Dear Reader, I'm just including a few of the main's numbers here.

CT-5869 Stone
CT-5052 Bly

The other are incidental, but you can look at the my previous chapter, the guide, for help!

Peace,

CS

Chapter 47 Petrified Trees and Colloquialisms

Gabrielle Maple: "Petrified forest is a lot of dead trees in the desert that have turned to stone."

Alan Squier: So, that was once a tree? Well, perhaps that's what I'm destined to become. An interesting fossil for future study.

From The Petrified Forest

CT-7567 felt his pulse quicken as the new scenario began to form below the observation ring.

"I know this," he said with hushed excitement. "Houtsbul. This was my first battle after coming onto active duty."

He watched as the black obsidian-like terrain rose in shining spikes.

"It looks like glass," CT-2025 commented.

"It felt like it, too," 7567 confirmed. "Slippery as an Alsatian eel. See those little outcroppings that look like weeds or trees? They're really crystalline growths." A wry grin played on his lips. "And they're a lot more durable than they look. Stabbed myself a few times running into them. Grateful for my armor, that's for sure, or it would have been a lot worse."

"This one doesn't look quite as treacherous as the last one," CT-9090 put forth.

"Well, there aren't any fire pots or lava pits – not that I can remember," 7567 replied. "But the bad thing is that if you hit any of those surfaces with blaster fire, it sends the rock up into hundreds of knife-like shards. We lost a lot of men—not to enemy fire—but to collateral damage." He crossed his arms over his chest in smug recollection. "The smoothness of that ground makes it almost impossible to walk on anything that isn't flat. Even trying to grab hold of something to balance yourself or pull yourself up, your hand slips right off." A pause. "After the first couple botched engagements, we got smart and used jetpacks."

"You attacked from the air?"

"Sometimes I think it's the best way to go," CT-7567 replied casually, as if the discussion were purely academic. "I admit I'm a big fan of the jetpacks. I just wish we got to use them more often."

"They're kind of bulky," CT-390 stated.

"And cumbersome," added CT-8462. "They serve their purpose, no doubt. But I think I prefer hoofing it."

"Nothing wrong with that," 7567 nodded. "You have to adapt your strategy to fit the moment. Flexibility is the key to victory."

They continued to comment on the burgeoning scenario for the next twenty minutes, also noticing the arrival of the members of Alpha and Havoc Squads on the observation ring.

CT-3636 was the last to arrive, and he took his place just as the next contest was beginning.

CT-7567 was tempted to go tease him a bit about his moment of sacrifice and his team's subsequent loss; but he decided against it. The scenario was about to begin, and observing Cody was something that needed to be carried out in the company of his own squad mates. He felt, already, that he could speak freely with them, say whatever was on his mind—flattering or unflattering—and use this informal critique of his room-mate's performance as way of bonding with them.

"I'd love to hear what they're being told in the intel brief," CT-2025 commented. He beamed at 7567. "You should be down there to give them some advice."

"Eh, I'm sure they've got guys with more experience than I have," 7567 replied. "But I agree that it would be interesting to be a fly on the wall."

" . . . and the locals aren't very fond of off-worlders." Captain Bullock was Bravo Squad's advisor, and if he had any qualms about giving a fairly renowned commander orders, he did a creditable job of concealing it. "I strongly suggest you avoid them to the greatest degree possible."

Cody tilted his head to one side. "What is the likelihood we'll encounter any?"

"Anything is possible."

To Cody, that answer indicated it was very likely. He looked at the holographic image once again of the Gley'mar – the predominant species of the planet. Humanoid, though barely. They more resembled the crystal that comprised the planet's surface than they did a flesh-and-blood being. Tall, gangly, multi-appendaged, no discernible facial features. Black and smooth just like the terrain.

"Any more questions?"

Cody deferred to the squad commander for this rotation, CT-5821: a confident, fast-burning captain from the 224th Airborne Assault Battalion – a unit otherwise known as Mudjumpers. The 224th had a reputation for getting down and dirty, slogging their way through the worst of conditions, and snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. After the 501st and the 212th, they were one of the most prestigious and revered units in the Grand Army of the Republic.

CT-5821 was a company commander, and he, too, had a nickname.

Snap.

Captain Snap.

No one had inquired yet how he had come to it; after all, there was plenty of time for stories and secrets to be told. Six weeks . . .

"No, no more questions, Sir," he replied.

"Then you have 15 minutes to plan your strategy."

Captain Snap felt neither intimidated nor offended by Cody's presence. In fact, quite the opposite. He was very glad that the commander was on his team and that his wisdom and experience was there for the taking. Snap knew that he, too, had a wealth of knowledge to share when it came to conducting battle; and he felt that between him and Cody, they could come up with a creditable plan.

