Dear Reader, So now begins a very long arc dedicated to Cody and Rex meeting in ARC school. I do not use any previously written materials as the basis for my vision of ARC training, so please don't be surprised if things don't mesh with stuff you've read from published writers. I had planned to put this into the story much later on, but I decided this would be a better spot. My only other request is that when you're reading, you keep in mind that the personalities and traits our clone favorites developed as the series went on may not be reflected in what you see during the six weeks of ARC training. In fact, ARC training does a lot to shape these clones into the officers they become. Enjoy! CS

Chapter 43 The Beginning: Nothing Alike

"The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily
do not rob the little violet of its scent nor the daisy of its simple charm.
If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness."

Little Flower
 Saint Terese of Lisieux

"Look around, Fives. Feels like yesterday we were here."

Once again, Echo's enthusiasm was winning the day. Who else could reminisce about the good old days when a dire battle was looming on the horizon? Who else could make Fives grin and even laugh by recalling the dysfunction that had plagued most of Domino's Squad's history.

A gaggle of cadets came towards them down the hall, and it struck both of them at the same time how times had changed. These cadets had different hair styles – one even had the same bleach-blond buzz cut sported by their own captain. That never would have happened back in their days as cadets. Or, perhaps it was more accurate to say it did happen, but back then it was a rarity, an aberration; and only certain cadets would have been able to get away with it.

"Heading to target practice," Fives observed with a glint of fond recollection in his voice. "You remember that?"

"Do I ever." Echo spoke in a whimsical tone.

The cadets went past, and beyond them . . . a familiar face, a stooped body, and a warm heart was approaching.

Ninety-Nine, the experiment gone wrong.

And the main reason Domino Squad had at last passed their final test.

Whatever Ninety-Nine might have been lacking in physical aptitude, he more than made up for with his wisdom and skills of observation. He had seen in the buffoonish Domino Squad what no one else had seen: that their common cause had somehow gotten lost in the individuality that had developed among them. It had been a peculiar situation, for clones—by definition—were genetically identical, and the conditioning and training on Kamino had developed the clones, in a most basic sense, into near replicas of each other in everything from appearance to personal tastes to attitude and demeanor. Yet, somehow, a degree of individual deviation had crept in around the edges, almost from the very start. Some clones—like Echo—like developed an intense devotion to rules and regulations. Others had developed a greater sense of humor or cynicism – Cutup and Fives, respectively. Some courted confrontation and discord; others – Droidbait—did everything in their power to keep the peace. And then there had been Hevy, the sort of me-first, gung-ho piston who had the tendency to scatter his other four squad-mates to the wind.

But then, just at the verge of complete and final failure, Domino Squad had pulled together. Each of them had discovered something in their individuality that, while it should have done them good, had actually been doing them harm and sundering their chances as a team.

Echo and Fives – the rule-bound and the cynic – had even taken the step of going to Jedi General Shaak-Ti to ask to be reassigned to another squad. Echo had known that it was within the rules to ask for such a transfer. Fives had taken the cynical view that there was nothing to be done for Domino Squad, and that, were it not for their abysmal ineptitude holding him back, he would have been inducted into officer training long ago. Their request for reassignment had been denied, sealed in place with the final nail in the coffin, "You are where you need to be."

None of them knew exactly what had happened to change Cutup, what had made him suddenly decide to take things seriously. It was as if he had turned into a new man overnight. To be sure, the humor was still there; but it was a regulated humor and no longer the sort of flippant, irresponsible carelessness that had marked his wit previously.

Droidbait – there was nothing unkind or unflattering any of them could have said about him, except that, in training scenarios, he seemed to have had a knack for getting himself into situations that always resulted in his "death" or "injury" on the battlefield. He'd always been the one wanting to clear the path for his brothers, draw fire and allow them to move ahead towards the objective. Fives used to joke—cynically, of course—that Droidbait had a sort of perverse martyrdom wish – the desire to die so that his squad could succeed. Unfortunately, his sacrifices on the training platforms rarely resulted in his squad's success.

And then there'd been Hevy. What had transpired to turn him from an overbearing, self-centered bastard into the one who had, for all intents and purposes, led his squad to victory on that final day, no matter how much he might have tried to deny it?

