Dear Reader, thank you to my reviewers: Sued13 and Akira Hayama. I know Umbara is a familiar arc, but all comments are appreciated and help keep me motivated to continue writing. Further difficulties and character development in this chapter. And in response to Akira
Hayama's question about whether March was one of the original clones who crashed on Bertegad. Yes, he was. He was the clone the others considered to be a cut above when it came to appearance, even though they all have the same template. Regard! CS

Chapter 99 Withered Trees

"We were waiting in a forest, keeping dark behind the wall, what is hidden in our hearts.
Absolve us of all worry, for our fate is in the hands of a demon, not a god.
Save us from all love and hope.
Give us iron, give us rope."

Porroh Man
Stuart Adamson

Rex returned to the assembled men. "Jesse," he summoned, motioning him over. And as Jesse approached, Rex was not surprised at the attitude that accompanied him.

"Yes, Captain?"

"The plan stands as ordered," Rex replied, going on quickly before Jesse could express any disagreement other than that on his face. "We're going to move forward in two groups. I'll lead the first with four companies. You'll lead the second with the other four. You'll follow about half a kilometer behind us. That way if one of the divisions gets ambushed, the other can go to their aid." He overlooked Jesse's ever deepening glower. "We can only get through that gorge in two columns, so make sure you intersperse your rocket launchers and mortars throughout. Don't put them all in the rear or you'll have trouble bringing them up if you need them. Any questions?"

"This is a bad idea—"

"I didn't ask for opinion. I asked if you had questions. This is the plan, and we're sticking to it," Rex replied.

"Fives agreed to this?"

Rex's jaw tightened as he made a forceful effort to keep his demeanor. "You're taking E, F, G and H companies. Go prepare your men."

Jesse scowled and ground out an acknowledgment.

Rex raised his voice to address the rest of the company and platoon leaders. "We're going up the main gorge with all we've got. Alpha through Delta commanders, you're with me. Echo through Hoth, report to Jesse. I want the battalion underway within twenty minutes."

He waited, half-expectantly, to see if there would be any more disagreement. And while no one voiced a dissent, it was clear in the manner, facial expressions and body language of a number of troops: this was not going to be a popular course of action.

Rex belly-crawled to the top of a small rise from which the enemy base was observable.

On his left was Hardcase, who, as a lieutenant himself and often overshadowed by Jesse's prominence as second-in-command, would be the liaison, a sort of right-hand man, between Rex and the four companies of the first division. On top of that, he was now in command of Bravo Company, owing to Jesse being put in charge of the second division.

On his right was Fives – and this from necessity. Rex had reminded Fives, in as forceful yet non-confrontational a manner as possible, that the ARC trooper was assigned to the 501st in an advisory capacity. He was not over and above any of the company commanders. They were lieutenants; he was a corporal. He needed to keep that in mind and comport himself as such. Fives had taken the admonishment, but Rex sensed that it had not truly sunk in.

"Is everyone clear on the plan? Hardcase?" Rex asked.

Hardcase replied with his usual exuberance. "Yes, Sir."

When Fives remained silent, Rex pressed. "Fives? Are you clear?"

Unlike Hardcase's crisp and respectful answer, backed by his obvious readiness to engage the enemy, Fives' response was a cool, reluctant, "Yeah."

Rex didn't care if Fives was miffish, as long as he carried out orders as given. Fives could sulk and stew and have his doubts; but Rex trusted him to do his duty. True, Fives had gone off the rails in the past and directly disobeyed orders, but Rex wanted to believe that time and experience had instilled the better qualities of temperance and prudence. He was willing to believe it for the time being. He was willing to confer the benefit of the doubt.

And if he ended up being wrong, then it would be his mistake to live with. It wouldn't be the first time he'd erred in his judgment.

"Alight. In your groups. Let's move out!" he ordered, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could scrape up in the face of what he already knew was going to be a hard-fought, if not disastrous, battle.

The advance began.

The tension lay thick and heavy like a shroud. And from the corner of every eye, phantom movements were detected, only to vanish under direct attention. The sound of the walkers almost mimicked the clank and clatter of chains being dragged across the ground, the chains of the damned, for what other manner of being would willingly inhabit a world such as this where all was darkness?

