Chapter 6: Slave’s Cuff (The Tale of TD-448 aka “Anchor”)

Writer / Co-Creator:  Elly Hazel
Art / Co-Creator: Marietta Ivanova

The story of Anchor is part of the stormtrooper stories "The Shadow that hides us from Death" and a prequel to the illustrated story "Bishop’s Hand".

It was almost midnight and the sun still loomed over the desert planet of Haff’sol.

Under its merciless heat, a squad of sandtroopers sat on the rooftop of an abandoned building, roasting in their dust-caked armor while they finalized the details of their mission.

Anchor, as usual, was separate from the group. He lay belly down on the flat, clay roof and surveyed the landscape through his monoculars.

An expansive desert of blood red sand and jagged black mountains surrounded dozens of small settlements, including the one where Anchor and his squad hid. Each small town, forever baking beneath the tidally-locked sun, was made up of hundreds of aliens from across the galaxy all looking for a fresh start.

And it’s in these settlements where the Empire is needed most, Anchor thought, zooming in on one particular warehouse half a klick away.   This town may be under endless daylight, but there sure is a lot of darkness lurking beneath the surface .
At first glance, the warehouse was no different from any other building in town. Three cubes of dark brown clay were stacked unevenly atop each other. The few windows were boarded up with thick slats of wood and the doors were reinforced plastoid.

Yet Intelligence revealed that this unremarkable building was the central operation for a small cartel that had moved into the town several months ago.
Anchor knew this mission wasn’t some noble act of dismantling gang activity on a remote desert world.

The Empire didn’t care about the Spice problem on this side of the galaxy. And the mission certainly wasn’t about saving innocent lives from Spice addiction and gang violence. Getting rid of this specific criminal organization on this particular planet would help solidify an uneasy alliance the Empire was forging with the Hutt Cartel.

Anchor hated missions fueled by politics.

While the sergeant and the rest of his squad huddled around a holo displaying the blueprints for the warehouse, Anchor continued to study the building itself. It was covered in red dust from a recent storm, the fine silt highlighting footprints on the walkways and handprints on the doors and walls.

Several long tracks scarred the ground where crates of unrefined Spice had been dragged through the double-doors.

There was another set of tracks that caught Anchor’s interest. Beside the more familiar footprints of the nikto and gamorrean henchmen were several pairs of smaller prints. They weren’t wide like an ugnaughts nor narrow like a jawa’s.

Anchor squinted.

They look almost...

The door to the hut flew open.

A tall, emaciated human dressed in rags stumbled out of the hut, his eyes wild with fear and fingers clawing desperately at the slave collar around his neck.

Seconds later, a pair of gamorrean guards burst out of the hut after the slave, grabbing the chain attached to his collar and yanking him roughly back inside.

The human didn’t have time to scream before the door slammed shut.

“Sarge,” Anchor said, sitting up. “This isn’t just a Spice operation. They got slaves too.”

Anchor expected the entire squad to look at him, to murmur surprise or do something. No one looked up.

The sergeant merely waved a gloved hand dismissively.

“We are just here to destroy the Spice, trooper.”

“Yeah, but,” Anchor waved a hand behind him at the hut in the distance. “If they are dealin’ in slaves right next door to the Spice, we might as well take down both operations, right?”

The sergeant raised his head, and Anchor could feel the withering stare behind the helmet. “Our mission is the Spice. Slaves are not our concern.”

Anchor held that gaze. He didn’t blink. “Sir, we can address both . I think-”

The sergeant shut off the holodisk and squared his wide shoulders. Even crouched on a rooftop, the sergeant was an imposing figure, taller than Anchor and twice as wide, his white pauldron that marked his rank giving him an even broader appearance.

“TD-448, you’re new to my squad so let’s get one thing straight: this is your last chance. I’ve read your file. Before coming here you were almost charged with desertion, running off on some crazy side trip that almost cost your squad their mission.”

