenuity that led to a divisive victory,” said Nevar. “The kind that you delighted in with Maes.”

“I watched Maes grow up!” retorted Veers, viciously, the sudden volume of his voice causing a nervous hush to fall over the other occupants of the hangar. “He was raised around the walkers from a toddler, he was playing with their holo-frames by the age of seven. I trusted he knew the limits of his equipment before he reached them and that he would stop when the risk outweighed any gain. And you think I should replace him with an officer-cadet who, out of all the options available to him, chose to destroy his AT-AT? With something like that on his record – which is the reason he suddenly outranks several of our battle-wise personnel – how can any of us trust that he will listen to orders that have him going against whatever foolhardy plan he gets into his head mid-battle? I trusted Maes to think of victory not glory hunting. I trusted Maes knew he was only one cog in a sprawling machine and that his rank didn’t automatically mean his suggestions held more weight than a lower ranked compatriot’s. Nyrox is doing a very bad job of demonstrating why I should afford him even a quarter of the trust I had in Maes. He has three weeks – if he keeps his record clean, learns some humility and works out how to be a team player, I might consider him for placement in the Herd. As of right now, I’m prepared to send him back to Raithal in disgrace.”

“Yes, Sir,” acknowledged Nevar and Starck, both men having the grace to look suitably chastened. Veers strode away from them, his ridged body language once more screaming pain and the other occupants of the bay held their breaths as a young Corporal on the AT-ST maintenance team bounced into the bay and made an energetic beeline for their General.

The exhale that they collectively released when Veers readily accepted the datapad and, after listening to the high-speed chatter that was common among their maintenance teams, indicated for the Corporal to lead the way out of the bay, was audible.

“He’s just lost his right arm,” Covell said quietly as the noise level of the hangar picked up again. “And you’re pushing for him to march back into battle with a poorly fitted prosthesis.”

“At the moment,” sighed Nevar. “I think it’s more accurate to say he’s rejecting the prosthesis altogether.”

“Then it is our job to make sure the Herd is able to adapt to that,” said Covell.

“Careful, Major,” warned Starck as Covell’s tone started to slide into being a little too flippant for speaking to superior officers while all were on duty. “You can take my pilot and gunner for whatever plan you’re coming up with to terrorise the rookies but I am going to insist you keep us in the loop.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Covell, offering the two superior officers a salute before disappearing out of the hangar.

“You are greatly troubled, General,” said Vader as he joined his ground commander in one of the smaller conference rooms the Executor boasted. Veers managed to catch most of his startled flinch – Vader could move ridiculously quietly despite his respirator and physical mass – but not everything and it was with a little trepidation that he looked up at his Supreme Commander.

“Merely experiencing some difficulties in arranging my personnel to ensure peak efficiency, my Lord,” he said. From a professional standpoint, it wasn’t a lie – he was only certain about one of the positions he needed to fill, the other three were creating a succession of headaches that all seemed happy to linger. His personal heartache was not something his Commander should have to concern himself with.

“You will find your solution soon,” Vader said with a confidence Veers found he had no argument against. It wasn’t a threat, there was no ‘or else’ left unspoken – Vader was simply voicing his confidence in Veers’ command and decision and was quite prepared to give him whatever time he required to carry it out as he saw fit.

“But the new members of the Thundering Herd are not the ones causing you distress,” Vader continued and Veers swallowed as the Sith sat down beside him. “It is those who are now making their absence keenly felt.”

“My Lord, please,” said Veers, swallowing again. Breaking down with Piett was safe, private, acceptable. No one was going to call him on losing his temper with the Herd – it wasn’t the first time, it wasn’t going to be the last. Having this conversation with his commanding officer was not something he was in anyway prepared for. Especially when the wound was still fresh and being repeatedly agitated.

“I am not speaking as your commander,” said Vader and Veers was surprised by how gentle his voice sounded even with the menace of the vocoder. “I am speaking as a fellow soldier who has been fighting this war as long as you have. The Force has become increasingly poisoned around you since the Coyerti Campaign.”

“Thought that would be something a Sith Lord would approve of,” said Veers. Vader shook his head.

“You have not embraced the Dark,” he said. “You have become poisoned. You are naturally grey within the Force – willing to carry out some of the more violent acts of aggression in this conflict but always with thoughts of protection.  A victory is not for bragging rights – at least not solely – but instead it is one less enemy enclave to harm those you care about. You have been forced to retreat before and while you did not like it, you accepted it as part of war and chose instead to focus on regrouping and making sure retreat is not required a second time. But something about the retreat from Coyerti has sunk talons into your mind and your heart and it is going to consume you.”

“Then let it,” said Veers, his tone far more harsh than anything he had dared use when speaking to Vader, even when they had been diametrically opposed during a combat operations area-process. “This war has seen fit to take everything else from me.”

“I cannot allow that, General,” said Vader.

“He took my son!” snarled Veers. “We could have had Coyerti won – it may have taken few more weeks but we could have won. But he hasn’t learned a damn thing since he commanded the Devil Dogs – he refused to wait, refused any alterations to our plans and I came back with one walker destroyed, three of her sisters in need of serious repair and my Herd missing four of the best soldiers the army will ever know. I’d already had one son die in my arms, his incompetence and unwillingness to listen to those who are on the ground forced me to go through that a second time.”

“And you wish for his head,” said Vader. He knew who Veers was talking about and that the reason Admiral Ozzel had been wearing a poorly disguised black-eye when the Fleets’ commanders had been summoned before him was that he had made a flippant comment around the grieving Herd and Veers had violently lashed out.

