It would have been much easier to fight in a different environment... Significantly easier.
Lodbrock decided that after completing the capture of the planet Janken and returning to base, he would request permission to drop the largest baradium bomb available to the fleet on it—the planet.
Because the 178th Reconnaissance Corps had come to hate this world since the moment they landed.
Located first in the Saleucami system, Janken was entirely covered by so-called "burning rock." Something between molten lava and porous slag. And all of this, except for granite and rocky elevations, ridges, plateaus—moved in crimson rivers of fine metallic gravel. The Separatists, it seemed, highly valued this planet—since they built a plant here for mining and processing such ore. Though, why be surprised—these tiny pieces of rock contained a truly astonishing concentration of metals.
The Marshal brought a monocular to the visor of his helmet, aiming it toward the huge structure visible on the horizon.
So, what do we have here?
A wide plateau on an elevation, surrounded on all sides by streams of burning rock. A massive plant at the summit, encircled by a high wall with gun towers. And a lot of droids. The processing complex extracted metals and other useful elements from the ore, dumping the superheated slag beyond the plateau. Which, as had been empirically verified, loved to instantly burn through any metal. And the people inside it.
So it could be said that the plant was surrounded by a fiery moat, into which no one wished to fall—the clones didn't keep suicides among their ranks.
And to make the scouts' job seem like utter crap—there was a reflective screen, constantly operating exactly until a freighter arrived at the landing pad for ore. Or until energy bridges were established between the plant and solid ground beyond the plateau to receive huge ground transports delivering raw material for processing from other mines.
There were several thousand of the latter scattered across the planet. Mostly automated, with only a small guard of a company or two of B-1 series droids. And regularly from each of them, ore haulers full of raw material were sent to the plateau. And empty machines returned back, to again and again repeat the same procedure.
Not good.
They had to land far from the plant to avoid visual detection by the enemy. The Latti got pretty battered during landing—"burning rock" clogged the tiniest cracks, giving the clones in the assault compartments many unforgettable minutes during the disembarkation.
Due to the terrain features and that same "rock," they had to abandon the use of heavy equipment: repulsorlift tech would instantly stall. But wheeled…
Lodbrock tore himself away from contemplating the local landscapes and slid down the hilltop on his backside.
"Problems, Marshal?" General Amersu inquired, meeting him at the lead Juggernaut.
"When have we ever not had them?" he smirked. The Rutian Twi'lek, dressed in light armor that didn't restrict movement, covering her head-tails with a tight cloak hood, adjusted the breathing mask on her face. The atmosphere on Janken was—the local star, to her surprise, hadn't burned it away completely. But the air had such a crazy mix of slag and heavy metals that even a Jedi didn't dare breathe without a respirator.
"I can recall a couple of days," the Twi'lek added cheerfully.
"For us, they all blend into one continuous routine," Lodbrock sighed. Looking at the monstrous-looking CIS transport captured by the scouts a few hours ago, he asked the troopers when the preparations would finally be done. Receiving an answer that practically everything was ready, the Marshal turned to the General with satisfaction:
"Another five minutes and we can send our surprise to the plant."
"Then it's time for us to take our place in the cargo hold," she suggested.
The plan to capture the main ore mining center on Janken was not the pinnacle of military thought. And it was unlikely to enter textbooks and manuals for training future Imperial soldiers.
But it would work here and now.
The planet's location close to the local star and the presence of metal particles in the atmosphere negated efforts to establish stable communication. Therefore, any approximate schedule of ore hauler arrivals and departures was absent in principle—the scouts had found that out yesterday.
Scanners malfunctioned constantly for the same reason.
Of course, the Separatists could have installed expensive equipment on the planet, but it seemed someone decided to cut costs. After all, the Saleucami system was deep inside Separatist territory, and no one particularly expected Republic troops to appear here. Especially when a huge CIS fleet hung in orbit around Saleucami.
Now only hideous hulls remained of the latter. And those ships that still represented any combat value or were repairable were grouped into convoys and sent to Christophsis. Why? A question no one would answer to an ordinary corps commander. And why bother? If command decided—then that's how it should be.
He had a task—to take Janken. The mines had to come under the control of Grand Moff Dougan. Obviously—to go to the needs of the clones, not the tin cans.
That's why captured transports at this point—and two more from the other side of the plateau—were being loaded with companies of the 178th Reconnaissance. Separatist scanners didn't work properly, meaning there was an excellent opportunity to deliver three companies of clones to the plateau at once. Enough to engage the droids in battle and seize control of the energy bridges, through which the main part of the corps, hiding until now in Janken's numerous caves along with equipment, would rush onto the plateau.
Waiting for the signal from the engineers, Lodbrock waited until General Amersu used the Force to jump the ten-meter height into the open side hatch of the ore hauler. Sighing (oh, these Force-sensitives!), he waited until the last troopers of the company assigned for this operation disappeared inside the machine, then, following the example of his men, climbed up via an elastic cable. The entrance hatch clanged loudly shut behind his back, announcing there was no way back. Well, actually, he didn't really want one anyway.
Proceeding to the driver's compartment, combined with the cargo hold, he went inside. A couple of engineers, positioned behind the driver seats, following his orders, used deks connected to somehow restored droid drivers to start the transport's engine and direct it around the mountain favored by the scouts.
"Don't like sitting in the rear?" General Amersu appeared in the cab, grabbing onto the bulkheads. The transport was shaking mercilessly, so it was no surprise the girl was being thrown from side to side. Weird. Why not get magnetic soles in her boots, like in the clones' Infiltrator armor.
"Can't afford such luxury," the Marshal replied, sitting on the floor opposite the Twi'lek. "A plan without personal control is just a hypothesis."
"I'm here for the same reason," the girl explained. Yeah, for all they'd fought together, they somehow hadn't gotten close. Lodbrock had heard that some Jedi were on quite friendly terms with their clones. Hellagen, for example, felt quite comfortable in the company of General Utryla and Commander Omani.
General Amersu, though… In general, she always kept her distance. But she somehow strangely warmed up to the clones after the defeat of the Separatists in Saleucami orbit. Does the Grand Moff's society affect her that way? Not important, though. The main thing is that the vacuum between the Rutian and the clones of the 178th had warmed. Probably, there's nothing wrong with that. Especially when the General isn't an idiot.
Amersu, though she didn't give the impression of a talented commander, still didn't push her especially valuable (but actually—not) advice. And certainly didn't order the clones to do something contrary to common sense and the operational situation. That's undoubtedly a plus.
