Dear Reader, Thanks to Ms CT-782 and The Unnamed Guest for the reviews of the last chapter. I invite other folks to please leave a word or two to let me know whether you're still enjoying the story. 14,000 words is a lot of work when there seems to be little interest. If the story bites or is boring, you can tell me that, too. I have a thick skin. I don't write just for myself but so I can share with others. Moving on, this chapter is shorter, but still fairly long. A little drama. I hope you enjoy. CS

Chapter 70 The Damaged

"At night he remembers freedom and flies in a dream; the dawn ruins it.
He is strong, and pain is worse to the strong.
No one but death the redeemer will humble that head, the intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those that ask mercy.
You do not know him, you communal people; or you have forgotten him.
But beautiful and wild, the hawks and men that are dying, they remember him."

Hurt Hawks
Robinson Jeffers

"Gentlemen."

Colonel Claw paced before the four trainees lined up inside his office. Behind him, Major Tides and Commander Steed stood silently.

"I saw a lot to admire out there today," he said. "A lot of competition and enthusiasm. A lot of creativity." He stopped at one end of the line. "And a lot that bordered on maniacal. I say maniacal rather than crazy, because crazy is what happens when a man doesn't know what he's doing. Maniacal is planned, consciously decided." He walked slowly past each man, regarding them one-by-one without speaking, coming at last to stand with his back to them.

"We set no rules in the hopes that our trainees will find new and original ways to win," he said before turning to face them. "But when the focus turns from winning the race to defeating the other teams at any cost, then you've lost sight of the whole purpose of the exercise." A pause. "When you act without common sense, you make a mockery of the entire process. When you let someone draw you into reckless behavior, you make us question your ability to act within reason.

"Needless to say, you have all failed this portion of the training," he went on. "But you will have another chance tomorrow. The other four teams will run their race in the morning. You all will re-run your race in the afternoon. The day after that, E&E begins. But if any of you fail the re-test, your ARC training will be over. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Sir," the four replied in unison.

"Dismissed." Yet, as they all made to leave, Colonel Claw spoke, "Commander Cody, remain."

Cody drew in a deep breath as he turned back into the room. "Yes, Sir?"

Once the others were gone, Colonel Claw sat on the edge of his desk. "At ease."

Cody relaxed but only slightly.

"I'm sorry we had to fail your squad as well," the colonel explained. "You and Commander Wolffe probably would have finished the exercise. I hope you understand why we had to fail all of you."

"I think so, Sir," Cody replied.

"Commander . . . you know that, uh, that it's no coincidence that we roomed you with CT-7567," Claw stated.

"No, I didn't know that."

"You do now." A pause. "There's no question that you are best field commander in the Army, clone or otherwise. And there's no question that CT-7567 is right there, one step behind you. Where he's lacking is in judgment. In his current position as a platoon leader, a mistake in judgment doesn't run the same level of risk as it would if he were to be assigned to a higher echelon . . . or in his capacity as an ARC trooper."

"Rex, by his own admission, is a risk-taker," Cody replied. "Except to him, they're not risks. He's that confident in his abilities."

"And to a degree, that confidence is warranted," Colonel Claw replied. "The man is brilliant in more ways that we can count. But again, his weakness is his judgment. And if he's not reined in, he'll never be ready to take on the greater responsibilities for which the command is grooming him."

"May I ask, what greater responsibilities are those?"

Colonel Claw made an arch expression. "Battle Group Trident and Sector IX Headquarters have long wanted him to move up to battalion and brigade commander. You may be unaware, but in his neck of space, he has quite a reputation. It wasn't just his commander who recommended he come here. There was pressure brought to bear by those in the upper echelons."

"That's all very interesting, Colonel," Cody replied. "But you're aware that he's gunning for a position in the 501st, aren't you?"

"I'm aware," Claw replied. "He'll go wherever the Army needs him the most. That is, if he goes anywhere. Right now, I'm not prepared to say with any certainty that he will pass this course."

Cody, of equal rank with the colonel yet mindful of the commandant's position, assumed a somewhat more familiar demeanor. "If you don't mind me saying so, you're talking about reining in a . . . wild stallion. It's not just his style. I think it's who he is."

"Be that as it may, you saw what happened out there today. He went way over the line."

"It was CT-5052 who fired the missile."

"Reacting to the provocation was bad judgment on his part," Claw acknowledged. "But did you not see the provocation? The same provocation that rears its head in almost every exercise?"

