Epilogue Pt. 2
The Inevitable
…his feet are dragging…
The Grand Commander's eyes open sluggishly. His thoughts crawl as his vision clears, but he recognizes the sleek grey flooring of imperial ships. Familiarity engulfs him with relief, comforting him. Then memories of Endor shatter his reprieve. The blood and toil roar back into his thoughts, darkening his mood as he reflects on everything and everyone lost.
Why, he wonders, why did Wither have him drugged by the interrogation droid? The Grand Commander wants to be angry, but she's ISB. He grants I should've expected betrayal.
Two stormtroopers drag him down a hallway until he growls, "I can walk."
They halt, glancing at him, then over him to someone else.
That's when he discovers he's wearing binders, and the last vestiges of relief evaporate. He knows Imperial politics. Although escaping was a miracle, it won't be a welcome one. The survivors remind them of their defeat, of THAT defeat, and the collapse of the Empire.
Imperial command needs someone to blame. Normally, a flag officer would resign. Junior officers may be demoted or imprisoned, but troopers are executed. Unfortunately, the higher-ups are all dead-or on the run or running things. Where does that leave me?
"Move, traitor!" Someone shoves him from behind.
He's dumbfounded. Enlisted wouldn't dare; even an officer would hesitate. Yet, it just happened. Weakened and battered to the core, a part of Grand Commander wants to let it pass.
He turns around slowly, ominously. "That's commander or sir to you, sergeant."
The stormtroopers at his sides stiffen. Behind him, the sergeant with a black pauldron hesitates, weighing the situation. Then glances at the commander's binders. The sergeant leans back to build momentum before lurching forward, swinging his blaster this time.
The commander steps in and catches the carbine before hurling the sergeant over his shoulder. Another trooper rushes him, only to collide with the sergeant—both collapse. The third throws his arms around the commander. It's painfully predictable. The commander elbows him and then slams the carbine into his groin. The stormtrooper yelps before crumpling to the deck.
Shocked and disarmed, the sergeant struggles with his sidearm. The second underneath him tries to break free, but the sergeant's wiggling only further entangles them. When the commander turns the carbine on them, both freeze.
Hyper-alert from Endor, the commander checks the hallways, looking down his sights.
"There's nowhere to run!" The sergeant babbles.
"Commander or SIR!"
"There's nowhere to run, commander!" The stormtrooper beneath the sergeant squeaks.
No alarms, no doors open, and no one investigates—just utter and complete silence.
"What makes you think I'm running?" The Grand Commander safeties the blaster and removes its E-mag before tossing both into the sergeant's lap, still wearing his binders. The stormtrooper catches it and stares uncertainly at the weapon. "Want another round, sergeant?"
"No," the sergeant mutters sullenly. He shrinks under the commander's glare, "Sir."
The commander examines the crumpled soldier, "Are you going to make it, trooper?"
"Errruuhhh," the last groans. "Sir."
"That'll do," the commander helps him stand. "Are we on an acclimator or victory?"
All three tense, and the sergeant demands, "How'd you know that, sir?"
"Mass-produced standardized flooring and hallways, but the dimness mark it as Pre-imperial, made during Clone Wars. It's efficient; we needed every edge back then."
"A victory-I, sir," the second stormtrooper answers as he and the sergeant disentangle.
"Excellent, I'm fond of victory-class star destroyers. Where are you taking me?"
"To the bridge, sir, the admiral…summons you."
They look at him expectantly, and he nods, "We have our orders, double-time troopers."
Hastily, they escort him to the next turbolift, where he's whooshed up to the bridge. As the blast doors slide open, a thousand fond memories greet the commander. A holoprojector displays local space; beyond it, a central walkway bisects dual crew pits full of consoles. An endless sea of stars beckon the grand commander from forward-facing windows. He feels home.
"What's taking so long!" Someone demands. "Hurry up! The Admiral is waiting!"
Immediately, he recognizes Dr. Wither, now wearing the white uniform of an Imperial Security Burea. Next to her, a stormtrooper captain with a bright orange pauldron patiently waits. The last two men perfectly illustrate the difference between the old and the new Imperial Navy.
