Dear Reader, Sorry for the delay. I was ill for about 3 weeks (no, not COVID), but I am now fully recovered! So, a word of warning in this chapter: there are references to clone medic training that may be a bit disturbing. Nothing graphic, but the concept that is referenced is inhumane. There is a lot of internal dialogue regarding the Force, the Souls, and the ability to restore life from different characters' points of view. This all takes place before Anakin's talk with Palpatine at the Opera regarding the Dark Side's ability to restore life. Lastly, if you recall from way back in the beginning, I wrote this story well before Season 7 came out with (spoiler) Rex attacking Ahsoka when Order 66 is given. I wrote the story that Rex's chip is removed by the cold field, and I am keeping it that way. Needless to say, as I move into Order 66 chapters, they will be a departure from canon - but hopefully, I can still work a melding of my original story and canon to my readers' satisfaction. Happy reading! CS

DFAC - Dining Facility

CT-5799 Jesse
CT-4441 Top
CT-6116 Kix
CT-2060 Hardcase
CT-2085-4 Pitch

Chapter 144

"Bright eyes, burning like fire.
Bright eyes, how can you close and fail?
How can the light that burned so brightly
suddenly burn to pale?"

Bright Eyes (from the movie Watership Down)
Art Garfunkel

Double Barrel had never prayed. Never in his life.

But he did now.

And he found he knew intrinsically how to do it. Or perhaps it was the part of him where the Eagle resided that was guiding him. Since arriving on Bertegad, he could sense the Eagle's excitement; but now being in the Taber, he felt an increased connection. This was where the Eagle's soul had its fullness. This was the place from which the small breathe of the Eagle's energy that was DB's originated.

DB had died here, somewhere in the destruction of the spire, in the violence of the Copian attack. He had died, and the Eagle had restored him to life. On one hand, it frightened DB to know that he had actually been dead. Dead, and the Eagle's touch had imparted some small sliver of its depthless and eternal energy.

He recalled what the Doma had said upon discovering what had happened.

"He's part of you now. He'll always be with you. The elements of his nature will now be a part of yours, to a lesser degree, for the rest of your life. There's nothing wrong with adding to your courage and patience, having a keen sense of timing. And valuing freedom. Whatever part of your own nature already contained these elements, now those parts are greater."

He'd not really understood the meaning of her words; but one thing he had certainly not expected was that the Eagle would be present as a personality, that the Eagle's soul would be able to manifest visually and physically. It had been a difficult adjustment at first. He'd felt as if he were sharing his body with another entity.

An in a sense, he was.

They'd certainly had their share of disagreements and arguments. But every time, it had felt as if he'd been arguing with some facet of himself. The Eagle was infused into his own soul now, and he could not imagine life without him.

And being here at the Monastica, he found himself asking the same question his fellow battalion mates had inquired of him on the ship. Clearly, it was possible for these souls to restore life – at least under certain circumstances, though DB wasn't sure what those parameters were. So, was it possible—could they not do the same for Captain Rex as the Eagle had done for him? He knew what had happened with him had been . . . against the rules, so to speak. An accident. An unexpected consequence.

But perhaps an exception could be made in this case. Only . . . who would ask? Whose place was it to ask the Doma to break the rules?

As these thoughts went through his mind, he noticed Pitch, Kix, and Echo slip into the pew behind him. He turned and whispered anxiously, as everyone else leaned in to listen. "Is everything alright? Has anything changed?"

"They've got him in the stasis field," Kix replied. "That slowed down the deterioration, but they were trying to figure out if they could carry out surgery while he's in stasis. The cold field is making cellular repairs but at a much slower rate because of the stasis field." He paused. "They had moved past anything we could help them with, so we came here. One of the brothers told us this is where you had all gone."

What he didn't say was that he, Pitch and Echo had agreed that the waiting would be more tolerable if they were in the Taber with their brothers than staying in the emergency room, hearing every utterance from the doctors' lips. If things took a turn for the worse, they wanted to find out at the same time as the rest of their brothers; not be the bearers of bad news.

