New Fic - Star Wars - "Per Exasperatio Ad Astra - Ch.12"
In which meet some new (old) players
Grand Admiral Natasi Daala’s desk pinged a notification.
“Bridge to Grand Admiral,” Colonel Attande’s crisp accent said over the comm. The commander of the Star Destroyer Avenger sounded pleased with herself, as well she might.
“Enemy is in full retreat, ma’am. Preliminary assessment is that their capital assets have been 80% degraded, intermediate craft 62% degraded, individual fighter craft 87% degraded. No identifiable droid-craft were involved in this engagement. Do we pursue? Our TIEs seeded trackers and we estimate that 72% of them attached successfully.”
“Congratulations, Colonel. Please convey my compliments to the Fleet on a job well done. No need to pursue for now, we can find them when we want them. Get everything cleaned up and squared away, and I’ll see you at the debrief. Daala out.”
Her Personal Staff Officer, Captain Nikara Pellaeon, popped his head in through the open door to the outer office. “Congratulations, ma’am, on a successful strategy.”
Daala allowed herself a satisfied smirk. The Order’s subspace research had borne a great deal of fruit, not least the ability to quickly and efficiently identify new hyperspace routes. The New Republic forces guarding the major hyperspace accesses into the Allegiant Sector (or the Imperial Remnant, as everyone else in the Galaxy, including the First Order, called it) had wholly failed to notice the Coreward Fleet jumping quietly into the heart of the sector and settling in. The Fleet’s subsequent offensive, timed for maximum effect in the wake of the Hosnian attack, had taken out half of the Republic forces in the first fifteen minutes. As auxiliary units peeled off in response to frantic orders from their home systems, the remaining core of New Republic ships had been boringly easy pickings over the next few standard days.
“Now for the hard part,” she said, absently flipping her grey and red-brown plait between her fingers (Daala was the main reason for that particular hairstyle staying on the Order’s approved list). “The Rem...Allegiants still think that they’re the Empire. They need to be shown differently.”
Pellaeon grinned back at her. “Looking forward to it, ma’am.” As her PSO, he had borne the brunt of the increasingly tetchy demands by the Sector Governor (Daala refused to call him a Moff) and Allegiant General Pryde, the Sector Commander-in-Chief, who still (mistakenly) thought that they were the real authorities of the sector.
Daala was not expecting any problems with the Rem..Allegiants (Pellaeon had been threatening to have her bedroom comm repeat “Allegiant Sector” throughout her entire sleep shift until she internalised it). The otherwise incompetent New Republic had been extremely zealous about making sure that its defeated foes complied with the Galactic Concordance in every particular (especially the articles dealing with disarmament).
The sector was therefore plentifully supplied with cash, resources in kind, general industrial capacity, and potential recruits, but distinctly short of serious modern weaponry or the means to fabricate it.
Unfortunately, the lack of kinetic aggravation was more than being made up for by an excess of the personnel sort. The sector authorities, both civilian and military, were elderly ex-Imperials, typical revanchists seeking a return to an ever-more-golden-in-memory age of Imperial glory, while fondly believing themselves entitled to positions of power in the new (restored) dispensation.
Daala had not yet received the instruction to replace the lot of them with their younger, more intellectually flexible deputies, and in view of the chaos that had apparently overtaken the Capital Fleet, she might be waiting for a while, but she was hopeful that it was merely a matter of time. And if they annoyed her any more, their retirement would be by way of summary trials for embezzlement and the nearest airlock, rather than to the countryside to spend more time gardening with their families. Accounting and Audit was already reporting numerous interesting financial anomalies in both the military and civilian branches of the Sector administration, and their forensic auditors, both droid and human, were reportedly having a wonderful time.
The desk chimed again. Pellaeon this time, signalling that something absolutely needed her attention. Daala sighed. That nice buzz of victory probably wasn’t going to last long. But it was Pellaeon’s job to triage her post, and his judgement was good.
She tapped her desk, bringing up her message queues. There, in the usually thinly-populated MOST IMMEDIATE queue (Daala believed in empowering her subordinates to deal with whatever they proved themselves capable of dealing with; subordinates who didn’t reach a satisfactory level of capability fast didn’t last long) hung two messages flagged in blazing orange. She opened them both.