Echo and Fives had long believed that Ninety-Nine must have had something to do with it. The wrinkled, aged maintenance clone had always used the name, Hevy, when referring to CT-782. And then, the day of the final test, 782 had not only adopted that name, but had come to the table with a certain calm acumen that had not been on display before.

Whatever had wrought the change, Hevy had never spoken of it; and his brothers had never asked.

But seeing Ninety-Nine now, Echo and Fives could not help but immediately recall to mind memories of Hevy and the wonderful, turbulent days of their growing up as members of Domino Squad.

A pile of rifles were spilling from the maintenance clone's arms.

In an oblique way, the tumbling weapons put Echo in mind of how things had fallen apart on the Rishi moon, how, out of the five members of Domino Squad, three had perished there, fallen from the safe embrace of their squad mates, gone before they could see that the victory had been won.

Was the same thing about to happen here? How many other brothers would lose their friends? Would both he and Fives still be alive at the end of this?

"Hey! Ninety-Nine!" he called out.

"Echo, Fives," Ninety-Nine greeted them.

"You actually remember us," Fives noted with surprise.

"I remember all my brothers," came the sincere response. "Is Hevy here? Where's he?"

It was Fives who began the halting reply. "There was an incident on the Rishi Moon outpost."

Echo picked up. "He saved our lives, but he . . . gave up his own."

"Oh, I—I see . . . " Ninety-Nine reached into his pocket and withdrew a shining medal.

"Hevy gave you his medal?" Fives asked.

The maintenance clone did not answer. Perhaps he had not really expected to see Hevy again. Death in battle would have been the only fitting end for such a clone . . .

. . . but why did it have to be so soon? Less than eight months . . .

"So, why have you returned to Kamino?"

"The generals received word of an impending attack here," Fives replied.

To the degree he could, Ninety-Nine straightened. "What can I do to help?"

But it was not Echo or Fives who answered; rather, it was Commander Cody.

"You can make sure the pressure seals on the front five are fully charged." The commander was referring to the ring of five passageways that ran in concentric circles around the outer perimeter of the gestational towers. "When the time comes, we want to be sure they can be closed off at a moment's notice."

"I checked them this morning on orders from General Shaak-Ti," Ninety-Nine replied. It only stood to reason: he was a maintenance clone. "But I'll do it again, Commander."

"Good man." A pause. "And it's good to see you again, Ninety-Nine."

Rex added with a one-sided grin, "I see you're still holding down the fort."

"Just trying to do my part," Ninety-Nine said with the pride that all clones possessed, no matter what role they played.

"You've always done your part . . . and more," Rex nodded.

With those words of praise still chiming in his ears, Ninety-Nine went off to double-check the pressure seals.

Rex turned to Fives and Echo. "I received a special request from Commander Meers. He's looking for some snipers. I already sent him DB, Sights, and Poker. You two are pretty good shots. You belong to him for the duration of this battle. He's in Hangar C off North 1. Go report in."

The two men snapped to attention. "Yes, Sir!" they acknowledged in unison.

The captain and commander continued on their way to the south landing platforms, taking the quickest route, which entailed passing through the barracks towers, the lower two levels of which were reserved for the two weeks of on-Kamino ARC training.

"Well, this brings back memories, doesn't it?" Cody noted as they walked hastily past the rows of two-man rooms. Unlike the cadet barracks, which consisted of sleeping tubes piled five-high with lockers down below, these were actual rooms with actual beds, a desk against the wall in between, two chairs and two foot lockers on the walls opposite the foot of each bed.

Rex replied in quiet voice. "It does."

They came to the end of the line of rooms, stopping for a moment at the last room on the right. As no class was in session, the entire place, including this room, was empty.

Cody stepped inside without hesitation. Rex lingered on the threshold.

"It even still smells the same," Cody remarked.

Rex looked at the small confines. After a few seconds, he replied, "But it's not the same. It isn't ours anymore."

Neither of them would begrudge the other a moment of recollection spent in this place, even as they prepared the defenses for the upcoming battle.

A few seconds dedicated to remembering how their bond had come about would be something they could take forward into the impending conflict.

And it would make them stronger.

It always had.

