Dear Reader, thank you to my reviewers. The idea for this chapter came from a story Richard Adams related in his autobiography, The Day Gone By, about parachute training. But my own take on it developed from a conversation I had with Richard Adams where he told me, in very glowing terms, of his fondness for Captain Kavanagh, his fellow officer upon whom the character of Bigwig in Watership Down was modeled. Enjoy! Peace, CS p.s., I also updated the character listing.

Chapter 57 Mayotta and the Parachute Jump

"The thing that made him such a good airborne officer was that he had no fear of jumping, In fact, I believe I am safe in saying that he loved it in a way that very few of his fellow officers ever understood. It was a challenge, and he loved challenges. But he always spoke of jumping in terms of freedom. I'd never met anyone like him in that sense."

Richard Adams (as transcribed in a private conversation with the author)

The two weeks on Kamino were over.

The ARC trainees and most of the staff loaded onto a small troop transport for the trip to Mayotta where they would meet up with the rest of the cadre for the final four weeks of training. The journey was a standard eight hours at light speed, and the transport arrived in the evening twilight.

Mayotta was a planet of varied terrains and climates, the majority of which were uninhabited. There were several population centers, all of which were located good distances from the Republic training facilities. Before ARC training had moved part of its curriculum to the planet, Mayotta had already been in use by the GAR for the basic training survival course. It was still used for that purpose and had thousands of clones rotating through every three days onto more than a hundred outdoor ranges.

The installation was massive, covering well over 500,000 acres, including the extensive outdoor training areas in addition to the base proper and its structures, and a space port.

As the ARC trainees were led by squad through the facilities towards their barracks, their squad advisors pointed out areas of interest: the dining facilities, main briefing rooms, the gyms, recreation areas.

"You're keeping the same rooming arrangement as on Kamino," Captain Spicer announced to Echo Squad. "And I think you'll find these rooms to be very satisfactory, a little more spacious than what you had on Kamino. Of course, you won't be spending much time in them."

They came to a fair-sized hangar-type room, large enough to accommodate all 80 trainees and the cadre, though of the latter, only the squad advisors, Major Tides, and Commander Steed were present. Here, a generalized briefing was given, covering administrative details and the like. Room numbers were assigned, and the trainees were given a scant couple minutes to deposit their meager belongs into their rooms before reassembling in the hangar.

Once they were all gathered together again, Commander Steed began going over the rules, including not leaving the base without permission, the upcoming training schedule, and the uneasy fact that Mayotta was usually the start of the washouts.

As he spoke, Colonel Claw entered the room with at least two dozen men, some of whom had come from Kamino, but most of whom were unfamiliar to the trainees.

Commander Steed relinquished the floor to Colonel Claw.

"I would like to introduce the Mayotta side of the cadre," he began. "You'll all remember Captain Dart and Captain Biz, our senior controllers from Kamino. Well, they're here because if you thought Range 9 was impressive, wait until you see Range 14-B. It's three times the size of Range 9, and these two gentlemen head the control teams here just as they did on Kamino. It's true that most of your training will be held outdoors in natural environments, but there will still be at least two simulated combat situations using 14-B." He continued with the introductions, concluding with the head of the E&E (Escape and Evasion) team.

"Captain Skidz run the E&E course here on Mayotta, and it's as close as you will get to a realistic POW environment. These men are some of the best in the business, and they have plenty of experience running this operation." A pause, then he added with wry humor. "The good news is that E&E will be one of the last training modules; so you have the next three weeks to look forward to it."

The briefing went on for another twenty minutes and ended with a release to the dining facility.

As the trainees headed for chow, CT-7567 found CT-1004 edging beside him.

"Captain Skidz?" the MP put forth, sounding skeptical.

CT-7567 simpered. "Yeah, surprise. I wasn't expecting to see him here. And not with a name like that—not with any name, if you want to know the truth."

