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At first glance, Deck 10 of the under-construction DS-2 was not too different from any other. Equidistant between the engineering sector and central command, Deck 10 housed a contingent of TIE-pilots and the bulk of the weapons technicians, and its organization followed the typical pattern of a support deck: cabins for the crew, mess hall proximate to their quarters and stations, and exercise suite (necessitating an unpleasant cohabitation with Deck 9’s troopers).
Uniquely, however, Deck 10 boasted two distinctive features that set it apart from the other crew decks.
First: Deck 10 housed its own sick bay. It was smaller than those on the officers’ decks, but highly specialized in treating ocular injuries—always a hazard for a weapons tech, and one which the infamous jawbone helmets could only cut down so much. Constant exposure to the flash of a superlaser could do funny things to a man’s optic nerves. Not to mention the risks posed to the TIE-pilots; a fried sclera from the burning blast of deep-space dogfighting was a walk in a Coruscanti hoverpark compared to the injuries one clean hit to the visor could get you. Plasteen and metal shredded into a thousand microscopic slivers could do more than permanently disfigure a man’s face: Without proper treatment, it would blind.
But Moff Jerjerrod had spared no expense on his station’s medistaff, nor on their equipment. He was something of a hypochondriac, or so Holtt had heard. Either way, there was no better place in the galaxy to suffer an injury to the eye than on the DS-2, and for that, Holtt was grateful.
Though he was more grateful for the second distinctive feature of Deck 10: the malfunctioning robotender in the lounge.
Weaving past a gaggle of troopers visiting from Deck 9, Holtt elbowed his way through the crowds, to the far-off table partially blocked by the jukebox. The lounge was, as always, packed; access to limitless refills thanks to the malfunctioning ‘tender drew even the most antisocial crewman out of his bunk, enlivening the space with a matey sort of atmosphere just on the right side of rowdy. It was a good place to socialize, and a better place to meet men. With drinks flowing freely and the easy excuse of inebriation, hands could wander. Under the tables, of course—this wasn’t a naval academy.
A trooper at the bar was eyeing him rather hopefully. Not too much of a looker, but very fit—worth exploring later, certainly. But for the time being Holtt was very much occupied. Tightening his hands round the brown-paper parcel clutched against his chest, he returned his gaze to the far-off table, and the man sitting there.
A very irritating man, truth be told. Orren was a gunner, same as Holtt, but aside from the black jumpsuit and durasteel gloves they shared little else in common. Tall and lean, with the sort of sleek, dark-haired good looks that would have left Holtt’s sisters squealing, Orren was holostar handsome, and vain, and exactly the sort of Core Worlds pansy Holtt did his best to avoid. If it wasn’t for one particular overlapping interest, he’d have ignored Orren entirely.
“There’s a stain on your uniform,” Orren drawled. Sprawled carelessly in his seat, he gestured at the empty chair across from him in clear invitation. “But that’s in vogue, by the looks of it. Have you seen the riffraff crowding the bar? You’ll blend right in with those troopers. There must be half a dozen there, and not one truly clean shirt to rub between them.”
“Rubbing between them, though,” Holtt said, sitting down. “That’s an idea, that is.”
The corner of Orren’s mouth twitched. He scoffed, and looked away. “Deplorable taste, as per usual. Hence my summons. I took one look at this silly little trifle and knew straight away you’d be chomping at the bit for a cheeky peek—it doesn’t interest me in the slightest, but knowing your... preferences....”
Sitting forward, he tried not to look too eager. If Orren knew even half of how badly Holtt was interested, he’d jack up his absurd prices even more. “Let’s see it, then. That scan you sent me over the ‘Net was, uh. Promising.”
“You’ve brought enough credits, I assume? This can’t be sold cheaply.”
“Better,” Holtt insisted. He dropped his parcel onto the table with a flourish. “I thought we could trade.”
Orren turned towards him. His eyes were a very dark blue; narrowed to slits and trained on the plain brown parcel, he had the look of a lothcat who’d just spotted its dinner. “Well, well, well, what have we here—”
When he made to grab the parcel, Holtt tugged it away. “Not so fast,” he grunted. “Fair’s fair. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
With an exaggerated huff, Orren slipped his hand into the bag slung over his chair and pulled out a magazine. It was flimsiprint, and noticeably thick. Placing it on the table, he kept his hand splayed on the cover, spider-like in its glove.
“Don’t even think about running off with it,” he said silkily. “That’s contraband twice over—all-male, and all-alien. One call to the quartermaster and they’ll be tearing your bunk down to the bolts looking for more subversive materials. There’d be enough for a rather interesting inquiry, I should think.”
It was a bluff, and a bad one. Half the porn in Holtt’s cabin was funneled onboard by Orren’s connections; if Holtt got pinched, Orren would go down with him.
But there was no sense in arguing with him. Nodding, Holtt said, “You have my word.”
Placated, Orren slid the magazine across the table, where it was caught in Holtt’s waiting hand.
He swallowed wetly. There, on the cover, was a title written in an alien script indecipherable on this side of the galaxy. He couldn’t read it, but that didn’t bother him. He wasn’t after a magazine like this for the articles.