"Yes, of course, I did," Cody replied.

"That's what we want you to work on."

"With all due respect, Colonel, I wasn't aware that my own success would be hinging on whether or not I'm able to mold Rex into the kind of officer you want. I have no more influence over him than you do," Cody explained, sounding rather disgusted.

"That's where you're wrong, Commander," Claw differed. "He listens to you. He wants to impress you more than he wants to impress us." A pause. "Your success in this course doesn't depend on what you accomplish with him. But his success definitely does."

The whole way back to his room, Cody ruminated over the morning's debacle, culminating with his private meeting in the commandant's office. And while the commander might normally react to such happenings with a generous dose of even-mindedness, he was still furious not only over Rex's actions but also his complete and utter disregard for what Cody had considered to be a burgeoning friendship.

As if those transgressions were not enough, the commandant had added insult to injury by actually suggesting that Cody take it upon himself to help guide Rex away from his faults, his errant judgment, as it were.

"As if I'm responsible for him somehow. Fek and all, I'm not the one who chose him as a roommate. If they had planned all this from the beginning, they could have at least told me." But no matter how he blamed the cadre, he knew the true source of his anger; and it would not leave him in peace. "After all I've tried to do for him, after all I've put up with and tolerated . . . and I was stupid enough to think he actually considered me to be a brother . . . he humiliated me in front of my squad, took over my ship . . . "

The more he thought about it, the greater his fury, until when, at last, he came to his room, he had worked himself into a smoldering rage.

Inside, Rex was in the process of removing his armor.

"So, did you get your own private ass-chewing? What did the Claw have to say?" he asked right away, and the buoyancy in his voice told the commander that the morning's events had not even registered with the lieutenant.

When Cody didn't answer, Rex pressed, "Must have been pretty bad if you're not willing to talk about it. Eh, well, you know you don't have anything to worry about. You're already going to be honor graduate. There's no way they'd let you fail. One of the benefits of working for General Kenobi, huh?"

Cody turned and with all his strength, delivered a right hook with such force that it sent Rex careening over the end of his bed and into the desk set beyond.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Cody demanded furiously. "Do you not take anything seriously? Is this all just a fekking game to you?!"

Rex, dazed and shocked, pushed up onto his hands and knees then into a sitting position on the floor with his back against the wall. He brought one hand to his face and gingerly touched his cheek; then, seeing droplets of blood spattering his palm, he felt along his chin, finding the cut that was the source of the blood. Knowing that Cody's blow had caught him square in the side of the face, he surmised that he must have hit his chin on the chair or the desk on his way down. Little matter, it was.

Had his adversary been anyone else besides Cody, he would have already been back on his feet and launching a return assault. But this was so unexpected, so bewildering, that he wasn't sure how to react. The idea of coming to blows with Cody was something so unfathomable, that its mere contemplation seemed surreal.

"You have to push everyone's buttons, don't you? You have to embarrass and humiliate people—men you call your brothers! You didn't come here to improve your skills; you came here to convince yourself how much better you are than everyone else," Cody ground out. "Let me tell you something. I trusted you. I saw great things in you. Now, I'm not so sure. What I see now is a selfish, self-important, egotistical braggart whose only interest is in how to bend others to his will." He took a step back towards the door, feeling that the space was suddenly too small and growing smaller by the second. He shook his head, trying to find the words. At last, he concluded, "I knew from the first day what kind of man you were, but I let my guard down. Not anymore. You can remain the man you are, Rex. But know that, if you do, you're going to rack up a lot of dead brothers behind you. But then again . . . maybe you don't care."

With that, Cody left the room.

Rex got slowly to his feet. His head was swimming – and not just from the blow.

He could not get his mind around what had just happened. Had he not experienced it firsthand, he would never have believed Cody capable of such hostility. The commander had shown himself to be nothing if not unflappable. Even-keeled, rational, not given to bursts of emotion. But there was no doubting the veracity of his anger.

And suddenly, Rex feared he had made a terrible mistake in how he'd treated what had happened that morning. What he had viewed as a mere competition between brothers, a no-rules chance to pull out all the stops, Cody—and likely, the others—had seen through the lens of seriousness apparently expected of an ARC trooper.

"It was just an exercise," he said out loud to no one but himself, wiping his bleeding chin with the back of his hand. "It's . . . no reason to get so angry. They're letting us do a makeup . . . "

He wasn't convincing himself.

