Chapter 24
Twenty-four hours since the commander promised an EVAC
"I…," all of them share Dr. Wither's speechlessness when they look upon the Dark Swamp, halting unconsciously at its edge. They arrive well after Endors' suns have set; the darkness heightens its dire nature. Distantly a fire burns like a beacon in the dark, and in their hearts, they know it's where they'll find the witch. Immediately the commander clicks his rifle light, quickly echoed by Gary, and Dr. Wither draws a lantern from her pocket.
Frighteningly, their lights dim within the swamp.
Gary takes a deep breath, "Well, this is awful."
"It's just a swamp," Dr. Wither insists, but her voice fails, revealing her fear.
With a hesitant step, the commander leads them across an unmistakable border into a land of wilted ferns, rotting plants, and trees bent at unnatural angles. The twisted trail narrows to a handspan and irrationally weaves its way through the swamp. Vines and branches curl around each other, blocking alternate paths, and creating a living labyrinth.
Their chests heave as they breathe hot, stale air. The closeness of the thick air penetrates their clothing, armor, and even their helmet filters. Soon they're drenched in sweat.
The bog water settled into the dells and basins is stagnant, murky, and impenetrable as the swamp. No matter how hard they try, each of them slips, despite how close they cling to the zigzagging lane. The first time, they react rapidly to pull Gary free of it. Eventually, they slip so many times they grow accustomed to being covered in filth. As their misery becomes constant, they trudge forward with the single-mindedness of the desperate and doomed.
Skeletal remains are the first indicator they reached the witch's home. Intentionally bound to trees or impaled on spears, their mouths twisted in agony and frozen in death cries even after their bones are all that remain. The commander wonders how many leave here alive.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Gary whispers wearily.
"Worse than the arena?" The commander tries and fails at joking.
"Way worse," Gary's tone kills any further attempt at levity.
"Are we…sure we need the vane?" Dr. Wither whispers, her hands on her knees as she tries to recover. She's pale despite her dark skin, sweat-stained, with shadows pooling beneath her eyes. Her mood and expressions lay bare without a helmet to conceal her face.
"I—I'm with the doctor," Gary suddenly declares. "Are we sure we need the vane?"
The commander forces himself to stand straight, "Yes, captain."
Hearing her rank jogs her. Dr. Wither clenches her jaw and straightens herself.
"Come in!" A shrieking voice erupts from the dwelling. "Come in! You must be hungry from your journey; weary travelers are welcome!"
"It would be a shame to come all this way only to turn back now," Wither sounds as if she's trying to convince herself.
"Remember the song," Gary warns. "…her promises, her words are lies!"
"I remember," the commander grumbles. "I'm frightened too, but we need the vane. This witch seems to be the root of all our problems. She knows we need it and led us here."
"That makes it a trap," Dr. Wither insists. "Only a fool willingly walks into one."
"The Duloks feared her more than the Empire. She overwhelmed General Syndula and her troopers when they tried to interfere. Do you think she hasn't already planned for that?"
"Yes," Wither admits sourly. "We have to assume she has contingencies ready."
"Now, I'm terrified," Gary admits. "Are we—are we just walking in there?"
"No, we're going in armed to the teeth and on our toes."
"In that case," Gary's glib tone returns. "Don't forget to check your magazine, sir."
He sighs. Then the commander checks it and his pistol, making certain it's loose in its holster. Then he runs his hand across Ruin before replying, "Thank you, Gary."
Dr. Wither looks from one to the other, left out of the joke, before checking her pistol. Then she unbuttons the vibroblade sheathed in her boot.
"Come in! Come in," a voice from within the hut squawks. "The food will get cold!"
"Don't eat or drink anything," Dr. Wither hisses.
"I can always eat," Gary mentions, sounding a little more like himself.
Feeling better, the commander chuckles before motioning them forward. Smoke billows forth, clouding it as they reach the entrance, but it does not stink or choke them. Instead, it creates an atmosphere of incense and spices, so thick they taste it on their tongues.
The witch's home is a tall, domed structure built from mud, tree branches, and hides. Smoke rises through a hole in the center of the roof. The commander pulls aside a flap, revealing a low arch, forcing them to bend over to enter. Once inside, the dwelling has a high ceiling that easily accommodates them. On the opposite side of the hut, he spots another exit.
In the center of the room, a metal spit holds a large cauldron over the roaring fire. A boiling, churning soup bubbles in the pot. The incense and smoke overwhelm the commander's nose, making it impossible to smell the food. For a moment, his mind runs wild, imagining its ingredients. The commander shakes off his wandering thoughts and turns his gaze to the witch.
