Mimban
Punch looked down towards the planet's surface from the side panels of the specialized transport LAAT. Above the clouds the sun had shone brightly; then the LAAT had descended through a thick cover of clouds getting darker and denser as they moved lower. Water condensed on the clear panes then became rivulets. At a thousand meters the panes were covered with sheets of water. Electric crackle in the sky billowed brightly around the modified LAAT which jerked and jumped, tossed by the inclement weather of Mimban. Even at five hundred meters there appeared to be no surface to the planet.
Some of the rookies were nervous; it was too much like the worst of Kamino weather. The electronic lightning storm was like one of the first outdoor drills they'd been taken on as cadets. It was a drill on one of the created islands of Kamino and was usually the last drill as a singleton cadet and the beginnings of a functional squad.
Punch closed his eyes, remembering. There was always the excitement of being out of the Kamino training facility and knowing this drill was meant to solidify the cadets into squads. There was always wind and rain and lightning; something so different from the flash-drills and training holovids. There was a smell to storm; sharp and brittle and curling inside your senses.
And, there were always at least four fatalities by the end of the exercise; cadets killed by hypothermia or lightning or the slickness of every surface. You learned far more viscerally. You learned - in a way that was keener, brighter, and far more memorable than flash-training - that weather couldn't be trusted. Only your brothers could be trusted.
Punch grunted deep in his chest. That was lie.
Punch leaned his back against the LAAT reinforcements. It was only weather, only some natural phenomena that had no intentions against any trooper. If the transport crashed and they all died, at least there was no anger or hate in the weather. No cruelty. No treason. Death would be strictly impersonal and for a bare moment, that was what Punch wanted.
His fingers reached to the pouch where he'd stashed the picture Sketch had drawn. They'd been in the mess, arguing about the drawing, when the entire squad had been called back to the barracks. Punch had crumpled the drawing in his fist, shoving it with the extra blaster cartridges on his belt. Then Slick's treason and capture. Immediately afterwards, the squad had been separated and housed in different barracks.
They weren't technically under arrest, but why should he be the first to make a move? He'd wait for Sketch to come to him and apologize for drawing him in that grotesque, submissive sexual pose.
Punch had his interview with the review board and was on a transport that night. First to Kamino then to Captain Top and the 224th on Mimban. He had lost most of his anger in the questioning of the review board but not enough to beg to see Sketch. He hadn't shown them the picture and they'd known he was hiding something though they realized it had nothing to do overtly with Slick's treason.
Commander Cody had approach him during one of the breaks. "We know what he did to Gus. If he's done anything like that to you, please let us know."
Punch had bristled, all anger at the commander for the insinuation. "The medics have cleared me. I'm as pure as the day I was vatted." Though he didn't feel clean anymore. He felt mired, covered in something acidic eating away at him and leaving only a thick, filthy residue.
In his anger at Sketch, at Slick, at the world, Punch tore at the commander. "You should have caught what he was doing. You should have noticed."
Commander Cody jerked back as if he'd been struck, his face pale.
Punch turned on his heel and strode back into the interview room, sitting military correct in the chair, wanting only to get the questions over and find Sketch.
Punch finished his interview and was ordered to gather his gear and report for immediate departure. He took long moments to search for Sketch, not caring that it was in direct violation of his orders.
Sketch was gone. Sergeant Wooley had told him that when he'd come searching for Punch and handed him his packed gearbag. Punch could only stare at it as Wooley led him to the transport.
Gone? Sketch? Gone?
He didn't even know where Sketch had been assigned.
"Welcome to your new home, rookies," said the pilot with a chuckle that interrupted Punch's reverie. "You'll all be Mimban mud-jumpers before long."
Punch bristled at the words. He was no rookie. He hadn't been shiny for a while; his dented armor and a blaster scar on his shoulder blade proved that. He said nothing though; the pilot didn't know that he was a reassignment transfer. It wasn't the usual way of things, it wasn't normal. The others in the LAAT, seeing his armor blaster-scorched and battle-scratched, seeing the way he stood and the way he moved to take the back bench, knew he wasn't a shiny and, not knowing how to approach him, avoided him.
As if they knew he'd been part of the traitor's squad.