Maybe he had gone too far.

Cody certainly believed that to be the case; and that was the only thing Rex feared . . .

. . . the loss of his roommate's friendship.

"Commander!"

Cody had not had any place in mind when he'd left his room. He'd just wanted to be out of Rex's presence. He'd made it only to the end of his billeting corridor when one of the cadre's administrative staff caught up with him.

"Yes? What is it?"

"You have a visitor."

"A visitor? Who?"

"General Kenobi."

This was welcome news, a distraction from bothersome thoughts. He followed the man back to the cadre offices and entered one of the private meeting rooms where General Kenobi was waiting.

"Cody, it's good to see you," the Jedi general smiled.

"You, as well, General," Cody replied. "Unexpected, but good."

"I was on my way to Coruscant for some Jedi Council business, and Myotta was on the way—sort of," General Kenobi explained. "I thought you'd enjoy a visit."

"Your timing is perfect," Cody replied. "But I was kind of hoping you were here to get me."

"Why, Commander! Aren't you having a good time?"

Cody inclined his head in a non-answer, then asked, "How are things going back at the front?"

"It's a stalemate over Kempera at the moment—or it was when I left," Kenobi replied. "I haven't heard any different from Anakin since my departure, so I can only assume the situation is the same."

"How is General Skywalker?"

Obi-wan chuckled. "Same as always." A pause. "So, ten more days and you're done here."

Cody knew his general well enough to know that there was an ulterior motive behind his visit which he was not discussing. But he also knew his general respected him enough to answer directly if an inquiry was made.

"Ten days that can't pass quickly enough," Cody replied. "General Kenobi, what's the real reason you're here?"

The Jedi grinned. "Should I be disturbed that you can read me so well?"

"I'm observant."

Kenobi nodded. "Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about."

The night air was still balmy, a gentle breeze blowing up from the south.

Rex didn't need a boost to scale the wall. He could get over it on his own. As he dropped down on the other side, he drew in a deep breath.

He needed to clear his head.

The afternoon—reserved for debriefing the morning's exercise—was now free, given the exercise's curtailment, although Cody thought that such a discussion might have been very interesting indeed. Still, he imagined that the others, like himself, were still too angry to talk about the events with any semblance of objectivity.

And so the commander spent the next several hours after General Kenobi's visit doing anything to avoid returning to his room. He went to the fitness rooms, the dining hall, the star labs. He even took a full-armor jaunt along on the outdoor trails.

His level of anger had subsided considerably, especially after his visit with General Kenobi; but it was towards midnight before he finally decided he had regained enough equanimity to face his roommate, although he was hoping Rex would be asleep by the time he returned.

Instead, and to his even greater relief, he found the room empty.

Good. This way, he could pretend to be asleep when Rex returned.

He showered and got into bed, feeling he had earned a good night's sleep.

But much to his chagrin, sleep was not so accommodating. Apparently, the part of his brain responsible for slumber had no intention of allowing him to escape the troublesome thoughts that nagged persistently at what he might loosely call his conscience.

He had gotten carried away earlier with Rex.

Yes, his roommate's remarks about the exercise had been thoughtless; and his implying that Cody would be named honor graduate for no reason other than his position as General Kenobi's first-in-command had been crass and artless . . .

"But I shouldn't have decked him. He's been that way since the day I met him. Why was I expecting anything different? Huh, you know very well why: because words don't get through to him. It was the only way to make him listen, to make him wake up to the fact that this isn't a game—" He caught himself. "But . . . it isn't the battlefield either." A realization began to dawn on him. "All of his tricks, his breaking the rules . . . those would all be accepted on the battlefield, if they brought about victory. It's not his judgment that's at fault. It's his refusal—or his inability—to treat training any different than he does battle. His level of intensity never wanes."

For two hours, Cody's mind was relentless. No matter how he tried to force sleep, he finally threw in the towel and sat up in the bed.

"I don't believe this," he said out loud. "Maybe I am just a fekking wishy-washy panjun like you said. But it's almost two-thirty in the morning, way past curfew, and you should be back by now. Huh!" He threw his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his utility uniform. "And now, you're going to make me go out there and find your bantha-thick hide. Fine. That's fine, because I'm not going to be made to look like a fool again. I may be cautious, but my instincts are good enough."

He got dressed and went out into the corridor.

