Veers himself had served on the Death Star for a time. It had loomed so large, a seemingly invincible construct, both space station and weapon, and yet it had been destroyed by a mere youth—the rebel pilot known as Skywalker. Now the Executor and its commander were on a search to discover, and obliterate, every last rebel, especially the troublesome boy. This was the task of all who served aboard the Executor; their unwavering focus all day, every day, from the moment of waking until the quietness of sleep descended. And even then, the singular duty haunted one’s dreams. All had a part to play.
In Veers’s mind, there were those who led, and those who followed. Sometimes a person was one, sometimes the other. It was important, Veers had learned, to excel in either role.
All powerful beings relied upon the obedience and willing service of others equally remarkable.
So Veers watched and observed. He took great care to align himself with strong leaders, and treated the troops he led with care and support. This mutually beneficial relationship had existed since the dawn of time, and would not go away anytime soon. Not so long as there existed powerful leaders like Lord Vader, and devoted, unfailingly loyal followers like himself.
Earlier, the general had been walking alongside Admiral Kendal Ozzel, both heading to speak with Lord Vader. Ozzel was older than Veers, less spit-and-polish, and softer, physically at least; his mind and strategies were still sound. He was genial, so long as he was agreed with, and like Grand Moff Tarkin quite sure of himself. Captain Firmus Piett, a sharp-featured man with an eye toward rising in the ranks, had called Ozzel over; the younger man thought he had a lead on the rebels’ location.
Ozzel scoffed, Piett insisted…and then, suddenly, Darth Vader was there.
In his career, Veers had met many diplomats, leaders, generals, and royalty. Many were impressive; some intimidating. But no one had a presence like Lord Vader. He was a massive figure swathed in darkness; the very energy around him seeming to change upon his entrance: charged, elevated. And, always, the sound. Rhythmic, constant, it terrified those who were the object of the Dark Lord’s displeasure. Those ill-fated fools knew that sound would likely be the last thing they heard. Veers, however, found it calming. Steady. As unfaltering as Vader was, as he, Maximilian Veers, was. The Dark Lord was many things to Veers, but he was not a threat. Because Veers never failed him.
Vader was certain the rebels were at the site Piett had discovered, and that the most highly desired object of all—Skywalker—was among them.
That should have been the end of it. Veers knew it, Piett knew it…but somehow Ozzel did not. He implied that Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith, was wrong. That was a mistake, and it was not Ozzel’s last.
* * *
—
Veers came to a precise halt in front of Lord Vader’s meditation chamber and waited.
Veers was perfectly well aware that Darth Vader was not a god. On more than one occasion, while reporting to the Dark Lord when he was in his meditation chamber, Veers had caught a glimpse of Lord Vader donning his helm. There was only a man in there; one who had suffered horribly, whose skin was nothing but angry red scar tissue. He had bled, had burned; had felt agonizing pain. And he had endured. Veers did not know the man Darth Vader had been, before the helm and armor and glowing red lightsaber, but it did not matter to him. Darth Vader was who had been born from that unimaginable suffering. He was no stranger to violence or malice. And all Lord Vader demanded of those who served was respect, obedience, and success.
It was so simple. And it was because of that simplicity that Veers had never failed him.
There was the pneumatic hiss of the chamber, looking like the jaws of a sleek, black beast with an almost too-bright, white interior.
“What is it, General?” The deep, rich voice, smooth and calm save when it was even deeper with rage. Such a tone had never been directed toward Veers.
Veers used no extraneous words, nor did he fail to provide the particulars his lord needed to know. He informed Vader that the Executor had dropped out of lightspeed and that com-scan had detected an energy field on the sixth planet of the Hoth system; one powerful enough to deflect even the Executor’s bombardment.
“The rebels have detected our presence,” Vader said, calmly, as if he were musing about trivialities. Veers knew what was coming. “Admiral Ozzel came out of lightspeed too close to the system.”