“No,” said Veers. “I wish for him to suffer.”

“And it is that desire which is poisoning you,” said Vader. “Twice you have had your beacon of light irreparably shattered before you but you cannot let their loss drag you further into darkness. If you continue down the path you are plotting, your honour and integrity will become irreparably compromised, both personally and professionally. Death Squadron and your Thundering Herd do not need a Dark General – they need their Grey one.”

“Yet all of you would have me replace my pilot with a brat who thinks a Raithal education is enough to guarantee him the spot as Duellona’s pilot,” said Veers, waspishly.

“The only time I would interfere with how you position or discipline your troops, General, is if you openly attempt to murder them,” said Vader as he rose back to his feet. “As for your replacements – you are the Empire’s foremost expert on the walker. Is it definitive that they must have a commander-pilot-gunner trio?”

Chapter Text

Piett wasn’t entirely sure what to think when his working lunch was interrupted by a small delegation from the Thundering Herd.

“Can I help you?” he said, swiping at Major Zeppos’ hand as the other man immediately attempted to steal his remaining pudding. The walker pilot pouted as he slouched back in his chair.

“We need your help,” said Lieutenant Jamil.

“My help?” repeated Piett. “Dare I ask in what capacity?”

“Friend,” said Lieutenant Tarbek. “We’ve all seen what you’ve done for the General since Coyerti.”

“All I did was provide him with support,” said Piett. He realised his tone was perhaps a little too dismissive as Zeppos sat upright and his expression became sombre.

“You gave – are still giving– him a lot more than that,” he said.

“You make it sound unusual,” said Piett.

“Only other people who care – outside the Herd – are Governor Tarkin and Lord Vader,” said Zeppos. “We’ve literally been given orders to keep the General and Admiral Ozzel apart unless it’s an official briefing that requires both their presence.”

“I am aware,” said Piett. “Commander Andrade has been complaining about the chaos that causes to crew rosters.”

“Throw in the fact we’ve got a shiny ocifer who really doesn’t understand the nuances of the environment he’s been dropped in and I think the only things keeping the General even remotely sane are you, Major Covell and Lord Vader,” said Tarbek.

“Covell?” repeated Piett with a deliberate look at Zeppos. The Major chuckled lightly and shook his head.

“It’s a personality thing,” he said. “I’m better able to deal with various folks on a professional level. Covell currently needs to be a little more, ah……. creative in that regard. Whatever he’s doing is helping keep the General grounded so no one’s in the mood to stop him.”

“So what do you need me to do?” asked Piett.

“We want to hold a memorial and commissioning ceremony,” said Tarbek. Piett’s eye lit up at the news.

“Together or separately?” he asked, pulling up a schedule on his datapad.

“Together,” Zeppos said, sneaking his hand out for Piett’s pudding once more only to have the Captain slide his tray out of reach. “Closing a door on the past, opening another to the future kinda thing.”

“How long would the ceremonies be?” asked Piett.

“Four hour block would be enough,” said Zeppos. “The rest we can fit around our own duty rosters.”

“We just need to know we aren’t going to drop out of lightspeed and told to scramble,” said Jamil.

“I can’t guarantee that,” cautioned Piett, sliding his tray out of Zeppos’ reach again.

“But you’ll at least try,” replied Jamil. “Admiral Ozzel is more likely to deliberately find a ground conflict that requires our urgent and immediate deployment.”

“Just don’t say that too loudly or you may find our course altered to have us exit hyperspace around Chroma Zed,” cautioned Piett, silently acknowledging that yes, their Admiral was that vindictive. “As it currently stands, you have three days before we arrive at New Cov.”

“Two will work,” said Tarbek. “It’ll be a good morale boost to restart with a fully commissioned complement.”

“Is that all you needed?” asked Piett, scowling at Zeppos when the man finally managed a successful grab for his pudding. The Major sat back with a satisfied grin while Jamil shook her head.

“We need you to charm the galley and Lieutenant Aykroyd,” she said.

“You don’t need to charm Aykroyd,” said Piett. “Just explain what you need, why and when you need it and he’ll do what he can to oblige. What do you need from the galley?”

“Access,” said Jamil. “Not sure where it’s from but the Herd has a tradition that we prepare the meal for a ceremony like this. Only problem is we don’t have any equipment beyond field kits and the galley crews have a reputation for being territorial.”

“That’s not a Herd tradition,” said Piett with a small smile. “At least not originally.”

“And I bet you know exactly where it came from,” said Zeppos.

“I do,” nodded Piett but he didn’t seem inclined to share his knowledge. “Very well, give me a basic menu and supply list and I’ll talk to Chief Petty Officer Konrad. Just be prepared to work around the galley’s schedule.”

“Done,” agreed Jamil with a thankful smile.

“There’s one more thing we’d like to request,” said Tarbek.

Even dressed down into civilian clothing, the Thundering Herd and the groundhogs made for an impressive sight as they congregated in the walkers’ hangar. Each of the AT-ATs shone as if readied for an Empire Day parade, existing paintwork retouched and new battle scars immortalised and Blizzard Five once more standing proudly with her sisters. On a long table that had been temporarily appropriated from one of the lower mess halls there sat dishes of rich stew, root vegetables and stacks of khubz, all being closely guarded by a ladle and tong wielding CPO Konrad and a squad from the galley. On the opposite side of room, there sat a small raised dais that was carefully decorated with preserved greenery and colourful blooms. On the centre of the dais there sat four personal hologram communicators, each one programmed to show the formal image of the four Thunderers who had been lost on Coyerti. Tapping the acceptance button on each communicator would see the static images change to more dynamic ones, allowing the viewer a brief glimpse at who had paid the ultimate price in defending the Empire. A fifth, slight larger, device sat alongside them playing a scrolling tribute to the groundhogs that had been lost, the atmospheric TIE pilots getting one last chance to show off their prowess.

