The commandos sized each other up quietly as the Lambda-class shuttle Workhorse hurtled through hyperspace. All of them had been called up from their respective units in a hurry; yanked off from important missions to be shipped off to the middle of who knows.

The group had been together a grand total of five hours--long enough to find out some important information. Each and every one of the assembled New Republic commandos was a former Imperial stormtrooper. Though some wore the standard khaki and green of the NR's military, there were a few still wearing their signature armor, though none were longer standard by any Imperial's definition; some were simply repainted, others had been visibly altered with non-standard parts, and even more had been ostentatiously repaired.

One of the 'repaints', a huge man with the ubiquitous military hair cut and an officer's square--bearing the one red dot of a Lieutenant--stood and stretched. "I don't mind being chased off from that bloody swamp, and not being told where I'm going, but Vader take whoever decided we shouldn't even meet the leader for this little trip." Grunts and nods of sardonic agreement moved throughout the passenger/cargo bay. A khaki-wearing soldier with corporal's tabs nodded with the rest. "He's here with the rest of us; why won't he at least show up and say "Wargh!" Semi-amused laughter followed 'Corp' Dyne's statement.

"WARRGH! Wake up, you lot!"

The unit all lept from their jump seats to attention. Corp and Lieutenant Flick both went pale; though they rarely encountered problems in the NRSF, the traditional cry/call of stormtrooper officers was both pride and joke among the Imperial ranks. They looked blankly forward with the rest; no point in apologizing now.

The butt of their complaint looked over their ranks with a cynical half-smile. Dressed in the familiar khakis, Major Leo Chere of the New Republic Special Forces Command gave the two 'troublemakers' a very strange look with his ice-blue eyes. He spoke, an amazingly high tenor--Chere was a big man. "I'm keeping my eye on you two bums. And for the record: I wasn't back here because the High and Mighty refused to let me away from the comm for more than two minutes. Oh, and at ease, you lot!"

The commandos relaxed, except for the now-sweating Flick. "Sir!" he barked forward. That one word was all the apology he was going to be allowed to say.

And it was accepted. Leo put his hand on his XO's shoulder, the half-smile back. "Relax. We'll sweat the formal stuff when we get where we're goin'."

The lieutenant followed the friendly order with a relieved sigh; among the stormtroopers, men had been killed for less than a simple complaint. He decided to press his luck: "Where are we going, sir?" The major's smile grew.

"You lot are going to love it. It's this planet in the back of beyond, a ways from the Rishii Maze at the Rim. "Lots of water, lots of history, and one tiny piece of techno-wizardry."

"It's called Kamino."

Major Chere looked over his mongrel lot of ex-"stormies." They had a great deal of the iron discipline and indoctrination still ingrained from their stints as the fanatical soldiers of the New Order. Amazingly, these fanatics had seen the light in one way or another, and now they were the very Rebel Scum they had sought to eradicate in the old days. Some had been abandoned on deep-cover assignments, still more had been somehow captured and given a chance to see how the scum did things for themselves.

Only one of the assembled--read scrambled--team had actually left for themselves; Flick. A candidate for the Royal Guard, he had been on the verge of going through the finishing school and steep--deadly--indoctrination when Endor happened. His faith shattered, the former Sergeant deserted and went mercenary, until a a run-in with Page's commandos had given him a new chance for a cause.

Leo had a great deal of sympathy--he had a past of his own. He had been just another tech when the Alliance had managed to wreck the first Death Star. The massive scramble among the Imperial Navy had somehow landed him in the white armor; bureaucracy was an amazing thing. The real surprise was that he was good at it. The fake stormtrooper managed to distinguish himself on quite a few battlefields before the mistake caught up with him. Leo was ignominiously yanked from his billet and tossed back into the quiet life of a comptech again...for a few weeks. Then his doom appeared; Tech-Second Class Leo Chere had received a surprise visit...from Lord Vader.

The Sith Lord stared at the frightened falsehood as he quivered in his uniform, doing his best to die with some honor. The deep, mechanical wheeze filled the tiny workroom. Then his voice came: "You are the one who saved our forces on Kerpon? The one that was called...the Randomizer?"

Leo did his best to reply; it took four tries. "Y-yes, my lord."

"If this is so, why did you simply accept your fate? Why did you let yourself be returned to a life of drudgery, when you are clearly capable of far more?"

The tech/stormie did something that he would later decide was the bravest--most insane--act he'd ever done. He looked the Sith Lord straight in the blank photoreceptor. "I believe that those who serve humbly serve honorably." He immediately looked away and waited to die; one did not confront Vader and live.

The dark Jedi stared again at the doomed Chere for a very long moment, then spoke again. "That was well said, Chere. You will report to Imperial Center for your new posting. The New Order needs more warriors as willing to serve...Captain."

The Workhorse finally settled down with a mechanical sigh on the soaked, slick landing pad.

Leo patted the pilot's shoulder in a friendly way. "It was a long flight, but you space jockeys know your stuff. Thanks," the Major said.

The pilot nodded tiredly. "Thanks, Major. We try our best. Hope your hush-hush op goes alright."

They clasped hands briefly. Leo then let go, undoing his safety harness and rising from the jump seat. He had dressed in his familiar old stormtrooper armor sans helmet; the white carapace bore the square and three pips of a New Republic Major where old Imperial rectangles had been removed. A single pauldron--the left, had been painted silver, which was now chipped and scratched.

He collected the helmet from a bin overhead the rear of the cockpit. He marched to the cargo/passenger bay, his boot ringing on the metal deck.

"WAAARRGH! It's time to wake up and smell the caf, you lot!" he boomed.

The assembled 'stormies' snapped out of their webbing and into attention. Everyone was now wearing traditional armor again, each with a freshly painted left pauldron--silver, identical to Chere's. Each was holding their helmet crooked under their left arm. Not all the gear was standard issue, however. Three of the troopers, including Corporal Dyne, were wearing the suits of scout troopers, while Lieutenant Flick was wearing the flowing gear of a snowtrooper, though the NR rank insignia had been retained.

The engines sighed to quiescence as Leo looked over his small command. "Alright, you lot, it's time to go meet your new buddies; it's our job to get them up to speed on current events and get 'em ready for kicking some serious butt."

"Move out!"

The fuglemen of the Forty-Second Legion (offically the 1st Battalion of the New Republic Experimental Corps) marched out of the bay through the rear, down onto the rain-soaked pad, and into their new assignment:

The former 42nd Legion of the Grand Army of the Republic. A legion of clones.