It seemed that the Jedi, like the clones, had been profoundly affected by that holorecording of the conversation between the Grand Moff and the Supreme Chancellor. Lodbrock shuddered when he remembered how bewildered his men were upon seeing THAT.
They were grown to fight for the Republic. The thought that you're created for slaughter—heavy, of course, but when you have an inhibitor chip in your head—you don't really think about it. You're given an order—you carry it out. Good soldiers follow orders. Always.
And the clones were good soldiers. Perhaps not the best, especially if you believe those tales told about Arkanian clones. That they're all genetically enhanced bloodthirsty monsters, bigger, stronger, and faster than Kaminoan ones. Lots of rumors: if you believe them, the Arkanians made these "new guys," as the clones of Jango Fett dubbed them, almost capable of seeing in infrared. Nonsense, of course, but a Hutt can joke about anything.
The clone caught himself mechanically checking his blaster carbine. Hmm, a habit, though. Better to spend a couple of minutes before battle than have the piece fail at the most inopportune moment.
Arkanian clones… In light of the latest information, no one in the Blade Fleet doubted that one day the two clone armies would have to clash. And only battle would show what these "new guys" were worth. And while there's an opportunity—they should hone their skills. You never know what might come in handy.
"Entering the bridge," one of the "drivers" said, breaking away from controlling the droid. "It's activated, no changes in the situation observed."
"Excellent," Lodbrock echoed.
Glancing at the chronometer, the Marshal noted that crossing the bridge would take them ten minutes—the ore hauler wasn't known for high speed. And immediately after that, the fun would begin planet-wide. Units of the 178th Reconnaissance Corps, scattered across the planet, would capture both the plant itself and numerous mines in a single assault, completely subjugating the planet.
"Let's hope everything goes according to plan and they don't shut off the bridge while we're crawling across it," the Rutian Twi'lek said, as if reading his thoughts.
"Calm down, General Amersu," the Marshal said in an even tone. "If they shut off our bridge, we won't even have time to be surprised."
* * *
The Twi'lek, grabbing the piece of metal with the Force, used it like a battering ram to shove the remaining droids crowding the ledge off the platform. They fell with a funny splash, plummeting from the platform's height and disappearing beneath the water.
"May I ask a question, General?" Sinilian pulled up alongside the Jedi, swapping the power cell in his blaster.
"You know I'll answer whatever I can," the Twi'lek smiled. The battle for the Separatists' seventy-sixth platform was won, and the 220th Reconnaissance Corps had seized control of all platforms on Kaspar, denying the Separatists the ability to extract nergon-14 from the depths of the oceanic planet — the second in the Saleucami system. Battles were still raging on Kaspar's three moons, which held similar mines but on solid ground with no atmosphere. And they were unlikely to end soon — even though each moon was smaller than the planet itself, there were many times more mines and military contingents of tin cans there. The Republic's advance was saved only by General Sitra's order to land a legion of clones from the 220th on each of Kaspar's moons. The corps itself had claimed the planet. Where there were far fewer mines by number. But by size... On each oceanic platform, an entire regiment of clones had to be landed — to seize all four floating extraction machines.
Good thing the scouts moved fast — and none of the droids got the idea into their electronic brains that to destroy the clones, they could blow up the huge reservoirs of nergon-14 stored beneath the ocean's surface. Or detonate the extractor mine itself, which would likely set off the planet's core, saturated with nergon. Then it would have been fun for everyone. Especially the clones.
"Why do the droids maintain an oxygen atmosphere on the platforms?" Sinilian asked. "They're droids, they don't need to breathe..."
"They maintain it on their ships too," the Twi'lek smiled.
"Yes, but... Why? Their crews are droids, the mining here is also done by droids... Why waste such enormous resources? Without an atmosphere, their ships would be lighter, and if there weren't atmospheric shields on these platforms, we'd have sweated plenty fighting in Kaspar's hydrogen-saturated atmosphere..."
"First," General Tachi said instructively, "you shouldn't suggest to the enemy how to avoid his own mistakes. Believe me, the boarding parties that land on CIS ships won't be very grateful to you if the Separatists suddenly start sending ships into battle without life support systems. That would free up energy reserves they could use to strengthen their own defenses."
"Understood, General. I'll keep my questions to myself."
"There's nothing wrong with that, Sinilian," Racha Sitra smiled. "Those are perfectly reasonable questions — I wonder about them myself sometimes. The answer is simple: even though the Separatists use a non-living army, they employ technologies created back when the CIS was part of the Republic. And their ships often had living crews. As for the atmosphere on stations and other facilities... It's much easier to build ships, bases, and stations using established designs that include life support systems for various species than to redesign all the equipment from scratch. Besides, there are many living beings among the Separatists — who also serve on ships and stations... And they need something to breathe."
"Understood, ma'am," Sinilian nodded. The explanation was muddled. Subconsciously, the clone understood that the Jedi herself didn't fully grasp the reasons behind it. He could try to dig for the truth, but... He was a recon corps commander, not a researcher. Let others bother their heads with that. Preferably — non-Separatists.
"Should I report the planet's capture to HQ?" he asked the Twi'lek.
"Request the situation on the moons from the legion commanders, and report the full disposition of our assault sector to the Spirit of Fire," the Twi'lek ordered. "HQ needs to see the overall picture. And it wouldn't hurt us to know whether other units of our corps need help."
"It will be done, General," Sinilian reported briskly. A smile appeared on his face. Young, but not useless. That was very good.
* * *
To the west, a deep boom echoed, and the blackness of Tonjumi's night sky was illuminated by a bright flash. Another followed, then another...
Hellagen, turning at the footsteps behind him, silently nodded to the approaching General Utrila and Commander Omani.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
"In this cold, if you fall asleep, you're unlikely to wake up," the Lethan Twi'lek commented. "Another raid?"
"Yes, ma'am." In the thin atmosphere of the last planet in the Saleucami system — a frozen block of ice — it seemed less like Hyena Bombers were dropping bombs on the forward fortifications and more like meteors crashing in from deep space. With one difference: the meteors couldn't care less that fighters of the 190th Assault Corps had dug in around the mines hidden deep beneath the planet's icy crust.
Though "dug in" was an exaggeration. And not quite accurate.
