Epilogue
pt.1: Victory?
The first time the Grand Commander wakes, he's strapped in a seat behind the cockpit. He doesn't remember getting there; at first, he doesn't know where he is. Cannon fire hits his ship, rattling him, and screams from below deck kickstart his heart rate.
"Making the jump to lightspeed!" Dr. Wither yells from the pilot seat. "Now!"
The ship lurches as blue-white lights spiral in the viewport; captivated, the commander leans forward for a better view.
Then Gary's hand presses him back into the seat. "We're safe now, sir. Go back to sleep."
He can't resist, and unconsciousness overtakes him.
His body burns the second time he wakes. The ship is quiet, and voices murmur below. Several technicians work on the transport, repairing damage and servicing its systems. He gasps, groaning as he moves. His heart races, and his head throbs as he tries to unbuckle himself.
Nearby, Dr. Wither raises her welding glasses and takes his hand, pulling it away from the belt. "No, no, no rest commander. We don't need you right now."
She pulls a scanner and runs it over him, her medical tool oscillating with light.
"How many?" He asks, and when she gives him a look, he adds. "How many died?"
"Two more passed while you slept," Gary announces as he arrives and kneels before the commander; then, he and Wither share a worried look. "But many more are holding on, sir."
"Commander," Wither draws his gaze. "What matters is more survived than we could hope for, and we escaped. Your blood pressure is too high, and you have multiple fractures. I'm sure your head is pounding. We don't have any more bacta; the best you can do is sleep."
Disheartened but calmed by her words, darkness retakes him.
The third time the Grand Commander wakes, his eyes open slowly, and he shifts slightly. He's groggy, his movements lethargic, and his thoughts crawl.
Gary, Dr. Wither, and his command staff argue intently with each other. Simz lingers at the edge of the cockpit, indifferent. Iona sits on the floor, tucked between two consoles, covering her face with both hands. Meanwhile, Diggs shakes his head, and Serano shrugs. Gary looks for support but finds none. He sags, then the group turns their attention to the commander.
Dr. Wither motions sharply.
From nearby, the commander detects the hum of a repulsorlift. He turns, discovering the interrogation droid he'd threatened on Endor. It's too close! Dangerously close, with a needle exposed, the droid rushes him. Surprised, he tries to push it away, reaching for his pistol, only realizing he lost it fighting the witch. He has no weapons! The needle penetrates his arm, and the plunger injects him. Instantly, chemically induced sleep overwhelms the Grand Commander.
Captain Kensington sleeps lightly, sitting in a chair on a Mon Cal medical frigate. From nearby, the witch floats in a bacta tank. The brilliant amphibians manufactured a special mask for her beak, so she could use the tank without drowning.
Suddenly, the witch jerks, twitching wildly. She lashes out, her human eye and black avian eye wide and panicked.
"Hey, hey!" He calls, but she can't hear him submerged in the tank. He waves, catching her attention as she reaches for the mask.
"Stop her! She can't come out yet," a doctor warns as he punches buttons on a console.
She recognizes and then glares at Kensington. He raises his hands nonthreateningly before putting one hand against the glass. Her eyes dart from him to the hand. Hesitantly, she places her hand against the glass separating them. He whispers, "You're safe, I promise."
The doctor presses a few buttons, and a sedative passes through the tubes to her, placing her back to sleep. He maintains eye contact before she falls into a deep slumber.
She'll betray me. Kensington insists. Then he considers, how do I ensure that doesn't happen? Or at least, doesn't succeed? Simple, I'll watch her like any dangerous animal. I'll learn her moods, moves, and behaviors to predict and tame her. If I can, if not, I'll put her down.
"The report says you suffered critical engine failure, that it's a miracle you landed."
Mon Mothma, the leader of the Rebellion and acting Chancellor of the New Republic, came to debrief General Hera Syndulla personally. Hera realizes that's not good.
"I was lucky," Hera lies. Chopper fused several wires, crippling the ship and implying it was unresolved damage from before she took the X-wing. He scrubbed the flight logs and the gun cameras, overwrote them, then erased them again. Her faithful astromech convinced another droid to "replace" the "faulty" equipment before dispersing and disposing of it. That leaves only the original investigation data. Finding evidence and correlating it was virtually impossible.
"As I'm sure you know," Mon Mothma points out. "The Grand Commander escaped."
Hera remains silent. There's a chance they suspect, but they'd never accuse me without evidence. She reflects on it. One day I may regret it, but I owed-owe him a debt.
