Dear Reader, I forgot to mention that CT-1993 is none other than Commander Jet of Point Rain fame (you know, the guy who's leading the flame-throwers!). I will be updating the character listing in the next day or two. I realize there are a lot of numbers floating around. Soon, some of them will acquire their actual names. I think you'll recognize how one gets his name in this chapter . . . Peace, CS

Chapter 55 Close Quarters Combat

"A soldier cannot always count on being bigger and stronger than the enemy. He should, therefore, never try to oppose the enemy in a direct test of strength. Supple misdirection of the enemy's strength allows superior technique and fight strategy to overcome superior strength."

U.S Army Field Manual 3-25.150, U.S. Army Combatives

The afternoon was spent reviewing and critiquing each squad's performance in the various scenarios. Most commentary was purely observational; although when pressed for suggestions on how each squad could have handled its scenario better, there was no shortage of recommendations.

It was not part of the Jango Fett template to be wilting and withdrawn. Some clones may have had a certain reticence about them – perhaps even a degree of shyness – but when it came to giving their opinions during after-action reviews, each man was willing to put forth his own ideas on what had gone right, what had gone wrong, and what could be improved. And if a man were to become an ARC trooper, he could scarcely afford to shrink away from such open criticism – both giving and receiving.

Surprisingly, CT-7567 contributed little to the review. He sat with his squad, listening intently as the others spoke, occasionally jotting down an item of interest or two on his data pad. He sat in rapt attention as each squad leader gave his reasons for taking the chosen course of action, and he made internal note of the input and reaction of the other squad members. Had they agreed with their leader's decisions? Did they appear disgusted at the outcome wrought by those decisions? Did they harbor unspoken resentments that their own ideas were not implemented? Did they see themselves as a team yet? Or were they still, on this first exercise on the first day, simply a collection of competing souls?

And to be sure, he was forming many pictures in his head of just what his fellow trainees were like, what they were made of, their strengths and weaknesses. It was a habit of his, for CT-7567 knew that winning battles came down to more than sheer numbers and weaponry. It involved study, observation, getting into the enemy's head as well as knowing the character of the men serving beside you. For while he might consider it an advantage to be formed from the same genetic cloth as the men around him, he also knew that each one of them was as different from the other as the leaves on a tree. Each had his own spots and blotches. Some had been blown by the same wind but to different effect. Each was clinging to a source of life and strength—what CT-7567 liked to call the brotherhood—knowing that the seasons were moving rapidly, yet their motivations were varied. Their joys were not identical, nor their sorrows. Their loves, their hates, the things that made them laugh, the injuries that drove their angers – all different, all unique.

And CT-7567 had realized, even as a cadet, that the best way to reach a man was to gain a knowledge and understanding of him. In the same way, knowledge and understanding were the best bets for defeating an enemy.

In this case, the enemy just happened to be brothers, and so CT-7567 devoted himself to listening and observing during the review – even when the topic rolled around to Echo Squad and his own performance in both scenarios, despite the fact that he had not been the squad leader.

He might have been provoked into defending himself, but to everyone's surprise, he let even CT-5052's critique go unanswered – for the most part.

CT-5052 had gone straight for the jetpack issue. "One small miscalculation, and flooding the afterburners could have killed your entire squad."

It was CT-2025 who came to his squad mate's defense. "Half of us were already out of the area. True, there might have been an explosion and men would have been killed, but that still would have bought us the time we needed to get to the objective."

"But you didn't take the objective with the men you had," CT-3636 pointed out. "You needed the men who'd stayed behind. If they'd been killed, you wouldn't have won."

CT-390 spoke up. "He didn't miscalculate, the place didn't get blown up, and we were successful. Sometimes, you have to take a chance. If you play it safe the whole time, you're going to lose a lot of battles."

CT-5052 scowled. "I know all about losing battles. I know that there's no room for heroes on the battlefield. You're either a team or you're not."

Commander Steed interrupted the back-and-forth. "I find that a very interesting comment, CT-5052. Why would you say there's no room for heroes on the battlefield?"

CT-5052 seemed to struggle for a moment before answering with tight control, "Because heroes are all about me, I. Winning battles takes more than one man."

Steed regarded him with thoughtful intrigue. "Don't you think that sometimes one man can make the difference?"

"He can make the difference, but . . . he won't win the battle on his own. An army of one is no army at all," came the rather heated response. It was clear that something about the topic was churning through 5052's gut. He added with a sharp vehemence, "Batchers stick together. Squads stick together. Platoons stick together."