Anchor stiffened. “That bomb was going to take out half the slums in that town.”

“You disobeyed orders for a bunch of homeless aliens,” the sergeant said, flatly. “This mission is your last shot, trooper. You step out of line again and the Empire’s done with you. Darth Vader has a special interest in this mission and so help me if you screw this up, I’ll choke you myself before he gets the chance to.”

Anchor clenched his teeth so hard he thought his jaw might break.

“Yes...sir…”

The sergeant turned the holodisk back on.

Anchor barely listened to the recap of the mission.

All he could see was the terror in the human slave’s eyes as he was dragged back into that hut.

We have a chance to turn this political mission into something more meaningful. Something that could help innocent people. I didn’t join the Empire to destroy Spice for some sleemo Hutt. I did it to help the galaxy.

Anchor looked back at the hut. Skinny trunks of deep green palm trees surrounded it like prison bars.

I’m not leaving this planet until those slave are free. If Lord Vader is gonna kill me for it, then so be it.

Shrugging off the chill threatening to overtake his spine, Anchor settled in beside his fellow squad and studied the blueprints with renewed interest.

The hut was simply labeled “Storage”, but beneath it was a long tunnel that lead into an open area beneath the warehouse. A large ventilation shaft ran alongside the tunnel, ending right over the center of the storeroom. With any luck, and the element of surprise, he’d only have the two armed gamorreans to deal with.

Luck wasn’t usually on his side, he left that to his old academy buddy, Odds. All Anchor had was bullheadedness and hope.

Who knows...maybe that’ll be enough…

While the citizens of Haff’sol slept, Anchor and his squad moved through the empty streets under the midnight sun. They stopped in an alleyway just outside the back entrance of the warehouse, Anchor taking care to stay behind the rest of the squad.

The sergeant peeked around the corner and raised his fist. The squad pulled out their blaster rifles, shifting into their assigned positions.

Anchor took a step back and waited.

After a few minutes, the sergeant lowered his fist.

Taking another step back, Anchor watched as the tightly formed squad charged the warehouse.

As soon as the last trooper disappear into the warehouse, two armed Nikto guards filed out of the hut. Anchor raised his comm, about to warn his squad of the newcomers when he heard blaster fire ring out, both nikto guards fell seconds later.

Taking that as his cue, Anchor ran towards the hut.

As expected, the hut was empty save for a handful of unmarked crates and an out-of-place rug hastily covering what looked like a trap door.

Anchor holstered his E-11 and pulled out a small multi-tool knife. He pried open the air shaft just above the trap door to find the shaft was little more than a round metal tube forcing warm air from the storeroom out into the hut itself.

The moment Anchor wiggled his entire body into the shaft, an explosion shook the entire hut. Through his comm there was frantic chatter. Unforseen explosives, flammable Spice, someone had a thermal detonator.

After the second explosion, Sergeant ordered the troopers to check in.

Each squad member reported their designation number.

Except Anchor.

“TD-448? Dammit! Where is he?”

A noisy crash shook the air vent before Anchor could confess his whereabouts.

Looking back to the tunnel’s entrance, Anchor could see shadows of three large figures, oinking angrily as they ran out of the hut.

“Sergeant,” Anchor said into his comm, “three guards are headed from the storage hut to your location.”

“TD-448, where are you? Get to the warehouse, immediately. ”

Anchor winced.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Anchor turned off his comm, and made his way further down the air shaft. By the time he reached the grate, another explosion shook the shaft.

His gut twisted.

I should be with my squad.

Suddenly, the tunnel began to feel very small, the warm air oppressive and the fans roared against his helmet.

This was a mistake. What am I doing here? Why do I always have to go off on my own?

Another explosion...

Is Darth Vader going to return to find me surrounded by free slaves and a warehouse full of dead stormtroopers?

The knot in his stomach turned to lead.

I have to go back…this is crazy…

He began to back up, scooting backwards away from the grate.