Hellagen's fighters had dropped onto the planet as soon as the Blade Fleet got drawn into the ground battle for Saleucami. Nothing supernatural — while the CIS fortifications absorbed the turbolaser bolts from the Grand Moff's ships, the landing formation did its dark work. Dougan's Fist, supported by three volunteer corps and General T'ra Saa's 9th Assault Corps, handled ground targets on Saleucami itself, while the rest — including General Tolm's 21st New Corps — besieged planets and moons in the system, subjugating the Confederacy of Independent Systems' industry.
History withheld from the clones how and to whom all the industrial facilities in this system became known, but one way or another, the Grand Moff had the details. Detailed ones. So the clones landed, corps after corps, where they were least expected — at the CIS resource extraction enterprises in the system.
All in all, a very understandable approach — only one planet had comfortable conditions for supporting oxygen-breathing life. All the others... If they couldn't be settled without massive expense, why not turn them into resource appendages? As a result, virtually every celestial body in the system boasted some kind of mining operation. And all of them had to be captured.
Command had entrusted this to the "Twi'lek Corps" four formations commanded by Twi'lek Jedi.
Hellagen got the coldest planet in the system. Frozen solid. What could possibly interest anyone on this chunk of ice? The fighters from the 21st Corps would have handled this task faster and easier — after all, their equipment was suited for such climatic conditions. But the Galactic Marines, along with the clones from General Secura's 327th Star Corps, were besieging Separatist enterprises on the planet Olamenko, both moons of Saleucami, nine moons of the gas giant Decipino, and over three dozen moons of another giant — Pismaria. Where, according to rumors, conditions were much worse. Temperatures near absolute zero, no atmosphere, electrical or stone storms... bleak, in a word. But on virtually every celestial body in this system, the Separatists had managed to find something that made their war machine stronger.
Tonjumi, for example — a cooled metal core under a thick crust of ice. The Separatists had placed an extraction platform deep beneath the ice surface in an artificial cavern, which had been harvesting raw materials for years — materials turned into battle droids or fighters on Saleucami. The icy shell was so dense and thick — averaging two kilometers — that even the turbolasers of a Separatist Star Destroyer couldn't penetrate it and destroy the captured mine and the rear units of the 190th Assault Corps.
The capture went quite quickly: in five hours, the corps, having suffered some losses, established control over the planet and the facility, dumping several tens of thousands of droids straight into the recycler — to smelt the metal back into raw materials.
So imagine the corps' surprise when a Separatist armada appeared in the system.
The tin cans hung at the system's borders for almost a day, then slowly moved forward, leaving one Rebel in orbit — which proceeded to harass the clones with continuous bombardments, either with its own guns or by launching bombers, or by landing ground troops.
They had to urgently dig into the ice on the surface around the mine.
Well... "dig."
Carving through multi-meter ice layers was no pleasure. However, ingenuity was one of those traits that distinguished living beings from droids. Because no droid would ever think to burn trenches in the centuries-old ice with jetpack engines or cut them out with lightsabers.
It was curious to watch the Jedi using the Force to move the cut ice blocks ahead of the trenches, using them as additional cover under the Separatists' hurricane fire. And overall, despite their numerical superiority, the tin cans hadn't advanced a single meter.
"How are our supplies?" Hellagen asked the quartermaster hurrying toward him with a report.
"Three days of food and medicine," he reported. "But ammunition..."
"How much?" the marshal demanded.
"A day, sir," the quartermaster said reluctantly. "Maybe a day and a half, counting captured Separatist weapons. But we already have three companies from the eastern front with hypothermia. We're warming them up by diverting heat from the mine's reactor, but that's a temporary measure — our armor is good, but clearly not suited for local conditions. The electronics are freezing. Without climate control, even the Infiltrators are just a set of armor plates over a thick bodysuit."
"Crap," Hellagen swore.
They'd taken down a lot of droids. But even more remained. No matter how many tin cans they turned into scrap metal, the Separatists kept landing more. Those died, of course — the clones had a better position with terrain dominance. However... If reinforcements didn't come within a day — at least ammunition and provisions — the tin cans would take them with bare hands.
Or wait until the clones simply froze to death.
"Send search parties to scavenge the areas where we destroyed the last two squads," he ordered. "If they can grab a few more Separatist carbines, that's good. Means we can shoot a little longer."
"And what about heating on the positions?" the quartermaster asked.
If only he knew... They had pathetically few heaters — they'd only brought them as a last resort for heating food if they had to linger. No one anticipated temperature swings on this planet from "comfortable minus twenty" to "brutal minus eighty."
"Marshal Hellagen," General Utrila addressed him. "Perhaps we should place portable heaters directly on the front lines?"
"We don't have enough," he reminded her. "Not even for each platoon — at best, one per company."
"Then why not set up stationary heating points right in the trenches?" the Lethan suggested. Hellagen noticed that despite everything, the red skin of the Twi'lek's face was already starting to frost over. A little more, and she'd have to be thawed out in a tank. If she lived that long. And her Padawan was a pitiful sight — the girl would clearly get frostbite soon.
"With what resources?" the clone asked. "We've already used the jetpacks — they're just ballast now. Maybe a couple of dozen still have fuel, but burning out a space large enough to warm even a squad with them isn't possible."
"I and Rennax will take care of cutting rooms between the trenches and communication passages of the first and second lines," Utrila said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Even a meter of ice and snow over such bunkers will provide reliable protection from fire. We'll keep fighters not on sentry duty in those structures."
"So that in case of alarm, they'd be sprinting not from the mine, but already at their combat posts, since the 'warming huts' will be between the trench lines?" the clone finished the thought.
"Exactly," the Jedi confirmed. Looking at the quartermaster, she asked, "Can we run power cables from the reactor to the front lines?"
"To supply the heaters with reactor heat?" he clarified. "Of course we can, but... I'm not sure the cables will last long under temperature fluctuations — they're not designed for it. If we had AT-TEs with us..."
"But we don't," Utrila cut in sharply. "The landing here was supposed to be an easy walk. No one expected we'd have to stay."
"I understand, General," the quartermaster sighed. "I'll start the calculations immediately, but I need to know where these 'warming huts' will be located so I don't miscalculate the cable lengths..."
* * *
Staring at the relaxed face — a perfect copy of his own — Marshal Ded of the 6th Landing Corps struggled with conflicting feelings. But he didn't forget to keep the deserter in his blaster's sights.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Cut Lawquane asked quietly. At least that's what he called himself. The clone hadn't given his serial number or unit. Did any of that even matter? "Shoot if you want to."
