Dear Reader, Thanks to The Unnamed Guest and AtinBralor for your reviews! There's some syrup in this chapter, but my aim is to better define Saber Squad and the connection Rex develops with them. Note: Hutte (from the German) = hut. Not the Jabba kind. Peace, CS

Chapter 63 Regrouping and Brothers

"Success if not final. Failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts. Success is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm."

Winston Churchill

The next ten minutes showed just how useful regimentation and uniformity could be. Without hesitation or question, CT-7567 confidently handed off organization of the platoon to CT-4441, whom he was coming to recognize as a leader in his own right, respected and admired by his batchers, so overflowing with confidence that 7567 could imagine he was looking at himself.

And while CT-4441 sent men upstream to ascertain the commander's wishes and bring back the second most medically inclined trooper—though far distant behind 6116—while he appointed men to round up the gaggles on both sides of the river, that left CT-7567 to attend to the critical matter of getting them off the plateau before more trouble could befall them.

And to do that, he sought out the counsel of two other cadets who were also making a positive impression on him. The first was Double-Ones, who was already pouring over the map, looking for shelter and the fastest, easiest route to it. The second was Jesse; and here there was no shortage of esteem on the lieutenant's part for the cadet's determination to rebound from his spat in the river. CT-5579 seemed to understand that time was against them now, with the clouds racing towards northward. He tolerated CT-2085-4's attention, insisting that he only needed to catch his breath, that the pain from his injuries was—as he put it—"noise level." When CT-7567 approached him with Double-Ones, he got to his feet and no one insisted he sit back down. It was a show of resolve, and they were all going to need a lot of it in the coming hours.

"How much time do you think we have before that storm catches up with us?" 7567 asked the two men.

"Not an hour," Jesse replied. "We lost a lot of time in the river."

"I concur," Double-Ones nodded. "We have to get moving as soon as possible. If we get caught up here with injured men, that would be a disaster."

"If we get caught up here with healthy men, that would be a disaster," CT-7567 corrected. "None of us would stand a chance against the tornadoes." A pause. "Is it likely those funnels would be able to pass into the mountains? They need flat ground, don't they?"

"Normally, I would say that's the case, Sir," Jesse replied. He held out his hand to Double-Ones. "Let me see your binoculars." He scanned the northern and eastern foothills. "I can't see very far up due to the clouds, but it does look like the tree lines are intact. If these twisters are normal occurrences and they reach the foothills, you'd think the trees would be all torn up."

"Good point," 7567 agreed. "Does the map show anything on the eastern side where we can take cover?"

"No, Sir. But that doesn't signify. The caves we stayed in yesterday weren't on the map," Double-Ones answered.

"The main thing is to get off this plateau, and the eastern foothills are closer than the northern ones," CT-7567 stated. "The terrain looks bad either way, but there's less of it going east. If the funnels can't follow us into the foothills, then we won't necessarily need any firm shelter – just something where we can get a good look at our wounded." With these last words, he glanced over to where CT-6116 was sitting on the ground, elbows on his knees, looking drawn and somewhat dazed; but at least he was upright and under his own power. Beside him, CT-2080 was patting him lightly on the back, either for comfort or with the purpose of bringing up more water; and although the lieutenant could not hear what 2080 was saying, apparently it was humorous enough to coax an occasional gurgling laugh from the medic. CT-7567 went on, "He looks okay now—you look pretty shabby, Jesse—he looks okay now, but I'd like to get someplace where we can do a proper examination. And the commander is going to need looking at, as well. Kripes, I hope he didn't try to get up and follow us down the river."

"Well, if he did, 6116 will have something to say about it," CT-2085-4 grinned, then he added with an almost apologetic lilt to his voice. "Jesse, there's blood starting to come through back here." He was referring to the back of Jesse's shoulder. "There's a huge hole in your jacket, and I can see blood now."

"Do something to bandage it up and cover it before 6116 sees," Jesse instructed. "I don't need him worrying about me when he's still coughing up half the river."

"I think it's where the cable got you," 2085-4 remarked, reaching into his pack for his own meager single roll of bandaging.

"Probably," Jesse said, then returned to the subject at hand. "I agree with you, Lieutenant. It's a shorter distance to the eastern foothills, and I think it's worth taking the chance that the funnels can't follow us in there."

CT-7567 gave a single nod. "We have to regroup. Getting off this plateau will give us the chance to do that."

"Look, here comes 1781," 2085-4 said.

"Have him take a look at Jesse and 6116. He should probably take a look at 4441, as well," 7567 stated.

"Lieutenant . . . what if the commander wants to go north?" Jesse asked.

"CT-3636 is smarter than the lot of us combined," 7567 replied. "I think once he gets briefed on the situation, he'll agree with our course of action."

