Chapter 22
Nineteen hours after the commander promised an EVAC.
"Same plan," the Grand Commander assures them. Tension dissolves despite the imminent violence seconds ago. "Seriously, does anyone believe they can lead better than me?"
"Asking subordinates is not Imperial protocol, commander." Doctor Wither points out.
"The Empire is in shambles, we adjust or die, and I'm not going to execute someone for their opinion behind closed doors. Can any of you do a better job than me? Simz? Diggs?"
"Standard stormtroopers are stupid," Simz growls. "Most of the time. No, I can't."
The Deathtrooper seems uneasy, his hands twitching as he starts and stops. Then he admits, "I landed with sixty survivors; two days later, there were ten of us. No, I can't."
"Then steel yourselves; we will never get off Endor if we're at each other's throats. Or if we can't work together." He warns them. "Gary and I will go for the vane."
"I have specific training for witches," Serrano informs them.
"So do I," Diggs adds.
"You're not leaving me behind again," Dr. Wither insists. "You need a doctor."
The commander puts up his hands to stop them, "I can't take everyone, and Gary is my aide. Besides, I have specific tasks for each of you, vital to our survival."
"Oh, I'll stay behind," Gary volunteers. "Doesn't hurt my feelings at all."
"Why does he go and not us?" Diggs' tone is more curious than a challenge.
"Gary is lucky," the commander insists without sarcasm. "Mark me; our luck is running out. It's a miracle the Rebellion hasn't bombed us, but it's coming. Standard alliance tactics suggest they'll get eyes on us before striking. Simz, tell your men to place sensors along the way to the rebel camp. Vee has trajectory coordinates. Next, you and Serrano will examine the compound and surrounding area for weaknesses and resolve them immediately."
The commando and the royal guardsman glance at each other skeptically.
"We should bring Vee into this conversation," Gary suggests.
"Really?" Simz scoffs. "Are we asking the mouse droids what they think too?"
"Vee found Endor," Gary argues. "He surveyed it for years before the Empire arrived."
"Do it, Gary, translate his binary," the commander nods. "Simz, Serrano, when you examine the compound, grab a viper too. Have it scan every inch for structural weaknesses."
"Yes, sir," the royal guardsman agrees.
"Vee is on comm," Gary announces. The droid beeps excitedly.
"How many languages do you speak, Gary?" Wither asks.
"Besides binary, five," Gary replies, shrugging. "I can function in a few more tongues."
"How well did you know the Dulok queen's tongue?" The commander asks.
"Nothing happened!" Gary yells frantically.
Dr. Wither hisses, "Is there something you'd like to add to your report, trooper?"
"Oh, you left that out?" The commander teases him fondly.
"What? A nonhuman?" simz spits.
"A queen, well…you shoot for the stars," Diggs asks in a sly tone. "How was she?"
"Furry, very furry," Gary comments before thinking it through. Then cringes, "Poo-doo!"
They laugh at Gary's expense for a time, and the commander resists returning to business. Gary takes it well, letting his embarrassment roll off his back. Even Dr. Wither's stony gaze softens; after clenching her jaw, she smirks at him.
Gary looks at the commander and nods ever so slightly. Then he realizes Gary lied. Gary never returned the queen's affection. Since they met, his sole motivation was returning to his wife and child. He survived a deadly ambush, many battles, and calamity without complaint. Well, maybe a little complaining. Gary's humiliation provides relief, even if it's fleeting.
With each passing second, a persistent pressure crushes them. The tension is too much. There's no relief. The threat of annihilation is tangible, and the Empire they leaned on is gone. Survival alone, escape is not enough. They need hope.
"Okay, back to work, Imperials. Gale and Diggs, pull aside anyone with officer or special forces training, anyone that's shown leadership. Form mixed teams and squads around them."
"Mixed?" Gale looks at him. "Won't that interfere with unit integrity, sir?"
