Imperial technician Zarn Kellam stared at the wall as the head of Imperial information technology droned on during the latest “important” holo-seminar on security protocols. How many times had he been in his quarters, in his off-hours, listening to someone discuss the importance of workplace security?
The answer: forty-six.
The Empire had held forty-six
separate remote work sessions. These mandatory “training workshops” always fell
outside his normal duty hours, meaning he’d wasted forty-six hours—nearly two
whole standard cycles—of downtime listening to the head of information
technology discuss “simple things you can do to keep the Empire strong and
secure.” The speakers changed at an alarming rate, with Jek Pernu being the
latest mouthpiece for IT security.
So many others had preceded him:
Pirn Swalt, Garvey Dellog, Tinner Klep, Dod Kedricks, Haller Daviess, Sheeto Glurg...
They were all very forgettable
types personifying the very best in Imperial efficiency. Serious in demeanor
with smartly pressed uniforms and hats worn without any panache, each sounded
authoritative and uber-competent. Then, without warning, someone would replace
them the next week and last varying amounts of time until another one ascended
to the role.
So far, Pernu (who managed to
last eight months, a new high) had delivered the usual warnings about using
Galactic Empire workstations for personal messaging, app, and banking.
“These secure workstations are reserved
for Imperial business only,” Pernu said, sounding even more judgmental than
normal. “What may appear to be a harmless program may in fact be something that
compromises Imperial security. We are not immune to the scourges of data mining
and electronic espionage. Simply do not open any non-work-related programs. Use
your downtime, downtime the Empire grants you with supreme generosity, for
personal business on the personal terminals in your quarters.”
Just like the personal
terminal I’m watching this remote holo-seminar on, Zarn thought.
“Now to the matter of your
holo-message inbox. Over the last four weeks, we have sent messages that appear
to originate from Imperial High Command,” Pernu said. “However, these messages
are fundamentally flawed, featuring poor grammar and AI translations. In many
cases, the video is out of sync. I’m pleased to reveal that not a single member
of the technical staff fell for these attempts to steal personal information.”
Zarn could only shake his head.
How could anyone with common sense fall for such a clear scam? The one he
received featured Lord Vader pitching some pseudo-currency called “VaderCreds”
that promised “most impressive returns.” Vader made a direct appeal for Zarn’s
banking information. Why would a high-ranking member of the Empire be involved in
something like that? Why would he send a message on official Imperial channels
promoting it?
The simple answer: he wouldn’t.
Zarn reported the message before
deleting it, as was protocol for suspicious communications. Any remotely
competent tech would do the same. Only a moron would fall for such an obvious
scam.
Pernu shifted on his feet and
cleared his throat. “Despite outreach efforts and extensive training workshops,
I must report the unfortunate reality that some fleet commanders did not react
to the exercise with the expected amount of caution. We have reassigned
training for these individuals in hopes of bridging some of these gaps.”
Zarn hoped Piett wasn’t one of
them. The admiral struck him as a competent commander, but having Vader breathing
over your shoulder couldn’t be easy. When the Emperor’s right-hand man watched
your every move, even a fake message could sway a person simply out of
obligation. Maybe.
“I’m sending a list of fleet
commanders to the respective techs on their ships. You are entrusted with
monitoring their training, which must be completed within seventy-two standard
hours. Imperial IT will send an automated reminder before the window closes.”
Zarn’s console beeped. He
sighed; an alarming number of the Executor command staff had failed the
security check, including Piett. A closer look at the message found that the
admiral hadn’t actually failed the test, he’d simply ignored it. Zarn
could see it one of two ways: either Piett saw the message and was smart enough
not to respond without marking it as suspicious and deleting it, or he’d simply
ignored it. Both outcomes were superior to having him fail it, as officers Shelba,
Prenze, Tuk, and Granze had.
“As you know very well,
protocols are vital to the security of the Empire,” Pernu said. “We must be
disciplined and encourage discipline among those we serve and those we serve
under. Open a dialogue with your fleet commanders and section chiefs who have
overlooked these vital training messages.”
