Dear Reader, First a thank you to my reviewers: Pink Cookie, Shadow Wanderer, Akira Hayama, Sued13, HuffleHecate, CT-7567 and my two guests. It makes me very happy to see reviews! I appreciate you taking the time to let me know you're reading and enjoying. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Peace, CS
Chapter 102 Acts of Desperation
"Kuchh kar guzarne ko khoon chala.
aankhon ke sheeshe mein utarne ko khoon chala.
Badan se tapak kar, zameen se lipatkar
galiyon se raston se ubharkar, umadkar.
Naye rang bhar ne ko khoon chala khoon chala.
Khuli si chhot lekar, badhi si tees lekar ahista ahista.
Sawaalon ki ungli, jawaabon ki mutthi
sang lekar Khoon chala
Kuchh kar guzarne ko khoon chala.
Do something, the blood has started to boil.
The blood is moving, descending into the mirror of eyes.
Falling from the body, embracing the earth,
winding through the streets, surging and sweeping
to fill the world with new colors. Blood is moving,
pouring from a gaping wound, pinching and pricking,
slowly pointing fingers of questions, replying with fists of answers
for those who do wrong."
Khoon Chala from Rang de Bisanti
A.R. Rahmen
Stealth missions weren't exactly Hardcase's forte.
Everyone knew that.
Still, Hardcase was pleased that Fives had wanted him on this mission. It was a tough undertaking, a dangerous one, fraught with peril . . . and that was what Hardcase liked the most. Unlike his fellow squad mates – and most other clones – Hardcase actually found a certain degree of satisfaction, even pleasure, in the vanquishing of his enemies. It did not matter to him whether that enemy was comprised of droids or living, breathing beings. An enemy was an enemy and merited the full brunt of Hardcase's ability.
Since Top's departure, Hardcase had found his already profound war-loving nature increasing, and he welcomed the change. When the two had been together, they had possessed enough belligerence between them to account for a boundless warrior ethos, despite Top's penchant for sentimentality and Hardcase's equally strong tendency towards impetuosity. Their shared moniker, the tattooed Bigwig that adorned their faces, had linked them together in more than just a mawkish show of camaraderie; it had been a reflection of the bond that had long defined their opinions of themselves and each other – bigwigs, in both deed and personality. They were outsized characters, feeding off each other and bolstering each other as soldiers.
But now, with Top gone to the 808th and out of the picture, Hardcase felt a responsibility to carry a torch that, while not at all extinguished, had been removed from visibility. In short, he could no longer simply be half of a pair. He needed to be the whole. And right now, during this battle of Umbara, where Rex needed every bit of daring and killer instinct from his men, Hardcase was more than ready and willing to oblige. He found great joy and satisfaction in being someone upon whom his captain could rely.
He was bringing that enthusiasm with him on this mission.
"The second they spot us, I start blasting," he said with a diabolical anticipation.
"Hardcase, can't you take it easy for once?" Fives pushed back. "Stick to the plan instead of guns blazing."
"I'm sorry," Hardcase replied, though he was not sorry in the least. "That's just how I am. My commander on Kamino said my growth acceleration chamber had a leak. Made me hyperactive, I guess."
Fives almost smiled at a now long-distant recollection.
"Eh, leave 'im alone. They kept 'im in his growth jar too long."
Cut-up picking on Echo . . . always with the wisecracks. Meant in good fun.
He missed them. Fek, how he missed them.
But now wasn't the time.
Directly ahead of them, a fence of electrical strands was crackling in the darkness.
"There's the airbase."
They could see, just beyond the fence and precisely where DB had said they'd be, a row of maintenance stations. And closer to the main hanger, as seen by the eagle, a neat line of Umbaran fighters, silent and unimposing on the flight line.
"Huh, some kind of sensor wall," Fives stated. He led the way along the perimeter, keeping to the cover of the trees, stopping at the base of one very large tree whose trunk must have had a diameter of at least ten meters. "Use the tree to get over the wall."
"Uhhh, how am I supposed to do this, exactly?" Hardcase asked, looking up at the smooth surface stretching away above him.
