9.106 - Routine Loyalty Check.

A gray-skinned Rattataki was ushered into a small, featureless room and seated unceremoniously in a flimsy metal chair at a rickety, chipped, scarred table. "Just wait here. A human will be along to conduct your interview shortly," said one of the clerks, disdainfully. The Rattataki, dressed in least formal attire an Imperial soldier could wear, cast his ice-white eyes up at the clerk and did a thumbs-up.

"Aha! Gote et. Thanka SOOOOOOOO moch!"

He made the statement with a clear undertone of sarcasm, though he didn't mean the sarcasm as it sounded...he was just parroting what his fellow soldiers did to him when he had reason to report something to them. The human clerk shook his head at the soldier's shoddy Basic and left, slamming the door behind himself. Zhe'chot surveyed the room idly, picking out all the little differences between this room and the nearly-identical one he'd done his last loyalty check in the month previous. Someone had carved a wobbly-looking Imperial cog into the surface, along with some graffiti, curses, and a holocomm number promising sexual gratification to whoever dialed it. He'd been marched past a series of interview rooms with cushioned chairs and gleaming, smooth table surfaces. He wasn't jealous. He was accustomed to the disdain. It was...empowering. It made his victories sweeter. He didn't speak as the interviewer walked in, thumbing through a set of flimsies that the Rattataki guessed contained his service record. He had some idea of what was coming; he'd endured many of these loyalty checks over his career in the military. They'd ask him some questions, try to trick him, try to make him say something treasonous or seditious. It hadn't yet worked, mostly because Zhe'chot was utterly loyal to the Imperial Credit. He waited patiently, eyes opened a little wide, observing what he could of this man. He was Human, naturally, and one unfamiliar to Zhe'chot. The Rattataki soldier focused his senses and waited for the interview to begin.

Commander Valentin Adras sat at the table, his uniform fitting comfortably, though not quite as familiar as the armour he was used to wearing as a Trooper.

He looked up at the Rattataki soldier and back down at the datapads in front of him. What was he supposed to do? He was trained to shoot things, not ask them questions.

This was one of the reasons he'd almost turned down the promotion to his current rank.

"Private Zhe'chot," he began, wondering again what he was supposed to be asking. "Joined last year, good marks for service and actions in combat, but reprimanded for insolence, and insubordination."

Actually there had been no real commendations on his record; but Adras had pulled up the information most relevant to being a soldier and seen his excellent scores.

"Why did you join?" he asked, somewhat genuinely. Things couldn't be easy for the private, given his non-human status.

"Empeerial Army is only place I find that taeka non-human recruit," he said. "Stormtroopers, no. Navy, no. Army is only choice. Wanna join to maeka credit, kill pipples." He mimed a gun with his right hand as if to clarify. "Rattataki very moch good at fighting and killing. Wanted to fight and kill on odder planets, maeka bedda credit. Is good, yah?" He grinned, the purple tattoos on his face giving the friendly expression a strange quality.

"My name is Commander Adras, private," he said, looking at the datacards and trying his best to hide how lost he was in all that information. "You will refer to me as 'sir', and add that to any statement you make to me, or any other superior officer, regardless of their skill, or merit. Say anything you want, but that cannot change."

He paused, rifling through the cards and inserting one into the pad. Marksmanship records and physical information filtered across the screen.

"Your scores are high," he noted. "Excellent marksmanship, strength and weight training is in mid to high ranges. You could enter the sniper schools, or apply to Army Recon, if it weren't for the reprimands for insubordination."

He paused, looking down at the small flimsi he'd been given with filler questions. He ignored it.

"If you wanted credits, you could have become a mercenary," he said, not quite buying the alien's reasoning. It made sense, but he wasn't sure the pay outweighed the negatives. "Or a bounty hunter. Those groups are fairly more accepting of non-humans than Imperial Military. Why join the Army?"

