Dear Reader, introducing a couple more clones. Again, I kind of throw off "canon" here, because I just like the way the story unfolded in my head! Enjoy! Peace, CS

Chapter 44 The Beginning: Room-Mates

"The faculty had never before experienced a student who combined a calm ignorance of the rules with a winning urge to be good, who seemed to love the school truly and deeply, and never more than when he was breaking the regulations, a model boy who was most comfortable in the truant's corner."

A Separate Peace
John Knowles

"Well, it looks like you've still got some settling in to do," 1004 said, nodding at the room's disarray. "Catch you for grub this evening?"

"I'll come by at 1900," 7567 replied.

The double-stripe flashed a brilliant smile at his friend's room-mate. "Nice to meet you, Cody. And . . . good luck."

As soon as the door shut behind 1004, 7567 began to quickly gather up his belongings.

"I'm sorry about this. I had just started to unpack and then I heard a familiar voice out in the hallway. I got distracted. I hadn't seen him since coming on active duty. I didn't mean to leave such a mess." The words came pouring out in a rush that matched his hasty movements.

"It's not a problem—"

"I'm really not a slob—though it probably looks that way," 7567 cut him off. "And I wasn't sure what bed to take so, I just dumped stuff out everywhere."

Cody stared at him, scurrying about with more energy than such a task even required, and he began to wonder if he were not looking at the human equivalent of a tornado. There was such vibrancy, such unchained power swirling around 7567 that it was hard to believe he was just a clone like the rest of them. Whatever the dynamism was that wreathed and folded itself around him, it was something Cody had never encountered in another clone.

And it wasn't something he was sure he could tolerate.

He waited until he felt certain his room-mate had finished his rambling, then he said slowly and with a well-practiced grin, "I was moving everything onto the messy bed. I figured that was where you'd be sleeping."

"Right, right, that's good," 7567 nodded, still busily ordering his disorder.

Cody returned to unpacking his kit. "I see you're from the 729th."

At this, 7567 stopped long enough to straighten up with a puff of pride. "Vipers take the lead." The viper was the battalion symbol, and the phrase was their motto.

"Yeah, they have quite a reputation," Cody noted. He had seen the rank on 7567's armor, so he knew he was not a company commander. "You're a platoon leader?"

Already sinking into the conversation, 7567 promptly forgot about straightening up the room and sat askance on one corner of the desk. "Yes," he answered. "My company commander is a pretty amazing fellow. I think he was the one who convinced the battalion commander to recommend me for ARC training. I have to admit, I wasn't expecting it. I mean, not because I don't think I'm good enough—I know I am—but because I'd never really talked about going." A brightness flashed across his face. "But as long as I'm here, I'm going to show what I'm worth. The 501st may not be open right now, but I at least want to know it's within my reach. "

Cody was cordial. "You're pretty sure of yourself."

"It doesn't pay for a soldier to be timid," came the reply.

"I think there's a balance," Cody opined. "Finding that balance isn't always easy."

"No worries. I'll be here to help you find it."

These words brought Cody's head up abruptly. But when he saw the pointed expression on 7567's face and recognized the teasing humor there displayed, he relaxed and gave a small laugh.

"How are you going to help me find something that's apparently eluded you?" he quipped.

But 7567 was not put off. "Huh! I've never looked for it."

Cody shook his head, still chuckling, and returned to sorting through his meager belongings.

7567 came and stood at his side, watching the armor come out – for Cody, like all trainees, had arrived in the standard red and gray utility uniform.

"Is that—is that—"

Cody recognized the surprise—shock—in his room-mate's voice. And he finished the sentence for him. "The 212th Attack Battalion."

"You mean—General Kenobi's 212th Attack Battalion?" 7567 asked, incredulous.

"That's the one."

7567 slapped Cody on the shoulder with enough force to make him waver for an instant.

"Why didn't you say so before?!"

"Because it didn't come up until now," Cody answered.

"What a great piece of luck!"

Cody was nonchalant. "How so?"

"Because you can put in a good word for me,"7567 replied, as if the answer were obvious. "Imagine that: my room-mate being from the 212th. Fate couldn't have set things up any better."

"I think you're getting a bit ahead of yourself—"

"So, tell me about General Skywalker. And this Captain Stamp. It doesn't bother you that I want to kick him out of his job?" 7567 pressed.

Cody wasn't sure if he was serious or not; but something about this question, whether in jest or truth, rubbed the commander the wrong way. He replied evenly, "It may bother me to hear you say it, but it's not something I'm worried about happening. Stamp is a perfect fit for General Skywalker. Plus, he's a damned good captain."