"I'd very much like to," Ded admitted. "But I have extremely conflicting feelings about you, soldier."
"Is that so," Cut snorted, demonstratively setting his rifle aside and sitting down across from him. "Care to share?"
"Your story..." Ded's gaze swept over the pink-skinned Twi'lek. What was her name? Su? Yes, that seemed right. The woman stood next to her... husband... showing no fear. Only bitterness was readable on her face. Anger that the 6th Landing Corps, advancing on the Separatist factory, had stumbled upon their home. That, attracted by the peaceful harvest, the scouts had surrounded the farm. That they'd frightened the Twi'lek's two children from a previous partner. The boy and girl clearly couldn't be this clone's children — first and foremost because unions between Twi'leks and humans were sterile. And not even altered clone genetics could fix the laws of nature. Even if that were possible, the kids clearly looked much older than their age. Clones aged twice as fast as normal humans. Even if Cut had deserted after Geonosis, as he claimed, if he'd come straight to Saleucami, if he'd immediately fathered Su's children (and they looked close in age), the little ones should be about two years old at best. Ded wasn't particularly knowledgeable about other species, especially children, but the boy and girl looked at least four to six years old. If not older.
The children weren't in the shack that the deserter and his girlfriend called home right now. Despite Su's protests, Ded had ordered the children removed from the house. The scouts wouldn't harm them — clones didn't fight children. But at least they'd keep them occupied until the marshal made a decision.
And now, while the rest of the corps advanced toward its objective — the second since landing — Ded faced the most difficult decision of his life.
A year ago, he would have pulled the trigger without a second thought, and the tibanna charge would have blown the deserter's brains out.
But now... When the truth had come to light, when every clone in the Blade Fleet and its attached landing forces realized they were essentially bargaining chips in the political games of the Jedi and their sworn enemies, when the understanding dawned that all those speeches about the lofty ideals of the Republic, freedom and democracy, valiant battles for peaceful skies above citizens' heads — were merely a fiction designed to cloud the minds of obedient soldiers... Now he couldn't do it. Not after he'd become a stormtrooper of the Empire.
It would be wrong.
Two impulses warred within the marshal.
The first — the thought that this clone had deserted. The slaughter on Geonosis at the very start of the war had cost many brothers. Almost everyone there had lost all their battle comrades, or the vast majority of them. But to desert... No. No one except this Cut had run. Probably.
To hell with assumptions! No one had deserted except this one! Because there was no such order! And good soldiers always followed orders! Too bad it wasn't clear — were these his own thoughts, or echoes of that chip that had sat in his head until he arrived for service in the Ghent system.
And yet, this clone, even with the chip in his head, had been able to resist the programming. Had been able to break out of the comfort zone that war was for clones. Had been able to start life anew. To acquire a family, run a household...
To become not a soldier, but a farmer. To wake up early to tend the crops. To work until dark, sweating, fighting pests and weeds. And to return home where he was awaited. Where hot food was prepared — not by chef droids in the unit or aboard a Star Destroyer. Not reheated MREs on the march...
Ded inhaled the smell of a still-warm dinner. Even smelled appetizing. No, no one in the army complained about the new menu — especially when natural, not freeze-dried, products started arriving from Ukio and other agricultural planets that were part of this interplanetary company supplying food to the Ghent, Heft, and Grek system armies.
Hutt! Why did all kinds of nonsense pop into his head at such important moments? Home, food... Family.
Was it because he envied this... soldier? The Empire had given them rights and citizenship. Provided them with income, supplied everything necessary... Explained the reasons why a new power was brewing in the Unknown Regions and what the clones were needed for — to fight not for the Republic. For the Empire. For the citizens of the Empire. For themselves, and for all those who peacefully labored on distant planets... Those who were tired of Republican hypocrisy, corruption, and the rest...
Hadn't this... guy, done the same thing as all of them? Hadn't he unilaterally left the Republic? Hadn't he become, instead of a faceless fighter hidden behind his helmet visor, a man with a family, children? Something more, something worth dying for. Something that gave you the understanding of a simple fact — you might be a clone, but you were far from a meat droid obligated to follow orders and die for someone else's interests.
But you had to rise with weapons in hand to defend what was precious to you. For family and children, for a quiet corner on the backwaters of the galaxy, a beloved woman, and the order of things that your soul yearned for...
Not for the ideals of other beings who couldn't care less about you.
"Are you all right?" Su asked, looking at the marshal.
"What?" Ded realized he was still standing there with his weapon in hand. He understood that Cut and his wife had been talking about something while his head was consumed by a revaluation of values. "I'm fine."
The marshal — whom the Grand Army of the Republic's regulations required to execute deserters, panickers, and saboteurs on the spot — took a heavy breath. And returned his blaster to its holster.
"You're letting me go?" Cut asked incredulously. Amazement also showed on his wife's face.
"Yes," Ded answered simply.
"Will you report me to the Special Operations Brigade?" the deserter clone guessed.
"No," the marshal shook his head. "You're free."
"You're holding something back, Commander," Cut didn't believe him. "The GAR regulations..."
"There's a lot you don't know, Cut," the marshal explained. "We no longer answer to the Republic."
"Oh... Why?"
"Because we were betrayed," the commander of the 6th Landing Corps declared firmly. "We were created to fight for others. To kill Jedi when the right moment came. We were pawns in someone else's game of dejarik. Expendable material in a game against the Republic."
"And what changed?" the deserter didn't understand. "You know about this, but you still serve the Republic. You fight for someone else's ideals, sacrifice yourself so that those who don't want to dirty their hands in this slaughter can sleep peacefully."
"You're wrong." Ded adjusted his kama — a traditional decorative element of Mandalorian armor that had migrated to the clone army. It was actually on correctly. But he just couldn't look into the eyes of someone who had understood the truth — a truth that had only recently been revealed to the clones — before him. And doubly shameful was the fact that he'd had this man in his sights. As if he'd been aiming at one of his own fighters who had gone over to the Empire's side after the known events. Then he raised his gaze to Cut and his wife. "I am the commander of the 6th Landing and Assault Corps and a citizen of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul. I fight for myself, my brothers, and my fellow citizens. Like other clones, I'm carving out my own place in the sun in this spectacle called 'war.'"
"Sounds... unusual," Cut admitted. "I haven't heard of any Empire... What is it?"
"A place where those like me have or will have everything you have," Ded gestured around the room, nodded toward the Twi'lek and the children who had run in through the front door.
