Chapter 34
Forty hours after the commander promised and EVAC
"Make it quick, Lord Dyer," Hera orders.
Dyer states, "Send Captain Kensington to lead the assault on Research Station 9."
Hera recalls the pathfinder captain, only days ago, warning her that pathfinders aren't assault teams. The memory of his death from her overly-ambitious orders saddens her. She tells Dyer, "Pathfinders aren't marines or assault troops, as you've witnessed."
"If you're unwilling to send him to fight, send him away. The further, the better."
Standing outside her command tent, she sighs in frustration and then refocuses on him. "What do you want?"
Reading her attitude swiftly, he pauses to adjust his tact, "Do you believe his change?"
"No."
"Shouldn't you protect yourself by sending him away?"
"We're not the Empire; we don't kill over disagreements-"
"No, you're a rebellion built on deadly accidents, misdirection, and asymmetrical war."
"United by our love for freedom and democracy, not power plays and murder!"
"He's a fanatic, and YOU told him his movement no longer needs him."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it? Think, general!" Lord Dyer points at his head angrily. "Rage on par with Captain Kensington's might fade over time, but it doesn't quit. You heard the way he spoke of the Empire. Rebelling is at the core of his identity."
"Rebelling against the Empire," Hera counters before turning around, finished with Dyer's mischief. "I don't have time for this."
Faster than she expected, he darts around her, blocking her path. On his face, she'd seen a variety of emotions that generally annoyed her. Now, she recognizes pure desperation. Hera wonders, does he see her as an opportunity to escape justice, or is he legitimately concerned?
"You may not realize it, but you're on course to challenge Mon Mothma."
"Why would I do that?" She snaps, motioning sharply. Heat flushes her face a darker shade of green. "Why! I have supported her for years. WHY WOULD I DO THAT?"
"What you intend and choose is not the same as how it's perceived. For many, perception is reality. Mon Mothma is a lifelong politician, a survivor who eluded the Empire for years." She steps around him. "Do you think you'll always agree with her? Are you that naïve?"
Hera stops.
"You unilaterally messaged and indirectly assisted the Grand Commander," Dyer points out. "-without permission, while in direct contact with command."
"I was reacting to a disaster," she argues, then realizes how defensive it sounds. Balancing her voice, she adds, "It was a split-second decision made while people were dying."
He raises his hands, "I agree. I couldn't do any better in those circumstances."
"Then why are you arguing with me?" She presses. "These choices led to my success."
"-and gathered the loyalty of everyone around you, but you're no longer a captain or rebel cell leader. You're a general now, and that position is as political as professional. By ordering Gold-5, you disregarded the chain of command. You placed your superiors on hold while collaborating with an imperial. At best insubordinate, if not outright treasonous."
"They didn't say anything," she argues weakly.
"To you," he retorts. "You saw Mon Mothma's expression; she hid behind compliments."
Hera wonders, then her eyes narrow, "What's your angle, Lord Dyer? Why help me?"
"I'm a political animal, general, admittedly." Lord Dyer smirks as his gaze grows distant. His eyes soften with exhaustion. "I'll talk my way out of this, but the day will come when your rebellion needs to feed someone to the mob. Then I'll find myself standing before a self-righteous magistrate who implements your justice with the same vigor as they wielded the Empire's. Hopefully, on that day, someone will vouch for me."
"You only care about yourself, don't you?"
"Yes, that's all anyone cares about," he insists. He leans closer, ensuring he has Hera's full attention. "I've done this a long time, as my house has for generations before me. Nobles convince people their goals are mutual; I'm just better at it, which is why I'm not in a cell."
"I come from a noble house, too," Hera scoffs. She folds her arms across her chest. "We care about more than ourselves and our house. We serve the people."
"That didn't save Ryloth, did it? The warring tribes, the slave raids, and the spice trade keep your home the same with or without the Empire." Lord Dyer claims. "Causes draw people like Kensington and the commander. 'Serve your people and the galaxy.' Throw your life away on a distant battlefield. It'll make things better, we promise! Sometimes it does, but most of the time, it's a conflict over resources. In the end, the people at the top stay there."
"So, your argument is, nothing changes, so get whatever you can?"
"For me, yes," he shrugs. "But for you, general, you must learn how to navigate the corridors of power if you want to make significant, lasting change. You'll have to compromise, and you'll regret it. Some of those decisions may haunt you for the rest of your life. If you want to improve things, you must fight those who don't or benefit from making it worse."