CT-7567's intuition was correct, for CT-3636 had already come to the same conclusion based on observation of the weather. Upon being briefed on the injuries to CT-6116 and Jesse, he confirmed that heading east was their best bet to get to safety. The fact that both men were mobile was a fortuitous circumstance; and after all the hubbub on the riverbank, he felt that he himself could use a few hours of respite out of the danger zone.

The platoon moved east, keeping along the course of the river flume. Less than two kilometers stood between them and the foothills, but it was two kilometers of rough terrain. The storm broke upon them while they were still half a kilometer out, but so far it was only rain and wind. No funnels. Not yet.

The engines of nature could be heard far above them, churning and driving the air in a circular motion. It would not be long before those engines sent tornadoes spinning down upon the plateau.

CT-7567 kept a close eye on the ground, looking for deep fissures into which they could jump for cover at a moment's notice. Most of the cracks in the ground were filled with water or mud; and there was nothing to guarantee that the suction of one of the twisters would not be strong enough to lift them right up out of such scant protection.

So busy was he, looking for safe haven, that he was stunned when he found himself at the base of the foothills. The rocky alien landscape of the plateau gave way to a scatter of spindly trees and squat scrub bushes. The ground grew more yielding as stone gave way to gravelly dirt and then a mixture of mud and leafy decay.

The river, running on their right, came plunging and plummeting in cascades from the top of the mountain, still obscured by cloud and now by the trees into which the platoon was moving. In short order, they had entered a forest where an old, overgrown pathway was still barely visible in the underbrush.

Behind them, they heard the first roars of the funnels.

"Just in time," CT-7567 remarked to 3636, still being carried on his litter.

"Right," the commander concurred. "Now maybe we can find a place to take a rest. Send a squad to scout ahead."

"I'm on it, Commander."

"They're coming up on the stone huttes," Sergeant Major Clicks stated, looking at the satellite read. "That's good. I think they need a break. It's a miracle they haven't lost anyone yet."

"That's a rather dramatic thing to say, isn't it, Sergeant Major?"

"No, Captain, it isn't," Clicks dissented. "This is one of the hardest courses we've ever introduced, and I'm not much liking how this first run is turning out."

"Are they training to be ARC troopers or flower arrangers?"

"Just giving my opinion, Sir."

CT-4901, otherwise known as Captain Skidz, zoomed the imaging. "They're holding together well enough." A pause. "It's good preparation for E&E."

Captain Skidz was the officer who oversaw the Escape and Evasion portion of the program. He ran E&E not only for the ARC school, but the lesser course that was part of Basic training, as well. And although any assignment to the ARC cadre was considered prestigious, this had not been his first choice. CT-4901 had wanted, more than anything else, a front-line combat unit assignment coming out of Basic. And, in fact, that was what he'd been given. The 9014th Insertion Squadron was a highly renowned special operating unit. It was his first unit of assignment, but he had gone there not as a combatant but as a staff officer. Instead of leading men into battle, he had been placed in charge of the squadron's logistical operations, a situation that had rankled him from the very first, for he felt its injustice most squarely riding on his shoulders, weighing him down and taunting him every time he thought of where he might have taken his batchers, had not another officer in the pod beaten him to the assignment he'd truly wanted.

Ah, but things had worked out – to a degree. Somewhere along the way, a higher-ranking officer had noted the complete mismatch and misuse of CT-4901's skills. He had excelled in survival training, as well as enemy evasion; and so the question of what he was doing functioning as a logistics officer could not be answered to any logical conclusion. He was tapped to join the cadre at the ARC training school, and although still not a front-line combat unit, it did give him the chance to use his talents, impart his wisdom, and lead men in a sort of circuitous way. And when Basic training moved its E&E and survival modules to Mayotta, it made sense that they, too, would fall under his oversight for those particular training phases.

The introduction of this new program—the matching of ARC troopers with cadets for the survival portion—while it had not been 4901's idea, was met with his eager approval. He and his team of fifty men had gone out and determined the training grounds, run the courses themselves, and done the partial mapping that was meant to be just enough to send the trainees in the right direction but force them to use their own wits as opposed to the constant dependence upon computerized equipment.

While all the various courses were meant to be difficult, it was true that some posed greater threats than others – under particular circumstances. The Tinderhout scenario was no more dangerous than any of the others . . . unless it happened to be during a storm spell, in which case, it grew into a veritable maze of challenges.

What the cadre was witnessing now from the safety of their control center, via satellite read and a whole range of disguised drones, was that an extensive storm spell was passing over Tinderhout and would likely continue to do so for the duration of the exercise. That very fact, foreknown, had been the reason Sergeant Major Clicks had emphasized the dangers of the Tinderhout weather to his two ARC trainees.