"Figure it out," was Fives' less-than-helpful answer. But then again, Fives knew he didn't need to thread any needles with Hardcase. Hardcase didn't need instructions. He would find his own way.
Without hesitating even a second, Hardcase fired a cable into the upper reaches and began climbing, all the while muttering to himself. "Figure it out, Hardcase. Figure it out. What's to figure about climbing up a tree? How 'bout you try it next time?" Coming to the top, he looked out over the base. From his vantage point, he could see everything, and it matched DB's description to a tee; and he began to think that the plan just might work. "Great. Nice view," he said with a note of sarcasm and a burning desire to lob a few grenades down and see where they landed. "I prefer a good fight to all this sneaking around," he grunted for good measure. He walked out on one of the limbs with its glowing red flower. The limb bent as he walked until it was low enough that he was able to jump off onto the tarmac, at which the limb snapped back up into place.
Back on the ground, Fives was placing detonators all along the base of the tree. Once finished, he followed Hardcase's lead and used the tree to climb over the wall.
Together, the two men used the relative darkness along the edge of the flight line to make their way towards the fighters, keeping a sharp eye out for the patrols DB had said walked the inside perimeter. As they neared the hangars, Fives depressed the button on his wrist panel, detonating the explosives and bringing the tree down.
The explosion drew a number of Umbarans from within the hangar, and they raced towards the scene of the chaos.
With alarms now blaring around them, Fives and Hardcase broke from their hiding place and raced towards the two nearest fighters, encountering one Umbaran soldier whom they took out in seconds before he could send word of their presence.
Coming around the airfoils, Fives hit a moment of perplexity as he stood looking at the bizarre alien technology. On the ground, the fighter looked very different from when it was in flight. But at least there was a pilot's seat – just a seat—no console, no cockpit to speak of. The blue bubble that had shielded the Umbaran pilots wasn't there.
But a seat was a good starting place.
Behind him, Hardcase was also regarding the craft with a measure of bewilderment. "How do I start this thing?"
Fives was curt. "How should I know? Start pushing buttons," he said, sitting down and taking his own advice.
Advice, which to Hardcase, had the same ring as "Figure it out."
Right away, they both discovered that a touch pad on the left chair panel activated operation screens and the ray-shielded bubble cockpit.
But after that . . .
It was absolutely the most peculiar—not to mention, sensitive—flying apparatus either of them had ever encountered. Sensor fields enveloped their hands, and the slightest movement brought a response from the cockpit.
Before he even realized what was happening, Hardcase was spinning in a circle several meters above the ground. Under other circumstances, he might have considered that to be fun . . .
An Umbaran patrol approached on foot and began firing, but their rounds dissipated harmlessly against the cockpit's shell.
"I'm glad these things are ray-shielded!" Hardcase remarked. "Now, if I can just figure out how to maneuver this bird."
Fives, in the meantime, was riding his bubble cockpit slowly up in front of the airfoil behind him, and quite by accident, ended up in the cockpit anchor arm. He was now fully connected with the fighter, a situation which caught him completely by surprise; for now, the hand movements he had been making haphazardly in his attempt to figure out how to operate the cockpit were involving the craft in its entirety. And this baby didn't handle like any craft he knew!
He bounced across the tarmac, face up, face down, sideways, backwards, upside down and rightside up. It was utterly uncontrolled; and yet, at the same time, he could feel the power in the aircraft. He could feel the untapped capability, and he felt a thrill of excitement shoot up his spine.
Hardcase was feeling something else. "I don't think I can do this!" he lamented. But no sooner had the words fell from his lips than half the Umbarans firing at him went up in a blast of light.
Fives' laugh rang out. He fired again . . . from an upside-down position.
This was fantastic! Amazing! The feeling of firepower and superiority he had at his fingertips . . . no wonder the Umbarans were able to decimate their enemies! This kind of technology was akin to comparing the middle of day to the dark of night. He fired the guns just for the rush it gave him. He didn't even care what he hit or if he hit anything.
