The Adventures of Col. Starrkin (ret.) #X
A Vaguely Star-Wars-ish Kinda Thing
Mostly for Dale

“Terribly sorry, Ma’am, but I’m afraid your security clearance is expired.”  The Imperial officer on duty, and thus presently in charge of checkpoint security, spoke confidently if politely to the woman whose uniform indicated the rank of Captain. 

“I’m sorry,” she said confidently if a bit arrogantly.  “And who are you?”

“I’m the officer on duty and thus in charge of checkpoint security,” answered the officer mechanically.  And then, snapping a salute, “Ma’am.”

“I can see that…Lieutenant.  I mean, what’s your name.”

“Moog, Ma’am.  Lieutenant Arthur Moog.” 

“Arthur?” repeated the woman.  “A strange name indeed.  What system do you hail from?”

“From the Kardoff system, Ma’am.  Third planet, tropical moon, to be precise, Ma’am.”

“Kardoff system,” repeated the woman.  “Never heard of it.”

“Respectfully, Ma’am, everybody’s gotta come from somewhere.  Ma’am.”

“Aren’t you a bit pale to be coming from a tropical moon, soldier?” asked the woman, considering the lieutenant’s skin tone.

“I’m from the Northern Temperate Zone, Ma’am,” replied the lieutenant crisply.

“I thought you said it was a tropical moon?”

“Sixty-two percent, Ma’am.  But as you surely know, according regulation 354651A, paragraph 27c, subparagraph 41f: ‘All planets and moons under Imperial jurisdiction are to be classified according to their dominant climatic zone.’  It’s in the handbook, Ma’am.”  The ‘handbook,’ which was 34 volumes in its most recent publication, was required reading at the Academy.

“I see you know your regulations, soldier,” observed the woman. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” declared the soldier proudly.  “Therefore, I trust you understand why I must not allow you entry given your expired clearance codes.  Regulation 887563 – “

“Don’t quote me regulations, Lieutenant!”  The woman glowered at the man of lower rank with the confidence afforded only to those who had earned the privilege of wearing the Imperial riding pants. 

“Yes, Captain,” acknowledged the lieutenant.  “Yet the captain must know that I am required to quote regulations.  Regulation 2348657R, paragraph 93j, subparagraph 4c clearly states – “

“I said, don’t quote regulations at me, lieutenant!” 

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!” saluted the junior officer.  “Respectfully, Ma’am, I thought the captain was testing me.  Ma’am.” 

“Now listen good, soldier,” intoned the woman.  “I’m here an official business.  I bear strictly classified intelligence regarding the whereabouts of highly sought after Rebel scum.”

“Insurrectionist bastards, Ma’am.”

“That’s right,” agreed the woman, her tone softening somewhat slightly while her arrogance remained intact.  “Now suppose we were take this up with your commanding officer.  Or the commander of this entire base.  Do you suppose he’d approve of your denying entry to an officer of my rank bearing highly classified intelligence?”

“She, Ma’am,” corrected the guard.  “Or has the captain forgotten that this base is under the command of Colonel Jayssin Blixnort?”

“And Jayssin is…a woman?”  For the first time, the captain with expired security clearance seemed somewhat unsure of herself.

“She prefers the pronouns she and her, Ma’am.  It was announced in last month’s Imperial Officers’ Circular along with her promotion.  Ma’am.”

“Yes, well,” replied the woman, regaining some measure of composure, “while you’re twiddling your thumbs reading the Imperial Circular, solider, I’m out in the field collecting intelligence on Rebel scum.  What do you say to that?”

“It’s not what I say, Ma’am,” answered the guard calmly.  “Regulation 354685R, paragraph 3554 – “

“What did I say about quoting regulations?” 

“Apologies, Ma’am.”

“As I was saying,” continued the woman.  “Do you really want to risk your commanding officer’s displeasure by denying entry to an officer of my rank bearing highly classified intelligence?”

“Certainly not, Ma’am,” replied the soldier.

“Then you’ll let me through?” 

“Of course, Ma’am,” nodded the guard.  “Naturally, I’ll have to report it.”

“You’ll do no such thing!  That would risk the security of the very intelligence I bear.  Now let me through!”

“Yes, Ma’am!”  The soldier snapped off another crisp salute before keying in the code which allowed the blast doors to open. 

As the woman began to step through those very blast doors, she froze.  In fact, the entire scene froze. 

“Don’t let the Rebels make a monkey out of you,” declared the narrator of the educational film.  “They are devious and will devise any number of absurd backstories to justify their nefarious misdeeds.  An Entire Death Star has been lost to less egregious negligence of duty.  Don’t let the Rebels make a monkey out of you!”

The lights came up, dimming the frozen image on the screen.  Colonel Starrkin moved to the front of the room and addressed the audience.

