Dear Reader, a hint of some backstory here that will be fully fleshed out in later chapters. Since I love writing about the bonds between military types, please excuse my indulgence here. And also . . . I do like feedback, even if it's just a one-liner to say, "nice chapter." I'd appreciate it! Peace, Check Six (This is a repost with corrections)

Chapter 9 Wandering in the Desert

"Is there something we have forgotten? Some precious thing we have lost, wandering in strange lands?"

-Arna Bontemps

"There's no cover out here at all," Rex noted. "If the Separatists are looking for us, we're going to be easy to spot."

"Let's just hope it's like Zinger said, and it takes them a long time to figure out exactly where on the arc we fell out of hyperspace," Cody replied.

They had travelled in the glaring sunlight of midday. Although their plan was to move by night, in their hurry to get away from the ship, they had set off across the desert just as the sun was approaching its peak in the sky. And when it set, they would continue their trek. There would be no rest until the following morning. It would be asking much from the group of men, most of whom were sporting some form of injury from the crash; but this was something they had been trained for since their earliest days on Kamino. Survival skills, escape and evasion, endurance.

There would be no complaints, no soft spines, no lamenting the hand of fate. Yes, there would be exhaustion, pain, and the ever-present question of whether or not they would survive. But not one of them would ever say a word to draw attention to such matters. Their present concerns were threefold: protect and look after the more seriously injured among them; safeguard the information they had transferred from the consoles—what they could fit onto their various data devices; and stay alive until they reached their destination or were rescued, whichever came first.

They carried four men on litters.

Echo's leg was still not healed enough for him to stand, much less walk on; but he was grateful to have survived at all and so reconciled himself to being toted across the desert. Right now was the not the time to stubborn and insist on trying to walk . . .

. . . unless you were Puzzle. The loadmaster spent the first hour of their journey bemoaning how he, of all people, should be in such a position. "Bearing me across the desert like some great ancient ruler! This is humiliating!" However, his outrage was humorous in itself and lent an energy to the start of their travail.

Keeper, high on painkillers, was asleep and travelled well.

Kix had not spoken in a long while. They had laid him on his side and packed in heavy gauze strips where the rod entered and exited his body. His last words were to tell them not to use bacta patches, that it would be worse if his flesh started healing around the obtrusion. Since then, he had been silent and only partially conscious. It seemed likely that he would die in this wasteland.

The others went along as best they could. Some were clearly in better shape than others, and these lent assistance as needed. They all traveled with their helmets on to act as buffers against the heat. Zinger, whose helmet had been destroyed in the crash, used one of the spares that had been onboard the ship. Only Kix did not wear a helmet, and that was because his companions wanted to make sure they would be able to detect if he were in any increased distress. Instead, they draped him head to foot with one of the light-weight reverse-thermal coverlets scavenged from the ruined medical station. That would keep sand out of his wounds and protect his head from the sun. And it was much easier to check under than a helmet.

They'd brought along a few tarpaulins to use for shelter against the sun, but just how much good the they would do remained to be seen. They'd managed to scavenge some nutrient bars, a few medical supplies, two more field stretchers, roughly 15 liters of water, and a couple dozen hydration tablets. Lastly, they had their weapons.

Rex led the way and Cody kept tabs on the men.

That was the arrangement – and it had been so for as long as the two men had worked together.

Rex always went first. First into battle. First into the unknown. First to jump at any opportunity to use his skills as a soldier. First to blow his top yet somehow hide it from his men. First to feel the guilt. It might have been a way to keep his emotional attachment to his men at a safe distance. As a clone—especially a captain, and the captain of the 501st, at that—he was expected to display certain characteristics. Competence and loyalty went without saying. Competition was desirable as well, but only in so far as it contributed to the improvement of a clone's combat skills. Devotion to his general and to his men was one of Rex's greatest assets – and, in the eyes of some, one of his greatest weaknesses.