Well, well. Two ALL PERSONNEL IMMEDIATE bulletins, one each from Grand Marshal-designate Armitage Hux and Yaelin Raikte, Head of General Administration, i.e the highest civilian authority of the First Order after the Supreme Leader himself. Both identical in wording, announcing that Supreme Leader Kylo Ren had authorised the opening of an ad hoc emergency ranking and promotion round, civilian and military, to fill the openings created by the loss of Starkiller Base, Fulminatrix and the attack on Supremacy. Preliminary lists of the posts to be filled were annexed. All staff were to submit their staff assessment forms to their superiors within the next standard month.
A sour grin tugged at Daala’s mouth. Matters had been resolved in the Capital Fleet, it appeared.
“Nikara! A call to Grand Admiral Sloane at her soonest convenience! And send me your SAF on your next duty shift!”
An hour later, the Grand Admiral was still at her desk, her calorically calibrated, maximally nutritious lunch sweetened considerably by cheerful contemplation of assorted New Republic news programmes (still all Hosnian, all the time). Her desk chimed, at the pitch assigned to only one person.
Daala shut her door, activated the “Absolutely Do Not Disturb” for the next half hour so that Pellaeon would adjust her schedule accordingly, and accepted the com. Despite the distance and numerous spacial anomalies between Avenger and the Unknown Regions, Rae Sloane’s image was to all appearances solid and fully three-dimensional; another benefit of the First Order’s research into subspace transmission technologies. Sloane looked tired, and a lot more white had appeared in her dark hair since the not-too-long-ago time that they had last spoken, but there was something in her stance and the way that she held her head that brought Daala to full alert. Only fools underestimated Sloane.
They had never been friends, exactly. Their personalities and command approaches were too different. But they shared a certain fundamental honesty, and an even more fundamental pragmatism. Sloane kept her secrets, but she had never, as far as Daala was aware, tried to lie to her, or manipulate her beyond the accepted norm at their level. And both had shared (without ever having to explicate it to each other) an opinion about Snoke and his rise to power over the Order. Sloane had gone quietly when Snoke had side-lined her, busying herself with the tedious minutiae of creating a multi-system administration out of nothing. Daala had bent the knee, accepted her place in the new High Command, and stayed as far away from Snoke as she could, lest she suffer a similar fate to Sloane’s (or worse), without Sloane’s reserves of patience, resilience and cunning to help her survive. She did not in fact lack self-awareness or self-esteem; it was not shameful to prefer conducting your negotiations with the business end of an ion cannon. But in Snoke’s First Order, Sloane’s way of doing things would have a much better chance of success. Daala had been careful never to think, even to herself, what ‘success’ in this particular context might mean.
As usual, Sloane eschewed pleasantries.
“Natasi. I take it you’ve seen the announcements.”
Daala inclined her head politely, acknowledging the other woman’s seniority.
“Rae. I have. My congratulations.”
. . . . .
The only place on the Millennium Falcon that could accommodate more than a dozen people at once, even people who knew and liked each other very much, was the main cargo hold. Chewbacca and the Resistance techs had managed to rig up oxygen, some heat, and some extremely basic sanitary facilities, but it was still stuffy, smelly, and despite the body heat of nearly a hundred people and an ever-increasing number of porgs, rather cold.
Leia wrapped her cloak around herself and waved down the people who were trying to get to their feet and salute her. An elderly packing crate was hurriedly cleared off for her to sit and assess the state of her forces: much better than it had been just a few hours ago, at least on first inspection. This was not an entirely positive judgement. Whatever Rey (and Ben, said the part of her that spoke in Breha Organa’s voice and never let her lie to herself) had done, it had not just healed eveeryone’s injuries and physical exhaustion. It had also, as Harter had confirmed earlier, discreetly and with unhidden disquiet, obviously done something to their brain chemistries. Contrary to all rational expectation, the men and women looking to her for direction were healthy, alert, steady and as cheerful as the circumstances allowed. That last was an important qualification; Poe Dameron’s mental state was still cause for concern. As Harter had said with careful neutrality, “He is depressed because he has reason to be.”