"He'd have to be to work for General Skywalker," 7567 enthused, clearly excited about the topic. He dropped down heavily to sit on his bed, once again sending a small shower of items bouncing. "I hear the general plays by his own rules."

"That's . . . pretty much true," Cody conceded.

"That he's the greatest pilot in the GAR."

"Also probably true." Cody paused. "And the most reckless, I might add."

"That's most likely what makes him so good," 7567 proposed.

"There are a lot of things to be admired about General Skywalker," Cody stated. "His men are very loyal, very dedicated." He added with emphasis, "They feel the same way about Captain Stamp."

"They could feel the same way about me."

With his back to the brash lieutenant, Cody permitted himself a sardonic smirk. "Maybe."

7567's enthusiasm was not deflated. "It must be great to be in the 212th, to serve under Kenobi."

"It's a lot of responsibility, too."

"Of course, but I just meant that . . . he's a great Jedi."

"True." A pause, in which Cody felt his own importance. "But serving a great Jedi means you have to keep one step ahead of everyone else. General Kenobi doesn't allow his clone officers to slack off." He grinned. "He's already got his hands full with Skywalker."

"Maybe I'd have better luck getting into the 212th," 7567 said with mock thoughtfulness, swinging sideways and lying down with his hands behind his head.

Cody turned to face him with a grinning eye. "Now, you are dreaming."

"Why? Look, we're room-mates, so when this is all over, you can put in a good word for me, can't you?" 7567 said. He chuckled. "Who is the first-in-command for the 212th, anyways?"

"Are you thinking of going after that position now?"

"It might be more in reach than the 501st position."

For a moment, there was silence; then a battered helmet slid into 7567's view, coming to hover a meter above his face.

The stylized gold half-sunburst centered above the visor made his breath catch in his throat. He shot up into a sitting position then got clumsily to his feet.

"You? You're first-in-command?!"

Other than the fact that 7567 had gotten to his feet, Cody noticed little other sign of respect for his position and rank. But then, he was not too bothered by it. He didn't want to be treated differently simply because he was already a commander - and a commander in one of the most prestigious units in the GAR.

Besides, it wasn't so unusual to have a commander in ARC school. After all, the war was only 4 months old, and Cody had emerged from Kamino as a commander already. He'd been plucked from the ranks and groomed for officership, along with many thousands of others. The clones chosen to be officers had remained with their batchers but attended special classes and training courses meant to prepare them for leadership roles. Some emerged as captains, others as lieutenants, commanders, majors. A clone officer corps had been a necessity for the command control of such a vast army.

"I am." Cody hung his helmet on the wall-rack provided. He turned back and took a bold stance only inches in front of his room-mate. When he spoke, it was with a wry humor. "So, if you're thinking you'd like to take my job, get ready to have your ass handed to you." A pause. "And if you're thinking the 501st is just waiting there for you . . . then it's time for a reality check."

7567 was silent for a moment, then he grinned broadly. "I can still hope."

"Maybe you'd better focus that hope on just passing the course," Cody suggested. "I don't want to be known as the room-mate of the guy who washed out."

It was in the mess hall that evening that CT-7567 discovered something about his room-mate that he had not expected, certainly not after their rather rocky first meeting.

Cody was fairly well-known and even more well-liked.

The commander had entered the mess hall about thirty minutes behind 7567 and 1004, but he had joined their table—and the two other clones already present, CT-5052 and CT-2025—with his composure firmed up and ready to tolerate more of his room-mate's company. He had already considered that he might need to request a new room-mate, but that would seem like quibbling – especially after only a few hours—and so he was determined to make a go of it. After all, there was something . . . compelling about 7567. He just feared it might compel him right out the room.

Within a few minutes, three more clones had joined them. All three knew Commander Cody, and the greetings exchanged impressed upon 7567 the high regard in which the commander was held. It confirmed to him that he had hit the jackpot, so to speak, in his room-mate assignment.

So what if the commander seemed a little . . . stiff? A little humorless? CT-7567 had known for a long time that what he considered dull in someone else was just usually just a reflection of the fact that he himself was so outgoing and boisterous. Few others could meet his level of energy, and he took a measure of pride in that knowledge. Still, he knew that he had a tendency to wear people out, and he did not want that to happen in this case. The truth was he liked his room-mate thus far – not just for the strategic positioning associated with his assignment to the 212th—but because he seemed like a man with a long fuse. And CT-7567 needed friends with long fuses.

