Or You Can Do What You Are Told

I've seen your heads hiding 'neath blankets of fear,
When the paths they are plain and the choices are clear,
But with each passing day, boys, the cost is more dear,
For these are the days of decision.

'Days of Decision' - Phil Ochs

CT-26-1409 slid himself into the training module, in perfect synch with his brothers.

He slipped on the helmet resting on the console, the visor covering his eyes and resting somewhat uncomfortably on the bridge of his nose. It pressed too hard. The helmet felt too big, and he reached up to balance it while groping for the gun that was set beside the helmet. He slipped little fingers onto the trigger, and aimed it blindly at the transparasteel screen in front of him.

There was a whirr, and a gruff voice announced, "Begin exercise."

The world behind the visor burst into colorful, virtual life. He looked down at his hands, which were filled with a detailed, if vaguely cartoonish DC-15, not the plastic, white toy actually in his hands. He bent forward. Brothers winged out to his right. He was in the leftmost module. He hurried to keep up. The vee-formation became more of a ragged huddle as they surged forward, then broke into two smaller groups, ducking behind a break in the terrain and a busted up AT-TE walker as red blaster bolts erupted into a shower overhead.

CT-26-1409 lay down cover fire as CT-26-1405 and CT-26-1410 edged forward and tried to find a breach in the artificially created droid defenses. He concentrated his fire and aimed carefully, though it was only the second shot that hit the biggest droid in the head, sending it shooting sparks out of its neck. It keeled over with a thud then poofed out of existence.

Two more were taken down; the squad rushed forward into the gap, firing as they went. Gray droids vanished as they worked their way though. They had to get to the extraction point at the end of the exercise. That was the goal. The terrain changed; the plains gave way to woods, and they took to darting between and behind trees.

CT-26-1409 was determined not to be afraid. He knew what was coming. He could hear it at night, when they curled up into their bunks. He would pull a blanket over his head, tightly, to try to block out the sounds. He preferred the quiet. The quiet classes of testing flash-taught regs and strategy were more enjoyable than this. And this would be better than what they would all soon be subjected to. His brothers were scared too, in their own ways. CT-26-1408, CT-26-1407 and CT-26-1410 liked to sit up and tell stories. They were repetitive and simplistic, usually elaborated, heroic versions of exercises they'd done that day, with big parties at the end, filled with sweets they'd only heard of existing. The stories only stopped when the rattling of the walls did. That's how he knew they were just trying to ignore the noise too, and didn't mind them keeping him awake.

It was too quiet in the simulation. He could hear his own breathing. CT-26-1406 jogged ahead several steps, peered out from behind a tree, then alerted them, "Minefield."

Twinges of fear. They moved a little closer to each other for a moment, in thoughtless unity and support. Breathing became regulated. CT-26-1405 took the lead as he often did. They moved forward, displays within their helmets scanning frantically. It was no fun 'dying' in one of these exercises, opening your eyes to a disappointed sergeant and a feeling of disoriented nausea. It didn't happen often anymore. There was only the most slender of margins for error, and even that little net would be gone in time. They had to be perfect. Only perfection kept you alive. Perfection and obedience to the rules lain out for you.

"Clear!" came the call from CT-26-1406. He should be a scout, CT-26-1409 decided. He always was in their group. It was a good job. Tricky and risky, but not usually right smack in the line of fire. He tried to have as good eyes and pay attention as much. CT-26-1405 might get an officer's rank someday. He always made himself a big Commander with special armor with cool red stripes when he joined in the stories. CT-26-1409 just hoped he'd be somewhere he could curl up quietly. It could be small. A rack, a warm blanket, and something to read. Maybe he should hope to work operations on a ship. Steady work, complex systems. It could be interesting. It wasn't up to him though. All in all, he hoped whatever happened, he'd have some friends. He probably wouldn't be with these brothers.

They were all getting tired. Audio between their helmets let CT-26-1409 hear his brothers breathing. It was less steady, less deep, more raspy. He licked his lips and tried to breathe normally. They were slogging through a marsh now. CT-26-1405 was trying to take point. "You all decanted after me," he declared one day, "So I'm the oldest." He liked playing big brother, even to the point of getting knocked around the most by the training exercises. He'd be a good Commander if he didn't get himself killed. He held up an arm, fist clenched. They paused.

