Chapter 13
Closer Than a Brother

Chatter squatted next to his comms equipment, crushing back his anxieties. It was nearing midday, and Dash had been comms silent for almost a day now. Chatter hoped the fact that he hadn't sent an emergency comm requesting extraction the previous night meant all was going well.

The equipment in front of him lit up. A few minutes of work confirmed he was now receiving a signal from the diverter Dash had been assigned to wire into Jabba's comms tower. That was a good sign, but it did little to ease the squirming tension in his gut. While Hex seemed competent and certainly exuded self-confidence, Chatter would be a lot more comfortable if Dash had an active comm in his ear.

He shifted restlessly until he was sitting on the floor of the tiny cave. Tucked into the wall of a narrow defile half a kilometer from the hangar of Jabba's palace, it provided shelter from the suns as well as cover from any prying eyes. The air was heavy with heat and he sipped his water gratefully.

Another hour passed slowly before the regular ping of the diverter was interrupted by the chime of an incoming signal. Chatter sighed with relief and punched the button to accept the comm. Commander Cody, studying a datapad at the rear of the cave, got up to listen to the message.

"Hey. This is Dash."

"Yup. What can I do for you?" The scripted words were too casual for Chatter's actual feelings, but he forced himself to keep his voice neutral in case there were suspicious ears listening.

"Good news. Jabba wants to use hybrids on his sail barge. Hex says we'll start with five. Only catch is we need them by 1200 tomorrow."

"1200? Ooch—Lemme see…" Chatter counted off eleven seconds to feign checking travel times and inventory lists. "Tch. It's gonna be tight, but I think we can do it. Looks like Scratch is free. I'll keep you updated if anything comes up that'll affect that delivery time. Anything else?"

"Nope. Not now. Just—Hex says we gotta have those droids no later than noon."

"I'll do what I can. Good luck, vod."

The signal cut off, and Chatter forced his tense muscles to relax as he ran the next call through the diverter. At least he had confirmation everything was proceeding according to plan so far. Dash's call was supposed to have gone to GAR/IMP's headquarters on Lantillies. Although it was unlikely Jabba's people were monitoring the signal closely enough to discover the ruse, disguising this call in the midst of the traffic going in and out of Jabba's network lowered the odds that much more. Of course, the fact that Chatter enjoyed playing around with fancy equipment was just icing on the cake. After all, he needed to test the diverter before he broadcast Kraytrider's message on Boonta Eve, didn't he? With a click, his signal connected.

"Scratch here."

"It's Chatter. The guys want five hybrids."

"Okay. I'll start getting that loaded."

"Deadline is 1200 local tomorrow."

"What!" Scratch's imitation of someone spit-spraying caf was spot on. Chatter wondered if he was in public where his performance could be appreciated.

"Sorry. I'm just the messenger. That's what they said."

"I'd better get busy then. There's a lot to do." Scratch cut the connection and Chatter returned his equipment to standby. The regular ping of the diverter resumed. Without a word, Commander Cody returned to his datapad.

The afternoon passed slowly. The heat rose, but they had selected their perch for the consistent shade it would provide. They didn't talk. Chatter was taciturn at the best of times, and his anxiety over Dash's situation only exacerbated this tendency. He had never met Commander Cody before this mission and was intimidated both by the man's legend and by the gulf between a marshal commander and a corporal. Though the commander did not carry himself arrogantly, somehow Chatter couldn't forget that this man had served directly under High General Kenobi. Had commanded thirty-six thousand men at the height of the war. Had planned the battles Chatter had fought in. And then had served as Lord Vader's hand-picked commander for his personal stormtrooper legion. Chatter had never met Lord Vader and was grateful for the fact; the commander had served directly under him for five years and survived.

Of course, the deeper reason for his discomfort was rooted in the day no clone talked about. Chatter was grateful that when the compulsion had overcome him, he had been one of a mass of hundreds of troopers. He had no idea whether it was his shot that had brought down his general, and though it was shameful, he was relieved not to have to carry that burden. The guilt he carried already was bad enough. Not like Commander Cody.