“Do you know why we’ve just watched this film?”

“No, sir,” answered Reg.  “Though I suppose it’s to do with a regulation?” 

“What doesn’t have to do with regulations in this Empire?” groused Nick under his breath.

“Too right,” nodded Mick, sitting beside him.

“Security has grown lax on this base, Gentleman,” declared Starrkin, choosing to ignore the soldiers’ grousing.  “Why, just the other day, I discovered a pizza delivery man in Ops.  How could something like that happen?”

“I reckon Ops had probably ordered a pizza, sir,” opined Nick.

“You reckon,” repeated the colonel icily.  “And what if it had been a ploy?  All pizza delivery persons are to be detained at Exterior Reception where the pizza in question is to be picked up by the ordering party.  I trust I don’t need to quote the regulation?”

“654324681S, paragraph 46Y, subparagraph 7d,” intoned Nick, Reg and Mick mechanically.

“Well, that’s marginally reassuring anyway,” mumbled Starrkin to himself.  “But if you know that, why was the man granted entry?”

“Well, sir, it was mainly the weather,” replied Mick.  “It was raining outside.  Acid rain, sir.  And well, it just didn’t seem to fit the spirit of Imperial Dignity to make him wait out in the elements.  And once inside, I suppose I…I mean, whoever was on duty…I suppose he just figured the boys in Ops would appreciate getting their pizza while it was still hot.  Sir.”

“And if that pizza had been a bomb?” asked Starrkin.

“Ops is heavily shielded, sir,” suggested Nick.  “The damage would have been locally contained.  Secondary Ops would have taken over and the galaxy would be minus one Rebel scum.  Sir.”

“I feel like you’re missing the point,” sighed the colonel.

“Respectfully, sir, what is the point?” asked Reg timidly.  “I mean, regulations aside – “

“This is the Galactic Empire, soldier!” hissed Starrkin. “Regulations are never aside.”

“Granted, sir,” continued Reg.  “But regulations…momentarily on hold…suppose it wasn’t a bomb.  Supposing it was just a pizza.  Sir.”

“And what if the pizza were just a means of ingress?”  The colonel was losing his patience.  “What if he was a spy?  What if he saw The Big Board?  Even now, he could be reporting his findings to Rebel High Command.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too worried about that, sir,” offered Reg.  “Ever since the Death Star Incident, we’ve done away with exhaust ports entirely.  All waste material – solid, liquid or gas – is now recycled on-base.  In addition to removing the infinitely small and yet somehow regularly dooming security risk, it’s a more sustainable model.  The Empire is stronger, and greener, for it.  Sir.”

“Still.”  Colonel Starrkin was reaching his limits.  “He might have obtained the locations of our fleets.”

“Respectfully, sir,” countered Reg.  “Those are easily obtainable with the naked eye.  Hard to hide a Star Destroyer, innit?”

Colonel Starrkin grabbed at the flares of his riding pants in frustration.  He appreciated the reasoning abilities of the men under his command.  He really did.  But why couldn’t they follow regulations?  After all, what was the Empire without regulations?  The answer, of course, was Bureaucracy.  Glacial, sclerotic, suffocating Bureaucracy.  That was what the Empire was founded on.  But it was regulations that allowed the bureaucratic machinery to function at its glacial, sclerotic, suffocating pace.  If only they could see that.

“Let’s just watch the rest of the film, shall we?”  With that, Colonel Starrkin dimmed the lights once more.  The scene cut to an Imperial holding cell.  There sat the same woman, still in her uniform, upon a bench, her head in her hands.  A moment later, the blast doors wooshed open.  The security guard, Lieutenant Moog, entered.  He was wearing the perfectly pressed, Hugo Boss inspired, all-black uniform of Imperial Intelligence.  He was also wearing a smirk.

“Well, Captain,” he announced, hands folded behind his back.  “You said you’d like to take this up with my commanding officer.  It seems now you’ll have your chance.”

Just then, the doors wooshed open again.  A new man entered the scene.  The insignia on his grey uniform indicated that he was a Good Moff, one rank junior to that of the galactically feared Grand Moff.  Good Moffs, it should be noted, were feared mostly on a system-by-system basis.  Unfortunately for the captive, she had the misfortune of being in this particular Good Moff’s system.  She dutifully shuddered.

“So,” said the Moff coldly.  “This is the woman who tried to gain entry on expired security clearance?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the guard stoically.

“And she suggested that you take the matter up with me, your commanding officer?  Implied that I would be most unhappy with you if you detained her?  On account of the highly classified intelligence which she purported to bear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You did well to inform me, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”

“Now then,” smiled the Good Moff, turning his attention to the prisoner.  “You say you have highly classified intelligence regarding the whereabouts of certain Rebel scum?”

“FLVEO,” declared the woman, meeting the Moff’s intense glare.