One year earlier.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"At ease." Without his helmet, the 729th Tactical Assault Battalions commander looked like one of any of the other hundreds of thousands of clones. A rugged, handsome face with a strong, square jaw, piercing amber eyes that often looked serious even in laughter, and a flat-top of dark hair that seemed the perfect finishing touch for such a classic and military visage.

Of course, what the commander saw looking back at him was identical in every respect.

Every respect but one: CT-7567's hair, instead of the naturally warm hues of near-black, was a shocking bleach-blond and at least two inches too long. The commander recognized it, as he did with so many of his troops, as a statement of individuality. Barely four months into the war, and the clones had already begun to show the independence of their progenitor—so to speak—and had taken it upon themselves to find ways of distinguishing each from the other.

The lieutenant's sun-bleached topping might have been the most blatant—and in the commander's mind, the most obscene—demonstration of uniqueness; but in some strange way, it was very fitting for a clone who already stood out from the crowd in so many other ways. CT-7567 had never blended in, never been the quiet observer, the taciturn follower. He'd always been out front of his platoon, encouraging his fellow troops, leading them even more effectively than many of the more experienced clones. He'd even started referring to his fellow clones as brothers, a moniker which was spreading quickly and which the commander himself found quite suitable and even touching.

Now, as the commander stood facing this outstanding young soldier—though physiologically, the lieutenant was only four years younger than the commander – he found himself lamenting what he was about to say.

"You've heard of ARC troopers."

"I have, Sir," came the crisp reply.

"Well, they're opening up that training to qualifying troops serving in the field," the commander went on. "The first class starts in one week. I recommended you, and you were accepted."

Pleasure beamed from lieutenant's eyes. "Sir, I'm honored."

"You should be," the commander replied. "It's a damned hard program to get into." A pause. "But, uh, strangely enough, you seem to already have a reputation, so your acceptance was probably a bit easier than it was for others. Still, that means they're going to have great expectations of you."

"I won't disappoint them," 7567 replied with the same sort of surety that made him a hero to his fellow clones. "And I won't let you down, Sir."

The commander grinned, but it was a wan, false thing; for he knew only too well that once the higher-ups got a good look at what 7567 was capable of, once he had graduated from ARC training no doubt at the top of his class, there would be no chance of him coming back to this unit. The 729th might have had more than its fair share of combat rotations, but it had not the grandeur and visibility of some of the other GAR combat units.

It was already a given that, barring a complete and utter failure, CT-7567 would emerge from ARC training and be reassigned to another, more prominent unit.

But the commander had known that when he'd recommended him for the course. It was a calculated decision he'd made for the good of the war effort, and it was useless to lament his decision now. The 729th would be alright. They had plenty of good officers, and their Jedi general was decent enough. But there were units that needed the kind of clone leadership that 7567 would bring with him. And such an outstanding officer deserved the chance to show that leadership.

"I know you won't," the commander acknowledged. "We'll get you to the rear tomorrow, and from there, Sector Headquarters will take over the transportation."

"Understood," the lieutenant nodded. "Sir, are you sure—are you sure you want me to go? I don't want to leave the unit in a bind."

The commander smiled at the lieutenant's arrogance, the idea that his presence was indispensable, as if every clone were not fully and immediately replaceable. Such cock-surety was only made acceptable by the fact that 7567 hadn't been speaking only from bravado, though there was a good dose of that in the mix; no, he truly felt concern for the safety of his fellow troops, and the idea of leaving them in the midst of battle was a genuine affront to his moral code.

"We'll manage, lieutenant," came the reply. "Go on, you'd better go say your good-byes. There'll be a lot of guys sorry to see you go."

"I'll be back in a month. It's a month, right, Sir?" 7567 said.

It amazed the commander that his lieutenant hadn't even the slightest idea of his being reassigned after the completion of the school.

And it made him feel somewhat sorry for him. "Six weeks," he corrected. "Go on." Then, as 7567 turned to leave, he added, "And I suggest you do something about that hair before you go."

The rear staging area for Battle Group Trident, of which the 729th was a part, was on the planet O-12. There was nothing remarkable about the planet, its inhabitants, and certainly not the thrown-together base the Republic had set up there in order to keep the flow of supplies and munitions moving to at least fourteen forwarding operating locations.

