Chapter 9
Hera could escape. Their indifference borders on laziness, even incompetence, and she's an expert at exploiting it. She considers the window. She could jump and risk breaking her ankle or lower herself down. That's a bad idea because she had to evade the troopers outside even if she wasn't hurt. The two doors off to one side lead to a closet and a refresher. She doesn't search for a weapon; the empire wouldn't leave one unsecured. She peeks under the table, just in case someone was paranoid. Predictably, she discovers that even the bottom of the desk is clean.
Hera rolls her eyes.
Her gaze drifts to where the stormtrooper fell. It feels stained, permanently. She's watched people die and slain a few herself. I don't regret it even if I don't like it. But that…that stormtrooper was butchered. In the blink of an eye, the commander showed how far he'd go.
So, why did I save him?
"The empire is more than an old man and a chair!" His words shook Hera to her core. His conviction disturbs her as much as the trooper's death. She's never heard such sincerity in an imperial. Why did I save him, why did I shoot? Hera can't answer that. The dungeoneer revolted her, but that wasn't it. He tried to blast the commander in the back, and she didn't like that either.
Then another question comes to her: Did I save his life? Would he have died? Did she intervene to save him or because she feared his retribution?
Hera has felt the sting of the neuro-whip. She's seen the terror and the crippling agony it inflicts. The weapon defines its users as much as the suffering it induces. Yet somehow, the commander resisted. No, not just resisted, he rose against it and stunned the dungeoneer with his own weapon. If that wasn't impressive enough, he reorganized their operation in minutes afterward.
Hera wonders, how did stormtrooper armor stand up to that much damage? Then she looks at him and curses herself for a fool. He's not wearing stormtrooper armor!
"In forty-eight hours, ALL OF US are leaving this forest moon."
The words, his words, draw her attention back to him. She sat on the floor quietly, and as intended, they forgot about her. Only the lieutenant noticed her eavesdropping, but the commander dismissed the risk. Quietly, Hera rises and creeps closer to the door. It remains wide open. She could hear from where she sat, but Hera wants as much intel as she can gather. She makes a quick count of Imperials. I need more information! Who is this Grand Commander?
"Now, for the bad news," the commander tells the assembled imperials. "The Emperor, Lord Vader, and most of the senior command are dead. There is chaos everywhere."
A whimper escapes. Then a soft cry arises, a shiver and a moment of wobbling among his troops. Fortunately, no one faints. They take it better than he could hope, stoically, and watch him silently. He nods his approval before he continues.
"Some claim the Empire is dead, but I believe it's more than any single person! The New Order is not a base or emperor; it's belief in order over anarchy. If we believe, the Empire lives!"
"Not everyone joins out of patriotism or to protect others, and I appreciate that. Each of you must make a choice, surrender to the alliance, or rise to the occasion. I am offering you this one chance to surrender. Place your weapon on the ground, walk out those gates, and head East."
No one moves, not even a twitch. Treachery, deceit, and blind ambition are rampant in the empire, creating an atmosphere of paranoia. So he declares, "Naturally, you fear it's a trap. I swear it's no trick. You are free to walk out that door and surrender. But if you stay, then abandon the Empire later, you'll face execution. Each of you must choose which path to take."
An army trooper looks at the door. Then slowly, he examines the commander. Suddenly, he drops his blaster and runs out. A murmur passes through the troops before a second places his weapon on the ground. He motions frantically to a stormtrooper, who looks at a comrade. A wave of uncertainty passes through them; the imperials shift their weight nervously and look side to side at their brethren. The rogue stormtrooper whispers furiously, but his words fail to take root. Finally, head down, he drops his weapon before exiting with the soldiers.
"Losses were inevitable, but I'd rather lose them NOW than when we NEED them. You have chosen a path of hardship, a path of principle and honor. I will never betray or abuse your loyalty." He gives them a moment to digest his words. Then he continues, "The days ahead will not get easier; they'll be harder and darker, but we will emerge stronger than ever before."
There's no cheering, and the commander doesn't blame them. The words seem empty and probably feel that way. Worse, each of them wonders if they made the right choice staying. Admittedly, most troopers tune out long-winded speeches. After reflecting, he changes direction.
"I need you to listen. I know officers love the sound of their own voices. They drone on and on about honor they've never experienced or earned before fleeing back to command centers and starships. After twenty years-after all the speeches I was forced to listen to, I think they made me stupider." A laugh, only a hint of broken discipline. Most of them seem appalled until a few chuckles join it. Some troopers even look up to see if they hear correctly. Gale smirks, but the doctor obviously thinks he's gone mad. "Good! There's some life left in you. Put those daydreams on hold and LISTEN. Colonel Dyer relinquished command to me. Your orders will come swiftly and may seem strange, possibly even invalid. Work hard and believe. Your compliance will save lives, possibly all our lives. In forty-eight hours, we are leaving."
Gale steps closer to the edge, shouting, "Dismissed!"
The troopers below break formation and return to their duties. The commander can't decide if he motivated them or they're retreating to the thoughtless monotony of work.