"Sounds like a fairy tale," Su said quietly.
"We used to think so too," Ded admitted. "But we've gotten used to believing the promises of someone who keeps his word. Even if we won't build our homes and see our families anytime soon, now we have a reason to fight."
"For your future?" Cut clarified. Ded thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. Then added:
"And we very much want to take revenge on those who created us as expendable material."
"I understand that something is happening beyond Saleucami," Cut said slowly. "But... I'm not ready to believe empty words and abandon everything I have, put on the uniform again and shout 'Yes, sir!' 'Sir, yes, sir!'"
"When we finish conquering the Saleucami system, we'll surely be thrown into another place," Ded said, pulling a comlink from a pouch on his belt. "If things get bad, or you realize that living with your family on the front line is too risky, contact me. I'll do everything I can."
Cut — warily, as if Ded were handing him an active thermal detonator — took the comlink, looked at it with distrust, and uttered:
"I hope this never happens, Ded." Hope sounded in his voice. And from his eyes, the marshal understood that Cut already suspected everything would be exactly the opposite.
"I prefer not to make any more vows," the marshal sighed. "I don't want any more disappointments. Mrs. Su." The clone saluted the Twi'lek. Looking at the subdued children, he pulled a couple of fruit bars from his belt and handed them to the boy and girl. "Mind your parents, little ones."
The deserter stepped close to the marshal and extended his right hand.
Ded, pulling the helmet from his head, looked into his copy's eyes. Silently shook his hand.
"Goodbye, Cut."
"I hope it's 'farewell,' Ded," the clone said hopefully.
Ded said nothing in reply. Silently, he put the helmet back on his head and, also in dead silence, stepped outside.
Seeing their commander, the group of scouts rose to their feet.
"We're leaving," the marshal ordered.
"And what about the deserter, sir?" one of the scouts asked.
"There are no deserters from the Imperial Army here," Ded cut them off, sitting down on the speeder bike prepared for him. "Only a farmer with his family."
The scouts exchanged glances, then silently mounted their own transports. And the fighters of the 6th Landing and Assault Corps of the Empire sped off.
* * *
A field... Too much open space between possible cover points.
In Saleucami's landscape, such a luxury as open space from one horizon to the other was rarer than deserts, cliffs, volcanoes, and mountains. Here, before the fighters of the 5th Assault Corps, spread a plain covered with lush but withered vegetation.
The grass, reaching the clones' waists, swayed in gusts of wind, like a vast gray-green sea. One the soldiers and the accompanying vehicles would have to cross.
The landing on the planet, surprisingly, went without a hitch. The Acclamator had dropped them outside the range of enemy anti-air and planetary defenses concentrated near important industrial facilities. And now, to reach the B-2 droid production factory, they had to go around a wide mountain ridge, then pass along the shore of a fairly wide natural body of water (yes, it turned out such things existed on this planet too).
The last obstacle was this field...
"Commander?" The legion commander appeared beside him. The marshal had divided his unit by legion to strike the facility — which covered dozens of square kilometers — from different sides. Of course, they'd first have to deal with a number of other objects — this part of the planet was literally overflowing with small mines, conveyors, factories, enrichment plants...
Charging at the enemy from one direction was no fun. Especially when even the dumbest OOM droid should have realized things were bad when Republic ships started dropping hundreds of clones on their heads. So Master had preferred to split his forces, launching an assault from four sides, forcing the enemy to divide their forces, thereby avoiding the intensity of enemy defenses that would surely have cost enormous losses if the 5th Corps had charged in one direction.
"What's the matter?" Master asked.
"The 23rd Legion has engaged a mechanized group of tin cans," the subordinate reported. "They're reporting AAT tanks, Hailfires, Octuptarras..."
"Bad," the Master hissed. The 23rd Legion, though it had already taken part in several operations, had never before acted as an independent unit. Their invasion sector was the simplest—which is why they were advancing later than everyone else—so that the other three legions would draw the enemy's attention first, easing the 23rd's task. Glancing at his chronometer, the Master calculated that this unit was only supposed to begin combat operations in three hours—meaning the enemy had struck them preemptively. And that was very bad indeed. Because if the tin cans managed to break through them, a whole mechanized enemy unit would appear in the open spaces of Saleucami, and then they'd have to hunt it down later.
If that was the case, they had to move forward themselves. Strike earlier than planned—maybe then the Separatists would decide to neutralize attacks from other directions and pull forces away from the 23rd's position.
But the field...
From here to the plant was just over three kilometers. Earlier, the forward patrols had encountered Separatist droid squads—small numbers, sure, but they'd been there. And here—such perfectly open terrain, ideal for an ambush.
And nothing.
Or was it only invisible at first glance?
"Send out scouts on speeder bikes," he ordered. "I don't like this silence."
"Yes, sir," the clone commander acknowledged the order. "Should I declare combat readiness for everyone?"
"Yes," the Master agreed. "It certainly won't hurt."
Three pairs of scouts rushed forward, racing across the grassy field. The Master watched them, correlating the soldiers' speed with time, estimating the distance they'd covered without trouble...
A short crimson burst cut down the left pair of scouts. The soldiers' bodies, thrown from their saddles, crashed into the grass while their uncontrolled machines smashed into the ground.
"To arms!" the Master shouted, raising his blaster rifle to his visor.
Rows of B-1s, unfolding from transport configuration, rose to full height amid the grass. The legion, spreading out behind walker supports and tank hulls, opened fire.
Over the green-gray swaying field, a red-and-blue ocean of death opened up...
* * *
"So, what do you think about the recent fight with Dooku's servants? Any thoughts?" I glanced at the apprentices sitting on either side of me, while the Lambda—carrying us along with a company of clone assassins—began its landing approach. Grem, clearly displeased that his men hadn't taken part in the battle against the dark acolytes, sat by the troop hatch. Offended in all the finest qualities of his soul. Or was he guarding the black bags packed with the corpses of the acolytes and Morgukai collected from across the complex? Come on, this isn't Resident Evil; the dead aren't coming back.
Probably.
"Since when are you interested in our opinion?" Oli asked, surprised.
"Since recently," I admitted.
"Well, you only have to participate in an orgy with a man you like once, and suddenly he starts taking an interest in you," Oli sighed. Catching my disapproving look, she looked embarrassed. "No, I wouldn't say they were anything special. Honestly, I expected more from Salmara, Justice, and Simms. In the Temple, they were talked about as decent swordsmen. But here... No, I'm not downplaying mine and Ahsoka's abilities—we've made good progress. But... personally, I'm not satisfied with the outcome."