"Did the docs give any . . . did they say if his chances were any better?" Ajax asked.

"They didn't say," Kix replied. He looked down the row of troopers in front of him, with Commander Cody, General Skywalker, and Major Swin at the far end. At the moment, none of them was praying. They were all looking at him, passing his report down the line. But now he was done speaking. There was nothing more to relay, and he wanted the focus off of him. "Uh . . . how do we do this? I don't know how to pray."

It was Pitch who replied, "It's like having a conversation in your head. You tell god what's on your mind."

Kix looked at what was happening around him and felt woefully out of his element. "I . . . I don't . . . I don't believe what these people do."

"That doesn't matter," Pitch replied. "All that matters is that we want the captain to live. Sister Agnesta told me, you don't have to be good at prayer; just sincere."

The Bertegadans were conducting their prayers in a language their visitors did not recognize, but the posture of prayer was easy enough to imitate. Kix followed the lead of those around him, bowed his head and closed his eyes. Immediately and without conscious effort, a flood of words swamped his thoughts.

"He can't die. Please don't let him die. After everything he's done for us—for me—he can't die. He's the heart of this battalion. Nothing will be the same without him. We won't –we won't know what to do. If there's any way I can repay him . . . this is the time. What can I do? Show me what to do."

At that moment, he felt a tight squeeze on his hand.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to see Pitch looking at him. Pitch gave a slight nod of encouragement, almost as if he had heard Kix's imploring. And it then occurred to Kix that he had, kneeling there beside him, the answer to one part of his plea.

"Show me what to do."

Pitch was a clone, a soldier just like him. A clone who had taken up the practice of prayer since leaving this place two years ago. Kix hadn't really understood it; but maybe that was because he hadn't really tried to understand it. It seemed too alien, too metaphysical. As a medic, Kix was, by nature, more focused on the physical, tangible aspects of life. While he had not discounted the fact that there were unseen powers at work in the universe—the Force was proof of that—he had never given them much thought. But now, for the first time in his life, he would place his faith—or try to place his faith—in something he didn't understand, an idea he had never had a need to acknowledge, a being that might not even truly exist. Kix's faith had always been in his squad mates; there had been times when they had been the only ones he'd trusted.

That was before the 501st.

Before he'd met Captain Rex.

"You're late again."

"Yeah, sorry."

"We were getting ready to go the DFAC without you."

"Why don't you all go on? I'm not hungry."

Jesse and CT-4441 exchanged glances before returning their attention to CT-6116. "You're going to fade away if you keep doing this. You've been missing a lot of meals," Jesse chastised.

"I'm fine—"

CT-4441 stepped up beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. "Neh, neh. You're losing muscle."

"No, I'm not," 6116 protested. "You know I can still take you."

"In your dreams!"

6116 was contrite. "Look, I'm sorry, guys. Just . . . you know the med courses are murder. I don't have much appetite after ten hours of training to patch up wounded troops."

"Yeah, but ten hours ended over two hours ago," CT-2080 pointed out. "Where have you been?"

CT-6116 hesitated, prompting CT-2080 to answer his own question.

"You got in trouble again, didn't you?"

6116 did not answer. Instead, he walked over to his locker.

"Ohhh, what did you do this time?" Jesse groaned.

Still, there was no answer.

CT-2085-4 moved to lean the adjacent locker. "What happened?"

It seemed he might not answer again, but after a long silence, he said in a voice that sounded almost frightened, "We had . . . battlefield wounded today."

His squad mates exchanged curious glances.

"Battlefield wounded?" Jesse inquired.

CT-6116 nodded and opened his locker without looking at his brothers. "They were brought in so that we could have actual hands-on experience."

An uncomfortable silence followed. At length, CT-4441 asked, "They brought them all the way back here for treatment?"

"Yes."

"But you're training to be a battlefield medic," CT-2085-4 said. "Bringing them here kind of defeats that purpose, doesn't it?"