“Csillan Studs, I think is the translation.” There was a bored, droll quality to Orren’s voice. He sounded even snobbier than usual. “Nothing but Chiss. I’d thought them rather indistinguishable from Pantorans, initially, but after flipping through this I can safely say Pantorans are eminently preferable. Much more svelte. These Chiss all seem to run to width.”
He wasn’t kidding. From the bare-chested man on the cover to the winking centerfold spread, the magazine was replete with broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, hairy-thighed Chiss. They all seemed to possess the same phenotype as Grand Admiral Thrawn. Not that Holtt had ever seen that much of Thrawn. But his image was plastered left, right, and center on the HoloNet, and that uniform of his could only hide so much. There was no disguising the heft of his chest, or the span of his waistline. He was built to tower. And so, it appeared, were the rest of his people.
A small cough drew his attention. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from the picture he’d been admiring—an older Chiss with a warm smile and a substantial forest of greying chest hair on his massive frame, pinning down a younger man on a wrestling mat, the setting vaguely naval and Holtt’s interest very much piqued—and met Orren’s stare.
“What? I’m still browsing.”
“No you’re not,” Orren sniffed. “You’re besotted with those ridiculous men.”
“I’m casually interested.”
“You’ve never wanted to buy anything more in your life.”
“I’m considering a purchase, potentially.”
“Practically gagging for it.”
“I haven’t gagged since I was seventeen,” Holtt said, gratified by Orren’s pinched expression. When Orren got particularly harassed he’d go a funny shade of pink, and it would stay with him for most of the day. Holtt liked knowing it was there while they were on duty, an unseen streak of color invisible below their helmets. It felt like he’d won at something, though he couldn’t say what.
“You’ve got the manners of a teenager,” Orren said thinly, “sitting there, flicking through my wares without the common courtesy of any and-here-you-are. What have you brought to trade, hmm? Let me see.”
With a snort, he pushed his own parcel over. Orren accepted it eagerly. “Now who’s gagging for it, eh?”
He was soundly ignored. Carefully peeling the brown paper, Orren caught sight of the title page of a magazine and paused in his unwrapping. He shot Holtt a scathing look. “You know I don’t read Seswennan Big Hunks.”
“You’ll want to read this one,” he insisted. “Go on. Trust me.”
Pursing his lips, he continued unwrapping, until finally the entirety of the cover was revealed.
Holtt put down Csillan Studs to watch the show. Orren sat rigidly in his chair, staring down at the magazine with wide eyes and a slack jaw. He’d gone as red as a J-19 bo-rifle’s blast, a technicolor flush burning its way up the long column of his throat to the tip of his hairline. He’d never looked so startled.
When he spoke, it was in a decidedly croaky voice. “Is that—”
“Moff Jerjerrod, yeah,” replied Holtt. “It’s the newest issue. There’s a whole interview with him, see?” When he tapped the cover, Orren flinched. “I know how much you fancy him, and I thought, well....”
“I don’t fancy him,” Orren mumbled. He stroked the picture reverently, his fingertip skirting around the Moff’s midsection. Stripped down to swimming briefs and dappled liberally with moisture, Jerjerrod was a long, lean line, attractive in that unapproachably patrician way that left a man heated as much as it cooled him. Jerjerrod was the sort of man you looked at, but you didn’t dare touch.
Although judging by Orren’s expression, he’d have eaten him alive.
Leaning his chin on his fist, Holtt admired the covershoot. Even upside-down, the tidy bulge of Jerjerrod’s plum swimming briefs held a unique appeal. “You don’t need to pretend, you know. We’ve all got our special favorites. I have all those datachips with General Veers’s recruitment posters—”
“He’s the wrong sort of blond, in my opinion,” Orren sighed, staring down at Jerjerrod’s tousled curls with a dreamy wistfulness.
“—And you’ve got your Moffly collection. All those back issues of Hot Slots—and I know it’s an engineering periodical,” he added, curtailing the argument before it could begin. “You’ve told me. Many times. Moff Jerjerrod’s constant appearance within its pages is a mere coincidence.”
“He’s just so polished,” Orren breathed. “He’s... he’s aspirational, really. And so young for a Moff, he must be brilliant—”
“He is,” a voice cut in. It was a raspy baritone, biting on the back-end. Holtt could practically hear the leer.
With a jolt, he turned, staring up at the smirking face of Admiral Motti.
He started to scramble up, but Motti waved him down without looking. His eyes were trained on Orren, and seemed to have left the gunner paralyzed in a sort of terrified stupor.
Holtt didn’t blame him. Admiral Motti had arrived a few months back, his fleet visible from out of the viewports and his Steel Talon making constant stopovers on the DS-2. He’d commanded the first Death Star, and he haunted the second, falling lockstep with the Moff and swanning about like he owned the place. Motti’s reputation for aggression had preceded him; his service record was studded with large-scale enemy engagements and overwhelming shows of force, and when he'd first boarded the DS-2 there had been no small amount of gossip among the crew as to whether it was earned. There were an awful lot of well-connected commanders who boasted their ranks off the backs of a family connection, rather than skill.