"Aha, yes!" Zhe'chot said, snapping his fingers, pointing and smiling. "I am sarreh, sir. Rattataki, we do not say sir to pipples. I forgets, they say eeeeensubardinachen, maeka me scoopa latrine out. Sarreh, sir." The gray-skinned soldier listened intently, thought on it, then answered.

"A bounty hunta, a mercenary, is same, yessir? Hunta pipples, mebbe killa pipples, but no maeka credit tilla turn bounty in. Mebbe if no bounty, go hungry. Is very bad, ah, sir. Eemperial Army, they feeda soldier no matter he killa pipples or not. So is good, yes? Can fight and no risk hungry, sir."

Also, he wanted to rub human noses in his superiority, but saying it aloud risked more charges. Maybe later, he'd confess it. He clasped his hands on the table and tried to resume his smile.

That was sounder reasoning, at least, but for some reason he wasn't sure he was getting the whole story.

"Do you have a family, private?" he asked. "Why the fixation on credits? The Empire feeds you and pays you as a member of its armed forces."

It was something of an ignorant question, he knew. He'd been the son of a farmer out in the middle rim, a small fairly temperate world, but life had been difficult to say the least.

"Ah...haffa broether, sir. Haffa moether and a faatha. Send a leetle credit home, witha kill tally and a weepon report. Tella pipples home how many Raybol killed witha which one. Tella stories 'bout being best inna tray-ning. Put three-bolt clusta inna ten-ring. Use da combat knife to stab heart and cut neck. Snappa necks witha chokehold. Best scores on shoosting renge, best performance at cohmbative. Other soldiers say to me, "Zhe'chot, you are sub-human, you are the worst," but scores say different. Maeka angry soldier, angry commander." He shrugged, an uncomfortable-looking gesture that he'd clearly taught himself to use when dealing with humans. "Combatives worst for that, sir."

And there it was, the crux of the matter. The Rattataki wanted to prove himself, and hear it from the mouths of humans.

"Your scores are commendable, and your skills are top notch, if these scores are to be believed. If an officer wanted, he could change everything to failing and have you drummed out of service," he said, bluntly. "And if he was found out he would be censured, if that."

He didn't agree with that statute. Adras himself wasn't fond of non-humans, but he wasn't blind, or stupid.

"But it hasn't happened, and that's because you are useful to the Imperial Army, or more likely, you push up the scores of your comrades in the statistics," Adras continued. "You have had twice as many interviews on your loyalty than any of the others in your company, and that includes former convicts from Kessel. There is no reason for that."

He stopped, not wanting to lecture at the moment. He decided to ask more questions.

"Now, what are your goals in the Army, private? What do you hope to accomplish by service?"

Zhe'chot nodded along. Yes, his officers kept his records properly to avoid being court-martialed themselves. The Imperial need for perfection trumped even their fantastic racism. But in issues of behavior, things were more lax, thus his awful record full of insubordination charges.

"Goals, sir?"

It was clear by his tone that this was a new question. None of his previous interviewers gave a damn about his personal goals, just whether or not he was a threat to his own unit. He wasn't (not on purpose, anyway), but it didn't stop the accusations flying around.

"Have goal to maintain top kills in unit. Have goal to maeka betta tahcteks, keepa gear in betta shape." He shrugged. "Rattataki culture, is what you would say, gladitorial?" he said slowly, testing the words to make sure he described it properly. "Maeka good kill, have good service record, maeka inge--ing..." He sighed, puzzled by the Basic words. "Is a, say, creatiff ways to do the killing. Maeka new way to do even basic thing. Find best way. Always to improve the self and the unit. Is path I walk daily."

"Innovation," Commander Adras supplied for the soldier. "But what I mean for goals, private, is a long term plan, and the goal is the thing that you are striving for. Understand?"

He was getting patronizing. He stopped speaking and schooled his emotions.

"What you've just told me should be the goal of every serviceman in the military. But that's the goal of every serviceman. What are your goals? What do you plan to do with your life with what you have learned, and will learn from the Imperial Army? And how will Imperial service get you there?"