"Unless victory depends on them splitting up." This, spoken with calm rationality, came from Commander Cody. He went on with the quiet authority that his reputation warranted. "Under ideal circumstances, yes, we would stick together. There is, after all, strength in numbers." A pause. "But I don't see the correlation between calling someone a hero and the decision that a squad needs to split up in order to achieve the mission. To me, any soldier who sacrifices his own life to save others is a hero, whether the mission is a success or not. You can still be a hero in a losing battle. All of us who have been on the front lines knows that there's a decision point. It's the man who avoids making the decision who fails."

At these words, CT-7567 saw Cody send a brief glance in his direction. Peculiar, considering the former had earlier accused the commander of just that sort of indecisiveness.

Regardless of whether the commander was conveying a cryptic acknowledgment of his own failing, CT-5052 was not finished with his criticism, "I'm not sure CT-7567 goes through that rigorous a thought process when he's making his decisions."

"That's why I depend on guys like CT-2025 to keep me from going off the deep end." It was one of the few times CT-7567 spoke during the review. "I know my weaknesses."

Here, Major Tides stepped in. "Knowing your weaknesses isn't enough. You have to work on eliminating them." He looked to the room full of trainees. "And I'm not saying this to just CT-7567; this goes for all of you. Whatever faults you came here with, you won't leave as an ARC trooper and still be dragging those faults along behind you. You either eliminate them or you don't graduate." He paused. "And if you think I'm joking . . . just take a look at our washout rate."

"Interesting AAR, enh?" CT-7567 asked, tossing his data pad onto the bed and immediately setting to the task of removing his armor.

"Interesting in that you hardly said a word," Cody replied with a chuckle. "I wondered if you'd forgotten Basic." He, too, began removing his armor.

They had 90 minutes to change in their utility uniforms, grab some dinner, and be in place in the Balto Lecture Hall for the evening's tutorial on non-computer-aided navigation, a six-part series that would move from the lecture hall to the lab to actual real-world navigation. It was a subject every clone learned at a very rudimentary level as a senior cadet; but for ARC troopers, often operating in isolation and under clandestine circumstances, the necessity to plot trajectories and pinpoint locations using only the crudest of materials and the repository of knowledge in their brains was of utmost criticality.

"I was more interested in listening," came the reply. "You can learn a lot by hearing what others have to say."

Cody's chuckle now transformed into a laugh. "That's not something I'd expect to hear coming from you."

CT-7567 feigned non-comprehension, and Cody played along. "You love to hear yourself talk."

CT-7567 deferred, "I don't love to hear myself talk. I just love to talk." He stripped down to his body glove. "Speaking of talking . . . were you speaking of yourself when you said that stuff about the one who doesn't decide is the one who fails?"

Cody was only mildly stunned by his roommate's audacity. He was more surprised at just how quickly he was adapting to the artless, graceless nature of CT-7567.

"I was speaking in generalities," he replied.

"Oh. It's just that you looked at me funny."

Cody shook his head. "Maybe I did. But it wasn't because of my failings."

"Well, it couldn't have been about my failings," CT-7567 protested with teasing glee. "I never hesitate. And my squad won."

"Won the first and lost the second—"

"Both squads lost the second—"

"The point is . . . I was speaking in general terms. It's like Major Tides said: we all have weaknesses. The goal is to overcome them," Cody emphasized. He slapped his roommate on the shoulder. "One of your weaknesses is, you like to argue where there is no argument." A smile. "I'm first in the shower."

"By the Force and every unknown god, this is . . . impossible. I can't even keep my attention focused. Why do we need to know this stuff when there's a computer everywhere we turn? There's one on every ship. There's one in our helmet. Every droid is just one big computer. If I don't have a computer around to calculate the jump to hyperspace for me, I'm sure as hell not going to trust my own calculations. This is ridiculous. When will we ever have to use this kind of knowledge?"

Such was CT-7567's internal dialogue, and it went on ad nauseum as he sat in the lecture hall, listening to one of the instructors, another clone who had introduced himself with the crassly obvious name of Astro.

On the screen behind the instructor, image after image of formulas, example star charts, and the occasional animated illustration of some procedure or other filled the next two hours with enough numbers and symbols that CT-7567 was returned mentally to the days of his cadethood; and he had hated the subject just as much back then.

Fighting was what he was about. Doing battle. Strategizing. Tactical planning. Leading the way. Pushing the boundaries.

This . . . technical stuff . . .

