The Last Full Measure

Kelita River, Mandalore

Mandalore Sector, Outer Rim Territories

0720 Imperial Center Standard Hours

17 BBY

Things on Mandalore had reached a boiling point. Fenn Shysa and his rebel army had quite embarrassingly made fools of the Imperial garrison. They were singularly responsible for over eighty percent of all losses of Imperial materiel and personnel in a year. The other twenty were deserters from the clone population of garrison and the efforts of several smaller groups or individuals. With the introduction of the new planetary governor and a fresh garrison of troops from the foundling natural-born Imperial Army, the situation had seemed to be resolved.

But then the attacks restarted. Shysa had allied with another Mandalorian faction under one Kal Skirata, a wanted man. The terrorist actions escalated until the spine of the local infrastructure of the planet was shattered by a simultaneous commando raid on the Imperial-built power generators that had kept the planet's cities lit every night, as well as the Sundari and Keldabe regional government centers. Ninety-seven natural-born Imperial officers and enlisted and three hundred and ninety-three clone soldiers were killed in the attacks that destroyed any hope of supplying outlying Mandalorian settlements and camps with sustenance or power.

Enough was enough for Imperial High Command. By personal order of Emperor Palpatine, a battalion of the prestigious 501st Legion and a detachment of the elite Sixth Commando were deployed to Mandalore with specific orders to bring peace, order, and civilization back to the planet by any means necessary. Humanitarian and counter-insurgency operations began the moment they touched down.

"Hey, meat-buckets, armed speeders at your three," IC-4341 "Croaker" said.

Stormtrooper Sergeant TK-1831 "Meresk" turned to see what it was that the commando was talking about. They were flying high above the newly-built Kelita Food Distribution Center in one of the new MAAT/i gunships, pulling overwatch on a local convoy laden with needed food and supplies for the civilian populace. Those Mandalorian rebels weren't helping their position, the way that Meresk saw it. Imperial logistics were secure and remained un-attacked even with the introduction of the task force. All that the rebels were doing was destroying their own infrastructure. He sincerely hoped that the deserters that filled the ranks of the rebels weren't the ones making that decision. That would be downright idiotic, particularly for someone cut from the Fett genome.

But there they were. Three speeders raced across the beach toward the distribution point. Even without his new armor's hardware, he could pick out the armored figures manning pintle-mounted blaster cannons. The lead Mando was dressed in red-painted plates with jaig eyes and kama. The troopers had seen him before. Rumors had it that he was a clone deserter. An ARC who'd gone native.

Meresk heard the pilot over the common channel, "Command, this is Senth Six-One, we have likely hostiles likely to intercept one of the convoys. Permission to swing down and clear them up."

Croaker had already converted his modular DC-17m blaster carbine for long-range work with a few practiced movements. He was one of the true "life-timers" with the 501st like Meresk, decanted into a commando crèche ten years before the beginning of the Clone Wars like Meresk had been into the general trooper population. But just because they were chronologically the same age didn't mean they were vode, brothers. By his estimate, commandos were the wild boys of the clone army, proof of nurture over superior nature. But it didn't stop them from working together.

Raising his own DC-15 rifle, he flipped the scope up and tried to line up his first shot. The MAAT/i was much more stable than the old larties. Sighting in was easy for the sergeant, it was for all of the life-timers. None of the non-Kaminoan clones could even begin to compete with them. He had the helmet of the lead speeder driver under his crosshairs before their commander's voice responded.

"Senth Six-One, are you taking fire from them?"

"Uh, negative, Command."

"Do not engage then, Senth Six-One. That's the garrison's problem. Hold fire."

There was a noticeable pause before the pilot spoke. "Understood, Command. Senth Six-One is holding."

Meresk turned to look at Croaker, who shrugged. Usual politics at work then. The local garrison officers didn't like the presence of Vader's Fist in their territory and tried to stymie all of their attempts at area pacification. And the 501st commanders tended to return the favor with a general refusal to assist in the locals. A good number of the men of the 501st missed the old days of the Clone Wars where the clone armies were largely self-regulating. A Jedi commander issued a task and they set to work coming up with the best way to turn droids into scrap while accomplishing the task. But then the Jedi had gone rogue. What were the odds?