"An asteroid on your planet, teacher," Ahsoka quipped. After receiving a corrective thump, the Togruta pretended to be interested in the structure of the shuttle's floor panels.
"Either our skills and strength have grown, or those Dooku acolytes are skipping classes and slacking off," Oli said thoughtfully, looking at Ahsoka. "You know, I love the Dark Side, of course. But these... are they really all so brainwashed that they think the Dark Side is a cure-all for everything?"
"They swing from one extreme to the other," I explained. "They got access to the forbidden, and it blew a fuse."
"Well, I don't know..." Oli said. "Sora Bulq was more dangerous. But these... they're like beaten dogs or something. Like they're not in their right minds..."
"An autopsy will tell," I replied, nodding toward the bags.
"Speaking of which, what do we need these dead bodies for anyway?" Ahsoka asked.
"Oh, you," I sighed. "Togruta evolved from predators, right?"
"So?" the girl looked at me suspiciously. "If this is going to be a joke about evolution, I'll bite something off you tonight."
"That's great," Oli protested. "You know what, friend, there's high demand for his body parts. Okay, an arm or a leg—he has two of those. But the most valuable..."
A snap of my fingers sent a flash of headache through both of them. Oli and Ahsoka clutched their heads in unison.
"You know, even Pavlov's dog would've figured out by the second time not to mess with a guy who can run current not just to a lightbulb but to your asses," I said. "Don't get too comfortable."
Both nodded vigorously, signaling they understood. A wave of my hand dispelled my influence over their minds. I looked at the enlightened faces of my two apprentices and continued:
"Anyway, about the corpses. The Morgukai hate Force-users—both Sith and Jedi. Especially the latter. And interestingly, they themselves shouldn't be Force-sensitive. So—what the hell?"
"But they were using Force Mask," Ahsoka gasped. "How?"
"An autopsy will tell," I repeated. "Back in the lab, I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was staged. So much pomp, so much expression... And only Malorum was doing any talking. These... it was like they'd taken a vow of silence. No, girls—something's definitely off here."
"Regardless," Oli tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "The fact that they can't control themselves at all doesn't do the Sith any credit. Either Count Dooku isn't teaching them anything, or..."
"There, good, develop that thought," I praised the dark-haired girl's thought process. Oli, exchanging a glance with me, bit her lip. She'd caught on. Clever girl. Two cunnilinguses out of turn for this genius of thought. Just kidding.
"Teacher, what if Count Dooku himself doesn't understand much about the Dark Side?" the Togruta asked quietly, earning an approving nod from me.
"You think things are so bad for them that Sidious didn't even train him properly?" Ahsoka frowned. Then, seeing my smile, she slapped her forehead. "What an idiot I am! 'The Sith way is betrayal!' That's what you were hinting at to Dooku during your conversation with him and the Chancellor. Palpatine is using him just like everyone else."
"Bravo," I clapped my hands. "Exactly. Dooku is expendable. He's just keeping the seat warm for the one Palpatine is really grooming as his apprentice."
"Ah... you think he's still going to act according to the original plan?" Ahsoka looked downcast. "He'll try to get Skywalker?"
"I'm sure of it," I declared. "Oli, a simple example for you—she wanted something, and she got it. By hook or by crook."
"I don't know what you meant by that last phrase," Oli grumbled, "but just in case, I'll say I'm going to bite something off you too... Ow!"
This time I didn't even snap my fingers.
"Arriving at the ground headquarters position," the pilot's warning came through.
"Excellent," I responded, watching the dirty looks my apprentices were throwing my way. "What? You're the ones to blame. Tonight, after lights out, I want both of you waiting in my quarters in the 'Lonely Bedouin Gathering Truffles' position."
"The lonely who gathering what?" Oli grimaced, but Ahsoka covered her mouth with her palm.
"Oh, Force, please shut up already," she pleaded.
* * *
The armored door slid aside with a horrifying screech and an ominous rumble, creaking as if it were living out its last century. Four clones, manually hauling the massive metal slab, grunted with effort.
From inside came the stench of rot, the smell of decay.
Despite the helmet's filters, the stink seeped in. His stomach rebelled, threatening to empty its contents straight into the helmet's interior.
Titus peered into the opened corridor, keeping the interior space in his rifle's sights.
"Dark as a sarlacc's ass," he thought. "And as always, we're coming from the wrong end."
He touched a key on his wrist computer, activating the portable lights mounted above his helmet's visor. Two small white circles of light cut through the darkness, revealing from the blackness a floor covered in murky, streaked water, cracked walls, and pipes stretching into the unknown. In a word—a typical service tunnel. One that hadn't been used in years... hell, probably never.
One of the clones who'd forced the door open pulled a vibroknife from its sheath and plunged the blade into the water. Confirming the liquid only covered the floor by a few centimeters, he withdrew the weapon into the light and showed the others the black sludge on the blade's tip.
"That's why you can't see the bottom," he explained.
Titus nodded silently, signaling with a gesture for the soldiers crowding behind him to move forward.
More flashlight beams began to dance in the air.
The 187th Legion of the 8th Infantry Corps moved forward by platoons.
The corridor was wide enough that the soldiers didn't have to bunch up. Sure, the capacity wasn't great, but what difference did it make to a Hutt—they weren't charging headlong into shrapnel, were they?
Along the entire passage, niches gaped like coal-black voids, spaced evenly apart, and in the unseen corners, an ambush could be waiting. Sometimes they turned out to be intersections with other corridors, and then a few squads would dive into the newly discovered passage. Surely, each such passage had a surface exit. That meant the legion could strike any part of the plant. From below—exactly where the droids wouldn't expect it.
"Reminds me of sabotage operation drills," muttered the commander of the Aiwha commando squad, a clone named Sergeant. He and three of his men walked alongside Commander Whie Malreaux—still just a boy, but a Jedi, attached to the squad to learn something more than swinging his lightsaber in confined spaces. "Dark, damp, and your heart's pounding like it's going to jump out of your chest."
"And expecting an ambush every time you see some darkness ahead," Malreaux added.
"Don't Jedi sense threats?" Titus frowned. The kid with the Jedi braid was starting to irritate him. With his childish naivete and lack of understanding of things that were ordinary for clones.
"We do," the boy agreed. "But it's one thing with living beings, and another with droids. The danger from them... feels different?"
"How?" Titus asked. "A tingling in private places?"