On his other side, Cody spoke up. "You know him?"

"Yeah, I know him. We both do," 7567 replied. "But when we knew him, he was CT-4901."

CT-1004 nodded. "He's not exactly our favorite guy."

"Batcher?" Cody inquired.

"Pod-mate," CT-1004 replied. "And a self-centered son-of-a-bitch. Not the kind of guy I would have expected to see as an ARC trainer."

Cody was intrigued. "Okay, what's the history here?"

CT-1004 looked to 7567, who shrugged.

"He was a very competitive cadet," 1004 began.

"Unlike the two of you," Cody interrupted with a poking grin.

"We might be competitive, but there was a difference," 1004 replied. "If we lost a contest, we didn't hold it against our opponent. 4901 took every loss personally and was well-known for holding grudges." He paused. "He, uh, he didn't like my friend here very much." He slapped 7567 on the shoulder.

Cody did not try to hide his smile. "How could anyone not like CT-7567?"

CT-7567, for the first time since Cody had met him, appeared to take on an affected air of nonchalance. "I wanted to be the best in the pod. 4901 wanted to be the best in the pod. We mixed it up a lot. Both of us wanted to be commissioned into front-line combat units. We were both competing for elite assignments. He went to the 9014th Insertion Squadron. I went to the 729th. Getting assigned to the 9014th was a great achievement, but . . . he was going there as a staff officer. I was going to the 729th as a platoon leader. That didn't sit well with him. But here he is now, an ARC training officer. He has to be pretty satisfied with the way things turned out."

CT-1004 made a doubtful noise. "You always were the eternal optimist."

"It pays to be optimistic," 7567 noted. "Even where CT-4901 is concerned." He gave a closed-mouth laugh. "I guess we'll have to start calling him Captain Skidz."

"Hmph! I suppose so," 1004 conceded. "Maybe we won't have too much interaction with him."

"You sound like you're holding a grudge," 7567 pointed out to his friend.

"Maybe. 4901 played dirty. We both know that. You should know that better than anyone else," 1004 stated. "He did everything he could do push you out of your 729th assignment."

"Yeah, but he didn't succeed," 7567 replied. "Besides, it's all in the past now."

"Where did you get that?"

It was the third night since coming to Mayotta, and Cody could hardly believe what he was seeing in his room.

CT-7567 was sitting at the large desk they both shared. And on top of that desk there sat a partly disassembled jetpack.

"I asked the chief supply officer," came the reply.

"And he let you have one? After what you did on Range 9?" Cody was incredulous.

"I told them I'm participating in the ARC Improvement Competition."

"You are?"

"Absolutely."

He was referring to a program in each ARC class where any trainees who desired could choose an area to improve in the war-fighting effort: weaponry, tactics, skills sets. If any of their recommendations were accepted, it was certainly a boon; but it could also elevate them to a higher position in graduate rank and even have an impact on their unit of assignment upon course completion.

But for CT-7567, it was simply an opportunity for him to work on something in which he'd always been interested. Jetpacks were more than utilitarian to CT-7567; they were a hobby. And as far as he was concerned, not used nearly enough on the battlefield. In fact, he enjoyed rocketeering almost as much as parachuting, although the latter was even more rarely employed. He'd heard that ARC training had a module on advanced parachuting, and he was looking forward to it. But in the meantime, he had ideas on what he thought a jetpack should be able to do; and now he had the time and opportunity to try putting some of those ideas into action.

"And your project involves jetpacks?" Cody asked.

"Yep," CT-7567 answered.

"What are you trying to do? What do you want to improve?" The commander leaned against the wall next to the desk.

"I want to increase speed. Improve control at higher speeds. Better directional controls." He took an electro-pinch and began making minute adjustments to one of the fuel injectors.

"I never took you for the mechanical type," Cody noted.

"I link to tinker with things," 7567 replied. "Mostly propulsion systems – including jetpacks. But, uh, I'll play around with weapons, too."