"They can't send us to the field," 6116 replied. "So, they decided to start bringing some of them here, so we could . . . learn from . . . their cases."

No one spoke, and so 6116 went on of his own volition.

"They did the bare minimum they had to do in the field to ensure they would make it back here alive, and then we were to treat them as if we were in the field," he explained. "But . . . "

Jesse stepped up to stand behind him. "But what?"

CT-6116 was staring into his open locker but not making any move to put anything in or take anything out. "Some of them . . . some were badly injured. If they had been treated in the field, they would have had a much better chance of surviving. But . . . most of them aren't going to make it. Or, if they do, they . . . their injuries will remove them from service." A pause. "And you know what happens to a trooper who can't be returned to service."

The others could see the weight this situation was exerting on their 6116's shoulders. None of them knew what to say. From a training standpoint, the regimen seemed to make sense to them. What better training could there be than hands-on? And there was no shortage of injured troopers. If it was possible to bring them here for treatment and to provide a training opportunity, 6116's squad mates could not find a reason to fault the process.

It might have seemed cold to an outsider, but in the world of clone troopers, everything was about practicality. Even at eighteen-years-old, the cadets could see the value in the training program. But they also knew CT-6116. They knew his sensitivity. They knew he was an aberration.

And they knew the Kaminoans and the cadre were also well aware of the uncommon characteristics of this particular clone.

It happened from time to time. The template was just that: a template. Variations occurred. CT-6116 was one of them. A clone with an outsized empathetic response, which made for a tremendous medic trainee, but not so good an order follower. It wasn't that he was disobedient for the sake of disobedience. Outright defiance was not part of who he was. It was more that CT-6116 was incapable of the dispassionate evaluation of circumstances that made for the ideal clone trooper, and he had no qualms about voicing his opinions. Just how far such a variation could be tolerated was something the other members of Saber Squad were determined not to find out. Covering CT-6116's outspoken propensity to speak his mind—often a mind at odds with determined protocols—was something they had been doing since they were able to form coherent sentences. Their batchers and pod mates were helpful in that respect, in that 6116 was well-liked and much admired. He had a lot of people running interference for him.

"You can't worry about things like that," Jesse said gently. "You just need to follow the lessons. Focus on your training. That's what matters."

CT-6116 continued to stare into his locker. "Their lives matter, too."

"Of course, they do," CT-2080 said with uncharacteristic sympathy, but then he added with warning, "But you have to watch what you say, 6116. You show too much sensitivity, and they're going to write you up again. You know the Kaminoans are keeping tabs on you. Just . . . lay low."

At this, CT-6116 actually gave a small chuckle of cynicism. "Lay low? When has this squad or any member of it ever laid low? You all are the most in-your-face, competitive clones on Kamino."

"Us?" CT-4441 pushed back good-naturedly, latching onto the wisp of cheer in 6116's voice. "Don't forget, you're part of 'us'; and you're not exactly a wilting fern."

"Yeah, but I'm not 'win-at-any-cost', like you all are," 6116 insisted.

Now, 4441 burst out laughing. He wrapped his arm around 6116's neck. "Ah, Little Brother, you are totally delusional. You are every bit as competitive as we are. Sometimes, I think you're even more so." He began dragging him away from the locker, kicking the door closed behind him. "And I'm starving, so we're all going to the DFAC, and if you don't want to eat, you can watch the rest of us."

Behind them, Jesse grinned. He had to hand it to CT-4441; the guy knew how to break through 6116's moods and had no compunction against manhandling his squad mate – or anyone else, for that matter – to get what he wanted. And what he wanted right now was a happy squad and food in this stomach. Jesse could not help but envy him a bit. 4441 was not nearly as cautious as Jesse; in fact, he tended to be on the impetuous side, but this was often overlooked because of his flamboyance. 4441 was larger than life. He was one of the few cadets to have changed his appearance from the standard template. True, it was a just a haircut—a high and tight with a flat top that extended out over his forehead a bit – not a particularly wild look; but in those days, very few trainees dared to depart from the standard. But it wasn't just his appearance that made him stand out; it was his entire demeanor. 4441 was eager to please, eager to tackle any challenge, eager to show his skills. But he was also a master of the superlative, of dramatic histrionics, of wearing his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. And if he loved his brothers, he wanted to make sure everyone knew it.

