Chapter 8
They watch him silently, but the commander can't decide where to begin. He leans against the desk when fatigue washes over him again. He exhales slowly and gathers his wits. Suddenly, troopers arrive from below, their carbines ready. The lieutenant waves them off and pacifies them with a few words.
"Trooper," the commander points at the only imperial army soldier left. "Process that stormtrooper, then join the rest below."
The soldier hesitates, looking at the dungeoneers, and finds no help. Quickly, he realizes he's lost his privileged position. He calls for assistance and carries out the deceased.
"Do you require medical attention, commander?" The doctor asks.
"Oh yeah, he does," Gary nods.
"I don't have time for that," he glares at Gary. "Doctor, who is the senior officer here?"
"I'm the only one left," she replies, shifting to a position of attention. She's as tall as him, around two meters, but small shoulders give her a slim profile. Her mocha complexion offsets her grey/white uniform. Large golden eyes overshadow her small but broad nose, lips, and jutting chin. Her penetrating gaze is hawkish, and she's confident to the point of arrogance. Her coreworld accent intensifies, brisk and enunciated. "Captain Kathy Wither as your service, sir."
"Do you prefer captain or doctor?"
After a pause, she replies, "Doctor. My role was to ensure the health of detainees and staff. Command moved the prisoners off-world before the battle, so that left the four of us."
"I need an update. What do we know for certain?"
"The Emperor, Lord Vader, and senior command are dead. The alliance broadcast it, initiating a wave of uprisings. Everyone is lashing out or locking down whatever they can hold."
"It's hard to believe this could happen in four days," the lieutenant comments.
"Four days?" The commander inquires. "It's only been four days?"
"Four days have passed since the 'Battle of Endor.'"
"It felt a lot longer than that," he mutters.
"Ma'am, sir, I'd like to know how this could happen?" a dungeoneer asks. He's stiff, shifting to attention when speaking before returning to the at ease position.
"How'd things fall apart? How'd we lose with so many ships and troopers?" The storm commando grumbles. "-so quickly."
"It's easier to tear things down than to build them up." The commander tells them quietly. Then he shakes off his lethargy and raises his voice. "I'd like to know more too, but our concern is getting off this planet. Did any loyalists survive?"
"Admiral Versio escaped. For now, he's the only one calling for unity."
"That is good news!"
"Unfortunately," Wither continues. "We lack long-range communication."
Their mood crashes, but the commander asks. "Do we have any viper probe droids?"
She looks at him curiously; the stiff dungeoneer answers instead, "Yes, but we haven't used it in years, sir. There was no need after the garrison arrived. Honestly, I think everyone forgot about it, and it's sitting in storage."
"It will need a recharge, maintenance, and an oil bath," Gary interjects. "We should check the self-destruct mechanism, so it doesn't blow up from a faulty wire."
"A mind wipe as well," Wither adds. "It became idiosyncratic near the end."
"We don't have time," the storm commando warns, motioning to the Twi'lek. "The alliance will try to rescue her; failing that, they'll bomb this compound."
"He's right," the commander admits. "Does this facility have shields?"
The doctor and dungeoneers share a look. Thoroughly mortified, she admits, "We had an arrangement with a local Dulok tribe for fresh food. During the battle, they stole the emitter."
He stares, head tilting slightly in shock, "The whole dish? That's…quite a feat."
"No! No, sir," the stiff guard corrects him, a tad ashamed. "Not the whole dish, just the vane. We surmise they believed it was magical, able to create the shield on its own."
"How did you miss that?" Gary bursts out laughing.
"Thanks for volunteering, Gary," the commander scolds. "That's our first job."
"W-what? We're going back out there?" Gary exclaims, then groans.
He enjoys Gary's misery before realizing he doesn't even know anyone's names. "What are your names? Not your operating numbers; I don't have time to memorize them."
He looks at the lieutenant first, "Phil…Gale, sir. Philip Gale. Lieutenant Philip Gale."