Rex dispatched four men to take point thirty meters ahead. His hope was that any ambush that might be in the making would be detected by the scouts, and his fear was that the eerie quiet was simply a cover for something terrible that might befall them at any moment.

From behind him, he heard Fives speak a warning. "Everybody stay alert. Fingers on the trigger."

A trio of banshees flew overhead, moving the direction opposite from the one in which the Republic troops were heading.

"They look spooked." This observation came from an Alpha Company soldier.

"They're sure getting out of here in a hurry," Hardcase agreed.

"That's not a good sign."

Up on point, Gernot, though not hearing any of the conversation going on behind him, was thinking the same thing. He, too, had seen the banshees fleeing the area; and now he was starting to wonder if maybe this place was getting to him a bit too much, for he could swear the ground was moving.

He was approaching a point where the gorge opened out into fairly wide plain, interspersed with trees and rock formations. If the companies could make it this far, they would have made it past the most likely ambush locations . . . damn, there was that vibration again . . .

He stopped walking. "Beez," he addressed one of the other soldiers also doing point. "You feel that?"

No sooner had he spoken than a violent quake shook the ground. A constant rattling followed. Everyone stopped moving.

"What's causing that?" Beez wondered aloud.

He got his answer instantly.

The ground directly behind where he and Gernot were standing erupted in a shower of rock as from beneath the surface there rose . . . a creature? a machine? Beez wasn't sure what he was looking at. It was shaped like a centipede with a segmented body and jointed legs. Each segment was roughly cylindrical with a diameter twice the height of a clone. Streaks of blue-green light glowed along its sides and at the junctures where every one of its many arms joined to the body. In the foremost segment—the head—a large round cockpit window revealed that the fighting machine was being piloted by an Umbaran, and that it was, in fact, a machine and not a creature. On top of each body segment, 360-degree gun turrets spewed laser fire in streaks of lethal green.

No mission briefings had contained any information that such a weapon existed in the Umbaran arsenal. But it was here now, and the Republic troops would have to find a way to combat it.

"Ohhh, this is great," Gernot breathed, sounding more awestruck than anything else, a strangely serene observation, considering what was facing him.

The centipede—or as the Umbarans called it, the Impeding Assault Tank (IAT)—let out an ear-piercing cry and curled itself down to allow its pilot a better look at the enemy.

Fives could see the maniacal, gas-crazed Umbaran face sneering at him through the cockpit window.

"Blast it!" he shouted to Hardcase, who was already hoisting his weapon. The other troopers engaged it, but their shots landed harmlessly, dissipated by the ray shielding.

The Umbaran pilot brought his IAT crashing down bodily onto the ground.

Gernot snagged Beez's arm. "Get out of the way—get out of the way!"

They leaped aside just in time to avoid being crushed, took scant cover behind one of the frond-like trees, and resumed firing.

"This isn't doing any good!" Beez shouted.

"Just keep firing!" Gernot replied. But as he spoke, the IAT took off, moving away from them and heading straight towards the gorge through which the companies were advancing.

"Our boys are going to get torn to pieces!" Beez cried out. "There's nowhere for them to go!"

"Fek and all," Gernot swore under his breath, then setting his shoulders, he said, "It we're going to go down, we might as well all go down together. Come on!"

Hardcase hated the idea of defeat. He hated the idea that he could fire off a hundred rounds—a thousand or even a million rounds—and they would make no difference because he was up against an enemy with superior technology.

But even more, he could not countenance the thought of retreating – even in the face of a certain defeat. He had one life, and he had decided very early on that if he had to lay down that life, he would exact a heavy payment from the enemy in the process.

Yet, against the IAT, he would not be selling his life as dearly as possible. He wasn't laying a finger on the enemy ensconced within this piece of alien technology, so vastly superior to anything he had at his own disposal. And this infuriated him more than the prospect of dying. He at least wanted his death to have meaning, purpose – and he wanted to take a lot of the enemy with him.

In the chaos of the attack, he had told the companies to move to the sides of the gorge and attempt to get to the high ground on either side. Then, he once again found himself, perhaps serendipitously, hunkered down beside Fives.

"The head's ray-shielded!" he shouted.

"We need rocket launchers!" Fives replied as another centipede burst out of the ground. "Mayday! Mayday! Rex, we need rocket launchers! Now!"