In the other fighter, Hardcase was slowly catching on to the responses generated by his movements. Like Fives, he quickly figured out how to use the guns, but he also stumbled upon the missile launcher sequence. After sending one by accident into one of the maintenance buildings, he decided caution was in order. After all, they wanted to take the airbase, not destroy it. Still, steps should be taken to make sure the Umbarans didn't launch more fighters to come after them. He could take out a few on the flightline . . . that would be acceptable. It might even be fun. And it would certainly be by sheer luck if any of his shots made contact. As he rotated willy-nilly into the sky, firing in whichever direction he happened to be facing, he caught sight from time-to-time of Fives' in his fighter, also climbing—or drifting upward—like a leaf blown by the wind.
It was time to try and find the 501st, if any of them were left. Target practice would have to wait.
"Let's hope this trip was worth it," Hardcase said, attempting to level out or at least fly straight.
"Let's go!" Fives enthused. He could not wait to bring the Umbaran's own technology to bear against them.
Denal dove for cover into a deep furrow created by one of the tank's massive metallic feet. He had run out of places to hide and was now just going from scant cover to scant cover, praying that he would be able to stay one step ahead of the enemy. Around him, everything was being blown to pieces – the ground, the trees, the remnants of roads and structures . . . men.
If the captain's plan was going to work, it would need to be soon, or there would be nothing left of the 501st.
Up ahead and to his right, Denal caught sight of Rex picking up the rocket launcher of a fallen trooper, and it struck him as a mark of the battalion's desperation that its captain had come to the point of shouldering a weapon usually handled by subordinates. But there were hardly any troops left in the area to take the launcher; and even though it was useless against the machines, the purpose was to keep the enemy engaged and on the battlefield long enough to afford Fives and Hardcase the time to put the captain's plan into action.
Denal had kept Rex in his sight to the greatest degree possible during the entire debacle. The sergeant had decided that if this were to be his last stand, he would make it alongside his captain. If he were to die, it would be in the act of protecting his commanding officer. And as the minutes wore on with no sign of deliverance, it seemed that encroaching death was ever more discernible on the horizon.
"We're pinned down over here!" Jesse's voice came over his helmet comm. "And we've got wounded with us! Someone—distract this thing's attention so we can make a break for it!"
"Stand by." It was Sixer who responded calmly, but the undercurrent of urgency was clear. "There are four of these monsters out here. What are your coordinates, Jesse?"
Jesse rattled off a list of numbers.
Sixer turned to the small gaggle of men arrayed behind him. Somehow, he'd found himself leading troopers from other squads, the remnants of a once powerful fighting force. He recognized Tup and Dogma by their helmet markings. There were two he did not know at all. Rounding out the group were Kix, Ajax, and Double Barrell, who had all found their way through the tumultuous chaos.
"Jesse's pinned down," Sixer told them. "We need to cause a distraction so he and his men can make a run for it."
"If we try to distract those things, we'll be bringing their fire down on us!" Tup burst out.
"We can make it from here across the open space to that wreckage," Dogma said, gesturing towards the crumpled remains of one of the funnels that had been blasted off the tanks. "That's not more than 200 meters."
"Are you crazy?" Tup challenged. "We'll never get across that with those things out there—"
"We're not going to be able to stay here anyway," Ajax pointed out. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "We're going to have company."
One of the fighting machines was lumbering its way towards them. It wasn't clear if the Umbaran pilot had seen them or not, but there could be no doubt that in a matter of seconds, they would not be able to remain hidden.
"Split up!" Sixer ordered. "DB, take these three with you. Get to that wreckage." He gestured obliquely towards Kix, Ajax, and Dogma. "I've got these three," referring to Dogma and two Shinies.
Any idea of drawing fire in support of Jesse and his group was now secondary to the simple act of trying to stay alive themselves.
DB nodded smartly. "Right! Let's move!"
Sixer waited until DB's team had broken from their hiding place. He knew that the moment they emerged, the tank pilot would see them and pursue. But he'd already made up his mind that he needed to give them a fighting chance to get away.
He turned to his own small group. Here came the hard part. "We're going to distract this one. It's the only chance they have to get to safety."