Given how sombre the various ground troop hangars had been in previous weeks, the atmosphere now was decidedly festive. It was such a juxtaposition that Piett had been momentarily stunned as he entered before he gave a light chuckle – the Herd were bouncing back.

“That’s a good laugh, yes?” said Covell as he appeared beside the Captain.

“It’s a good laugh,” assured Piett. “Just been working with a different definition of memorial.”

“Already had the other version,” said Covell. “Smokey, depressing and does none of them any justice. Maes would be the first to haunt us if that’s the way we chose to remember him. Him and the Badb triplets? We’d all end up stark-staring bonkers!”

“Ah, so this is merely an attempt at self-preservation,” said Piett. Covell grinned.

“Yup,” he said. “Now, don’t think I missed the uniform – how long can you stay?”

“An hour,” said Piett with a sigh. “Duty stalls for no one, unfortunately.”

“I can work with an hour,” declared Covell. “First let’s get you some food then there’s someone I want to introduce you to.”

“Dare I ask why?” asked Piett as he allowed the Major to steer him through the crowd.

“I have a feeling their name is gonna be popping up a lot,” said Covell with a smug grin. “It’ll be good for you to have a face for the name. And no, it isn’t ocifer Nyrox.”

“I see he still hasn’t ingratiated himself,” said Piett.

“Nope,” agreed Covell, handing Piett a steaming bowl of stew and a khubz. “He can follow orders and he hasn’t destroyed any more equipment but he’s still lording over our non-commissioned vets and pissing off our maintenance techs.”

“And General Veers is keeping him around?” asked Piett in mild surprise.

“General Veers hasn’t made a final decision,” replied the man in question as he appeared beside them, a nervous looking rookie Thunderer at his side.

“On anyone except his new shadow,” grinned Covell, turning back to the mess table and collecting another portion of food, pushing it into the rookie’s hands. “Captain Piett, meet Corporal Josak Armand, my new gunner. Armand, Captain Firmus Piett of the SSD Executor.”

“Welcome aboard, Corporal,” said Piett, offering out a hand to the rookie. The returned handshake was a lot firmer than the Corporal’s slightly nervous expression would have suggested.

“Thank you, Sir,” they acknowledged. Piett glanced between Veers and Covell, the latter of whom was like a giddy child receiving a long coveted gift while the former was barely refraining from rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. He looked back at Armand.

“Can you explain why Major Covell is grinning like a loon?” he asked. Veers laughed while Armand flushed and Covell contented himself with eating his stew, his entire body language radiating smug self-satisfaction.

“Nyrox wasn’t the only one who arrived with a reputation,” Covell declared with what could onlybe described as pride. Armand flush deepened and they busied themselves with eating.

“And going by your imitation of a Korrina pup, I’m guessing that reputation has something to do with mischief-making?” said Piett, glancing between Armand and Covell.

“Yes, Sir,” admitted Armand. Piett chuckled lightly and shook his head.

“At ease, Corporal,” he said. “You know the calibre of the unit you’re joining and I’m sure you’ve already been given a demonstration as to their routine hijinks – don’t step outside of those and I have every confidence that the Executor will remain none the worse for wear. Major Covell, you will show Corporal Armand the more sensitive areas of the ship, correct?”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” laughed Covell before wrapping an uncompromising arm around Armand’s shoulder. “For now, I think I’ll just get the pup back to their litter – save the teaching for when officers aren’t looking.”

“Good plan,” agreed Veers. “That way I can at least claim plausible deniability.”

“I wasn’t aware Covell needed a new gunner,” said Piett as he watched the duo weave through the throng.

“Trying some new trios,” said Veers. “I can’t make Blizzard Five new team completely rookie – that is just a bad plan for everyone – and if I take Lieutenant Nyrox into Duellona’s trio right now, I will kill him.”

“Who drew the short straw?” asked Piett.

“Starck actually volunteered,” said Veers, his smile a little flummoxed at the idea. “Jamil is moving to be Five’s gunner and Nyrox is taking her place in Four’s rig.”

“Does Nyrox realise the size of boots he’s got to fill?” asked Piett with a smirk. Veers’ own smile turned devilish.

“Jamil is looking forward to the challenge of informing him,” he said. “Though, last I heard, she was bemoaning that loss of Four’s temperamental behaviour – I have some strange people.”

“We both know that’s exactlywhy you chose them,” said Piett with a smile before he turned to collect a drink from the table a galley rating was supervising, holding it up in toast to Veers. “To the right regrets.”

“The right regrets,” echoed Veers.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for Blizzard Five to earn her first battle scar, a training exercise on Daalang becoming decidedly hotter than anticipated when a small rebel group decided that taking on the Thundering Herd and its TIE contingent with little more than hand grenades and A280 blaster rifles was a smart plan. Their decision to continue attacking the Herd even after it became blindingly obvious that they were outnumbered, outgunned and outclassed, just made it easier for the Herd to claim victory in the shape of seven new rebel prisoners, four dead rebels and one newly raided camp. There were fifteen rebels in the wind but the TIE pilots had quickly scrambled for a hunting expedition of their own so it was doubtful they would stay that way for long. Blizzard Five’s rookie Thunderer, Warrant Officer Croix  bore a mortified expression as Veers and Captain Ramos examined the damage while half listening to the technical report from Five’s lead mechanic. Jamil appeared totally unphased by the dappled scorch marks that now decorated the knee joint of the walker’s rear starboard leg and the stippling that marred one corner of the cargo hatch door, chattering away to another of Five’s mechanics about what colour they should use to immortalise the fresh scars.