Zarn didn’t want to “open a
dialogue” with any of them. He found just about every officer aboard the Executor
unbearable and self-important. Piett, the highest-ranking among them,
appeared to have the most common sense of the lot. Zarn’s Imperial colleagues
often talked of vain commanders who couldn’t reason their way out of a trash
compactor, men and women who played petty mind games and thirsted for power as
they sought to enter the upper echelons of High Command.
Piett didn’t lack for ambition.
He’d taken over for a commander who died right in front of him, but the fact
he’d survived the whole Bespin blunder showed Vader had faith in the man. Of
all the bureaucratic oafs and vainglorious loons Zarn had met and heard about,
Piett appeared to rise high above them in terms of competency and strategic
acumen.
“I now turn to a significant
change in Imperial policy,” Pernu said. “At the direction of Imperial High
Command, we have accelerated the timetable for the expiration of our master
code. As you are aware, the standard had been a new master code every month,
with codes up to two months given leeway because of unfortunate communication
delays across our vast Empire. High Command gives fleet commanders discretion
in accepting these older codes.”
Pernu’s image flickered as he attempted to deliver a real-time hologram to hundreds of ships across the Empire’s vast fleet. “Because of an increase in Rebel activity, we are now changing the master code every week, retroactive to two days ago. Codes older than a month are no longer acceptable based on Imperial Intelligence assessments. Fleet commanders still have limited discretion under extenuating circumstances.”
Pernu cleared his throat. “Any capital ship, starfighter, freighter, or transport attempting to enter Imperial territory with an invalid code must be immediately stopped and its crew detained for questioning. We are cognizant of gaps in our communications and how some ships in remote areas may not have received these directives. That is why this is a ‘stop and detain order’ instead of a ‘disable or kill order.’ Imperial intelligence believes the Rebel faction has taken advantage of deficiencies in our protocols to gain tactical advantages. These new procedures, when implemented correctly, will lead to a safer, more prosperous Galactic Empire. I thank you for your time. Long live the Emperor.”
“Long live the Emperor,” Zarn,
on autopilot, repeated as he switched off Pernu’s message and turned his
attention to the fleet commanders who’d been fooled by something called
“VaderCreds.”
“This whole rollout doesn’t make
a whole lot of sense to me.” Kamel Tarth nursed a cup of caf in the mess. “Changing
the master code, I get it. Narrowing the window, I get it. But the old
protocols called for ‘disable or kill’ when it’s clear a code is old or forged.
That bullshit about ‘gaps in our communications’ is pretty stupid.”
“As you know very well,
protocols are vital to the security of the Empire.” Zarn affected Pernu’s
haughty delivery. “Especially when it becomes apparent that fleet commanders
have failed my little test.” The two shared a laugh.
“The usual suspects,” Kamel
said. “Shelba, Prenze, Tuk, and Granze.”
The same four officers failed
Imperial IT’s policies and procedures check, which consisted of a four-part
questionnaire in which they simply had to acknowledge they’d received and read
the Galactic Empire’s policies and procedures handbook. One of the questions
asked them to name the ship they served on, which all four answered
correctly. They all answered incorrectly when asked to name the date of the
Galactic Empire’s founding. Two of them—Prenze and Tuk—answered it was
“optional” to stop a ship suspected of carrying Rebel forces, a response that
necessitated a visit from the Imperial Security Bureau to the Executor
along with an additional “intensive” training module. Both officers somehow
managed to pass.
“I don’t know why the Empire
puts up with those guys,” Kamel said. “We’re all held to higher standards. Why
aren’t they?”
“It’s simple,” Zarn said. “Even
though they consistently fail our silly ‘security checks,’ their battle
efficiency ratings are extremely high. I’ve looked at the numbers. Each of them
does a very good job of managing their resources during an engagement. Imperial
IT can say all they want about security tests, but the Empire really cares
about a commander’s competency when it matters. It doesn’t care if their
moronic officers lose their life savings in a VaderCreds scam.”
