Author's Notes: First off, let me apologize for my long absence from in general, and for not updating this story recently, in particular. As I'm sure you can guess, Navy life is busy, and things rarely go as planned. My personal life and my writing time are no exception. However, COC is very much alive, and I have every intention of finishing it as soon as possible. In fact, with this, the 8th chapter, I've suddenly realized that I am a lot closer to finishing this story than I had thought not so long ago. A story's plot is always changing until you put it down on paper, and there were a lot of things I had originally planned for COC that have not been realized, and that is probably a good thing in the end. I can't say when Chapter 9 will come along, but I'm already planning for it, and will get it up as soon as I can. Thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading! Enjoy.

Status Change:

Delta Squad moved almost mechanically through the trees, still fluid and professional, nearly impossible to spot, but their minds weren't on their maneuvers. The shock of the order they'd just been given, and all of the horrific possibilities that order could lead to, had numbed them, reducing them to little more than automatons that moved to obey out of instinct.

3-8 didn't like it. Even as he knew he was going to carry out the order, he didn't like it. There was something wrong here, something that didn't feel right. Every clone had been programmed as soldiers, and any good soldier had instincts. And right now, his instincts were telling him that the variables in this equation didn't add up.

It didn't seem possible that the Jedi could be attempting to overthrow Chancellor Palpatine. By doing so, they were making an attack on the very Republic they'd spent a millennia defending and protecting with their lives. He'd had dealings with various Jedi off and on for his entire life, short though it had been. He knew that there were things they kept to themselves, secrets of the sort that all beings of power didn't speak about. The Jedi were no different. While they were careful not to treat non-Force users as lesser beings, he was aware that they made the distinction, if only subconsciously. He saw it in their eyes, read it in their body language. But never had he detected the sort of subterfuge that would be required in order to keep something of this magnitude hidden. He wasn't the best judge of people, especially Jedi, but still… someone would have caught on. Wouldn't they?

And why now? Why chose the middle of a galactic war to launch their coup? Wars bred confusion, and confusion created opportunity, but acting now guaranteed the Jedi they would have at least two enemies to face: the Republic and the Separatists, rather than just the Republic itself, had they waited until the war was over. Or had they planned that the clone army would come to their side? It was rumored that the creation of the army had been ordered by a Jedi Master, but if that was what the Jedi had planned all along, Palpatine had beaten them to the draw. The clones had been programmed and raised to be loyal to the leader of the Republic, and right now, he was that leader.

It was clear where 3-8's loyalties had to lie, but the rest of it didn't make sense, and it bothered him. So much so, he realized blatantly, that he was allowing himself to be distracted from the task at hand. Silently berating himself, he brought his DC-17M up and started sweeping an arc of the forest ahead of him.

There were still no signs of life in front of them as they neared the southeastern edge of the battlefield, and the tower where Master Yoda was. That wasn't right. They were close enough to the command post that someone should have challenged them. They couldn't see the base of the tree anymore, or the soldiers that were stationed there – it was hidden by the trees and undergrowth as they descended out of the forest toward the lake – but the sentries should have seen Delta Squad's approach and sent a fire team out to get a visual on them just to be sure they were really who their transponders said they were. But there was no one.

"I don't like this." Scorch's voice broke into 3-8's thoughts just as he was about to say the same thing. "We should have seen someone by now."

"Think the command post got hit?" Fixer asked, and 3-8 was momentarily shocked to hear the hopeful tone of his voice.

But then he understood why that outcome would be preferable. There could only be one other explanation for the silence that greeted their rapid approach.

Moments later, as they burst out of the trees into the clearing that surrounded the command post and the massive tree-tower, their worst suspicions were confirmed.

Master Yoda, it seemed, was not as frail as he looked.

Troopers were everywhere, lying in twisted heaps of weapons, limbs, and armor. Some of the bodies were minus arms or legs, or heads, or even their other halves. Neatly sliced carbines still glowed red around their cut edges, armor still smoldered and smoked, and the acrid stench of concentrated blaster fire still hung in the air. Whatever else he was, Master Yoda was quick, and thorough. Of the two dozen clone soldiers that had manned this post, none were alive. They hadn't even slowed him down.

"Boss," Fixer said grimly over their helmet comms. "The Wookies helped him." He was standing over the body of a fallen trooper, sifting through fragments of shattered armor scattered on the ground nearby with the toe of his boot.

3-8 moved over for a closer look. 4-0 was right. Lightsabers left perfectly circular puncture marks or clean cuts. Even heavy blaster carbines didn't cause the damage suffered by at least half a dozen of the fallen soldiers. Only explosive quarrels from bowcasters could wreak this kind of destruction.

