The hunt had gone well. Colonel Chere hadn't bagged anything himself, but he frankly admitted to his officers that charging around the woods in an old BARC speeder Quartermaster Quinn had scrounged was plenty fun.

Not too surprisingly, the scout troopers and the ARCs had managed to do the best. They had brought down several some sort of bear-like mammal that the base personnel had dubbed yogi for some obscure reason. While even Leo, who had been in all sorts of fancy eateries over the years, knew it wasn't the best meat ever, the very fact that Forty-Second troops had done all the work made it uniquely enjoyable. Raines had commented that it beat 'those damned glop-packs' hands-down. The colonel agreed. He hated jellied Jawa or whatever space rations were in real life.

Troopers, clad in their armor sans helmet, lounged, stood, or sat around the 'base camp,' munching on various outdoors dishes and swilling Quinn's special surprise, a major amount of lum he had somehow squeezed from the New Republic's underground network of supply officers. It had been a while since Leo had seen clones get drunk; some the ARC's had engaged in a contest with some of the more reckless ex-stormies. It had already went from friendly rivalry to an epic duel of suds and song.

On the ARC's had dropped out early, his scarred countenance crinkled in sozzled mirth. He stood there, his armor moving in quake-like motions with his laughter. "Ha, we're ARCs. HahahahahaARCARCARCARCARC! Aaaaaaarrrrcccccks!" A slightly less tipsy Dyne was laughing along, his own carapace bobbing.

The colonel simply watched and laughed. He didn't drink himself; less teetotalism than a perfect knowledge of his conduct under the influence. He wouldn't forget that tapcaf. Besides, he was enjoying his own surprise: the ARC's had given him a set of their unique armor, pauldron and kama included. It had to be a custom job; the gear fit perfectly, and Chere knew very well that he wasn't the same dimensions as a Jango clone. Why the ARC's, with their independent streak and quiet sense of elitism, had given him the suit was beyond him.

Raines looked at the colonel with a cynical grin. "Having fun with you new toys, sir?" he asked. Leo opened his mouth, a wisecrack ready to go--

"SIR! There's a ORD-ACT coming in from the base. It's labeled Null!" the lone comm specialist boomed. He wasn't drinking, either; he had volunteered to keep a channel open to the base in case of emergency. The colonel immediately slapped his wristcomm in the sudden silence.

"This is Forty-Two-Oh-One. Go ahead."

"Colonel, we've just received orders for your immediate deployment. It's labeled Priority Null. Get your stormies together. Out."

"Understood, Commodore!" Leo slapped his comm again. "YARRGH! Dry out, suit up, and form up! STAT!"

The Forty-Second dropped their revelry and scrambled into action. Sober-up pills fell in mouths and helmets were collected as the troopers moved into a scratch formation. Priority Null was something no soldier ever wanted to hear.

It meant at or near-disaster so great that anybody that couldn't immediately deploy at the trouble spot may as well stay put. And that anybody that could get there had better be ready for soldier's worst nightmare:

That even victory could mean failure.

x x x

He lounged in his seat in front of the tactical screen. He had planned well.

Even before now, he had been a great planner. He had taken a collection of misfit troopers and forged them into the equal of any Legion ever made for the Empire. Of course, he had needed help; that was part of good planning, allowing for help. Lord Vader himself had taken his list of candidates and had taken time from his studies and errands for the Emperor—at the behest of Palpatine himself!--to test and collect the needed few.

The needed few...Mikel, Nisa, Fane, Relm, Chere, a dozen others. A collection of warriors fit to lead armies for their Emperor.

But plans and help only went so far. The fruit of his plan had come far too late; a year earlier and his Legion could have given glory and honor to be heard forevermore.

Major Mikel, killed by Rebel butchers at Reyal. Commander Nisa, lost to a rogue Jedi at Peraline. Colonel Fane, tortured into insanity by the same Jedi. The seated man had killed the poor Fane himself, a soldier's last mercy. Commander Relm, missing and now presumed dead during the firestorm that had claimed the Legion. Commander Chere...

General Chere! The seated man's fists balled. He had placed the false warrior on his list for his talent to be more real than authentic articles. Chere had proven himself so well that he had plowed through the ranks from a mere captain to the seated man's executive officer, his greatest student, his heir apparent, his best friend...

to a black traitor. When the Emperor had decided that the seated man had outlived his usefulness, he had ordered himself and then-Commander Chere to his court. The Sith Lord had ordered the trooper officers to shoot themselves. He did not. Chere did; that was loyalty. But the blaster had been deactivated. Their lord had been testing them. He dismissed and cashiered the seated man and put Chere in his place as General of the Forty-Second Imperial Legion. His Legion!

Even then, Leo tried to outmaneuver the New Order. He had located the seated man and offered to give him an false identity as his aide. Offered to make himself a figurehead and mouthpiece for the seated man's orders. The seated man was still shocked at his protege's audacity. Leo was where he belonged; why would he throw it away for misguided loyalty to one man! The seated man was so shocked by the twisted generosity, bordering on treason, that he eventually engineered Chere's downfall. But there was the seated man's ironic crime. The subtle pushing of both Rebel and Imperial military might had resulted in the destruction of his beloved Forty-Second. Even more, Chere himself had survived, captured by the Rebels. The seated man did not put it past Chere to have arranged his own capture.

The Rebel's somehow twisted Chere into their way of thinking. It had not taken much. Chere was a rare man of conscience, who had quietly questioned the necessity of some the Legion's missions, even as he had carried them out. He had exchanged his loyalty for...

For what? The Rebels made him a mere captain again, putting the traitor in charge of a handful of other traitors.