To Chatter's admittedly limited knowledge, Cody had never discussed Order 66 with anyone, but every clone knew that Cody himself had directed the shot that had taken out General Kenobi. Cody's partnership with his general had been legendary across the GAR. Almost as legendary as the partnership between Kenobi and Skywalker. Perhaps more so, because it had reached across the vast divide between clone and Jedi.

General Skywalker's friendship with Captain Rex had been legendary too, but it had seemed less extraordinary. General Kenobi had, by reputation anyway, been far more reserved than his flamboyant student. A brilliant commander and always just and fair, he had inspired undying loyalty, at least until the blasted chips had interfered. Tragic as it had been, Skywalker and Kenobi had died, if not together, nonetheless united in a common cause and as unwitting victims of their men's compulsion. Commander Cody, by contrast, had turned from a comrade in arms to a deadly enemy in the blink of an eye and through no choice of his own.

Though it was an experience all the clones shared to varying degrees, Cody's situation was particularly devastating. Some days Chatter wished the Empire hadn't removed the chips before retiring them. The unthinking loyalty to the Emperor and the numb imperviousness to grief had, in many ways, been easier to bear than the truth, even if it had been accompanied by a freedom they had never known. Commander Cody's stoic acceptance of what the chip had made him do had helped every surviving clone to bear his own guilt.

Chatter spent the afternoon setting up a permanent back door into Jabba's communications system. The diverter provided a two-way street for comms and Chatter took full advantage. He had developed a habit during the war of installing permanent access for any comms system he touched. He'd had one too many experiences in his first year of active duty when he needed to get back into a system in a hurry and couldn't. His employer, the major communications provider in the Denon sector, probably wouldn't be happy to learn of his little habit, but he was good at covering his tracks and his encryptions were top notch.

The suns dropped beyond the lip of the cliffs. Commander Cody set up the camp stove and began to prepare their rations as Chatter ran a final diagnostic of his equipment.

Later, over supper, the commander said, "You and Dash seem to know each other well. Did you serve together in the war?"

"We're batchmates. He was Intel; I was with comms support for the unit. Most of our batch were killed in the war, but five of us banded together after we retired."

"You're fortunate. It's rare to have so many batchers still alive."

"It's just me and Dash now, sir. A couple died in the epidemics. One had a tumor."

Their manipulated genome had left them vulnerable to viruses that barely affected the natborns around them and many of the vod'e had succumbed. All clones knew the grim projections: The medics predicted that the strongest and most resilient of them might last another fifteen years. A few outliers might make it twenty. But in two decades, the last remnants of the Grand Army of the Republic would be gone.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Chatter swallowed his stew and said matter-of-factly, "We've made it to thirty standard. We already beat the odds. Don't see much point moaning and groaning over what can't be helped."

"That's an admirable attitude." The commander smiled. "What do you do when you aren't assassinating Hutts?"

Chatter chuckled dutifully at the witticism. "I work in the information security section of a communications company. Dash does hardware development and implementation." Then, in a fit of daring he could hardly believe, he asked, "What about you, sir?"

Commander Cody smiled wistfully. "I live a pretty quiet life. I guess that's why I signed up for this mission. One last hurrah. Nobody really wants an ex-marshal commander on their payroll."

"You live on Berchest, right?"

He nodded. "It's one of the larger clone settlements."

"Do you have any batch brothers left?" Chatter ducked his head. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have asked such a personal question."

"No. It's fine. I don't." His smile was small. "They were other commanders and officers. Somehow they got whittled down over the years. I don't know for sure about Wolffe, but I believe he's dead. He was the last one."

Chatter's heart clenched. It was what he dreaded most—being the last. Being all alone. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to—"

Commander Cody shook his head. "No worries, Trooper. The last of them died several years ago. I'm not facing anything the rest of us aren't."

Chatter's answering smile was weak but genuine. "Do you have other family, sir?"

"No. Never felt like I could offer a wife much of anything except early widowhood. I wouldn't know how to go about finding a wife, anyway."

Chatter entirely understood. He had never tried to find a wife either. How could he be a husband when he'd had no models? He had three million brothers (most deceased, but he tried not to think about that). What woman would care to share her husband with such a strange and all-absorbing family, anyway? And he had even less idea how to be a father.