Up ahead, Rex had managed to lead the forward edge of both columns, no more than a hundred men, out into the more open area where they were engaged with yet another of the IATs. Hearing Fives' call for help, Rex turned to take stock of the troops in his immediate vicinity. There were at least two with rocket launchers, one of whom was Pitch. The other was still so new, Rex wasn't sure of his name –or if he even had a name.

He waved them down, then motioned to a handful of nearby troopers. "You're all with me!" He turned and led the way back along the rise of the northern edge of the gorge, where he could look down and see the situation unfolding.

And what he saw was bedlam. Troopers running helter-skelter out of the gorge while one of the centipedes was heading for the entrance, where it would be able to block any exit.

"Get those rocket launchers down there now! Move it, trooper!" he shouted.

Pitch and the other trooper both raced down the embankment. At the bottom, they split and went in two different directions as the centipede bore down on them.

Pitch slid down to one knee and took up a firing position beside one of the glowing rock formations. But no sooner had he shouldered the launcher than a blast from the IAT blew the rock to pieces, knocking him down and sending the launcher skittering across the ground.

He didn't have time to take an internal accounting of whether or not he'd been injured. He could feel that everything was working – for the moment, at least. And the centipede was closing rapidly.

"Fekking son-of-a-bitch moves faster than I thought." He got to his feet, retrieved the launcher, and began running again. He needed to get out ahead of the thing in order to get a good clean shot at the head. But it was becoming clear that he was not going to be able to outrun the thing. He wasn't running in order to get a shot; he was running for his life.

He could hear the mechanical whir growing closer, and the ground shook under the thundering weight of the fighting machine. Suddenly, a body landed in front of him, off to his left side; but he didn't have the luxury of checking to see who it was. He hoped it wasn't the other rocket launcher . . .

Plasma bolts from the turrets were turning the vaporous air around him into a thick, glowing mist that was almost impossible to see through.

And the whole place was shaking . . .

He stole a glance over his shoulder.

"I hope there really is an afterlife," he thought. With that, he dove forward, face-first, into the ground.

There were a few seconds of mind-numbing terror as the roar filled his ears. He could feel the earth being torn up around him. A sharp pain pierced his left shoulder, followed by a pressure and dull ache in his side near the hip.

And then it was over.

The noise, the fury of the machinery . . .

He was still alive. He was still aware and in command of his senses.

In the next moment, another clone was beside him. He looked up and saw Hardcase dropping to one knee.

"Pitch—"

"Take it! Take it!" Pitch demanded.

Hardcase forced down the part of him that wanted to drop everything to go to the aid of his squad mate. He knew Pitch was never forgive him for putting anyone or anything ahead of the mission. He hoisted the launcher and gave a simple, "Thanks, buddy."

"You said you needed the damned thing. Now, use it."

The sound of a familiar voice cut across the conversation, and Pitch wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried.

"I got 'im!"

"Kix . . . just my luck."

In the next instant, and with a brief burst of pain, he was being dragged backwards away from the line of fire.

Once clear, he heard the voice again. And that's when he realized that Kix hadn't known who it was he'd been pulling from the battlefield. In the fog and darkness and haste necessitated by battle, Kix had just been grabbing injured men as he'd come upon them.

But now as he reached down to remove Pitch's helmet, he saw the well-known markings across the crown, and Pitch could feel the change in his entire demeanor.

"Pitch—Pitch, brother—" Kix carefully removed his helmet. "Everything's okay. I've got you. You'll be okay. Where are you hurt?"

"Kix, calm down," Pitch said, and he sounded more at ease than his squad mate. "It's not bad. Just a twinge in my arm and my hip. Really, it's not bad." He could see, in his periphery, Slider performing triage on at least a dozen other troopers. "Slider will look after me. I promise you, I'll be okay."

He could not see Kix's expression through the visor, but he didn't need to. He knew exactly what emotions were on the medic's face.

"Don't worry about me, Kix," Pitch said evenly. "I may be side-lined, but you still have a job to do."

Kix hung there for a moment, teetering. At last, he asked, "Do you want anything for the pain before I go?"

Pitch grinned. "I can handle a little pain."

