Chapter 28

…

Line by line, they marched under the western sun. The sky was clear and a smoky green near the horizon. Jesse walked quickly in the middle of a shoulder-to-shoulder line of about thirty men, mixed ranks of 501st and 212th, with the same ahead and behind him. His upper arm was still bound to his chest beneath his injured shoulder, to keep it from moving too much or getting strained further during battle. He held his rifle awkwardly. The city was in view between the tall scraggly brush, an uneven triangle drawn from parallel vertical lines of metal and stone buildings.

"All clear behind us, Brin?" Bow called back from front ranks.

"About fifty clankers incoming at… seven o'clock."

"Stern here. My platoon will get them. Kaze's too."

"Ricky here. All clear from the walkers."

"That's two whole hours with only two hundred droids," Singer observed on Jesse's left.

"This is makin' me nervous," Jesse murmured in a sing-song. "It's too easy."

Singer laughed wearily. "We're all a little wound up from fighting so long. Just don't let yourself think about it."

Jesse looked down at the sandy soil being eaten up by his boots, the sprawling chains of half-dead ground cover, and tried not to think about reuniting with the generals and commanders.

"Well," Singer nudged him gently. "Now's as good a time as any to start thinking about that song you wanted to write. I think we should start from scratch."

Jesse's head jerked up. "Oh. Oh yeah. Uh…what should it be about?"

"I dunno. Didn't you say sometimes you just start putting down words before you even know where they're going?"

"Well… yeah, but," Jesse laughed nervously, "maybe it's different with songs, I mean, you have to fit it all to the right melody, and—"

"You should come up with the rhythm first!" A 212th trooper on Jesse's other side did a quick little dance step that turned him all the way around in line before he bumped into his neighbor and went back to limping forward.

The other trooper shoved him with the flat of his rifle. "Focus, Oliver," he groaned, sounding weary and resigned. "We're still in a warzone."

"Is it a sad song or a lively one?" Oliver asked, ignoring the grump. "Fast or slow?"

"I was thinking…." Singer paused a long moment, as the line carried them forward.

"Yeah, we can tell, sir," said someone, his voice overly grave.

"I was thinking," Singer went on quietly, "maybe a song to honor fallen brothers. Or the medics. Or the captain."

Avenger, who was on Singer's other, turned his head toward them suddenly.

Jesse felt a little sick. "We wouldn't be singing it where people could hear, though."

"Why not?" Singer asked. Then, in a more subdued voice, "maybe you're right. Maybe it wouldn't be good for morale."

"It's not that," Jesse said, but couldn't find the right words to elaborate.

"Ah." Singer nodded. "Still worried about sticking out too much after what the commander said?"

"Commander Appo?" Oliver asked.

Jesse swallowed. "Once we rendezvous with the generals, he might tell General Skywalker about all the… trouble he's been having with certain troopers." Meaning him. Avenger, too, and Rabbit. "I don't know why I didn't tell him where I was going. It… it was a stupid thing to do."

"I was surprised," Singer admitted, "but I'll talk to him. I think he was just worried. He didn't want to lose two more good soldiers without knowing why."

"He said he would decide what to do with me," Avenger muttered, "when he saw General Skywalker again. But… they've been back in contact for hours, and… I haven't heard anything yet."

Jesse was silent, trying and failing to find words for anything, any hint of a lyric or verse. He listened to the layered patter and drumming of all the footsteps around him instead.

"Creak, creak, creak," Singer sighed, referring to the groaning joints of the walkers ahead of them. "All the noise makes it hard to think of a good tune."

"Creak, creak, creak," Oliver chanted, "the walkers cross the creek! No water in the riverbed…." He paused, searching for a rhyme.

"It's time to take a leak!" someone called, and half the line groaned so loudly that Jesse heard Singer burst out laughing.

"Don't talk about that!"

"I've had to go for an hour!"

"Okay okay," Oliver laughed. "Sorry. Nothing about water."

"Not much of a tune, there," Singer mused. "All one note. Maybe if…." He hummed a bit, setting the rhythm to different ups and downs.

Jesse picked it up and tried tentatively, "Creak, creak, creak. The walkers cross the creek. No water in the riverbed… no wind to… cool my cheek." His everything was sweaty.

"No one around but troopers here to smell the troopers reek!" another laughed.

"Come on, Nico!" someone groaned. "Stop ruining the song!"

"No, no, it's fine," Singer laughed. "Let me see…." He cleared his throat and changed the rhythm.

Creak , creak, creak
We cross the creek
Only brothers hear brothers speak
The rockets scream
the geysers steam…

"Hmm," Singer stopped, muttering under his breath. "Weak… the droid army was weak…? On the peak?"

"The admiral glared down his beak," said someone dryly.

"You've got more of a beak than he does, Ice."

"I know I do, I see yours every day. But his face looks more like—"

"Uh, heh, how about we try a different start?" Singer interrupted with a forced laugh.

Suggestions burst from the ranks almost immediately, startling Jesse. He'd thought they were all too sore and sleep-deprived to care.

"Clank clank clank!"

"Thud thud thud!"

"Wait, wait, one last try for creak creak," laughed Oliver, and cleared his throat loudly, swaying a bit as he walked and marking rhythm with arcing arm movements even with both hands on his rifle.