He was genuine, and Jesse thought the world of him – as a soldier-in-training and as a brother.

The five members of Saber Squad headed for the dining facility, breaking into pushing and sparring matches on the way, instigated when 6116 had the audacity to twist loose from 4441's neck hold. What followed were the sort of things boys on the brink of manhood did, regardless of the strictures of their environment. It was a difficult task – the Kaminoans had discovered – to breed playfulness out of young men. And so, what should have been a five-minute walk to the DFAC turned into a twenty-minute knock-down, drag-out competition to see who would get there first. And as could be expected, the horseplay drew in other cadets as it progressed down the corridors. But there were no members of the staff around to put a stop to it, and at last, when Jesse burst into the DFAC to claim victory, the others fought or straggled their way in behind him, CT-4441 being dead last.

"Only because you all ganged up on me," 4441 pointed out through the huffing and puffing of his labor.

"That's because we love you," 2080 quipped.

"And because every now and then, you need to be brought down a notch or two," 6116 added with a cheeky grin.

"Ha! And you think that will do it?" 4441 retorted. "I'm irrepressible, Little Brother."

"I hate it when you all me that," 6116 grimaced.

"Neh, you don't."

"You're not older than me. You're not bigger than me. I'm not your little brother in any sense."

CT-4441 regarded his squad mate with an earnest expression. "Then can't you just humor me? Look, we all feel protective towards each other. Like brothers."

"Yeah, but Little brother is . . . it makes me sound like a kid—"

"That's how you hear it," 4441 interrupted. "But that's not how it's meant."

"You feel like you need to look after me," 6116 stated.

"We do! We all feel that way," 4441 conceded. "And you do need looking after, LB. Let's face it: you get in more trouble than the four of us combined. You don't know when to keep your mouth shut."

"Would you rather I lied?"

"No. I would rather you keep some of your opinions to yourself," 4441 pressed. "You don't have to always say what you're thinking, especially when you know it's something that's going to go against what the cadre is teaching."

CT-6116 frowned. "I guess, as a medic, I see things differently."

"No, no, no," 4441 pushed back. He wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily. "There are plenty of other cadets training to be medics who somehow manage to stay out of trouble. This isn't about being a medic. This is about being you." A pause. "Everyone—especially the cadre—everyone knows you're going to be the best medic to come out of this entire lot. If you graduate. If you ever get to active duty."

CT-6116 dismissed the warning with a shrug of contrived disinterest, but CT-4441 pressed on. "It's not a joke, LB. You stray too far from the standard, and rehab is right around the corner."

"Don't worry," 6116 replied. "I won't stray too far."

The dinner was much less contentious than the trip to the dining facility, and it was a good time to catch up with the other squads in the batch and hear stories of the day's training.

An hour after entering the DFAC, Saber Squad was on their way back to their common area. They had all decided they would change clothes and head for the physical training rooms. But upon entering the locker area below their sleeping tubes, they were met by their cadet training officer, S'ril Packar, a military-minded Bothan with a soft-spoken, no-nonsense demeanor. Although he wore no insignia, he held the rank of captain.

The cadets snapped to attention.

"At ease," Packar ordered. "I came to find you, 6116."

Immediately, the tension in the small space rose to palpable levels.

"Yes, Captain."

"But . . . since you're all here, let me address this to all of you," Packar announced. "Sit down."

They all sat on the single bench between the two columns of lockers.

"I understand there was trouble today in the medical training lab?" This was addressed solely to 6116. And even though it was a statement, Packar packaged it as a question.

"There was . . . a disagreement, Sir," 6116 replied.