A gentleman with silver hair confers with Wither, then pauses, studying the commander silently. Everything about the Admiral is austere to the point of emaciation; however, his uniform is as immaculate as his hair. At a glance, the commander knows he earned his rank over decades.
His junior, a captain, reflects the new navy. He's soft and overfed, pasty from lack of natural sunlight. Sweat moistens his brow as he bristles at the sight of the commander.
"Hurry up!" The flabby officer snarls. "Report!"
"Was there a problem?" The stormtrooper captain inquires.
"No, sir!" The sergeant replies immediately. Any mention of losing control wouldn't just include disciplining; they'd lose rank and maybe their lives.
"Your actions border on treason, commander." The admiral's voice is steely and concise. "You have violated your orders, abandoned your position, and fled from battle."
The commander knows every word counts, "Admiral Versio ordered me to cause as much damage as possible and fight to the last man. He never ordered us to stay on Endor."
"That's ridiculous!" The captain rumbles, shaking in fury.
"This ISB agent will confirm, and so will my officers. Or we can contact the Admiral for clarification." The commander motions to the holo, and his binders force him to use both hands.
"Excuses! You betrayed your oath. You should be executed on the spot."
"Sir," the stormtrooper interrupts. "Commanders are guaranteed a trial by military tribunal, and the regulations are clear. We should contact Admiral Versio and confirm."
"Indeed, Captain Keel," the Admiral ponders his words, hands clasped behind his back. "Unfortunately, the admiral will demand our fidelity, and I have no interest in serving under a man who cannot even ensure his daughter's loyalty."
Inferno squad defected? The subordinate stutters, "B-but you're both Admirals."
"Yes, but there's a difference between remaining unseen versus blatant defiance. If we contact Versio or any other supposed 'warlord,' we must serve or risk defying them. Many of whom are no better than bandits. We will wait. Agent Windsor, do you have insight to add?"
The witch called her that, Windsor, the commander recalls. That's her real name.
"Not at the moment, sir," she answers, staring through him as if they'd never met. He didn't expect gratitude from an agent, but the iciness frustrates him. Every fiber in his being wants to bring up his promotion, their duty to recognize it, and Admiral Versio's authority.
Still, she doesn't. So the commander remains silent, but not out of trust. Any obligation she feels towards him ended once they got them off Endor. That is the extent of the ISB's allegiance. They fight like Wookies for themselves, but everyone else is a tool to manipulate. Still, he trusts she doesn't act without reason. Politics and plotting are her battlefields.
"If we can't execute him," the soft captain grumbles. "We can't let him loose either. The survivors' debriefing is incoherent at best; even this agent's account borders on ludicrous."
Wither glares. The captain recoils and backtracks, "No offense, Agent Windsor."
"I agreed, captain," the admiral decides. "Process him in the detention block."
"About face, commander," the stormtrooper captain orders. "Take him away."
The stormtroopers turn him around and lead him from the bridge.
On his way out, the Admiral calls. "Welcome to The Inevitable, commander."
He's led back to the turbolift, rapidly descending, feeling hollow and lost. The Grand Commander doesn't want recognition…well, maybe a little, he confesses. Even professional courtesy would have satisfied him. He didn't expect confinement, although he wouldn't mind sleeping. The paradox of shameful imprisonment and richly rewarded rest amuse him.
"What? Why?" The sergeant breaks the silence from behind them. "Very well, sir."
"What's happening?" One of his escorts inquires.
The sergeant grumbles, "We're being rerouted, captain's orders."
"What? Why?" The third asks.
"How should I know?" The sergeant mashes a button on the console.
The lift surges upward, and the commander wonders if this is the end. A sudden change in orders, no explanation, and all out of sight. The Grand Commander wonders, will he stand poised at his execution or fight tooth and nail? The urge swings back and forth, a part of him screaming to attack the troopers in the lift. In close quarters, I hold all the advantages.
When the doors open, they've reached a detention level. Narrow octagon-shaped halls reveal the Grand Commander's home for the foreseeable future. A black uniformed army officer takes command of him and dismisses the stormtroopers before leading him to a cell.