The rest of the team had nowhere near their rank or experience. There was one lieutenant, CT-8338, who had both the charm and the grit associated with being a fly-boy; but as a pilot, he had little to bring to the table from a ground-war perspective. Still, he was eager and optimistic – always better than reluctant and dour. There were two senior non-commissioned officers (NCOs), Master Sergeant CT-0206, who would have made an ideal drill sergeant, except for his highly non-conformist appearance with half his exposed skin covered with tattoos of exotic women in all manner of provocative poses. And that was only what could be seen from the neck up. There was little doubt among his squad mates that there were other writhing beauties hidden beneath the plates of armor. The other senior NCO was CT-0207, and he was a batcher and battalion mate of CT-0206. They were as close as two men could be, and yet they were nothing alike. CT-0207 was squeaky clean, sporting the original template in precise replication. He was calm, quiet, seemed to be contemplative; whereas 0206 was loud, forceful, and definitely had a way of making himself known.

After them were two junior NCOs, one from the Republic Navy, Petty Officer First Class CT-7931. He appeared to be a quiet type, but that could have been out of deference to the rank of his squad mates. Both Cody and Snap privately had the inkling that there was much more to be said of 7931 than he was letting on. The other was another ground-pounder but with a twist: CT-7667 was a medic. And like most medics, he was a bit full of himself. Training to be a field medic was one of the most difficult tasks in the clone ranks. And there was a great distinction between the basic field first-aid that all clones learned versus the medical skills that a field medic was required to master. Still, it wasn't so much that the skills were difficult to acquire; it was the gruesome fact that not all lives carried the same weight when it came to battlefield injuries. Clone medics were taught—with very little sense of irony—that, while clones were valuable and crucial to war the effort, there was little sense or practicality in trying to save the life of a clone who could not return to the battle in a meaningful capacity.

In other words, a clone was to be saved only if the medic determined there on the spot, often in the heat of battle, that he could be repaired to the point where he could continue to make a contribution to the war effort. For some clones, it was simply part of the duties of being a medic. For others, they felt that power in their hands—the power to decide who was worth saving and who wasn't—and it swelled their heads and sense of self-importance. Still, for others, it was a grueling and wicked responsibility that tested their sanity and often drove to premature burnout.

CT-7667 was a bit of each. He knew his job very well, and he was always happy to save a life when he could. He had a vast reservoir of arrogance, but he generally kept it under good regulation. He'd already had to make too many life-or-death decisions than he'd ever have wanted; but it was part of his job. It was a grave responsibility; but for 7667, it was not about moral implications. It was about following his training and making the hard call. He'd had to choose death for three of his batchers already. One had been his squad mate. He prided himself on always being able to put the mission first and exercising the protocols for such determinations. He knew not all medics could do that.

Of the remaining three members of Bravo Squad, one wore the rank of specialist. CT-1200 was an artilleryman, a range-finder with a steady hand, a good eye, and a lot of guts under pressure.

That left the two newly minted privates: CT-2876 and CT-7132. They had come highly recommended from basic training, and both considered themselves fortunate to be assigned to the same squad with Commander Cody.

"I have no experience on Houtsbul," Captain Snap announced. "Have any of you ever been there?"

No one had.

"Well, it seems to me, from what Captain Bullock said about the natives, that we can expect to run into them. They won't make this a cake-walk," Snap surmised. "There aren't nearly as many obstacles in the terrain of this scenario as there were in the last one, so there must be obstacles that they'll introduce once the scenario begins."

"Agreed," Cody nodded. "I think we can expect it."

Fifteen minutes later, they entered the chute.

The warning light turned green, and Bravo Squad stepped into the scenario.

And promptly went sliding.

"Holy Merseck!" CT-7667 exclaimed, using the vernacular curse that was common use among the medics, Merseck being a much sought-after painkiller with the dubious side effects of altered states of mind. He reached out to steady himself by grasping one of the smooth outcroppings, but his hand slipped free immediately, and he slid to his knees.

Captain Snap reached out and helped him back to his feet, while barely maintaining his own.

"They said it was slick, but they didn't say it was going to be like walking on oil," Snap remarked. "Activate gravs."

They all tapped their wrist pads, activating the gravs, only to discover that this made them slide even more.

"Damn! Deactivate," Snap grumbled. "That just makes it worse."

"It isn't the gravity that's causing the problem," CT-0206 stated. "It's the surface itself. It's so smooth, there's no grip. Increasing the gravity is just pressing down even more on a surface with no purchase."