Cody, for his own part, was used to the limelight and attention he garnered as General Kenobi's first-in-command. He cherished his position and missed no opportunity to learn everything he could from his general: how to both give and take orders, how to rally and inspire the men, how to use the most delicate diplomatic phrasing to win over squeamish civilian leaders.

In fact, Cody's assessment of his own weaknesses usually focused on specific skills and tasks, such as long-range precision gunnery or having the acumen to tweak and fine-tune his own rocket pack. It had never occurred to him – and why should it?—that he might have weaknesses of personality, of character? He knew who he was and had a high opinion of himself – every bit as high as 7567 had of himself – but the difference was that Cody did not feel it necessary, even in a joking manner, to speak of his own assets.

Now, as he sat listening to his room-mate regale the others with tales of adventure from the past four months, he was faced with a decision: listen to the incessant grandstanding, interrupt with his own stories or an invitation for someone else to speak, or he could find a reason to excuse himself.

He chose to bring others into the conversation. "2025, you've been through something similar," he said, cutting off 7567 in mid-sentence. "I'm sure we'd all like to hear about it."

CT-2025 looked taken aback for a moment. They all did. CT-7567 had been chattering away for the last half-hour, and no one had minded his monopoly of the conversation.

But there now arose a tacit recognition that this was the only way any of them would get a word in edge-wise around him, and that somehow, they were expected to be more than mere listeners.

And 7567 did not seem to mind in the least that he had been undercut in the middle of his story. Instead, he eagerly prodded 2025 to take up. "Let's hear it. I'm the only one who's been doing any talking."

1004 raised an eyebrow. "The rest of us don't get a chance to talk," he poked.

CT-2025 awkwardly launched into his own tale; but within a minute, he had grown comfortable, and seeing that 7567 bore him no ill will for being thrust out of the center ring, he settled down into an easy cadence and told the story of his first real battle. It prompted recollections from the others about their first battles, and the conversation went late into the night until, not surprisingly, Cody announced he was hitting the sack.

The others, in turn, called it a night.

Tomorrow was the first official day of training.

The alarm went off.

Not the reveille alarm meant to wake all the trainees. No, that wasn't due for another thirty minutes.

But Cody's alarm—his own private alarm, part of his HOPO—had been set for 0500. He liked to get a head start.

Cody had never had trouble waking up, getting out of bed, jumping straight into the day's work. And today was no different. He rolled onto his side and sat up, stopping short when he saw the bed opposite him was empty.

"Maybe he called it quits already," he mumbled, but the presence of 7567's gear, more neatly organized now but still not to the degree Cody would like, was indication that he was still around . . . somewhere.

"Not a chance."

Cody glanced to his right where the door to the bathroom—the quarters all had private facilities—was open, and standing in the doorway was 7567, towel around his waist, daubing the water from his bristly blond hair.

The commander felt a bit ashamed for having been heard making such a snide remark, but 7567's next words burned off that shame like fire steaming the water out of wood.

"I came here to prove I'm the best; so as long as you don't wash out, we're together for the duration."

Cody got to his feet. "Are you joking or am I supposed to take you seriously?"

"I'm not joking," 7567 deferred, "And it's your choice whether or not to take me seriously." He walked back into the bathroom. "We could make a good team, you know."

Cody was not so sure of that, but he gave a neutral, factual response. "From what I know of past classes, we don't get to decide our own teams. And the teams change. And, there are a lot of activities that are individual, not team."

"Then I'll try my best not to defeat you too badly when we're pitted against each other," came the loudly spoken reply.

"And I can't wait to knock you on your fourth* every chance I get," Cody mused. Aloud, he replied, "I'll try not to hit the ground too hard."

7567 emerged a moment later, pulling his black body glove on as he walked. "They're going to have to find a b-better de-SIGN! for these blasted th-INGS!" he grunted as he struggled with the form-fitting triple latex layer that formed the protective underpinnings of clone armor.

The commander was mostly able to hide his amusement at the sight and the sound and struggle. He would have offered to help—after all, that's what brothers did for each other, right? And it was common knowledge the body gloves were a clone's worst enemy after the Separatists. But he decided he would rather watch the spectacle than aid someone who had already found a dozen ways to get under his skin.

At last, Cody rose from the bed. "First day jitters get you up early?"

"Heck no, nothing like that," 7567 scoffed. "I got up and went to the gym. I like a good workout first thing in the morning."

Rounding the bathroom door and now out of sight, Cody frowned. This lightning bolt was even beating him out of bed in the morning? Hitting the gym before he'd even hit the alarm button.

