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Captain Harren was a credit to their unit. Despite a nine-hour shift stationary on his feet, posted up in the western hall of the twenty-fifth floor of the Buckell Center hotel and business complex—an extremely boring location, featuring a singular potted plant (fake), an unnerving mauve painting by a popular Naboolian artist (genuine), and no view to speak of—he was still on high alert. Lesser men would have stooped, giving in to the urge to slouch against the wall, or, stars forbid, yawn, as though the act of holding one’s post was not being done with constant, unerring vigilance.
But Captain Harren had been trained by Veers, and Veers’s men were made of sterner stuff. Not from the get-go, of course—the greenest recruits always required a firm hand, and Harren had been just as green as any pimply-faced Army Cadet when Veers had first gotten ahold of him—but under his eagle-eyed supervision the captain had been molded into a proper soldier. Veers credited this success to a three-fold mix of manly encouragement, clearly delineated goals, and a cardio-based system of punishment. Fifty laps ‘round the training field kitted out in full gear was the swiftest method he knew to bring dissenters to heel.
When Veers arrived to relieve him of his post, Harren was as upright and stony-faced as he had been when Veers had passed by him that morning.
“Major Veers, sir,” Harren acknowledged.
“Your shift is over, Captain.”
Harren blinked. “I’m holding the terminal shift, sir. Once the meeting has concluded, I’m meant to report back to my barracks. There’s no ancillary shift scheduled, sir.”
“I am aware of the schedule, Harren,” said Veers, his tone clipped. “But as the meeting was meant to end nearly two hours ago, and your shift with it, I have made an adjustment to the roster.” He glanced at the conference room door to Harren’s right, and then back. “Is it all of them?”
Harren shook his head. “Only two of the Joint Chiefs, sir. The rest have left. It’s them and some munitions supplier, I think. They’re negotiating—”
“The specifics are outside of our purview, Captain,” Veers said harshly. Harren flinched. “We’re here on security detail, nothing more. And you can go,” he added, nodding at the turbolift down the hall. “I’ll take it from here.”
A salute and a yessir, and Harren was striding off. Still upright, but with a distinctive air of having his tail between his legs.
That would have to be addressed, he thought, watching Haren disappear into the ‘lift. Veers was practically friendly, by Army standards. If Harren expected to advance he’d be facing some truly vicious commanders—capable men across the board, but none of them suffered fools.
The tell-tale hiss of compressed air alerted him to the conference door opening. A man ducked out, followed by a beleaguered-looking youngster Veers identified as an assistant. They were distinctly harried in appearance. The assistant was juggling an armful of materials—color-coded binders, glossy brochures, thick flimsibooks with spec sheets spilling out—and he struggled to keep up with his superior. To Veers they paid no mind. From the cant of their shoulders to the exhaustion behind their eyes, they telegraphed only one thing: defeat.
They were followed out by the two Joint Chiefs Veers was least hoping to see.
Taken alone, Rear Admiral Jerjerrod wasn’t a bad bloke. Sure, he was cold, wrapped up in his figures and numbers, a desk admiral in the most damning sense of the phrase (if General Tagge was to be believed, the only time Jerjerrod stepped foot on a warship was as part of a guided tour). And he was weird, even for an engineer. Alternatingly making too much eye contact or none at all, there was a stilted quality about him that put Veers in mind of a clockwork figure. The sort that stuttered and clicked out to toll the hour before retreating back into their nest of gears.
But he was harmless. The lowest ranking of the Joint Chiefs, Jerjerrod was a Core aristocrat through and through. Fussy and fastidious, certainly, but he’d demure from conflict, and he’d offer Major Veers no trouble when on his own.
The problem with Rear Admiral Jerjerrod was that he was rarely alone. Admiral Motti was his constant companion, dogging his steps from the moment the Joint Chiefs had all arrived in Coronet City.
Motti had been a thorn in Veers’s side from day one. Escorting the Admiral from Coronet City Spaceport to Buckell Center should have been a routine affair, but Motti had ditched his security detail and elbowed his way into the back of Jerjerrod’s speeder. It wouldn’t have been an insurmountable problem on its own—Veers always planned for the contingency of a last-minute vehicular swap, after that disastrous escort of Director Krennic and his ‘I don’t sit on synthleather seats, Major Veers’ lecture—but Motti had taken it a step too far. Once firmly situated in the speeder, he’d harangued the driver into a trip out to the city proper. They’d arrived at Buckell Center three hours behind schedule. A beleaguered Lieutenant Pelham offered the only explanation: Rear Admiral Jerjerrod had wanted a bite to eat. Admiral Motti took up the challenge, apparently spending the next several hours finding a restaurant that catered to the Rear Admiral’s sensitive stomach.