They still had natural-born officers though. By merit of not having come about thanks to a cloning vat, the lowest Imperial Army lieutenant outranked the seven clone commanders responsible for the running of the 501st's Seventh Battalion's companies. Unfortunately, their officers' unregulated spawning and upbringing tended to make them a touch slower than the clone officers who had been born and bred to wage war. That meant that the officers usually followed protocol and worked under the direction of the commanders.

But Command was almost wholly clone-free. Colonel Sem Grisson kept Commander TS-0331 "Jenseth" around as an adviser and unofficial executive officer. Grisson was an all right sort of man. A veteran of the Clone Wars, he understood the value of a clone life. However that occasionally got in the way of decision-making. That and the politicking that pervaded the natural-born officer corps. It made a vod pine for the old days.

So they watched through their helmet optics. The speeders blazed through the watchtowers, their laser cannons tearing apart the durasteel structures with sustained bursts. They saw fellow clones being cut down trying to respond. Meresk's gauntlet creaked as he made a fist. Politics. It was bound to get them all killed one day or another.

Croaker laid a hand on his shoulder. "Vode," he said. "Not our place, you know that."

"Tell that to them," Meresk responded, jerking a thumb to the chaos below them.

"Not our place," the commando said, shaking his head. "You know that."

He only grunted. The commando was right. Orders were orders. If they didn't follow their orders, what were they?

Chortav Meshurkaane, Keldabe, Mandalore

0719 Imperial Center Standard Hours

By all appearances, IC-1977 was just another clone deserter browsing through the wares of Market Day. "Hood" as he was nicknamed, was nothing of that sort. Despite his commandeered suit of beskargam, he was true to his roots. He was a commando, bred to be the best, bred to serve. These traitors had decided to desert the moment the war had ended. He had nothing in common with the other clones roaming the street fair. And he was after someone.

But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself a little. Hood had found browsing and shopping an odd comfort for him through his years away from Kamino. So many things were available to him. And what he couldn't purchase, he could creatively allocate. Commandos had been allowed a very small stipend to spend as they chose. Most spent it on extra or upgraded equipment since the regulations regarding the special forces units were a little looser. Hood liked spending it on small things. He wasn't one to say no to some new optics or a custom tune-up of his DC-15, but why not spend it on something nice? Buying outside food beat the garrison food by a whole lot. And the cities he could explore…

Keldabe wasn't the prettiest of the cities he'd been allowed to roam around in while on-mission. But it was a city built with a purpose. And that purpose happened to be to completely and utterly stymie any assault in force of the city. Invaders were faced with the prospect of close-quarters battle. Fighting in the streets, the alleyways, room to room, and in basements. And fighting in the basement was hardly a recipe for success. But it was certainly admirable of the locals. He had to admire their purity of purpose. He put down the extremely ornate beskad and continued looking at the wares of the stall.

The trooper escort would be problematic. He inspected a piece of fine lace, his eyes flitting occasionally to his helmet's displays to track his target with the 360-degree field of vision. The wonders of military-grade electronics retrofitted to a traitor's armor. At least in death the di'kut was helping their cause. But to think that they had come to this. Clone-on-clone violence had been unthinkable only three years ago. Now they had permission to take down rogue clones. Hood remembered his old training sergeant's feelings about the issue. Orders were orders. It wasn't the grunt's place to question them without particularly good reason.

"How much is this?" he asked the vendor in his best Sundari-accented Mando'a.

Whatever the vendor was saying was no longer his concern. A speeder had rolled up next to the target and her escort. Their ride. Time to get to work.

Crossing his arms, Hood turned away from the stall. The air pistol tucked under one armpit coughed once. Unseen and unheard by anyone in the clamoring crowds, it had launched a modified adhesive distress beacon no larger than a dirtbug. It would squawk every ten seconds on a very secure channel set up by the 501st Legion, giving away its location as well as whatever it had been attached to, which in this case was the rear bumper of the speeder. Very handy tool.

"Target acquired," he said into his helmet comlink, his words being instantly transmitted to the 501st facilities. "Target marked. They are on the move. Exfiltrating."

Endex for now. He smiled slightly in his helmet before melting into the Keldabe populace.

Northern Gate, Keldabe, Mandalore

0728 Imperial Center Standard Hours

They came in swiftly and brutally. Following the end of the war, many Low-Altitude Assault Transports near the end of their service lives had been given a second chance. They were upgunned, their chassis stripped down for speed, and even more weaponry had been added to make them over-qualified for both close air support as well as special forces transport. Four of them now descended upon the northern-most boundary-marker of Keldabe proper. Beyond it was untamed forest and wilderness with the occasional snaking path running through it all. They would have only one chance at this.