And there it was. Ozzel’s loyalty had never been questioned, but the man suffered from the same malady Grand Moff Tarkin had—arrogance. Veers suspected that, like Tarkin, Ozzel would find the disease fatal. Even so, Veers felt moved to attempt to explain the admiral’s decision. “He-he felt surprise was wiser—”
“He is as clumsy as he is stupid,” Vader said, annoyance creeping into the booming voice. Veers’s heartbeat remained steady. The anger was not for him. “General…prepare your troops for a surface attack.”
“Yes, my lord,” Veers replied, bowing his head, then turning smartly on his heel.
He slowed as he approached the door, though. He knew what was about to unfold. But despite his flaws, Admiral Kendal Ozzel deserved to be witnessed here, at the last, by at least one who respected him.
* * *
—
While Veers rarely displayed emotions, he certainly possessed them. He was a human, not a droid, and he cared deeply about winning battles for his lord, the soldiers under his command, and the technology that all their lives relied upon. He had a special fondness for the All Terrain Armored Transport, or AT-AT, as it was nicknamed. AT-ATs weren’t swift or flashy. They were steady, slow, and got the job done. Veers had spent so many hours in them that the languid, rhythmic movements of the transport, akin to riding a great beast, felt as normal to him as walking. Nothing had stronger armor than an AT-AT, and often the mere sight of one of the behemoths striding toward ground fighters was enough to psychologically rattle them without a shot being fired.
The unit Veers commanded was Blizzard Force, so named because the AT-ATs were specifically designed to function well in cold-weather operations. Veers had personally selected each and every soldier who served in this unit. His AT-AT was, of course, Blizzard One. He did not believe in sentimental nicknames, although he often oversaw repairs, and everything inside was to his exact specifications. Forty armed and armored troops were ensconced within the transport’s belly, and stationed along with Veers in the front-facing command center were TK-5187 and TK-7834, the finest gunner and pilot Veers could find.
The mission of Blizzard Force was clear and attainable. Bring down the generator powering the defensive energy field that stood between Lord Vader and his ultimate goal: the Rebellion’s destruction.
The rebels were already proving that they would not give up without a fight. They were smart, too; Veers would give them that. They had to be, against something as enormous, as deadly, as the AT-ATs. The rebels could not attack directly, so they targeted the weakest parts—the neck, the joints. And a particularly clever one realized that if the transports could be tripped, they would topple, and began to wind cables around the legs.
Blizzard Force was taking more casualties than expected, and this troubled Veers. They were his soldiers. His unit. They trusted him to lead. But he had also trusted them to follow. Follow, obey orders, die for the Empire if need be. For Lord Vader.
There would be time to mourn the fallen later, when those still living had achieved what they had died for.
The pilot was smooth, the gunner relentless and accurate. And then…there it was: the main generator. The goal. Veers had not wavered; his heart rate had never risen. Worry was uncalled for. He knew he would not fail.
There was a humming sound, and a holographic figure no larger than Veers’s hand appeared. It was Lord Vader in miniature; the small image only served to remind Veers how tall the Dark Lord was in person.
“Is victory imminent, General Veers?”
“Yes, Lord Vader. I’ve reached the main power generator. The shield will be down in moments. You may start your landing.”
Veers pressed a button. “TS-4068, report to me immediately.” The captain of the squad was always prompt, and shortly stood beside his commander, silently awaiting orders. Snowtrooper armor, like that of most troopers, was white plastoid, but—the “snowies,” as they liked to call themselves, had unique adjustments ensuring they would be as effective in a harsh frigid environment as their stormtrooper brethren were. The most unique visual aspects of their armor were helms that seemed to flow over their heads rather than enclose them. It made for a disquieting image, this ghostly figure in the snow, if one was a rebel. Veers, like his lord, understood how powerful a weapon fear could be.