As he spoke, Slider joined them. "Pitch? Well, this is one of the signs of the apocalypse," he said with the sort of serious humor that gave him a good bedside manner. "If I end up with Hardcase as a patient next, we'll know the end of time is here." He looked to Kix. "You want to take care of him? I can go out and bring the wounded in."

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I want." Such was Kix's first and almost instinctual reaction. But it wasn't the proper thing to do. Medics could play no favorites. They could not put the life of one man ahead of another, even if that man was a squad mate, a friend, a brother in the truest sense of the word.

He and Slider had worked out this routine between them because the truth was that Slider was faster at triage and a few notches below Kix when it came to the physicality needed to haul men in. And most importantly, Slider did not have the emotional sensitivity Kix had. Slider undertook his duties in the light of pragmatism, and nothing ever seemed to get to him.

Kix might be better at treatment that went beyond the initial moments of triaging and stabilizing a wounded trooper, but the current circumstances demanded rapidity in assessing and prioritizing the injuries, keeping alive those who could be kept alive for further treatment in the rear, and stemming preventable losses. Slider was better suited to the task, and both he and Kix knew it; and in the same way, they both knew that Kix was the more fearless of the two, physically stronger, and not likely to wilt under the rush of incoming fire as he dragged men to safety.

"You stay with him, Slider," Kix declined. "I'll go back out."

"You're sure?"

Kix nodded. "Take care of him." Then to Pitch, "Don't do anything stupid. I need you back out there as soon as possible. Someone has to have my back."

"You forget . . . Jesse and Hardcase are still out there."

Kix nodded. He hadn't forgotten.

Well, it was true: the axiom that the best laid plans never survive contact with the enemy. Hardcase believed that with every fiber of his being. And if the best plans met untimely deaths, then half-cocked, hair-brained schemes like this one were one foot in the grave before they'd even started.

From the moment he'd picked up the rocket launcher from Pitch—and before he'd even had time to absorb the fact that one of his squad mates might be seriously injured—he'd been running about like a crazed Anverian Bruze Mouse. Rex had sent him ahead with nothing more instructive than to "keep moving."

And that was what he had done. He'd run down into the thick of things, losing Rex in the process and gaining Fives. One moment, he'd had the captain at his side; the next, one pauldron had become two, and it was no longer Rex but Fives who was tearing along beside him. Without speaking, they both were pursuing the same goal: lure the thing into a position where Hardcase could take a shot at the pilot inside.

Fives clambered into the open, hoping to draw the pilot's attention; and when the Umbaran pilot turned his war machine towards Fives, that was when Hardcase stepped out from behind the cover of a bank of red glowing petrified wood stumps, aimed the launcher and fired.

A burst of blue-green gas erupted from the cockpit, and the centipede reared up with a sound that metal might make if it had a dying cry. A series of explosions followed down the length of the IAT, at which point both Hardcase and Fives broke from their places and bolted away from the destruction.

As the now dead fighting machine rolled down upon itself, one of the segments crashed down less than a meter from the two men, trapping them against the stone face of a low mesa and bringing expressions of shocked relief from both of them.

With a forced calmness, Fives breathed out, "That was close."

"You got a point there," Hardcase agreed. He nodded towards the only way out, over the top of the fallen machine. "Move it, trooper."

"Captain!"

Rex turned to see Jesse approaching him at a run. "I've brought the other companies up, as many as could fit through the gorge. It's narrow back there. We're bottle-necked but coming up slowly. Where do you want us?"

And in that moment, Rex forgot about the Jesse of the recent past. This was the Jesse he knew and appreciated. Mission-oriented, level-headed, speaking from situational awareness instead of emotion.

Not only that, but his words had given Rex an idea.

"Order your men still in the gorge to head back the way they came," he said. "Tell them to set enough charges to cave the walls in on this end, a hundred meters into the gorge. We need to create a bottle neck."

Jesse picked up right away on the strategy. "But how are you going to get them down into the gorge? They know they have greater maneuverability out here."

"We don't need to get them completely into the gorge," Rex replied. "We just need to funnel them in the right direction. Once they're in the entrance, it will be a tight squeeze. That's when we've got them." A pause. "And I don't think luring them in will be that difficult. That gas makes them crave battle. I think a little temptation and taunting will go a long way. Now, hurry. We don't have much time.