It was better left to the machines that were designed to handle such tasks.

In the lecture hall, the trainees sat where they pleased, not necessarily by squad. As such, CT-7567 had stayed with his roommate, and he could not help but notice that Cody was studiously taking notes, fully focused on the presentation, and nodding his silent comprehension every few minutes.

It wasn't that CT-7567 was not focused on the lecture. Indeed, he was; it was just that he felt a sense of pointlessness; and that pointlessness, he attributed to his disinterest, for when would such skills truly be needed? What difference did it make if he wasn't any good at it? And anything he wasn't good at could not possibly be important, could it?

When the lecture ended at 2100 hours, the trainees had free time until lights out at 2300.

"Are you going back to the room?" CT-7567 asked as they left the hall.

"To the gym."

"I'll go with you."

"Only if you promise not to critique my workout," Cody grinned.

"Neh, I'll leave that to 3636."

The next several days passed in a whirlwind.

Training on new weapons systems. Tactical planning sessions using Range 9 to test out the results. A one-day course on diplomacy and inter-planetary relations (at which CT-5869 excelled). Two days of underwater training and operations. Continued lectures and lab training on interstellar navigation. A fitness regime that pushed even these—the fittest clone troopers—to the brink of their abilities.

And on day 9, hand-to-hand combat training and sparring – to a degree far beyond anything taught as cadets.

The instruction was conducted, not in squads but in the group as a whole. The clones were paired one-on-one, rotating through several different partners, for instruction covering martial arts, modern army combatives, brawling techniques, and close quarters combat using sticks, knives, and whatever could be found to hand.

It came as no surprise to anyone that CT-7567 was already well beyond advanced in each of the areas. He was swift, versatile, and brutal in his matchups, taking his opponents out with seeming ease and obvious glee. This kind of fighting appealed to him, and he made no secret of his desire to show how skilled he was.

At one point, he found himself sparring with CT-1993, squad leader for Gander and a good fighter in his own right.

CT-1993 was a Galactic Marine assigned to the 83d Marine Expeditionary Unit, and he was certainly not a man to take lightly. He served under Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi and was as dedicated to the war effort as a man could be; but the whole idea of leaving the battlefield to come to ARC training had not set well with him, and it was only his general's insistence that had brought him here. However, now that he was here, he had every intention of representing his outfit with pride and honor. He thought the universe of General Mundi, and he wanted to be sure of bringing credit upon his general through his own performance.

As he squared off against CT-7567, that thought was in the back of his mind, and he considered that his opponent was a worthy adversary from what he'd seen so far.

"Free style," announced the sergeant major in charge of combatives. "Starting positions. Begin!"

CT-1993 had already decided he would wait for CT-7567 to make the first move, to close the distance between them. He had seen enough of his opponent's previous spars to recognize that 7567 could not bear long before going for the clinch, although he'd shown great variety in the manner of clinches and take-downs he'd used. He'd also noted that CT-7567 was lightning fast, had a long striking range due to a fuller arm extension than most of his fellow trainees practiced. He was willing to open himself for a split-second in order to go for a punch if he could not get an immediate clinch, and what often started as a punch morphed into a clinch if it appeared the blow would not land.

And so CT-1993 stood off and waited for CT-7567 to come to him. What he had not anticipated was that his opponent would approach as if to make a clinch and at the last moment, sweep his leg up into a sidekick followed by a back mount that almost drove 1993 to his stomach. He just barely managed to stay on his hands and knees, but this did not work to his advantage. CT-7567 slid one arm around 1993's throat and the other under his shoulder, gripping the top of the breastplate of his armor. He jerked him backwards into a sitting position and wrapped his legs around his waist.

CT-1993's hands went up to the arm around his neck, and at the same time as trying to pull 7567's arm away, he forced himself into a leanback and then used his legs to execute a rollover. The rollover was successful but that was as far as he got, for 7567 immediately leveraged into a crouch, threw 1993 over his shoulder and then delivered a flat handed chop to the crook of the neck, pulling back on the thrust of the move at the last instant in what was clearly a victory.

CT-7567 smiled down at his opponent and extended his hand.

CT-1993 accepted and got to his feet, shaking his head. "Cripes, I didn't even last thirty seconds."

"Oh, it was longer than that," 7567 replied.

"I wasn't expecting you to start with a kick," 1993 admitted. "You have a long reach, so I was expecting a punch, and then when you started to close with me—"

"I threw you off your game," 7567 winked. "I like to be unpredictable. I think hand-to-hand might be my strongest area."