"Director Jazin said you refused to follow instructions."

CT-6116 did not miss a beat. "They weren't instructions," he protested. "I followed all the instructions, all the training on how to treat the injured men in each case we worked today." He paused, but only to emphasize the point he was about to make. "I didn't follow orders. I couldn't."

Along the bench, his squad mates were looking at him, keeping their expressions neutral. But inside, they were all wondering what orders could have been so offensive that 6116 had refused to follow them. They knew they were about to get the answers 6116 had been reluctant to divulge earlier, the full story, as it were.

"And so, once again, you deem yourself to be the exception to the rule? You refuse to do as you're ordered, and you do it in front of other cadets." Packar's voice was still even and mellow, but it was that dispassionate control that made his words all the more penetrating. "If you were an active duty trooper, this pattern of disobedience would result in your termination. A disobedient army is no army at all. Millions of men who all think they are answerable only to themselves will never win a battle, let alone a war." A pause. "CT-6116, you are undoubtedly at the top of your class of medics," Packar admitted. "But the most skilled trooper is of no use if he cannot be trusted to follow orders."

"Captain, I—I agree with you, but I couldn't kill them."

Now, his squad mates' stares grew wide-eyed and shifted to Captain Packar.

Packar was placid. "Has it not occurred to you, Cadet, that there will be times when you will need to humanely end a life in the field? When you will need to put a fellow trooper out of their misery, end their suffering?"

CT-6116 stiffened. "I am happy to ease their suffering, yes. But not to end lives that can be saved. If they are going to die, it's my job to make it less painful, not to hurry it along."

"Stand up, Cadet."

CT-6116 got to his feet.

"Understand this. You are one breath away from being referred to rehabilitation. I have tried to steer you in the right direction with regard to your tendency to talk out of turn, but you have learned nothing from me. I have done my best to protect you, and your skills have warded off any serious attempt to remove you from the cadet corps. But even I am finding it difficult now to come to your defense." A pause. "You refused to administer the termination drugs to men who were going to die anyway and who were brought here expressly for the purpose of training. You were the only one out of 800 medic trainees to behave in this way. How do you suppose we should explain that to all the other trainees who did as they were told?"

"I can't answer that, Sir," 6116 replied. "I—those men didn't all have to die. Some of them could have been healed. Some could have been returned to service." He was beginning to tremble with the passion of his words. "They were brought here in an unconscious state and we weren't even allowed to try and wake them. We just—worked on them like they were experiments, and then we were told to terminate them. That's not the job of a medic."

"You would rather have had them awake and in pain while you were learning how to treat their injuries?" Packar challenged.

"Of course, not, Sir. But some of them could have been saved! That's what I'm trying to tell you."

CT-2085-4, seated directly behind 6116, reached up and tapped his side, an unspoken warning to keep himself in check.

"We're supposed to be learning field medicine," 6116 went on, his voice still roiling with emotion. "Field medicine means keeping men alive, not doing all you can to save them and then . . . . and then killing them."

"Despite what you might have thought, those men were not going to survive," Packar stated unequivocally. "That is why they were brought here, so that, even injured, their last moments would be in contribution to the war effort."

It appeared, for a moment, that CT-6116 would continue to argue, but instead he stood unmoving, a barely perceptible tremor shaking his body.

"You are to go back to the medical lab and assist with preparation for tomorrow's cases," Packar concluded. "If any negative report comes back, I will not come to your defense. CT-6116, I expect you to do as you're told. You will be of no use to the Grand Army of the Republic if you don't know how to follow orders. Go on."

"Yes, Captain." With that, CT-6116 departed without uttering another word or sparing a glance at his squad mates.

But Packar did not leave. He waited until CT-6116 was out of earshot, then addressed the rest of Saber Squad.

"Since CT-6116 is not grasping the gravity of this situation, let me make sure that the rest of you understand: he is already on the Kaminoans' list of aberrant clones. If he continues to display these . . . bouts of obstinancy and refusal to follow orders, he is going to be sent to rehabilitation."