He was struck immediately with how different the place was in the dead of night. During daylight hours, the halls were brightly lit, filled with activity and life. Now, the overhead lights were dimmed, casting the corridor in shadowy recesses.

No one was about. The only sounds were the soft and constant humming of climate control machinery and Cody's footsteps on the polished floor.

Where to start? There were many places Rex could have gone, though only a handful were serious considerations. The gym was dark and empty. The star labs, as well. The dining hall. The maintenance hangars. Further down the list were the reference library, the lesser fitness room on the lower level, and the planetarium.

They were all coming up empty.

"He didn't drop out," Cody assured himself. "His stuff is still in the room. Damn it, Rex, you're really ticking me off."

After an hour of searching, he decided to check back at the room. Maybe Rex had returned.

As he passed by the entrance to the massive indoor Xoba Range, he saw that the yellow "Stand By" light was illuminated.

The Xoba range, like Range 9 on Kamino, was a trace-tracker range but ten times the size. They'd run a few scenarios on the range, but most of their training had been conducted in real-world conditions. Still, the Xoba was an impressive piece of engineering.

And it seemed unlikely that it would be in use at three-thirty in the morning.

Cody entered the range on the observation ring; and as he drew closer to the barrier rail, his breath seeped out of him in awe. There, within the range perimeter was a planetscape that he recognized immediately.

Every clone knew Ryloth, whether he had fought there or not. The disaster that had befallen Republic forces on that planet was a secret to no one. It had been studied and debated, regretted and despised. Under their breath, many clones expressed their disgust and dissatisfaction with not only the mission's premise, but also the way the battle had been conducted and the seemingly unappreciated and pointless loss of clone troopers who had been part of the valiant last stand.

Cody himself had never been on Ryloth, but the arid desert-like canyon landscape stretching away before him into a sort of thorny-treed moraine was unmistakable. He'd seen holos of the carnage. He'd watched dozens of digital training reels dedicated to depicting the slaughter.

"And now they're turning it into a training scenario."

He was mesmerized by the idea.

As he leaned forward, resting his palms against the solid metal balustrade, the scene below him suddenly came to life with such violence that he startled and jerked back. There were explosions that could be felt even where he stood within the safety of the observation ring. Flashes of light, though filtered through the protective shield, were temporarily blinding.

Somewhere in the din, he could detect men's voices – shouting, screaming, crying out. They were the unmistakable voices of his fellow clones – he now thought of them as brothers, thanks to Rex.

Through the dust and smoke, he could make out the figures of a dozen or more men – he could not be sure of numbers, the scene was so chaotic. They were running, dodging, tripping, falling, occasionally turning around to return fire against an as yet invisible enemy. They were clearly in full retreat. Cody could make out the maroon-brown horned crest of the 303d Attack Legion, one of the 4th Brigade Combat Team's units, parent unit to . . .

The 388th Extraction Squadron.

And at the same instant he realized what he was watching, he saw the one figure in the confusion whose armor markings—scuffs, scorch marks, dents—identified him as the commander's classmate.

CT-5052.

None of the communications were being broadcast over the speakers, but Cody could see 5052 speaking into his wrist comm, and his movements indicated what his obscured face did not. He was desperate, perhaps even fearful. As he broke from a place of cover, ran ten meters to take cover again, the canyon walls around him erupted into storms of rocky debris as incoming munitions tore the place up around him. Another short dash took him out of sight.

Cody looked up at the control deck. The one-way windows prevented him from seeing who was running the scenario, but clearly someone had to be pulling the switches. He took the rapid chute at the near end of the observation ring and went up to get the benefit of a controller's view.

Usually, when a scenario was in progress, the control deck was locked to prevent disturbances. But Cody did not know that, so he had no reason to be surprised when the door slid open, admitting him into a nerve center that far surpassed anything he had seen even on a super star destroyer. Banks of scopes stood in orderly array as far as the eye could see. The place was dark and empty.

Except for one clone.

Cody recognized Captain Dart, one of the senior controllers.

He sat in a swivel chair that gave him quick access to a dozen screens and a dashboard of controls. On almost every screen, the image of CT-5052 was being tracked.

"Captain?" Cody inquired, approaching him.

Captain Dart jerked his head to the side in surprise. Seeing who it was, his shoulders relaxed.

"Commander Cody. I certainly wasn't expecting any visitors at this hour." The captain may have looked at ease, but his voice contained the slight inflection of a man who knows he's been caught doing something he had not wanted to be caught doing. "How did you get in?"

