Prologue
Smothering forests, untouched wilderness, and deadly wildlife mark Endor. The woods are perfect for the native Ewoks. Thick leafy canopies blot out the sky, broad tree trunks bend with the wind, and shifting ferns create infinite hiding places for them. The small, furry, and savage creatures are as vicious as they are primitive.
When the Ewoks charge, archaic weapons soar through the air before them. Arrows and spears pierce Stormtrooper armor at the joints. Enormous rocks crush the soldiers before they can react, launched from beyond sight. Screams intertwine with battle cries and shouts. The momentary surprise ends, and stormtroopers return fire. A dazzling barrage devastates the Ewoks, collapsing their assault, folding it in on itself.
"Form lines and drive them back!" The commander orders; stormtroopers rush to comply. The battalion is a mixture of imperial forces; however, white armored stormtroopers from its core. They expertly reposition into two lines. The first rank kneels while the second stands. Together they unleash a wall of blasterfire. Yet, Ewoks pour forth from every direction, forcing them to reposition—wave after wave charges, spears and arrows filling the air. The lines hold. Both sides persist; even as casualties mount, wounded screaming amongst the battle.
The commander yells, "Frag them!"
Dozens of troopers hurl grenades into the horde of Ewoks. Explosions rock the monsters; their furry bodies fly in every direction. The momentum shifts, the assault breaking as it becomes a rout. The beasts abandon their wounded, fleeing for the trees, where they melt into the forest.
"Forward! Push them back!" The commander orders. "Push on to the shield generator!"
In perfect harmony, the troopers marched forward. Instantly they fill the gaps; their lines remain unbroken. The stormtroopers are unshaken by the sudden assault. Sporadic blaster fire continues as some Ewoks resist or rise to fight. Medics race among the imperial wounded, remaining behind, while the rest continue forward.
In front of them, the ground shakes, and the pitched motors of an AT-ST cry out.
"For the Empire!" Someone cries, heartened by the walker. Dozens then hundreds more soldiers repeat it. But its movements are—shaky and awkward, amateurish.
"Something is wrong," the commander declares, pulling out his binoculars. Then he spots a furry figure in the viewport. "Take cover! Enemy walker!"
Concussion grenades launch, arcing through the air before falling among them. Explosions shred stormtroopers, tossing them like toys. Then rapid blaster bolts cut down survivors. Their lines shatter as the imperials seek cover and shoot back. The Ewoks reappear, sensing their sudden weakness.
"Focus fire!" The Commander roars. "Concentrate fire on the gyros!"
The AT-ST launches more grenades, one landing near him.
"Grand Commander!" His aid cries, slamming into the officer, both falling to the ground.
Fire, force, and screams wash over them. He's shaken to the core as darkness swallows him whole. He's jolted and dragged, but even flashes of trees and light cannot reawaken him.
It's hard to breathe, is his first coherent thought. The pressure is unbearable. He blinks, his HUD flashing that power is low. Beyond his visor is utter darkness. He switches to low-light and recognizes a piece of stormtrooper armor. He tries to move his arm, to move any part of his body, but he's pinned. What is going on? Where am I? His heart jumps as panic threatens him, but he regains control of his feelings. With a bit of a struggle, he recovers one arm and then the other. Even shifting them is difficult because there's nowhere to move.
The commander pushes, testing the bodies around him. A thought occurs to him, but he suppresses it. That's no help; get loose, then worry about it. He finds a little give to his side and pushes, a hole opens up, allowing him to crawl forward. He violently wiggles, pushing on, before shoving another body. The effort is grueling. Every breath is hot, stagnant, and stinking. It feels eternal, and he gets stuck several times, backing up before continuing forward. Frustration, exhaustion, and claustrophobia creep in from the edges of his thoughts, threatening his resolve.
He squeezes, and his grip squishes in goo, confusing him. He looks up, realizing he's reaching into a gaping stomach wound.
His sanity abandons him.
His stomach revolts, and bile rises in his throat. They're dead! Everyone is dead! Violent shuddering is all he can do to keep from throwing up in his helmet. A long moment passes as the commander tries to regain control. Eventually, his stomach settles, and his sanity returns.
Only then can he continue climbing. Even when he pauses with exhaustion, he resists the implications creeping in from the corners of his mind. Pushing, pulling, and squeezing through is his sole purpose; he can't let himself think.
