Chapter 3

The commander leans against a tree.

He can't remember when he stopped or rested against the tree. His throbbing headache makes it hard to focus; worsened, by the sporadic blurred vision. His heart lifts with the rising sun, but brightness stings his eyes, even behind his polarized visor. Yes, it's a concussion.

Weariness makes it impossible to press on and even make plans when he only wants to sleep. Only now, he recognizes what a colossal tree he shelters beneath, branches stretching hundreds of feet in every direction. Each root is broader than he is tall. He could hide in the crevice between bark. I wonder how tall it is. Hundreds of birds race through the tree branches. They sing, cry, and call out to the woods of Endor, unconcerned with him.

He doesn't know how long he walked, but his legs burn, and his muscles twitch unconsciously. The Ewoks pursued him for hours, and even after he escaped, they kept hunting. He watched their torchlight move in the distance. He's relieved they can't see in the dark. But he didn't miss them sniffing the air like hounds, following his trail.

After a deep breath, he takes stock. His head aches terribly, and he accepts his concussion. His helmet is busted, nonfunctioning, and communication is down. His shoulder wound burns. The stormtrooper knows infection is a real threat planetside. His right bracer is snapped, destroying his holomap and any hope of navigation. On the plus side, his utility belt is fully stocked and untouched. He sighs when he discovers it. Rations, medpac, grappling hook with a fiber cable, and a thermal detonator in their place. Lastly, he has the stone ax.

He pulls out his medkit first and inventories it. He steels himself before wrapping his hand around the arrow in his shoulder, stinging even from the slightest touch. Gritting his teeth, he squeezes his eyes shut and yanks it out. Blood spurts forth. He keeps his mouth clamped shut, but whimpering emerges and tears well up in his eyes. He puts pressure on his wound to stifle the blood flow. Huffing and puffing, his heart pounding in his head, he opens his eyes.

He takes the irrigation bulb, a cleansing liquid to clean the wound of dirt and bacteria. It stings and bites as the liquid foams up. Once it dissolves, he places the synthflesh, plugging the injury. Next, he squirts spray-bandage over his wound. Finally, he injects bacta into his neck. Almost immediately, he feels better, but black spots appear at the edges of his vision.

He pushes away from the tree, smacking his helmet to resist the blackout. He drinks some water and takes a bite of his rations. Then he forces himself to take a step, his legs aching with muscle soreness. Then another, and more as he continues. He tries to pull the arrow stuck in his chest plate, but it won't move. Frustrated and exhausted, he snaps the shaft.

Hours pass as the sun rises higher. He continues east, not knowing where he's going. His legion marched west against the rebels, and he doubts they dragged the imperials far to the gravesite. His best hope is to find the battlefield or the shield generator ruins. From there, he can get his bearings and maybe find other survivors.

Still, it is not easy in the rugged forest. An intense closeness, a claustrophobic pressure lies among the trees. Every crackling leaf, every snap of a twig, has the commander on edge. He creeps among them like a thief until he's sure he's alone. Eventually, he returns to walking. He watches for trails or paths but seeing beyond arms reach is difficult even in the thinnest woods. He prays for a plume of smoke or the thump of a walker. Endor's forests feel determined to keep him lost. The planet tests his will to live, and the forest is yet another layer to that trial.

Then suddenly, silence.

He freezes. A breeze moves the high grasses he's traveling through, but not a single bird chirps. No critters run on the ground, and even the insects stop buzzing. After a moment, he crouches but hears and sees nothing. He waits. A few more seconds pass while he grows anxious. His chest remains tight, and he's certain something is watching him.

SCREEEE, a terrifying screech erupts from behind him. He turns as clawed feet strike him, driving him to the ground. He smacks something, dislodging it, and rolls on his back. Another creature swoops down on him, but he kicks wildly, causing it to reconsider. A third lands to his right, flapping its wings vigorously as it snaps at him with a long beak.

Geejaws, he recognizes them; they're a third his size. They weren't a threat or problem before, but now he's wounded and alone. Reptilian flyers, red-scaled pack hunters, their heads are dominated by a long beak intended to dig or snap. Two of them circle for another attack while the third continues screeching and flapping at him. It's trying to distract me.

He rolls back towards the tree, and once he's on his feet, he puts his back against it. With a bit of space, he draws his ax. After seeing it, the Geejaw wilts. It screeches and launches itself into the air—the other two swing by, not close enough to attack but too close for comfort.

He knows he can't stay there. What else hears them? Steeling himself, he waits until another flyby before he flees. The Geejaws screech and call out; two pursue him while the third flaps its wings furiously. It doesn't follow; it flys further on. It'll cut me off, and they'll surround me. I can't get caught in the open.

He waits for another swoop attack before he changes direction, sprinting south. The creatures shriek, signaling the third, who replies from further east. Haha, I was right.

He hops over a fallen tree and slides down an incline when a root catches his foot. The commander tumbles, regains control, and ducks behind a tree. One of the geejaws lands beside him, shrieking and flapping. His chest tenses, warning him again. He turns away from it as the second beast dives at him, its claws outstretched and too close. He slashes with his ax, but it's a bad swing. He bashes the bird with the flat side. Still, it screams and retreats.

With his back exposed, the first bites his leg. The geejaw yanks him off balance before dragging him off his feet. He kicks it, then again and a third time. It loses its hold and snaps at him once more. Suddenly it lunges with wings and large clawed feet outstretched.

Both hands wrapped around the ax handle, he slashes, cutting the Geejaw from neck to pelvis. Disemboweled, it crashes on top of him. It twitches even in death.