The creature looks like a nightmare, cruelly fusing a blackbird and a human woman. Her face has a pitch-black beak with matching feathers on one side and a woman's skin on the other. Her eyes contrast her face, blackbird and human. One shoulder is shrunken and ends in a jet-black wing, while the other has pale skin and a human arm. Somehow, she stands on birdlike clawed feet. She wears an ill-fitting breastplate that has long since rusted from lack of care.
In a word, she's an abomination.
"Guests are welcome; yes, guests are welcome. Come in, come in," she urges them while motioning with her one good hand. Her beak distorts her words, and her single wing flaps excitedly. The witch flings something into the fire, causing it to crackle and spark.
Weariness causes the commander's vision to blur, and he shakes it off. He looks around the structure; hundreds of trinkets of all imaginable sizes and shapes line the walls. Some objects appear no more than refuse, but he can only guess what lies or lives inside of those piles. Dr. Wither's lip curls in disgust, repulsed by the hut's disarray, or its primitive nature, possibly/probably both. Gary timidly remains near the door, his hands clenched on his carbine. His head half-turned, his whole body on edge as if he might flee at any moment.
"Thank you," the commander begins politely. "For your hospitality."
The witch stirs her cauldron with a giant spoon before taking a bowl and filling it with the broth. She passes the bowl to the commander, who immediately passes it to Gary. A moment of uncertainty follows as he has to decide which hand to tear free from his blaster. Eventually, he takes it after a nod from the commander.
"Some time has passed since I've had a civilized guest." The witch fills another bowl—her voice deepens and sounds almost human. The radical change shocks them. Without taking his eyes off her, he hands the next bowl to the doctor. She takes it as if it's a poisonous serpent. "Your master spoke as a statesman but acted beastly. Now, he's dead."
Our master, the commander struggles to think, his mind sluggish. The Emperor?
"You stole from us," Dr. Wither interrupts. When the commander looks at her, she blinks, uncertain why she said it so abruptly. Wither's eyes narrow, and she scowls but presses on. "You stole a vital piece of equipment and put our operation at risk."
"Me, no, no, no," the witch insists, cackling and returning to her pitched wild tone. "The Duloks, they lie. Treacherous beasts, they will say anything. They traded it to me."
"You said 'our master,'" the commander's tongue feels thick and sluggish. Something is vital there; he clings to the thought like an anchor. "Were you speaking of the Emperor?"
Gary raises the bowl to his mouth, tipping back his helmet to drink the soup. Dr. Wither reaches over and pushes it away, and he recovers, remembering not to eat or drink.
The witch nods thoughtfully, "Yes, do not let this wretched form deceive you; once, I was beautiful as the dawn. The Emperor and I made a deal, he wanted my visions, and I wanted my body back. I told him what I'd seen, but he betrayed me and left me in this wretched form. Then, he demanded my servitude. That was not our deal!"
THAT WAS NOT OUR DEAL! Her voice pierces, penetrates, and rattles the commander to his core. All three recoil from her; they feel the words as much as he hears them.
"I don't believe you," Dr. Wither declares.
"No one cares what you believe, Ecaterina Windsor!" The witch cries. Dr. Wither's eyes widen in disbelief. The name shakes her; her mouth opens and closes several times until she clenches her jaw shut. The witch hisses, "I see through you!"
I SEE THROUGH YOU!
They retreat a step, but the commander stops Dr. Wither, correctly predicting her outrage. At the same time, he recognizes the witch's fury too. She clenches the giant soup spoon, eyes narrowed to slits and ready to pounce. Simultaneously, he notices objects throughout her hut moving without being touched—the flap over her doors whips back and forth without cause.
"What is your name?" The commander asks softly.
"You…!" The witch's beak opens to spew curses but halts. She blinks, his question distracting her. After a pause to regain control, she answers, "Charal. My name is Charal."
"Do you have the vane?"
"Yes," her voice slowly returns to the balanced tone. She motions to a section on the wall, obscured by a thick drape. She pulls it back, revealing several more trinkets and the vane. Remarkably, a polished metal rod drags the commander's eyes away from the vane. The weapon is unmistakable, a meter in length, with a black handle.
"Is that…" Gary mutters. "Tha-that looks like a royal guardsman's force pike."
"Yes," the witch's voice spikes and cackles. "I have many things to trade. What would you be willing to surrender in exchange, Gary…"
Gary shrinks away, bumping the wall behind him.
"Charal," the commander tries to keep her centered. "Will you return the vane to us?"
"Yes," she replies. "I return it freely, but….all I ask is you listen to my offer."