"Well, they're off the plateau now," Captain Spicer remarked. He had been going between the control teams that were tracking each of his Echo Company trainees in their leadership roles. Somehow, he found himself spending more time watching CT-7567's platoon than the others. He was loathe to admit that it was because he expected something terrible—or at least, disheartening—to happen. "That should take some of the pressure off." A pause as he turned to Havoc Squad's advisor, Captain Scarlett. "I had imagined the commander and the lieutenant would have torn each other's head off by now."

"Yeah. They seem to be getting along a lot better than I expected," Scarlett agreed. "The commander doesn't have a whole lot of choice, does he?"

Spicer detected a note of concern in his voice. "You worried about him?"

"Well, the Tite cam only showed us a glimpse of that leg before they got it wrapped up," Scarlett stated. A Tite was a Myottan fly; and in this case, a camera-drone made to look like a Myottan fly. "The wind up there has been so bad, the cam keeps getting blown around. How many have we lost already? Five or six? Those little buggers are expensive, too. The Eagle cams are better." He cleared his throat and returned to topic. "I'm sure CT-6116 was right, and the leg's not broken. But I'll feel better when we have him back here and in a bacta tank. I don't want him to be a wash-out. If he can heal enough over a two- or three-day period to stay the course, I'll be happy."

"These things seem to happen whenever CT-7567 is involved." This from Captain Skidz. "Excessive risk equals excessive injuries." A pause. "It was the same way in Basic training."

"You were in Basic with him?" Captain Spicer asked.

"We were in the same pod."

Ten batches of thirty men each comprised a pod of three hundred men. Captain Skidz had had plenty of experience with CT-7567. He simply had never spoken of it. The recollection of being bested by the man at every turn was not something he cared to bring to light and share with others.

But . . .

A small kernel of satisfaction germinated deep inside him.

Justice had a way of coming around.

CT-7567 stood in the corner of one of the stone huts—known as hutte—upon which the platoon had come less than a kilometer into the woods. They were rough things, some of them partly caved in, but they provided decent protection as the men tried to warm up, dry out, take in some sustenance, and get even a snatch of much needed rest.

"Amazing," he remarked to CT-4441, standing beside him. He was watching as CT-6116 tended to Jesse's injuries, having already checked on CT-3636, using the supplies from 1781's pack. "An hour ago, he almost drowned. Now, he's taking care of them as if nothing happened."

"He's always been like that," 4441 stated. "Always more worried about others than himself." A pause. "We're lucky to have him." There was a lengthier silence, and when 4441 spoke again, there was a somberness in his voice. "In fact, I don't know what we'd do without him."

CT-7567 was blunt. "We're all replaceable. The mission should never depend on one man."

"I'm not talking about the mission, Sir," CT-4441 replied.

And although the lieutenant knew precisely what the cadet was getting at, he felt, for some unaccountable reason, that he wanted to hear him explain it. He regarded CT-4441 with an expression that invited him to go on.

"Well . . . what about your own batchers, Sir? Your own squad mates? When you were a cadet, weren't they . . . like family to you? I hear you calling us brothers, so you must know what I mean if I say that we're not replaceable. Someone else might be able to do our job, but as individuals, we can't be replaced," he said.

"I do understand."

CT-4441 continued. "I mean, in my own squad, I'm considered the muscle, you know? Jesse's the brains. He's one of the smartest men I know, but he doesn't make a big deal of it. CT-2085-4 keeps us grounded . . . common sense." A spark gleamed in his eye. "Even if he does have a fascination with blowing everything to kingdom come."

CT-7567 grinned. "What about CT-2080? He seems to be a bit of a loose cannon."

CT-4441 returned the grin with a chuckle. "Neh, he's just a hard case, always running up against brick walls and then blasting through them. We all joke that his growth tube had a leak, and he just rushes headlong into all kinds of osik. He's fearless, you know? The kind of guy who wouldn't think twice about throwing himself on a live grenade. A little crazy, maybe. It's a miracle he didn't jump in the river, too. The only thing that probably stopped him was your order, Sir."

"Yes, well that didn't stop you," CT-7567 pointed out.

"I didn't jump in, Sir," 4441 deferred. "I fell off the cable."

"My ass, you did." 7567 pinned him with an admonishing stare. "You let go and went after them."

"Well . . . Jesse probably could have pulled himself out of there, but—but I had to save Little Brother," 4441 said. "I told you where we all fit in as squad mates, but LB—he's . . . he's sort of the glue that holds us all together. I guess he's . . . eh, it sounds fluffy, but he's the heart of this squad. He pumps out energy to the rest of us. I don't really know how to explain it." He drew in a deep, thoughtful breath. "The four of us—me, Jesse, 2085-4 and 2080—we're killing machines. And we're damned proud of it. That's why we can't wait to get to the front. Don't mistake me: LB is just as brutal about wanting to kill the enemy as we are; but he might be the only clone I know, medic or otherwise, who really cares more about saving lives than taking them. He reels us back in when we get carried away, which is often." He shook his head. "For us, he's a perfect fit. But . . . he gets himself in trouble a lot because he doesn't . . . he doesn't fit in with the rest of the mold."