Not so with Admiral Motti. He was as arrogant and entitled as Holtt had expected, but he knew his way around a warship, his instinct for command more natural than any of the senior admiralty Holtt had served under.
He was also very attractive, and Holtt wanted rather desperately to suck him off.
“I’m glad to hear you’re so impressed with our dear commander,” Motti drawled. “I’ll pass your compliments to Moff Jerjerrod, if you’d like. It’s really no trouble.”
“T-thank you, sir,” Orren squeaked. “And, er, may I ask why you’re—that is, why we have the pleasure of your, ah, distinguished company on this level?”
Pulling back the empty chair to Holtt’s right, Motti sat down with a careless thud. His hands were ungloved, and spanned large where they rested on his thighs. Holtt tried and failed not to stare at the peek of wrist hair from under the grey-green sleeve.
“The drink output of the robotender in the executive-level lounge caps out at two per clearance code each daycycle,” Motti said, smiling an unfriendly smile in Orren’s direction. “This one, though,” he continued, jerking his thumb behind him at the bar, “has not had the benefit of Moff Jerjerrod’s clever fingers rewriting its programming. Lucky him.” His smile grew tighter. “Or unlucky, from a certain point of view. What do you think, gunner? If you were a droid, would you want the Moff thumbing your exhaust port?”
Orren was deathly pale. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Motti’s smirk was mean. He glanced at Holtt. “And what about you, huh?”
It was no easy thing to keep a straight face with Motti’s canines flashed in his direction. But Holtt could keep his cool when a superlaser was fired inches from his face, and he could manage this. He flexed his fingers, and steadied on. “If I was a droid,” Holtt said, very seriously, “I would roll myself right into the incinerator.”
Motti blinked. And then he laughed, a great, barking laugh that had Orren nearly toppling out of his seat. “Yeah,” he grinned, “I think I’d do the same. What’s your name, gunner?”
“Holtt, sir. Damon Holtt.”
“Grab your buddy’s magazine for me, would you, Holtt?”
He complied at once, grateful that Orren didn’t attempt to fight him off. Handing it over, he watched in astonishment as Motti’s sharp gaze fell on Moff Jerjerrod and softened, just for a moment.
But in an instant it was over. He rolled the magazine tight, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’m just gonna borrow this. Or, well. No. I’m gonna take it. Trust me, you won’t want it back.” He inclined his head at Orren. “That all right with you, son?”
“It’s not mine,” Orren wheezed. He gestured at Holtt with an unsteady hand. “It’s, er. It’s his.”
Motti whipped around to look at him, but Holtt was already raising his hands in surrender. “Take it, sir, please. I won’t miss it.”
“Good man,” Motti replied. “But I don’t want to entirely put you out. Oh, hang on,” he added, reaching into his other pocket. “We can trade. I see that Csillan Studs you’re hiding under your elbow—no need to be shy, it’s a great issue. Did you catch Ba’kif’s spread? That man can slam you to the floor before you’ve got a chance to blink. Just ask Thrawn, hah! Ah, where did I—there we go.”
From his pocket he pulled out a datachip. Holtt could make out The Tinnelian Times etched on the front in tidy Basic.
Motti tossed it at him, and he caught it. “Check out the ‘Arts & Culture’ section,” he said with a wink. “And thank me later.” And then he stood, and sauntered off into the crowd.
Holtt looked at Orren. He was still a very odd color, but he looked less like he was going to keel over than before. “Can I borrow your holoprojector?”
“Take it,” Orren replied, handing it over. “And if Admiral Motti comes back, please do me the courtesy of beating me to death with it.”
“Sure thing.” He popped the datachip into the slot and watched as The Tinnelian Times queued up. Local news, by the looks of it. Strange for Admiral Motti to have it—Tinnel was a Core World, and Motti’s accent was obviously born from the Rim. He scrolled through to the Arts & Culture section, and found himself gawking.
It flickered over the table for all of two seconds before Orren leapt across the surface to slam the ‘projector off, but it was enough time for both of them to get the complete picture.
“Was that—”
“Yes.”
“Wedged between—”
“Yes.”
Orren looked slightly crazed. A lock of his dark hair had come unmoored, sticking to his forehead with a guilty curl. “I had no idea Moff Jerjerrod was so... sporty....”
“Or so flexible.” He wet his lips, glancing back where the holo had hovered only a moment ago. He didn’t need to see it to recall it; the image of Moff Jerjerrod pinned between a grinning, sweaty Admiral Motti and an equally smug, equally sweaty, and somehow more alarmingly nude Grand Admiral Thrawn was forever burned into his retinas. “Sporting Culture from the Rim and Beyond,” had read the article title.
Holtt had never really gone in for high culture. But he’d consider expanding his horizons for that.
“Say, er, Damon, old friend,” Orren began, “I do wonder if you’d like to, ah. Move this into my quarters? I’d like a chance to... to read it. The. Hah. The article.”
“My quarters,” he answered. “And I get to keep the Csillan Studs. Deal?”
Orren’s lips quirked in a smile. “Deal.”