"That's good," he said, but his tone was one pitch short of condescending. But Cody would not allow himself to become prey to his own vanities. His room-mate had a strong character; he was just going to have to get used to it.

"You can join me tomorrow," 7567 offered. "I'm always looking for someone to work out with."

"We'll, uh, we'll see."

Roll call was before breakfast.

And it was the first time the trainees would be meeting any members of the cadre.

CT-7567 stood with Cody on his right and the two clones from the next room on his left. One of those clones, CT-2025, had already made himself known to his neighbors in the mess hall the night before, and 7567 had been impressed.

CT-2025 was one of those men whose ebullience and sense of brotherhood was nothing short of awe-inspiring. In his recounting of his first battle the night prior, he had scaled the heights of eloquence after overcoming his initial discomfort, making each of them feel as if such a murky baptism was a rite of passage through which each clone had to pass, but through which he should never pass alone. His brothers must always be there at his side, to share in the trials and bolster whatever weakness a man might have.

His story-telling aside, he had also proven to be a quiet and observant man, listening with close attention and interest as the others had told their stories. And it seemed clear to Cody that 2025 wasn't just listening for entertainment's sake. He was listening in order to get to know the men who were speaking, who would spending the next six weeks in close quarters with him. He was someone who valued knowledge but only in order to gain understanding – and from understanding, wisdom.

Cody found himself wishing, perhaps unfairly, that he'd been roomed with 2025 – a man who seemed much more a team player, much more reserved and in command of his wits, much less . . . irritating than CT-7567.

But then again, perhaps there was truly something to be said of the role fate played in such matters, for 2025's room-mate was of a such a disposition that Cody imagined that only the steadiness and compassion of CT-2025 could bear and buoy the man's melancholy and pessimistic personality.

CT-5052—the same clone 7567 had met on the landing platform on O-12—had distinguished himself almost immediately as out-of-sorts and generally disagreeable. But it did not appear that he was intentionally being so; rather, the sentiments seemed to fulminate around him like an angry cloud in which he was trapped and unable to escape.

It was odd, truly; for he clearly wanted to be around the others. His presence at dinner last night was proof of that, even as he had sat sour and with a deeply etched scowl on his face the entire time. When the others had prompted him to tell the story of his first battle, he had balked at first; and when pressed, flatly refused with, "I'm not a story-teller. And I wouldn't tell that story anyway, even if I were."

This morning, Cody had made a point of looking at his armor to discern his unit.

The 388th Extraction Squadron, part of the 34th Airlift Wing.

Combat rescue. Searching out and removing troops from behind enemy lines.

The 388th was a unit of over 500 men with a very high mortality rate, given the nature of their mission. Not too long ago—maybe a month—a number of flights (flight being a unit within a flying squadron and comprised of approximately 30 men, the size of a batch) had been wiped out completely on a mission to evacuate portions of the civilian Twi'lek population on Ryloth from the path of a Separatist advance. Such evacuation operations had formed no part of the 388th's mission, and the sheer numbers and near-riot conditions at the embarkation points had overwhelmed the crews and delayed the ship's departures, giving the enemy time to send out the droid armies and launch an attack.

It had been a disaster.

That might account for CT-5052's morose demeanor, and it seemed his brothers at ARC training were willing to give him the space he needed, all the while wondering how he had managed to be selected for such a prestigious training course.

Yes, CT-2025 would be a good match for him as room-mate, perhaps able to nurse him out of the darkness surrounding him.

"Troops! Atten-chun!"

The 80 clones that comprised the ARC trainees came to attention, helmets tucked neatly between their forearm and right hip – the proper stance for attention, as opposed to the more lax practice of carrying the helmet just beneath the shoulder – a violation that would have earned them extra duty in the days of their cadet-hood.

The clone that now strode before them was well-known.

The commandant of the ARC school.

"I am Colonel Claw," he bellowed, marking each word with distinction. "Commandant and commander of the Advanced Reconnaisance Commando Training School." A pause, during which he paced slowly from one end of the front row to the other. "For the next six weeks, you belong to me and my team. Forget about the units you came from. Forget about where you think you might be headed after leaving here. From this moment on, we own you! And the only way you break that ownership is to graduate . . . or crash and burn. Front five rows, four steps forward!"

The front five rows executed the move with precision.

"Now turn and look behind you. Back five, look at the front five. That is how many of you will not make it to completion. Half of you will either bail out, fail out, or sustain injuries that will prevent you from continuing. It doesn't matter what high-visibility unit you came from. It doesn't matter what rank you are. It doesn't matter what reputation you bring with you. If you're not focused on the here and now, present in each moment as it happens, you will not become an ARC trooper. If you're not the best, you will not become an ARC trooper."