And so, more often than not, the task of looking after the men fell to Cody. It was a job at which he excelled. Unlike Rex, Cody knew how to separate his personal feelings from the mission at hand. He genuinely cared for the men, but he also understood that, despite where his emotions might lead him, the men were always secondary to victory. A harsh reality, but reality nonetheless.

Cody couldn't imagine himself risking the war effort for anyone under any circumstance. Disobedience was as foreign to him as the embrace of a woman.

Had he been able to look into the future, he might have been surprised.

There was a part of Cody that was extremely gentle and compassionate. He had among his brothers those whom he looked upon as the equivalent of immediate family. And he had no way of knowing just how greatly he underestimated his affection for them. He treated them in an almost paternal manner, and that was how he coaxed the best from them.

This was almost the complete opposite of Rex, whose men gave their best because of the example of their captain and their desire to please him. There would be no question that Rex valued—yes, even loved—his men. But there was nothing, not a single thing, in his manner that could be called gentle. Because his men knew how he felt about them, Rex could be as tough, demanding, and occasionally absurd as he so desired. His men would follow. They always did.

They followed him now.

Cody kept a close eye on the others, especially Kix, checking several times every hour to make sure the medic was still breathing. He also noticed that Little Ride seemed to be having some difficulty keeping his balance; and given that he'd suffered some kind of head injury and been unconscious for a time, he decided that he should be carried on a stretcher, at least part of the time.

But one more thing caught his eye: Rex, too, seemed to be moving awkwardly.

Edging up beside him, he asked over their closed helmet circuit. "Where are you hurt?"

Rex was surprised. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me."

"Eh, just my shoulder. Feels like something's broken, but it's not that bad."

Cody wasn't so easily put off. "Is that it?"

Rex sighed beneath his helmet. Why did Cody have to be so damned observant?

"It's been kind of spreading down my side," he replied. "I think they're two separate injuries."

"You'd better let me take a look—"

"Not now, Cody," Rex replied firmly. "Once we stop, you can take a scan. The last thing they need to see is that their captain is injured."

Cody shook his head. "That's ridiculous. They've seen you injured before—"

"Look, it's not that bad," Rex insisted. "I can keep going, and if we stop now, we're going to lose our momentum."

"That's also ridiculous," Cody countered, then adding, "I won't make you stop right now. But if I feel it's necessary, I will. And at the latest, it will be when we stop tomorrow. First thing."

Rex smiled in the privacy of his helmet. "You're sounding very authoritative, Commander."

Cody spoke in a knowing voice. "Yeah, well, I haven't forgotten all your criticism from ARC school."

"But I was right," Rex put forth. "You were indecisive. You used to change your mind every five seconds."

"Well, just hope I don't change it now and decide to make you stop where you stand." As a threat, it was effective. Cody outranked Rex, and despite their friendship, Rex would always respect and defer to Cody's authority . . . except when he could convince him to act otherwise.

"No, no need to do that," Rex assured him.

"Good. Then let's push on."

"Lord Admiral Vrehnka, based off the speed they were traveling and their last known trajectory, we believe they would have come out of hyperspace somewhere along this arc."

Lord Admiral Vrehnka turned his watery gaze towards the holographic image being projected from the main navigation station. He gave it only the briefest glance before looking away disdainfully.

"Kurbin, that arc must cover at least fifty star systems. You will have to do better than that," he whiffled, his voice nasal and thin with a distinctly aristocratic tenor.

Dushanak Vrehnka was a Copian, a citizen of Copia, one of the hundreds of thousands of planets that had claimed an early alliance with the Confederacy—he refused to use the term Separatist, for he felt that the Republic had been the one to separate itself from its vast sea of populations, and not the other way around.

As a Copian, he displayed the distantly shared characteristics of his Aqualish brethren on Ando, none of which could be considered attractive except to another Copian – and perhaps an Aqualish female. He had a strange effeminate manner that was in stark contrast to his brutish appearance – a ruthlessness even the fine cloth of the admiralty couldn't hide.