CT-26-1406 and CT-26-1408 saw it at the same time and let up a yell. They dropped into formation. CT-26-1409 put his back to theirs and watched their rear as they let loose a volley. He knew he should look up the name of the creature bearing down on all of them, but he was too worried to look away and access his helmet's database. Sometimes non-sentients hunted in packs, and he was too jumpy to look away as his brothers shot it down. It was worse to get attacked from behind than not know the right name for the big monster trying to eat you. He'd look up the right name later and memorize it. Then he could just know it on sight.

They continued on. He tried not to shake. They had to be close to the end of the exercise. It felt like a few minutes, but it was probably at least half an hour, more likely three quarters of one.

A ship came into view, nestled between several large boulders and the downward slope of a hill. Tall grass rippled like a skirt around it. It was charging up its' drive. A trooper in armor was waving at them.

They were still careful. Sometimes they could rush across the field. Sometimes there were mines or other surprises.

Fire came from behind. They turned as a unit and returned fire, running backwards as they tried to reach the extraction point. CT-26-1407 stumbled, went down. CT-26-1410 and CT-26-1409, a step behind him, lowered in unison. CT-26-1410 pulled him to his feet. CT-26-1409 covered them. CT-26-1407 scrambled a few steps forward, twisted, then joined them in returning fire.

One by one, they pounded up the plank into the ship, each taking a turn covering the others.

The doors closed, and there was a sensation of being lifted upward. The group of boys looked at each other. They'd all made it. A couple of them bounced a little on their feet, and CT-26-1405 clapped a couple of them on the back, the way the sergeants did sometimes when they did good. Together, they reached up and lifted off their helmets.

CT-26-1409 was back in the training module. He was drenched with sweat. He set the fake blaster and helmet back onto the console, just as he'd found them. Another group would be coming in soon.

It was a relief that it went well. Even the minor stumble at the end had been quickly corrected. They had to be perfect. Two weeks. Live ordinance in two weeks. Then there was no waking up from stumbling or mistakes then.

CT-26-1409 was not quite three years old.

The ruin was a checkerboard of bombed out squares.

Figures moved across the openings, of places once corridors and rooms, now chiaroscuro shapes against darker places. Heavy durasteel cables, corroded with rust, protruded from walls like spindly fingers, the reinforced duracrete having been shorn in places. There was rubble in corners and across the dusty entranceway. Little bits of light flickered within, sometimes pale white from an electric lantern, sometimes fragile red-orange from a tiny fire. They warded off the oncoming night.

Echo adjusted his cloak and kept the battered old helmet on his head, visor low. This planet had seen enough clones these past few months; it would be unwise to be recognized as one, though the year and more since the fall of the Republic and rise of the Empire had allowed him to change his appearance as much as he wished. His hair had grown long and messy. He found he liked it as such, and kept it pulled roughly back. For this search, he'd let himself get scruffy. Unshaved for two days, a bit of dirt smudged on his cheeks and a deceivingly hollow eyed look made him seem more the poor drifter than brave veteran. He shuffled along, hands in coat pockets, fighting the urge to be shocked.

It was far from the first time he'd seen refugees. But they were usually running from battles, or being escorted to safe places where tent cities sprang up and relief supplies were doled out. Sometimes they were even on their way back into cities that had been recovered, as Ryloth had been. The people who had taken up tenancy in this decimated factory had no such assistance, and all had a gaunt, half-starved look about them.

It made him angry, and strangely ashamed. There was nothing he could do. There was no way to rescue all these people. They were refugees in their own world, worn down by the grindstone of war. He was doing what good he could, but it didn't feel like enough at times. He kept his chin down, eyes sharp. Eyes met his, glittering from the little lights they sat around, peering out from the rising dark, questioning, then determining he was no threat and returning to their business. He wandered, appearing aimless, descending a level. Light was even rarer here, as were people. Only a few groups were scattered around. A family was huddled around a tiny fire in one corner, hands raised to their mouths. They had some food. It was dinnertime.

Echo looked to the other corners, farther. Cautiously, he approached one. A swath of ripped fabric served as a partial partition against the rest of the place. It glowed yellow from firelight.

Sadness radiated from the entire population of the place, or so Ahsoka said, making it hard to distinguish individual signatures, a shifting sea of sorrow, despair and hunger. They were not scattered far, but to cover more ground, they separated. Each of them had taken a building on the block. He was somewhere in here.