"We understand, Captain," Jesse replied. "We'll do everything we can."

It was a common exchange. Packar had repeatedly warned Saber Squad that 6116 was on thin ice; and Jesse had offered assurances that he and the other would do everything they could.

But nothing worked. Nothing stuck.

CT-6116 could not be prevailed upon. He was who he was, and it seemed no amount of brotherly cajoling could induce him to change his behavior, much less his beliefs. And the truth was, his squad mates did not want him to change the core principles that governed his decisions. They only wanted him to be more judicious and prudent in the expression of those principles.

Yet, clearly their efforts had not been enough; and now the Kaminoans were contemplating rehabilitation – or, more accurately, elimination. The Kaminoans saw no reason to waste time and effort on correcting a defective unit or, for that matter, repairing a critically injured unit. In the earliest days of building the Army, they had spared the lives of defective clones and pressed them into menial service, but that practice had ended well before the start of the war. Still, the Kaminoans did not answer only to themselves. They were responsible to the Senate and the Jedi Council when it came to the training and upkeep of the clone cadet corps. And once the clones entered active duty, the military leadership entered the picture, thus saving the lives of many clones injured in battle; for if it were up to the Kaminoans, the gravely injured would be terminated. It cost less to create a replacement than to provide the extended care such a patient would need. And what good would a clone trooper be who could no longer be on the battlefield?

It was only the humanity of the Council and the pragmatism of the military that clone treatment facilities had been set up, including on Kamino. Yet, it seemed sometimes that the cloners and their customers were at odds, treading an uneasy truce based, on one side, by the need for an Army; and on the other, by a love of money and prestige. Cloning was god-like, and the Kaminoans considered themselves both intellectually and ethically superior to all other races. Who better to play the roles of gods?

"You say the same thing every time, CT-5579. Nothing changes, but 6116's run of second chances is over," Packar warned. "If he doesn't fall in line, he will be over." A pause. "You clones weren't designed to have such scruples. You weren't designed to be emotional." He shook his head, for he knew the falsity in these pat statements. Perhaps some truth would be more effective. "I know you're not robots. I don't know what made the Kaminoans think they could create an army of unthinking, unfeeling automatons. You're supposed to be immune to stress and pressure, but I see it affects you all even as cadets." He took a step closer. "Stand up."

They stood.

"If you're the brothers you like to say you are, then you'll find a way to rein him in. Before it's too late."

With that, he departed.

CT-2085-4 turned anxiously to his squad mates. "Damn, he isn't kidding. We've got to do something. Something that works this time."

"Yeah, but 6116 is one hard-headed bastard," 2080 chimed in. "We just have to find a way to protect him for one more year, then we're done. We'll be going on active duty."

"One year is a long time," Jesse pointed out. "Especially if they're already watching him."

"He's the best fekking medic this place has produced," 4441 insisted. "They wouldn't be so stupid as to get rid of him just because he's a bit . . . difficult."

"You heard what Captain Packar said," Jesse replied. "Skill doesn't matter if he can't be trusted to follow orders. We have to find a way to get through to him. We won't be able to cover for him when he's not with us, when he's in the lab."

"What do you suggest?" 2085-4 inquired.

"I think we're going to have to get tough," Jesse replied.

"Tough? With 6116?" 4441 sounded skeptical. "You know that won't work. He'll just throw out that maddening smile of his and we'll all lose our resolve."

"Well, we can't lose it this time," Jesse persisted. "Because if we cave in, we lose him."

"Jess, he's not going to respond to us if we badger him," 2080 offered. "Guilt is what works with 6116." A pause. "And I'm not sure we want to use that. We don't want to turn him into something he isn't."

"I agree, I agree," Jesse said. "But we can't afford to let him keep going on like this. He has no more chances."

"Well, then . . . I guess we'll need to talk to him when he gets back."