"What about Lieutenant Jesse, Sir?" one of the Shinie's asked.
"If we're still alive after this, we can try to help Jesse," Sixer replied.
"Let's do it," Dogma said with grit. "No sense in playing it safe."
"Yes, but no sense in throwing our lives away cheaply," Sixer replied. He turned his back towards them. "In my pack, there are two JG3s. Take them out."
Dogma felt his pulse quicken. JG3s—Janssen Goffe Threes—were phytonic acceleration devices used to melt metal when an explosive entrance was not the desired means of entry. And while they were usually used to gain access to a location, they could, in fact, be used on any metallic item.
As Dogma dug them out, one of the Shinies spoke up. "But the tank is ray-shielded."
"Ray shielding isn't going to protect against this," Sixer replied.
"And it only looks like the cockpit is ray-shielded," Dogma added. "I've seen some of our rockets take out its legs and some of its guns. This might work."
"But how will we get it close enough? We have to plant it on the surface we want to melt," the second Shinie asked.
"With a little deception and a lot of luck," Sixer replied. "And some bait." He turned and took the devices from Dogma. "Two of us are going to hide under those roots over there. The other two are going to make a break for it and lead the tank over this area. We'll try to plant them on the legs . . . or the underbelly, if we can reach it." A pause. "Dogma, I want you and—you, CT . . . "
"Trip is my name, Sir," the first Shinie filled in the blank.
"You and Trip will be the bait," Sixer said. "Me and—"
"Checker." This from the second.
"We'll plant the devices. Clear?"
"Sir, yes, Sir!"
Sixer was almost embarrassed by the strict adherence to protocol under the circumstances.
Shinies . . .
What the fek good was being a sniper when the target was protected by a basting ray-shield?
Double Barrel hated not being able to do what he did best. And he hated running from an enemy. But there could be no question that in this case, retreat was the only viable option. He led the way towards the wreckage, not daring to look behind to see if the fighting machine was following.
He could feel the ground shaking, but he could not distinguish if it was from the tank's footsteps or the impact of explosions. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light and the wreckage towards which he and the others had been heading was suddenly further reduced to a smoking mound of scrap.
But that was not what caught his attention or halted him in his tracks.
It was the debris raining down around him. The debris of bodies blown apart . . .
Clones had been hiding inside the wreckage.
The scene around him was horrible, worse than any nightmare. He might have stood there frozen had not a voice inside his head prompted him.
"Keep going. Beyond what you can see, there are places to take cover. Trust me. I'll guide you there, but you must keep going."
Double Barrel turned to make sure his charges were still with him.
They were.
"Keep going! We have to keep going!" he shouted.
As he turned to start running, he heard Ajax and Dogma imploring anxiously.
"Kix! Come on, Kix! We've got to go! Damn it, Kix!"
DB turned around, and what he already thought was a terrible situation now got worse.
Kix stood amidst the strewn bodies and parts of bodies. It some grotesque way, he seemed to want to tend to them. His movements were trance-like and stilted.
This was bad.
Kix was losing it. And at the worst possible time. The fighting machine was pounding ever nearer.
"Get him moving! Fek and all, drag him if you fekking have to!" DB screamed, sprinting back towards them.
Ajax took his cue and grabbed Kix by the back plate of his armor. "Run, damn you!" He pushed him along in front of him, forcing him to leave the scene of the carnage. But it was clear something was not right. Kix was muttering to himself the whole time, "We can't leave them . . . we can't leave them. Let me go back." Yet, he allowed himself to be bullied along, as if he didn't have the mental or physical energy to offer any meaningful resistance.
They drew up beside what little remained of the smoldering wreckage, and here they ducked down as the tank sent shots over their heads.
Kix turned. He was ready to look his death in the eye. But instead of seeing the fighting machine bearing down on him and his companions, what drew his attention was something much more innocuous, something much more within his ability to combat.
In the sky, high above the battlefield, a flock of banshees flew overhead, waiting for their turn. They would have their pick among the dead.