The boy started to respond to the crude joke, but meeting the expressionless face of the clone's helmet, he simply shook his head.
Titus chuckled and cast a glance ahead. Another junction. Raising a fist to get attention, he signaled the nearest squad to perform a precautionary cross-maneuver, checking and clearing each sector of the tunnel before moving on.
"Kill your lights and don't turn them on unless we meet the enemy," Titus said over the squad's internal comm, demonstrating by switching off his own lights. "Use night vision." Oh, how glad he was for this armor with all its gadgets. No, the Phase-1 had night vision too. But the green spectrum was just annoying, frankly irritating with its limited color palette. The Infiltrator, however, used a more expensive analog called "White Night," where you saw the surrounding space like in archaic black-and-white colors. Of course, you could change the settings—there were about five different color schemes. But Titus himself, like most of the guys in the 187th Legion, preferred "White Night."
The marshal tapped the Padawan on the shoulder:
"Can you see in the dark?"
"Um..." the boy hesitated. "Jedi orient themselves using the Force."
"That didn't help many of yours at the Petranaki Arena," Titus remarked, making a mental note to get the kid proper gear. Running around in light armor over a fabric suit, with only a comlink and a med-kit with kolto for equipment.
Motioning for the kid to follow him on the right (so he could block a firing sector or drop the commander to the floor if necessary), Titus remembered that one of his tasks was also to instill military cunning in the boy. And an understanding of how to behave properly in combat.
"In battle, kid, you can't afford the luxury of relying on your Force," he said didactically. One squad had returned. What? Ah, a service dead end for pressure control in the pipes. Fine, at least nothing could come from there.
"The Force has always been with the Jedi," the temple grub pouted.
"You can wave that little poker of yours around all you like," Titus shot back. "But in such tight quarters, when you're leading people—it's better not to rely on something you can't touch. Say, if a Droideka crawls out in front of us right now—can you kill it with your lightsaber before it takes out your whole squad?"
"I'm a decent swordsman," the boy said with a hint of pride. "I can deflect all the shots and take cover."
"And meanwhile, your soldiers will be stuffed full of tibanna," Sergeant commented. "They, unlike you, have no experience with the Force or your weapon."
"But they know ion and EMP grenades," Titus continued his lecture. "So you'd be better off carrying a couple of those. And a blaster would come in handy too."
"What for?"
"Well, if you can't throw your little poker fifty meters in the blink of an eye, then at medium and long range, a blaster is better," Titus explained. "Not everything has to be charged head-on with a sword."
The other groups returned. Two passages led somewhere very interesting—through the grates of sewer drains, the guys heard the sound of conveyors working. Titus directed a company of soldiers into each of those branches via internal comm. If they'd already heard conveyors, it meant they were at least under one of the workshops. Excellent. From here on, they'd have to move without lights to avoid giving away their position.
"Kid, if your Force is good for anything, pray that the droids don't have thermal imaging."
"Why? What does that do for us?"
"What an idiot."
"Trust me, if the tin cans blow the ceiling over us and start shooting us like gizka in a barn, you won't like it either," Sergeant chimed in.
They moved down the passage, expecting the worst. Titus, under the strained silence of the Padawan, tried to picture the complex's layout, building an attack plan in his mind. It was a slow process.
Okay. One regiment attacks head-on, two from the flanks. They were supposed to strike from below and catch the droids by surprise. The more property they could save with a surprise attack, the less they'd have to repair later. The Grand Moff had hinted that, if possible, they should avoid destroying enemy industrial facilities to the point of burning ruins. Why? Didn't matter. But a planet like this (and the system as a whole), with plenty of resources and the capacity to churn out weapons in the millions, was needed by the Empire. Especially in the rear.
A quiet muttering and a stream of curses in Mando'a came over the squad's frequency.
"What the Hutt?" Titus hissed, signaling the others to crouch lower to reduce their profiles. It's easier to hit a target standing at full height. When it's not—droids often have big problems evaluating accuracy.
"Friendly forces, sir," one of the scouts, moving a few hundred meters ahead, replied. "Torrent Company, from the 501st."
"What the hell?" Titus swore. "The 501st and 204th are fifty kilometers from here, in some underground lab."
"That's what we thought," the scout answered. "Captain Beard said they have roughly the same mission as ours."
"I'm coming to you," Titus decided. He nodded to Aiwha to cover the kid if necessary, and the senior clone commander, trying to make as little splash as possible while walking, reached another junction a few minutes later. Here, apparently, was a sewage collector—piles of various kinds of shit and rotting organic matter literally half-filled the branch, which was blocked by a massive grate. And lying on top of all that filth were clones in similar armor, but with the blue markings of the 501st Legion. Opposite them stood the scouts from the 187th. Both groups had each other in their sights.
"Show-offs, damn their incubation," Titus cursed under his breath. One good thing—no one had forgotten that sabotage droids liked, knew how, and practiced wearing enemy army uniforms. Clones, of course, even at first glance looked like rancor shit—beer—but sometimes it worked. The episode on the moon Rishi had spread through the army as anecdotes. And lessons in vigilance.
"Who's in command?" he asked sternly.
"Captain Beard," the nearest clone with blue markings lowered his carbine and pulled off his helmet. "What a stench here..."
"You might as well have jumped into a cesspool and told us about it," Titus remarked. "How did you end up here? Not your zone."
"We took the lab, sir," the clone reported without changing his position. "Started sweeping the service tunnels—and ended up here."
"Why did you need the tunnels?"
"The 204th encountered Morgukai and dark Jedi who were either evacuating or coming into the lab through them. The 204th fell back to the 'Fist' position, the 501st was ordered to clear the area and make sure no new guests appear at the facility."
"Well, looks like you've been clearing out in the sewer," Titus chuckled. "Look at all that rot..."
"Objection, sir," Beard put his helmet back on. "This is a tunnel for dumping biological waste. Two kilometers back we found a broken disposer—the bodies washed up here."
"Bodies?" Titus crouched, examining the waste the 501st soldiers were lying on. Yes, indeed, bodies. And a lot of them. All of them, to a one—Nikto. At least, judging by the parts of heads that hadn't rotted yet. "What the hell was in your lab that there are this many Nikto here?"
"A cloning laboratory," Beard replied. "A very big one, sir. There must be a couple of thousand of them in the incubators."
"And these look like defective ones," Titus decided, standing up to his full height. "All right, Captain, there's no surface comms here anyway, so join us. No point in you crawling back through those guts."