Croix had eventually calmed enough to be drawn into a debate on the merits of azure versus lapis – in recognition of the weapons that caused the scorch across her cargo hatch – as well as throwing out random suggestions for a name for the walker when Nyrox stalked over to them, clearly unimpressed about something but also attempting to pull off a smug attitude.

“So, which one of you cares to explain what happened?” he said, folding his arms in order to emphasis the shiny plaque that bore his rank squares. Croix shrank back slightly at the posturing but quickly regained most of their confidence when both Jamil and the mechanic straightened up and made sure their own rank plaques were visible to the Herd’s newcomer – they may all answer to the rank Lieutenant but the order of their squares made it clear that they were senior, even without the dozen or so years’ experience between them.

“What happened Lieutenant Nyrox,” said Jamil. “Is that the vaunted Rebellion once more demonstrated their idiocy and are either on the run or licking their wounds in our custody.”

“And the damaging of Imperial property?” asked Nyrox.

“Nothing a splash of paint won’t fix,” said the mechanic with a shrug.

“It’s a court-martial offense,” said Nyrox, to which Croix paled.

“And if you’d carried out your training exercise behaviour in reality, you would have been hauled up on the same charge,” said Jamil smartly. “If not tossed out the service entirely. Yet here you are, attempting to play in the big-kids toy box. It’s scorch marks and they can be explained and justified so, no, it is not a court-martial offense. Can you say the same about Four?”

“Colonel Starck has not expressed any dissatisfaction,” said Nyrox. “Though I myself will be reviewing the mechanical repair logs – the drive should not have had been allowed to deteriorate so and still be classed field ready.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Four’s drive or her targeting computer,” said Jamil with a smirk. “You’ve just got to know how to speak to her – she performs beautifully if you treat her right.”

“It’s a piece of machinery that the Imperial Army and his Majesty has entrusted to us to keep the Empire safe from threats like the one we’ve just faced,” replied Nyrox. “I would not be doing my duty if I didn’t bring it up to standard.”

“Knock yourself out,” said Jamil with a blasé wave of her hand that had the mechanic beside her quickly busying themselves with their datapad as they sought to supress their laughter. A smug, and superior, looking Nyrox turned on his heel and stalked towards the walker he had been assigned gunner.

“So, at what point do we tell him that we have orders to adapt to Four’s rolling glitch rather than waste time trying to fix something that isn’t actually broken?” asked the mechanic when Nyrox was out of earshot.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be told,” said Jamil with a smirk. “Not sure on the when or the who but he’ll be told eventually.”

“Don’t we have a duty to prevent him breaking orders?” asked Croix.

“That particular one he should already be aware of,” said Jamil. “It’s been a standing order with the Herd since we were assigned to Death Squadron, straight from Lord Vader himself.”

“Really?!” exclaimed Croix. Jamil and the mechanic both nodded.

“Four’s had a stubborn rolling glitch since she was commissioned – soon as you think you’ve finally got her running as smoothly as the rest of the Herd, she develops a totally unrelated hiccup and you’re back at square one,” said the mechanic.

“General was twitchy for weeks when we were first assigned to Lord Vader’s fleet,” said Jamil. “Almost like he was waiting for Four to act up in spectacular fashion and his would be the next head on the chopping block – genuinely thought the Brigadier was in for a field promotion after an early mission on Zolan saw her behave exactly as feared. Instead, Lord Vader hands down orders that we’re to leave Four alone outside of adaptations to keep her operable in various environments. She’s quirky and that makes her unpredictable to an enemy thus giving us an upper hand.”

“If it’s a rolling glitch, how do we adapt?” asked Croix.

“With style and panache,” replied Jamil with a grin. “Creative language use is also a popular choice but entirely optional.”

“I’m getting the distinct impression the Herd’s Rebellion encounter wasn’t limited to the surface,” remarked Veers as he and Covell joined Piett, his XO and a junior Lieutenant-Commander in the officers’ mess the following lunchtime. All three officers looked harassed and slightly worse for wear as they acknowledged the two Army arrivals.

“Just a small ship,” said Commander Andrade, the Executor’s Executive Officer. “Freighter. Full of very chatty rebels.”

“That’s unusual,” said Covell, Veers looking somewhere between bemused and concerned.

“He said rebels not Rebellion,” said Piett, flipping between datapads. “Most of our recently acquired houseguests are of a slightly less reputable career choice.”

“There’s a step below traitor?” asked Lieutenant-Commander Hoskins, looking mildly intrigued by the idea.

“Pirates?” asked Veers, smiling slightly as he recalled an impassioned rant by Piett wherein the Captain had ranked the enemies of the Empire by their vileness. Pirates and Bounty Hunters had landed themselves at joint top of Piett’s list due to their willingness to backstab and betray even their own if the price was right. The Rebellion was at least loyal to a cause, even if it was one of treachery.

“At least aspiring ones,” said Piett. “Couple of privateers amongst them – they at least have the sense to stay quiet.”

“Anyone we know?” asked Covell.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” said Andrade, holding out his own datapad to his fellow Corulagian. “But the list of those claiming to be privateers only seems to be growing these days.”

“So what have they been saying that has you all more stressed than I’ve seen in months?” asked Veers, swiping a datapad from in front of Piett.

“Everything and anything they think will save their miserable hides,” said Andrade.