Creak, creak, creak,
they cross the creek,
the troopers and the walkers.
Nobody care which armor they wear
or stow in each other's lockers!

Oliver finished with a lurching pirouette. Jesse laughed bitterly and heard at least a dozen others join in, wry mutters of "it's true" and "I tried marking the inside of mine so it won't get mixed up, but…."

The 212th men seemed a little bemused. Jesse realized Oliver probably had no idea about the standardization order. He glanced at Singer and heard him laughing a little as the song ran away from them, improvised verses rising up whole after several minutes of people shouting over one another.

Clank clank clank
the clankers clank!
There's tinnies up to my eyebrows
Tinnies in the rocks and tinnies in boxes—
tinnies sticking out like tree boughs!

"Tinnies what I eat and tinnies what I sleep and tinnies what I see when I close my eyes!" someone yowled.

"Why haven't we done this before?" Singer said. He sounded pleased.

Jesse sighed. "I dunno. Maybe because when we march this long, usually we have to try and keep the enemy from noticing us?"

"We can work on a more serious song later." Singer's voice softened and he clapped Jesse lightly on the back. "Don't worry, Jesse. We'll have plenty of time after we take the city."

"Yeah. As long as I'm not court-martialed," Jesse muttered.

"Come on … Appo's not going to court-martial you for one slip in judgment. No one got hurt. Taking out those sensors helped the battalion in the long run."

"Yeah. I… thanks, Singer," Jesse sighed, listening to the other men laughing and shouting rhyme suggestions at each other. "At least morale is up, although our numbers are… down."

"Definitely down," Singer agreed gently, looking around. The 212th men outnumbered them at least two to one. "But we're nearly there." The song continued from Jesse's right.

Shriek shriek shriek
The bombers streak
across the old volcano….

"Come on, Jesse!" someone yelled. "Finish the verse! You started this game, you can't drop out!"

Jesse laughed. It surprised him, the way it came all the way from his stomach. "Alright…." He squared his shoulders, thought for a moment on the move, then finished. "When the order comes round, to find high ground, then…" Jesse half-snorted, remembering the hellish scramble to get out of the airstrike zone, "who are we to say no?"

"Our fault, our fault!" some of the 212th men called laughingly.

"Commander Cody simply has the utmost faith in these battalions," someone else said in a grandiose voice.

"Help, help help, the troopers yelp! The Two-Twelfth's come to the rescue!"

The trooper who was responsible for that line dissolved into what could only be called giggles. His nearest brothers patted him tentatively on the back as he bent over for a moment to catch his breath.

"I, uh, think you need some sleep, Feather."

"W-what rhymes with… rescue?" Feather gasped between laughs.

"Nothing, don't even try it!"

Blaster fire started pinging from the back ranks and Jesse raised his voice. "Alright, alright, let's not die laughing."

"Better than a lot of other ways to die," Avenger said, and Jesse was amazed to hear a stifled chuckle in his voice too.

"Look at that," Singer said in an admiring tone pitched only for Jesse's ears. "You got Avenger to laugh. I'd say that's worth at least a promotion to sergeant."

Jesse couldn't think of a witty comeback for that, so he just breathed in gratefully.

"Twelve minutes," said Ricky over the comm, "until we reach the port's outer wall. Expect the clankers to be thick, and remember, there are civilians inside. Minimal structural damage advised. Mind your aim, gentlemen."

Steadily, the singing and laughing settled down. Jesse braced himself and felt safer, for just a moment, than he had in days.

…

In the back of the ranks, between shots at the sparse droids that made it past the AT-RTs, Kix heard the raucous singing, heard people calling for Jesse to go on; a pang of relief rose up through the haze of exhaustion he was fighting. He couldn't make out all the words Jesse sang, but it was enough to know some of the laughter might be his. At least someone was cheering him up.

"Oh, to be a medic," said Tucker, next to him. "I could think up a few verses of that song myself."

"Better not," Kix said mildly, and shot down another B-1.

"Yeah, scan scan scan the medics ran doesn't have quite the same ring."

"Didn't your instructors teach you songs to remember the steps of different treatments?" Early asked.

"Nothing with a tune," Kix shrugged, trying to keep his gait steady even as he scurried backwards. The droids were breaking ranks to try and join the ones in the front. "We just recited the steps until they stuck."

The song was stuck in his head forty minutes later as the heavy weapons fire from the front died down, and the back ranks finally made it through the bottleneck of the city entrance. It was a series of arched stone doorways topped with more ornamental arches further back, but only one of them had been forced open with tow cables and the force of AT-TEs. When Kix passed through into the dark alcove beyond, he listened for the screams of injured brothers and switched to night vision.

There was nothing but footsteps: eerie, quiet, hundreds of footsteps in the dark. He saw the milling forms of his brothers splitting off in four directions, moving around checkpoints, kiosks, and vending tables.

"Dash, you're with me," he murmured, veering left and leaving the rest of the medics to choose a direction.

The doors into the main part of the city were wrenched open. Out into the street, then, and Kix turned off night vision. It was shady and dim apart from the tops of the buildings catching the last light—covered porches and walkways edged nearly every shop front or office or apartment building, held up by duracrete pillars, some striped or sectioned in two or three earthy colors.