Less than a minute later and trusting that Jesse had carried out his orders, Rex gave the command to regroup and take cover. The decision to pull back granted them a small reprieve, a window of opportunity while the two remaining IATs executed turning maneuvers. As lethal and armed with a diversity of deadly weaponry as they might be, the IATs did have drawbacks, one of which was the amount of space they required to maneuver.

It was that weakness Rex had detected in the preceding moments of battle and was now planning to use to his advantage.

Jesse approached. "The gorge is blocked off."

Rex nodded. "Good."

"You know, we have a lot of men on the other side of the blockage," Jesse pointed out. "If this works, we're still going to have to bring them through somehow."

"Compared to this, that will be easy."

Fives, taking reports that most troopers had reported in, approached Rex as Jesse moved away to confer via helmet comm with Lieutenant Fin, who was in command of the troops behind the wall.

"We're safe for the moment, but they'll be coming around any second," Fives stated.

Which was exactly what Rex was hoping for. "Bring up the launchers. Spread detonators along that corridor. Trap them into the bottleneck. We're going to blow those things sky high."

The confidence with which he said it, the display of leadership in his definitiveness . . . these were not lost on Fives. This was why Rex's men would follow him anywhere. This was why death or hell or whatever realms of terror and suffering might comprise the netherworlds of the universe could hold no sway as deterrents in the face of a directive from the captain. Just being near him allayed fears. Hearing him buoyed spirits. Seeing him in action instilled confidence.

And it disturbed Fives to no end that he should ever find himself at odds with his former captain, for he knew that there could be no prevailing against him. Rex was an astonishment unto himself. And there wasn't a single member of the 501st who would disagree. And the fact that this was now Rex's plan, Rex's course of action to save them from the failure of Krell's decision, lent an added air of almost mythic brilliance to Rex's strategy.

As Fives joined in setting the detonators, he could see the IATs approaching in the distance. Behind him, Rex ordered the majority of the troops to take cover on either side of the entrance to the gorge. He took two dozen with him and stood on the massive low-lying branches of yet another strange Umbaran tree, if it could be so labeled. They began taunting the Umbaran war machine, drawing it into the fosse-like narrows before the gorge entrance.

Rex was patient. He wanted both IATs in the blast zone . . .

He pressed his thumb down.

A cascade of explosions followed. The men who had acted as lures began to leap down off their perch. Rex waited until he could see that the explosions were no longer just the detonators going off, but the actual centipedes themselves. And once he was sure of that, he turned to make his escape. Leaping down from the branch, the force of an explosion caught him from behind and propelled him through the air.

His horrified troops watched as he sailed past them and landed face-down on the ground. But before even one of them could go to his aid, he was back on his feet, and without missing a beat, commending his men as if he hadn't just been back-blown with the force of a cannon.

"Good job. Alright, let's move out." He turned then to Jesse. "Have the companies that are behind the wall retrace the route back to where the overland passage breaks off. Tell them to come that way and meet us at these coordinates." With the flick of his eyes, he transmitted coordinates via his HUD.

"Are you sure you don't want to wait for them here, Sir? Strength in numbers?" Jesse inquired.

"We may need those numbers as we get closer to the airbase," Rex replied. "They're not going to let us just walk in there. There's still a lot of fighting left to do. I plan to hold them in reserve."

"Do you think General Krell will agree with that plan?" Jesse asked.

"I'll find out when the time comes," Rex replied. He paused a moment and removed his helmet. "Jesse, do you know Pitch has been injured?"

Jesse stiffened. "No, I . . . I didn't know that." He seemed to lose his bearing for a moment. "Where—can I—is it bad? Where is he?"

"I don't know the answer to any of those questions," Rex replied. "It happened in the heat of battle. Things were moving very fast. Kix got him off the battlefield, so I'm sure he's in good hands."

"Does Hardcase know?"

"He was there," Rex replied. "Look, I know you're going to want to go check on him, and you'll have some time to do that. But first I need you to give orders to your division. We're moving out in thirty minutes after I get a strength count from the company commanders."

Jesse nodded. "Understood."

Kix came in with another wounded trooper.

This had to be at least his tenth time coming back to the triage area since he'd brought Pitch in. And every time, he'd stopped to check on his squad mate. By the fourth time, he noticed that Pitch's alertness had morphed into something languid and mellow.