"Captain Kensington resigned," Mon Mothma changes the subject. "I know you had reservations and felt betrayed when he stood with the Lightfoots instead of you. Unfortunately, both the Lightfoot and Bright Tree decided against further involvement with us. They asked us to leave Endor. We don't have the luxury of picking and choosing our allies. We're pursuing the imperials, but the galaxy is vast, and we need everyone. We can't let the imperials slip away and consolidate into a threat later. The New Republic is too young, too fragile at this point."
"Yes, ma'am."
Mon Mothma expects more, scrutinizing her closely, but Hera feels no need to elaborate. Uncomfortable silence stretches between them, but Hera doesn't have the energy to care. She wept and mourned until her eyes burned. Once she finished, Hera wiped her tears away and locked her feelings deep inside.
"…unyielding as stone, especially when a situation is at its worst. Your subordinates will put aside their feelings, mirroring you, and through them, so will everyone under your command."
Hera's silence unnerves Mon Mothma. The Senator and rebel leader is an orator and negotiator. The general's stillness and hollow gaze aren't just uncharacteristic. It's terrifying.
"I understand if you blame me for this battle, for the losses. What I'm asking is," Mon Mothma says directly. "Are you going to resign as well?"
She cannot put into words how much she would love to do exactly that. To board the Ghost and leave this horrible planet and grief behind, to pick and choose her own missions again.
"Do you want me to? Are you guiding me down that path with this conversation?"
"No," Mon Mothma gives her a look and then quickly adds. "No, Hera, of course not!"
Hera's eyes narrow suspiciously, but Lord Dyer's words interrupt, soothing her temper.
"…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."
Hera blinks, restraining her anger, and tells Mon Mothma, "No. I will not resign."
"Excellent," Mon Mothma breathes a sigh of relief. "I know these past few days have shaken your faith in us. I appreciate everything you've done, that you've sacrificed."
"I was worried you'd lost confidence in me," Hera replies flatly. She can't tell if Mon means it or if it's a canned reply. She tries to put a little heart into her words but doesn't have it.
Her hollow tone has a stronger effect than Hera could predict; Mon Mothma flinches and looks away. It is a moment of weakness the general didn't expect or anticipate, but Dyer's paranoia itches her, and Hera wonders if it's an act.
"I worried," Mon Mothma admits. "At first, your actions seemed reckless. I feared you'd spent too many years with insurgents or elite forces, with higher expectations and suicidal risks. Then, after your capture at the compound and the Dulok village, I wondered if your prior success resulted from your team. That without them, you were…compromised."
Hera's pride and anger stir, but she keeps her mouth shut and her emotions in check.
"Each time you came back, you warned us, and we disregarded you. That failure is on us, on our leadership as a whole. Too many of us see the wreckage of the Deathstar and think we're safe. What could threaten us now? We've destroyed the Emperor and most of his staff. Unfortunately, now we have hundreds, no, thousands of warlords, and they're desperate."
"That makes them more dangerous," Hera focuses. She can't resist the urge to help, to assist the organization she'd dedicated so much of her life to. "Arrogant and comfortable made them sluggish and predictable. The Empire's terrified and know we're hunting them."
"Exactly," Mon agrees. "Fortunately, they're still fighting the Clone Wars twenty years later—the static lines, entrenched positions, and mass charges that failed the Separatists."
"Where do I fit in?" Hera inquires, swept up by Mon's passion.
"You're unpredictable, loyal, and flexible," she says as if it explains everything. Seeing her expression, Mon Mothma continues. "Our fledgling Republic is caught at an intersection of revolutionary ideology and administering a radically diverse galaxy. Some want to develop superweapons; others want to transition our agents into a permanent surveillance force. Many, so many, want vengeance on everyone who didn't fight the Empire. We didn't depose the Emperor merely to take his place. I refuse to overtly or covertly cow the populace with the threat of violence."
After a moment of silence lapses, Hera prompts, "How do we proceed?"
"That…that is the question," she replies before insisting. "That's why I need you, Hera. You face stormtroopers or errant rebels without missing a beat. Your leadership is a guiding light in a convoluted galaxy full of twists and a war-weary yet vengeful population. We need—I need leaders who can seamlessly adapt without instructions, bureaucracy, or petty intrigues. A small, agile force may accomplish what neither the Republic nor Empire could. Lasting peace."
You'll have to compromise, and you'll regret it. Some of those decisions may haunt you for the rest of your life. Hera recalls, hauntingly prescient, much like the commander.
"…but that can wait," Mon Mothma decides, studying her closer. "You need rest and probably should be examined by a 21-B for good measure. But first, where is Kurmen? I hesitated when Rex requested my nephew until he demanded to join the fight. I hope he hasn't been a bother; years ago, he begged me to tell him about your adventures on Lothal."
Hera shakes her head. The sudden change in subject baffles her already exhausted mind.
"You can't miss him. He's a giant man trained in executive protection…."