"That's for sure, sir," Beard agreed. "Three hundred meters over corpses—that's some fun."
"Cut that grate already," Titus ordered the scouts. "Once all the Torrents are out, put everything back as it was and set mines. Don't forget to mark the spot on the map—I don't want any of ours getting blown up. If it's Separatists, then it's no loss, of course..."
* * *
"What I wouldn't give for air cover..." Kaymaker said regretfully, watching the Vultures approaching from the direction of the sun. Then, seeing Commanders Bene and Kungurama standing nearby, he snapped, "Get down! It's starting again!"
The young Jedi froze for a moment, then simultaneously jumped from the five-meter wall surrounding the finished product warehouse of the AAT tank factory. The joint operation to capture the plant and its products, conducted by Kaymaker's 313th Legion and the 716th under the command of the recently promoted Dsuu, had been successful. Minimal infantry losses, average losses in heavy equipment. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But the complete surprise was that the Separatists had a base somewhere nearby. From it came Vultures and Hyena Bombers, which significantly tarnished the victors' reputation and bombed the remnants of the Republic walkers. Except for one. ONE!!!
Which, standing surrounded by its burning brothers, was providing cover fire for clones helping surviving crew members evacuate the destroyed machines. Because a couple of kilometers from the complex, a column of B-1 droids was already advancing. By the most conservative estimates—about fifty thousand. Where such an army could have been hidden without being spotted by the scout fighters whose data the attack plan was based on was unclear.
One thing was clear—now the hunter had become the prey. And it would be the clones who had to defend the plant. Because the order to capture and hold hadn't been canceled. And who would cancel it, since the tin cans were jamming communications and signals from comlinks and holoprojectors couldn't reach beyond the complex?
The bombs landed with a large shortfall, tearing apart an AT-TE already battered by previous hits, covering both the rescued and the rescuers at once. Kaymaker, rising from a prone position (he'd dropped when the Hyenas reached the drop point), was surprised to find Dsuu standing next to him. And with him, four clone commandos. Breakthrough Squad. Commandos attached to the legion.
Each of the clones, including the commander of the 716th, was holding a Plex grenade launcher on his shoulder—a powerful piece of kit, but...
A synchronized salvo from five barrels literally tore apart the retreating enemy fighters.
"Excellent," Dsuu commented, reloading his grenade launcher. "Spread out along the perimeter of the walls, take cover squads—don't let anyone get close."
"No problem," one of the commandos snorted, slinging the empty launcher tube over his shoulder.
Watching the retreating commandos, Kaymaker asked, "Where'd the grenades come from? They ran out during the last raid."
"Searched the bodies," Dsuu replied. "Found a few."
"You waited for the right moment and took out the air support," Kaymaker nodded to himself. "Not bad."
"Your approval is worth a lot," Dsuu chuckled.
"What do you mean by that?"
"You're the one who likes to dig through other people's personal affairs," his colleague explained the grievance in plain terms.
"Don't take it to heart," Kaymaker asked. "The Grand Moff needed information, and I provided it. You'll understand how it works once you've served with us in the 'Fist' a little longer."
"If," Dsuu corrected. "Commanders in the 716th don't last long."
"It's in your power to change that," Kaymaker reminded him. Watching the soldiers run up the wall, setting up for the upcoming firefight (no point keeping soldiers on top during an airstrike—they don't live long that way), he waved Dsuu toward the main, essentially the only, gate into the complex.
"They won't break through the walls," he explained. "They don't have spiders, so we can rest easy—they won't outflank us either. We have to hold the central entrance."
"One AT-TE isn't enough," Dsuu noted. "They'll get another three hundred meters closer and be able to bury it in microchips. And I doubt they don't have tanks—the warehouse is almost empty: two vehicles. And those are inoperable. We just haven't seen them yet." He glanced toward the setting sun. "But something tells me the real fun starts at nightfall."
"And the plant wasn't exactly bristling with guards either—about two thousand droids, though the standard complement should be ten times that."
"They were probably pulled out just before they realized we'd definitely capture it," Dsuu speculated. "It's not for nothing that all the communication and service tunnels were blown. No, some OOM isn't in command here. Either a tactician or an organic."
"Any useful suggestions?" Kaymaker asked.
"I suggest pulling the AT-TE inside the perimeter, using it to drag out the damaged AATs and block the central gate," Dsuu replied. "If they do have tanks, they'll break through this barricade, sure, but it'll buy us time to hold out until reinforcements arrive."
"Will they come?" Kaymaker smirked. "There's no comms. Or are you suggesting we send someone on speeders?"
"You read my mind," Dsuu nodded. "There are a couple of Separatist bikes—we can make one working from two. The 'Fist' headquarters is five or six hours away."
"If they're only jamming comms near the plant, we just need to get out of the jamming zone and contact HQ," Kaymaker clarified.
"And even then—we'll have to hold out for at least two or three hours. Even if they have LAATs at the base and don't have to wait while reinforcements are gathered from the barracks."
"Three hours against fifty thousand droids... and if they have tanks too... The walls won't save us. The tanks will just level them with concentrated fire—if not in an hour, then in two."
"Best I can think of," Dsuu declared. "At most—once it gets dark, we'll send commandos into their positions. If they can blow up even a couple of tanks, it'll be easier."
Kaymaker fell silent, watching the pair of Padawans discussing something with the clones, using the Force to help move large chunks of walls and buildings closer to the complex entrance, forming something like a horseshoe around the inner courtyard.
"A fire sack," Kaymaker commented. "I'll admit, if they don't die in this battle, they might amount to something."
He looked at his silent comrade and asked, "Thinking the same thing I am?"
"Of course. Every soldier counts. They're not real Jedi. Not yet. Not much use from them. But on a speeder, the two of them might make it. Damn, I regret letting the LAATs go after we captured the complex. How useful they'd be now..."
"Yeah, and full-strength legions would be useful too," Kaymaker reminded him grimly. "Should we draw lots for who tells them they're going to HQ?"
"What lots?" Dsuu was surprised. "You're commanding the operation, you get to talk to the Jedi."
Without saying goodbye, the clone strode toward the warehouse entrance, where clones were trying to push out the two AATs the Separatists had damaged during their evacuation.
Chuckling, Kaymaker thought that this time the 716th Legion had actually gotten a decent commander. And if the Padawans didn't drag their feet—maybe they wouldn't all get killed here like gizka in a lean year.