A few clones had married and had children. But most of the vod'e had chosen instead to stick together in small enclaves, caring for each other in illness or other distress. There were bonds among them that non-clones could never fathom and that seemed, even now, to set them apart from all other inhabitants of the galaxy.

They had always been second-class beings. Even the Empire had not given them the dignity and respect of citizenship, for all they had fought and bled and died and betrayed in its service.

None of that needed to be spoken between the two men and the conversation foundered. When he'd finished eating, Commander Cody went for a walk through the canyon until darkness fell while Chatter cleaned up their campsite. The two men retired for the night in melancholy silence.

Scratch snapped off the comm and leaned back in the pilot's seat. Propping his feet on the console, he stared at the black void of space. How had he ended up with the most boring and lonely role in this whole venture? He ought to be with Hex, running their security audit. Sure, Dash had done the initial infiltration of the palace with Theec's guidance, and Scratch understood Kraytrider's reasoning for sending him with Hex, but it left him with nothing to do but bring in the droids. Even that had no real urgency. As soon as they had set the plans in place, Scratch and Hex had traveled to their headquarters on Lantillies to pick up their supplies, including Hex's armor and Scratch's sniper rifle. On their way back to Tatooine, they had stopped at the warehouse on Herdessa to collect a squad of hybrid droidekas and another of modified B-1s. Both models had been doctored with GAR/IMP's special sauce that rendered them fully legal under Imperial law.

Scratch still took an almost juvenile delight in the way they were skirting the intent of that law. It was absolutely clear that the Empire had intended to outlaw battle droids. It was also undeniably true that the law only outlawed the programming. Nevertheless, to avoid too much Imperial scrutiny, they had built their company in the Mid- and Outer Rims, far from the direct oversight of the Empire. Their lawyers assured them the case would stand up in court, but given their lack of citizenship rights, Hex and his board of directors preferred not to take the risk.

So now Scratch sat half a parsec from Tatooine with nothing to do for over twenty-four hours. By prior arrangement, he was to add two hours and fifty-three minutes to whatever arrival time Hex specified. Though Hex wanted the audit to look perfectly genuine, he also intended to give Jabba's people no time to inspect the droids once they were deployed.

Scratch busied himself for a time with redundant maintenance checks on the ship's systems. When he found himself running a check on the sanitation system, he slapped the console in disgust and shut down the display. It returned to standby and flashed the date—a date he had been studiously ignoring.

Scratch was a sociable man. He enjoyed the company of others and did not care for solitude. Except for one day a year.

Empire Day.

He wouldn't admit it, but he had rather hoped when he signed up that this mission would extend at least through the Anniversary. It would give him a reason to pretend the cursed day didn't exist. Most of the year, he made every effort not to think about the chips and what they had cost him. He had worked too hard for too long to risk the despair that lay down the road of mourning.

But once a year, he kept solitary vigil and remembered. Each clone handled the Anniversary differently. Many gathered in groups, chasing away the ghosts with companionship and activity. Others, stone-cold teetotalers the rest of the year, drank themselves into a stupor.

He wondered absently how Dash and Chatter spent the day. Or Commander Cody. He shivered at the thought. Not that he would ask. It violated a fundamental principle of clone etiquette to ask another clone about his Order 66 rituals. He did know that Hex, whose memories of the march on the Jedi Temple were sharp and detailed, couldn't bear to even acknowledge its existence and always buried himself in work. Scratch, guiltily aware that his own fragmentary memories of a battlefield on an unknown planet were a far easier burden, tried to ease his friend's distress by avoiding him that day.

His stomach clenched with dread. He inhaled deeply. Might as well install those command override chips in the droids. He stretched and went to the cargo hold, trying to hold his thoughts at bay. Company would be nice. Even Chatter would at least be a friendly face and someone to talk with.