Notwithstanding the more alarming implications of the situation, Leia was grateful not to have to deal with the demoralised funk that she would otherwise have expected.
“Well, my friends,” she began. “Believe it or not, we’re in better shape than I feared.”
. . . . .
In the cockpit, Chewbacca was explaining to Rey the finer points of operating as a grey-market (on the kindest possible interpretation) long-haul freighter in the wilder reaches of the Galaxy.
“Choose a name,” he said. “I have ID for all of them: Fickle Flyer, Corell’s Pride, Stellar Envoy, Wayward Son …”
Rey grimaced, and he snarled softly in agreement. “Not that one, no.”
“Stellar Envoy,” Rey offered. “That’s a good name.” It was. It felt right. She wasn’t sure that she could actuallytrust her feelings, since she had been so catastrophically wrong once already, but this seemed a small enough issue that she need not worry too much about getting it wrong; from what Leia had told her of the Force, she did need the practice. And from the other things that Leia had said, the name reflected what the Resistance would have to be, now. Envoys, messengers, activists. Advocates of a dream that they no longer had the power to realise themselves (if they had ever had it; Chewbacca had been quite eloquent about the Resistance’s actual military chances against the First Order).
. . . . .
A short, dark-skinned Captain was waiting in the outside office when they emerged from the conference room. Hux raised a questioning eyebrow, and then realised who the man was: the luckless Captain Aznic Keltor, Kylo Ren’s assigned Personal Staff Officer, universally accepted by the Finalizer’s crew as someone whom Fate really hated.
Captain Keltor offered a full salute, and said stiffly, “Supreme Leader, Sir! Due to the unfortunate loss of former Supreme Leader Snoke’s entire personal staff, you are presently lacking suitable staffers for your personal office. May I have your permission to ask Human Resources to assign you a new PSO and general personnel of appropriate rank, Sir?”
He even managed a straight face and no note of hope in his voice. He really was a good officer. Such a pity, Hux thought. And also, Nice try, Keltor.
Captain Keltor had been a promising junior lieutenant when Ren first joined the Finalizer, and had been trapped with Ren ever since, due to Human Resources’ inability to find anyone willing to replace him. Hux had given him several promotions in lieu of granting his regular requests for a transfer; he was still alive and according to Medical, had never actually even suffered any physical injury, so obviously Ren liked him. No need to change a part that was still functioning (Hux had also authorised regular sessions with Psychological Assessment, just in case).
Snoke’s off-duty staff had died in their quarters in Holdo’s attack, vapourised together with that whole slice of the ship. The ones on-duty…had been found comatose at their posts during the internal SAR/Evac, and had all died within three hours, despite every attempt to save them. Hux made a mental note to ask Ren about that too; there was no way that it had nothing to do with Snoke’s death. One more on his long list of Force-related Things He Needed To Know.
Ren said, “Be patient. Wait, and you will have what you truly desire.” Not ominous at all, oh no. Keltor didn’t flinch, further demonstrating his suitability for his post. Ren went on, “Remain as the head of my office for now. Recruit whom you wish, but look first among the ones who have been helping me with the SAR. I will also need a protocol droid, and medical staff on permanent attachment. The medics from my shuttle from Crait will do. And send me your personal staff assessment form tomorrow.”
Keltor saluted again. Whatever paroxysms of despair he might be enduring, he kept hidden. “Yes, Sir.”
Hux exchanged a glance with Raikte. In normal circumstances, this would have been an obvious opportunity for both of them to propose their own people for Ren’s private office. In the present circumstances… Hux found himself saying, “Supreme Leader, in respect of the protocol droid I suggest that you get a basic model and then allow it to modify itself as your requirements reveal themselves. I have found this a satisfactory proceeding for my own office.”
He braced himself to meet Ren’s gaze, and was surprised to find it both human and…not unfriendly. Insofar as a mostly-but-not-quite blank expression could be anything.
But Ren’s response was both civil and sensible. “Thank you, Grand Marshal. A very good suggestion. Captain Keltor, please see to it.”