Echo frowned. This could be tricky. He wished he had the Force powers Ahsoka did. At this range, she would have known for sure. Randomly poking his head in might cost him his head, if he disturbed someone he shouldn't. He pulled a small flask from his coat pocket, took a sip, and kept it in hand. He spat it back out, the liquid burning his tongue. Rotgut whiskey still managed to get around in hard times, a cheap escape if a temporary one. A stupid drunk looking for somewhere to sleep off an encroaching hangover was far less threatening than an alert, sober man. He tipped himself to the side, staggered forward a little, and angled around the curtain.

Dark, honey brown eyes looked up. They met his, and matched his. Found you. He straightened himself, held up his free hand in what he hoped looked like a peaceful gesture.

It was not taken as such. The man's eyes were the same as his, but they shared the empty look of the other refugees. Several weeks' worth of fuzz stood on end from his scalp and jaw. He did not move, did not look surprised, did not greet him. Only sat huddled on a crate, swathed in a musty blanket. He said, "Make it fast."

The phrasing took him aback; then understanding clicked. He resisted a strange sickness in his belly. Had it come to such things? Brothers turned against each other? If so, how long had it been such a way? "I'm not here to kill you."

It earned him a flicker of interest, but was quickly dulled. Shadows leapt as a bit of draft stirred through. Echo edged himself a little closer, slowly, slowly knelt down until he was sitting across the fire. Still, the other man did not move, but kept silent watch on him.

"I'm Echo," he said by way of introduction. Eyes narrowed in response. He tried to prod a little more information. "You're Waxer." A pause. "I take it you don't like small talk."

He received a look of thoughtful suspicion. "What do you want?"

To the point. He could deal with that. "To get you out."

The suspicious look only grew. "Why?"

"You like sitting around here?"

"Maybe I love it. Great weather, lots of space to spread out." A hand emerged from the shaggy blanket he was wrapped in. It waved vaguely at their surroundings. The standard issue black bodysuit he wore was filthy, and growing threadbare. No armor. But there was a helmet. It was half under the blanket at his feet, not quite hidden. The shape was strange, different. The familiar black t-slit was gone, replaced by black, bulging oval eyepieces. Waxer noticed his interest. The blanket flipped back into place and he pushed it further away with a heel. "How?" he demanded.

Echo shrugged. "Did I find you? Been looking around for awhile," he said, not being specific. If he agreed to go, he'd see Ahsoka soon enough, but until that happened, the existence of the Jedi remained secret. She was how they had narrowed it down locally. Knowing what planet, what city, was another matter. "And you had a concerned Commander with some good transponder codes, because my Captain's got a big bleeding heart." He offered the flask. Waxer looked at it warily, hesitantly reached out. Then he snatched it.

Once he got some in his mouth, he gagged. "What the kriff is in that?"

Echo grinned. He'd gotten through, for a moment at least. "No idea. It's just part of the whole slumming look. Picked it up locally. You've been here longer, what's the usual local crop?"

Waxer made a face and didn't reply. Then, he asked, "Water?"

Echo carefully reached into his coat, pulling it open enough for the other man to see him reach for his bottle, rather than the blaster a few inches below it. He held it out, and Waxer took it, unscrewing the cap and sipping, then draining it. He lowered the bottle, then looked Echo over. The messiness seemed to register as feigned. Echo was well fed, still looked strong, his eyes were clear, face free of desperation or exhaustion or madness.

"You're not with the Empire."

"No."

Fingers, dirty knuckled, crept out from where they kept the blanket pulled tightly, tugged it a little closer. Then he slowly, with deliberation, reached down, pulled up another bit of cloth, and opened it. A bit of bread sat inside. He picked it up and held it out to Echo. It was stale; what should have been a light, baked, golden brown had turned faded and dull. Echo took it, broke it in half, and handed the other half back to Waxer. It was a quiet statement. This was his home, and a gesture of welcome as much as it could be. Also, he would not be beholden to Echo for the water or anything else. There was some measure of pride there, still. Despite the wretched surroundings and worn face, Waxer was not broken. It was a relief.

"Since when?"

Echo shrugged, broke off a bit of the bread and made himself eat it. It was dry almost to being sandy. It crumbled a bit his hands. "Order 66. Everything went to hell when it went out. Ended up following the Captain around. Nothing better to do."

It would be considered the official moment he deserted, an obvious marker, a specific day and a specific reason. In truth, desertion had taken much longer. It was a process, of doubt and fear and disgust and wrongness clambering around until there was a reason for it to all to boil to a head. And it had been lanced several times. Order 66 had been the first time. Naboo had been another. Yet again at Ghorman. Days of desire to go back to the way things were crept along until they faded away and Echo understood there was nothing to go back to. Home had been demolished and replaced with something else. And by then he had another home, another family, to think about. One smaller and more immediate.