“All troops will debark for ground assault,” ordered Veers. The captain nodded and hastened to notify his men. Now the moment had come. Veers stood behind the gunner and pilot. His features were still composed, but he couldn’t resist a hint of a smile. He could see it clearly with the naked eye, now, jutting up from the snow.
“Prepare to target the main generator.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Veers caught a flash of green. He turned in time to see an AT-AT explode, first its belly, then the command center. It toppled like the great, headless creature it now resembled. Did his soldiers debark? Or had the attack slain forty good troopers? Veers deliberately looked away from the smoking hulk of the AT-AT. The goal was the only thing that mattered. He could not fail Lord Vader.
Below and in front of him, he could see the snowtroopers racing toward the rebels. And beyond them…the generators.
“Distance to power generators?” he inquired, his voice calm. Steady.
“One-seven-decimal-two-eight.”
“Target. Maximum power!” Veers barked. The gunner fired. Seconds later the generators were gone, transformed into a pulsing yellow cloud of fire. Veers gazed at the scene, quietly satisfied. Now Vader and his stormtroopers could enter the rebel base. Now Vader would find this Skywalker, who had so vexed him, and the Rebellion would crumble.
At this moment, having delivered his lord’s greatest desire, Veers had not failed Lord Vader. Far from it.
“I am sure Lord Vader is very pleased, sir,” TK-7834 said.
“That is the goal, is it not?” Veers replied, brushing off the compliment. “This is merely how everyone in the Empire should behave. Obey. And excel.”
At that moment, at the edge of his vision, Veers caught movement. His head snapped to the left, and his eyes widened as a smoking rebel snowspeeder careened toward them.
* * *
—
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Fast, so fast. Sounds, dreamy, muffled, distorted. Water. Swimming in water. Weightless, at ease, warm. Ready to drift away. But no, no. That wasn’t right…
The thumping grew faster, faster. Fear crept in, tendrils of darkness, wrapping around, squeezing—no, no, please—
And then came the sound. Rhythmic, almost soothing, calming. Steady. As unfaltering as Lord Vader himself.
Veers tried to say, My lord, then realized that the labored breathing he heard was his own. And as if the knowing of this suddenly made it real, pain such as he had never felt raced through him. The armor had protected him—hadn’t it? He opened his eyes—ah! bright, too bright—and where there had been darkness and softness and warmth and comfort, now there were colors and chaos and agony, so intense and powerful it was almost…pure. And cold. So, so cold…
The strange sounds formed themselves into known things: words, his own heartbeat.
“…pretty bad…Still alive…where are the medics…”
Snow. I remember…
“He’s awake!” It was TK-78…he could not remember the number. It was Lastok. He had removed his helm, against regulations. His face was bloody, but the trooper looked more worried about Veers. Why? Veers tried to ask, but no words came out.
“General…General Veers! Sir, you’ve got to listen to me. Hang on, all right?” Lastok glanced away, looking around, then shouted, “Medic! It’s the general!” He waved, flagging someone down, then returned his attention to Veers.
“Stay with us, sir. You’re going to be all right!”
But Veers had heard fear and hope warring in a soldier’s voice before. He was not at all sure he was going to be all right. He was sufficiently aware to notice that the cold stopped at his midsection. His legs…were they just too cold for him to feel? Or…
His armor should have shielded him from the cold, but he could not stop shivering. Could he move? Legs, arms…anything?
“No, no. You can’t die, General!” Veers knew what Lastok was doing: trying to keep him from drifting away into a place where no medic would be able to help. He closed his eyes again. The softness, the comfort was calling to him again. Veers listened.
“…Lord Vader!”
The gibberish had once again formed into words Veers knew. Words that gripped him, dragged him back into this place of life, of anguish.
Tears stung his eyes at the thought of how close he had come. Lastok was right to have reminded him of his truest duty.
No. I must not fail Lord Vader.
He stopped resisting the pain and welcomed it instead. As Vader would. As Vader must have once. His mind flashed to the glimpses of the man inside the helm. His lord had not just survived unbearable torment but used it to reshape himself. Become the stronger for the suffering.