"I guess this means we're going to have to move very slowly and carefully," Snap said, the frustration clear in his voice.

"Not necessarily." This from CT-7931. He reached down to his utility belt and withdrew the grappling hook.

The others immediately caught onto what he had in mind.

"That's a great idea," Snap said, the frustration fully given way to excitement and certitude. "Fix grappling hooks."

Cody hesitated. "We should do a test shot first, make sure those spikes are strong enough to hold."

Snap accepted this advice and nodded once to CT-1200, the artilleryman with a penchant for hitting bulls-eyes.

CT-1200 aimed for a broad-based spike, adjusted the ion charger on his blaster, and fired with just enough forward propulsion to drop the grappling hook just beyond the spike where it skittered across the crystalline ground. He drew back on the wire until the hook caught, then looked to his squad leader for permission.

Captain Snap nodded.

CT-1200 pressed the retraction lever on his blaster, and as the grappling line reeled in, he slid easily across the ground.

"That looks like the way to do it, chaps," Snap said.

CT-0206 and 0207 followed, each picking out their own targets to act as anchors.

Commander Cody stood back a bit. Even with his helmet on, the others could tell he was in observational mode, not completely sold on the idea.

It wasn't until CT-2876 took his shot that the commander's hesitation seemed to have some plausible basis. CT-2876 slipped ever so slightly as he fired, but that small move was just enough to send his grappling hook a couple degrees wide. Its impact sent the spike bursting into thousands upon thousands of shards. The three troopers already on the other side cringed away from the blast, but they were all hit, though not mortally. The trace trackers simulated the appearance of blood to go along with the pain of the fabricated injuries where the shards had pierced the exposed parts of the body gloves.

Captain Snap turned to CT-7667. "Get over there!"

But as 7667 raised his weapon and took aim, Cody put up his hand on the barrel and drew the blaster back down. He addressed his words, however, to Snap. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. One slip, one bad shot, and we risk another explosion and more injuries."

"Our only other option is to walk across—or crawl," Snap replied. "That's going to be slow progress towards our objective." And pause. "And those men need a medic now."

"Our steadiest hand should be taking the shots," Cody said. "Who would that be?"

"I think that would have been 1200, and he's on the other side now – and injured. You're a good shot, Commander." Snap turned and took CT-7931's blaster from his hands and put it into Cody's. "Do it."

Cody took the weapon.

And hesitated.

Above on the observation platform, CT-7567 was nearly beside himself.

"What are you waiting for?! One bad shot, and you've got to ponder every possibility?! It was a good idea! I wish we'd thought of it when I was on Houtsbul! Stop being so . . . overly cautious!"

CT-2025 placed a hand on 7567's shoulder. "Take it easy," he said with an amused smile. "You wanted to see him in action. Just watch and try not to pop a blood vessel."

"Of all things . . . you can't be hesitant on the battlefield," CT-7567 continued. "For crying out loud, he'll probably want to call a working group meeting and see what the best way is to get across fifty meters!"

"He's a highly successful field commander," CT-2025 reminded him. "I imagine he knows his stuff."

"I'm sure he does," CT-7567 agreed. "But 5821 should just make the call. He's in command, it's just a training scenario. If they wait for Commander Cody to make a decision, they'll be in there all day."

"The scenarios only last an hour," CT-390 pointed out. "And at the rate both teams are going, I don't think they'll ever come within visual contact of each other." He motioned towards the screens that were monitoring Crimson Squad under the leadership of CT-5052.

Here, CT-7567 started to laugh. "What are they doing? Ice-skating?"

"It looks that way," 2025 concurred. "And not doing a very good job at it."

"Well, they're making more progress than Cody's team," 7567 chirped, sounding competitively happy, but then amending his glee. "But if Crimson beats Bravo, we won't get to go up against Cody."

"Uh-oh . . . trouble," CT-9090 stated, pointing towards one of the screens. "What the hell are those?"

An expression of unsavory anticipation glinted in CT-7567's eye. "Those are the indigenous population, the Gley'mar. Oh, I think things are about to get real ugly real fast."

"Have you ever run up against them?"

This question came, not from any member of Echo Squad, but from none other than the winner of previous match, CT-5869. He had been slowly moving along the railing, watching the screens as well as the action below. Now, he stood amidst the members of Echo Squad, and no one had even noticed his approach.

CT-7567 smiled. "My first battle after coming onto active duty. We had not only the Separatists to contend with, but the Gley'mar, as well," he said proudly. "They weren't exactly the most conventional enemy. They weren't really an enemy at all. They just didn't want us on their world. I felt kind of bad that they got drawn into the fighting, to be honest." A pause. "By the way, nice job against Havoc Squad."