The streets were completely empty.

"Reminds me of the first time we took Ryloth," said a voice behind Kix. It was a 212th trooper. "Hopefully the droids haven't taken any civilians hostage this time."

"I hate fighting in cities," a 501st man sighed, tensely walking ahead of Kix with his gun raised to his eye. "Too many windows. I feel like they're all watchin' me."

"Shh."

Kix followed the rest of them through the streets, taking a covered walkway on the right. It was true—it was hard to see into any of the windows they passed. Many of them were shuttered too, but a droid could easily snipe at them between the slats. Kix just kept going, heart beating a little faster with each opening he passed.

The road turned left just as an explosion broke the silence ahead, and everyone near Kix flinched back into the shadows, away from the screams. Kix's visor view became a cross-stitch of red light as blasterfire flooded the street from second and third level buildings.

Kix pelted ahead anyway toward where the dust was clearing. "What happened?" He could see at least twenty troopers on the ground, most of them not moving. Kix stopped behind a pillar and aimed carefully—a flush of grim satisfaction went through his head and neck as two droids fell from their perches.

And then he was off running again, although his thoughts were slower, his limbs heavier than he liked. His head began to ache with the beat of his pulse and in the back of his mind, he realized he was thirsty. The thought was pushed back as soon as it occurred—he'd had a little water on the march, time to focus now.

He ran to the body closest and checked vitals. Gone—the blaster mark through his helmet explained that. The next, working outward, was dead too, and the third. Fourth, a 212th man, was covered in shrapnel wounds and Kix worked quickly to stop the bleeding, more explosions and screams from down the street driving into his head like nails.

He fell into a rhythm, barely speaking to the men except to check responsiveness, moving from one to the next and yelling for cover fire. Dead, alive, dead, dead, dying, minor concussion, second degree burns, internal blast wave damage. He dragged the ones he could move behind whatever cover was nearest and kept going.

"They improvised explosives," someone called back over the comm. "Don't go near any fuel drums or anything else that looks suspicious!"

Twenty minutes later, another 212th man panted in shallow, rapid gulps when Kix removed his helmet, although his distended chest barely moved. Kix's stomach twisted. In addition to the ugly bruising and cuts on the trooper's face, the shrapnel piercing his lungs was causing a build-up of fluids in his chest cavity.

"Hang on, hang on," Kix murmured as he pulled the needle and tubing from his medpack, cut the trooper's armor and undersuit away and steadied himself to insert the needle between his ribs.

After a tense moment, fluid began draining out the tube, and Kix gave the trooper a hypo to try and calm him—his inhalations were getting dangerously fast.

"Can you say something? What's your name, trooper?" The only identifying marks he could see were a set of three dot tattoos on each side of his jaw.

No response but panting. Kix taped the needle in place and pressed a breath mask to the trooper's face, trying to get him to meet his eyes. After a moment, he did.

"Good. Good, just slow it down." He pulled the trooper's hand up and arranged his fingers over the mask. "Hold that there. Someone's coming for you." Kix tapped his comm. "Tucker, I've got one of your men over here with tension pneumothorax from shrapnel in the lung. I've got him draining, starting pressure wraps now. No extractions yet. Sending coordinates."

"Copy that, I'll send West to get him."

"West is coming," Kix patted the trooper's hand over the mask once he was done binding up his torso and leg.

His eyes narrowed to slits as he stared back at Kix, his breath hitching.

"Just keep breathing."

Kix picked up his pack and rifle and moved to the next body in 501st colors. It was lying on its side, helmet cracked, fallen between a cracked pillar and the scorched remains of an IED that had been attached to a speeder bike. Kix checked vitals first—an erratic pulse, the entire frame rattling slightly in its armor. He pulled the helmet off, and was pulling off the trooper's torso armor before the tiny aurebesh letters under the eye registered in his mind.

"Singer," he said numbly.

Singer's sweaty face twitched, the muscles by his defocused eyes quivering. When Kix pulled the armor from his lower torso he convulsed with a prolonged choking noise and Kix's stomach threatened to follow. Every exhale was a barely audible wheeze as he fell onto his back. He locked eyes on Kix's face for a full second before they slid away.

"Singer! Singer, it's me, Kix." Kix felt along Singer's skull. Swelling; possible hairline fracture. "No. Hang on. Hang on. We're going to put you on the first flight out of here."

He felt along carefully; severely broken ribs, a hip fracture—Kix guessed a small laceration of the kidney. That could explain the convulsions. Intense pain rather than brain damage… he hoped. He gave Singer a heavy dose of painkillers and began removing the rest of his armor, starting with the bloodstained thigh-plates.

"Hang in there, hang in there," Kix whispered under his breath as he scanned for severe bleeding. "I've got it, Singer."

"G—" a gagging scream died behind Singer's teeth and his head jerked violently. Kix immediately grabbed his head with both hands to keep it from hitting the stone floor beneath it.

"No no, stop, it's okay! It's okay," Kix panted faintly, hunched protectively over Singer's face. He was dimly aware that his every nerve seemed to be vibrating. Singer subsided and Kix set his head down gently, fumbled in his pack. "Looks like… a lot of blunt trauma," he sighed unsteadily. "But I think you're gonna make it. Try to rest easy. I'll give you some fluids…lie as still as you can. We've got to keep the internal damage from getting any worse until you can get to surgery."

