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Surrendering to the New Republic in the hope of a.) being granted amnesty and b.) being allowed to serve in the New Republic Navy would prove to be Lorth Needa’s most foolish decision, almost worse than the time when Needa had thought it wise to take full responsibility for losing the Millennium Falcon: as a reward Lord Vader had force-choked him within an inch of his life. Having to come to terms with being alive after having prepared for one’s execution had almost broken him; and to this day Needa still questioned why he had been allowed to live. But now loomed an even worse prospect, that of having to come to terms with being executed after having prepared to be staying alive. Still, after Endor, there hadn’t been much of a reason to continue the fight: not only had the Imperial leadership perished, but when the Executor crashed into the Death Star, she took with her the Empire’s best and brightest young officers. The Empire as he knew it died that day, its present, its future, man-by-man, on the ground, in space, in flames, in droves, in vain. In its stead officers-turned-warlord vultures fought amongst themselves over the scraps, and the few remaining loyalists found themselves loyal to an idea without the corresponding reality. So, surrender—or defection, as Needa preferred to term it—had been the only viable option. As the Empire had picked up the pieces of the Old Republic, so it seemed the New Republic would pick up the pieces of the Empire: stability and continuity over uncertainty and chaos.
Whilst he had always been aware of the goings-on in galactic politics and the galaxy at large, Needa would never describe himself as ‘political’; he held opinions on a very small number of topics—opinions which he naturally kept to himself—and did not give much thought to the rest. He was a career officer—not a ‘political animal’, no matter what some Ancient Tionese philosopher had claimed—and even if he were to have the time to reflect upon political matters, it was not his place. He was there to follow the orders given to him—of course, depending on the CO, he had some leeway in their interpretation—not to analyse them or consider their political outcomes. This was how he had operated in his younger days as a lieutenant commander in the Republic Navy, and this was how he continued to operate in the Imperial Navy. Indeed, with regards to the military the relationship between the Galactic Republic and the Empire seemed to be one of continuity: he still commanded the same ship with the same crew in the same fleet and served under the same commanding officers. And so, he continued doing his duty with the same exactitude and dedication. What mattered it then that the political system had changed?
Should he have become actively interested in politics the moment he had started serving in Death Squadron? Perhaps. Needa had heard of Lord Vader’s reputation (who hadn’t?) but it was difficult to distinguish between truth, rumours, and enemy propaganda. Therefore, he had decided to wait and assess his new commander based on his own experiences, and to ignore everything that was not related to Lord Vader’s ability as a commander. It was not Needa’s place to question how the Empire was run or enquire about Lord Vader’s precise role in the chain of command. Indeed, it wasn’t even his place to question how Lord Vader ran Death Squadron, that (if it was anyone’s) was the Admiral’s prerogative. Had he ever had ambitions to become an admiral? Which young officer hadn’t? At the beginning of his career, promotions could never come fast enough for him; the Clone Wars were the perfect opportunity for rapid advancement and Needa, like any good Coruscanti, profited. But once he had made captain, he found that he enjoyed the particular blend of responsibility and freedom the position gave him; and the responsibility that an admiralship entailed, especially that of Death Squadron, did not exactly fill him with excitement. Nevertheless, if he had been offered the position, he would of course have assumed it, to refuse would have been churlish. Alas, this was a dream that belonged to the past; now, any admiralships and similar flights of fancy seemed forever out of his reach.
Needa had of course allowed his crew–both the officers and enlisted personnel—to decide for themselves whether to follow him or embark on a different journey, and it had warmed his heart to see that the majority did not abandon him. Needa had made amnesty for his crew the central condition for his defection, and whilst the New Republic had agreed relatively quickly to give amnesty to enlisted personnel, negotiations concerning amnesty for his officers had been rather protracted. When, after weeks that felt like months, the negotiators of the New Republic eventually offered him either amnesty for himself, or for his officers, he made the decision in a heartbeat. Which is why he was now held in a small cell in a secured facility, not on his riot-ravaged homeworld of Coruscant, but on Chandrila, the new capital-planet and homeworld of Chancellor Mon Mothma. When he had landed on Chandrila, he had given his word as an officer that he would not seek to fight against the New Republic or behave in contravention of its laws, in the (perhaps naïve) hope that, in return, he would be allowed some freedoms, such as moving freely in the capital city, until they decided what to do with him. He hadn’t dared proposing that he be allowed to return to Coruscant, since he had known in advance that this request would be refused. Never in a million standard years had he expected them to reject his parole entirely! When he asked about the reasons for the decision, instead of giving a reply, they had him carted off rather unceremoniously on the spot. In stuncuffs and under heavy guard as well, even though he had insisted there was no need for either. He would hardly break his word and run away! Was the word of an officer truly worth so little? Why were they so suspicious of his intentions? By the Force, he had approached them of his own volition. Could they not see that he had been sincere throughout his dealings with them?