CT-5869 gave a one-sided shrug of concession. "It was mostly luck. CT-3636 is a clever guy. I didn't expect to defeat him. He has a reputation."

"It wasn't luck at all, brother," 7567 deferred. "I watched the plan you put into place. I saw how much a crack sharp-shooter you are. You kept something in reserve, and it worked."

CT-5869 chuckled. "I hadn't planned on my man getting all the way and forgetting the flag." He focused his attention back on the scenario below. "I'll bet Commander Cody doesn't make that kind of mistake."

"Hmph! Right now, it looks like he's going nowhere fast," CT-7567 replied. "Look, they're still discussing the best way to proceed! Unbelievable! And he's got injured men bleeding all over the place!" He leaned on his hands over the railing. "Oh, I would have loved to get this scenario!"

"So, those aliens . . . are they lethal?" CT-5869 asked.

"That they are," came the reply. "And in a very strange way. I'd like to see how the trace-trackers simulate it."

"What do they do?"

CT-7567 smiled broadly and leaned further out in excitement as the Gley'mar—at least four of them—drew nearer to Bravo's location, completely undetected. "Just watch."

"Commander, I appreciate your caution, but we can't stay here," Captain Snap said. "We've got to reach our objective, and we've got to get help over to our injured men. We're up against the clock here."

Cody nodded. "You're the squad leader. Although I don't think grappling hooks are the best idea, if it's what you want to go with, I'm behind you."

"You're still our best shot," Snap reminded him. "Proceed."

For Cody, it was a peculiar situation to be under the command of anyone but General Kenobi. On occasion, the Resolute Battle Group Commander, Admiral Yularen, had given him orders. General Skywalker had also been in charge over him on a number of missions. But to have a fellow clone—and one that ranked beneath him—giving orders, even in a training environment, was going to take a bit of getting used to.

Still, Cody was not a prideful man, nor was he the type who always had to be in charge. In fact, he rather viewed his presence at ARC school just as much as an opportunity to mentor some of the younger and less experienced clones as a crucible for perfecting and refining his own skills.

If he tended to the cautious side, then so be it. He liked to weigh all the possibilities, gain as much background and knowledge as possible, and then—and only then—make a decision. He knew what happened when haste carried the day: men died needlessly, battles that were winnable were lost, and the moment of that decision and all its ghastly aftermath were forever etched into that time and space. Perhaps that was where the issue of pride came in: he did not want to be forever associated with great failures, historic defeats, and tremendous loss of life. Yes, that might be pride.

But it just might also have been the degree of compassion and empathy he had developed even as a cadet. Cody—back when he was only known as CT-2224—had always been one step ahead, one cut above, and . . . well, leagues beyond the emotional maturity of his brothers. He'd known from the earliest days of his budding intellect that he wanted nothing more than to be the ideal soldier in service to a Republic whose cause was noble and whose leaders were just. He wanted to be the officer his commanders trusted; the bulwark his fellow clones turned to for support; the smartest, brightest, and most level-headed clone ever to come from the halls of Kamino.

And he'd worked hard to gain the confidence of his leaders and his troops. Part of that effort was a constant awareness of the mood and temperament of the men. He kept an ear to the ground and was not averse to listening to scuttlebutt—it often kept him well-informed. On top of everything, he trusted his own judgment.

And his judgment now was telling him that Captain Snap was a good officer. As squad leader, he needed no encouragement, no affirmation that his decisions were sound. All he needed was support. And Cody was ready to offer that support.

He raised the blaster and fired the grappling hook towards a much narrower spike, skimming just past it, and then reeling in until the claw caught. He handed the weapon back to CT-7931, who activated the retraction and began sliding gracelessly across the ground.

As he drew closer, suddenly the spike seemed to break into pieces. No, not break . . . branch. Crystalline arms jutted out like sharpened daggers. The base of the spike parted into numerous multi-jointed legs. It was as if a stalagmite had sprung to life and loosed itself from its mooring.

"Fek and all . . . " CT-2876 said under his breath.

"Release! Release!" Captain Snap shouted, his voice distorted over the helmet comm. "CT-7931, release!"

CT-7931 jettisoned the cable, but the momentum continued to propel his movement across the glass-like ground.

The rest of the squad raised their weapons, even those who were injured.

"Fire!" Captain Snap ordered.

"No! If we shoot, we'll send glass flying everywhere!" Cody protested.

"Fire!" Captain Snap repeated. They were his last words as a narrow stream of liquid obsidian came darting in from behind, striking him in the middle of the back. The liquid coursed over him, hardening into crystals.