Kix raised his weapon and began firing. And screaming—screaming like a man who'd lost his mind, heedless of the tank about to smash him beneath its foot like a man would crush an insect.
Tup drew up beside him. "Kix! Bring it down! You're wasting aim!" he said, pushing him forward and out of the way just as the monstrous metal foot came down where they had been standing.
Kix jerked away from him. "They—they can't have our men! I—I have to help them—"
"They're dead!" Tup shouted, reaching towards him.
Instead, Kix tried to push past him. "I can't leave them! I can still save them—"
Ajax now sprang forward and with Tup's help, they continued to force Kix along with them as they ran from place to place that offered even the slightest hint of safety.
"He's in bad shape, DB," Ajax said openly. "He's losing it."
"I know, I know," DB replied. "But just a little further."
"Do you know where we're going?" Ajax asked.
"No, but the eagle does."
And sure enough, after running another hundred meters through the smoke and fog, the men could make out a sheer rock wall rising up into a low plateau. And directly in front of them was a fissure, just wide enough for a man to enter. There was no way the tank could follow them.
"There! Head for the opening! Go! Go!" DB ordered, ushering Ajax and Tup ahead of him, with Kix lolling between them.
The fissure was narrow, wide enough for only one man at a time. And so with Ajax in front and Tup behind, they half-pushed, half-dragged Kix through the passageway, coming after another hundred meters into a small hollow, and here they stopped.
DB joined them. "I don't think any of its weapons can reach in here . . . I think we're safe."
Tup fairly collapsed back against the wall as Ajax sat Kix down on the ground.
DB came across and removed Kix's helmet. "Kix, you okay?" He remembered what he had seen only a short time ago when the captain had forbidden Kix from saving the wounded; and what he was looking at now was only the furtherance of the same. And it was frightening, because DB knew how tough Kix was. The question was how close to the edge the medic had been pushed . . . or had he already gone over the side.
DB, receiving no response, gave him a gentle shake. "Kix, snap out of it. This is no time to get shaky."
Kix regarded him with fully comprehending eyes. "What good is a medic for a dead man?"
"About as good as a sniper is against a ray-shield," DB snapped, remarking internally that he had been asking a similar question about his own specialty not long ago. "We're not worrying about dead men right now, Kix." DB was firm. "We're focused on staying alive. And then, like the captain said, you can take care of the wounded once this is over. But you have to pull yourself together, Kix."
"There aren't going to be any wounded," Kix replied in a monotone. "Just pieces."
Ajax, more gruff than DB, harrumphed, "Then you can put together the fekking pieces together."
Kix looked at him, transfixed, for a moment, and a strange, small laugh formed in his throat. The image of reconnecting the pieces of dead brothers . . . it had a macabre, black humor. Another laugh crawled up, followed by another.
It was that inappropriate and, quite frankly, disturbing laughter that kept a stranglehold on what he was really feeling. And tears were something a clone never shed. Not for anyone to see, at least.
"Well, it's not what I would have wanted from him, but it's better than him flipping out," DB said to himself. "I hope we're really safe in here."
No sooner had he completed the thought than the ground and everything around them shook and rattled.
"What the hell was that?!" Tup asked, raising his weapon.
DB waited a few seconds as the dust settled before replying, "I have no idea."
Sixer reached down and gave Checker his hand.
The Shinie sprang to his feet . . . with perhaps too great a display of jubilance. "We did it!"
"We did," Sixer nodded. "One down, but there are at least three more of them, and we don't have any more JG3s."
"Maybe some of the others do," Checker suggested.
"I'll put out the word, but I wouldn't count on it."
The plan to use the accelerator had met with success. Sixer and Checker had placed the two devices on two of the tank's legs. The melt had actually done more than simply disable the legs. Not only had they burned through the metal covering, but they'd continued to melt the circuity inside the legs, causing chain reactions that had brought the metal monster crashing down to the ground. It was that impact which DB and the other had felt in their hiding place, though they had no way of knowing.
"Lieutenant!"
Sixer looked up to see Dogma and Trip approaching.
"It worked!"