"Hm, well, you're not going to flood the afterburners and blow up our room and the whole barracks block, are you?" the commander asked with a teasing glint in his eye.

"I don't intend to," 7567 replied. "But accidents happen."

Cody laughed. "That's a great load off my mind." A pause. "You know, the others are all counting on me to keep you from getting carried away."

CT-7567 looked up with a challenge. "I'm not sure you're up to that task. You can't be wishy-washy and expect to keep up with me."

Cody crossed his arms and simpered. "The only part of you I may not be able to keep up with is your ego." A pause, then he changed the subject. "Doesn't your squad have HALO training tomorrow?"

"First thing in the morning," 7567 confirmed. "We're going up with Falcon Squad."

"You're not going to try pushing the envelope, are you?" Cody asked.

"Of course," 7567 replied. "A chute deployment below 900 meters . . . that would be an achievement, wouldn't it?"

"If you survived it," Cody said. "And is it really useful?"

"The less time under the canopy, the less time an enemy has to shoot at you. It's hard to hit a target coming down at a high rate of speed," 7567 explained. "Once the chute is deployed and descent slows down, we're vulnerable."

"True, but an opening below 900 meters might not be enough to slow you down before impact," Cody pointed out. "It's not worth the attempt, Blondie."

"You know, if we could have backup jet packs in case the chutes failed—"

"Then we wouldn't need chutes at all," Cody cut him off. "Jetpacks have signatures, and they're more easily detected. Making a jetpack burn during a parachute jump would defeat the purpose of parachuting."

"Yes, but as a failsafe—"

"Even a short burn could end up being a give-away. If even one team member had a chute failure and used a jetpack, that would warn the enemy." Cody eyed him. "You're not going to try jumping with both, are you?"

"I was thinking about it—"

"Don't. We went up yesterday, and let me tell you, the landing zones are already difficult enough. Don't add to it by trying to sneak something past the jumpmasters."

CT-7567 smiled. "What makes you think I would do something against the rules?"

"You can't be serious."

"I haven't broken any rules," CT-7567 replied with surety. "I've just done things that . . . have never been addressed in the rules before."

"There's no point in talking to you," Cody gave up . "You don't listen to anyone but yourself."

"That's not true," CT-7567 protested light-heartedly. "I listen to anyone who says what I want to hear."

Cody shook his head. "You're impossible."

The following day.

"This is the worst part. I hate packing these things," CT-9090 grumbled, spreading out his parachute on the tarmac back at the launch point after the first jump.

Echo and Falcon Squads had gone up together in the same gunship. The first jump had been from 5,000 meters onto a dune-like landing zone. All had gone well, and now the trainees were repacking their chutes for the second jump. It was a time-consuming and tedious task that required focus and patience.

"You and me both," CT-7567 agreed. "It would be great if there was a faster way to do this. You'd think they'd have a droid or some other machine that could do this in one-tenth the time."

"Don't they? I thought they were having us repack them just as part of ARC training, one of those useless disciplines they employ to teach us patience or something," CT-1448 put forth.

"No," CT-7567 educated him. "Parachutes are always packed by hand, never by machine or artificial intelligence. The best situation is for a jumper to pack his own."

"You sound like you have a lot of experience," CT-390 said.

"Well, we do a bit more jumping in the 729th than in most units," CT-7567 replied. "As ground-pounders, we have to get under enemy radar without being detected. There are a lot of ways to do that. My commanding officer's preferred way of doing so is by getting a lightly armed unit on the ground first to take out the enemy's detection systems. He's a big fan of jumping, so I've had a bit of experience, though not nearly enough to satisfy me. I love jumping. The higher the altitude, the better."

CT-2025 chuckled. "I had a feeling you were crazy."

"Then I'm in good company," 7567 quipped in return.

When the repack was complete, the riggers came through, checked and rechecked everyone's work.

