Minarets of dust swirled upward into the bright Tatooine sky, spurred on by the westerly winds of the valley. The sudden onset of the sandstorm surprised the squad of battle-hardened stormtroopers trudging through the sand. These soldiers were no fresh Carida recruits, no; the sand and blaster marks that spattered their armor were only outdone by the splatters of blood that dripped from their gear, still fresh from their latest fire fight with Tusken raiders. The squad leader, signaling with his hand, directed the group toward the doorway of the local cantina. Relieved, the soldiers loitered in the hallway and used the brief interruption of their patrol to catch their breath and lick their wounds.
As chatter ensued among the white armored men, a little girl with red hair stepped into the hallway and tilted her head at the squad leader. The leader, ornamented with a lieutenant’s orange pauldron, stood silently by the cantina doorway. The girl approached the trooper, cocked her head, and pushed frizzy red hair away from her eyes before squeaking a question at him.
“Mister, why do you wear that?” She pointed at the soldier’s shoulderpad, which bore the designation TK-871. TK-871 slung his rifle and lowered himself down to squat next to the child.
“You see, citizen, these are soldiers,” the trooper droned to the child, one of his giant hands resting against her arm. “And just like your daddy is the leader of your family, I am the leader of their family.” He smiled under his helmet.
The soldier’s smile quickly faded, however, when the girl’s eyes welled up. Burying her face in the trooper’s dirty chest plate, the little girl began to sob.
“B-but my daddy is gone, mister. Uncle Jay-Jay said he died and he ain’ ever comin’ back!” She gripped his chest plate with shaking little fists and wept until her tears ran dry. TK-871 held her in his arms for a long moment, ignoring the stares of his comrades.
“There, there, citizen. We’re here to protect you.” He gave her a pat on the back. The child peeled herself away from him and rubbed at her pale blue eyes. After a long bout of sniffing, she looked up at the trooper’s helmet.
“What happens when a soldier dies, mister?” She asked him through a sad, choked voice. The trooper blinked behind his helmet, searching for the words to say. He fought the lump in his throat and swallowed hard before making hand movements for the rest of the squad to head outside. One by one, the stormtroopers filed out of the cantina. The squad leader paused reluctantly in the doorway and, in a distant tone, spoke a parting word to the child.
“Soldiers never die, citizen. We just fade away.” With a final nod of his helmet, he stepped out of the cantina and plunged into the nebulous storm, immediately vanishing in the beige blur of sand.
10 years later…
The lights of the drop ship flickered ominously as tie fighter squadrons screamed past the port windows. Bristol could feel the ship shaking and bucking with every high-energy blast. He did not know how strong the shields on this transport ship were, but by his estimation, the ship was not going to be able to sustain much more damage.
Still, Bristol kept his composure—years of discipline and training and fighting will do that to a man. He wasn’t a young man anymore, approaching forty, but he still retained enough vigor to put even the liveliest young man to shame. His skin was dark and charred from years of exposure to the harsh environments on Lok and Tatooine. His weather-worn face boasted many scars from battles long past, including a signature crevice that cut a jagged path across his left brow, eye, and cheek. It gave a vicious appearance to an otherwise well-kept and well-shaven gray-haired man. His orange-auburn eyes communicated a certain depth of experience and passion. His eyes, however, were closed—a practice he did before every anticipated battle in an effort to clear his mind—but a sudden yowl jolted him from his seat.
“Sarge, we’re not going to make it!” said the man sitting next to him. The culprit was a young soldier not much older than twenty, and he was gripping his E-11 blaster so tightly his knuckles turned white. Although they both wore the same Alliance battle armor, Bristol made the other man look puny in comparison. He did not need armor to make him look imposing; and the process of actually putting the armor on his body was a humorous challenge for his muscle-bound frame. Now that the other man had interrupted his pre-battle meditation, he decided to put on the rest of his armor. After strapping on his kneepads, he clamped the remaining armor piece over his right bicep, hiding the faded black tattoo that stretched across a bulging vein. It read TK-871. Beneath the designation was a second tattoo, an Imperial insignia, which was half-hidden by a grotesque scar—a testament to some old shrapnel wound. Tightening the armor down, Bristol spoke to the other man in a calm, deep voice.
“Well Jennings,” began Bristol. “I don’t know how many blasts this ship can take, but this BR-23 is made of heavy stuff. We’re gonna make it, son. Just sit tight.” Jennings clenched his teeth and nodded vigorously. Bristol reached up to grab at the mesh roping that dangled overhead. He held on as he surveyed the other soldiers on the drop ship. They formed two lines, each facing each other, with their backs against the hull. The narrow, lengthy design of the transport ship forced the men to stare at each other as the carrier made its descent, and, judging by their faces, the descent had not been a smooth one. To Bristol’s eyes, most of the men looked scared or preoccupied. They fumbled with their blasters, their ammo packs, their jungle jackets, their helmets—some of them fussed with their tangled bandoliers and others shivered with nervous anticipation. Few of them, Bristol knew, had ever seen any combat. Besides, most of the Rebellion’s battle-hardened troops had died at Hoth; and any of the men who survived Hoth were already with General Solo and the rest of the clandestine team that had infiltrated the forest moon of Endor. And they were all likely dead by now.
When the Rebel fleet came out of hyperspace, the shield generator that guarded the Death Star was supposed to be disabled—but Solo’s clandestine operation had failed and the shield generator still functioned upon arrival. Bristol—as well as most of the other Rebel Alliance Army soldiers attached to the attack fleet—expected minimal action, as a surprise fleet attack seemed to guarantee that the Rebellion would do all of the fighting in space. If all went according to plan, the Death Star would be destroyed and the Rebellion would deal a crushing blow to the Empire. But, at the recommendation of General Crix Madine, the Rebel fleet brought along a provisional force from the Alliance Army in the event that the operation on the forest moon failed. By all appearances, the secret mission had failed—though this could not be confirmed since communication signals were still jammed by the shield generator. But the Rebellion was not about to take any chances. So it acted quickly.