"Is that so?" This challenge came, not from CT-1993 but from the sergeant major.

CT-7567 turned and, despite the fact that he outranked the man, given that this was a training environment and he was the trainee, he came to attention and replied with courtesy and more than a bit of bravado. "I am good at it, Sergeant Major. I've had a lot of first-hand experience."

"Let's see just how good you are," the sergeant major smiled. Then, raising his voice, he called, out, "Everyone on the perimeter! Move, gentlemen!"

Once the trainees were arranged around the edges of the mat, the sergeant major called CT-7567 into the center.

"Time for a little friendly competition," he announced. "Watching you all just now, I observed that most of you are adequate fighters. Adequate isn't good enough to be an ARC trooper, but I've still got four more weeks to improve your performance." A pause. "I did see a few, uh, diamonds in the rough, so to speak. CT-7567 here thinks he's the best, and at the moment, I tend to agree with him. Is there anyone who wants to challenge that claim?"

There were no volunteers. The situation had arisen so unexpectedly that the lack of takers had less to do with the men's confidence in their abilities to defeat CT-7567 than it did with the surprise of being asked to take place in a spectator match in front of the entire class.

"Huh, a bunch of little dainties, is that it? No skin off my back, girls," the sergeant major scoffed. "I kept my eye on the ones who showed promise, so I'll pick my own volunteers." He strode over to stand in front of CT-2025.

"You're up, bright eyes," he said.

CT-2025 balked. "We're in the same squad—"

"Not for the purposes of this exercise, you aren't," the sergeant major rejected. "And this isn't a request. Get out here."

CT-2025 walked over to where CT-7567 stood waiting, the latter seeming not a bit perturbed at the idea of going up against his squad mate, the former giving a shrug to acknowledge he was not particularly thrilled at the prospect of fighting a man whose prowess everyone had already acknowledged.

In the center of the mat was a circle 6 meters in diameter and outside of that, a square 12 meters in diameter. Beyond that, the edge of the mat, where the observers stood, was 15 meters across. For competitions, which area of the mat was permissible was determined by the type of combat. But being that this was not a bona fide competition but rather a friendly head-to-head full demonstration of battlefield techniques, the entire mat was open for use.

"Hm, I think a nice way to kick this off would be with a demonstration from our template's own fighting style," the sergeant major began. "Let's see how good you both are at Mandolorian Iviin'yc Nynir." He was referring to a form of close quarters combat made famous by the inhabitants of the planet of Mandalore, a race with a heroic warrior past and a reputation for ruthless efficiency on the battlefield. Of course, those were bygone days. Mandalore had in the recent past shrunk to a shadow of its former glory, its queen—a committed pacifist—trading strength away for a vague notion of peace that involved what many of her own people considered too high a price in acceptable losses.

The clone trooper progenitor, Jango Fett, had adopted the gear and techniques of the Mandalorian warriors (among many other techniques); and he himself had taught the first wave of his progeny the methods the Mandalorians had used to such great success.

Iviin'yc Nynir, translated into Basic as Lightning Strike, was a method that most closely resembled bare-knuckled boxing and high-strike kicking. It was not as artful and graceful as many other fighting methods; it was not meant to be. It had only one purpose, and that was to take an enemy down as quickly as possible with little risk of injury to self.

The sergeant major had noticed CT-2025's outstanding command of the discipline, and that was why he had chosen the particular method of combat for this matchup.

"This isn't a points-based contest," he announced. "You will have to go for a knockout or takedown and pin. Upper body armor off. You have the full mat. Positions on the circle."

CT-7567 and 2025 stripped down to their body gloves from the waist up and took their places.

"Starting positions. FIGHT!"

CT-2025 had barely even absorbed the command before CT-7567 had closed with him, lunging and taking him around the waist with one arm and behind the knee with the other hand, pulling forward and collapsing the leg. As CT-2025 fell onto his back, he tried to draw his other leg up into a position where he could push 7567 off with his foot; but 7567's body was flush against his own and he could not get his leg in between them. He felt 7567's knee wedged tightly against his crotch, preventing him from sliding downward; and 7567's fingers were clenched around his neck.

CT-2025 reached for the hands at his neck, trying to loosen his opponent's hold, but a grey haze was coming on quickly . . . this wasn't going to work. He had to try something else. Instead of attempting to slide down against the knee in his groin, he jerked in the other direction, bucked violently twice in rapid succession, throwing CT-7567 off-balance, at which point he was able to finally get his foot in between them and push him away.