"The door was unlocked." He stepped up and looked from screen to screen. "Ryloth?"

"Yes," Dart replied. "It's, uh, a new scenario we're developing. It's got a long way to go, but . . . it's getting there."

"That's CT-5052 down there," Cody stated.

"Yes, you're right," Dart confirmed. "I thought, given what he and I went through, that he'd be a good choice to run some of the algorithms with. We both have some experience."

"You were on Ryloth?"

"Pilot, 388th Extraction Squadron," Dart stated, and although his answer was frank, there was a guardedness to his voice and manner.

"You were in the same unit as CT-5052?"

"His name is Bly."

"He never told us that. He never mentioned having a name."

"Yeah, well . . . " His voice fell off uncomfortably.

Cody did not pursue. He could tell there was some underlying matter of privacy or pain there, and he had no desire to dredge up unpleasantness. Instead, he turned to the action on the screens. "How are you running this whole thing alone?"

"It's just the basic scenario . . . the template that a team of controllers would build on for this particular battle. All those other troopers . . . they're plasma creations just like on Range 9. I've been developing algorithms for each one—not just me, but my team. I like to come here at night when it's quiet so I can test them out. It's a long, arduous process. But it will be a good scenario when it's completed." A pause. "It was hell living through it, but something good is going to come of it. That's what we're doing here."

Cody watched as, on one screen, tanks piloted by battle droids entered the scenario from thin air. Super battle droids appeared in loose ranks, advancing in pursuit of the fleeing clones. A static shell from one of the tanks landed close to where CT-5052 was leading the retreat. A nearby clone was blown off his feet, landing close to 5052, who flung the man over his shoulders and continued to run while screaming into his comm.

But now Cody could hear the words being spoken.

From the ground: "How far?! How far?!"

"RZ 3 minutes."

He knew the meaning. Retraction Zone 3 minutes. It meant that the aircraft would be at the extraction zone in three minutes.

"Who's answering?"

"That's me. All the voices—they're all mine in the test pattern. Plus, I was the pilot for this particular extraction," Dart replied. Again, that hint of remorse.

Cody was cautious, but his next question was not exactly palliative.

"You were a pilot. How come you're not flying anymore?"

After a moment's hesitation, Captain Dart stood up and drew up the top of his utility grubs. "That's why." The left side of his abdomen, down to his hip and disappearing up under the garment, was fully prosthetic. Artificial organs, blood vessels, translucent flesh. "The final mission on Ryloth . . . was my final mission, as well."

"That's . . . that's incredible," Cody said with no sense of squeamishness as he took a closer look at the extraordinary effort that kept this former pilot alive. "What happened to you?"

"We were going in for an extraction . . . it was Bly's platoon—I mean, he wasn't the platoon leader, but he was in the platoon. We were taking heavy surface-to-air fire . . . munitions and flak. We'd nicknamed our ship Flak-Bait." A wry grin of remembrance softened his otherwise stony features. "She sure did us a good turn more times than I can tell you." He nodded towards the screens. "They were being pursued and trying to slow the tinnies' advance so that—to give the Twi'leks more time to get on board the ships. There weren't many of the tail heads that made it out of villages, but we were trying to rescue as many as we could. My mission—me and my crew—was to pick up the rear platoon. That was Bly's platoon." He squared his shoulders. "Watch the screens . . . you'll see what happened."

"RZ 2 minutes. Confirm coordinates."

No sooner had the invisible pilot finished speaking than a loud bang of static came over the comm. Seconds later, another voice – not as calm as the pilot's – came across the air with crackling and breakup. "Mayday! Mayday! We've been hit! Pilot dead! Left leading edge obliterated! We—we can still fly but—fek—fek—damn it! We're still coming! We'll try to hold it together!"

Cody leaned forward over Dart's shoulder. He watched as Bly, now crouching on the ground, cradling what might very well be a dead man that he'd carried for the last hundred meters, appeared to struggle with his decision.

"Turn back," he said at last.

"We're almost there, Sir—"

"I am giving you an order! Turn back! There's no way you'll be able to get us out of here! Just—just follow my command and turn back! The zone is hot, and you'll never make it—"

Another voice broke in. "We've dropped our cargo and can attempt a pickup."

"Zephyr," Dart whispered.

"Ditto that," came yet another clone voice, slightly distinct from the others. "We just dumped our tail heads and are enroute to you."