“I’d care if I lost my life
savings on something called VaderCreds.”
“Yeah, but the Empire wouldn’t,
just as long as you showed up to your next shift.”
“You’re probably right.” Kamel
shrugged. “Do I detect a little bit of snark there regarding our glorious
mission with the Empire?”
Zarn spun his drink in his
hands. “That sounds like an ISB question, buddy.”
“We are legion.” Both techs
laughed. “But I’m just saying you sound a little down on things, that’s all.”
Zarn shook his head. “It’s not
that. I just wish our officers took the security tests a little more seriously.
VaderCreds aside, our systems are more vulnerable than Imperial IT wants anyone
to believe. We’ve done a good job of locking things down, but the Rebels have
some damn good slicers. They’ll find a vulnerability, especially when we insist
none exists.”
“You know, I heard an old story
that’s probably apocryphal. A general aboard the Death Star—Tagge was his name,
I think—dared to suggest that the Rebellion posed a threat to the Empire. He
voiced these concerns in a meeting of several generals. Tarkin was there, I
think, and Vader showed up, too. But Motti, you know, was dismissive of the
whole thing. What happened? Tagge was right—the Rebels were a threat. And
everyone in that room, with the exception of Tagge and our dear Lord Vader, got vaporized
because they didn’t take things seriously. There’s a lesson in there.”
“Yeah—don’t sit in a room with a
bunch of admirals and generals and moffs unless you want to get vaporized,”
Zarn said.
Kamel shook his head and let out
a tsk. “The lesson is that you’re right. Vulnerabilities exist in our
systems no matter how hard we try to protect them. The Rebels can get to us.
Now, I’m seeing a lot of chatter on Bantha about some of the fleet movements
we’re making.”
“You’re not supposed to be on
that app,” Zarn said. “It’s on the banned list.”
“The restrictions are easy
enough to bypass. Besides, the app uses end-to-end encryption. As long as you
keep to private servers, you can learn a lot about the state of things.” Kamel
leaned in close and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level. “A lot of
users are saying a final offensive is imminent. We know where the Rebel fleet
is located, the entire fleet, and are awaiting orders from High Command
to make the jump to lightspeed and end this thing once and for all.”
“I really don’t think we should
be talking about this,” Zarn said. “It’s a violation of regs.”
“It’s just chatter, bud. Could
be right, could be wrong. Imagine if it’s right, though. We take out the whole
Rebellion in one fell swoop, and then the Emperor lets everyone know the new
Death Star is ready. The Galactic Empire will rule for a thousand years. And we
can finally stand down from the military. We could get a job in the private
sector or something, put down some roots and leave this fleet life behind.”
“The pay bump would be nice,”
Zarn said. “I’d take a trip somewhere. I hear Felucia’s got some outstanding
sights.”
Kamel sat back and stretched out
his arms. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. This Galactic Civil War feels
endless. What if we finally ended it? What if we bring peace and prosperity to
the entire galaxy?”
To be honest, it was a nice
thought. Life in the Imperial Navy, even just in the technical corps, meant
working strange hours, keeping copious records, and following more regulations
and protocols than he could ever remember. If they could defeat the Rebellion,
maybe he could reclaim a little of his own life for once. He hadn’t known much
of the outside world since his days at the Imperial Academy, moving from one
ship to the next and one planet to another.
No more loyalty tests. No more
banned apps. No more security holo-seminars.
It sounded pretty good.
On the Executor’s bridge, Zarn checked the arrivals and departures schedule. He saw no incoming or outgoing shipments from the forest moon. That was odd, he thought, because things were almost always coming and going, with shuttles shipping personnel to and from the moon or freighters delivering supplies. Energy shield integrity remained strong; it’s a good thing they’d had a technical crew boost the output of their prefab bunker a few months back.
“How are things looking, Technician
Kellam?” The question came from Admiral Piett. Though he managed a large crew,
he knew the name of everyone who served on the bridge, even a low-ranking
technician.
“All systems check out, sir,”
Zarn answered. “The energy shield is operating at maximum capacity.”