Suddenly, his hand breaks free. Beyond, looming trees block the night sky. In his weakened mental state, he feels as if the forest judges him. The trees drip with contempt; their shadows fill with animosity. When the wind shakes them, it gives the appearance of a furious argument, as if the forest itself is quarreling over his fate.
After a deep breath, he frantically strains to reach it. The commander wiggles with desperation, tasting a bit of fresh air. His helmet breaks free as he gets an arm out of the pile. Kicking wildly, he ignores anything except his frenzied need to escape. He frees his shoulders. Then, just as he gets his waist free, something gives out. The pile lurches, and he's thrown to the side. He's free but rolling down the side of it. He slams to a stop, caught in a valley. He lies atop a stormtrooper and pinned between an officer and an army soldier. They stare lifelessly.
Here, he gets a good look around him. Hundreds, no, thousands of imperials lie in the mass grave. Mounds of their bodies are piled high like trash heaps. The image stains the forest with pools of blood as shrieks of horror interrupt the night. Far above, X-Wings soar through the air. Red and orange fireworks brighten the grave of his fallen legion.
Among the dead, dozens of Ewoks eat their fill. Their mouths drip with blood, staining their belly fur and leather ponchos. The noise and movement draw their attention. One immediately spots him, screaming and pointing with its spear. Instantly, the beasts seize their weapons and charge. One Ewok stands out, holding a stone ax, and howling with excitement.
"Remember, son. Aim, exhale…and then squeeze," his father whispers in his ear.
"Commander?" The voice startles the stormtrooper. He'd fallen asleep at his duty station, a spartan desk within his barracks room. "It's time."
He picks up the helmet and places it on his head, lights flickering as its systems boot up. After a few seconds, his HUD and communication are ready, and the door zooms open. A young officer snaps to attention. Nearby, the commander's two guards and personal aide await him.
"Grand Commander," the officer announces crisply. "The Moff is ready for you."
"At ease, lieutenant," he commands. "Has everyone assembled?"
"Yes, sir, the Moffs, staff officers, and Inferno Squad are ready."
She leads him to the command center, where a dozen technicians work silently beneath a thousand lit buttons. The general speaks with the gathering of Moffs and staff officers. Half of them came in person, and the other half are holographic transmissions. None of them look particularly happy as they talk among themselves. It doesn't surprise the commander. Waiting on a lowly foot soldier is beneath them; receiving their orders from one is intolerable.
Inferno Squad doesn't join; instead, they stand slightly off to the side. He wonders, What's their special orders? Are they here to assure compliance or the recon I requested? Are they here for me? Once this battle concludes, will they need a grand commander? He discounts that thought immediately. Yes, they will; there's always another enemy. Is Admiral Versio making a move? If I fall, his skillful daughter could replace me.
Colonel Dyer glances over and sneers, "Nice of you to join us, commander."
Dyer is a typical officer: highborn, arrogant, and handsome but mediocre in actual combat and leadership. He's tall and thin; his dark hair and black uniform contrast his pale skin.
"Gentlemen, my apologies for the wait," he ignores the slight. There's no time for petty rivalries. Instead of confronting their ire, he misdirects them, then briefs them. "Thanks to Inferno Squad, the Emperor's plan remains intact. Both intelligence and the capture of a high-value target confirm an attack is imminent. You've received your special orders; under no circumstances are you to deviate or modify them. Do not speak about them to anyone."
"Obviously," Colonel Dyer rolls his eyes. "Is there anything else?"
"Yes," he replies before he displays a code cylinder. "We are not the only ones with special orders. If, at any time, you receive instructions from someone with the Emperor's authority. You will comply immediately, regardless of how inconvenient or eccentric those directives may be. Is this understood?"
It's too much to expect them to reply with a 'Yes, sir.' Most nod or give the most basic response. Confusion and curiosity seize them, as it had the commander when he received the order. Even the imperfect holograms express it. All of those present wanted more, but no one said a word. The Empire does not appreciate curiosity.
He concludes, "For the Empire!"
"For the Empire," many reply before ceasing the communication. The gathering disbands, many walking to their shuttles. Colonel Dyer scowls at him before joining the other lesser officers. Inferno Squad doesn't move, apparently waiting for him.
"Now comes the hard part," he mutters. His escort looks at him, and he meets her eyes. "The waiting. The anticipation, when you know the battle is coming but must remain still. Your mind tortures you with anxiety and the worse case scenarios."