Encasing him like a glass statue.

"Hraka!" CT-5869 blew out the exclamation. "Oh, kriffing Fels of Pershon . . . "

It was yet another colloquial curse he had picked up during escort duty to the far-flung planets of senatorial visits. He continued, "They're going to get taken down and it's not even ten minutes into the scenario."

"I wouldn't count them out so fast," CT-7567 warned, though the shadow of a smile crept into his features. "I don't think my room-mate would tolerate such a humiliation."

"What is that? Did they turn him into glass?" CT-2025 asked.

"Exactly," 7567 replied. "Well, a simulation of it."

"So, he's dead," CT-9090 surmised.

"He's dead," 7567 confirmed.

CT-5869 watched the chaos below. "Did you run up against these creatures when you were there?"

"Only once," came the reply. "Once was all it took for our commander to realize that our best bet was to avoid them to the greatest degree possible." His focus was solely on Commander Cody. "That was another reason we went with jetpacks. I wonder if CT-2224 will come up with the same thought." A pause. "Though it doesn't look like he'll have the option. I don't think they have access to any."

"Jetpacks?" This from CT-5869. "I like that idea."

"I don't think I'd agree to go into any of these scenarios without one," CT-7567 stated.

"Check it out, CT-390 interjected. "Bravo's getting wiped out. There's only two of them left. They hadn't even formed a strategy yet." A chuckle. "They hadn't even gotten into defensive positions."

"The commander's still on his feet . . . and that one there – he's wearing wings . . . must be a pilot."

"Heh-heh . . . don't shoot went pretty quickly to blow everything to smithereens."

"Commander Cody is a good shot. I wouldn't want to face off against him."

"But I think he's going to get his ass handed to him on this one."

"You never know."

CT-7567 listened to the commentary with muted interest, even though it was very intriguing. The competitive side of his nature—which was the greater part—took some perverse satisfaction at his room-mate's current dilemma. Not that he wanted to see Cody fail – certainly not. But he did want to know that even the best among them could be caught out short.

Of course, he never considered that he himself might end up in similar circumstances.

CT-5052 may not have been squad leader, but he knew a FUBAR when he saw one. FUBAR was the gentle way of describing a scenario that was "fekked up beyond all recognition."

The intelligence briefing had been woefully vague and insufficient for what they were facing. The idea of a slippery surface seemed now to be no more than a dastardly euphemism for the terrain on which they found themselves.

The idea of skating, such as it was, was only partly useful, for their shoes could gain no traction against the perfectly smooth ground. What might have been graceful on ice with proper equipment was, in fact, reduced to a flailing, bobbling fun house act that might have been humorous, were this not meant to be a battle competition.

"If we'd known it was going to be like this, we could have asked for jetpacks," he grumbled in the silence of his own mind. "But we have no choice now. We're just going to have to find a way to get across."

The Crimson Squad leader was CT-5211, an experienced major – or as experienced as any of them could be in a war that was four months old. He was a communications officer with Sector 8 Headquarters, but he had seen a good deal of front-line activity in his capacity as an advisor on battlefield systems compatibility. He might be a bit on the cautious side, overly analytical, and prone to thinking every problem could be solved if approached from a practical standpoint. In point, he was a lot like Cody, which might be why the cadre had pitted them against each other.

But CT-5052 found him agreeable enough and was determined to support him as best he could. After all, CT-5211 wasn't like them. He wasn't a fire-breathing, gung-ho warrior with some ridiculous idea of dying a glorious death for the cause of the Republic. It was unlikely he would ever think of wasting his own life just to add a few more days to the lives of uncaring and selfish citizens who knew little about gratitude and even less about the sacrifice being made for them . . .

No, CT-5211 wasn't that kind of hero.

Hero.

CT-5052 had come to hate that word and everything associated with it.

"Fek . . . they're not heroes. They never were."

"Heads up!" came CT-5211's voice over the helmet comms.

A second later, another squad mate, CT-4445, came whizzing past on his back side, continuing on until he bumped up against a crystal spire, and here he got to his feet with extreme care. "That worked great!"

CT-5052 turned to see what method was now being employed.

Two Crimson squad mates had set their stances wide, back feet wedged against a wall of glass behind them. Using this to balance and anchor themselves, they had another trooper sit down between them, took hold of his arms, and using nothing but their own strength, propelled him across the floor like a shuttle.

"Hm, not a bad idea," CT-5052 admitted internally. "But it's going to take forever. There has to be a quicker way."

A stream of liquid glass struck the ground next to him.

He skittered about helplessly on the surface and craned his head back over his shoulder.

A creature like a petrified tree was stalking towards him.