Hera surveyed the compound, feeling an obligation she couldn't explain. She walked its rooms, witnessing each horror. Even as the sun set, rebel forces continued gathering the dead. Soldiers wander the compound like lost souls, searching for missing friends or mourning alone.
Hera found him in Wither's office. Her defeat was so profound, so crushing, discovering him where everything on Endor began going wrong. It broke her. Seeing his beautiful face seared and blackened, Hera collapsed. Tears, until now moistening her cheeks, poured from her eyes.
Her bodyguard believed in Hera. He fought and suffered in her service, even going so far as following a devastatingly bad decision. He lost everything serving her.
Although still painful, Hera's grief waned, and she began noting details. Someone closed Kurman's eyes. Someone had folded his arms too, someone who cared. No random imperial would've wasted his time. His head slightly turned. The giant was looking at someone when he passed. Hera choked; oh Gary, I'm so sorry if it was you, but at least he didn't die alone.
She looked at the sea of white armored dead and wondered if Gary lay among them.
"He…didn't make it," Hera answers quietly. "He died in the compound."
Mon Mothma pales, then she grits her teeth. "I-I, will inform his family. Thank you."
Seeing the raw emotions, Hera seizes the moment. "Did you have Lord Dyer executed?"
Mon Mothma gaps in disbelief, a naked expression from a woman whose every moment is meticulously controlled. Both the hurt and shock on her face are unmistakable. Her anger flashes, but Mon flinches when she looks into Hera's intense eyes and unblinking stare.
"No, Hera, no! How could you think that?" Mon Mothma's emotions escape her control, tears escaping her eyes and running down her cheeks. "What must you think of me? We've known each other for years! The-this wasn't my choice! This battle was madness! I argued against it with everything I had. While I technically lead, I'm surrounded by a vortex of officers, allies, and interests. Every last one demanded we attack. We built this alliance to fight the Empire, and now it's gone. Our forces have no common cause to bind them together without an enemy. We're hanging on by a thread because both the Empire and Republic thrived with unification. That argument doesn't resonate with everyone. Some already oppose it!"
You've cobbled together a revolution and replaced us. Now, you're in charge. Without the fear of the Empire to unite you, what holds it together? The Grand Commander warned her. Hera wonders, how did he know? How could he be so certain?
"Two people were murdered on my base," Hera explains, fighting back her lingering bitterness. Hera clarifies, "We beat the Empire, but now we'll have to fight for peace. I think—look, the commander said the same people who ruled during the Clone Wars and Empire intend to keep ruling. He warned me about factionalism and asked what holds us together."
Still hurt from Hera's accusation and off-balance, Mon Mothma gathers herself before replying. Her face returns to a guarded, neutral expression, "He's correct; it's unsettling that a stormtrooper fighting on Endor can succinctly summarize our aftermath."
"He said he went through this after the Clone Wars. He pointed out we gave blasters to a species that hasn't developed the wheel yet. Then he asked what we'll do with a species that chooses violence. Will we shield former enemies from our allies that want revenge?"
"Did you let him go?" Mon asks suddenly. Hera stares, caught completely off-guard, sputtering as she tries to form an answer. Still wiping away tears, Mon grins. "You're not the only one gifted at discerning the truth. I can't protect you if this gets out, but I understand. All of my commanders demanded an attack, horrifying everyone in the ranks. After you escaped the Dulok village, I received reports across Endor; our troops followed the commander's every move. First to hear him fall, then to see what happens, and finally celebrating his escape."
"It's hard to hate someone you respect," Hera whispers.
"Indeed."
"Did you change the subject to avoid the commander's question," Hera inquires, watching her leader closely. "Will you defend imperials from former allies demanding blood?"
Mon's eyes narrow, and Hera matches her gaze.
A moment passes as neither woman backs down. Eventually, Mon Mothma declares, "You're going to be good at this, Hera. Are you sure you want to continue?"
Do I? Hera wonders. Kanan, Ezra, Kurmen, and everyone lost along the way. Was it worth it? Will someone else do it better? Or will we have more mistakes, more slaughters?
"I still believe in our cause," Hera decides. "I'll fight, but you must know, this won't be the last time we argue over what is the right decision. I need autonomy and authority to accomplish our goals and negotiate with multiple factions. With force, if necessary. I stand for what's right, not what's politically convenient or good for the Republic."
"As long as you keep me informed, me personally, and stay within certain boundaries." Mon Mothma offers before swearing. "It's only natural we won't always share the same opinion, but you always have my support even if I can't say so publicly."
It's not the answer she wants but better than she can hope for; Hera nods in agreement.
….Escape from Endor concluded in Epilogue pt. 2: The Inevitable.