Gasping to catch his breath, he scrabbled backwards, hoping to get out of range of any immediate follow-on attack. Such a follow-on would have been the normal course of action, but it was not what CT-7567 did.

Instead, CT-7567 got to his feet, not quite as fast as would have been expected, his right hand pressed against his lower right ribcage where 2025 had pushed him off.

"He's injured," 2025 noted silently. "He's going to favor that right side." He wasted no time in spinning forward into a back-fly roundhouse kick, aiming for the same spot, only to find his momentum carrying him through the air with no contact as 7567 sprang aside.

Now with his back to his opponent, 2025 found himself crashing face-first to the ground with CT-7567 on top of him.

CT-7567 slipped his arms under 2025's shoulders, drawing his arms back and at the same time, pressing his knee once more between his legs against the tailbone, now fully preventing him from sliding up or down. He locked his fingers together behind 2025's neck.

"If you keep fighting, I'll dislocate both shoulders," he warned.

"Match!" The sergeant major called out.

CT-7567 released his hold, got his feet and helped his squad mate up. "Good move getting out of my first hold. I wasn't expecting that, bucking around like a Hebrides colt."

CT-2025 grimaced. "You fooled me. You pretended you'd been hurt."

"You should know never to trust an adversary," 7567 said with a smile. "Especially someone like me." He turned to the sergeant major. "Who's next?"

The sergeant major felt a warm mix of affection and umbrage at the blatant fearlessness and overflowing confidence facing him. A part of him wished that all trainees had such surety; but there was also a part of him that feared the foolhardiness that was often an accompaniment to such surety.

A call for volunteers again turned up no one, and so the sergeant major made his own selection.

CT-3636.

Standing nearby, Cody could not help but wonder if the sergeant major had known just how fraught with peril his selection was, for in the past nine days, the disdain CT-3636 had for CT-7567 had become ever more evident. In some inexplicable way, it seemed that 3636 had come into ARC training with an eye of criticality that missed no shortcoming, overlooked no foible, and admitted no superiority in any of his fellow trainees. But while he looked upon all his classmates with a certain condescension, he seemed to reserve his greatest contempt for CT-7567.

And perhaps it was part of 7567's nature not to notice such things, but it seemed that he was, at the very least, unwilling to respond to the cold shoulder and sarcastic remarks cast in his direction.

Indeed, Cody had spent the past nine days trying to understand what made his roommate tick; but just when he'd thought he'd figured it out, the next day would dawn and bring with it some new, heretofore unknown, motivator; and Cody felt himself no closer to knowing his roommate and, in fact, tumbled into greater confusion than the day before. Still, he had begun to admit to himself that he enjoyed CT-7567's company. He enjoyed his enthusiasm and had developed his own methods of curbing that enthusiasm when it got overbearing. He was starting to appreciate CT-7567's sense of humor; but even more, he was recognizing that he had been paired with someone whose skills as a soldier were beyond those he had seen in any other clone; a man to whom leadership seemed to come naturally; a man who wanted to appear immovable but who wore his heart on his sleeve if one knew to look for it.

Now, as Cody watched CT-3636 step forward to the circle, he was already feeling sorry for the commander, for he was certain that the captain was about to defeat him . . . and 3636 did not take well to defeat.

"Findish martial arts," the sergeant major decreed, referring to a method of combat that involved straight-hand work, flying kicks and highly controlled precision moves. "Again, knockout or takedown and pin." A pause. "Starting positions. Begin!"

Unlike in the previous bout, this time CT-7567 hung back, not even making a feint, waiting for CT-3636 to come after him; and when he did, CT-7567 willingly absorbed the blow—a spinning side kick that impacted him just above the hipbone—then hopping back a few steps as CT-3636 regained his stance.

CT-3636 was pleased with the landed strike, but he was not fooled into thinking that his prowess alone had resulted in the connect. He'd seen CT-7567 fight, and he knew that the kick would not have found such an easy landing. CT-7567 had allowed the contact, though to what end, CT-3636 did not know. He was tempted to press his advantage, except that he was not sure it was an advantage at all.

"It'd be just like him to toy with me," he thought. "Well, I'm not going to fall for it. I'm not going to rush in there and embarrass myself."

The two circled slowly until, at last, CT-7567, with incredible speed, sprang forward within striking range, directed one closed-fist brawl-style punch directly between his opponent's eyes but without making contact, then leaped back out of range.