"Permission to engage," IC-9010 "Shug" stated flatly. "I don't think they're going to be stopping."

IC-3991 "Howe" sighed audibly from his perch at the middle of the gutted troop bay, his boots dangling in the air. "Go ahead."

A DC-17m's sniper configuration could fire a high-powered ion pulse through a meter of durasteel and still retain enough energy to turn an organic's head-analogue into a fine boiling mist of bone vapor and blood. Against the landspeeder's makeshift armor, it was overkill. Molten metal and polymer splashed out beneath the speeder as the bolt tore straight through the speeder's engine. There were other ways to skin a gurrcat, but sometimes the best way involved only using a really sharp knife and a pinned gurrcat. Pity they were in the prisoner-taking business today.

The LAATs paced the speeder as it ground to a halt like vultures following a mortally wounded prey. In a way, they were. The commandos had prime seats to watch the sudden deceleration. They watched the nose of the engineless vehicle dip and dig into the barely-paved road. It then performed a forward-flip that transitioned nicely into a roll into the ditch at the side of the road. You couldn't pay for this kind of a performance.

Even as they watched, the LAATs were descending. Ten meters from the ground, the commandos grabbed hold of the handles hanging above their seats. They disengaged the restraints before kicking out of their seats. Six commandos dropped out through where the floor of the LAAT used to be, supported by only the rapidly unspooling cable attached to the handles.

They were already in motion before their boots had made full contact with the ground. Moving quickly, they surrounded the overturned speeder with their blasters trained in case the di'kuts tried doing something. Howe nodded to IC-9009 "Goj", who fired two bursts with his Deece. The bolts chewed away the lock on one of the passenger doors, old safety protocols automatically unlocking and opening the door. Howe then raised his own Deece and fired into the open door.

The PEP attachment discharged with a shockwave of light and sound as the actinic beam entered the speeder's interior. Anyone inside who wasn't at least as armored as the commandos were about to experience a sensation reminiscent of having a flashbang detonate a centimeter from their face while being stepped on by Alderaan's entire nerf population. Nobody was feeling particularly sympathetic, but they were wholly familiar with the sensation. Their training tended to be very realistic.

"Okay, take them," Howe said, waving for the rest of the team.

Their gauntlet vibroblades made quick work of the other doors and the commandos were soon dragging dazed figures out of the overturned speeder while restraining them with basic binders around their wrists. At Howe's signal, the commandos flipped their new prisoners to lie on their backs while they removed their helmets. Time for some confirmation of capture.

Five humans, all but the target and one other wearing some form of body armor. That obviously hadn't helped. But this looked like a prime catch with four deserters captured in one fell swoop. One of them looked familiar even with the beskargam. Howe waved IC-4492 over for a chat over private comms.

"Wex, isn't that-?"

"You got that right, Sarge," Wex said, some anticipation in his voice. "You want the honors?"

"'Course."

Kneeling down, he activated his helmet's image-capture function to get some good footage of their prisoners. With that done there was still the official business to take care of.

"Citizen Besany Wennen, you are hereby arrested on Imperial authority for counts of murder, sedition, and espionage against the state," he said, the vocoder of his helmet distorting his voice into neutrality. It also stripped away the excitement and anticipation that he felt. He shared a glance with Wex before continuing on to the one they had a personal interest in. "Nice day to go for a drive with the bucket off, eh?" he asked the clone.

The clone looked defiantly back up at him, his dyed and cut hair looked horribly artificial in the sunlight. He looked like he had some knife-work done on him. Probably enough to fool biometric scanners. "And your point is?"

"Just trying to have a civilized conversation," Howe said, hitching his Deece on his thigh-plate. "You know, before we summarily execute your traitorous shebs."

The traitor fell right into it. "What did I do to you?"

"Funny you should mention it," he said. He disengaged the seals of his helmet and pulled it off.

The sunlight revealed the long and wide mottled red streak that ran along the right side of his face. He could see the shock of recognition in the traitor's eyes.

He smiled. "Su'cuy, Cov?"

Then he raised his boot and brought it down on his face.

Author's Rant: Hey kids! Finally some Star Wars! Free e-cookie for whoever guesses what I'm basing this story on!