"Good speech," Gale comments.
"'Love the sound of their own voices,'" Wither quotes him, her voice lowered to a snarl. "'…made me stupider?'"
"Yeah, I didn't plan that," he admits enthusiastically before he turns serious. "We're losing them, doctor. We're desperate, and I know you feel it too. All they see is the defeat, and I had to shake them again. I can't roar because each time, the value yelling depreciates."
She accepts his answer after some thought. Then Simmz points out, "No one shot you."
"Hah, that isn't funny. I've watched that happen on Mimban."
"I'll gather those scouts and get them camouflaged," Simmz acknowledges.
Swansong adds, "We'll take Gary to the storage room, and we'll get changed."
"Sir," Caizor concludes before the three go to the turbolift.
"I'll get the manifest," Wither says. "Then start building the triage outside. My interrogator droid is going to be furious; it's a bit of a diva."
"If you need help, grab some troopers," the commander looks at both her and Gale. Then he remembers, "Shouldn't you have a communication officer?"
"We do, or did," the doctor nods. "Crewman Iona Constance, she argued against Dyer's admittance. Regrettably, she was right about him. If she's still here, she's on the barracks level."
"Thank you, doctor. Gale, move Dyer and the Twi'Lek to the courtyard and post security on them. I'll get the comm officer; we'll need her if we're going to get a rescue."
"Yes, sir!"
Even as he's descending the stairs, Gale begins repositioning the troops. The commander follows a few steps behind to avoid looking like he's micromanaging. The doctor doesn't quite accompany him, but her expression softens. They wait silently for the turbolift, and that silence grows strained. When the door slides open, he motions for her to go first. She absently thanks him, but once on the lift, the tension balloons.
Suddenly anxious, she demands, "Tell me your plan. Tell me you're not just keeping us busy too. That-that we're not waiting for some miracle to rescue us."
"I'm not waiting on a miracle," he assures her. "I'll give you a hint. The viper probe is critical, and so is our comm officer. We'll need her codes and protocols to request evacuation."
She frowns, unsatisfied. When they arrive on the barracks level, she points at a barracks door. "That's hers, Iona's. She shares it with another female trooper, so…don't barge in."
"Yes, that could be a disaster," he concedes sheepishly. "Thank you, doctor."
She seems ready to say something else, then decides not to, and the door whooshes closed. The commander turns to the barracks room and hits the call button. After a minute, he hits it again, calling her name on the intercom. When she doesn't respond, he overrides the door.
She lives in a tiny room shaped like a tube, with two lockers on the left side, separated by a bunk bed. A small table squeezes into the far corner below a display. A petite woman stands next to her locker; her black hair a mess, olive skin pale and splotchy. Her eyes are bright red from crying, and tears streak her face. She's holding a blaster to her head.
His heart stops, and he chokes.
"What's the meaning of this?" He screams on impulse. "Put that down! NOW!"
His voice jolts her as she shudders with sobs, her eyes wide with fear. She looks at him, then the blaster in her hands. Hand shaking, she tosses it on her bed and crumples to the floor.
The commander releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. Spots flash in his vision. His heart pounds; he swallows with difficulty and grabs the doorframe for balance. His teetering passes after a moment as he tries to speak, dumbfounded and lost on how to proceed.
"A-are you crewman Iona Constance?" He asks. With her hands covering her face, instead of speaking, she nods abruptly. "We need you at your station, crewman."
Her voice is as fragile as she looks, "Why? They're all dead. Everyone is dead."
I don't have time for this! The thought burns through his mind, but he squashes it. A few days ago, when I saw the deathstar, I was no better.
"You're not dead, crewman," he whispers gently. "Upstairs, twenty more of us are not dead, and we need your help. We need you, Iona. We need your protocols and codes."
"I'll give you the codes, whatever you need, just leave me here."
"No one is getting left behind. We need everyone, including you." His words have little effect. Frustrated, exhausted, and more than a little desperate, he asks, "Who'd you lose?"
"Everyone," she cries. A long moment passes until she wipes her eyes. "My husband served on the deathstar. My father and mother served on the 'Pride of Tarlandia.'"
He sighs, recognizing the grief she's going through. He pleads with her, "I won't force you, but everyone in this compound may die without your help. If we're going to rally the remaining imperial forces and request an evacuation, we'll need your expertise to coordinate it."
She doesn't reply, eyes closed and mired in heartache. A bit wobbly, he returns to the turbolift, reeling from this setback. While he waits, he struggles to come up with an alternative.
"Do you mean it?" Iona peeks out from her door. He looks back, surprised to see her. "Do you really need me? Do you think my training will save lives?"
"You can fake codes, but you can't fake protocols," he assures her. "You know them, or you don't, and I do not. Another comm officer will suspect rebels if there's a mistake."
She hesitates, her eyes distant before she mutters, "I'm coming."
"Wash your face," he orders, then softens his voice. "This-this will stay between us."
When they climb on the turbolift, in a haunting whisper, she mumbles. "I heard them. I listened to their screaming, the Devastator, the Deathstar, all of them. I listened to them die."