"Are you going to search me?" He asks.
"I don't know if I have the authorization, sir," the imperial grumbles before motioning him inside and removing his binders. The doors slam shut, and an energy field hums to life. Worse than a degradingly thorough search, their disinterest insults the Grand Commander.
The irony and vanity of that opinion aren't lost on him either.
He slumps onto the hard bunk provided, lying back, as weariness blurs his vision and muddies his thoughts. He wonders, how long will I rot here? Escape crosses his mind, but where would I go? What would I do? I've been a trooper my whole life. Mercenary work, bounty hunting? No thanks. Trading his skills and services to the highest bidder disgusts him.
What am I going to do now?
The quiet hum of the energy barrier blocks out all other distractions, and the rapid-fire questions and concerns slip away. The commander's mind calms as he lingers on the edge of sleep. He relaxes, shutting out everything as he surrenders to his weariness.
In that moment of peace, a memory emerges…
"Hey, kid, what are you going to do now?" Bull asked. Over twenty years ago, the boy was staring at his flattened cottage. His village wasn't just destroyed; it was obliterated.
"Find my father, bury him," he shrugged, motioning at the ruins. "Rebuild, sir."
The villagers returned, wailing with grief at the sight of their home. When he took off his helmet, they recognized and celebrated him—at first. Then, they begged for their loved ones. Their mood soured when they learned he was the sole survivor. Accusations flew; the general and Clones defended him, but the villagers were inconsolable. The boy never spoke in his defense. He lacked the words and felt guilty for surviving when so many deserving people didn't.
"You know, you're good in a fight," Bull points out. "You could come with us."
"My people need me. My village needs me."
"I don't think they want you anymore," Bull argued, eventually adding. "Good luck."
The boy picks through the wreckage of his home before he tries to help his neighbors. All decline; some curse and spurn him. That night, he built a shelter before sensing someone nearby.
"This will not last long, but for tonight, it will do." The Cerean Jedi lurks before asking, "Why do you think you survived?"
He doesn't know. Even thinking about it pains him. He shrugs, "Luck, sir?"
"There is no such thing as luck," the Jedi declares in a tone that leaves no room to argue. "Everything that happened was the will of the force, was meant to be. This battle could not have occurred elsewhere without incurring disaster. Without you and your kin, we would have lost."
It's too much. It's too big and complex for a farm boy like him. How could it be anything but chance? Yet—he survived. He survived salvo and shrapnel and unspeakable violence.
"Two paths lie before you. I assure you, this was no chance meeting. Stay, and their grief cannot subside, for you remind them of everything lost. Instead, come make a place among us."
"I'm not a clone."
"Train hard every day, and no one will care. It won't be easy. Some days will be worse than this. But you will find kinship, community, and serving others infinitely rewarding."
Who could say no to that?
The Grand Commander rolls off the rack. He removes his armor and scrubs it in the refresher. He can't clean or repair it for inspection but washes off the blood and filth. Then, he arranges it for swift donning when he's called to serve again.
Next, he trains. He exercises and practices, pushing beyond exhaustion. He only allows himself to lie down when his muscles burn, and his body pleads for rest. Before sleep takes him, the Grand Commander swears. The Empire will need me again, and I'll be ready.
The Grand Commander will return in "Escape from the Inevitable."
Author's note:
Where do I even begin? Thank you for sharing this with me. Escape from Endor has rattled around in my head for years, many years until I finished my manuscript "The Arrival War." Ironically, both began with Oscar Issac saying, "Make your own Star Wars." I know I'm not alone in desiring morally complex, thoughtful stories with character arcs and consequences. Obviously, it's neither easy nor swift; I wrote this across three different jobs and the birth of my granddaughter. The fact that so many of you have returned week after week, even when I was delayed…it's humbling. Writing this has given me immense joy, and I hope it shows. Thank you.
Someone asked who I see the Grand Commander as, both vocally and visually, I imagine Michael Jai White. If you liked Escape from Endor, please share it with your fellow Star Wars fans. If mainstream Star Wars underwhelms us, as a community, we can create the stories we dream of to inspire us.