"What the—this is supposed to be Findish!" CT-3636 accused angrily.

"Sorry 'bout that," CT-7567 quipped without sounding in the least apologetic. "I thought the point was to win."

CT-3636 looked to the sergeant major. "Are we obeying the rules or is this a free-for-all?"

The sergeant major didn't even try to hide his amusement. "CT-7567, Findish only."

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

CT-7567 faced CT-3636 once more and there was no mistaking the glint in his eye, and that glint only provoked 3636's fury. He would not be made a fool of.

Almost immediately he feinted a lunge that caused 7567 to jump back, following up with a rear kick that missed the target completely when 7567 side-stepped and sprang towards him, grabbing his leg and twisting, upending 3636 and dropping him hard to the mat.

But CT-3636 was an accomplished fighter in his own right, and he did not waste a second. No sooner had he hit the ground than he thrust his foot out, his heel smashing into 7567's jaw and snapping his head back.

CT-7567, however, did not retreat. Instead, he scrabbled towards 3636, clearly intent on trying to keep him on the floor; but 3636 was recovered and in one forceful leap, he pounced on top of 7567 and began delivering blows.

Yet, his frustration level was quickly reaching its limit, for CT-7567 seemed to easily deflect every punch. And in that frustration, CT-3636 made a crucial mistake. Instead of going for the choke, his focus on a punching victory left him open for CT-7567, with both arms free, to reach up and get hold of his left arm. He then drew his knee up and trapped 3636's left foot against his body with his own foot.

As soon as CT-3636 felt his foot being pressed inwards towards his opponent's body, he knew he'd made a mistake; but CT-7567's exploitation of that weakness had been so quick, 3636 had had no chance to counter. CT-7567 pushed him straight up, and with the same-side arm and leg immobile and useless, he toppled onto his side.

CT-7567 rolled over and aimed a flat-handed chop that CT-3636 deflected at the last instant. As 7567 tried to get the mount, he found himself forced into a sloppy sort of wrestling match, with the advantage switching from man to man with each roll across the mat. At one point as he was beneath 3636, with his opponent's head next to his, he said in a low voice, "You know you can't beat me."

CT-3636's reply was simple. "I'm about to."

"You don't stand a chance."

CT-36363's rejoinder was less gracious. "Screw you."

In the next revolution across the floor, CT-7567 disengaged just enough to tempt his adversary into trying to regain his feet; but when 3636 took the bait, 7567 struck out with his foot, hitting the back of the knee and causing 3636 to stumble and fall onto all fours. CT-7567 then launched himself from his down position into a scissored armbar, exerting only enough pressure to cause pain and not injury.

CT-3636 let out with a bark—more surprise than pain. But he was not ready to concede yet. He tried to push back into his opponent to lessen the stress on his arms, but 7567 had anticipated the move and firmly braced himself with one foot pressed out behind him.

In what might have been his most impudent moment thus far, CT-7567 looked up to the sergeant major. "None of this is Findish, but neither was all that rolling around on the ground. I figured CT-3636 wouldn't mind one more episode of breaking the rules."

A buzz of snickers could be heard in the room.

Cody, though inwardly smiling, sighed and shook his head. "Why do you humiliate the man, Blondie?" He used the moniker only in the silence of his own thoughts or occasionally when it was just he and 7567, and he wanted to get under his roommate's skin. "3636 isn't an enemy. He's the kind you'd want on your side. Show some graciousness and let him lose with dignity."

But the words had already been spoken, the fun had been made at 3636's expense.

"Match, CT-7567."

At that, 7567 released his hold; but when he offered his hand to his opponent to help him to his feet, he was met with a cold refusal. Instead, CT-3636 stood directly in front of him, their faces centimeters apart. "You can cheat in training, but you can't cheat on the battlefield."

"There are no rules on the battlefield," came the calm response, in essence, a challenge. "If you can't win when there are rules in place to protect you, how do you expect to win when there are no rules?"

"The match is over, trainees," the sergeant major pointed out. "CT-3636, back to the line." He waited until 3636 had resumed his place, then he spoke. "CT-7567 is right. There are no rules on the battlefield. The goal is to make sure your enemy dies and you live. Form and points and style mean nothing when someone is trying to kill you. You do whatever it takes to stay alive. Your blaster isn't always going to be in your hand. As much as certain factions in the leadership might want to convince you that all battle is now done long-range and without ever seeing the enemy, that kind of kripe comes from people who have never been on the battlefield. We know better. We know that you come face-to-face with the enemy more often than not, and you're just as likely to encounter alien races as you are battle droids. And when that happens, you need to defeat them, no matter how it's done." A pause. "With that in mind, our next round will be free style." He looked to CT-7567. "How are you holding up? You still think you're a one-man army?"