The second jump was from 8,000 meters over a wooded area with narrow insertion points – meadows and dart-like flood plains. Both squads went up together. Another flawless execution.

For the third jump, the riggers had the trainees check each other's packing job before going through to conduct their own final check.

CT-7567 checked CT-8462's chute.

"The arming device isn't properly aligned," he pointed out. "It's because your slider isn't proper packed. It's bunched up a bit here . . . it needs to be more folded. You should disconnect the arming device and repack the slider so it fits better."

CT-8462, as a Shinie, had no practical experience jumping, and even less packing a parachute. Under 7567's watchful eye, he made the adjustments to the slider and set to reconnecting the arming device. "Kripes, this is still hard to . . . connect."

"Here, let me help." Between the two of them, they pulled the two ends of the fastener together. "There, it's aligned now, but be sure to have the rigger check when he comes by," CT-7567 instructed.

"Will do."

"Jumpers, ready!" The jumpmaster held up his hands, palms forward.

"Final check!"

The trainees turned in pairs and performed final equipment checks.

CT-7567 pressed the arming button on his wristband. The red light turned blue, indicating the deployment kicker was charged. This jump, from 11,000 meters, required a supplemental oxygen cell and fully sealed body armor.

"One second intervals! Jumpers, hit it! Go!"

The first man was out the door.

"Go!" One second later, the next man was free-falling through space.

As CT-7567 moved up to the doorway, he felt his pulse quickening with each beat. The anticipation was rivaled only by the thrill he knew was coming. He came to the opening, drew in a trembling, excited breath, and leaped out into . . . freedom.

CT-7567 never felt freer than when he was jumping. Up here, no one ruled over him. Only gravity and the laws of the universe. Up here, he was no longer a mere implement of war, subject to the commands of those who had ordered his creation. He was his own man, with sole responsibility for what happened to him for the next two minutes of free-fall. He was not a warrior, a soldier . . . a clone bred for combat. He was a bird, seeing life as only the birds did, if only for a short period of time.

"I wish this could last forever," he mused wistfully. "There's no other feeling like this."

He reached terminal velocity, and the recollection of his conversation with Cody flashed across his mind. He'd be reaching 900 meters altitude in a minute and a half. The thought of attempting a chute deployment at an even lower altitude was tempting; but in some inexplicable way, he felt he owed it to his roommate to be prudent. And so he decided to just enjoy the view and the sensation of freedom.

Then suddenly, the peace of the high places was shattered by a distress call over his helmet's open channel.

"My indicator light just went red! I repeat, my indicator is red!"

The jumpmaster's voice came calmly over the channel. "Call number?"

"CT-8462! My light's gone red!"

"What's your altitude, 8462?" This again from the jumpmaster.

"Uh-uh-passing through-passing through 6,100!"

"Try to deploy your chute."

There followed a silence of no more than three seconds, then CT-8462's voice once again. "It's not deploying! Mayday! Mayday! The reserve chute isn't deploying either! There's no—Mayday!"

"It's the arming device!" CT-7567 shouted into his helmet. "It must have come loose!" Below him, he could see 8462 frantically clawing at his wrist control panel. "8462, Spread eagle and drag! I'm not far behind! Create as much drag as you can! I'm going to catch up to you!"

Far above them all, the jumpmaster, who had exited the gunship last, had no chance of reaching the endangered trainee.

"Who is that going after him?" he asked.

"7567! I can reach him! I'm going arrow—"

"CT-7567, if you can't catch him before 1,500 meters, you are to abort the attempt—"

"I'll catch him!"

CT-7567 angled himself into a head-first dive, arms tight at his side. His speed increased dramatically as the numbers flew by in his HUD. "I'm getting closer!"

"Hurry! Hurry!"

"Don't panic! Stay spread-eagle, you've got to give me a chance to get to you!"

"I'm passing through 4,000!"