"Thanks to you two," Sixer thanked them. "You got it right where we needed it."
"It wasn't easy," Dogma said. "I didn't think we'd be able to dodge it for much longer."
"Just long enough," Sixer grinned beneath the visor.
"Do you think—fek and all!" Trip cut off at the sound of a great explosion. Turning, he and the others saw the funnel of one of the remaining tanks engulfed in blue-green light; and when the light faded, the stock holding the funnel was bent clean in half, leaving the funnel dangling uselessly.
"That was a rocket!"
And that's exactly what it was.
They did not know it, but Captain Rex was less than four hundred meters northeast of their position. He still had one of the last remaining rocket launchers, and it was he who had taken the shot that had knocked out the funnel.
It was the first serious damage he'd done to any of the tanks, and he felt good about it – as good as possible, under the circumstances. He'd found a way to take away at least one of the tank's weapons. His satisfaction was short-lived, for almost immediately after his fortuitous shot, the tank crashed through the concealing centipede wreckage and rose up above him.
He could see the pilot's long face, the cold eyes leering down at him. And then, something drew the Umbaran's attention towards the sky.
Two Umbaran fighters soared overhead.
Rex could only hope . . .
The voice in his helmet turned that hope into certainty.
"We're up, Captain."
Fives.
"The big guns have arrived, Sir!"
Hardcase.
What followed could only be described as the greatest lighting of the Umbaran darkness as had ever been seen. The two fighters engaged the tanks, and even with the inexperience of their pilots, the Umbaran technology compensated where skill was lacking.
It was hardly surprising that the two clone troopers were, for lack of a better word, blast-happy. It was, as Fives had already noticed, the feeling of having such power at one's disposal. It made a warrior feel invincible.
And the laughter and excited crowing coming from both Hardcase and Fives only confirmed in Rex's mind that they had been the right men for the job. They had, neither of them, qualms about blasting the enemy to smithereens. Nor did they piddle about with concerns about how many of their own men they might be taking out in the process, which might have been callous but no one would question it.
"That's the stuff!" Fives cawed.
Rex allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Fives hadn't sounded this excited since the mission had started.
As the tanks began to fall, Rex could hear cheers going up around him.
"Way to go, Fives!"
"That a boy, Hardcase!"
In his cockpit, Fives hadn't felt this alive since Echo's death. He only wished Echo were here to share this moment with him.
"Alright, let's bring it home," he proclaimed.
Mission complete.
Above the battlefield, Krell took in the sudden turn of events.
"Impressive," he allowed. "Sergeant. Their defenses are down. Send in the rest of our forces. Attack the airbase."
Sergeant Appo was good at disguising his feelings. He had spent the last two hours watching his captain and battalion mates get decimated. He had heard Captain Rex insisting that they be permitted to retreat, and General Krell refusing to allow it. He had stood up on the overlook, two entire companies at the ready and eager to lend assistance. Assistance that General Krell never authorized.
He hated it, quite frankly. Hated being up here when he should be down there with his own company. Hated being chosen over his own officer to serve as liaison with General Krell and put in charge, as a sergeant, of the reserve companies. He didn't understand it, but he'd seen right away that it did not do any good questioning the general.
And so he kept his peace and did the job as best he could.
"All units, move out!" he ordered.
He could sense the mood as well as anyone. The companies that had been held back all felt that they were going in to do a mop up of a job that was pretty much already done. The anger at having been held back, the embarrassment of now being told to go in and fight the tail-end of a battle: it did not sit well with any of them.
And perhaps Sergeant Appo was reading too much into things, but it seemed to him as if General Krell had planned it that way. It certainly would not surprise him.
Two hours later, the base was secure.
Rex had tasked Jesse with making perimeter patrol assignments and Sixer with doing a strength count. He made the rounds, checking for morale and other signs of unit health and cohesion. And he did his best to avoid General Krell. He was not in the mood to deal with him at the moment, not after such a hard-fought battle with such losses.