CT-7567's shuttle from the FEBA* had arrived late in the evening, and the lieutenant had spent one noisy, almost sleepless night in the transient barracks, which happened to be right next to the generator repair facility, thus accounting for the racket all through the night. He was scheduled to meet his shuttle at 0500; so when 0300 rolled around and he found himself wide awake, he decided to head for the landing pad early.

Even at such an hour, the entire staging area was alive with activity, swarming with people, machinery, and droids. The flight line and its adjacent landing and loading zones were awash in nonstop comings and goings.

CT-7567 approached shuttle dispatch –a collection of consoles jammed into one corner of a massive warehouse bordering the northeastern end of the flight line.

The clone behind the nearest console glanced up. "Can I help you, Sir?"

"Do you have a pad number for the shuttle going to Kamino yet?"

After a few seconds, the clone replied, "Pad D-12. It's not scheduled to depart for another two hours, Sir."

"That's fine. I couldn't sleep anyway, so I'll just wait around," CT-7567 replied.

"Yes, Sir." Then, the clone offered helpfully, "D-12 is straight down this row here, but they're offloading a merchant supply ship, and I think the walkway is probably pretty cluttered. You'd make better time going around the E loop and coming in from that side. That's right over there."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

"Going to ARC training, Sir?"

The lieutenant gave a one-sided grin. "How did you know that?"

"I could just tell. Looking forward to it, Lieutenant?"

"You know I am." 7567 made no attempt to disguise his pride.

"Best of luck to you, then."

"I'll take all the luck I can get," 7567 replied, then he slapped the top of the console as a parting gesture. "Keep 'em flying. Every job is critical to the war effort."

The clone nodded. "I appreciate that, Sir."

The lieutenant made his way to E loop, and as he began his way around, he could see what the dispatcher had been talking about – a massive cargo ship was docked over at least six of D-loop's landing pads, and its cargo was everywhere. As it turned out, the top of E-loop was not far from D-12, and the lieutenant was able to pass over the tarmac without any difficulty to the small shelter that served as a waiting area for D-12.

And here, he found one other man – a clone – sitting on a worn and discolored bank of chairs. The man glanced up at the lieutenant's entrance, but looked down just as quickly.

CT-7567 sat down a few seats away, but he could not bear the silence for long.

"You going to Kamino?" he asked.

The companion barely looked up. "Yeah."

7567 was not discouraged. "Going to ARC training?"

"It would appear so," came the cool and somewhat annoyed reply.

"Well, you don't sound very excited about it," the lieutenant pointed out, his own enthusiasm bubbling over with every word.

"It's just another training course," the other clone answered listlessly.

"It's the pinnacle of clone training," 7567 stated. "There is no higher achievement. It's a great honor to be selected to attend."

"I'm sure that's true."

CT-7567 was perplexed by his companion's peculiar behavior; but such disinterestedness presented a challenge, and 7567 loved a challenge.

"What unit are you from?"

The clone didn't answer right away. He seemed puzzled, almost bothered by the question. At length, he replied, "Fourth Brigade Combat Team."

"Ah, out on Slojin," 7567 noted.

"Yeah."

"I heard it was pretty nasty out there."

The clone shrugged. "I guess."

The lieutenant was wondering how someone this dull and indifferent could have ever been nominated, much less selected, to attend ARC training.

"What's your number?" he asked.

"5052," came the reply.

"I'm 7567."

5052 gave a curt nod and returned his attention to the floor.

"I'm from the 729th TCB, out with the Trident Battle Group," 7567 introduced himself.

For the first time, the other clone showed some little bit of life. "I take it 729th has pretty lax grooming standards."

The lieutenant grinned. "Why do you say that?"

"Blond hair? That would never have flown in the 4th BCT."

7567 ran his hand over his head, now barely more than a blond stubble. "Really? I just shaved it all off. You should have seen it before. My CO thought I looked like a girl."

"You should have shaved it all off and let it grow back in its natural color," 5052 opined. "That looks . . . makes you stand out."

"That's the point," 7567 grinned. "I like to stand out."

"Yeah, you seem like the type."

If 5052 were trying to get under the lieutenant's skin, it wasn't working. In fact, it was having just the opposite effect: it was getting 7567's blood pumping. To the lieutenant, any challenge was worth taking up; and sometimes, where there were no challenges, it was fun to create one.