“Excellent.” Piett sighed and
put his hands behind his back. “I’m greatly pleased by a high level of
efficiency.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I did have another question for
you. I noticed a message from Imperial IT about some security test. Is this important?”
“Protocols are always important,
admiral,” Zarn replied. “The security check is a fleetwide exercise. Every
technician across the entire Empire passed the test. It’s a very simple matter
of—”
“I should not ignore it, then?”
“Well, sir, Imperial IT tracks
these things and reports to, you know, High Command. They’re very, um,
enthusiastic, I guess you could say, about making sure everyone is up to speed
on the latest important security policies. I wouldn’t ignore it.”
“You mean, you wouldn’t ignore
it again?” Piett said with a subtle smile.
Zarn released a heavy, relieved
breath. “The records say, sir, that you didn’t even take the test the first
time. Maybe the original message bounced out of your inbox or something. It’s
been known to happen.”
“And fleet commanders have also
been known to ignore ‘important security checks,’ especially those requiring attendance
at a holo-workshop.”
“That’s your prerogative, sir.”
“High Command brought it up at
my performance review. The moff in charge of my evaluation didn’t seem to care
about the exercise. But if it’s important to you, Kellam, then I will give
Imperial IT some of my very valuable time in the middle of a war.”
“You’ve always led by example,
sir,” Zarn said. “Perhaps completing the security check would influence some of
our other commanders to take it more seriously.”
“I received the same report you
did,” Piett said. “And while I won’t name any names, it doesn’t surprise me
that some of the officers have failed in their duties. I believe you make a
good point. Perhaps by completing the exercise, I can convince my subordinates
to do the same.”
Zarn’s console beeped. “We have
a shuttle incoming, sir.”
Piett stood somehow even
straighter. “We have nothing on the schedule for today.”
“No, sir.” Zarn checked the
transponder. A Lambda-class shuttle called the Tydirium approached.
A records search showed the shuttle hadn’t checked in with Imperial forces in several
months. He activated his comm. “We have you on our screen now. Please
identify.”
“Shuttle Tydrium, requesting
deactivation of the deflector shield,” the pilot said. He sounded bored.
Zarn bit his lower lip. “Shuttle
Tydirium, transmit the code for shield passage.”
“Transmission commencing.” The
pilot somehow sounded even more bored.
Zarn tapped on his screen. “This
is code is older than three months, Admiral. I don’t think we can let them
pass.”
Piett leaned over Kellam’s
shoulder. “The new protocols just went into effect, Technician Kellam. Surely,
we must give ships some leeway for a few days, don’t you think?”
“Well, Admiral—”
“Besides, protocol gives me
broad discretion when it comes to accepting older codes, does it not?”
Zarn took a deep breath and
gathered his thoughts. He needed to choose his next words very carefully. “It’s
true that the new protocols still give fleet commanders discretion, but ships
broadcasting an older code are subject to a ‘stop and detain order.’ The
shuttle transmitted an older code, sir, and that means the new protocols call
for us to stop it. We should absolutely not allow it to pass unchallenged.” The
shuttle appeared to be keeping its distance.
“It seems you love protocols
more than some droids do,” Piett said.
“Protocols are vital to the
security of the Empire.” Part of Zarn died inside when he realized he’d quoted Pernu.
Another tight smile from the
admiral. “A scan shows more than two dozen people on the shuttle. That lines up
with a technical support crew.”
Zarn checked the records again.
“We don’t have any delayed shipments, sir. The Tydirium isn’t on the
list of ships authorized for passage in this system. We have no scheduled
arrivals, no messages about a delayed crew. I can identify no extenuating circumstances that would necessitate allowing the shuttle to pass unchallenged.”
Zarn felt goosebumps. The hair
on the back of his neck and arms stood up. His stomach tightened. Imperial Lord
Darth Vader had a way of sweeping into a conversation like a dark wind. In Zarn’s
early days aboard the Executor, the Dark Lord’s electronic breathing
unnerved him. He thought he’d gotten used to it until he realized Vader stood
right over his shoulder.