Kix took off the armor plate, cut open the arm of Singer's body glove and reached for the emergency IV. The lieutenant's tremors abruptly quieted as Kix inserted it under his skin.

"Painkillers kicking in?" Kix hoped.

Singer's eyes fluttered toward closing, staring dazedly at the sky.

"Can you say my name? Singer? It's Kix."

Singer's eyes closed. His head slumped and his chest stopped heaving.

"Hey." Kix lurched toward his face and took it in his hands. "Singer." He felt Singer's weakening pulse and turned his cheek to Singer's mouth to feel for breath, counting, willing the chestplate to rise, waiting for some whisper of air on his cheek or ear.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven….

"No… no, no, no, come back! Singer!" He let his voice go rough and angry. "Come back!" he ordered, tearing Singer's chestplate off. Kix cut Singer's chest free of the undersuit and hurriedly wiped the sweat away. The shock pads were in place on Singer's chest when Kix heard a rattling breath and felt a light touch on his right arm.

He stopped. Singer wasn't looking at him; his eyes were open, unfocused and far away. But his fingers grasped weakly for purchase on Kix's arm.

Kix took Singer's hand and laid it firmly on the ground before looking down at the display and waiting. The light switched to green; he pushed the button to administer the shock. Singer's body jerked once. Singer's hand lifted slightly, and fell. Kix opened Singer's airway, grabbed his hand and held his fingers firmly to the wrist while he laid his cheek over Singer's mouth again.

He felt a weak breath. Then one he might have imagined, nearly eight seconds later. He raised his head, locked his hands over Singer's sternum, and hesitated half a second, weighing the risks. Then he began pushing, counting under his breath. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…."

At thirty, Kix breathed into Singer's mouth, saw his chest rise twice. He kept pushing, trying not to think of broken ribs pressing into soft organs. There were no convulsions, no screams, just a small jerk of the entire body at one point. Nothing else. When Kix gave breaths a second, a third, a fourth time, Singer's chest rose, but there was nothing. Nothing, nothing but counting. Kix started to lose count and stopped a moment, staring at Singer's chest, arms and knees aching, head swimming.

For a long moment, it was nothing. Kix realized he wasn't breathing. He let it out—it was loud enough to startle him, and hurt on the way back in. He began pushing down again but looked at Singer's face, saw his open, empty eyes. His stomach caved upward into the empty space, his chest constricted, heaving. Kix sucked in lungfuls of air to push everything back down where it belonged. The defibrillator's light finally switched to go and Kix pushed the button automatically.

Singer breathed. Kix thought for a moment he'd imagined it. But then it came again, and faster, and Kix could feel it on his cheek when he leaned down.

"Singer," he breathed. "Singer, you're alive. You're alive." He repeated it under his breath as he looked around for someone to help him move the lieutenant, suddenly aware of the street exploding to pieces all around him.

…

Jesse carefully set the stretcher down on the floor of the emptied hangar. With the help of another trooper, he helped shift the 212th man off of it.

"Thanks," said the injured one with relief, wincing when the beams from Jesse's helmet crossed his face. The floor was covered in wounded soldiers, and the smell was only just manageable now that the heat of the day was fading.

It was dark. The city had fallen after a few hours of fighting, and the Jedi were off having talks with civilian leadership. The nearest medic was one Jesse didn't know; he looked up from arranging light gauze inside an open leg wound.

"I think that's about the last of 'em. Think you could monitor some of the wounded while we wait for the next evac?"

"I'll check in with my Lieutenant," said Jesse. "Have you seen Kix anywhere?"

"Yeah, a while ago… said he was gonna go get some water."

Jesse stepped carefully over and around the resting bodies, working a slow, winding path to the open door, where the remaining vehicles created a barrier. His knees were sore, his shoulder was burning, and he felt that whole-body exhaustion of a full day's march and battle, but it wasn't too bad. The city was theirs now, after all. Jesse turned off his head lamp and tapped his comm.

"Singer, this is Jesse, requesting permission to take first watch over the wounded."

A pause.

"Jesse, this is Commander Appo." The Commander's voice came solemnly through unusually clear in the quiet, as if he were standing next to Jesse. "Singer's out of commission. Meet me by walker fourteen. I need to speak with you privately."

Jesse stopped walking. The night went even quieter than before and he listened to his own breathing, the breathing of the nearest wounded. His face warmed a little and his fingertips felt like they belonged to someone else.

"Jesse? Do you copy?"

"Yes, sir," Jesse said quietly. "I'm coming."

He stuck one of his softer ration sticks in his mouth and walked, because he knew he needed to, and it was comforting to have something to do even if his stomach seemed nonexistant. The lump began to come apart as his teeth worried at it. Why hadn't he asked what the commander meant? Out of commission could mean injured. It could mean dead. Jesse realized he was afraid.

Appo was waiting in the darkness next to AT-TE 14, identifiable only by the fact that General Skywalker stood next to him, lit from beneath by a holomap in Appo's hand. Skywalker stepped away the moment he saw Jesse approaching. Jesse stopped a few meters short of Appo and saluted, but Skywalker walked past without a word.

"You wanted to see me, sir," Jesse said to Appo.