He stopped in front of CT-7567 – whether by design or happenstance was unknown.

"If you can't prove yourself a team player when needed and a solo player when needed, you will not become an ARC trooper." He leaned close. "Are those words clear to you, trainee?"

"Sir, yes, Sir!" 7567 barked.

Claw continued down the line. "You will have squad advisors, and these men will be your gods. You will obey them without question. You will carry out their orders in the most expeditious manner. You can be assured that they will often be the only thing standing between you and death or serious injury. Failure to heed their advice and follow their orders could result in your entire squad failing the course. Or much worse. These advisors are ARC troopers themselves, and they know the lay of the land."

This time he stopped in front of a clone whose closed grimace made it appear that he was trying very hard not to say something.

"Do you understand, trainee?"

"Sir, yes, Sir."

"Explain that look on your face, trainee. I think you have something to say . . . CT-3636, I believe it is. Am I correct?"

"Sir, yes, Sir. And no, I have nothing to say. Just anxious to get started."

Claw had perfected the sneer. "I'll bet you are." He stepped back and nodded to the cadre gathered behind him.

Two clones stepped forward.

"Meet Commander Steed and Major Tides. These two officers are your training officers. They will be overseeing operations on a day-to-day basis. Under them are eight squad advisors, one for each squad. You will be assigned to one squad for the entire six weeks, and command positions within that squad will rotate among members. So, whether you're an enlisted man or an officer, you will all get a chance to lead in one capacity or another."

Cody felt his heart sink. Apparently, things had changed since his last accounts of ARC training. It appeared that the off-world portion and extended duration were not the only new aspects of the program.

If they assigned squads by room, he would end up with 7567 for six very tedious weeks.

"I'm turning the floor over to Commander Steed and Major Tides for your squad assignments."

The next thirty minutes consisted of an exposition of rules, procedures, and expected conduct, as well as the introduction of the squad advisors. Cody waited with baited breath for the squad assignments and was admittedly thrilled when it was announced that he would be in Squad B while 7567 was in Squad E. There were eight ten-man squads altogether.

At the conclusion of the briefing, Commander Steed asked if there were any questions.

Cody stepped smartly forward. "I have a question, Sir!"

Steed nodded.

"Will we be retaining the same room assignments or regrouped with our squad mates?" As he asked the question, he could almost sense a ripple of . . . insult? offense? hurt? coming from behind him where 7567 stood with the rest of them, waiting for the answer.

"You will be keeping the same room assignments and the same room-mates," Steed replied. "Each squad will have its own strategic meeting room, but in order to foster camaraderie among the entire class, you will continue to be roomed with someone not in your squad."

"Understood, Sir." Cody stepped back.

"Are there any more questions? Good. Report back here at 0800. The fun's about to begin, trainees! Dismissed!"

Cody turned and started to walk out with the rest of his class. He purposefully avoided speaking to –or even making eye contact with – his room-mate. His reasons were not fully clear, not even to himself. On one hand, he felt some small bit of guilt that he might have embarrassed and offended 7567; but it was also the case that he was disgusted and frustrated with the idea that he was going to be stuck with him now for the full six weeks.

"It's neat that they all have actual names."

Cody gathered his composure, determined to comport himself with equanimity. He should have known that, even if 7567 had been offended, he'd be too tenacious to give up that easily. He glanced sideways at him. "Neat?"

"Yeah, neat. I like the idea of names. Even you have a name."

Cody congratulated himself on his self-possession. "Even me," he confirmed.

"You were the first clone I'd ever met who had a name," 7567 went on. "But everyone on the cadre has a name. Maybe we'll get names by the time training is over."

A somewhat arch, devious grin curled Cody's lips. "Well, I've got one for you. Blondie."

CT-7567 laughed, and Cody once again realized that nothing he'd said—nothing he could say or do, apparently—was having any negative impact on this irrepressible clone.

"Definitely not," 7567 chirped.

"Why not? It's how you look," Cody pressed. "You decided to dye your hair blond. Blondie seems appropriate."

"Heck no," came the protest again, this time with a bit more weight behind it. "No, no, no. And if you try to make that stick, so help me . . . you might wake up one morning with blond hair of your own."

Cody laughed despite himself. "I'd better start sleeping with one eye open."

*"Fourth" is short for "fourth point of contact" - or "ass"

And yes, Colonel Claw - I just felt like a silly Star Wars name!

Reminder:

1004 - Gree

2025 - Colt

5052 - Bly

3636 - Wolffe