"If he gets back," 2080 frowned. "If he tells them no to whatever they have him doing tonight, he might not come back at all."

"Fek . . . " This from 2085-4.

"Hold on, now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Jesse cautioned. "He'll be back. He'll be back, so let's just figure out what we're going to say to him."

Maree looked up at the light streaming in through the openings in the Taber's spire. The slant of the rays told her that it was late in the day. The quality of the light told her the storm clouds were still overhead and rain was falling.

She judged she had been leading prayers now for at least eight hours. Some congregants had left and others had arrived. Some had left and come back. General Skywalker and the troopers had been present the entire time. She imagined they must be getting tired or at least in need of time alone.

No word had come from the healing rooms, and that was a good sign. It meant Rex was still alive. But now, Maree was feeling the need to see him again, to get an update first-hand.

It was time for her to hand off leading the prayers. Anaide was kneeling up on the dais. At a gesture from Maree, she took over.

Maree left the Taber, bringing Anakin and the others with her.

It was then that Kix noticed the floor coming to life beneath her feet. It was astounding, mesmerizing. Having spent his entire time in the healing rooms on their previous stay, this visit to the Taber, the sight of the Doma in her official capacity and then as she strode across the floor, made him wonder what marvels resided here that he had yet to discover. He already knew their medical prowess was beyond anything he had ever encountered – from firsthand experience. What else was there?

Once they were all outside, the Doma turned to face them. "You all need rest."

No one could argue that point, but there could be no rest until they knew Rex's status.

"We'll get rest, but we want to see Rex first – or at least find out how he's doing. It's been more than eight hours," Anakin replied.

"Of course, of course," Maree replied. "We'll go right now."

They set off in the rain. The clones were protected by their armor, minus their helmets, left back in the healing rooms. Maree and Anakin shared something akin to a square umbrella.

They had gone a short distance when they heard a voice calling out behind them.

"Soldier Echo! Soldier Echo!"

They turned to see a small child running towards them in the rain. A little girl.

"Yusani," Echo whispered. He started back towards her, crouching down as she leaped into his embrace.

"I knew you come back! I knew! I knew you come back!" Her voice was filled with joy.

Echo looked at her in amazement. "You . . . recognized me?"

She nodded fervently. "I know you . . . here." She pointed to her heart.

Echo was too moved for words. He looked at her as she studied him, taking in his altered appearance, but without any sense of embarrassment at her blatant staring. Perhaps it was because she herself was used to being stared at.

She leaned close. "Did the war hurt you?" She asked in his ear.

He drew back. "Yes, it did. But they fixed me up, and I'm even better than I was before."

Yusani ran her tiny fingers over the smooth surface of the cybernetic attachment that now stood in place of Echo's right arm. "Shiny," she grinned.

"Yes," he smiled back, and he realized tears were in his eyes. They were the tears he had been carrying with him from Copia, the tears the urgency of the last hour had held at bay. They were tears for his captain. Tears for having left him to go with the Bad Batch. Tears for himself at what he had suffered during his own captivity. And they were tears for the beauty of a little girl who could somehow see through his changed physical appearance and discern the essence of his being. How had she known it was him? He looked nothing like he had looked when last here.

Yusani touched one finger to Echo's cheek. "You cry?"

Echo nodded. "Yes. My captain—my friend . . . he's very sick. I don't want him to die."

"You pray. I see you inside."

"Yes, I was praying. Now, I'm going to see how my friend is. Do you want to come with us?"

Yusani nodded. "I pray with you. We pray together."

Echo looked to Doma Maree. "Is it alright if she comes?"

"Absolutely," Maree replied. Around her, she had noticed the others looking on with profound astonishment. She could tell they were wondering how she could possibly have recognized Echo; they themselves were not sure they would have known him after his imprisonment by the Techno Union, his appearance had been so altered.

Clearly, the little girl with the misshapen face possessed some power of discernment that transcended the physical. And unlike the shy, retreating child of two years ago, Yusani displayed a certain confidence in the moment, as she took Echo's hand as if she intended to lead him to the healing rooms.