"I'm almost there!" Despite his words, CT-7567 felt as if he were a world away and there was not enough time to cover the distance. He was moving at such a speed that he wondered if his body could handle the stress; but he would find out soon enough.

Thirty seconds later, he was close enough that he could see the red light on his squad mate's wrist, and he had to forcefully push aside the guilty fact that he himself had checked over CT-8462's pack job. There would be time to beat himself up for that later. Right now, he had to do this. He couldn't fail. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let this man die.

"Almost there! Almost!" He let his arms out a fraction, slowing his fall. He drew within twenty meters.

"2,000!"

"I'm right behind you! I'm going to go for a grab! Stay in position!"

"Hurry! By the Force, hurry!"

CT -7567 drew up behind him and put his arms and legs wide. He was right behind him now. He reached down and tried to grab him, missing again and again.

"Fifteen hundred!"

"I can't get a grip!" 7567 shouted. "I—I'm going to make a bump! Don't lose your form! I have to come in faster!" He drew in his arms once again, instantly accelerating and smashing into 8462's back.

To his credit, 8462 kept his attitude and form.

CT-7567 wrapped his legs around 8462's waist and locked his ankles in front, hooked his arms under his shoulders and grasped his harness. In his HUD, he saw the numbers scroll below 800. They were running out of altitude. "I can't hold onto you and press the deployment button at the same time! You're going to have to—"

He hadn't even finished the sentence before CT-8462reached up and pressed the button.

The chute deployed, and CT-7567 felt as if his arms and legs were in a tug-of-war with the rest of his body. He held onto 8462 with every ounce of strength he had remaining. And then the violent, chaotic transition from falling to descending was over.

"Y'okay?" 7567 asked curtly.

"Yeah—yeah . . . you?"

"Yeah. But we—we gotta get on the ground . . . we're still coming down too fast . . . it's going to be a hard landing. I—I can't let go of you. Can you reach the control lines? We've—we've got less than 20 seconds before we hit—you've got to slow us down," 7567 panted.

CT-8462 adjusted his HUD to a 180-degree view and reached up behind him for the control lines. He was able to get hold of them, but the angle was awkward. He pulled down on the toggles, slowing their descent.

"Pull down more! We'll break our legs at this speed! Or—or aim for—can you get us to that heath?"

CT-8462 let up on the right toggle, and the chute swung left. They were headed for the heath, but they were still descending at a rate that would put them on the ground short of it. He pulled down on both sides again, his arms straining and reaching muscle failure; but he would not let up.

They slowed down once again and braced for impact. They came down at the edge of the heath, kicking up a spray of sand and thistle-like brush, tumbling—still intertwined—twenty yards across the heath, until the parachute caught up in the foliage, and they came to a stop.

CT-7567 lay on his side, his arms still wrapped around his squadmate. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I think so . . . "

Almost reflexively, 7567 tightened his embrace and felt a tremor go through him as relief flooded his body. "I'm so sorry."

CT-8462 sounded perplexed. "Sorry? You saved my life."

"I also almost cost you your life," 7567 replied. "I was the one who checked your packing."

"So did the riggers, and no one caught it," 8462 pointed out. "It must have pulled lose during the jump. You couldn't have known. It was a freak thing."

CT-7567 still did not let go. He seemed to need to reassure himself that 8462 was alright, that they were both alright.

Seconds later, they could hear voices drawing near.

A small crowd of medics and other emergency personnel materialized around them.

"Can you hear me?"

It was CT-8462 who answered. "Yes, we're both alright – just . . . wiped out."

CT-7567 felt gentle hands on his arms. "You can let go, lieutenant. He's alright. You're both safely down. You can let go."

CT-7567 relaxed his grip. "From now on . . . you should have . . . you should have rocketeers on the ground to deal with situations like this," he opined. As they removed his helmet, they were surprised to see a faint smile on his lips. "Or find a way to wear jetpacks and parachutes at the same time."