"It'll affect command and control," Diggs adds. "In combat, men will look at unit commanders and team leaders for guidance. New formations will obscure the chain of command, leading to confusion. Likewise, some officers will feel threatened if they're not in charge. It's a bad idea, sir. We need cohesion, now more than ever."
"I agree," Gale looks down. "You asked our opinion, sir, and I agree with Lt. Diggs."
The commander suppresses his impulse to snarl, to revert to stormtrooper training. He folds his arms and inhales deeply, "I told General Syndulla she's the Empire now. That makes us the rebels; we must become flexible. Mass stormtrooper assaults will not save us. The Empire was built top-down, leftover high command from the Clone Wars, with mass recruitment and conscripts to fight. The Clone legions were built from the bottom up, from one clone template, and training from the galaxy's best mercenaries. We lost; the clones won."
"We understand your intent," Wither states. "We disagree on the timing, sir."
"There is no guarantee we'll survive." The commander holds his hands apart, offering the simple truth. He pleads, and it disgusts him. "I can't promise victory; all I can do is solve the problems lying before us. If we die, I want the survivors to have a chance. We've watched rebel forces repeatedly decimated yet return to fight. It doesn't matter why or how, but I know fixed formations will not save us. If we can't acquire transport off Endor, it may force us to disperse into smaller groups to evade capture or execution."
"Like rebels," Diggs points out.
"Yes," the commander nods, then remembers. "Or the Kaleesh, they did the same thing to Grand Admiral Thrawn on Kalee. They are the only ones that consistently held him off. If they can do it, then so can we, which means we're not out of the fight."
Vee breaks the silence by humming softly, then beeps. Gary says, "A Zeta, at the very least. The commander thinks we can pack everyone into a single ship."
WHHOOO! Beep-beep-boop! The droid chirps excitedly. Gary tells them, "Vee has seen Zetas arriving and departing from Research Station 9."
"Research Station 9?" The commander says. "Where's that?"
"Why are we only hearing about this now?" Dr. Wither demands.
The droid beeps rapidly before Gary stops it, "Slow down, Vee-the station is classified."
"Of course, their programming," Dr. Wither nods, then explains it. "It prohibits Vee from revealing classified info; the same way protocol droids can't lie or mislead."
Vee beeps, and Gary continues, "He transmitted your message. Initially, they declined a meeting, but now they're begging for help. Rebel forces seized an AT-AT; they're advancing."
"We have to reinforce them," Wither declares; Gale and many of his officers agree. Even Diggs and Simz nod, supporting the idea, looking to the commander.
"We can't," the commander determines. In one second, the whole room turns on him.
"What do you saying?" Serano demands. Deathly silent until now, the royal guardsman motions. "They're imperials, and they have Zetas. By all means, this is the best way off Endor."
"Think it through, guardsman," he replies calmly. "Where is it?"
The royal guardsman pauses, "I don't know. I think I visited once, but we didn't ask. We were conditioned not to."
"Does anyone know?" The commander asks.
Everyone is silent until Vee beeps through Gary's comlink. He says, "It's several hundred kilometers away, in a distant region of Endor."
"That's a lot of walking for our one blurrg," the commander reminds them.
"It's a week-long march," Gary adds. "Minimum."
"Sir," Dr. Wither points out. "Doesn't that make us the same as Admiral Versio?"
Yes, he agrees silently but counters, "We can't help anyone if we can't protect ourselves. The rebels control the air; we know it, and station 9 knows it. They chose to ignore us until they needed us. For now, we must prioritize our survival over helping them. If we're going to assist, we have to figure out how to get there first. Any ideas?"
For all their education and training, Imperials are not creative. A few uncomfortable looks pass among them as they come up empty.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn wasn't legendary for his intellect," he tells them. "He was a legend because of the way he utilized it. He turned his enemy's tactics against them; his resourcefulness seized victory. The doctor, Gary, and I are going for the vane. Have the technicians ready to repair the emitter the instant we return. Then follow my instructions and figure out how we're getting to research station 9."