Why Motti had attached himself to Jerjerrod, Veers had no idea. Motti snapped and snarled and jeered and boasted his way through life with the overconfidence of a general twice his age, a world apart from Jerjerrod’s frigid silence. He was popular—somehow, though not with Tagge, who never failed to take the opportunity to gripe to Major Veers about these upstarts in the Navy. But he was glued to the Rear Admiral’s hip, for reasons which remained unclear. Veers put it down to the two of them being contemporaries in age, both men being on the sunny side of thirty.
Whatever the case, if Jerjerrod scuttled out of a boardroom, Motti’s barking laugh was sure to follow. And that was an irritant Veers could do without.
“—all twelve of our objectives,” Jerjerrod muttered. Just outside the door, he stopped, flicking rapidly through the screen of his datapad. His eyes were bright, the slightest twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. Veers had never seen him so animated. “Each one, met or exceeded—marvelous work, really.”
By his side, Motti yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. He looked far too pleased with himself. “Did you see him slink out of here after he signed those contracts?”
“I’m not surprised, after the thrashing we gave him. Er, numerically, of course. Gosh, these numbers are wonderful.”
“You know I love a chance to beat a man when he’s down,” Motti said, waggling an eyebrow. “Even if it has to involve math.”
“Maths,” Jerjerrod corrected absently.
And then Major Veers did something he had never done before. Something which, if he’d have caught his own men doing it, would have resulted in a far more grueling punishment than fifty laps in full gear. He’d have ordered midnight drills, in the pouring rain, his boot on the small of the offending man’s back and a megaphone blasting his supreme disappointment right in the offender’s idiot ear.
He laughed.
It was a huff of amusement: less than a snicker, more than a snort. But it was a level of emotion he was not meant to convey when in the presence of the Joint Chiefs, and the noise cut through the hall like a blaster shot.
“Major Veers!” Jerjerrod squeaked, noticing him for the first time. “I—oh! I thought—wasn’t Captain Har... er... Henric stationed here?”
“Captain Harren, sir,” Veers said. “He’s been relieved from his post. I’ll be escorting you to the turbolift and up to the residences this evening.”
Jerjerrod’s sallow cheeks had taken on a pink tinge. “Oh, ah. How thoughtful.”
“We can manage the ‘lift, thanks,” Motti sneered. His entire demeanor had changed, the easy rapport he shared with Jerjerrod wiped away with a sharp flash of canine. “You’re dismissed.”
“Respectfully, sir,” Veers said evenly, “security is an Army matter. It is therefore outside your chain of command.”
Motti opened his mouth, his shoulders tensed, the broad line of his body clearly poised for an argument—but Jerjerrod cut him off with a nervous laugh. “Quite right! If you’ll escort us to the ‘lift, then, one does tire after such an industrious day. Bees buzzing about like drones, you know. So much to do.”
He was at a loss for words. “I....”
“He wants to go to bed,” Motti snapped. “And so do I, frankly.” He scoffed, and then began to stride past Veers down the hall, towards the turbolift. “C’mon then, let’s get on with it—you too, Major. If you insist on joining us.”
They piled into the ‘lift, with Veers doing his best to give Motti space while Motti attempted to elbow him sharply in the side every time Veers tried to put Jerjerrod between the two of them. But for all their jostling, Jerjerrod’s positioning seemed an inevitability: Given Veers’s height and Motti’s breadth, he ended up wedged in the middle, a willowy buffer against Motti’s temper.
He slotted in the key, grateful for the all-green, and the feeling of their ascent as the ‘lift started to move. The Joint Chiefs were staying in the penthouse suites of Buckell Center. Security had been tightened considerably, but once they reached the top floor Veers would be able to see them off and call it a night. It’d all be over soon enough.
With a violent lurch, the turbolift jerked to a grinding halt.
Veers and Motti kept their footing, but Jerjerrod stumbled, crashing into Motti with a yelp.
Motti grabbed him quickly by the upper arm and pulled him upright. With a glare at Veers, he snapped, “Nice work, Major.”
“I had nothing to do with this,” Veers said curtly.
Motti flashed a sneer. “Surprise, surprise, no intel to speak of—but what else should we expect with the Army?”
“Is there cause for alarm?” Jerjerrod asked. His gaze darted to Motti, to the closed door of the ‘lift, then to Veers. His eyes were very green, and widened in alarm. “Is it,” and here he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Separatists, do you think?”