Slider explained. "I gave him a pretty hefty dose of Selenol. He was starting to feel the pain of his injuries, and uh, like all you Saber Squad twats, he wanted to tough it out. So, I jabbed him."

"Good idea. Have you had a chance to look at his injuries yet?" Kix asked.

"Yes, and they're not too serious," came the reply. "No blaster or plasma wounds. It looks like that thing's legs or pincers or something got him. One went clear through his left forearm, crushed the armor and everything. It's broken, but nothing's out of the skin. Then something grazed his left side. Again, the armor probably saved his life, but he's got some bad bruising. They'll need to take a closer look at him in the med bay."

"Thanks, Slider. You're the best," Kix said gratefully. He dropped down on one knee. "Pitch? Are you awake?"

"Wide awake," Pitch replied, his eyes still closed. He had a sing-song aspect to his voice that told Kix that he was feeling no pain.

"How are you doing?"

Now, Pitch opened his eyes; and as his gaze fell on Kix, a smile appeared on his face. "Pretty good right now, brother," he said. "I think the ole' slide man gave me some good osik."

"Just to take the edge off," Kix grinned. And yet, that grin was taking every bit of his energy. He was used to seeing wounded men, but when one of his own squad mates was the injured party, his investment became personal.

Pitch spoke in an exaggerated conspiratorial tone. "Ah, don't forget . . . I know how you got your nickname."

Kix shook his head. "I'm not the one administering the drugs here," he said.

"Good thing, too. Or else we'd all be flying high."

Kix looked over his shoulder to see Hardcase standing behind him; and he felt a correction was in order. "Ridiculous. I always go with the minimum. You were just . . . more sensitive to it than most—"

"Eh, save your excuses." Hardcase said lightly. He hunkered down and almost nudged Kix out of the way. "Well, this is a fine little setup you've got for yourself here, I'll say. You get a trip to the rear, a couple weeks in a bacta tank, lazing around during recovery. And we'll be out here missing you every second. Fek, Pitch, how could let that thing run you down like that? You could have whipped out a patch and blown it beyond the outer rim."

"I was trying to get the, um . . . the . . . launchers, yeah . . . I was trying to get the launchers down to you, brother. You and Fives. You two were getting your asses basted. Guess I was . . . single-minded. Didn't even cross my mind to pull a patch," came the barely coherent reply.

"Well, next time, use your smarts," Hardcase chided. "Don't know what I'd do if we lost you."

It was then that Jesse arrived. He went directly to Kix.

"How is he?"

"He'll be okay," Kix answered. "He'll be sent back to the rear for treatment and a few weeks convalescence. But it should all heal up."

"What about you? You okay?" Jesse inquired.

"Yeah, I'm good."

Jesse, from observation, had his doubts; but he did not argue. Instead, he leaned down and grasped Pitch's hand. "Kix says you're going to be okay. Don't make a liar out of him."

"No problem," Pitch mumbled. "I'll be . . . back on the line before you . . . before you take the capitol."

Jesse smiled warmly. "That might just be true." He swallowed down a sudden swell of emotion, the likes of which he hadn't felt since Kix had been injured in the crash on Bertegad. "We'll be waiting for you to get back." He straightened up and spoke to the gaggle of troopers working the triage point.

"Captain Rex is moving us out in ten minutes. Slider, pick two to stay back and help you until the evacuation teams can get these guys out of here. Everyone else, report back to your companies," he ordered. "Hardcase, Kix . . . you need to go back up to the front."

Together, the trio said their good-byes to their fourth with promises to check up on him as soon as time permitted. Pitch, for his own part, was blissfully on his way to a drug-induced state of being, where time was but a nuisance and pain sat vaguely on the outskirts of awareness.

Still, he was able to understand what was happening, and he wished his squad mates well, cautioning them to be on their guard and watch out for each other. And for Jesse, he had one last word of addlepated advice, and yet it was not without merit.

He motioned him close. "You don't have to . . . be a prick. Don't let him . . . don't turn into him."

Jesse grinned. "No chance of that, brother. Krell is the last officer I'd take as an example."

Behind him, Kix silently weighed what he was sure was Jesse's misunderstanding. For in Kix's mind, there was no doubt to whom Pitch had been referring.

No doubt.