"RAAAAA," he roars, venting his frustration. He throws the geejaw off and rolls back to his feet. "RHHAAAaaaa!"

The third geejaw returns, calling out, until the second replies. The pair answer his challenge with vicious pecking and clawing. He rolls away from the initial attack as they hover. He gets his back against a tree as they land, snapping at him. He swings and misses. A geejaw crashes into him, shoving and hurling him away from the tree. He lands hard on his wounded shoulder, bleeding again, and rolls on his back. He swats away one peck and then another before the second Geejaw grabs his boot and drags him several steps. He lurches towards it, swinging the ax into its beak. The bill cracks, and it collapses from the blow.

Before he can finish it, the last geejaw seizes his shoulders. Its claws dig into him, and it pecks his helmet, his vision blurring from the impact. He tries to swing, but the angle is awful and fueled by panic. The other geejaw rises on wobbly legs. It spots him and charges, hurling him on his back. Both hold him down, the second pecking his chest plate.

This is bad, he admits. Then he spots a burrow large enough to fit inside. He rolls and swings wildly, breaking free. He screams at the Geejaws, startling and driving them back. Without a moment to spare, he flees, with his heart pounding in his ears. He plunges inside the burrow, both geejaws on his heels. Just as he crosses the threshold, a geejaw grabs his leg. He falls hard, slamming his head, and the ax tumbles from his hand. Panic overwhelms him as he claws the ground desperately, but the reptile drags him from the burrow. He seizes a root and kicks at it uselessly. The second pushes in but catches a boot in its head. Cackling, it stumbles back, flapping its wings furiously. His hand slips; he's pulled from the burrow and into the sunlight. He reaches for something, anything to defend himself, and flails wildly.

An enormous mouth clamps down on the geejaw, snapping it in half. It belongs to a blurrg-a hairless bipedal with a massive mouth, currently crunching bones. The Geejaw squeaks pitifully before it's swallowed whole. The second shoots into the sky, shrieking in resignation.

The stormtrooper scrambles into the burrow and seizes his ax. The blurrg follows, drooling in anticipation of another meal. He slashes its lips, injuring it and causing it to retreat. The commander pursues it. He swings wildly, driving it back before fleeing into the woods again. Thankfully, neither beasts follow him.

He runs until he falls. Only then, he risks taking a rest.

"Very little is permanent, son," his father once told him. "A lot is decided by who holds on the longest."

He rolls on his back, the twin suns overhead, and he realizes it's barely noon. After a bite of his ration bar and a drink of water, he struggles to stand up. If I wasn't lost before, I am now. He heads east, wobbling a few steps before he gets his stride.

"What is it, Rex?"

"General Syndula!" He snaps to attention. The old clone salutes her as she enters, the only one following the protocol in her command. The athletic Twi'lek offers a nod or greeting to each person. She could be beautiful, but Hera Syndula doesn't waste her time on frivolities.

"At ease, captain. Report."

"Ewok scouts have discovered a fortification."

"I thought General Solo and the Pathfinders took the last major outpost?"

"That's the issue, General Syndula," a rebel officer explains, motioning to the map. "General Solo captured a wealth of intel, but it's not on the maps or the captured intel."

"Where is it?" She asks as she moves next to Rex. Blue light bathes the room as the hologram initiates, Endor appears above the table, imperial posts marked red.

The officer inputs the coordinates, bracketing marking empty forest. "It isn't on the map. It's not even restricted airspace like some bunkers or research stations. It doesn't exist."

Rex's voice lowers, growing serious, "You know what that means."

"Imperial Security Bureau…or worse," she nods. "What else do we know?"

"The Ewoks saw white and grey troopers, indicating stormtroopers and the army. But they don't know what's beneath the surface or the size of the garrison."

"I'll investigate," she decides.

"I'll go with you," Rex offers.

"No, I want you on the trap," she tells him. He's disheartened, so she places a hand on his shoulder. "You know troopers; you can convince them to surrender better than anyone."

"I don't like this," he grumbles. "I should be there, at your side."

"I'll take our pathfinders; we're purely recon."

The evening falls quickly on Endor; gargantuan trees cast deep shadows. He takes a seat against a tree, eating the last of his rations and drinking more water. He doesn't stay long with exhaustion pulling at his thoughts. As soon as his eyelids grow heavy, he forces himself to stand.

Soon, he arrives at an open field and pauses along its edge. The thought of crossing open ground worries him. He takes a deep breath, stress and anxiety telling him to ignore it. Instead, he skirts the edge near the trees. At the center of the field is one of the few openings revealing the stars above. When he reaches the midway point, he glances at the night sky.

Something lures his gaze. Something red contrasts the dark sky and white stars. He's drawn by it, mesmerized, and doesn't realize he's moved into the open field. Something deep inside tells him to ignore it. He wants to and knows it's risky but keeps moving closer.

Finally, he gets a good look, a reddish-white object burning in the night. He knows Endor has two suns and wonders if that's the second. Then he disregards it; it's night, there's no sun.

The Deathstar.

His heart stops. The world spins, whirling faster and pulsing with each pounding heartbeat. He drops to his knees, unable to even put his hands down to slow his descent. He tries to make sense of it—but fails. He underestimated the devastation and crushing defeat he experienced. He accepted the loss without considering its depth, without recognizing how bad the situation might be. He never thought the Empire as a whole could be lost. That everything he fought for, that his whole life as a stormtrooper, is gone.