He looked at Raikte. “Head Raikte, I am sure you are busy. Thank you for your time today, and I will see you later at the SOM. Grand Marshal, I will need you and Acting DG Tiekte to accompany me for an inspection of the late Supreme Leader Snoke’s quarters in half an hour’s time. We will meet here. Captain, please accompany me.”
The Supreme Leader took everyone’s half-salutes (the soldiers with the military clenched fist, the civilians with the open palm flat to the breast), and swept out, trailed stoically by Captain Keltor.
“He wasn’t even wearing the cape,” Tiekte murmured, obviously still in a state of shock from the multiple revelations of lunch. “I have to get a visual of that.”
Raikte coughed in a minatory way. “Grand Marshal, thank you for your hospitality. I will see you at the SOM.” She hesitated, then said, “And, ah, I take it that there will be appropriate security precautions? In light of the discussion that we are likely to have.”
Hux inclined his head. “Have no concern, ma’am. No disorder will be tolerated, I assure you.”
Tiekte said, “Grand Marshal, will we need protective gear for this… inspection? I thought that sector was already closed.”
Opan said, “No need, ma’am. It’s sealed and the heat’s off, but there’s still air and gravity. We anticipated that the Supreme Leader would want a look at those rooms.”
And even if he hadn’t, Hux did, and had fully intended to get into them before the Supremacy was evacuated.
The civilians left, Tiekte muttering to her datapad about recording droids, image adjustment and preliminary perception-seeding. She did at least seem to know what she was about. Hux made a mental note to propose regular liaison meetings between his own outreach people and StratCom, for unified and strategically coherent external and internal messaging. It was very clear that ignoring the Civilian Arm had been a fatal error on Snoke’s part; one not to be repeated.
His ruminations were interrupted by an anguished howl from the direction of his office.
“Millicent’s awake, Sir,” Stynnix said unnecessarily, “May we let her out into the main office?"
Hux had long suspected that his cat was the main reason why his personal staff stayed with him. Opan respected a fellow professional killer, and everyone else was deceived by her good looks and entirely spurious charm.
“Of course, Lieutenant. The company will do her good.”
. . . . .
Notes:
The idea that the First Order uses subspace energy transmission technology for things other than blowing up planets comes from Gamebird on AO3.
Grand Admiral Natasi Daala’s desk pinged a notification.
“Bridge to Grand Admiral,” Colonel Attande’s crisp accent said over the comm. The commander of the Star Destroyer Avenger sounded pleased with herself, as well she might.
“Enemy is in full retreat, ma’am. Preliminary assessment is that their capital assets have been 80% degraded, intermediate craft 62% degraded, individual fighter craft 87% degraded. No identifiable droid-craft were involved in this engagement. Do we pursue? Our TIEs seeded trackers and we estimate that 72% of them attached successfully.”
“Congratulations, Colonel. Please convey my compliments to the Fleet on a job well done. No need to pursue for now, we can find them when we want them. Get everything cleaned up and squared away, and I’ll see you at the debrief. Daala out.”
Her Personal Staff Officer, Captain Nikara Pellaeon, popped his head in through the open door to the outer office. “Congratulations, ma’am, on a successful strategy.”
Daala allowed herself a satisfied smirk. The Order’s subspace research had borne a great deal of fruit, not least the ability to quickly and efficiently identify new hyperspace routes. The New Republic forces guarding the major hyperspace accesses into the Allegiant Sector (or the Imperial Remnant, as everyone else in the Galaxy, including the First Order, called it) had wholly failed to notice the Coreward Fleet jumping quietly into the heart of the sector and settling in. The Fleet’s subsequent offensive, timed for maximum effect in the wake of the Hosnian attack, had taken out half of the Republic forces in the first fifteen minutes. As auxiliary units peeled off in response to frantic orders from their home systems, the remaining core of New Republic ships had been boringly easy pickings over the next few standard days.
“Now for the hard part,” she said, absently flipping her grey and red-brown plait between her fingers (Daala was the main reason for that particular hairstyle staying on the Order’s approved list). “The Rem...Allegiants still think that they’re the Empire. They need to be shown differently.”
