Dear Reader, This is a short chapter. I've decided to keep the chapters much shorter and see if that increases reviewership! Readership is quite high, which is nice. But not many reviews these days! Perhaps this part of the story is boring, but I do love it regardless :-) At any rate, if you care to post a review, I would appreciate it. The saying, "I write for my own enjoyment" is true. But there is also something wonderful about sharing a story. Lastly, a little expounding on Kix's character in this chapter. If you recall how he pretty much loses it on Umbara, my goal is to sort of set that aspect of his personality here in the early days, even as a cadet. Peace, CS
CT-7567: Rex
CT-6116: Kix
CT-2080: Hardcase
Chapter 60 The Rescue
"When wind is in the deadly East, then in the bitter rain
I'll look for thee, and call to thee; I'll come to thee again!"
The Ent and the Entwife
J.R.R. Tolkien
"Fek . . . fek and all . . . "
CT-7567 rarely cursed, but there were times when circumstances warranted it. This was one of them. Still on his hands and knees, he scooted to the edge of the path and looked over.
"CT-3636!" he called out, straining his eyes through the swirling rain. "3636! Can any of you see him?"
"I see him, Sir! About fifty meters straight down!" CT-2080 shouted.
CT-7567 snatched the binoculars from his chest strap and tried to find a splash of color in a sea of brown-grey. The ruins and rubble of the hillside stretched away below him, raising his fear that no one could have survived such a calamity.
"I can't find—there—I see him now!" CT-7567 magnified the view. "He's not moving. We need to get down there. CT-6116. CT-5597—what do they call you, Jesse? Get ready to rappel. You three stay up here. We may need you to pull him—and us—back up." He turned to CT-8333-11. "Double-Ones, take the rest of the platoon and push on to the river crossing. Wait for us there. If it's under water, still wait for us."
"Yes, Sir."
Together with CT-6116 and Jesse, CT-7567 rappelled down the collapsed wall. As they neared the spot where CT-3636 was lying amidst the rubble, they could now see, through the driving rain, the bottom of the ravine; and they could hear the sound of rushing water.
CT-6116, who had identified himself early on as the platoon's medic, quickly showed himself also adept at rescue. He was the first to reach CT-3636, and as he settled carefully on the shifting slope of rock and mud, he secured his line and wasted no time getting to work.
CT-3636 was half-buried by debris. He was caked with mud, making it hard to see any injuries; but CT-6116 did not need to see the injury in order to detect it. His first action—even before taking out his medical scanner—was to check for a pulse. The old-fashioned way. With his fingers. He pressed them against 3636's neck.
"You're alive . . . that's the first miracle," he said to himself. "Now we just need a couple more."
He carefully ran his hands over the commander's head, checking to see if they came back with blood on them. Despite the mud and water mingling with everything, he knew the feel of blood, the different sheen it displayed even when mixed with contaminants. He knew the smell. Being a medic entailed adjusting those things to which a clone was attuned, heightening those that mattered most to a man whose job it was to save lives. CT-6116 was one of the best on Kamino when it came to his profession. He knew it. His squad mates knew it. His platoon new it. He took his job seriously. And personally.
Perhaps too personally.
Somewhere along the line, CT-6116 had developed a very un-clone-like sensitivity to the value of life. At least, the value of his fellow clones' lives. Malformed or injured clones were just as important in his eyes as were the perfectly fit and healthy. In the production of millions of units, there were bound to be glitches in the matrix, resulting in a faulty specimen; or a clone might suffer a disabling injury sustained as the result of a training accident. Yet, for CT-6116, these were not reasons for which he would ever consider abandoning a fellow clone. He was fiercely protective of his batchers, especially his squad mates; and considering what Saber Squad was, it was somewhat surprising that a clone like CT-6116 fit in so well with them.
Saber Squad had, from the earliest moments of their formation as a team, set out to surpass not only their batchers, but their pod, their group . . . why, even the entirety of their lot. They were five very ambitious, highly competitive clones. And at least four of them had the cool, calculating manner of their matrix, Jango Fett. The crucial axis in their lives was where war-fighting met victory. Their attachment to each other was the only other thing that mattered.
The exception was—and had always been—CT-6116.