“For Lord Vader’s Eyes Only,” repeated the Moff.  “How convenient.  Yet Lord Vader has not been aboard this base in eight months.  Strange that you should bring it here.”

“Those were my orders,” shrugged the woman.

“The very same orders that provided you with outdated security codes?  I find that hard to believe.”

“They um…,” the woman gulped, searching for an answer.  “They – my superiors, I mean – they feared lest I be captured with current codes…they might fall into Rebel hands.” 

“And just who are your superiors?”

“I don’t know them by name.  That’s not how our Division work.  We operate by a series of dead-drops and – “

“I’ve heard enough,” declared the Good Moff.  “Lieutenant, your firearm.”

“Sir?” hesitated the lieutenant.

“Your blaster, son.”

“Sir.”  The soldier handed his weapon to his superior.

The Moff accepted the blaster from his junior and leveled it at his prisoner.  Without hesitation or preamble, he fired, shooting her instantly dead.  The body slumped over and fell to the floor.  The Moff’s nostrils flared at the scent of burning flesh as he handed the weapon back to its owner.

“I’ll see that you receive a commendation for this, lieutenant.”

“Sir?” queried the soldier as he re-holstered his sidearm.

“You followed regulations to the letter, my boy,” smiled the Moff.  “An unknown person sought entry to this base by means of expired security codes.  She then attempted to frighten you by threatening to bring the matter to your superior officer.  You called her bluff.  This is a good day for the Empire.”

“Thank you, sir.”  The lieutenant neither saluted nor sought dismissal.

“Is there something else, lieutenant?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“You’ve earned it,” nodded the Good Moff.  “Go ahead.”

“Sir, regulations and procedures were correctly followed, as you have stated.  Yet her claims to be bearing intelligence were never investigated.  How do we know that we have acted correctly?”

“How old are you, soldier?”

“Twenty-two, sir.”

“That young,” nodded the Moff.  “Not an unfair question from one your age.  Simply put, we know that we have acted correctly because we have followed regulations.  It’s really that simple.  Yet, if it will make you feel better, you may search the body.”

“Sir, yes sir,” saluted the lieutenant.  Then, in a way that demonstrated utmost respect for the dead woman’s corpse, he performed a thorough search according to Imperial Regulations.  When he reached her final pocket, he paused.

“What is it, lieutenant?” asked the Moff.

“Sir,” he said, rising to his feet.  “It’s a data stick.”  He handed the device to his superior.

“And you fear that this might be the intelligence she spoke of?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, sir,” nodded the soldier.

“Yet it may also be a virus, with which to bring down our defenses.  Nevertheless, I shall personally bring it to Lord Vader.  He’ll know what to do.”

“To…Lord…Vader?”  The young man gulped.

“Well, she did it claim it was FLVEO, did she not?”

“Still, sir,” offered the lieutenant timidly.  “Lord Vader is most…unforgiving.”

“By which you surely mean, most…exacting in the following of Regulations,” corrected the Moff.  “And I shall pretend that that is what I heard you say.”

“Thank you, sir,” whispered the terrified young man.

The scene froze again before wiping to a new one.  Now the Good Moff was standing at attention in Darth Vader’s personal chamber upon his personal Super Star Destroyer.  The Moff’s hands were clasped behind his back, clutching the data stick.  The flares of his riding pants flared proudly at his hips.  As for Lord Vader himself, he swiveled in his throne to face the Systemarch.

“I have read your report,” breathed the Sith Lord menacingly.  “You have done well.  You have followed Imperial Regulations expertly.  The lieutenant under your command has likewise acted with distinction.  This speaks well of your command.  You and your men are a credit to the Empire and all for which it stands.”

The Moff stiffened his back proudly.  For a moment, he considered correcting Vader’s comment regarding the ‘men’ under his command.  For he was one of the more progressive Moffs in the Empire.  Not only did men serve under his command, but so too did women, the gender neutral, the transsexual, the altogether non-human.  Indeed, he counted himself among the few who were actively agitating for the recognition of Droidal Rights in light of their – to him – obvious sentience.  Yet Lord Vader’s archaic conservatism – his strict adherence to ‘the old ways’ as he called it – was well known to all.  And so the Moff simply nodded, silently.

“As to the claims made by your now – correctly – deceased prisoner,” intoned Vader, “we shall soon to their veracity.  I trust you have brought the data stick you recovered?”

“Of course, m’Lord,” replied the Moff, raising his right fist.  “It’s right here.”

“You may approach,” declared the Dark One.

“Respectfully, Lord Vader,” gulped the Moff.

“Yes?  Speak.”

“My Lord, in an effort to save you time and, er, effort…”  The Moff was suddenly terrifyingly unsure of himself.

“Go on, Good Moff,” hissed Vader mechanically.