"What if I won't?" She asks quietly. "What if I'm unwilling to make those sacrifices?"
"Then you'll have to give way to someone who will, Captain Kensington perhaps." Hera scowls and shakes her head, dismissing it. "Kensington, the commander, and you believe in something greater. Your faith pulls people into your orbit like gravity. The only difference is you're moral but flexible. The commander is inflexible, ending his ascent, but he doesn't care. Kensington's morals flex at will. He'll use everything against the Empire or his enemies. Eventually, that list will grow into any opposition, marking him unsuitable for authority."
"I…thank you, Lord Dyer." Hera pauses, looking at him with new respect, impressed with his insight. Uncomfortable complimenting him, she flippantly adds. "Anything else?"
He doesn't look at her, "They're going to test you. Mon Mothma will tell you to execute the commander. Don't fail that test."
Mouth open in disbelief, Hera watches him walk away without another word.
"Delay that," the Grand Commander declares. He points at Dr. Wither, "If you continue without a helmet, I expect you to maintain your appearance. Go clean your face. Gary, take my code cylinder and cut off the jamming. I'll close the grate; then we'll see why so many died."
Both hesitate before muttering, "Yes, sir."
The tightness in his chest, the prickly feeling on the back of his neck, he knows someone watches them. They feel it, too. The grand commander is certain of it. It may be a side effect of the swamp or living on the edge for the last few days. They're not alone, and they know it.
The commander wobbles back to the hatch. The burning feeling in his neck and back makes lifting the grate agony; he struggles just moving it. Nearby, Wither discovers a refresher, and he can hear water running. He takes a deep breath and replaces the grate, his back clenches, and his spine feels ablaze. The commander groans as he stands up, his heart pounding in his ears.
A blaster charges from behind him with a pitched sound. The commander freezes.
"Don't move," someone orders with a gravelly tone. The commander knows the voice isn't human, but leaning on the hatch, he can't discern anything else.
"That's about all I can do."
"The bodies say otherwise. What's wrong with you?"
"A death trooper kicked me in the head, and I think it pinched a nerve in my neck."
"What of that scorch mark on your bucket? Not many survive getting shot in the head."
The commander touches the plasma burn on his helmet, "It's hard to believe, but a cranial plate covering half your face has benefits. Are you a part of Major Shin's unit?"
He hesitates, confirming it, "How do you know that? Who are you?"
"Wait one moment," the commander suggests, holding up a single finger.
"I got it!" Gary yells from the console near the huge green hologram of Endor.
Static, then the repeated message begins, "-any rebel forces, help is on the way…Major Shin and any rebel forces, help is on the way. Major Shin-"
"What does that have to do with you?"
"We're the help," the commander replies.
"You're joking," the rebel growls. "Do you expect me to believe that?"
"Yes," he replies matter-of-factly. "Can I turn around?"
"Slowly," the rebel growls. "You didn't answer. Who are you?"
He turns, discovering a Duro with deep blue skin and bright red eyes crouching near a console. The alien is fit and wearing a pathfinder outfit of drab clothing and a camouflaged poncho. His positioning is excellent, not close enough to charge or too far to examine the commander. The console provides him cover from multiple directions without completely ruining his visibility. He holds his pistol in one hand comfortably.
"I'm the Grand Commander, tenuously in charge of all remaining imperial forces. You?"
"I'm asking the questions," he growls. "Are you in charge of the death troopers?"
"Absolutely not," he shakes his head vehemently, aggravating his injury, but he ignores the pain. "I won't claim I'm innocent, but I'd never allow that."
The Duro watches him a moment longer before tensing. Lightning quick, he draws a second pistol and aims it around the console.
"Stand down!" The commander yells. "Everyone remain calm!"
Wither stands a dozen feet away, aiming her blaster at him. It's a bad angle, and the commander knows it would be a miracle if she hit him, let alone kill him. He's impressed; the Duro knows his trade. He chose a perfect defensive position.
Distantly, Gary spins and aims at the Duro. Mirroring the doctor, he has a difficult, if not impossible shot. Pushing himself off the hatch, the commander puts up his hands. Then orders, "We are running out of time. The death troopers will realize we shut off the jamming. Do you have a better option than working with us?"
"Sir?" Wither's word accurately conveys her displeasure and a great deal more.
"You want me to work with you?" The Duro scoffs.
"Our luck won't hold out," The commander tells both. "What are your other options?"