“Standy by,” said Veers, pulling out his comm. Punching down hard on the receiver, he spoke into it. “This is Major Veers. I have two of the Joint Chiefs with me. We’re in the turbolift of the western tower, identification number—” He scanned the plaque affixed to the durasteel wall. “—double-zed-nine-three. We’re not moving.”
Motti snorted. “Oh, well spotted.”
“Message received, Major Veers,” a voice crackled on the line. “We’re interfacing with the techs now—it looks like this is an unscheduled maintenance test, sir.”
“No security breach?”
“None, sir. Should be up and moving in the next twenty minutes or so.”
“Understood,” he said. “Thank you.”
Slipping the comm back into his pocket, he took a calm, steadying breath. He’d weathered far worse than this. The ‘lift was comfortable, there was no risk of a sudden loss of his air supply, nobody was lobbing fiery projectiles in his general direction—this was manageable. This was fine.
“You really screwed the bantha on this, huh?”
Veers felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. Motti was smirking at him, a canine leer as lazy as it was mean.
“Admiral Motti,” Jerjerrod hissed, slapping his colleague hard on the bicep. “You can’t say that!”
Motti kept staring at Veers. “Why not? This sort of contingency should have been planned for. Redundancy protocols, like you’re always saying. But the Army’s bungled things, again, and now we’re stuck in this stupid ‘lift.” The smirk fled, replaced with a look of flat disdain. “You’re lucky it was us, you know. If it was Tarkin trapped in here, you’d earn yourself a one-way ticket out the airlock faster than you could say incompetent.”
“Or General Tagge,” Jerjerrod muttered, staring off at the wall. “Rather an unpleasant fellow, in my opinion.” Chewing his lower lip, he dared a glance at Veers. But Veers caught his eye, and he returned his full attention to the wall. His face was suddenly very red. “Although I suppose he’s nicer to you, Major Veers. Considering you’re Army chums, and all.”
The idea of being chummy with Tagge of all people nearly drew out another laugh, but Veers bit it back just in time. “General Tagge is very much an Army man, sir,” he said carefully. “But I don’t believe he would consider himself particularly friendly with any subordinate.”
Jerjerrod swiveled in place, wrenching his gaze from the wall and fixing Veers with the full force of his stare. “Oh, but he must adore you! All that work you’ve done on the AT-AT Walkers, why, you’re the foremost authority—”
“Oh,” Veers replied, blinking rapidly, “I—”
Jerjerrod carried on, heedless of Veers’s sudden discomfort. “Not to mention all you’ve done for recruitment efforts! You’re on all those holoposters, and the pamphlets, too! It’s rather, er, inspiring, um, in a patriotic sense.”
He was breathing hard, invigorated with a mad energy of which Veers would not have thought him capable.
To his side, Motti was scowling darkly. “I’m on posters too, you know.” He nudged Jerjerrod in the arm, a petulant tone creeping into his voice. “Remember?”
Eyelashes fluttering, Jerjerrod whipped round to look Motti in the eye. “Oh, of course. Lovely posters. Very impressive. And that ‘Explore Wild Space’ spread you did with Admiral Thrawn was inspired, truly.”
“There was an uptick in recruitment that quarter,” Motti said, grinning. “I checked.”
“I’m not at all surprised.”
He looked very pleased. When Jerjerrod turned around to face Veers again, Motti shot him a nasty smile over the Rear Admiral’s shoulder.
A needling sense of competition pricked at the base of Veers’s neck. There was a challenge here, somehow; a gauntlet lain at his feet. But he couldn’t say why, or what for.
Tilting his head, Jerjerrod peered up at him from under his lashes. “May I ask you a question, Major? About those Walkers of yours. Since you’re here.”
He swallowed, his throat unexpectedly dry. “Yes, sir.”
Delighted, Jerjerrod grabbed his datapad, and began scrolling across the screen with one long, gloved finger. “There was a fascinating little article in an engineering periodical for which I am a not infrequent contributor—Hot Slots, if you’re curious—centered around the terrain sensors on the AT-ATs—oh, did I... ah, there we are.”
With a flourish, he pulled up the article. Veers’s own face stared back at him, next to a cross section of one of the AT-AT’s limbs. “Splendid photo, isn’t it?” Jerjerrod breathed, his eyes wider than ever.