He asked, "You?"

Waxer's face was gray, even in the cheerful red light of the fire. It cast deep shadows into his face, darkening the hollows and caverns of brows, cheekbones, neck. He munched down onto the stale bread. "I walked off a battlefield." His head turned slightly, towards the opening leading outside. This planet. "I'm not even sure why we were here. There were rumors about hiding Jedi, and some sort of resistance, but I never saw any. There was resistance, though. After we got here." He snorted, hung his head, chewed and swallowed. "Some civilians got involved. Didn't know how to fight but they tried." He stopped. Emotions flickered over his face, and he seemed to grope for a way of continuing. He skipped over some part of the telling, beginning again with, "I left my armor out. Shot it a few times, tossed it around near some bodies. Then I walked. Been here since. Thought I'd gone unnoticed, 'til now."

"You didn't think anyone would miss you?" Plenty of men died on the field and got left behind in the chaos, but usually someone would witness them go down. At least try to know who was gone to let other brothers, friends, know about the death if they were elsewhere when it happened. Discovering an empty bunk the night after a battle wasn't considered the best way of announcing a death.

Waxer watched the fire. "Almost everyone's dead or crazy." He winced. "It's not hard to get yourself shot if you want to be. Too many are going that way." He bowed his head in remembrance. "Even old friends. There's new men to replace them." Amber eyes flicked up to meet Echo's. "But they're not the same. Brothers, but not like us." He tapped a finger to the side of his head. "They're different up here. Don't think." He balled a fist and struck it against his knee. "Not for themselves, anyway. Just do what they're told and don't use their sense. Influx started after the Order went out."

"Centax II. Cloning facilities were discovered there, run under Arkanian Micro."

Waxer muttered something that sounded like a curse.

Laughter interrupted them. A couple of kids had stood from the family across the floor, and were chasing each other around. They were Sullustan. A human boy stood up from one of the other huddles and ran over. As Echo and Waxer watched, they broke into a wild game of tag. Faces from other groups glanced up to watch. Echo turned back toward Waxer. Some longing was kindled in his eyes, and Echo looked back towards the children. Clones didn't have families. There was no life outside the army. Not for someone within it, at least. A little Bothan girl had joined them and was making faces at the human. They both laughed, then tore off across the room.

Life goes on. Echo turned back. Waxer abruptly lowered his head and watched the fire.

It would be foolish for Waxer to stay here. Even if Cody hadn't told anyone else, and Waxer was safely out of the Imperial Army, there was nothing here for him. Almost no food, bad water, and fear excluding him from other groups, though it was possible the isolation would pass in time. The choice seemed clear enough. It was only a matter of being sure he saw it that way.

"You can't save them all."

Waxer looked up at him. "I know. They still deserve better."

Echo chuckled and said, tone laced with irony, "Don't we all?" Waxer watched him, then gave a faint nod. Echo stood. "Come on. We'll get you some food, and tell you all about your different retirement options." He added, carefully, watching for a reaction, "Unless you like kids."

His face remained neutral, but there was a flavor of curiosity to his voice. "Kids?"

"Got a whole bunch of younglings back home." He grinned. It'd been a month since they'd last stopped at Alderaan. "Pesky group, swarm all over you looking for candy when you visit."

Waxer smiled for a moment, then grew serious. "Special younglings."

Echo's face matched Waxer's. He understood. "Very special."

"I see."

Waxer seemed to fidget for a moment. Then he stood, wincing as a knee went out. He tried to balance, holding himself up with the other leg. He minced forward a step, then another, shedding the blanket. Then he bent down, picked up the blaster that was behind the crate, and the strange new helmet that had been at his feet.

He looked at it for a moment, the bulbous black eyes staring back at him. Then he took it, and shoved it bucket-down onto the fire. Electronics caught, sparked and sizzled, letting off a metallic smoke that steamed out of broken eyepieces. The light went out.

Echo stepped aside, and Waxer limped heavily into line with him.

"Let's get out of here."

Another chapter not completely linear. CT-26-1409 is Echo as a kid. There's not a lot of information on how the training of the clone troopers was conducted, though Karen Traviss gives a little bit on how the commandos were. She has clones starting live fire experience at two chronological years old. I'm imagining they're two, almost three, because honestly I can't even envision a (biological) four year old holding a gun. Not that a six year old is any better. (Except perhaps in terms of fine motor skills.) The simulation, numbering, and grouping are all my own speculation.

~Queen