Pellaeon grinned back at her. “Looking forward to it, ma’am.” As her PSO, he had borne the brunt of the increasingly tetchy demands by the Sector Governor (Daala refused to call him a Moff) and Allegiant General Pryde, the Sector Commander-in-Chief, who still (mistakenly) thought that they were the real authorities of the sector.
Daala was not expecting any problems with the Rem..Allegiants (Pellaeon had been threatening to have her bedroom comm repeat “Allegiant Sector” throughout her entire sleep shift until she internalised it). The otherwise incompetent New Republic had been extremely zealous about making sure that its defeated foes complied with the Galactic Concordance in every particular (especially the articles dealing with disarmament).
The sector was therefore plentifully supplied with cash, resources in kind, general industrial capacity, and potential recruits, but distinctly short of serious modern weaponry or the means to fabricate it.
Unfortunately, the lack of kinetic aggravation was more than being made up for by an excess of the personnel sort. The sector authorities, both civilian and military, were elderly ex-Imperials, typical revanchists seeking a return to an ever-more-golden-in-memory age of Imperial glory, while fondly believing themselves entitled to positions of power in the new (restored) dispensation.
Daala had not yet received the instruction to replace the lot of them with their younger, more intellectually flexible deputies, and in view of the chaos that had apparently overtaken the Capital Fleet, she might be waiting for a while, but she was hopeful that it was merely a matter of time. And if they annoyed her any more, their retirement would be by way of summary trials for embezzlement and the nearest airlock, rather than to the countryside to spend more time gardening with their families. Accounting and Audit was already reporting numerous interesting financial anomalies in both the military and civilian branches of the Sector administration, and their forensic auditors, both droid and human, were reportedly having a wonderful time.
The desk chimed again. Pellaeon this time, signalling that something absolutely needed her attention. Daala sighed. That nice buzz of victory probably wasn’t going to last long. But it was Pellaeon’s job to triage her post, and his judgement was good.
She tapped her desk, bringing up her message queues. There, in the usually thinly-populated MOST IMMEDIATE queue (Daala believed in empowering her subordinates to deal with whatever they proved themselves capable of dealing with; subordinates who didn’t reach a satisfactory level of capability fast didn’t last long) hung two messages flagged in blazing orange. She opened them both.
Well, well. Two ALL PERSONNEL IMMEDIATE bulletins, one each from Grand Marshal-designate Armitage Hux and Yaelin Raikte, Head of General Administration, i.e the highest civilian authority of the First Order after the Supreme Leader himself. Both identical in wording, announcing that Supreme Leader Kylo Ren had authorised the opening of an ad hoc emergency ranking and promotion round, civilian and military, to fill the openings created by the loss of Starkiller Base, Fulminatrix and the attack on Supremacy. Preliminary lists of the posts to be filled were annexed. All staff were to submit their staff assessment forms to their superiors within the next standard month.
A sour grin tugged at Daala’s mouth. Matters had been resolved in the Capital Fleet, it appeared.
“Nikara! A call to Grand Admiral Sloane at her soonest convenience! And send me your SAF on your next duty shift!”
An hour later, the Grand Admiral was still at her desk, her calorically calibrated, maximally nutritious lunch sweetened considerably by cheerful contemplation of assorted New Republic news programmes (still all Hosnian, all the time). Her desk chimed, at the pitch assigned to only one person.
Daala shut her door, activated the “Absolutely Do Not Disturb” for the next half hour so that Pellaeon would adjust her schedule accordingly, and accepted the com. Despite the distance and numerous spacial anomalies between Avenger and the Unknown Regions, Rae Sloane’s image was to all appearances solid and fully three-dimensional; another benefit of the First Order’s research into subspace transmission technologies. Sloane looked tired, and a lot more white had appeared in her dark hair since the not-too-long-ago time that they had last spoken, but there was something in her stance and the way that she held her head that brought Daala to full alert. Only fools underestimated Sloane.