Appo shut off the holomap, nodded and also walked past Jesse, leading him around to the side facing outward, toward the long flat landing area. There were soldiers in the distance forming a perimeter, but none close enough now to hear.

"Sergeant Copper's still out of commission as well," Appo muttered without preamble. "It looks like Singer's platoon is going to need a lot of restructuring."

"Yes, sir," Jesse said, aware that his voice sounded dull. He found he couldn't muster any fear of reprisal. If Appo took issue with it, so be it. "Is Singer dead?"

"Not yet," Appo said. "But his injuries are severe enough that he'll be out of the action for at least four weeks. If he recovers."

Jesse swallowed and wasn't sure what to say. The relief was painful, like blood flowing again to a crushed limb.

Appo was silent for a moment and shifted his weight suddenly. "I thought you should know that General Skywalker and I have discussed the possibility of making you an ARC trooper."

Appo folded his arms, but Jesse just stared, not entirely registering the words. Then they sank in, but he had no idea what that had to do with Singer's injuries. And there was a definite but hanging on the end of Appo's sentence.

"Thank you, sir," Jesse said uncertainly when the silence went on too long.

Appo shifted again. "So you accept?"

"I have a choice?"

"You don't want to be promoted?"

Jesse took a quick breath. "Sir. I'm just… surprised you would promote someone who has been insubordinate recently."

Appo sighed faintly. "You're a good soldier, Jesse. Obviously your independent thinking would be better suited for service as an ARC trooper."

"Thank you, sir," Jesse said, feeling a little sick. "But if I do have a choice, I'd rather stay with the Five Oh First. It wasn't my intention to undermine the unity of the battalion. I'll stay in line from now on."

"I'm not trying to get rid of you!" Appo quickly calmed his own voice, curling a fist in front of his chest as if to check himself. "Jesse… you deserve this promotion. If I knew Singer wasn't going to recover, I'd make you a lieutenant right now. In fact…" Appo scratched his head. "I'm assigning you temporary command of Singer's platoon while he's injured. Think of it as a test run. You can make your decision after our next engagement."

Jesse hated the way his mind was looking between Appo's words, afraid of something left unsaid. "Aren't you worried this will send the wrong message to the other men, sir?"

"No. Singer was one of the few officers who worked under Rex and has managed to use that influence to hold the battalion together. The men trust him. And… they trust you, too. You have influence, Jesse, especially as a senior member who knew Rex well. I'm just trying to make sure you can serve the Republic freely. Maybe it'd be easier as an ARC trooper."

"I'm not…." Jesse began, telling himself to stop arguing and yet pushing ahead. "Sir… I don't have any command training, or…."

"I was just a sergeant," Appo said firmly. He laid a hand on his own chest. "We become what we have to be, when duty calls. That's what makes this battalion great. Isn't that what's been proven every time we've faced a hard battle?"

Jesse thought of Umbara, and wondered if Appo was thinking of that at all. "Yes, sir," he said wearily. "But I… I haven't exactly been a model trooper lately. Promoting me because I was close to Captain Rex—"

"That's not the only reason." Appo's face constricted into a deep grimace. Jesse could hear it in his voice and see it even in the dark. It was the most honest expression Appo had worn in weeks. "Jesse, you…. Doesn't the fact that you're being considered for ARC trooper tell you that? I'm just—!" Appo's shoulders pulled down, his voice forcibly smoothed. "I'm asking you to make a decision, trooper. If you want to stay…I won't force you to accept. The Republic could use you either way. We lost more troopers than I care to count on this campaign."

Jesse thought of Fives, the stories he'd told of working with other battalions, going on special ops missions, the challenge and thrill of working with soldiers who were constantly honing their skills to new situations and new gear. A deep pang of longing made his ribs ache.

He thought of Fives' letters, of Tup's condition, and especially of Kix, and he glanced over his shoulder; no sign of anyone else anywhere nearby. The only sound was a peripheral hum of speech and footsteps and the occasional hollow gust of wind between the unmoving walkers.

"Who found Singer?" Jesse asked.

"Kix called it in," Appo murmured.

Jesse let out a low breath. "I'll take temporary command of Singer's platoon, sir."

Appo nodded sharply—his posture seemed to relax. "I'll contact you with the new platoon configuration as soon as the casualty report's updated."

Jesse wasn't sure if he was dismissed. "I'll do my best."

"I know you will." Appo gripped his shoulder, but his face was turned down, and Jesse felt the ache in his ribs deepen as he saw the silhouette of Appo's chest rise and fall. He wasn't sure if he wanted to pull away or not. But then Appo turned quickly and walked off.

Jesse stood for a moment, unsure of where to go. "Kix… this is Jesse," he tried over the comm, but there was no answer. Jesse smelled the desert night and reminded himself that it was late. Kix had gone to get water, the medic had said. Jesse knew he needed water too, so he headed for walker nine. He left his helmet tucked under his arm. Maybe Kix would spot him first.

A few troopers passed him as he approached the laughing crowds of brothers hydrating up, daring each other to see who could guzzle faster.

"Hey, Jesse!" someone called and waved. The crowd reshuffled and other brothers lifted hands as well. When Jesse got a little closer he saw who it was.

"Patch," he said. "Have you seen Kix anywhere?"