He gently takes the vane from the witch, then hands it to Dr. Wither, who glares at him meaningfully. She gives him the ever-so-slight shake of her head.
"You have discovered how quickly this planet changes a person," the witch mentions. "Have you not, commander?"
"Yes," his mind wanders into the initial terror of isolation, grief, and ensuing battles. It overwhelms him for a moment. "Yes, this planet seems unnaturally furious."
"It is young and wild. Conflict and chaos are nature's way of forcing evolution and improvement. Learn-or die and be replaced. Do not be tempted by Endor's vigor…we must leave." She lectures before realizing she is talking to herself as much as she is speaking to them. "Pardon me; this world and my transition have-left me unbalanced."
"This world seems determined to drive people mad," the commander states calmly. "Charal, what is your offer?"
"I want my body returned to normal and off Endor. You do not have the power to change me, but we can help each other. I am a no warrior, so I see the benefit of aligning with one."
"Absolutely not," Wither shakes furiously. "It violates Imperial Code."
"Did imperial code forbade Inquisitors and Lord Vader too?" the commander asks.
"Small minds cannot see potential right before them," Charal hisses at Dr. Wither, but her voice remains stable. "In exchange, I offer you access to my visions. My eyes pierce the veils of plots and lies; I will help you foil the schemes of your enemies and the treachery of your allies."
"Yeah, we saw what you did with it outside," Gary points out. "You impaled and tortured them while still alive."
Amazingly, the witch remains in control but never takes her eyes off the commander. "You understand the power of a strong precedent, do you not, commander? I am alone here; these aliens are savage and relentless. If a single spectacle of horror keeps them at bay and guarantees my survival, is that not the wisest? Is that not the most humane decision?"
"Your sorcery is a perversion; it violates the natural order," Winter insists.
"Do you understand quantum physics or how a reactor works? Can you explain the mechanics of hyperspace?" The witch throws something into the fire with her one good hand; it roars momentarily before calming. The scent of smoke and incense washes over them yet again. "Uneducated minds perceive it as unnatural because it is beyond your knowledge. If you had access to it, would you not use it? If it saves lives, isn't it criminal to prohibit it?"
"Wha-what did you throw in the fire?" Dr. Wither asks softly. The commander blinks; in his mind, the witch seems so sensible. He turns to Wither and Gary; both look equally uncertain.
Suddenly, the doctor slaps herself across the face, "What did you throw in the fire?!"
"You need me," Charal ignores her, her voice changing.
YOU NEED ME. The words echo infinitely in their minds, with absolute certainty.
"I need you," the commander mumbles.
"We need you," Gary echoes.
"We..what is…" Dr. Wither struggles against it.
"They have weapons and allies, but my foresight will neutralize them. I need you, a brilliant commander. Imagine what we can do together."
He can imagine…the commander has difficulty finding fault in her argument. Even though Dr. Wither shakes her head, she fails to put it into words, wiping a hand across her face.
"Once I return to my body, there may be even more between us." Charal leans closer to the commander and runs a finger down his bracer. Her touch is electrifying. For a second, a heartbeat, he sees what she was before. Charal had the bearing and beauty of a queen, with her sleek black hair and perfect skin. "Isn't that better than some Empire?"
It was the worst thing she could say.
Her enchantment ends with the force of a bulkhead slamming shut. Unbeknownst to the witch or even the Imperials, the Empire's brutal conditioning is not the only source of Stormtrooper's zeal. Propaganda and even subliminal messaging bombard them constantly every day. Even in the compound, it continues, amplifying their loyalty. It is one of the reasons, but not the only one, why they willingly commit such heinous crimes. For all their faults, Stormtroopers cannot be bribed, intimidated, or seduced into betraying the Empire.
Wither mutters something, then yells, "The fire! She drugged us!"
The commander looks at his white bracer, filthy from the swamp where she touched him. There, ever so slightly, specks of strange dust remain. The commander grabs Charal's hand and turns it over. Immediately, he sees the same powder staining her fingertips. She yanks her hand free, her eyes wide in disbelief.
Gary stares dumbfoundedly, but Dr. Wither recovers instantly. She drops the soup and reaches for her pistol. Unfortunately, holding the shield vane and bowl slows her. The witch extends her hand and hurls both of them against a wall. They grunt on impact and slump to the dirt floor. Then she turns on the commander and makes a fist. Suddenly, the commander is lifted off his feet, choked by an invisible hand. He claws at his throat frantically, unable to break free.
"No! No! NO!" She shrieks, her voice pitched with madness. "You will not leave me!"