After that strange encounter, her instructor had seemed almost afraid of her. He made it a point to never come near her, and once he stopped calling on her in class, she stopped volunteering. In the halls he would furtively look around at other personnel whenever they would pass.
A few months later, a man in a crisp black Imperial Intelligence uniform appeared at the door to her room.
“Sir, my uncle was stationed on the superlaser,” intentionally using that word instead of the more common, but politically unwise Death Star. “When the Rebels killed him and everyone aboard, I took a lift to the closest COMPNOR office and joined the Sub-Adult Group.”
“And how did your parents react to this decision?” the man in the black uniform asked her.
“They approved of it, sir. My father was a legal for the Justice of our sector.”
“You say was.”
“He was murdered, sir. Rebels planted a bomb inside a droid that was intended to kill visiting officers.”
“And when was that?” her interviewer (or interrogator, as it seemed to be going) asked, knowing full well how and when her father was killed. He had every scrap of data on her at his fingertips.
“Last year, sir.”
“Mm-hmm,” the man said noncommittally.
He sat for a second, studying the young woman. “I understand that you are unhappy with the way your superior officers treat you.”
“I wouldn’t say that, sir…”
“Oh, I think you would,” he said, interrupting her. “Remember, pilot, we know everything about you. We know that you wish to serve the Empire, but that you are dissatisfied with what you consider a lack of flexibility on the part of those above you. Would you say that this is an accurate description of how you feel?”