They had never been friends, exactly. Their personalities and command approaches were too different. But they shared a certain fundamental honesty, and an even more fundamental pragmatism. Sloane kept her secrets, but she had never, as far as Daala was aware, tried to lie to her, or manipulate her beyond the accepted norm at their level. And both had shared (without ever having to explicate it to each other) an opinion about Snoke and his rise to power over the Order. Sloane had gone quietly when Snoke had side-lined her, busying herself with the tedious minutiae of creating a multi-system administration out of nothing. Daala had bent the knee, accepted her place in the new High Command, and stayed as far away from Snoke as she could, lest she suffer a similar fate to Sloane’s (or worse), without Sloane’s reserves of patience, resilience and cunning to help her survive. She did not in fact lack self-awareness or self-esteem; it was not shameful to prefer conducting your negotiations with the business end of an ion cannon. But in Snoke’s First Order, Sloane’s way of doing things would have a much better chance of success. Daala had been careful never to think, even to herself, what ‘success’ in this particular context might mean.
As usual, Sloane eschewed pleasantries.
“Natasi. I take it you’ve seen the announcements.”
Daala inclined her head politely, acknowledging the other woman’s seniority.
“Rae. I have. My congratulations.”
. . . . .
The only place on the Millennium Falcon that could accommodate more than a dozen people at once, even people who knew and liked each other very much, was the main cargo hold. Chewbacca and the Resistance techs had managed to rig up oxygen, some heat, and some extremely basic sanitary facilities, but it was still stuffy, smelly, and despite the body heat of nearly a hundred people and an ever-increasing number of porgs, rather cold.
Leia wrapped her cloak around herself and waved down the people who were trying to get to their feet and salute her. An elderly packing crate was hurriedly cleared off for her to sit and assess the state of her forces: much better than it had been just a few hours ago, at least on first inspection. This was not an entirely positive judgement. Whatever Rey (and Ben, said the part of her that spoke in Breha Organa’s voice and never let her lie to herself) had done, it had not just healed eveeryone’s injuries and physical exhaustion. It had also, as Harter had confirmed earlier, discreetly and with unhidden disquiet, obviously done something to their brain chemistries. Contrary to all rational expectation, the men and women looking to her for direction were healthy, alert, steady and as cheerful as the circumstances allowed. That last was an important qualification; Poe Dameron’s mental state was still cause for concern. As Harter had said with careful neutrality, “He is depressed because he has reason to be.”
Notwithstanding the more alarming implications of the situation, Leia was grateful not to have to deal with the demoralised funk that she would otherwise have expected.
“Well, my friends,” she began. “Believe it or not, we’re in better shape than I feared.”
. . . . .
In the cockpit, Chewbacca was explaining to Rey the finer points of operating as a grey-market (on the kindest possible interpretation) long-haul freighter in the wilder reaches of the Galaxy.
“Choose a name,” he said. “I have ID for all of them: Fickle Flyer, Corell’s Pride, Stellar Envoy, Wayward Son …”
Rey grimaced, and he snarled softly in agreement. “Not that one, no.”
“Stellar Envoy,” Rey offered. “That’s a good name.” It was. It felt right. She wasn’t sure that she could actuallytrust her feelings, since she had been so catastrophically wrong once already, but this seemed a small enough issue that she need not worry too much about getting it wrong; from what Leia had told her of the Force, she did need the practice. And from the other things that Leia had said, the name reflected what the Resistance would have to be, now. Envoys, messengers, activists. Advocates of a dream that they no longer had the power to realise themselves (if they had ever had it; Chewbacca had been quite eloquent about the Resistance’s actual military chances against the First Order).
. . . . .
A short, dark-skinned Captain was waiting in the outside office when they emerged from the conference room. Hux raised a questioning eyebrow, and then realised who the man was: the luckless Captain Aznic Keltor, Kylo Ren’s assigned Personal Staff Officer, universally accepted by the Finalizer’s crew as someone whom Fate really hated.
Captain Keltor offered a full salute, and said stiffly, “Supreme Leader, Sir! Due to the unfortunate loss of former Supreme Leader Snoke’s entire personal staff, you are presently lacking suitable staffers for your personal office. May I have your permission to ask Human Resources to assign you a new PSO and general personnel of appropriate rank, Sir?”
He even managed a straight face and no note of hope in his voice. He really was a good officer. Such a pity, Hux thought. And also, Nice try, Keltor.