Now there was naught to do but wait; he had not been allowed any holobooks, and even the process of acquiring flimsi had been an exercise in deference, which, thanks to his years of serving under Lord Vader, he had become rather good at. Perhaps the New Republic thought that, if given sufficient time with only his thoughts to haunt him, he would eventually recognise and repent his ‘wrongdoings’. Had he actually done anything wrong? By his own standards, no. He had always done his duty to the best of his ability, had cared about his subordinates, had respected his superiors, had sought to act with honour, courage, and decorum; in short, he had aimed to be a model officer. By the standards of the New Republic: quite a lot, presumably. Since the New Republic had declared itself the successor state to the Galactic Republic (and thus considered the Empire nothing but the illegitimate outgrowth of a coup d’état), they could probably even charge him with treason, if they so wished. And they would most likely consider him a war criminal.
Had he committed war crimes? His first instinct was to answer with a resounding ‘no’. There were no galactic standards for what constituted a war crime; instead, each regime had their own laws which sometimes varied at the system-level as well. He knew with absolute certainty that he had always acted in accordance with the Empire’s laws, but he doubted that the New Republic would agree or consider it a reasonable defence. Still, throughout his career he had only been fighting separatists and rebels. Enemy combatants. Military targets. He had never harmed innocents. Not even when subjugating rebellious Outer Rim worlds? Whilst it was expected of him to use force in order to uphold the security and interests of the Empire, oftentimes simply turning up with a naval strike team frightened rebellious minds into surrender without even a single blast needing to be fired. Not once was he ordered to or had ever given the order to perform a Base Delta Zero. Orbital strikes were a last resort, to be used only when negotiations failed and after multiple demands of surrender had been rejected. Moreover, they were precise and focused on governmental buildings, weapons factories, or other military targets; and whilst civilian casualties could unfortunately not always be avoided, he never set out to intentionally harm non-combatants. Such actions were counter-productive to the Empire’s goals: Naturally, the Empire could not allow rebellion, but it was important to separate rebel ringleaders from misguided followers and loyal Imperial citizens.
What about Alderaan? He had not been personally involved in the operation and had not been anywhere near it. Had it been counter-productive? Alderaan had been a hotbed of rebellion and some kind of military action had certainly been necessary, but the wholesale destruction of a planet had been crude and ineffective: indeed, it had seemed to bring more worlds to the Rebel cause than to deter them. Had Alderaan’s destruction been justified? At the time he would never have thought about what was considered just in war, or indeed, whether such a thing even existed. Presumably, whatever his commanders thought just was what he’d have considered just as well. At the time? What about now? Of course, he knew that, objectively, killing civilians is wrong, especially in such an indiscriminate fashion. He suspected that even back then, he had known that. Why had he never spoken out back then? Was silence not agreement? Support? Complicity? Perhaps. Presumably. He did not know. There was no explanation for his behaviour.
Had he not once thought about whether his superiors might have done wrong? Or was he ultimately not much better than a clanker, blindly doing what others told him? Under Lord Vader’s command even thinking such thoughts was a death sentence. Not that Needa remembered ever harbouring any subversive thoughts. Force, he had almost died at his commander’s hands and that had somehow only seemed to increase his loyalty. So, had he been afraid of the consequences if he were to recognise the wrongs, or had he simply been unwilling to? Unable to? With a jolt he noticed that he did seem to possess a considerable—and rather horrifying—talent for ‘moral flexibility’ and being able to ignore, or if that wasn’t possible, rationalise actions that would largely be considered immoral. Of course, he had always tried to do his best, but had that really been good enough? What if his idea of ‘the best’ was hideously flawed? What if, in pursuit of his duty, he had actually done more harm than good? Why had he striven to be a model Imperial officer? Was it because he wholeheartedly believed in what the Empire stood for and hoped to emulate it; or because it was his job and he liked doing it well? Did he follow the wrong ideas, the wrong orders? Worse, had he actively done wrong? Was he really a war criminal? Were all Imperial officers war criminals just by virtue of being associated with the Empire? Because if the Empire was evil, and he had been a willing part of it without ever considering it as evil—indeed without ever considering morality at all—did that not make him a deeply evil person? Was amorality not worse than immorality? ‘If the Empire was evil?’: did he still not believe that it was? Had the New Republic been right in not trusting him? Could he even trust himself? Was his sense of honour—which he had always considered to be a core part of his personality—just a feelgood sham to con himself into thinking that he was a moral being whilst, at the same time, he was happy to kill and slaughter others? Was it because he considered them lesser beings? Did they not deserve to live? Who was he to decide who lived and who died? Did he deserve any mercy if he had given none to his enemies? Had he contributed anything positive, anything of worth to the galaxy?
Did he have any good qualities? Was there any hope left for him? Why should he be allowed to live?