“For your convenience, Lord Vader,” gulped the Moff.  “I have taken the liberty of reviewing the data myself and it seems – “

“You what?”  The lights on Vader’s breastplate flashed from green to red.  Long a topic of Imperial scuttlebutt, nobody was quite sure what those lights were meant to indicate.  Yet it was generally agreed by all throughout the Empire that, when one was granted an audience with the presumed Last Jedi, red lights were not a good sign.

“Well, m’Lord.”  The Moff grasped helplessly at the flares of his riding pants.  Then he pulled at his collar.  Could it be that he was having trouble breathing?  He knew that Lord Vader was quick to anger, but he tried to tell himself it was just nerves.  After all, his master had not raised his black-gloved hand, let alone made the mortal sign of touhing his robotic index finger to his mechanical thumb.

“Speak,” intoned His Impatientness.

“Lord Vader,” whispered the Moff, trying anew.  “I know that thou hast much upon thy sithly plate, what with the Rebellion and the hunting of the Jedi and – “

“You wrote in your report that the captive claimed her intelligence was FLVEO, did you not?”  Strangely, disconcertingly, there was not a hint of anger or wrath in the mechanical voice.

“I did, Lord Vader.  But sensing a Rebel plot, I simply – “

“Went over my helmet,” concluded the Sith Lord.

“More to the side?” tried the Moff, using all his strength not to wipe away the sweat of his brow that was now irritatingly dripping into his eyes. 

“Most strange,” mused Vader almost to himself.  “Given the repute of your command for the impeccable following of Imperial Regulations, I would never have supposed that you might dare look upon information coded as FLVEO.  I trust you are familiar with Imperial Order Number Four?”

“All information coded as FLVEO is for Lord Vader’s Eyes only,” quoted the Moff, whose training had not, even in this dire moment, failed him.

“Very good!” exclaimed Vader in a voice that, for him, nearly passed as joyful.

“But if my Lord will permit me,” begged the Moff.

“Your Lord permits it.”

“If it had been a Rebel plot, the coding would have been fallacious.  In which case, no regulation would have been transgressed.”

“This is true,” mused Vader.  “Yet, I deem you have taken a great risk.  For if it had not been a plot, if she really were an agent of Imperial Intelligence, you would have seen that which is forbidden to you.  And that carries a most weighty penalty indeed.”

“Respectfully, Lord Vader, I would have stopped reading at the first indication of – “

“You miss my point, Good Moff.”  Vader was waxing philosophical now.  “You are a risk taker.  And the Empire is no place for risk takers.  The Empire is a place for rule followers.  Regulations are imperative.  Regulations are what allow the Bureaucracy of Empire to function in the glacial, sclerotic and Byzantine way in which we have brought the entire Galactic Galaxy to heel.”

“Byzantine?”  Did not Imperial Dogma clearly state ‘glacial, sclerotic and suffocating? 

“It is a word of my own device,” declared Vader.  He might have shrugged, but if he did, it was lost in the folds of his cape.

“A fine word, my Lord,” genuflected the Moff.

“And one of the last which you will ever hear, I’m afraid.”  With that, Vader raised his black-gloved hand, touching his robotic index finger to his mechanical thumb. 

The Good Moff gasped.  He reached for his collar, tugging at it helplessly.

“And now you will pay the price for your insolence,” declared the Sith Lord.

“I…I was only…trying…to be helpful…”

These were the dying words of the Good Moff as he collapsed to the floor.

“You can be helpful,” hissed Vader, “by following the Imperial Regulations!”

Then, to the surprise of all watching, Vader turned to face the camera and, in so doing, broke the fourth wall.

“You too can be helpful.”  His words took on a soothing quality.  “All you have to do is follow Imperial Regulations.  Help the Empire!  Follow Regulations!”

The screen faded to black.  A moment later, the lights came up and Colonel Starrkin was once more standing at the front of the room.

“Any questions?”

“Just one,” said Nick, raising his hand.  “Was the data really intelligence or was it actually a Rebel plot?”

“You’re missing the point, mate,” hissed Mick, elbowing him in the ribs.

“More to the point,” continued Starrkin through gritted teeth.  “What have we learned from this educational film?”

Reg raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Not to let the pizza bloke onto the base?”

“I mean, yes,” exhaled Starrkin, closing his eyes.  “Anything else?”

“That we’re to unthinkingly follow Imperial Regulations in every instance, no matter how counter-productive it might seem in the moment?” 

“Thank you, Nick,” exhaled the colonel.  “Yes, that was the lesson of this film.  Dismissed!”  With that, Starrkin exited the briefing room, visibly exhausted.

“Tell ya what I think, mate,” said Mick softly as the men filed out.

“What’s that, Micky?” asked Reg.

“Probably best if we just don’t order any pizzas for a while, innit?”