Each labored gulp of air sent excruciating stabs through his chest. He endured them. He heard the medics rush up, and knew it was safe to let go; they would catch him now. All was well.
No, my lord. I shall never fail you.
Ever.
A NATURALIST ON HOTH
Hank Green
“The Empire is here.” My commander’s voice was resigned, not as strong as he probably would have liked. “Your evac slots have been assigned.” I looked around the room; we were a bunch of scientists and mechanics, not military personnel. We knew we were in harm’s way, but our job was not to fight and kill. Nonetheless, in war, sometimes it is your job to die.
“There’s a good chance that you’ll make it out of here alive, but if you have any final messages you’d like to send, now’s the time. We’ll encrypt them and then distribute them through the entire fleet, so if anyone gets out, your message will.”
That made the situation seem more real. I had had my chances to leave this assignment a dozen times, and yet I never had. When they told me I could go, I just found that—I couldn’t. Of all of the things to fall in love with, this hostile, bitter rock was not the one I expected.
“It has been a pleasure to serve with each of you.” I could see the tears filming his eyes, but his voice showed no sign of them. “And wherever we go on this day, may the Force be with us.”
* * *
—
I wasn’t born to fight. I never ached to feel like a blaster was an extension of my body. And while my friends went to the Incom/Subpro air shows, I was only ever annoyed by the screeching of X-wings or Headhunters ripping open the sky. That doesn’t mean that I don’t know the difference between a Z-95 AF4 and a Z-95 AF4-H. I still lived in an Incom company town, and even if you weren’t interested in starfighters, they were still the basis of our economy and our culture.
I understand that I’m the weird one. It would make sense, growing up surrounded by both classics and fresh-off-the-line starfighters and speeders, that you would imagine yourself becoming a pilot. The problem was, when I surveyed my homeworld, starfighters looked clumsy and brutish compared with even the ugliest, lumbering sand slug or the most garish, invasive mynock. The complexity of nature far surpasses the most marvelous of human engineering. An ecosystem leaning on itself into a structure so magnificent that it can never be fully understood is a force so great that i
t both tears and lifts me.
This is the only thing I’ve ever been able to imagine when I heard stories of the Force. I’ve never felt it, but I can see all of the folds and crevices where it must hide.
Growing up, my classmates thought the only thing a mynock could possibly be good for was eating…if you’d already eaten all the sand slugs. But the first time I watched an organic animal actually suckling electricity from a landspeeder, I ran to my teachers and asked every one I could if a living animal could actually sustain itself on electricity.
The good news was, even in an Incom company town, there was a need for all kinds of folks, and a kid with exceptional interests got exceptional attention. If I was just another kid jockeying to be a pilot, I’d’ve had to compete with nearly everyone else. Studying biology and ecology, on the other hand—I knew more than most of my teachers by the time I was fifteen. That wasn’t saying much, as our schools focused almost entirely on engineering, tactics, and galactic history.
I actually managed to not be mocked for my enthusiasms, though I am aware that this was entirely because of my parents, who were both high-level executives at Incom. Every kid in my school was told to kiss up to me because every one of their parents wanted a promotion. And my parents didn’t mind my interests, either. The instability of the Clone Wars had been good for Incom, but bad for pilots, and if I didn’t show interest in dying in a cockpit, they weren’t going to push me.
Somehow I managed to get into a Core world university, on Corellia, actually. I was immediately out of my depth, but in a beautiful way. There was so much to know, and now I was among people who actually wanted to know it. I expected to be treated well, so people treated me well. I never stopped being disoriented by big cities, but this was less about the people and more about how hard it was to get back someplace that felt real and not manufactured.
The Republic dissolved when I was a teen, and the Empire—well, it seemed bad. But I told myself that, regardless of who was in power, the world needed people studying sand slug physiology because they were far better at absorbing and retaining water than any system devised by even the most innovative moisture farmers.
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