“Admiral Ozzel wants everything vetted and made into a successful attack plan before we rendezvous with the Restitution and they’re taken off our hands,” continued Piett.

“Which gives us how long?” asked Veers.

“Us?” repeated Hoskins, looking between his superior officers in bemusement.

“Well, we’re likely to be the ones who’ll be enacting said plan,” said Covell to which Hoskins’ expression turned indignant.

“Major,” cautioned Veers even as Andrade gave Hoskins a warning look. “Captain, when does Ozzel want the plans?”

“Two days,” said Piett. “First briefing.”

“And did he explicitly order you not to involve anyone else?” Veers continued.

“Not explicitly,” said Piett, his shoulders starting to relax. “What are you suggesting?”

“That we see whether our greenies are capable of thispart of battle,” said Veers, waving the datapad.

“The Admiral wants action plans,” protested Hoskins. “Successful battleplans. Not Academy paper-exercise submissions.”

“You could give that man every conceivable variant and detail of an assault or intelligence gathering mission, along with a counteraction for every perceivable hiccup,” said Veers, his expression of polite disdain. “And his own ego would still find a way to cock it up.”

“You’re also assuming that we would present unchecked plans to the Admiral and, by extension, Lord Vader,” said Andrade before turning his attention fully to Veers. “Competition or cooperative endeavour?”

“Cooperative,” said Piett before Veers could respond. “We’ve had enough inter-service conflict in recent weeks, I am not in the mood to have that continue or potentially escalate.”

“Convene everyone who hasn’t just completed a double shift,” said Veers, glancing between Piett and Covell. “Second aft conference room be suitable enough?”

“I’ll alert the NCOs’ Mess to temporarily allow enlisted personnel use,” said Piett, inclining his head in acknowledgement and agreement of Veers suggestion.

“And we’ll go play sheepdog,” said Covell, gesturing towards Andrade.

“I don’t like this,” said Hoskins as the group vacated their table, Piett, Veers and Andrade gathering the various datapads together.

“You’re welcome to stay here and work solo,” said Piett, holding out a portion of the datapads. “Just remember that the Admiral isn’t going to change his deadline and Lord Vader is equally unlikely to extend it.”

“Lord Vader?” repeated Hoskins, paling slightly in alarm.

“As much as your Admiral likes to pretend otherwise, Death Squadron is Lord Vader’s fleet,” reminded Covell.

He didn’t bother hiding his smirk as the Lieutenant-Commander scrambled to his feet.

Chapter Text

Death Squadron may have been Darth Vader’s personal Fleet, the Executor his Flagship and all personnel assigned to the Squadron under his direct command, irrespective of service, but there was no escaping that they all answered to the Emperor.

That could not have been made more clear than at the first briefing Ozzel had ordered his Captain to present their battleplans, the Emperor’s hologram sitting at the head of the table, Lord Vader standing behind his right shoulder, as the senior officers aboard the Executor entered the room. His attendance had not been Ozzel’s idea, at least not if the way the man had nearly stumbled to a halt and paled dramatically when he’d registered the addition was any indication. As he recalled himself, however, it was clear he was of the opinion that the Emperor’s presence would work in his favour, especially if there was fault to be found in the plans Piett, Veers and their seconds-in-command were due to present.

“Your Majesty,” greeted Ozzel in a voice that was so oily, Veers immediately felt like he needed a shower. “It is an honour to have your presence at this meeting.”

“I would not miss such a momentous briefing,” replied the Emperor. “I understand it from Lord Vader that Death Squadron recently made considerable progress in our continuing battle against the Rebellion.”

“In the Daalang system, your Majesty,” said Ozzel. “On the main planet and one of the natural satellites.”

“An unusually talkative group of prisoners,” said the Emperor. “Or so I am led to believe. I trust you have worked your new information into Death Squadron’s upcoming missions.”

“Captain Piett and General Veers have had teams working on such a task for the last forty-two hours,” said Ozzel and all four of his fellow senior officers straightened in both mild trepidation, as their commander all but painting targets around their necks, and pride, their subordinates having excelled themselves over the last two days.

“Continuously?” asked the Emperor, glancing around at the other officers.

“Yes, Sire,” replied Veers. “It seemed an appropriate task to set our newly assigned personnel.”

“Their dedication is an admirable quality,” praised the Emperor. “You would do well to encourage it, Admiral Ozzel. Now, tell me General, what is the next plume in the cap of the Thundering Herd?”

“We have enough intel to clear Rebellion forces from Unroola Dawn and Talrezan Four as well as quashing the sympathising elements on Velmor,” said Veers, activating a star chart and highlighting the planets in question, ignoring the way Ozzel had bristled slightly at the subtle jab to the Navy’s recent performance. “The AT-ATs are adaptable for use on Unroola Dawn and Talrezan Four but the terrain and infrastructure of Velmor means that only AT-ST units can be deployed.”

“Oh?” enquired the Emperor.

“The walkers are physically too big,” said Veers. “The dense forest land would means that they have limited ability to manoeuvre and the heavily populated areas would see more destruction.”

“And that is not the purpose of your plan, General?” asked the Emperor.

“Not for Velmor, Sire,” said Veers. “The people there are mostly loyal to the Empire but there are factions that support the Rebellion and their missing Crown Prince. If we land with the AT-ATs and cause deliberate damage to their infrastructure, we may see that support grow. AT-STs and Troopers would manage a more surgical strike that will see us maintain favour with the populace and enable us to rout the Rebel encampments.”

“Very well,” acknowledged the Emperor. “I believe that is a fourth base in the same general location. What is your plan regarding the Rebellion there?”