"Oh, the medic, right? Which one is he?"

Jesse put a hand slowly to his forehead and sighed. "The one with—"

"Aw, don't get mad at the rookie, it's harder now that we all look the same." Rabbit limped over, clutching a water pack.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Rabbit, Jacky told you to stay off the leg!" someone yelled from the left.

"I'm gonna tell him!" someone else threatened with audible delight. "He's gonna knock you out!"

"Fine!" Rabbit grunted indignantly and sat down on the spot with a repressed groan, loudly sucking water from the pack.

"Kix is over that way, Jesse," said a brother as he pressed a couple water packs into Jesse's hands.

"Thanks." Jesse didn't stay to try to figure out who had spoken. He followed the trooper's pointing toward a patch of uneven color in the blue and brown night. As he walked, he tried to drink. The water kept threatening to go down his windpipe instead, but he managed to finish half of it before finally putting his helmet on and switching to night vision. Part of the blob ahead was definitely a soldier leaning against some crates. All around him the wounded were arranged in rows.

Kix was slumped with his head on his chest, knees drawn loosely toward him, one arm propped on his pack, the other draped across his stomach and curled in a fist around a detached communicator. His unfinished water leaned against his leg.

Jesse sat down in the narrow space of open ground next to where Kix's helmet rested, and set his own beside it.

"Kix," he said softly. Normally, that was all it took to wake him.

"Kix," he said again, and touched his shoulder. With his nearer arm bound up, it was a stiff, awkward movement.

Kix jumped. "Yes s—what—?"

"It's Jesse."

"Jesse," Kix sighed with relief.

Guilt held him back for a moment before the hollow wind made him feel too alone.

"I just talked to Commander Appo."

"Oh…." Kix sounded bleary. Jesse couldn't make out the expression on his face, but he thought Kix was looking at him.

It took him a few seconds to say it. "I heard… about Singer. Do you think he'll recover?"

"I'm not sure," Kix said, and placed his hand gently on the bare chest of the trooper lying next to him. Jesse shifted.

"Is that him?"

Kix nodded. "He hasn't said a word since I brought him back. I'm not sure if he has brain damage or if he's just too deep in shock. He's got internal bleeding from a punctured kidney… I'm trying to monitor his blood pressure and fluids to make sure…."

That hollow breeze had gotten into Jesse's chest somehow. "We must have gotten separated," Jesse mumbled. "During the last push. I thought he was right there with me the whole time… and then I started pulling in the wounded and… I didn't think to check where he was… I thought he was doing the same thing."

Kix didn't say anything. Jesse breathed out carefully, and shoved their helmets roughly aside so he could sit closer to both of them and hear Singer breathing too.

"Sorry," Kix mumbled as Jesse shifted next to him. He put a hand to his own head.

"What for?" Jesse folded his arms as tightly as he comfortably could in armor, and with his shoulder bound—not much. He wasn't actually cold, he realized. He shivered a little anyway.

"I'm listening," Kix said. "I just… I'm…dizzy."

"Dehydrated?"

Kix didn't say anything. Jesse waited, until Kix's head lolled sideways.

"Kix!" Jesse nudged him. "What's wrong?"

Kix grunted softly and lifted his head. "No. I have to stay awake…."

Jesse sat up a little straighter. "Did you take something?"

"Nn." Kix rubbed at his forehead. "I don't think so… no sedatives, but… drowsiness isn't supposed to be this severe…."

"From what?"

Kix pulled his knees closer and shifted to prop his elbows on them, his head in his hands. He sighed deeply.

"Kix…" Jesse's heart sank. He wanted to say something about Singer, about what Appo had said, but Kix was tired. He put a hand on Kix's back, and all he could feel was the square edges of his armor. "I guess I'm Singer's replacement, now."

"What?"

"Appo just temporarily promoted me to lieutenant." Jesse thought about telling Kix why he wanted to stay. But instead he forced a soft laugh and said, "He said he wants to make me an ARC trooper."

"ARC trooper?" Kix took a long breath, let it out. He rapped his fingertips weakly on Jesse's leg plate. "That was a long time coming."

"I won't do it if Singer recovers," Jesse mumbled.

"Why not?"

Jesse swallowed again. Kix's hand stayed resting just above his knee, and he felt Kix's body shift beside him and knew he was drifting off.

He sighed and put his free hand lightly over Kix's, not sure what to do. Kix jerked.

"Shouldn't have taken that," Kix half-whispered. "I'm fine."

"Kix. Taken what?" Jesse realized too late that his voice sounded pleading.

"Are you okay?" Kix's voice came clearer suddenly as he raised his head. "Jesse?"

"I'll be… fine." Jesse took a deep breath. "I'm…." He waited for words to come, but they wouldn't. He could hear the others talking, the uneven loud-quiet-loud of after-battle conversation, cheers followed by dismayed voices and silences broken by sudden murmurs and reluctant laughter. Relief and adrenaline and loss and exhaustion all together. That was the sound of it, and he tried to find comfort in that. But Appo's words stuck in his mind like something important he'd forgotten to do.

Kix's breath hitched. A frustrated noise. "It's never done this before."

"What's never done this before?" Jesse asked worriedly.

"The antiemetic. I took some before the battle and I took another dose when… but it should have been out of my system by then… I've never been this tired from it before…."