In the aftermath of the removal of the chips and the clones' retirement, he had floundered. Two of his batchers had eaten their blasters shortly after the compulsion was removed. A third had become a "discipline problem" in the space between the chips' removal and formal separation from the Imperial Army. Even though they were nearly out of the military, a higher up who had always despised the clones had sent him to be "decommissioned" at Kamino. The senseless tragedy of their deaths and the guilt he had felt over his betrayal of the Jedi had driven Scratch to find solace in the bottom of a bottle. He barely remembered the first six months after retirement. He'd awakened one day in a detox center to a medic warning him his liver was rotting away under the onslaught of cheap alcohol. Scratch had lain in bed unable to bring himself to care when a bearded clone had poked his head in the door.

"Hey there, vod. Can I come in?"

"No."

The other man cheerfully ignored the refusal and dragged a chair to his bedside. "My name's Hex. HX-6066 if you need the service number." This was back in the days when clones still bothered giving each other the numbers the longnecks had assigned them. "Anyway," the stranger with the familiar face had said, "I heard you're in a spot of trouble and need a place to go."

"Not really. They're kicking me out. I'll go back to my alley. Sounds like I won't have to burden the taxpayers much longer."

"Now, that's no way to talk. You're not dead yet."

"I will be soon enough."

Hex had leaned up close to his face, eyes blazing. "Really? You're going to let them win?"

"Win? They already won."

"Not if you don't let them. The longnecks made you. The Republic used you. The Empire did too. But you're still here. So they haven't won yet. If you give up, now that you can finally choose your path for yourself, then you're saying they were right—that your only value was to fight and die. But you're more than a machine. You're better than a droid. So be better. Do something. Something valuable and worthwhile. Make a difference in the universe so no one can ever say you were just a flesh and blood droid."

"How? Only thing I know how to do is shoot and march and salute."

"So learn some new skills. I've got an idea—a security company staffed by vod'e, with the profits used to support clones who need assistance. You interested? You'd have to stay out of the bottle, but I'll help you with that. You'd be an asset."

Scratch couldn't help it; he'd bawled like a baby. Hex had never mentioned his humiliating loss of control since. In the long months of recovery that followed, he'd nursed Scratch through miserable nights of despair and then dragged him to meetings and trainings during the day. By the time GAR/IMP launched almost a year later, Scratch was firmly on the road to sobriety and committed to sticking it to the galaxy in general and the Kaminoans, the Republic, and the Empire specifically. They'd gone to the tattoo parlor together—Scratch to adorn himself with Fett and Hex with the motto of their company.

In the years since, they'd become as close as batchmates. Hex seemed determined to wrest every credit he could from the galaxy as compensation for all that had been denied them. It was for a cause Scratch supported wholeheartedly, and the two of them had become a good team. As the vod'e developed health problems and other side effects of their rapid aging and as more were left alone, the organization their profits supported was recognized throughout the clone community. Clones who were reluctant to accept help from other charities wouldn't make a peep when Burc'ya Veman contacted them. Everyone knew it was run by brothers, for brothers.

Scratch had embraced his place in the community. In the years after retirement, the clones had established social clubs, ad hoc family groups, and support networks of various kinds, and Scratch threw himself into this new community. He volunteered with a service organization for disabled veterans. Mentored clones learning new skills. Worked with vod'e struggling with substance abuse. Got them help and let them know they weren't forgotten. Burc'ya Veman had promised that no clone would be left poor or alone, and Scratch meant it earnestly.

Of course, the grand, painful irony was that someday the last survivor would be very wealthy but also all alone. Scratch and Hex hadn't been able to agree yet on how to prepare for that day, but it was far enough away that they could take their time to figure it out.

For now, he'd assist with taking down Jabba's mob. If his only role was to deliver the droids and act as backup, well, even that was necessary. Ten minutes later, he resealed the last crate and straightened. Dash and Chatter seemed reliable. Maybe he'd suggest they come work for GAR/IMP once this job was over. Commander Cody would make a good addition to the company, for that matter, but Scratch would never in a million years be so presumptuous as to offer a former marshal commander a job. He snapped off the light in the cargo bay and went to rustle up some dinner.

Mando'a vocabulary:

Burc'ya Veman – [BOOR-shah veh-MAHN] lit. True friend; from a saying: A friend in danger is a true friend (A friend in need is a friend indeed)