"Bring it on, Sergeant Major," came the cocky response. "I'll take all comers."

The sergeant major shook his head. "Just a few more. I want to see if anyone can beat you." He asked again for volunteers, and again received none. So, this time he chose none other than CT-5052, yet another clone who had little love for CT-7567.

From the sidelines, Cody, however, was not surprised at this choice. If the sergeant major wanted to see a good, evenly matched bout, this would certainly fit the bill. Cody had caught sight of CT-5052 in his sparring matches, and there could be no doubt that he was one of the best in the class. Perhaps it was because he harbored such bitterness and negativity that he could channel into his attacks; or it might be the patient way in which he allowed his opponent to be lulled into a lax stance. Whatever it was, CT-5052 was a brilliant close quarters combatant; and given his dislike of CT-7567, the match should present an added vehemence.

And that, it did. The onlookers were not disappointed.

CT-5052 came off the line like a raging gundark, driving 7567 back to the mat's edge with a series of roundhouse and flying kicks, wheeling arm slices, and even an aerial somersault culminating in a thrust kick. None of the maneuvers made contact, but that had not been their purpose. They had been undertaken with the sole intention of putting 7567 on the defense and forcing a rapid retreat on this opening salvo.

Trapped at the corner of the mat, CT-7567 yelled to the sergeant major. "No rules?"

Almost as if reading 7567's mind, the sergeant major replied, "Stay within the perimeter."

CT-5052 feinted a punch then followed with a leg sweep; but 7567 dove over his leg and out of the corner, rolled over and came up on his feet, immediately executing a blind mule kick to prevent his opponent from a rear attack. He turned just in time to see CT-5052 springing towards him, going for a frontal takedown.

The textbook defense against such a move would have been to allow himself to be pushed down and then use his foot and his opponent's momentum to launch him over his head. Instead, CT-7567 took a neat step to one side, clasped his hands together, and brought them thundering down in the center of 5052's back as he sailed past.

CT-5052 hit the mat hard, the wind knocked out of him. He did not immediately gasp for air. Training and experience had taught him that defense must come first and slow controlled breaths would help him recover faster than desperate gulps. He rolled onto his back, his left arm automatically going into a straightarm to ward off any potential incoming attack. A good decision, considering CT-7567 was bearing down on him.

CT-5052 swung his leg up, catching 7567 in the side and knocking him down. That tactic gave 5052 the couple seconds he needed to get to his feet, put some distance between them, and recover his breath.

Now, he would do what he did best. Wait for his adversary to make a mistake.

CT-5052 had made his physical conditioning a point of pride. He worked extensively with weights in pursuit of increasing his strength; and he felt confident that if any of his fellow clones should attempt to close with him, he could overpower them by sheet brute force and the extra weight in muscle he'd acquired.

He'd given a stunning opening run, and now if he presented as being somewhat shaky and wearied by the exertion, he trusted his instincts that a man like CT-7567 would leap at the chance to exploit that weakness.

But that was not what happened.

CT-7567 slowly, cautiously sidled along the outer edge of the mat, being sure to stay well out of 5052's striking reach.

Perplexed, 5052 altered his plan. He inched carefully closer but all the while continuing to display an affected unsteadiness.

CT-7567 grinned. "You don't fool me. I saw how you defeated your opponents. You're going to need more than the one trick you have in your bag, because I'm not falling for it.

CT-5052 felt the ire rise in his heart, flooding his face with warmth, and tensing every muscle. "Why don't you just stop yakking and close with me? I don't need any tricks to beat you."

"Ladies," the sergeant interrupted with droll chastisement, "This isn't a stroll through spring flowers. Either get in there or the match is called."

"My pleasure," CT-7567 grunted. He bounced forward with his fists up. His preferred method of fighting was straightforward brawling – punching like a boxer while absorbing body blows – in an effort to wear down his opponent. He could pack incredible power into the small surface of his knuckles; and with his extended reach, he could land a lot of hits while coming away relatively unscathed.

He had nothing but confidence as he closed with his opponent; but getting past CT-5052's guard was not as easy as he'd anticipated, for 5052 also had a long reach. And while 7567 was gearing his attack towards a boxing style, 5052 was open to whatever method availed itself from moment to moment. CT-7567 might have a long arm reach, but CT-5052's leg reach was far greater, and he had no qualms about striking the gut, the chest . . . he even drove one foot thrust into his opponent's chin.