“The... uh, the Walker?” Veers asked hoarsely. “Or—”
“And I was wondering,” he said hurriedly, zooming in on the picture, “in what manner is the terrain sensor wired within the central column of the limbs? I had a few ideas about heat displacement that I thought rather useful, potentially, given the right circs....”
Tearing his gaze from Jerjerrod’s hand—slender, even with the fleet-issued gloves—Veers met his eye. Walkers, right. He had a lot to say about those.
He launched into an explanation, grateful for a topic upon which to direct his focus and an enraptured audience for his lecture. Motti’s interruptions were constant, ranging from unsubtle jabs at the firepower of the Walkers compared to what the Navy had to offer, to an earnest attempt at insisting the AT-AT programme was a “junior level” posting. But Veers ignored him. He spoke to Jerjerrod, answering his questions as best he could and quietly marveling at the ingenuity of his suggestions.
“And this,” Jerjerrod said, pointing to the top-left of the terrain scanners with the tip of his lightpen, “is precisely where I’d reroute the sensors. Cross-wire them, lessen the load.”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea. Would it be possible, do you think, for a copy of your notes? If it’s no trouble.”
“Sir,” Motti barked. “You’ve forgotten your manners.”
“No trouble at all!” Jerjerrod chirped. “I’ll have them sent to you—and do keep me posted, please, if you make any alterations! I’d quite like—oh!”
The turbolift lurched again, and with it, Jerjerrod’s balance. Bumping into Veers’s side, he barely managed to steady himself with a hand on Veers’s flank. At once he stuttered out an apology for the imposition. His face had bloomed a lurid shade of maroon, his cap knocked sideways and his lips twisted in embarrassment. Nervous and apologetic, Veers could have mistaken Rear Admiral Jerjerrod for a wayward ensign lost on his way to his first Star Destroyer posting.
Veers felt a pang of affection for him that was quite unprecedented. His naturally stern gaze softened. “No apologies necessary,” he said, laying a hand on Jerjerrod’s shoulder to offer a supportive squeeze.
What remained of Motti’s patience was gone. Properly seething, he hauled the Rear Admiral away, snapping at Veers with a violent jerk of his jaw. “Do not touch a superior officer,” he snarled.
“I’m fine!” Jerjerrod squeaked, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly in his blotchy red throat. “Cracking, even! No complaints here!”
Motti pulled him closer. “You’re delirious. You need rest, Admiral.”
A moment later, the ding of the ‘lift heralded their arrival. The doors parted, revealing the main hallway of the penthouse suites. Motti tugged them through the doors without so much as a parting word.
“Have a good evening, Major Veers!” Jerjerrod offered. He fluttered his fingers in a twitchy little wave.
Unthinkingly, Veers raised an arm and waved back.
When the doors shut, Veers could not stop himself from slouching. He leaned against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. He’d served on the frontlines of dozens of enemy engagements, dodging slugthrowers and blaster bolts in the pitch-black of moonless nights. But this. This had been the longest twenty minutes of his life.
Not all bad, though. Just... confusing, in a nameless way.
His boot nudged something. Glancing down, he caught a glimpse of a lightpen, sleekly purple, and trimmed with gold on the tip. He stooped down and pocketed it. A shower was called for first; some dinner, too, would be nice. Once he’d tidied himself up, he’d pop up and return it to the Rear Admiral. Not out of any desire to see him again, specifically. Merely because it was the right thing to do.
***
A little under an hour later, Veers found himself once again stepping foot in the turbolift. He’d scarfed down a hasty supper, and showered quickly. He’d taken his time shaving—he had a strong jaw, with sharp angles easy to nick if he was hasty with his razor—and he’d patted on some aftershave for good measure. Donning his civvies (sensible slacks, and a knit jumper in a deep navy blue), he clasped the lightpen firmly in hand, inserted the access card, and ascended.
There had been a moment of self-doubt in the shower. Perhaps Rear Admiral Jerjerrod did not need this particular lightpen so badly that he’d welcome an unexpected visit at such a late hour. But he’d been friendly, unarguably so. Still intense, still odd, but... open. And it was useful, wasn’t it? To cultivate friends in high places. What could be higher than the penthouse suite?
The higher he climbed, the more resolute he grew. He’d hand over the pen, and then pause. Jerjerrod was a Core boy, through and through; he’d offer Veers a drink inside his suite, they’d settle down on the sofa, and then they’d....
Well.
Chat, probably. About the AT-AT programme; about Jerjerrod’s numerous suggestions for improvements. He’d had some particularly good suggestions about how to best accommodate for the loads of that great beast.
Veers’s palms were sweaty. He gripped the lightpen tighter, and stared straight ahead.