"I wait until the rebels send another strike force and assist their attack."
"You've seen how good the death troopers are," he points out. "How many rebels are you willing to bury?"
Dr. Wither adds, "What will keep them from rigging this place to explode when your forces arrive? It isn't the victory they want, but they'll take it instead of losing the base."
The Duro grimaces before lowering his blasters. The doctor relaxes, and the commander drops his hands. The Duro says, "I'm major Shin. What's your plan?"
"Whatever is here," the commander explains. "We can use it against the death troopers to draw them out and eliminate them. First, I want to know what is so important."
"I heard," Shin admits. "How'd you know I was here? Why put yourself at risk?"
The commander and Wither share a look, "We've had some bad days."
"A death trooper would have attacked immediately, and General Syndula hoped there would be survivors." Major Shin blinks in surprise; then his eyes narrow skeptically. Together they follow the path leading to the terrace ringing the room before joining Gary at the computer.
"Everything was locked out," Shin tells them before looking at Gary. "Are you a slicer?"
"No," Gary shakes his head. "I used the commander's code cylinder."
The commander adds, "It came from high command."
Major Shin's eyes widen before he gives the commander another long look.
"It's not that impressive," he motions to Gary.
"This is the lead scientist's summary," Gary announces.
Blue lights flicker before a gaunt figure replaces the enormous green hologram of Endor. He tries to appear upbeat when he speaks, "After extensive tests, we have reproduced the gravitational influence of the Death Star. These forces dramatically altered the planet's climate, producing devastating hurricanes and tidal waves. Thanks to the Fondor Shipyards, we have constructed arrays to produce those effects in orbit above Vardos and Abednedo."
"What…is this? Another super weapon?" Major Shin asks. "It seems so limited."
"I hardly call it a weapon," the commander points out. "It requires several arrays, which discounts placing it on anything smaller than a star destroyer. Even then, it's indiscriminate unless you're scouring the whole world."
"I've never heard of those planets," Gary waves.
"Abednedo is on the Corellian Run," Dr. Wither tells them.
"Vardos is imperial," Shin says. "I think."
"Vardos is intensely loyal and Admiral Versio's homeworld. Why would they install them on Vardos? Why would he allow it unless they planned to raze the whole world…."
"Why would the Empire want to destroy a loyal world?" Gary asks.
"It wouldn't," Dr. Wither insists. "We should focus on escaping-"
"Could they use it for a false flag attack?" Shin suggests.
"No, even automated, too many people would see the arrays causing it." The commander answers. "They already built it on Fondor; why is it so important now?"
"Could the Emperor's death have triggered this?" Shin asks. "Could it be punitive?"
The commander pauses, "Against Abednedo, maybe but Vardos, no. Unless it's a terror campaign? The rebels would try to help."
"The scale of the slaughter and ruined infrastructure," Shin nods. "It would drain our resources and stall some military campaigns."
"Only regionally, localized on a few planets. But word would spread, no matter how hard they suppress it. The imperial argument is order through strength and stability. This is terrorism."
"Your order is based on terror, commander." Shin retorts. "This is happening throughout the galaxy on a smaller, less sensational scale."
"I concede our order is flawed, but brutal regulation exceeds anarchy by any metric."
"Some results may vary," Gary adds with a laugh.
"This is none of which," the commander persists. "It's fear and chaos for its own sake. What remains of morale will evaporate. If loyalists aren't safe, what's the point of supporting the Empire? Fear of retribution? That's the mindset of a tyrant or crime lord, not a galactic Empire."
"I disagree," Shin studies the commander. "What are you going to do, commander?"
"This isn't some distant battlefield or enemy incursion. Vardos is loyal. Poo-doo, I'd bet there's a few at the compound." The commander shakes his head. "I've swallowed a lot of bad policies and orders over the decades, but this…is something else."
"I need more than that," Shin demands, staring at the stormtrooper.
"A man much wiser than me once said, 'There are things that are simply evil. A warrior does not seek to understand them, only to obliterate them."
"This station has a long-range transmitter," Gary tells them. "It may not get past the rebel blockade, but once the rebels see these schematics. They'll spread it for us."
"Gary set up the broadcast and prepare to copy and delete the schematics. It'll force the death troopers to chase us. They can't return emptyhanded."
A blaster charges from behind them, and all three stiffen.
Dr. Wither announces, "I'm sorry, sir. I can't allow you to do that."