"The emperor's finest, indeed," Doctor Wither sneers.
"Better late than never," the commander shrugs. The lieutenant is very average, average height, average size, shorter than stormtroopers. His brown hair matches his eyes, with pale skin lacking any distinctive features. His immaculate black uniform is the only thing that stands out.
"He held on longer than most officers," the storm commando pushes back. "He set a defensive position that held until they were surrounded and the AT-ST arrived."
"It didn't change anything," Lieutenant Gale sighs.
"We could have used more like you," the commander assures him. "Gale, you'll facilitate my orders under the doctor until we escape. That's the chain of command, understood?"
"Yes, sir," arises from the gathering with a few shaking heads. He looks at the dungeoneers. The strict one announces, "I'm Sgt. Swanson, and this is Guard Caizor."
Caizor clutches his wound but stands straight. The commander respects his fortitude; however, he can't shake the creepy vibe, "Do you need assistance, Caizor?"
"I'm not out of the fight yet…sir," the word emerges belatedly from the dungeoneer.
He's used to being in control of others, holding power over them, the commander notes.
"Corporal Simz," the storm commando preempts his question.
"I'm glad to have you, Simz. Your training and skills will make all the difference," he says seriously. "I'm going to give you specific tasks. The next few hours are pivotal for us and the troops left on Endor. When I address them alongside all of you, we MUST present a unified front."
"It'll take more than a speech to motivate them," Doctor Wither laments.
"Not just our troops. Half left after the rebels attacked, and Colonel Dyer deposed Dr. Wither." Gale confesses. "Let's be honest; we feel beaten."
The commander can't deny it. It lingers, clinging to them like a sickness or a bad smell.
"My father once said: Idle minds and idle hands are a recipe for disaster. These men should never have languished like this. What else could they do but stew in their defeat?"
"Is that why you had them start cleaning?" Gale asks in shock. "To keep them busy?"
"No, you startled them, shaking them out of despair." The doctor's eyes widen in awe, "Then redirected their attention onto something else."
"It's an easy task," he explains. "But victories, even small ones, build self-confidence."
"Yeah," Gary moans. "That was terrifying."
"That ax is not standard issue," Gale points out diplomatically.
"Agreed," the doctor unconsciously peeks at where the stormtrooper died.
Growing increasingly uncomfortable, he changes the subject. "Doctor, I need an inventory of everything at our disposal: droids, weapons, everything. Dyer wasn't wrong-"
"I'll help!" Dyer insists, but everyone ignores him.
"-about an administrator. If I'm not available to make a decision, it falls to you."
"Are you planning to leave, sir?" She inquires cynically.
"We need those shields; Gary and I will retrieve the vane. After the inventory, set up a triage inside the gate, but off to the side and against the wall. There, you won't be at risk or in the way. We can't be the only survivors left, and some will require immediate medical attention."
"Yes, sir, but I'm the sole doctor, limiting our ability to treat the wounded."
Admittedly, it's a significant problem. "Do you have an interrogation droid?"
"Yes," she's uncertain until she realizes. "Which have medical programming, yes, sir."
"It's no 2-1B, but it can serve as an assistant or nurse," he says. "Next-"
"Sir, the prisoners," the lieutenant motions to the Twi'lek and Dyer.
"I'll decide what to do with them soon." He knows it's juvenile, but he confiscates Dyer's blaster. Then drags Dyer to the wall where the doctor sat. "These instructions are groundwork; it doesn't matter who overhears them. Gale, your priority is to keep the troops busy. Post two guards on the front door, have the rest clean, and calibrate their blasters. Rotate them through the positions. Once Simz's team finishes, have all their armor repainted in forest camo."
"What about the Tarkin Doctrine?" Gale asks.
"That's a sharp deviation from protocol," Wither adds.
"Tarkin is dead. The Emperor is dead. We don't have the troops to waste on symbolism. In the forest, our armor stands out like a beacon, and life or death is decided in a split-second."