In his drive towards combat, he was no different from his squad mates. He knew how to fight. He was good at it, and he had only the healthy fear that any sane being has when confronted with the prospect of violence and death.
Yet, he was so very different in other ways.
Clone troopers were conditioned to withstand the mental rigors and stresses of war. They were inculcated against the raw, visceral emotions that seeing their fellow clones blown to pieces could engender. They were taught not to dwell on the past, not to wail and obsess over the fallen. There were mortuary teams that would follow on and take care of the dead. A soldier's focus always lay ahead, never behind.
Victory was never to be hampered by a sentimental obligation to the weak or the injured.
CT-6116 could not bring himself to accept such maxims. Despite all attempts to mold him otherwise, there had arisen within him a deep aversion to the mere idea of expendable men. His fellow troopers were not expendable – not a one of them. Life itself had value, regardless of the quality of that life.
That stance—an undesirable trait by Kaminoan standards—had gotten him into trouble many times. In fact, it was only the perseverance of his squad mates that had kept him from the euphemistic Kaminoan rehabilitation program. And yet, it was that same dogged respect for life that made him a damned good medic and a favorite among his batchers.
He looked after them. They looked after him. The bonds were strong.
Now, as he balanced precariously on the unstable flow of rubble, checking CT-3636 for injuries, it did not occur to him that this was his future. Risking his life for the injured. Caring for those within and without his platoon. Making real-world decisions on how to treat an injury; for even though this was a training scenario, CT-3636's injuries were real.
None of this entered his mind. His actions came naturally, without hesitation. This was his specialty, and he had a job to do.
"Yeah . . . a lot of blood here. Head injury." He pressed a bit harder over the back of the head where the blood was coming from. "No compression. No give. It doesn't feel like a skull fracture." Now, as he was joined by Jesse, he withdrew his medical scanner. "Start digging him out," he ordered as he began his scan. "Looks like a moderate concussion. Broken left shoulder. Two . . . three broken ribs on the left side."
CT-7567 alit beside them. "How is he?"
CT-6116 repeated his findings. "I'm still scanning. Lieutenant, would you help dig him out?"
CT-7567 began clawing away at the mess.
"Some abdominal bleeding . . . looks like seepage mainly, but he's got a lot of internal bruising," CT-6116 continued with his diagnosis.
CT-7567, never one to beat around the bush, was direct as ever. "Is he in danger of dying?"
"My initial thought is no," 6116 replied.
"And after your initial thought?" 7567 pressed.
"It's still no." A pause. "But I don't know if he'll be able to make it over the rest of the course. We have three days ahead of us. And if those three days are anything like today, he's going to be hard-pressed to make it. It would be difficult for him right now even under ideal circumstances."
CT-5579 spoke up as he cleared away the last of the concealing mud and rubble. "Check this out, mate."
CT-6116 directed his attention towards CT-3636's left leg. The pant leg was in tatters and a long, ugly gouge ran from hip to ankle. He ran the scanner over the leg. "No broken bones, but it's a deep tear. We have to get him off this cliff side to somewhere I can treat him."
"Well, we can't go down," CT-5579 stated, looking at the roiling fluss below them.
"Then I guess it's back up," CT-7567 determined. "And we'd better get something around him right now, before this stuff we're standing on gives way. There's still a lot of water coming down." He raised his eyes towards the shelf above on which the pathway ran, and over the edge of which the three other members of Saber Squad were looking down with anxious faces, waiting for instructions.
"If the cadre are monitoring what's going on, then they know what's happened. They may send out a team to rescue him and take him back." Somehow, he knew otherwise. "I can't proceed on the assumption that they'll do that. This is all part of ARC training. If this were on the battlefield, what would we do?"
He knew exactly what he would do. He would find a safe place for the injured man, leave someone behind to look after him, and push on with the mission.
But this was not the battlefield. And if CT-3636 did not complete this exercise, what would that do to his chances of successfully completing ARC training? Despite CT-3636's condescension, CT-7567 did not want to see him fail due to his teammates' lack of trying. If he were to wash out from his injuries, that was another story. But to wash out because his teammates could not be bothered to take the time and the risk . . .
CT-7567 made a pulling motion with one hand, and from above, a cable was lowered.