"It makes you drowsy?" Jesse grimaced. "Kix… on the battlefield?"

"It's not that bad," Kix said faintly. "Most of the time."

Jesse twisted and took Kix's head with his good hand, pulling him down toward his lap.

"Jesse—!"

"You need some real sleep."

"I can't, I have to—" Kix pulled away and Jesse let him go. "I have to stay alert."

"I'll wake you up if there's an emergency. I'll take care of it." Jesse focused on the stubborn feeling rising in him and hoped that would be enough to teach him how to be what he had to be. He shoved a water pack at Kix. "Come on, Kix. It's like you're always saying. You're no good to anyone if you don't give yourself time to recover."

"Jesse, I'm not wounded," Kix laughed, but he took a water.

Jesse swallowed hard and forced a positive note as he pulled Kix's arm over his shoulders. "Maybe not, but… doesn't mean you don't need someone to watch over you too. Especially if that medicine is doing this. Just… pretend I took you home from Seventy-Nines. Like old times."

"I think you've got this backwards." Kix didn't pull his arm away. "I've always had to take you home from Seventy-Nines. Sometimes Hardcase too."

"Hardcase took us both back once, remember that?" Jesse said it in a rush, and clamped his mouth shut.

"Oh yeah…" Kix laughed again, under his breath this time. "I think half the time he seemed drunk, he was just playing it up to make the rest of us laugh."

"Yeah," Jesse wanted to say, but he didn't trust himself to open his mouth. Instead, he focused on the solid feeling of Kix's arm on his shoulders and the sound of Singer's shallow, open-mouthed breathing in front of them.

Kix slumped against him after a moment, head falling gently against his, and Jesse felt his limp weight, his chest moving, and wondered whether to wake him. But soon enough Kix jerked awake on his own with a frustrated noise.

"It's okay," Jesse said quietly. "Just tell me what to do and sleep it off."

"There's another… IV…" Kix twisted and pulled it out of his medpack, along with a few hypos. "Put half of each of these in when you refill it. Or just wake me up when it starts to get low. Or when the evacuation team gets here. Keep an eye on his blood pressure. If it… or his pulse or breathing changes much…."

"I'll wake you up," Jesse promised, and removed his leg plates so Kix could rest his head in his lap. They settled into place, Jesse with his blaster in easy reach. The band of stars he could see through the open hangar doors was dense but hazy. Jesse squinted for a long time before he was reassured it wasn't just his eyes.

"Did you finish your water?" he asked when the breeze on his neck made him shiver. He looked down.

Kix breaths were even and shallow, his hands folded on his chest. The communicator was gone, probably in a belt pouch. Jesse wondered if Kix had taken it off Singer, then remembered that Appo had answered the comm. He shivered again and, like when they were small, wanted to reach out and feel Kix's heartbeat, but the armor was there in the way.

He let his hand rest on Kix's chest anyway, and realized he could feel him breathing, just faintly on his fingers. Jesse blinked rapidly at the vague grey-on-black shape of his sleeping face in the darkness, and the ache in his ribs went up through his spine and shoulder, into his jaw.

"Don't worry," Jesse whispered to himself.

Kix kept breathing, and Singer too, and Jesse laid a hand gently on Singer's chest as well. He stayed awake, breathing with them and trying to imagine the end of the war.

…

The data pad was too light in his hands. On the screen, it was all numbers, but looking at it, Cody saw nothing but names. Cratt. Dev. Sati. Keen. Bok. Viper. Whim. Acher. Herbie. Fidget. Sheek. Gil.

"Judging by your expression, I think you might be reading the same thing I just had a look at."

General Kenobi's voice made Cody's head jerk up and he blinked a few times, remembering where he was. It was a rectangular, benched table outside of the port's main terminal. Both moons were out now, so it was easy for a moment to read Kenobi's face as he took a seat across from him, hands clasped loosely in front of his mouth.

"Sir. Just trying to decide how to patch up the holes in our forces."

"Mm. I hear Captain Gil's condition is serious." The General's voice was soft. "And I noticed the names of a few troopers who were with you on Coruscant as well. I suppose that couldn't be entirely prevented…."

Cody nodded and turned off the pad. "Cratt's gone. Lan caught shrapnel and a cracked hip… Ghost got taken for surgery on his chest and his face is… half torn up."

"How's Puzzler?"

"The medics are trying to make sure he stays hydrated and gets some rest. He was in the walkers for three days, just couldn't focus on the march."

"When I was talking to Tucker, Star was having his arm set in a cast and wouldn't stop chatting about ration assignments," Kenobi smiled sadly. "I'll miss Viper's spirit. He reminded me of… well."

He didn't say any more for several minutes, and Cody listened to the night wind, startled at the way Kenobi named his brothers like they were his own. He picked up the pad and set it back down, confused by how unnatural the motion felt.

"Captain Gil sent me a message," Cody finally said, just as Kenobi began to speak.

"I've noticed a set of troopers waiting to be—oh?"

"Waiting to be what, sir?"

"Waiting to be shipped to Kamino. What was Captain Gil's message?"

"His crush wounds are more severe than we thought. He's not expected to recover. Not enough to be battle worthy. He wanted to apologize to me and say goodbye. He also gave me a date for when he's to be euthanized."