"The type to . . . be the winner at everything?" 7567 put forth.

"The type to get on someone's nerves," 5052 replied.

"I think you must have only one nerve left," the lieutenant pricked gently.

"And you've found it."

CT-7567 swung sideways and kicked his feet up on the bank of chairs. "You know, I think we're going to get along great."

CT-5052 sighed loudly and shook his head. "I think it's going to be a long six weeks."

"I fully expect you to come back as honor graduate."

"I appreciate that, but don't hold your breath, General. There's going to be a lot of stiff competition. Besides, it's not a contest. It's meant to develop us into even better soldiers."

"True, but somebody has to finish on top, and I have confidence that will be you, Cody."

CT-2224 liked to replay his parting words with his general again and again within the silence of his mind. One of the things he thrived on and that motivated him was the knowledge that his Jedi had such faith in him. But then again, General Kenobi had always held Cody in the highest esteem.

Since the earliest days of their superior-subordinate relationship, the general had treated him as he would have any non-clone officer: as a valuable member of the team, a man who could inspire and lead his fellow troopers to fight against the most uneven odds, and often emerge with the victory.

He'd taken to calling him Cody – the name being the natural fallout of an incident that had occurred within their first two weeks together. And 2224 had not only liked the sound of it, but he liked the way it made him feel.

He could not imagine serving under a better Jedi or general than Obi-wan Kenobi – especially when he considered the Jedi general's former padawan and now fellow general: Anakin Skywalker. Now, there was a tough one. Brilliant, fearless, completely unorthodox, loose with authority, and revered by his men in an almost god-like manner, Skywalker was considered one of the best generals in the Army, though how the Jedi Council viewed him was less well known. Even so, Cody enjoyed serving alongside him but thanked his lucky stars daily that he was not Skywalker's first-in-command. He needed a bit more order than Skywalker generally exhibited.

Skywalker's current first-in-command, clone captain CT-676, but who also had a nickname—Stamp—was perfect for the general's command style, for he was every bit as undisciplined as Skywalker. They had been together since the war's start four months ago. General Skywalker had said more times than Cody could count, how perfect a match they were and how he would never be able to replace Stamp, were something ever to happen to him.

But at the rate that clones dropped on the battlefield, Cody silently pitied the general, knowing that it would only be a matter of time.

All clones were replaceable.

They were created to be that way.

Now, as he walked along behind the mouse droid that was leading him to his room for the next two weeks, his temporary home here on Kamino, he wondered once again why Stamp had not accepted the recommendation to attend ARC training. Surely, General Skywalker would not have put him forth as a candidate unless he felt it was deserved and would be of some use.

But Stamp had politely refused the general's suggestion and stayed behind.

Cody felt a bit disappointed at that, for he and Stamp had become quite good friends. Stamp would have made the next six weeks of training more bearable—perhaps even enjoyable.

The mouse droid stopped outside the last room on the right at the end of long line of two-man quarters. It beeped its message then set off back down the hallway to fetch and show another trainee where he would be living for the first two weeks of the six-week program.

Cody waved his hand over the recognition sensor.

The door slid sideways.

The lieutenant stepped inside and stopped.

The place looked like a cyclone had hit it.

Apparently, his roommate had already taken up residence. But fek and all, was he rooming with a Triderian swill-pig?

It was baffling, really. Clones didn't own that much, so how could one single clone manage to scatter so much stuff all over the place? A lopsided kit bag lay in one corner of the room, its contents spilling out over the sides: body gloves, extra pieces of armor, utility uniforms, a pair of very shiny black boots. Moving onto the bed on the left side of the room, there were papers, papers and more papers, a hand-held holo projector, loose protein bars and nutrient squeeze packs. On the opposite bed, a full set of armor was laid out neatly in stark contrast to the status of the rest of the room.

He took a closer look.

A much faded insignia showed on the shoulder guard. A reddish-brown image that looked like a half-clover, but he knew it was supposed to be a bow and arrow.

"729th TCB," he noted out loud. "Foot soldiers." He paused for a moment. The 729th was a fairly renowned unit. He'd heard lots of stories about their exploits, going for the tough assignments and winning.

"Well, I hope whoever he is, he doesn't think we're going to be battling for control of this room," he said out loud. "You only get one side, buddy." He began moving the orderly armor onto the messy bed. He had barely started when he heard raucous laughter coming from the hallway.