"The men may see it as busywork," Gale warns. "Some may refuse, sir."
"Warn them quietly," the commander tells him. "That Caizor is in charge of discipline. Don't announce it as a group, but whisper it individually. The threat will grow like a wildfire."
Gale nods while Caizor caresses his whip, and it's downright alarming. The commander warns him, "Stop that. Discipline them, but do not break them. We need every trooper."
"One shocking example can eliminate any further need for examples," Caizor points out.
"They are not rookies. They survived the battle and deserve better than that."
"Yes, sir, you're right." he nods curtly. "I can show restraint."
"Since when?" Swansong asks sarcastically.
He doesn't mention that Caizor will become the target of their anger and resentment instead of the officers who ordered it. The dungeoneer will revel in their fear and hatred; he'll appreciate the reputation that comes with it. It'll bind him to the commander.
"Gentlemen, escort Gary to the storage room with the Viper probe droid. Then, change into your heavy armor and make sure you have the key. You don't want to get stuck in it when we escape." They share a look, and he asks. "What's the problem?"
"Nothing, sir," Swanson replies. "But that armor is slow and cumbersome."
Doctor Wither adds, "We only use it when necessary."
Frustration simmers in the commander. I'm tired of having to repeat or explain myself. Then he reminds himself, they're not stormtroopers. Instead of giving in to his anger, the commander remarks. "I wouldn't have won the fight if you were wearing it."
Caizor smirks at Swanson, "Point taken."
"It's vital you're present, not just seen. If loyalty doesn't motivate them, then fear will."
"I'm no expert," Gary discloses. "But I'll grab an astromech for help."
"Skip the memory wipe," he orders. "We're short on time as it is. Look around for anything useful. There might be something else 'forgotten' down there."
Finally, he turns to the storm commando, "Corporal, gather anyone with scout training, and dye their armor for recon. You and your team will reacquire valuable imperial equipment from the mass grave. Additionally, you will direct any imperials you find to our location. Face to face, not by radio. Be advised; the rebels are using decoys to lure us into traps."
"What should I prioritize, sir? What equipment and where is the mass grave?"
"Explosives and repeaters," the commander says after a moment of consideration. "Unfortunately, I can only give you an approximate location, as I was fleeing for my life."
"I have it," Gary marks it on the commando's datapad. "I was there too."
"You didn't tell me that," the commander looks at him.
"I-I was playing dead," Gary admits unhappily. "They dragged me to the fire a-and I froze up. I w-was-well, you pulled them away, and I escaped."
"I recognize your voice. You served at this facility a year ago," Doctor Wither recalls. "You hit an Ewok with a speeder, destroying it. After escaping the Ewoks, you returned here."
Gary cringes, "Yes, ma'am,"
The commander chuckles, "Gary is lucky."
The doctor is unimpressed. She folds her arms across her chest.
Satisfied, he declares, "Remember your training, and we're presenting a united front."
"What can I do?" Dyer asks. "I want to help!"
"Don't worry, my lord," he replies, helping Dyer to his feet. "You'll be right next to me."
"Really?" His eyes light up. "Well, of course, I will. After all, despite our differences, we're Imperials. We must stand together."
They walk out of the room, and the commander takes his position near the walkway's edge. Below them, the imperials continue cleaning, but it's halfhearted. There's no intensity or drive to complete it. He points quickly, arranging his staff. Dyer takes a spot to his right, and next to him is the doctor. Then Simz and Swansong. On his left are Gale and Caizor.
Once positioned, he drives Dyer to his knees. The lord squeals in surprise, and then the commander nods to Gale.
"Form up!" The lieutenant cries, the troopers below rush to form lines. "At-ten-tion!"
"At ease!" He barks, allowing them to relax. "Does anyone not know who I am?"
Not a word. Everyone knows, and if the troops didn't, word spread while they cleaned.
"In forty-eight hours, ALL OF US are leaving this forest moon," the relief from his words is so tangible, tension flees the room.