He stopped.

"I have three goals. One is to survive my service. I want to retire. Two, I want to use my skills gained in this to benefit the people nearby my future place of retirement. Three, I want to have a family, and this position grants a healthy pension I can use to raise one. Those are my goals. What are yours?"

Zhe'chot blinked. How were his stated goals not long term? What did that even mean? "Ah...yes," he said slowly. "Sure, sure. Uh, sir. Ah...command? Tella pipples how to do a woork? Family, eh...not so moch a goal for me now. Am young, haffa time. Am guarantee to liff through a saavice, I am so good on my marks as you say, sir. Could haffa family if wanta one, suppose. No plan to retire. Always, Rattataki are wanting the fight. Even old Rattataki do a fighting. So not so moch a family now. Getta laid, mebbe." He grinned. "Bot, issa long term goal to just be best, I think. Issa life-long thing for me and my pipples, like Trandoshan and Scorekeepar. Maeka betta sense, sir? Is good answer, sir?"

"To be the best is a very vague goal, but yes, it is a better answer" Commander Adras answered. "Be the best what? Killer? Soldier? Commander? Those require some similar skills to excel at but mostly the skills needed for all of them are largely different.

"You don't need a goal now. You're young yet, and you don't plan on retiring."

Whether he was forced to retire or not was another question.

"But think about it. If you don't plan on retiring, what do you need to rise in the ranks? What will keep you from being promoted? Excellence isn't enough, unfortunately. Not for non-humans."

Not at the moment, anyway.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, private?"

"Sure, sure, sir. Be eksellant should be enoff, yes? Army is...they call, maritocracy, is right, sir? But me, I am not human. Commahnd hard for me because gray skeen, white eyeboll. Haffa tahktek, haffa skeell, not enoff. Eensabardinachen charge maek rank-op hard for anybohdy. Needa show follow proper order, but issa hard thing." He sighed. "Sometimes, I told thing, I do thing exacitily right, they say do wrong. Sometimes, I set-op sir. Can tell abouta time this happen, in cohmbative, if helps." He shrugged. He hadn't understood properly. Which reminded him... "Oh, my Basic, also no good. Don't talk it good, don't know alla woort. Pronoonsahayshun, is very bad. Maeka trahbel sometime, sir."

"If you continue to show excellence and brilliance, private, you will be rewarded," Adras responded. "While insubordination will present an extreme difficulty for you to overcome, that is part and parcel of the life you have chosen."

He shut down the datapad and set it to the side.

"There are aliens serving in the Command hierarchy, and there are more alien officers in the Army than any other branch. You do not have the sheer education and strategy drilled into you like a Chiss officer would. But your chance will come. And when it does, you must take it, and pay whatever it costs to see it through. Pride will serve you well here, but it will, if not restrained and tempered, hold you back."

He stood, convinced of the soldier's loyalty, but also not wanting to belabour the point and risk ruining the very point he was trying to make.

"Am I understood, private?"

"Yassah! Thanka SOOOO moch!" Zhe'chot recognized the tone of voice, the little sigh and shutting the datapad that usually marked the end of these interviews. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. "So, issa pass for me? I am not going to torn tray-tor and shoost the fellows, sir?"

"You tell me, private. Will you turn traitor and shoot your fellow soldiers?" he asked firmly. The Rattataki was like a hound, already testing his limits. "But yes. You have passed your interview. I will be disappointed if you have another one in less than a year, private.

"Dismissed."

Adras saluted.

Zhe'chot grinned broadly, an expression that toed the line between friendly and predatory. "Nossah, no shoost the fellows, only the Raybol, sah!" He stood, returned the salute crisply, and allowed his superior officer to precede him out the door. A year's space between checks? Zhe'chot set it as a goal in his mind, but also attached a little mental flag to it: Don't expect to fulfill it. They'd find a way to get him back at the metal table before long.