“Hope Station,” acknowledged Veers, highlighting the space station that had once seen service as a medical station during the Clone Wars before being overrun by then Separatist forces. “We are a little unsure exactly how to proceed with that one, Sire, the two plans that have been suggested both having merits.”

“The first involves allowing the Rebellion escaping the Thundering Herd’s assaults on Unroola Dawn, Talrezan Four and Velmor a safe haven before the Fleet moves in for a final destructive blow,” detailed Piett. “That does have the drawback of allowing the Rebellion the opportunity to call on allies and re-enforcements.”

“Come now, Captain Piett,” chided Ozzel in what sounded like a jocular manner but Veers and Piett both understood the use of the Captain’s surname to be more malicious than merely a formal address. “You shouldn’t fear a small skirmish. You have, after all, been involved in many throughout your career.”

“Fear of battle is not the concern,” said Vader, speaking – and indeed moving – for the first time since the briefing began. “What is the second course of action proposed, Captain?”

“That we hit the station at the same time as the Thundering Herd strikes the planet side locations,” replied Piett.

“Stormtroopers would board the station,” said Veers, enlarging the schematic of the station and highlighting areas as he spoke. “Securing the control room, shield generators and the hangar bays. Any Rebellion still onboard will be taken into custody and any ships and supplies impounded.”

“And what is the purpose of leaving such a station in one piece?” asked the Emperor.

“Strategic,” said Piett, cancelling the enlarged image of Hope Station and plotting its position back into the sector as a whole, highlighting suspected and confirmed Rebellion and Pirate activity in the area. “Having a garrison stationed there will allow us to monitor comm. channels and shipping activity and allow us to respond, with force if necessary, to any brewing threat that remains in the area.”

“Alternatively, the station could be restored to its previous designation as a medical station,” said Veers.

“You want to place an Imperial medical station in Rebel-controlled space?!” exclaimed Ozzel. “They would be sitting ducks and ripe targets for the Rebellion, either as hostages or target practice!”

“If the Rebellion choose to target a medical station – regardless of its origin – then they are not the heroes they perceive themselves to be,” snapped back Veers before a gentle push to his chest from an invisible force reminded him that it wasn’t just Ozzel he was speaking to. He looked at the Emperor and Lord Vader, immediately offering them a supplicating salute before retaking his seat.

“Your passion is admirable, General Veers,” said the Emperor. “If a little misplaced. Lord Vader, for the moment, oversee the preparations for the second course of action. Hope Station’s designation is yet undetermined but a decision is better made when she is back in our command.”

“Yes, my Master,” said Vader, offering a small bow of his head in acknowledgement, before the hologram feed cut off. Vader looked around at the officers before him.

“Captain Piett, Commander Andrade, prepare the Fleet for deployment. Brigadier Nevar, prepare your troops for their ground attacks.”

“Yes, Sir,” acknowledged the trio, saluting their Supreme Commander before beating a hasty retreat. Veers and Ozzel remained seated, the General quietly preparing himself for at least a physical reprisal for his disreputable behaviour before the Emperor while the Admiral appeared to be allowing himself to preen.

“You have the Emperor’s favour,” said Vader. “Temporarily. Make use of it as you do not have mine. Admiral Ozzel, return to the Bridge. General Veers, prepare your troops for transfer to the Tyrant, Raider and the Conquest. The permanency of your posting will depend upon the success of your missions.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You’re insane!” hissed Piett as he approached Veers in the main hangar three hours later where the General was supervising the transfer of small arms, personal armour and provisions to the Tyrant and the Conquest, Colonel Jaxi across the bay arranging the same for the AT-ST squadron that shipping across to the Raider.

“Twenty years of war,” said Veers, barely looking up from the juggle of datapads he had balanced before him. “It’s going to leave more than physical scars.”

“But to lose your temper with your superior officer in front of the Emperor?!” exclaimed Piett.

“Admiral Ozzel is not my superior officer. Even within Death Squadron, that title doesn’t belong to him,” retorted Veers, looking up from his current datapad with an expression of disgust and anger. “And I didn’t lose my temper.”

“No?” said Piett, his tone one of obvious disbelief. “Then what would you call your display?”

“I merely expressed my opinion with more-than-advisable force,” said Veers. “Lord Vader stopped me before I did anything more.”

“You are damn lucky you’re still breathing!” hissed Piett.

“I am aware of that, Captain,” said Veers before his face softened. “We’re both out of his favour at the moment.”

“Just what I needed to hear,” groaned Piett, one hand going up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Ozzel is going to be a damn peacock this entire mission. You owe me, Max. You owe me big!”

“Name your prize,” said Veers, his smile a little apologetic as he finalised the form on his datapad and handed all but one of the devices off to a hovering droid.

“I have until the Fleet rendezvouses in the Sloo sector to think of my demand,” said Piett before looking at the gear Veers had at his feet, specifically the heavier cuirass that Veers had opted for.

“Unroola Dawn or Talrezan Four?” he asked though he had a feeling he knew the answer already, only one of the intended targets having the heavy armament that would require the durasteel armour rather than the plastoid-composite Veers typically favoured.

“Unroola Dawn,” replied Veers, confirming Piett’s thoughts. “On the Conquest with Captain Alima.”

“Was that your decision?” asked Piett. Veers nodded.

“If it turns out we have massive gaps in our intel, Lennox will make sure as many of my people get off Talrezan Four as possible,” he said. “Alima will listen to my orders if I tell him to do the same thing for those on Unroola Dawn.”

“And Captain Cesaro?” asked Piett, glancing around at Jaxi.

