Chapter 7

"Well, that's not encouraging."

The walls and courtyard of the ISB detention facility are vacant. The gate is open. The commander disregards the vines and bushes growing close to the base; obviously, it's camouflage. A smashed window on the second floor appears forgotten.

"There may be supplies or gear to scavenge, abandoned or not."

"I don't think it's abandoned, Gary. Switch on your light."

Gary clicks the light on his E-11, brightening the area around the entrance. The commander kneels and studies the soil. Then he examines the window.

"What are you doing? Uhh…sir?"

"See this?" The commander points at the footprints near the gate before he points at the other side. "These are stormtrooper boots; you can tell from the imprint, but over here is where someone sat during their shift. Further out here, you have two sets of boots opposite a third person. See how far apart, facing each other? Over here by the wall, two people sat side by side."

"They sat outside the gate together? Were they making out?"

"What? No," the commander pauses before admitting, "Maybe...I didn't think of that."

"I'm here to help, sir."

"I think they were captured and sat together, so it's easier to guard them. Regardless, there's way too much foot traffic for this place to be empty."

"How'd you learn to do this? Is this scout training?" Gary asks.

"My father taught me, but in twenty years of service, you pick up a lot."

"What about the broken window?"

"Breached with an explosive charge before an assault."

"Are we walking into another trap?" Gary asks seriously.

"No. It would require a lot of coordination, risk, and people familiar with imperial protocols. They don't have it." Then he adds, "For the record, only you walked into the trap."

"Only because I knew you were nearby," Gary insists. He leans near the doorframe, and Gary positions himself directly behind. The door is slightly ajar, bright light spills forth, offering a hint of what's inside. Then whispers, "Don't forget to check your magazine, sir."

"Shut up, Gary," but after an internal argument, he checks it. Gary snickers, irritating him. Then eerily, he remembers the itch of being followed. "Were you following me yesterday?"

"Yes," Gary replies. The commander turns and looks at him skeptically. "You weren't hard to follow. All I had to do was look for the dead and the scavengers circling overhead."

The commander sighs and then peeks in, "People are sitting inside. Prepare to enter."

Gary taps his shoulder, and the commander enters with his rifle ready, startling the Imperials inside. Gary follows him in. A dozen troopers and supporters sit idle in a cafeteria. Some sleep while others lay on the deck in a drunken stupor. Three sets of long tables take up the center of the room. Along the left wall, a staircase leads to the second floor and officers' quarters overlooking the chamber. There's a turbolift at the back of the room, near the kitchens.

The commander lowers his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder. After the initial surprise, the imperials ignore him. He removes his rebel poncho, revealing his pauldron and his rank.

"Officer on deck," A lieutenant declares halfheartedly. Someone laughs.

His anger boils over. Before he thinks better of it, he approaches the central table and flips it over, hurling food and drink everywhere. The occupants tumble backward or jump to their feet. Hot with anger, fury bright on their faces, one takes a threatening step towards him.

"Have you LOST YOUR MINDS!" The commander roars. "Is this the Empire's best?"

Suddenly the imperials back up, shrinking away from him. The commander turns, expecting Gary with his carbine ready. Instead, Gary shies away, watching him warily.

The Ewok ax, his ax, is clenched in his fist.

"Attention on deck!" The lieutenant shouts. Their brutal training reasserts itself. The imperials snap to attention, even the drunks. They're wobbly on their feet but stand nonetheless. The commander paces from one side of the room to the other, then back again. His fury stoked; he can't speak until he smashes several bottles of alcohol, the liquid spilling everywhere.

"You! Lieutenant, pick four men for guard duty. Two patrolling the walls, and two static guards on the gate, NOW!" After it's done, he addresses the rest of them. "Since you can't find anything useful to do, you will scrub this cafeteria. You will clean every inch! MOVE!"

Sullenly, the imperials start cleaning. The commander returns his ax to his belt, unnerved by how it appeared in his hand. He doesn't remember taking it. He covers for his introspection by pretending to supervise. Hesitantly, the lieutenant draws his attention before approaching him.

"Lieutenant, are you in charge here?"

"No, he's not," During his speech, six people emerged from an office. "I am in charge."

He looks up at them and immediately recognizes their leader, "Colonel Dyer."

"Lord Dyer, if you please," he corrects. "Report to my office, commander."

The commander notes the tone and the inflection of his lower rank. It's a reminder; calm, he urges. We need everyone—wait, why lord instead of colonel? Dyer's switch has dangerous implications. It insinuates nobility is superior to the empire's structure now.