A child’s scream tore through the white noise of the air shaft.

Anchor’s heart lurched.

The scream was followed by a hair-raising zap of electricity...then another ear-piercing cry.

Anchor launched himself towards the grate, sliding over it just in time to see a gamorrean guard shaking a vibro-pike at a pair of little girls.

The human girl, her thick black hair gathered in a pair of round buns, was clinging to a small togruta girl, her orange and red head-tails barely nubs atop her head. The girls shrieked as the gamorrean jabbed the vibro-pike at them again, the electrified tip coming dangerously close to the togruta.

There was no way Anchor could pry the grate open in time to stop the gamorrean. Even with a multi-tool, there were far too many screws to undo before the girls were electrocuted again.

The gamorrean raised his pike.

Anchor’s heart dropped.

“Stop!”

Anchor slammed his fists down against the grate with all his weight thrown into it.

He had hoped the noise would at least draw the guard’s attention temporarily away from the girls.

To the stormtrooper’s surprise, it did a lot more.

The grate came completely loose.

Anchor fell...

...and dropped onto the gamorrean.

It was not the smoothest of entrances. Anchor landed awkwardly on top of the guard’s piggish head, grabbing one of his horns and yanking hard, bringing the gamorrean down with him.

The guard squealed in anger, flailing for a moment on his back as Anchor pushed himself up. He grabbed his E-11, slamming it hard against the guard’s snout. Then with a quick spin of the blaster rifle, Anchor fired a single shot between the guard’s eyes.

The gamorrean went still.

The room went quiet.

Anchor looked up.

The girls still clung to each other, staring wide-eyed at the stormtrooper standing over the gamorrean’s corpse.

The rest of the slaves hadn’t moved either. There were close to thirty of them from what Anchor could tell. All of them were different species, caked with blood red dirt, wearing ragged clothes and scared, exhausted expressions.

They had been through a lot…

And who knows if they will even follow a sandtrooper out of here. We aren’t exactly welcome in this part of the galaxy.

Anchor turned his attention back to the little girls and found that the togruta was raising her hand.

Anchor’s heart sank.

Is she trying to surrender?

After a moment, the girl’s face brightened and she waved her hand, enthusiastically.

The human girl raised her hand too, and joined in the wave.

Anchor smiled wide behind his helmet, and waved back.

A door hissed open behind him, and Anchor turned just in time to see three more gamorrean’s running towards him.

One grabbed his E-11 and flung it to the ground, while the others grabbed his arms, holding him in place as the third pulled out his vibro-pike.

Anchor’s eyes shifted from the pike aimed at his chest to the two little girls.

He opened his mouth, intending to shout a warning: Don’t look! Run! Save yourselves!

His voice caught when he saw that the girls were no longer clinging to each other.

They were now on their feet, jumping up and down, shouting…no... cheering!

Although the language wasn't Basic, he could tell they were rooting for him. They believed he could save them.

They believed in him.

With a strained roar, Anchor threw his whole body to the left and kicked the gamorrean on his right hard in the knee. Both guards stumbled as the pike from the third guard slid right past the trooper’s torso. Anchor lurched forward, slamming his helmet hard against the guard’s snout.

Free from the stunned guards’ grasp, Anchor lunged towards his E-11. Flipping over onto his back, he fired three shots.

Three bodies fell to the ground.

The rhythmic cheer of the little girls were now joined by the rest of the slaves, all shouting encouragement in their own languages.

Anchor knelt over the guards’ bodies, rummaging through their pockets until he found a small device.

When he rose to face the slaves he realized they had stopped cheering.

They all stood now. Quiet. Unmoving. All eyes focused on the single sandtrooper.

They were waiting for him.

Anchor flicked the switch of the device and over thirty slave collars clattered to the ground at once.

Free from her collar, the togruta girl took a few steps towards Anchor, her eyes wide with wonder, as if the trooper had performed some sort of miracle.