"Yes, sir," they reply, looks passing among them.
"Doctor," the commander looks at her. "Get armor and weapons; Endor does not care that you're a healer. We'll saddle the blurrg."
"Yes, sir," she exits the office briskly while the rest of his command salute. He returns it before departing with Gary. A trooper saddles the blurrg, and a few seconds later, the doctor arrives wearing a flight suit. The black uniform is spotless, but she left her helmet behind.
"No helmet, I prefer peripheral vision."
He wants to argue, and she frowns stubbornly, but he shrugs. The commander mounts the blurrg and offers her a hand. She shakes her head, "I'm not getting squeezed between you two."
"I'm okay in the middle," Gary says cheerfully. He takes the hand and swings on.
"Of course, you are, Gary." His subordinate laughs as he assists the doctor. The blurrg grumbles before the commander nudges it. It begins at a walk before it speeds up to a trot.
"Good luck, commander!" Someone yells as he passes through the gates. Dozens more join the cheer before it explodes among the garrison, chanting encouragement.
An hour passes as evening arrives, and shadows stretch from the trees and bushes. Birds chirp and cry overhead while critters leap into bushes along their path. Eerie and undisclosed threats lurk in the darkness; heightened alertness replaces the steady pulse of the compound. Unseen eyes peer from the bushes, watching their every step.
"Can we stop?" Dr. Wither asks. "I need a break."
"We're not even halfway," the commander grumbles.
"I could use one too," Gary adds.
The commander pulls the reins, slowing the blurrg to a stop. Gary slides off, and Wither leans against the commander to dismount. He climbs off too, then examines their blurrg. A bit tired, the beast nuzzles him. He rubs its jaw, and the blurrg yawns happily.
Behind it, both Gary and Dr. Wither vigorously rub the insides of their thighs. Her eyes rise to the commander, and she snaps, "Don't laugh."
"I didn't say anything."
She's quiet for a bit before saying, "I'm concerned with how swiftly you're making changes. I fear your—unconventional method is worsening an already unstable situation."
"The galaxy doesn't stop turning," he whispers. "Not even for the Emperor."
"That's all the more reason for you to be the bedrock for them to lean on."
"Stress affects us all," the commander admits. "It's unhinging, leading to wild spikes in their mood. I can outfit and train them, but only experience and conditioning will help."
"Do you really think now is the best time for it?"
"Uhh, guys," Gary whispers urgently, motioning. "Sir?"
"Do you really think things will return to normal once we leave Endor?" The commander points at the still-burning wreckage of the Deathstar, visible even during early dusk. "I do not."
A breeze shuffles the tree branches, leaves falling among them as the bushes dance in the wind. As the gust dies down and the bushes and branches still, soft musical tones replace it. The commander turns, following the sound to a diminutive creature sitting on a rock. It holds an instrument in its lap, strumming the strings and listening to their tune. He watches them but seems unconcerned, continuing to test his strings by adjusting the screws at the end of its neck.
Dr. Wither reaches for her pistol, and the commander stops her, "Stop! Listen."
"I don't hear anything," she replies, eyes searching for threats.
"Exactly, no birds, no critters running into the bushes. Nothing! Look at the blurrg."
Both she and Gary look at the creature, crouched, with its eyes darting around. It's unmistakably uneasy.
"Well, that's unsettling," Gary notes. "It's a Yuzzum."
"A what?" Dr. Wither demands.
"One of the native species," he answers. "They're more advanced than the other two."
"Hello there," it calls in galactic basic with a deep voice. It watches them as it continues tuning. The creature is furry, round, and has a pronounced mouth with large square teeth. Spindly arms hold its instrument, and matching legs kick, keeping tempo. A rifle is slung across its back, within reach but not at the ready.
The commander takes a step, and the doctor grabs his arm, "What are you doing?"
"If it's a trap, we're already in it. If not, this isn't a chance meeting."