This task of tracking down a group of clones—ugh! clones of all things!—was so far beneath the dignity of his office that he'd almost considered declining the assignment. Until he recalled what usually happened to those who failed to meet Count Dooku's orders.

Ah, but the Count was light years away! Busily engaged in his own business. Admiral Vrehnka could do as he pleased, and would Dooku ever be the wiser? Just say the ship and its contents were obliterated in space.

Except for those infernal battle droids. Surely, they were reporting back every move the admiral made, or didn't make. Dooku probably was watching him now through the co-opted eyes of one or more of the dim-witted droids at this moment.

What was so important about what these clones were carrying, anyway? What ignorant decision had led to transmitting and storing valuable information at a newly sprung and clearly unsecure base on a woefully unprotected planet?

Whatever it was, the handful of spies operating on Pylotta had dutifully reported that the clones were transferring the consoles containing the data, and the order had come to stop them at all costs. A particularly well-placed spy provided ping data and lift-off time for the unfortunate transport. Finding and tracking it had been so easy. It was going to be such an easy elimination . . .

And then those clones—the very word made him cringe with loathing—the very pinnacle of a lack in creativity, the mass production of a middling product . . .

Somehow, they'd discovered the pursuit.

Vrehnka did not grin – his facial structure did not permit it – but his eyes narrowed and a low gurgling in his throat belied his perverse satisfaction.

For surely the clones had thought that, once achieving hyperspace, they had outrun the danger.

But not this danger. Not the capabilities of the admiral's specially-equipped Dreadnaught. A new technology. A test technology. And now, a technology that would find them wherever they were and finish the job.

Yes, indeed. Finish the job. Admiral Vrehnka hated loose ends.

Jesse sat facing the sunrise.

At this point, with the planet's star still below the horizon, the dawn was a grey and dismal thing, a perfect match for Jesse's mood.

He sat on the sand beneath one of the tarpaulins that had been raised as a lean-to shade. Beside him, Kix lay on his stretcher, silent and unmoving. Around him, the others were setting up the rest of the tarp shelters.

They had travelled through the night, and it had turned quite cold once the sun had gone down. But again, the armor had fulfilled its function and protected them from the sudden plunge in temperature. And now, at last, they had a chance to rest.

Hardcase and Pitch, after helping set up the other shelters, came and joined Jesse.

"How's he doing?" Pitch asked.

"I tried to get him to drink something, but he's in and out," Jesse replied. "So I dabbed water on his mouth and tongue. Did any of those hypos we brought have saline? I'm afraid he's going to dehydrate. And look at this . . . " He lifted the blanket. The gauze wedges around the entry and exit wounds were half soaked with blood. "For kriff's sake . . . why the hell did it have to be Kix?"

Pitch ran his hand over the back of Kix's head. "Stay with us, mate. Top will kill us all if he comes back and finds out anything's happened to you—" He said it as an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but his voice caught in his throat, and he fell morosely silent.

"We're not very good at keeping our promises, are we?" Hardcase frowned.

"There wasn't anything we could have done about this," Jesse replied, but he did not sound convinced by his own words. "It was just . . . rotten luck. The important thing now is do whatever we can to keep him alive until we find help."

"Do you think we're really going to find help out here? Whatever that oasis was that we flew over, what are the chances they have the medical skills to handle this?" Hardcase asked.

"I don't know, but until we're rescued, it's the only hope we've got," Jesse replied. "Why don't you two get some rest. I'll keep an eye on him and wake one of you up in four hours or so. We can take turns."

"Incredibly enough, I think I'm too exhausted to sleep," Pitch stated.

"Not me," Hardcase blurted out. "I could sleep on my feet right about now." That those words, he leaned back in the sand. "Wake me when it rains."

Jesse felt a slight, genuine smile forming on his lips. Of all his squad mates, Hardcase was the most indomitable. Nothing fazed him. He was up to any challenge, and when that challenge was over, he promptly forgot all about it until the next one. That ability to turn himself on and off from one moment to the next was a trait Jesse had long admired.