To be sure, he was paying the price. For every hit that landed, two would miss; and it was following those misses that CT-7567 would spring in, deliver a body blow or a head jab, and then leap back out of arm's range.

This exchange went on for nearly two minutes until both men were sporting various cuts and bruises, but neither seeming anywhere near defeat.

The rest of the trainees were shouting and cheering, not necessarily for one or the other of the combatants. They were cheering the contest itself, the good and bad moves, the near take-downs, the escapes . . . everything.

Cody watched in silence, observing, taking mental note of both men's fighting styles.

CT-5052 was handling himself just as he had noted earlier: precise, tricky, and strong enough to be able to trade a fair amount of abuse in order to close with his adversary. But he was also determined, resolute in his desire for victory, so that even when his plans did not work out the way he wanted, he was able to switch to some other mode in order to come out on top.

As for CT-7567, Cody could hardly form a cogent review. There was no rhyme or reason to his methods. In fact, if Cody were any judge, he would have said that his roommate simply did whatever occurred to him at the moment; there was no pre-determined strategy. He was capricious and reactionary.

And it seemed to be that reactionary quality that was making the difference between victory and defeat. He now opted to step back for a breather, but CT-5052 was having none of it and pursued him relentlessly with a combination of spinning punches and kicks, lunges, and body feints. Yet, CT-7567 never lost his cool, never seemed to be anything more than harried. He effectively blocked every strike, and made no attempt to work in a counter-punch or effect any kind of offense.

On the sideline, Cody watched with narrowed eyes. "He's playing with him. He's got something up his sleeve," he said to himself. "Be careful, 7567 . . . don't draw this out too long, or he's going to snag you."

But then the element of surprise came into the picture. CT-7567 had backed up to the edge of the mat. The crowd of observers stepped away as the violence moved towards them.

CT-7567's upper body armor lay on the mat just beyond the line. It was towards this that he had been working his way. Now, he reached over the line, grabbed the breastplate, still connected to the back plate, and swung it side-arm with the momentum of turning his entire body.

Completely unexpected, CT-5052 was caught squarely in the shoulder and went careening to the mat. And suddenly, CT-7567 had gone from retreating defender to advancing aggressor. He slammed down on top of 5052's back, trapped his left arm behind him and executed a rear chokehold.

CT-5052 attempted a break lock. He heard 7567's voice in his ear.

"I don't want to make you pass out, but I will," he hissed. "Stop fighting, or I'll do it."

CT-5052's only response was to continue struggling.

CT-7567 increased the pressure at his throat.

The sounds began to fade, the room grew dim . . .

"Match," the sergeant major announced.

CT-7567 eased up. Beneath him, CT-5052 began coughing as he found himself able to breathe again.

"Come on, I'll help you up," he offered. "That was a good fight—"

CT-5052 pushed his helpful arm aside. "I can get up, myself."

CT-7567 was noticeably surprised by his reaction, but he did not press him. CT-7567 straightened up and moved away to give 5052 plenty of room to get up on his own.

The sergeant major approached him. "He had you on your heels. Using the armor was a good idea."

"Thank you, Sergeant Major."

"You up for one more?"

CT-7567 beamed. "I get the feeling you're just waiting for me to meet my match, hoping I'll learn some humility."

"I have no illusion of you ever learning humility," the sergeant major said with a straight face. "I just want you to see that there are others who can challenge you. You're not unbeatable."

CT-7567 said nothing. He felt it would not be apropos to point out that he had, in fact, won all his matches thus far. Instead, he waited while 5052 got to his feet and was met by several of his squad mates and his roommate, all with words of praise and congratulations, despite his loss.

"Everyone, back to the line," the sergeant major ordered. "We're going to give it one more go, see if we can find anyone capable of toppling our victor from his perch."

There was a moment of quiet before a voice rose from the assembled men.

"I'd like to try my hand."

All eyes turned as the volunteer stepped into the square, removing his upper armor.

The sergeant major's face took on a look of pleased anticipation. "Well, this should be an interesting matchup."

CT-7567's smile spread from ear to ear. "Very interesting."

"Starting positions."

The two men took up their places.

"You won't hold it against me when I beat you, will you, Commander?" CT-7567 asked.

Cody regarded him with his own manner of smugness. "I never hold a grudge. I hope you can say the same."

AAR: after action report

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