The tell-tale ding heralded his arrival. He stepped through the doors, and glanced around. He’d taken a look at the room assignments before heading up; for security reasons each member of his team past a certain clearance level had been alerted to the precise location of each of the Joint Chiefs during their stay. And so he knew the layout of this level rather well. Tagge’s suite first, on the right; then Admiral Motti’s; and finally, at the far end of the hall, across from Grand Moff Tarkin’s room and proximate to the emergency stairwell (at the Rear Admiral’s request, according to Buckell Center’s staff), was Rear Admiral Jerjerrod’s suite.
Striding confidently to the door, he rapped his knuckles twice in quick succession, and then stepped back to wait.
The door opened, and his confidence faltered.
“Can I help you?” Admiral Motti drawled. Leaning against the doorframe, he crossed his arms together and blocked the room behind him from view. His bare arms, Veers noted. For he’d stripped off his tunic, revealing a fleet-issued undershirt pulled taut across his substantial chest. Two thin suspenders strained to hold up his trousers.
“This is Rear Admiral Jerjerrod’s suite,” Veers said automatically. It sounded stupid, even to his own ears.
And to Motti’s too, evidently. He arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, it is. So what are you doing here, Major Veers? Are you lost?”
His gaze flicked down to Veers’s hand, where the lightpen was clutched in his ungloved fist. “Oh,” Motti breathed, his lips curling at the edges, “it’s a rescue mission, is it? Hang on, I’ll grab him.”
The door shut soundly. Veers was left to stand there in the hall, feeling rather thick. But a moment later it slid open again, and, as promised, Motti had fetched his colleague.
Like Motti, Jerjerrod was somewhat underdressed. Bootless, his socked feet sank into the plush carpeting that ran through the central hall, his tunic stripped off to reveal an undershirt identical to Motti’s in design but a world apart in its cut. Where Motti’s undershirt stretched tight across his middle, Jerjerrod’s spanned a flat stomach and a modest chest, tucking into his trousers easily. The suspenders dangled uselessly along his thighs.
Throughout his career Veers had seen men in every possible state of nudity. This barely counted as undressed by Army barracks standards. Yet somehow the sight of Jerjerrod’s bare shoulders, and his lean arms, and that vulnerable swoop of neckline exposing a dusting of chest hair darker than the brassy-gold curls on his head—it felt indecent, in a way that left the skin on the back of his neck overheated.
“Oh, er, hullo, Major Veers!” Jerjerrod’s smile was earnest, but rather strained. “We’re—working. Hah. Very diligently, I might add.”
“We’re burning the midnight oil, yeah,” Motti grunted. He slapped Jerjerrod hard on the back, earning a breathy gasp. “That’s the thing about working with Rear Admiral Jerjerrod. He really rides you hard.”
The hand on Jerjerrod’s back remained in place, traveling upwards to rest on a spacer-pale shoulder. A rough squeeze, and a high whine escaped Jerjerrod’s throat. Motti shot an appraising look at Veers. And then he leaned over, very close to Jerjerrod’s ear. “That’s your pen, Admiral.”
Face flaming, Jerjerrod reached forward and plucked the pen from Veers’s hand. “Ah, so it is. Thank you, Major Veers. I do so appreciate it.”
“Mission accomplished, I think,” Motti intoned. Another squeeze of Jerjerrod’s shoulder, and he continued, “You can head back in, Admiral. We’ll only be a minute out here.”
Jerjerrod was twirling the pen between his fingers, peeking at Motti from the corner of his eyes. There was a slyness to his features Veers had not noticed before. “Do be swift about it, please. We’ve, er. Only just started that project.”
“I’ll get right back to it.”
“Marvelous,” Jerjerrod murmured. To Veers, he added, “Lovely seeing you again, Major. I hope you have a fruitful evening.” And then he scuttled off, tossing a backwards glance at Motti that Veers could only call eager.
Alone, he and Motti regarded each other.
“I think I misspoke a minute ago, actually,” Motti said softly.
“Is that so,” Veers muttered.
His eyes were narrowed to slits. “Yeah. He’ll ride you hard, I said. But that’s not quite right.” A smirk, flashing entirely too many teeth. “I said you, when I should have said me. You’re not gonna work with Rear Admiral Jerjerrod. With him, or under him. These late-night huddles are naval matters, Major Veers. Stick to your barracks.”
Without another word, Motti slammed the door, leaving Veers alone in the hallway.
“Navy,” he muttered. Turning on his heel, he marched off.