"What do you mean?"

CT-4441 seemed to struggle to find his words. "We're a . . . a manufactured product. When one of those products has a defect, the standard procedure is to discard that product. If a clone like Ninety-Nine were to be created today, he wouldn't be allowed to continue existing. He'd be aborted as soon as the defect was noticed. The Kaminoans can't afford, nor do they have any use for, substandard, defective products. If a clone gets injured in training, and it's not something that can be fixed by a few days in the bacta tank, he's sent to reconditioning. We all know what that is. It's termination. It's not a pretty part of life as a clone, but it's the way things are. Little Brother has a . . . a tendency to speak out against that reality." He exhaled heavily, as if exerting a great deal of energy. "That, in itself, is looked upon by the Kaminoans as a defect. Too much sensitivity. They've wanted to, uh, to do everything short of recondition him to eliminate the tendency. General Shaak-Ti and our training advisor, Dunnam'Kah, have kept the Kaminoans at bay. If we can just get LB to keep his opinions to himself for three more months, then we'll be going to the front lines, and then he can say whatever he wants."

"He's pretty outspoken. Do you think he can do that?"

"We can only hope," CT-4441 replied.

"Can you move it okay?"

"Yeah, but it hurts like hell."

"Well, my hypos are all gone—thanks to you—but I'll see what I can do about the pain."

Jesse managed a smirk. "I decided a live medic was more important the medic's supplies."

"I know," CT-6116 replied, adding earnestly, "And I haven't had a chance to say thank you yet. " A pause. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jesse accepted. "Though we both really owe our lives to 4441. He jumped in and got us both to safety."

"I'll thank him when I'm done here. Besides, he's with the lieutenant right now," 6116 stated.

"They seem to be an awful lot alike," Jesse observed, then asked, "Does 1781 have any hypos in his kit?"

"You know he doesn't, Jesse," came the answer. "Only qualified platoon medics can carry the good stuff. But . . . this does have to be cleaned and sterilized. I can gin up something that will not only do that, but numb the area as well – for a few hours at least." From Jesse's own pack, he dug out one of a handful of vacuum-sealed metal-lu squares, each of which contained a water purification tablet. "CT-1781, do you still have any proplyinol rinse?"

CT-1781, who was making the rounds, performing a cursory check on the health of the rest of the platoon members—per 6116's instruction—fished out a container from his pack and brought it over.

"Hang around and I'll teach you a few tricks," 6116 said. He crushed the purification tablet and mixed it with two parts water and one part proplyinol. "You can use this to irrigate and clean out a wound when you don't have Sterisol. Plus, the proplyinol can help numb an area when you don't have or can't risk using a painkiller." To Jesse, "It's going to be a little cold."

For the next five minutes, CT-1781 watched as CT-6116 tended to the injury; and then 6116 oversaw 1781 as the latter carried out the bandaging of the wound.

"Good job," the medic complimented him. "Now, as long as you and your pack don't go falling into any rivers, we should be okay."

"I'll do my best," 1781 said with a grin. "Do you need me anymore?"

"No, go get some rest. The way things are going, I think we're both going to be in demand over the next two days," 6116 told him.

Once 1781 had left to join his own squad mates around one of the heaters, Jesse spoke up. "I think you'd do well to take your own advice. You should get some rest, too."

"I'm okay," 6116 assured him.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. 1781 already checked me over," 6116 replied. "I'm just tired . . . and a bit waterlogged. When I'm done here with you, I'll get some shut-eye. I think it will do me good."

Jesse nodded. "How's the commander?"

"All things considered, he's holding up well. I'd feel better if they'd evac him out of here, but—"

"That issue's already been laid to rest," Jesse reminded him.

"That's what I was going to say." CT-6116 leaned back on his heels. "I just hope we can get through the rest of this thing without any more injuries."

Jesse regarded the medic with knowing eyes. CT-6116 was more than tired. He was exhausted. Now that things had slowed down for the time-being, his ordeal in the river was starting to catch up with him. And Jesse knew him well enough to recognize that, even though 6116 had said he was going to get some rest, he would probably not be able to resist the urge to go conduct his own rounds of the troops, even though CT-1781 had just done that very thing.

No, if CT-6116 was going to get any rest, Jesse was going to have to goad, guilt, and threaten him into it.

"But that's what brothers do." Jesse smiled to himself . . .

. . . smiled at the realization that he had used the term brother.