"You heard that, Flak-Bait," CT-5052 shouted, addressing the crew of the damaged ship. "I'm ordering you one last time – turn back or fek and all, I'll court-martial every one of you for insubordination!"

A long radio silence ensued.

"Do you hear me?!" Bly demanded.

"Yes, Sir. Acknowledged. Turning back."

Captain Dart visibly slumped in his seat. "And so we retreated. He ordered us to retreat."

Cody waited a moment before asking, "So, how did they get out?"

Dart turned slowly and regarded him with mournful eyes. "They didn't."

"But—"

"The other two ships that went in . . . both were shot down." Dart returned his gaze to the screens. "We lost a lot of good men that day – air crews and ground teams. My own crew – they thought I was dead. If they hadn't turned back, I would be."

Cody did not understand. "But if—if no one ever got in to rescue them, how is—how is CT-5052 still here?"

Dart stiffened, but before he could answer, an ear-piercing cry of anguish burst across the speakers. A look at the screens showed CT-5052 pounding his fist against canyon wall. "Bastards!" he wailed. "Bastards! You're all—you're all bastards! How could you—how—how—" He tore his helmet off, spiking it against the ground. He raised his clenched fists to his face and dropped to his knees.

The captain got quickly to his feet. "I'm sorry, Commander, I need to get down there."

Cody, stunned at what he was seeing, said, "I'll come with you."

Dart held up a hand. "No, Commander. I thank you for offering, but . . . he'd be furious if he knew that you'd been watching. He could never live it down. I'll take care of this myself, and I hope . . . I hope you'll keep this to yourself."

They both left the control room together and parted ways, leaving Cody baffled but adamant that he would not betray what he had just witnessed. Not to anyone.

He walked slowly back towards his room.

If CT-5052's platoon had perished on Ryloth, how was it that he was still alive? Something didn't add up.

The mystery was almost enough to take his mind off the other main issue occupying his thoughts; but as soon as he walked into his room to find Rex still absent, he immediately prioritized that situation over his curiosity regarding 5052.

"Okay, it's four in the morning and you'll still not here. This is making me very angry," Cody groused, not willing to admit that he was starting to grow genuinely concerned.

Then the door opened and in walked Rex.

The lieutenant was surprised to find his roommate up and about, but all he could manage was, "Well, at least I don't have to worry about waking you up."

Cody turned towards him and crossed his arms over his chest. "I was out looking for you."

Rex gave an uncharacteristically nonchalant chuckle. "Did you think I'd pack up and leave?"

Cody was not dissuaded by the attitude, but he wasn't anywhere near to eating crow. He was going to be the commander he'd always been, the commander who had risen through the ranks and now held the reputation of being the best. "I knew you hadn't left. Your stuff was still here."

"Yeah, well, I've come too far to throw it all away now," Rex grunted.

"And you're still pretending like you don't care," Cody noted. "But you're not fooling anyone—least of all, me."

Rex regarded him with an almost plaintive expression. "I've never said I don't care. I've never pretended not to care. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't what I wanted." A pause as he began to undress, tossing his uniform on the back of the chair – a sloppy habit that he had never before displayed. "But I'll tell you what I never wanted: I never wanted to see my brothers turn against me. My men—" His voice caught for a split-second, "—whoever's in my charge at any given time . . . they're all that matters to me, Commander. I'd give my life for any of them in a heartbeat. Then to be told that I'm not good enough to lead them—"

"No one said that, Rex."

"Then you weren't listening closely enough to the colonel," Rex shook his head. "I'm just ready for this to be over so I can go back to the 729th. I won't be endangering anyone there. They all have the same attitude I have."

"Well, right now, your attitude is spoiled and petulant," Cody said with a grin that was not well-received.

Rex scowled at him. "Look, I got your message. You don't have to keep pounding it home."

And suddenly, Cody felt a pang of worry tweak his insides.

The fire.

The fire was . . . gone. Extinguished.

Or at the very least, starved for fuel.

He was beginning to feel as if he were looking at a different man, a different Rex. And although he had been hoping for change, he was not sure that a change for the best was in the making.

Flak Bait is the actual nickname of a WWII aircraft that I saw at the Dulles Air and Space Museum this past weekend when they opened the refurbishment hangar to visitors. It was the aircraft with the most bombing missions over Europe and just full of flak damage. I decided to incorporate it here.