Bristol’s ship joined thirteen other BR-23 troop transports, each carrying a full company of Alliance Army soldiers. The hastily scrambled ships carried forty troops, putting the grand total just over five hundred. Most of the soldiers had never seen regular combat duty, so when Admiral Ackbar ordered the impromptu ground assault, the men found themselves clambering to prepare for a battle they never planned to fight. Each ship also carried a T2-B light repulsor tank, which was the only mobile armor the Alliance could muster, and it was the only tank they had that could effectively navigate the treacherous terrain of Endor. Bristol also knew that, per fleet regulation, each transport should have had—at the minimum—a two-starfighter escort, but he had already seen two transports explode. Another flash from the port window made him shield his eyes.
“There goes a third one!” yelled a man farther down the row.
“We’re dropping like flies,” Jennings howled in renewed worry. Bristol craned his neck to look at the window just behind his shoulder. He could see the flashing blips of laser cannons and exploding torpedoes in the distance, like little red and green fireworks combusting on a black canvas. The fury of the distant battle raged on in the looming, ever-present shadow of the half-built, brooding monstrosity that was the second Death Star. Tauntingly, it waited like a defunct nightmare, protected by its moon-projected shield.
Bristol narrowed his eyes. The shield generator was all that stood between that skeleton-of-a-space-station and the Rebel Fleet. Everything hinged on the destruction of the shield generator. The Rebel Fleet depended on it. The fate of the battle depended on it. The fate of the galaxy depended on it. Looking back at his fellow soldiers, Bristol realized that all of those hopes now hinged upon these unproven Alliance Army recruits—recruits that, Bristol knew, did not stand a chance. If General Solo and the SpecForce contingent had failed, what hope did a bunch of green army boys have?
Sitting adjacent to Jennings, Bristol saw that one of the soldiers, a zabrak, stared intently at a small metal locket—a clever contraption that revealed a blue holo-image of an attractive young female.
“Who is she?” asked Bristol. He grinned and, still holding onto the mesh rope above, he leaned over toward the zabrak. The zabrak glanced up and smiled nervously.
“My Tianna,” he said, fondly. His sharp-toothed smile matched the sharp white horns that protruded from his head. “I miss her.”
“You’ll see her again. Is she your wife?” said Bristol.
“Yes, she is,” replied the Zabrak. “And the mother of my boy, who is three now.” He closed the locket, kissed it, and then tucked it away. “What about you, Sarge? You gotta wife?”
Bristol hesitated. “I do,” he said, closing his eyes. He tried to drown out the sounds of the zapping laser cannons and the nervous chatter of the soldiers and the violent thrashing of the ship. His reality gave way to a recollected scene from the depths of his memory: he saw his wife walking toward him, her bright yellow skin matching the Corellian sun that set in the golden fields behind her. Step over dainty step, her lithe and lengthy frame grew nearer. As she approached him, Bristol could see the orange freckles that speckled the soft skin of her cheeks and lekku; he could see the vibrant color of her baby blue eyes; he could see the bright flash of her heart-fluttering smile.
And then he saw the soldiers. They stormed up beside her and knocked her to the ground. Bristol tried to stop them, but he was restrained. The image of the memory burned against his eyelids: he could see the soldiers as they formed their line, as they raised their blasters, as they fired again and again and again. She fell, Bristol ran, and her body—now riddled with smoking holes—fell limp in his arms, arms that bore the same white armor of her attackers. Stormtroopers.
“Think you’ll see her again?” asked the zabrak, furrowing his brow in concern. Bristol flashed a rare smile.
“Yeah, Prix,” Bristol said, “I’ll see her again.” Bristol winked at Prix. Jennings snorted at the zabrak and leaned forward in his seat. He seemed eager to talk about girls.
“I wish I had a lady, but no one cares about a farm boy from D—“ A sudden blast cut his words short. The ship alarms wailed as the transport ship began breaking into Endor’s atmosphere, creating a fiery-orange glow in every window. Green lasers whizzed by at an alarming clip, many of them missing, but some of them striking. Whatever energy the shields had left was gone now—every new blast was a direct hit on the hull.
“Masks on!” yelled the lieutenant at the end of the row. The remaining soldiers who did not have their battle helmets on and sealed promptly did so, Bristol being among them. The Lieutenant stood up and held onto the mesh rope overhead.
“We’re gonna land hot! So lock and load!” he roared. “Once we hit the L-Z, I want all squads to form a—“ Another explosion rocked the ship, this time ripping a hole in the exterior. Another blast knocked the transport into a spinning, vomit-inducing stall. Black smoke billowed inside, choking the unlucky few who weren’t quick enough with their helmets. There was another explosion, followed by the distinguishable scream of a TIE fighter. Bristol was barely able to strap himself into his seat before the ship split in half. As the transport hurdled violently toward the ground, Bristol’s spinning vision flashed with a green and blue blurs: the jungle and the sky.
“No,” screamed Jennings. “No, no, no, no, no! I don’t wanna die!”
The spinning stopped when the ship slammed violently into the surface. Bristol’s head hit a crumpled bulkhead so hard that the impact shattered the visor of his helmet. Stunned, Bristol sat in paralyzed shock as shattered glass and blood oozed from his face. His vision fading, the soldier blacked out to the sound of rushing water and screaming men.
think. learn. know. 