“Is still working on his bite,” said Veers. “And Jaxi has a hell of a bark on him when he needs it. ButVelmor is the easiest of all our assignments and Cesaro is a natural at the whole political socialising thing.”

“Thought you hated that,” said Piett.

“When I’m expected to do it,” said Veers. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it when I get to watch others play the game.”

“And win,” added Piett. Veers chuckled.

“It helps,” he said. “But watching Wil and Admiral Yularen play, it can be just like watching a game of Nova Crown between maestros. Doesn’t need a winner to be enjoyable viewing.”

“You just like watching them run circles around everyone else in the room,” chuckled Piett before straightening his shoulders and offering out a hand. “Hopefully Cesaro has being paying the same attention. Happy hunting, General.”

“Good stars, Captain,” replied Veers, returning the handshake.

Chapter Text

Piett woke with his mouth tasting of pineapple cotton-wool, his eyes blinded by the ridiculously bright walls and lights around him, his entire left side screaming in pain and a significant gap in his memory.

Attempting to sit up attracted the attention of both a medical droid and the officer at his side, the latter of the two moving to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy there, Captain,” said the owner of the hand and Piett blinked in surprise.

“Admiral?” he asked, confusion obvious in his voice. The other man laughed lightly.

“It’s been a long time since you called me that,” said Tarkin, waving away the human medic that was approaching them.

“You don’t suit ‘Your Excellency’,” replied Piett, allowing Tarkin to press him back into the starchy sheets and pillows. “What happened?”

“You had the misfortune to be standing beside a control console when it exploded,” replied Tarkin. “Cascade fault apparently.”

“How long?” asked Piett.

“Five days I believe,” said Tarkin. “You were decanted from the bacta tank twelve hours ago and allowed to sleep off any remaining sedative.”

“The rendezvous?” Piett continued.

“The Executor is still a day out from coordinates,” said Tarkin. “The Avenger and Nemesis are already there but Commander Andrade, much to your Admiral’s dismay but with Lord Vader’s tentative blessing, was most insistent that the Executor not leave Hope Station until he had the entire mechanical and engineering records downloaded into our databanks. From what I understand, he’s read little else since he received it though I’m not entirely sure what he’s looking for.”

“The Herd?” continued Piett.

“Have been successful on all fronts,” said Tarkin. “The Conquest and Tyrant are rendezvousing with the Raider around Velmor before continuing on to the Sloo sector.”

“In one piece?”

“Nothing that field med-kits can’t deal with,” said Tarkin. “Though I’m not sure how long Lieutenant Nyrox will remain that way.”

“Which one this time?” asked Piett, looking faintly amused.

“Sergeant Blazkowicz,” replied Tarkin. “This time?”

“Cocky greenie,” said Piett. “Seems to pick a different Thunderer to antagonise each mission.”

“Well it seems Blazkowicz is gladly accepting the menial duties he’s been assigned as punishment for the right-hook he threw in retaliation,” said Tarkin. “Though I must admit that such inter-unit hostility is unusual for the Herd.”

“Raithal,” said Piett. “Came aboard after Coyerti. With an ego.”

“Ah,” said Tarkin. “I will speak to Major Covell about his deflation attempts.”

“You know it’s Covell?” asked Piett in amusement.

“Oh, he’ll be running with someone’s permission,” said Tarkin. “And others will be running with his. As a result, no one will be able to point a definitive finger at any of the Herd but I fully anticipate that closer inspection will reveal the Major’s handiwork.”

“They haven’t done anything irreparable,” said Piett, aware that he had just tattle-tailed on the Herd and feeling guilty about it. Tarkin gave him a small smile.

“I don’t intend to stop them,” he said, collecting his previously abandoned datapad and standing as the medic once more approached. “But I may have a few pointers that see them achieve their goals a little faster. For now, I will leave you to Commander Kraig’s tender mercies. Please listen to them.”

“Yes, Sir,” sighed Piett.

-------------------

Piett spent the next twenty-eight hours or so floating in and out of memorable consciousness. At some point he had made it back to his quarters and he had a vague recollection of seeing Andrade. He was fairly convinced the two events are connected – he was able to recall Andrade being in both the sickbay and his quarters – and the way his left lateral, pelvic and thigh muscles were all screaming at him, he was firmly under the impression he had made the ill-advised decision to return to his quarters largely under his own power. His mouth was an unpleasant blend of pineapple cotton, fading mint and stale tea so he was able to surmise that he had at least attempted to brush his teeth since he had awoken and that there would be a dirty mug, probably still half full, laying somewhere in his quarters. Tarkin had visited him at least once, leaving behind a well-worn paper novel, while a medical droid had appeared on clockwork schedule to provide him with another combination shot of pain medication and sedative to help him sleep. There were at least a dozen messages on his datapad from fellow crewmates wishing him a speedy recovery.

What he couldn’t account for was the tree carving that had been left perched on the corner of Tarkin’s novel. He knew Veers had made it – he recognised the resinwood – but he had absolutely no recollection of seeing any of the Herd since he awoke in sickbay, let alone the General. He also had no idea if the Herd had accomplished their missions with the appropriate level of success that would see Vader allowing them to return to the Executor – Kraig had learned early in their career to order dataflow restrictions to ensure that officers actually took the rest they were prescribed. It also ensured that certain combinations of sedatives and painkillers didn’t lead to deadly orders being issued by desperate officers or belligerent grandstanders who felt they knew better than the medical staff.

They had been Vader’s first and only choice for Death Squadron’s Chief Medical Officer.