Anchor tilted his head. He didn’t have much experience with children, much less alien ones.

Trying to appear as harmless as possible, Anchor holstered his blaster rifle and opened his arms, palms flat as if to say “I am unarmed and will not harm you.”

The togruta ran towards Anchor immediately and leapt into his open arm. Reflexively, Anchor stooped down and caught her. She wriggled her way upwards until she made herself at home in the crook of his arm, wrapping her small arms around his neck.

Feeling a small tug at his other arm, Anchor looked down to find the human girl, staring up at him with round, brown eyes.

He held out his hand.

She took it.

The rest of the slaves fell in line behind him.

A bone-rattling vibration sounded overhead. Anchor looked up at the ceiling and was met with crimson dirt sprinkling over his lenses.

He had no idea what was waiting for them on the surface. Whether it was the Empire or the cartel, Anchor did not see his future being particularly bright.

But maybe I can stall whoever’s up there long enough for these people get away. Anchor smiled grimly. Maybe Lord Vader will be too busy killing me to notice their escape.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Anchor said. “When I say run…”

His voice faded away as he heard the familiar, thunderous sound of armored boots echoing down the tunnel.

For a moment Anchor was filled with relief...then dread hit. There was another sound above the noise of his fellow troopers. The dull thud of heavy, dark boots. And above it all, the unmistakable, mechanical hiss of Darth Vader’s breath.

The togruta child clung tighter to his neck. He gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered. He knew she couldn’t understand him, but his tone, however shaky it was, seemed to help. He felt her relax in his arms and rest her face against his shoulder.

She deserved a chance. The girl gripping his hand deserved one too. They all did.

The door slid open.

Anchor was dimly aware of the stormtroopers filing into the storeroom on either side of him. He barely registered the sergeant charging in after them, shouting in Anchor’s face, spitting a string of curses about Anchor’s disobedience.

Anchor’s focus was solely on the dark figure who strode into the storeroom last. The Sith lord moved past the angry sergeant to loom over stormtrooper.

Anchor stared up at Darth Vader and awaited his sentence.
"You disobeyed a direct order from your commander, stormtrooper.”

“I did, my Lord.”
“You abandoned your squad.”

Cold guilt splashed Anchor’s face. “We had more than enough troopers inside the warehouse. The cartel’s slave ring needed to be shut down, so...” Anchor hesitated. “...so I shut it down.”
“That wasn’t for you to decide, TD-448,” the sergeant spat.  
“I did what I had to do,” Anchor said firmly though his gaze was still locked to Vader.
The sergeant stepped between them, pushing Anchor back with a hard shove. “They are slaves , trooper. Merchandise. They did not concern the mission. They do not concern the Empire. They-”
Vader’s hand shot out.

A sickening crack sounded.

The sergeant collapsed and fell still.
Anchor’s jaw fell. His mouth went dry. Time slowed to a crawl.

This is it. I'm next.

Anchor was about to stoop down and pry the togruta child from his neck when Vader spoke.

“Short-sightedness is useless to the Empire. Shutting down the slave ring was the correct decision. Allowing it to continue would have given the cartel a chance to recover quickly from the loss of their Spice operation.” Vader folded his arms across his chest. “Your time as a sandtrooper is done. You will report to the Executor for your new assignment, Sergeant.”

Anchor stared, dumbfounded.

Sergeant? Me? Did he just promote me? Did he just say the Executor? Vader’s ship?

No more desolate planets with lonely outposts.

No more shaking coarse sand out of his boots and pouring sweat out of his bucket.

Vader raised a gloved finger to Sergeant Anchor. “I have put faith in your instincts, Sergeant. Do not prove me wrong.”

“I won’t, sir,” Anchor said, standing tall, chin up to show his seriousness.

A light snore drifted off the togruta child fast asleep on his shoulder.

A bit quieter he affirmed. “I won’t.”