The troopers remain on the causeway after Dyer leaves. Two dungeoneers in light armor, a stormtrooper, and two soldiers evaluate him. He recognizes that look from all of his transfers. They feel threatened by him. Worse, we're split into two tiers; those close to Dyer and the rest.

Gary and the lieutenant follow him to the stairs before the commander stops them. He whispers, "Gary, go get my poncho. Go with him, lieutenant."

"But you threw it down," Gary complains. "Why am I getting it?"

"Because I told you to!" He snaps. Then he exhales, calming himself, "Because it gives you a reason to show up after me. Dyer will think he has me at a disadvantage and talk too much. When you show up, they'll have to split their forces to cover us both instead of encircling us all."

"You think they'll turn on you," the lieutenant realizes. "Yes, sir, we'll get it."

The commander walks up the stairs and continues until he reaches the troopers. They immediately surround him; he tenses but keeps calm by pretending they're his bodyguards.

"Sir, I'll take your rifle," the stormtrooper reaches for it.

He halts so suddenly the troopers behind him stumble. The two dungeoneers on opposite sides turn towards him. Heatedly, he demands, "Do you always disarm your superiors, trooper?"

He swallows, then stutters, "Uh-uh, I-."

Everyone below pauses and looks up at them. A dungeoneer says, "That's not necessary."

"Excellent," the commander continues forward suddenly. He catches them by surprise, forcing them to hurry to catch up. He reaches the door first and considers closing it, trapping them outside. He goes so far as touching his pistol grip and deciding to blast the panel.

Then suddenly, he notices the pair of females in binders and stares. An olive Twi'lek and a dark-skinned human sit against the back wall. The Twi'lek rebel wears a pilot uniform, and the human appears to be a doctor. Both look at him in shock. The rebel's eyes grow defiant.

The doctor recognizes him and blurts out, "Grand Commander!"

All eyes turn to her in surprise until Dyer's glare causes her to frown and look away.

A Dungeoneer slips through the door, ending any chance of locking everyone out. The second guard motions impatiently, so the commander steps in, centering himself on the desk. He knows he's in a difficult position. The division is concerning but not uncommon in the empire. Normally, protocols and forced unanimity nullify it, but that empire may no longer exist.

"Forgive the mess," Dyer begins. "We repelled a rebel attack and captured their leader."

Even the use of forgive sounds like an order, but he ignores it. "What about the Doctor?"

Dyer pauses, choosing his answer carefully. "She's an excellent doctor but won't fall in line. The rebel is our ticket off-world, and tail-heads are a valuable commodity."

"What he means is," the doctor asserts. "I won't betray the Empire!"

"I'd rather die," the Twi'lek hisses. "Then help you."

Dyer glares at them again and a dungeoneer hisses, "Be quiet, or you'll end up silent."

"They're traitors, commander!" The doctor shrieks.

"Is this true, colonel?" The commander uses the rank instead of the title, intentionally goading Dyer. When the colonel's eyes narrow irritably, it reinforces his fears. I have to be sure, he insists. If Dyer is betraying the empire, I need more than suspicion. I need proof.

Gary and the lieutenant arrive, but the storm commando and the soldier stop them at the door. Good, the commander is relieved. They pulled one of the specialists away.

"The Empire is finished," Dyer announces. The commander remains silent, letting Dyer convict himself. I'd be executed just for saying that—but he's a colonel. Dyer grows uneasy and weighs their reactions before continuing. "The moffs and admirals abandoned the death star. Everything is fractured, and everyone is seizing anything of value."

"Do you intend to carve up your own slice of the Empire, my lord?"

"The Emperor is dead!" Dyer screams. "His throne burns in the sky above us!"

"The empire is more than an old man and a chair!" He roars, shaking them to the core, downcast and ashamed. "When we're needed most, all you can think of is yourself!"

Dyer opens his mouth, then sighs. Finally, he decides, "I have no further use for you, commander. Fortunately, this base has lodging for someone as resourceful as you."

"Choose wisely! Do you want to serve one man's ambitions or the ideals we swore to?"

He senses their uncertainty, the conflict. Even Dyer bites his lip, "Take him."

The commander waits for it. The dungeoneer on his right takes his slung rifle with both hands. The other one grabs his elbow, and the stormtrooper behind him dithers. The dungeoneers are experts in managing prisoners and troublemakers; they are the empire's best guards. But they choose their light armor today, mistakenly, not their impervious heavy armor.