He'd seen DB and Ajax arrive with Kix, and he made a mental note to go talk to the medic about what had happened on the battlefield. He knew how Kix looked up to him and trusted him, so he had no illusions about what his dictate regarding the wounded had meant to him. While the mission had been hard on everyone, Rex imagined that for a medic, it must have been especially horrific.
"Sir, here they come."
Rex's thoughts were interrupted by Denal, who motioned towards the southern end of the airfield where two fighters were approaching.
As far as landings went, the two ships bounced and skidded and banged their way onto the tarmac. Rex mused to himself that Three-Point would have been aghast. On the other hand, Bounce would have given them hearty approval.
He was tempted to go meet them where they'd landed, but then he thought better of it. It was more appropriate that they should report to him. He might be pleased with the outcome, but he had not forgotten Fives' penchant for pushing against his authority, and he knew it was crucial to maintain the superior-subordinate relationship.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kix coming back across the tarmac. DB was with him. They appeared to be heading towards the flight line where the two heroes of the hour were being greeted by the brothers. But then they stopped and Rex could tell they were speaking. A moment later, DB continued towards the welcoming committee and Kix began heading towards where the captain was standing.
"A little sooner than I'd wanted to talk to him, but I guess it's better now before everything gets crazy again," Rex thought.
Kix approached, perhaps with more meekness than was usual. "Sir . . . have they set up a field medical station yet?"
Rex had not been expecting this, but it was easy to answer. "Bottom floor of that building over there," he replied, then after a curious pause, he said, "I'm sure you want to welcome Hardcase back. You can head to the med station after that. Major Hypes is already there getting everything set up."
"I can welcome him back later," Kix replied. "I—there's a lot to do, we've got a lot of wounded."
Rex gave a slow nod. "I know you'll take care of them." The awkwardness of the moment threatened to force him to give some reason to excuse himself, but then, as luck would have it, his deliverance came from a different vein.
Fives and Hardcase were approaching, Jesse at Hardcase's side, clearly relieved to have him safely back on the ground.
Rex rose to the occasion. "Despite Hardcase's flying, you two saved us all," he said, a glimmer of a smile brightening his features.
"Eh, it wasn't so tough," Hardcase blustered.
"You sure?" Jesse was on him. "You looked a little green coming out of that fighter."
Hardcase smirked and gave him a sidelong sneer. He sidled up next to Kix, relieved to see that he was still alive, but intuitively sensing that something was very wrong beneath the concealment of the helmet.
Kix, though he'd not wanted to go meet him on the flight line, discovered, the moment he'd heard Hardcase's voice, the competing desires of wanting to go to him, touch him, regain his footing and the feeling of groundedness that Hardcase brought with him; but he also felt a strange rub of isolation, as if he were not part of what had just gone on, as if something stood between them.
But it was a part of Hardcase's nature to be open and honest, and to him, Kix was always a part of anything that any member of Saber Squad did. They carried each other's best qualities, even when they were apart. At least, that's how Hardcase believed things should be. He turned to Kix and was about to speak when General Krell's voice came booming across the tarmac.
"Captain! Report! What is our situation?"
Rex turned to face Krell as the general strode towards him. There was a part of Rex that found disgust in the fact that Krell had been so absent from the entire battle, showing up only now at the end to assert his authority; but the greater part demanded decorum and proper respect be shown.
"The airbase is secure, General Krell. We've cut off supply lines to the capitol," Rex replied evenly. "The Umbaran garrison have been taken prisoner. We're doing a full assessment."
Krell appeared to take in the information, but his response was dismissive. "Luck has smiled on you today, Captain. Consider yourself . . . fortunate."
Rex was not about to allow this statement to stand unchallenged. "With all due respect," he said, stepping forward. "It wasn't all luck, Sir. A lot of men died to take this base."
And still Krell was unmoved. "The price for such victory," he stated with a flourish for emphasis. "Perhaps someday you'll realize this."
Arrayed around him, Rex's men marveled at their captain's self-control, while at the same time reviling the commanding general who appeared, by all accounts, to be purposefully trying to ignite a spark of rebellion. Krell's choice of words, his tone of voice, even his overbearing mannerisms all conspired to fan the flames of hatred and resistance brewing within the troopers of the 501st.