"Euthanized?" Kenobi's leaned forward, his voice going hushed. "You're saying his wounds aren't treatable at all? I find that hard to believe."

"The damaged organs would need transplants and a long recovery time… he might need prosthetic limbs." Cody shook his head. "I don't know the specifics, but recovery would be costly. And painful."

Kenobi's whisper was distressed. "But he's your captain."

Cody hesitated. "None of us expect the Republic to focus on one of us to the detriment of the war effort. We can't endanger our brothers by demanding—"

"I don't think I've heard any of you demand anything," Kenobi said, one hand curling into a fist near his mouth. "Ever."

"Sir… those men who are to be sent to Kamino... I'm sure you know specialized medical treatment probably means something completely different. But they might not know that." Cody stopped, not sure what he meant to say. Would telling them be a cruelty or a kindness? His elbows rested on the table, hands cupped loosely inside one another.

"Oh, I'm afraid their departure will have to be delayed," Kenobi said slyly. "You see, we simply cannot get any medical ships through the naval battle. They'll have to be treated on our star destroyers for as long as we're holding the siege in place."

Cody felt his forehead creasing. "And then?"

"I'll have to come up with some other excuse. Or refuse to send them."

"Is that right, sir?" Cody felt that sudden pain in his stomach and wondered distantly if he should have West check him again. "From a practical point of view, letting those men go could free up resources for the men who can still fight."

The general folded his arms and stared at him for a long moment. With his back to the moons, his face was only half-lit, and Cody couldn't quite make out his expression. But when he spoke, his voice was heavy. "I suppose we should give them the choice. But surely you would prefer that they live?"

"I don't know, sir," Cody murmured.

Obi-Wan leaned forward suddenly across the table, head tilted. "You don't know? You must feel something about this. I imagine you feel quite strongly, at least about the last few days, working so closely with Commander Appo."

"I… don't feel much of anything right now, sir," Cody said honestly. "Except… maybe a little confused about why that is." He rubbed his cupped hands together and tried to convince himself they were part of his body.

"You mean about Captain Gil and the other men? It's only natural that you feel differently about their loss than about Captain Rex. He was your closest friend."

A faint twinge of pain in his stomach again. Cody heard himself mumbling. "It's not fair to the rest of my brothers. It's not natural—we're meant to expect the loss. It's what we were made to weather. We all want to live… to keep fighting. None of us should give special treatment to our favorites. Gil is an excellent captain…."

"Cody…." Kenobi's voice took on an urgent tone. "I think you need more rest. You look like a ghost."

"Feel like one too," Cody said. It didn't come out as funny as he'd hoped. "It's just the moonlight, sir. It makes everything a little unreal."

"Well… you don't seem to be in much pain," Kenobi admitted reluctantly. "Maybe it's just exhaustion."

Cody nodded numbly, but couldn't seem to move. Long seconds passed where Kenobi didn't move either, until he almost seemed like a statue or a hologram. Even the intermittent pressure of the wind on Cody's neck and cheeks felt surreal, one shade below lukewarm.

"I've sent so many men back to Kamino." Words finally came out of the fog in Cody's mind, toneless. "Even though I know what that means now… suffering unrecoverable wounds, sacrifice is expected. I wonder if Rex died like this… if I would be alright with that. If it was just a matter of being unrecoverable."

The white-and-grey form of the general swayed and exhaled suddenly. "We will save Gil somehow."

"If that's what you think is right, sir," Cody said.

"I won't let…." Kenobi cleared his throat, made a hesitant noise. "Never mind. That's not the point, is it? Maybe it is harder because of the confusion and blame surrounding Rex's death. I would certainly find it more difficult to lose Anakin to some apparent betrayal where his loyalty was in question than a simple blaster shot to the heart. But as I said, I think the real betrayal here is the way high command… sees you and your brothers."

Cody finally felt something then, a warm flush of confusion from his head down into his arms and stomach, and he wanted to lay his head down on his hands. But he just stared at them, marveling at how helplessly sad and exhausted he felt. He imagined himself crying out like a wounded man, and sat still, trying not to blink—he could feel the corners of his eyes getting damp and cold.

It's how we're made. It's how we're made. Say it. Cody waited for his body to obey the command. "We're soldiers," he finally managed. "We're clones."

"Yes," Kenobi said softly. "You are… the most selfless and courageous humans I've ever known. It's been a long battle. It has been a long war. You deserve more than to be treated like tools."

Serving something greater than ourselves is what really makes our lives valuable. Cody couldn't say it. Not because it wasn't true. He swallowed. Isn't that true for the Jedi, sir? His mind carried on the conversation his voice couldn't. Of course, Kenobi said. But….

"You're exhausted." Kenobi's hand was on his shoulder; he felt startled, but his body didn't move. Kenobi was next to him, behind him now, taking him by both shoulders. "The restructuring can wait until morning."

"Yes, sir," Cody said, and finally his body moved. He pushed himself up from the table. His legs worked, he kept his balance. Of course he did. He had been just fine all day, all week. Battle fatigue can hit you all at once, his mind said. It's because you were sitting still for too long. But when he found himself lying down among his brothers, he didn't fall asleep for a long time, just staring up at the stars, lost in his own armor.

…