Captain Keltor had been a promising junior lieutenant when Ren first joined the Finalizer, and had been trapped with Ren ever since, due to Human Resources’ inability to find anyone willing to replace him. Hux had given him several promotions in lieu of granting his regular requests for a transfer; he was still alive and according to Medical, had never actually even suffered any physical injury, so obviously Ren liked him. No need to change a part that was still functioning (Hux had also authorised regular sessions with Psychological Assessment, just in case).
Snoke’s off-duty staff had died in their quarters in Holdo’s attack, vapourised together with that whole slice of the ship. The ones on-duty…had been found comatose at their posts during the internal SAR/Evac, and had all died within three hours, despite every attempt to save them. Hux made a mental note to ask Ren about that too; there was no way that it had nothing to do with Snoke’s death. One more on his long list of Force-related Things He Needed To Know.
Ren said, “Be patient. Wait, and you will have what you truly desire.” Not ominous at all, oh no. Keltor didn’t flinch, further demonstrating his suitability for his post. Ren went on, “Remain as the head of my office for now. Recruit whom you wish, but look first among the ones who have been helping me with the SAR. I will also need a protocol droid, and medical staff on permanent attachment. The medics from my shuttle from Crait will do. And send me your personal staff assessment form tomorrow.”
Keltor saluted again. Whatever paroxysms of despair he might be enduring, he kept hidden. “Yes, Sir.”
Hux exchanged a glance with Raikte. In normal circumstances, this would have been an obvious opportunity for both of them to propose their own people for Ren’s private office. In the present circumstances… Hux found himself saying, “Supreme Leader, in respect of the protocol droid I suggest that you get a basic model and then allow it to modify itself as your requirements reveal themselves. I have found this a satisfactory proceeding for my own office.”
He braced himself to meet Ren’s gaze, and was surprised to find it both human and…not unfriendly. Insofar as a mostly-but-not-quite blank expression could be anything.
But Ren’s response was both civil and sensible. “Thank you, Grand Marshal. A very good suggestion. Captain Keltor, please see to it.”
He looked at Raikte. “Head Raikte, I am sure you are busy. Thank you for your time today, and I will see you later at the SOM. Grand Marshal, I will need you and Acting DG Tiekte to accompany me for an inspection of the late Supreme Leader Snoke’s quarters in half an hour’s time. We will meet here. Captain, please accompany me.”
The Supreme Leader took everyone’s half-salutes (the soldiers with the military clenched fist, the civilians with the open palm flat to the breast), and swept out, trailed stoically by Captain Keltor.
“He wasn’t even wearing the cape,” Tiekte murmured, obviously still in a state of shock from the multiple revelations of lunch. “I have to get a visual of that.”
Raikte coughed in a minatory way. “Grand Marshal, thank you for your hospitality. I will see you at the SOM.” She hesitated, then said, “And, ah, I take it that there will be appropriate security precautions? In light of the discussion that we are likely to have.”
Hux inclined his head. “Have no concern, ma’am. No disorder will be tolerated, I assure you.”
Tiekte said, “Grand Marshal, will we need protective gear for this… inspection? I thought that sector was already closed.”
Opan said, “No need, ma’am. It’s sealed and the heat’s off, but there’s still air and gravity. We anticipated that the Supreme Leader would want a look at those rooms.”
And even if he hadn’t, Hux did, and had fully intended to get into them before the Supremacy was evacuated.
The civilians left, Tiekte muttering to her datapad about recording droids, image adjustment and preliminary perception-seeding. She did at least seem to know what she was about. Hux made a mental note to propose regular liaison meetings between his own outreach people and StratCom, for unified and strategically coherent external and internal messaging. It was very clear that ignoring the Civilian Arm had been a fatal error on Snoke’s part; one not to be repeated.
His ruminations were interrupted by an anguished howl from the direction of his office.
“Millicent’s awake, Sir,” Stynnix said unnecessarily, “May we let her out into the main office?"
Hux had long suspected that his cat was the main reason why his personal staff stayed with him. Opan respected a fellow professional killer, and everyone else was deceived by her good looks and entirely spurious charm.
“Of course, Lieutenant. The company will do her good.”
. . . . .
Notes:
The idea that the First Order uses subspace energy transmission technology for things other than blowing up planets comes from Gamebird on AO3.