He slams his elbow into the guard on his right, surprising him. The rifle clatters to the ground. The second dungeoneer instinctively jerks him in the opposite direction. He leans into it, headbutting him, and then punches him in the face. The stormtrooper gets an arm around the commander's neck, choking him. He grabs his pistol and shoots him in the foot.

"AAHHHhhhh!" The stormtrooper cries as he falls away. Behind him, Gary kicks the soldier in the groin and slugs him. The lieutenant and commando wrestle over a carbine.

The first dungeoneer knocks the pistol out of the commander's hands. He grabs the guard and punches him once, then again, but searing electricity interrupts. The commander stumbles forward before he shoves the dungeoneer against the wall. Gary appears, tackling him.

After his initial shock, Dyer draws his blaster. Lightning-quick, the captured rebel rolls forward and kicks his legs out from under him. A second later, the doctor stands up, then falls on him driving her elbow into his sternum. Dyer cries, "OWwwww."

Without warning, a yellow cord wraps around the commander's neck. Shocking, searing pain ravages him. The dungeoneer with the neuro-whip drives him to his knees. Then remarks, "I'm excited to see how strong you are, commander."

All he wants is the pain to stop. Then, Heinz, his fallen aide, appears before him. He recalls the imperials executed, pleading for mercy before he was hunted. The memories rile and provoke him. His anguish and ire coalesce into terrible wrath, evaporating his crippling agony.

The dungeoneer pulls a stunstick, advancing towards him. The commander turns, seizing it. Horrified, the guard tries to regain control. The commander stands, wrapping a hand around his neck. Through the torment, he jerks the guard onto his own weapon, stunning him violently.

The commander drops to his knees as the dungeoneer collapses, smoke rises from them both. Chest heaving, the commander fights to breathe or even think. Behind him, Gary has control of the dungeoneer and punches him twice. Helpless, the guard yields.

Nearby, the hobbled trooper aims at Gary's back. Rage explodes within the commander; he swings upward. The stormtrooper's head snaps back. His helmet shatters, white plastoid rains like snowflakes. The stormtrooper stumbles against the wall before crumpling to the floor.

The commander's hand trembles, squeezing the ax heft so tightly they hurt. Drained, he tries to catch his breath and leans against the desk for support.

TWEOO! The commander spins, startled by the blast that strikes the dungeoneer. A pistol hits the floor as the guard cries out. Finally, clutching his chest, he gives up.

Dyer's blaster still smokes in the Twi-Lek's bound hands. She considers the commander for a tense moment. Then her eyes drift, widening at all of his injuries and mangled armor. Lastly, her eyes fall to his ax and fill with doubt. In that split second, she can't measure the danger he poses. She grits her teeth and tosses the blaster.

"Does anyone else still support the colonel?" He grabs the wounded dungeoneer, glaring into his eyes, holding him close.

"No, sir," the dungeoneer lowers his gaze submissively.

"Free the doctor," he orders, dropping the guard. The injured man groans while his partner removes the binders. Gary examines the stormtrooper he cleaved. "How is he, Gary?"

"He's-he's dead," Gary stutters, then quietly adds. "His neck is broken."

The commander barely resists sighing, clenching his lips shut. He immediately looks at the stormtrooper's carbine, set on stun—his stomach somersaults. Bile rises in his throat, and shame pools in his gut, threatening to cause him to vomit. Worse still, everyone watches him.

Revolted, he lies. "If I catch you shooting a brother in the back, you'll beg for this end."

They nod solemnly, which only magnifies his self-disgust. His deceit is gut-wrenching.

"Commander, I-I concede to your leadership," Dyer states, rising from behind the desk. Lowering his chin slightly, he adds. "I can admit when I'm wrong, but you'll need someone to administrate, to coordinate everyone involved. I offer my services to you, without conditions."

"Absolutely, not," the doctor snarls, rubbing her wrists. "You can't trust him!"

His first instinct is to execute Dyer as an example and to avoid any further treachery. Undoubtedly, the colonel will betray him. Then, he takes in the room and finally meets the doctor's gaze. Her opinion is evident; she wants him dead.

Next to them, the dungeoneer waits patiently with the binders ready. The commander reaches across the desk, tearing Dyer's rank insignia off his breast. "I have no further use for you, colonel. Fortunately, this base has lodging for someone inept as you."

Dyer pales, jaw wide open as the doctor's binders snap around his wrists.