He opened the door and looked outside. At the far end, the end from which he had just come, he could see two clones—two very . . . ostentatious clones—one with short-cropped blond hair, the other with the double stripe of red hair running front-to-back that many clones wore in honor of their fallen comrades. The two were jostling and struggling down the hall, both clearly engaged in a contest of some sort.

Cody grinned. "I guess being back here makes some guys feel like they're batch-kits again. That'll end soon enough once training starts. No one's going to skate or laugh their way through ARC school." He retreated back into his room and began to unpack his very small and sparsely-filled kit bag.

The hubbub in the hall was getting closer, getting louder.

And then it was outside the door. Banging, pounding, cursing, laughing.

"These two might need to be encouraged to take it back down the hall," Cody said to himself.

He opened the door, and the two men came careening into the room, toppling Cody in the process.

"I don't—know—why you think—you think you can—beat me!" The blond-haired clone blared, trying to get a foot-trap in place to trip the other one up.

"Because—I've—always been able—to beat you!"

"In your dreams!" With these words, the blond flipped the double-stripe onto the bed full of papers and other miscellany.

Everything went flying.

"Hey, hey!" Cody raised his voice, getting up off the floor and putting an arm between the two. "I know you're having fun, but you're making a mess! And this place was already a mess to begin with."

The blond straightened up, his entire face red with heightened excitement, his eyes wide and filled with mirth. "Oh yeah . . . sorry about that. I didn't mean to leave it that way. But when I saw this guy again . . . "

"Imagine both of us getting selected to go through ARC training at the same time," redhead grinned, shaking his head. "I wonder what fool made that decision?"

"I take it you two know each other," Cody said.

"We were in the same pod, though different batches," redhead replied. "But we, uh, we mixed it up a lot growing up."

The blond trooper reached out his hand. "By the way, I'm 7567, your room-mate."

Cody froze for an imperceptible moment. "Fek and all, is he serious? This is my room-mate?" He slowly reached out his hand. "I'm Cody. Nice to meet you."

"Cody? What—don't you have a number?" 7567 asked.

"I do. It's 2224, but my general calls me Cody, and that's what I prefer to go by," came the reply.

"Sounds good to me," 7567 said with a careless nod. "Cody it is."

Cody turned to the other clone. "And you are?"

"1004," he answered.

"What outfit?"

"7068th MP." 1004 smiled in an almost sinister manner. "But I'm gunning for something much bigger than that coming out of ARC school."

Cody grinned. "Oh?"

"The Forty-first."

"Elite Corps?" Cody was impressed.

7567 sniggered. "He has big dreams."

"Dreams are better than delusions," 1004 snapped back. "You want a position that isn't even open."

"Eh, I'm more than happy to go back to the 729th," 7567 replied. "They need me. Those are the rest of my batchers. I have to take care of them."

1004 simpered. "You just told me out there that you were aiming for the 501st, and they don't even have an opening."

Cody raised a brow. "The 501st? Under General Skywalker?"

"See, this is where you don't even pay attention to what I'm saying," 7567 harrumphed, pointing a finger at 1004. "I told you that was my ultimate goal. I know they already have a first-in-command."

"Why not go there as a regular line officer?" Cody inquired.

"That's not for me," 7567 deferred. "I like being in charge."

An amused grin crossed Cody's face. "You do realize that General Skywalker is the one in charge?"

7567 was not deterred. "From all I've heard of him and the 501st, I think he'd like a clone captain who can think on his feet and lead the battalion in battle."

"He's got a captain like that," Cody pointed out. "Captain Stamp is one of the best."

7567 gleamed and winked. "One of the best. You're looking at the best."

1004 rolled his eyes and shook his head. He nudged Cody in the arm. "I'm just grateful to every power that exists that he's your room-mate."

*FEBA: Forward Edge of Battle Action

Notes:

1. So, I tossed in the bit about Droidbait, because I always felt sad that he got short shrift. Poor guy, "Can we please stop arguing?" and Hevy accuses him of being droid bait and getting in the way. So, I have my own little tribute to him in this chapter.

2. 7068 MP - military police

3. 5052 is Bly.

4. 1004 is Gree.