He had finally decided that he was going to risk taking a shower and was debating whether a sanisteam or a sonic shower would hurt less when his door chime rang, Andrade appearing almost immediately after the sound died.

“By all means,” Piett groused at his XO, attempting to scowl at the man as he begrudgingly untangled himself from his blankets and sat up. “Come in. Take a seat.”

“Good to see you too, Sir,” replied Andrade, completely unrepentant as he leant against the privacy screen to Piett’s sleeping area. “You going to remember this conversation?”

“Why?” asked Piett. “You planning to voice some sort of secret?”

“Not me, Sir,” said Andrade with a grin. “You were still waxing lyrical when I last spoke to you about thirteen hours ago.”

“Learn anything interesting?” asked Piett, pulling himself up from the bed and bracing himself against the sturdy shelving unit as the room swam around him.

“Only further details about the passionate affair you’re having with your grov blanket,” replied Andrade with a lightly chuckle. “You were very clingy when we first got you back. But you forget I’ve been serving with you for fifteen years – not a lot you could spout that I didn’t already know. I think that was why the Governor strongly suggested I was the one to act as chaperone.”

“And is that why you’re here now?” asked Piett, moving carefully to collect fresh underwear and thermal layers.

“It was me or a med-droid,” said Andrade. “Commander Kraig expressed a desire to have their equipment return in one piece so here I am. Go have whichever version of a shower you’ve talked yourself into and I’ll sort out your outer layers.”

“Uniform,” stated Piett, pointing to where a freshly laundered set hung, pausing to glare at the boots that had the audacity not to be sitting neatly in a pair beneath their gaberwool counterpart.

“Still on medical leave,” Andrade said, shaking his head. “And you’re not going to want the pressure against your wounds either.”

“I’m still the Captain,” protested Piett.

“And your crew would be just as happy to see you appear in a surgical gown,” said Andrade. “It’s you not your clothing that commands their loyalty.”

“I’m not winning this am I?” sighed Piett.

“Nope,” grinned Andrade, moving to drag Piett’s footlocker out from underneath the bed. “Hence Kraig’s concern for their droids.”

“Thought you had station databanks to dissect,” said Piett.

“I do,” said Andrade. “But Major Zeppos and some of his mechanics got curious.”

“Oh, they’re back,” breathed Piett, the weight of the world appearing to disappear from his shoulders and he sagged against his shelving unit.

“Seven hours ago,” said Andrade, holding out a pair of loose trousers. “Go – shower, dressed and bandage check then we’ll go hunt them out.”

“And your actual duties?” asked Piett, raising an eyebrow even as he persuaded his feet to start moving again.

“Two-thirds through second shift, Sir,” replied Andrade, straightening his stance in case Piett needed help getting to the refresher. “Duties to the ship are done for the day, I can focus on you with a mostly guilt-free conscience.”

“Mostly?” repeated Piett, hissing as the healing skin to his torso objected to the movement required to open the ’fresher door.

“My Captain – my friend – was injured while I was at his side,” said Andrade, his expression turning sombre. “Mostly guilt-free.”

The cheer that went up from the assembled crew when Piett and Andrade appeared in the communal Mess roughly an hour later, an outsider could have been forgiven for believing the two officers to be returning heroes. Piett flushed slightly at the reception while Andrade grinned his delight as enlisted personnel and officers from all three branches of the military helped prove his earlier statement about Piett and not his rank having their respect.

To absolutely no-one’s surprise, it was General Veers who strode through the raucous crowd to physically greet Piett, carefully restricting his usual bear-hug to a single-arm wrap around Piett’s shoulders while the other settled carefully on the small of his back. Piett returned the embrace with a joyous laugh, his face now scarlet but not really caring. On their way to the Mess, Andrade had surmised the mission reports from all four strikes Lord Vader and the Emperor had ordered and they had proved profitable ventures for the Empire. While the main console of Hope Station was in hundreds of unsalvageable pieces of durasteel, the vast majority of the station was in serviceable condition and what Rebellion that had been present on the station was either dead or being hosted in the detention levels of the Executor, Avenger and Nemesis. The Rebellion had been driven from Unroola Dawn and Talrezan Four while Prince Anod of Velmor had actually requested that a detachment of Imperial troops be stationed on the planet.

They had completed their mission objectives with greater than anticipated success. They were allowed their night of celebration.

“If you two are quite finished,” said Tarkin from behind them, sounding mildly exasperated with his subordinates. “Some of us would like to sit down.”

“Sorry, Sir,” said Veers, his grin still firmly in place as he and Piett half unwrapped themselves but not fully separating.

“I can see that,” said Tarkin, his tone dry. “But kindly refrain from any further displays until you have adjourned to a more private setting.”

“Of course,” acquiesced Veers before deliberately turning himself and Piett so as to guide him back to tables the Herd had commandeered, Andrade following in their wake – best friend or not, Piett was his Captain and the Herd would remember that. The way the soldiers swarmed their sailor as he sat down, the Commander was going to have his work cut out for him, but Andrade’s stubborn streak was what had gotten him to the rank of Commander in the first place. Veers and his officers wouldn’t be the first ones he took on in his decade-old, and self-appointed, pursuit of keeping Piett as safe as possible.

Tarkin watched them go with a small smile of indulgence, allowing the expression to deepen to one of genuine amusement for a moment as Andrade forcibly unwrapped Covell’s enthusiastic embrace of greeting from around Piett’s neck and deliberately placed himself between his injured Captain and the Herd.

Fully expecting at least one report of complaint of overexuberant and borderline unprofessional behaviour to reach him within the next few hours, Tarkin detoured to the bar and the gimlet that the bartender had just set on a napkin.