“Where is that shuttle going?”
Vader said in that commanding voice of his.
Zarn, momentarily frozen,
shifted slightly as Piett punched the comm button on his console. “Shuttle Tydirium,
what is your cargo and destination?”
“Parts and technical crew for
the forest moon,” the pilot said. Zarn was surprised the man didn’t yawn while
answering.
“Do they have a code clearance?”
Vader asked.
Zarn resisted the urge to pump
his fist in triumph. Finally, someone who valued protocols. Of anyone in the
Empire, Lord Vader would have the utmost respect for security.
“It’s an older code, sir, but it
checks out,” Piett answered. “I was about to clear them.”
Vader looked toward some unseen horizon.
Zarn couldn’t read his mind, of course, but he was certain the Dark Lord was grappling
with how to best discipline the admiral for his flippant treatment of Imperial
protocols and procedures.
“Shall I hold?” Piett asked.
The technician waited for Vader to answer in the affirmative.
The shuttle needed to be stopped and detained;
those were the new rules set forth by the Empire. In many ways, Vader was the
Empire. He personified those ideals and—
“No. Leave them to me. I will
deal with them myself,” the Dark Lord replied.
“As you wish, my lord,” Piett
said. “Carry on.”
Zarn, stunned by the Dark Lord’s
answer, couldn’t move. Piett broke him out of his trance with a nudge, and Zarn
hit the comm button. “Shuttle Tydirium, deactivation of the shield will
commence immediately. Follow your present course.” He said it with more
confidence than he actually had. The bored pilot didn’t even bother to thank
him.
“Well done, Technician Kellam.”
Piett patted him on the shoulder and left to attend to other matters.
Vader’s heavy boots clicked ever
closer. “Technician Kellam, I sense this decision has left you uneasy.”
“Of course not, Lord Vader.”
Zarn managed not to stutter. Part of him wanted to tell Vader that he’d
violated Imperial protocol. What could he even do? File a report? If that came
across some bureaucrat’s desk, they’d simply mark the case closed and move on,
if they valued their life.
“I don’t think you’re being
truthful with me, Technician.”
Did Zarn feel tightness around
his throat? He heard that happened sometimes when people got on Vader’s bad
side. He took a deep, unobstructed breath and realized his mind was playing
tricks on him. “To be honest, my lord, your decision to allow the shuttle to
pass is a direct violation of new Imperial protocols. I just attended a
mandatory workshop about them. Sir.”
“If you feel so strongly about a
potential breach of protocol, Technician Kellam, I suggest you file a report.
Perhaps you should file two reports: one with IT and another with ISB.”
He placed a gloved hand on Zarn’s console. “While no man is above the rules,
sometimes there are more important things than protocol.” With that, like
another gust of wind, the Dark Lord left.
Once his shift ended, Zarn picked up something from the fast-serve kiosk and went to his quarters. He arranged his food on the side table and logged back into his personal console. Balancing his sandwich in his mouth, he tapped away at a detailed report citing the regulations Admiral Piett and Imperial Lord Darth Vader violated in the Empire’s most vital operational sector.
He read over it once more,
cc’ing Imperial IT, the Imperial Security Bureau, and Imperial High Command. He
quoted Vader himself.
“While no man is above the
rules, sometimes there are more important things than protocol.”
Zarn smiled, took a bite of his
sandwich, and chewed thoughtfully. His finger hovered over the send button as
he mustered the courage to forward a complaint that would surely ripple through
all levels of the Empire. But before he could do it, Piett summoned him back to
the bridge due to urgent “Rebel activity” on the forest moon.
Even in his downtime, Zarn
Kellam served the Empire.
He scarfed down what remained of
his dinner, buttoned his tunic, and made sure to put his uniform hat on
straight. His door hissed open as he left, and he missed an urgent, automated
message from Imperial IT.
Four fleet officers still needed
to complete their security training before the deadline.
Piett, at the very least, had
taken the time to fill out his.