That only brought more questions, he realized. Were the Wookies in on the coup attempt with the Jedi? That didn't seem possible. They were fierce warriors, but they were not mindless primitives who did just anything they were told. They had fought valiantly alongside the clones on several occasions – and not only here on their home world – well aware of what could happen to them should the Separatists win the war. So if they had put so much effort into the Republic, why would they risk it all by throwing in their lot with the traitorous Jedi? It was more likely they were deceived. Or perhaps Yoda had taken control of the minds of some nearby Wookies, and made them help him escape. Too many questions, and no answers to be found, not here.

He shook himself and glanced at his HUD. As he'd expected, the green maker assigned to Master Yoda's location still indicated he was in the tree-tower. "No sense in going up there now," he voiced his thoughts aloud. "He's not there. He'll be trying to make a getaway. He caught these soldiers by surprise. The next ones will be ready. He knows he can't take all of us on."

"Where would he be trying to go?" Scorch mused.

"Off world," 3-8 supplied. "The whole planet's turning into a giant garrison for Republic forces. He'll be trying to get off Kashyyk as soon as possible. We need to figure out how he plans to do that before he leaves the surface."

"He won't try to use any of our staging areas," Fixer put in. "Too many troopers, even for him."

"He'll use a Wookie ship," Scorch said, continuing their collective train of thought. "He already got some of them to help him. He'll get a ship from them too. Our forces in orbit might not even stop to search it, thinking it still belongs to the Wookies. He'll slip right through our grasp."

"We need to move out," 3-8 finished firmly, feeling the same sense of urgency that his companions felt. "Now."

"Which way?" Fixer queried.

3-8 glanced around quickly, and found what he was looking for. The body of a clone trooper, separated a bit from the rest, further to the south, away from the lake and the battle that was still raging on and around it. The hapless soldier had to have known he was outmatched, but he'd moved to intercept the fleeing Jedi Master and his Wookie cohorts anyway. At least his death had been quick; he'd probably never realized that his head had been separated from his shoulders, had probably been dead before the lightsaber had even finished its cut. Regardless, his death had not been in vain. His ill-fated courage had given Delta Squad all it needed to continue the hunt.

"South," 3-8 commanded without hesitation. "They went south."

They immediately fell into the formation they often used for heavily wooded wilderness areas, a slightly spread "v", and started south at a near jog. They kept their carbines up and ready, senses alert for any sign of Master Yoda or any ambushes he might have left behind for pursuers. But 3-8 had the sinking feeling that they were already too late. The Jedi was small and nimble, and his Wookie companions were intimately familiar with these forests; they were experts at concealing their trail. They could be anywhere by now. How were they –

"Got something on motion sensors!" Fixer exclaimed quietly but urgently. "Two points to our right, looked like it was headed south." He hissed in frustration. "I can't get a good read on it. Too much interference from all this plant life."

But then 3-8 caught a flicker on his own motion sensors. It was only there for a moment, but the image in his HUD was burned in his memory. Three red dots, headed south. Two of them were bigger than the third, which was leading the way. "That's them," he said confidently. "We're only a few hundred meters behind them!"

They shifted to match their prey's course, and sped up, now certain that they were going in the right direction. The commandos gained steadily – their rigorous physical training had prepared them well for just such a purpose – but nevertheless, it would be several minutes before they could get a clean shot at their target.

And is that even what we want? 3-8 wondered. A clean shot at him? There's no such thing as a "clean shot" at a Jedi, is there? We'll have to figure something else out. Explosives might do the trick. Lots of them. All at once.

But then suddenly, the red dots appeared on his HUD's motion sensor readout again, and they weren't moving anymore. They were right in front of them, less than fifty meters away. He held up a fist and slid to a halt; Fixer and Scorch stopped in their tracks, taking up positions behind massive worshyr trunks, carbines aimed south.

"They've stopped," 3-8 explained. "They're right ahead of us."

"I've got something else," Scorch added. "It could be a ship, but it's small. I doubt our forces in orbit would even see it."

"If we're going to stop him, it has to be now," Fixer said. "We can't let him get off the ground."

3-8 wished they had more time to plan, more time to come up with a strategy that would give them the best chance of success. But he wasn't sure that you could have a good chance of success against a Jedi, and there wasn't time anyway. "Right, Fixer, Scorch, ready some thermal detonators. When we get a visual, toss them. While he's busy getting clear of them, I'll take him down with my carbine." Even as he gave them the orders, he was reconfiguring his DC-17M for sniper mode. "We'll only have one chance at this, and our timing will have to be perfect." He glanced at his two companions. "This is it. Ready?"

They nodded wordlessly.

"Then let's go."

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