Like all his squad mates, Hardcase wore a facial tattoo. His was in blue ink and stretched up over the top of his shaved head and down the back of his scalp. If one looked closely enough, they would discover the seemingly random design was actually old Yelvin code for "Big." Only he and his squad mates knew the story behind it, and they had no inclination to share it.

He was utterly dependable, a little crazy, and bound to his squad mates like a Hutt infant to its father. His fearlessness made him a much desired companion in battle, yet Jesse knew that there was one thing Hardcase did dread.

And it was facing him now, out here in the waves of the sand of some forsaken planet, a place he had never been, never even known existed.

The threat of loss had somehow always seemed far removed from the members of Saber Squad – well, ever since leaving Kamino, to be accurate. On Kamino, the five of them—Flat Top, Jesse, Hardcase, Pitch, and Kix—had been the team to beat. And the most unorthodox, cutthroat, and—some might say—wild squad to graduate from basic training. Up to that point, at least.

Such a combination hadn't been without its difficulties, however; and not one of them would forget what their unconventional methods and untamed drive to win had almost cost them . . .

And even though their present dilemma had its origins in much different circumstances, Jesse was sure that Pitch and Hardcase were feeling the same things they had felt back on Kamino, there on the verge of disaster.

We're going to lose him.

Those events, forever in the past but always bubbling somewhere just below the surface, were what had forged them into the team they were now, more steadfast in loyalty to each other than ever before. And what was lacking in one or another, the reset would make up for.

There was something comforting in knowing that your brothers wouldn't abandon you, no matter what.

"He can sleep anywhere, anytime," Pitch remarked. "Look, he's already gone. How does he do that?"

Jesse shook his head. "I have no idea. But look, even if you can't sleep, at least try to relax a bit. It's going to get damned hot in a few hours, and we've got a long way ahead of us. We're all going to need our strength."

By the end of the third night, Rex was starting to understand General Skywalker's hatred—no, it wasn't too strong a word—for sand. Not only was it difficult to walk in, but under the sun, it was too hot to touch bare-skinned; and at night it cooled down to a point where a man could feel the chill off of it. It managed to somehow get even under the body gloves the clones wore, not to mention mucking up the filtration units on their helmets. It was fine enough to penetrate the smallest opening, yet gritty enough to irritate.

They had crossed almost a 100 kilometers, but the going was slower and more difficult than either Rex or Cody had imagined, for the dunes were high and gave way easily under footfalls. Trying to maintain their direction towards their objective would not be possible without taking some detours around the larger and more treacherous rises of sand.

All water had been exhausted, with the exception of one canteen that Jesse kept for Kix to keep his mouth moist. The rest of the men had begun taking the hydration tablets. And those would be gone by the end of the following day, most likely.

On top of a tall, east-facing dune, Rex joined Cody and one of the 212th's junior pilots, Bounce, whose name was a good representation of his flying. Behind and below them, the rest of the men were setting up camp.

Bounce was looking through a pair of binoculars.

"Can you pick up anything yet?" Cody asked.

"I think I'm seeing a . . . maybe the top of a tower? It's hard to be sure. Take a look, Commander."

Cody looked through the binoculars. He could see immediately what had drawn Bounce's attention.

"I think you're right. That looks like the very top of a tower or spire. Range finder shows . . . roughly forty klicks." He lowered the binoculars and allowed himself a grin. "I think we're going to make it."

"Commander Cody!"

On his internal helmet channel, Cody heard Slip's voice. He sounded urgent. Cody, knowing that he'd sent Slip up onto the dune rising to north, turned his attention in that direct.

"What is it—" He began, falling abruptly silent. "Fek and all . . . "

He needed no report and no binoculars to see what was coming.

He opened the common channel.

"Sand storm! Everyone take cover!"

So, a bow to the "I'm always first, kid," from Rookies.

Kurbin means "Commander".

Hard Case's Tattoo? No idea, I made it up.

And a bow to Rotta the Hutt (cutest little thing who sounds like my cat).