It was Rex – and Rex alone – who kept those fires at bay. His ability to absorb the barbs and insults was uncanny; especially when, even in success, he was belittled and berated in front of his men. Having endured the punishments of the battlefield and Krell's poor strategies, he was then subjected to the punishments of the Besalisk's demeanor and temper.
And while Rex's men might, at this point, be viewing him as possessing an almost inhuman ability to endure, they had no idea of the toll being exacted upon him. It took every fiber of his strength, every jot of his good sense, and every last drop of his patience to withstand the onslaught.
Still, this was what he was made for. He hadn't become the officer he was through giving in to a bruised ego and an insulted sense of self-worth. Quite the opposite: Rex might feel the sting of offense, but General Skywalker had so enforced the sense of his own value that it was enough to carry him through the worst situations . . . including the near destruction of his entire battalion.
He could only speak his mind. He could only offer alternatives. But once his commanding officer made a decision, then it was his responsibility to carry out his orders.
Now, as Krell walked away, Rex felt as close as ever he had to toying with the idea of disobedience. But it was only a fleeting fancy before being banished into the nether regions of consideration.
He heard Fives' voice behind him. "He's the one who'll never realize."
Rex said nothing. He took a moment to make sure that when he did speak, his voice would not carry a tone that he did not want to portray to his men. At last, he fell back on duty and the necessities following a battle of this magnitude.
"Fives, take a couple men with you and inventory the base. I want to know what's usable for our troops," he ordered. "Jesse, is the perimeter secure?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Then I want you to take some men and make a good sweep of the interior. I don't want to find out any Umbarans are hiding somewhere on this base." He raised his wrist comm. "Sixer, are you able to report?"
"Only preliminary, Captain," came the reply. "We've got a lot of men unaccounted for. The patrols are still finding men outside the base and bringing them in. And everyone got so scattered in the fighting, there's no solid way of knowing our numbers until we run IDs against the manning roster."
"Keep working on it," Rex told him. "I want as close as you can to accurate numbers no later than eighteen hundred hours."
"Yes, Captain."
Rex looked to the remaining men. "Unless I've already tasked you specifically with something, the rest of you report back to your companies. We need to get a headcount."
As the others dispersed, Hardcase turned to Kix, who was now wearily resting his arm across Hardcase's shoulder. It offered a connection they both needed. "Where you headed?"
"To the medical station," Kix replied. "Maybe I can be some help."
"I'll go with you—"
"Hardcase." Fives interrupted. "I think we should talk to Rex. We'd be put to better use trying to decipher those fighters. If we can use them again against the enemy, we'll be on even footing, but we need more experience, more knowledge."
Fives spoke the truth, and Hardcase was admittedly excited about the prospect of flying the thing again and making powder out of the Umbarans. Still, there were other priorities at the moment. "Why don't you talk to him alone? You don't need me."
"It will be more convincing if we both go," Fives pressed. "Come on. What else do you have to do?"
"I'm going with Kix to the medical station," came the reply. "In case you've forgotten, I've got an injured squad mate. I want to check on Pitch."
"He'll still be there if you show up five minutes later—"
Hardcase put a hand on Fives' pauldroned shoulder. "Maybe I'm hyperactive, but you're a persistent bastard. You're not going to win this one, Fives. You go talk to the captain. Kix and I are going to see Pitch."
Fives relented. He knew that if the situation were reversed, if that had been one of his own squad mates, he would have done the same. The fact that he no longer had any surviving squad mates did not mean he had to treat everyone else as if they were facing the same circumstances.
"Go on, then," he said. "I'll let you know what Rex says."
"I'm sure you can convince him," Hardcase grinned. "It's a good idea, and you've got the, uh, charm to sell salt to a Hutt. The captain's not nearly as hard to convince."
Poor Kix. One of the thing I found so poignant about the Umbara Arc is how it changed all our characters. And Kix's breakdown on the battlefield is one of the saddest. I'll tell you, for guys who are supposed to be impervious to the hardships and degradations of war, TCW sure gave them plenty of character!