Echo leaned over and pulled her hood up over her head. "You need to stay dry. It's pouring rain."

"I like rain," she replied with a lopsided grin. "My first rain."

"Your first rain?"

It was Maree who answered. "As you can imagine, we don't get much rain out here: once every hundred years. Sometimes, not even that often. Yusani has lived almost her entire life here. This is the first rain she has ever experienced." She smiled. "And she is like any other child. They all love to play in the rain." She turned her attention to Yusani, "But Echo is right. It's getting to be evening, and you need to stay . . . well, as dry as possible. You should come under the shirm with General Skywalker and me."

"No, stay with Soldier Echo," Yusani insisted. "Stay with all my soldiers."

Maree sighed. She looked at Anakin with an unspoken message.

Anakin grinned.

They passed the shirm to Echo, who held it over Yusani's head.

"That's better," Maree said with satisfaction. "Now, let's all get moving."

As they began heading once again through the gardens, Maree could hear the conversation behind her.

"She recognized him right away." This was Pitch's voice. "I wouldn't have even known him."

"It is incredible," Jesse agreed. "He doesn't look anything like he did when we were last here. How could she know it was him?"

"She said she felt it in her heart," Pitch replied. "It's amazing."

"Amazing. Yes, it is," Maree said silently. She had been noticing over the past year or so that Yusani's sensitivity—perhaps due, in part, to her own awareness of her deformity—was superior to that of the other children, even to that of a number of the ni-Doma. She had a natural ability of discernment. And while Maree had not yet decided to help her develop her gift, she had not ruled out the possibility either.

"She's got something special about her." This was from Anakin.

"Yes, she does," Maree concurred.

"I can sense it," Anakin went on quietly. "Just like I can sense something in you."

"The Force gives you great discernment," Maree replied.

Anakin hesitated. "Not always." He looked troubled. "There are times when it shows me things, but I don't know if it's the future I'm seeing or . . . or something else. I sense things, but I can't always be sure exactly what it is . . . like with you and the little girl." A pause. "I can sense that you have some kind of power, but I don't know what it is. And I feel like even if I did know, it's something I wouldn't understand."

"I think what you sense is my connection to the souls," Maree replied. "It is their power you attribute to me."

They walked on in silence for a short few seconds before Anakin spoke again. "I understand one of their powers is the ability to restore life. That's what happened with Double Barrel, isn't it?"

"In a manner of speaking," Maree answered. "It's not quite that simplistic. But in the case of Double Barrel, the soul that saved him had not intended it as a life-saving touch. He simply saw a man who needed saving, and in doing so, he imparted some of the energy of his own soul. That energy immediately healed the most grievous injuries." She looked ahead, as if seeing far beyond the rain and the trees. "The soul is eternal. Its energy is eternal. And it will be with Double Barrel until he dies . . . and beyond."

"That's an incredible ability," Anakin stated. "Even the Force can't restore life."

"I don't know much about the Force," Maree admitted. "It is a mystery we do not contemplate here on Bertegad. We are aware of its existence, and I know of its power and the power of the Jedi who wield it. But beyond that, my knowledge is very limited. Even Fels au-Raphe speaks very little of it and his days as a Jedi." She paused. "I think it must be a precarious gift to possess."

Anakin answered flatly. "It is. The dark side is always calling, and the restrictions of the Jedi aren't easy to uphold, especially during a war. It takes a lot of discipline and self-control not to abuse its power." After a brief hesitation, he added, "But it helps to be surrounded by good people . . . like Rex." He exhaled heavily. "I don't think the men are going to want to leave the healing rooms. They're going to want to be close to him."

"If this is anything like last time, I think you are right," she replied. "Pitch and Jesse and Hardcase wouldn't leave Kix's side last time." She cut off abruptly, as if a realization had hit her. "Where is Hardcase? I didn't see him among the soldiers."

Anakin answered with a heavy heart. "Hardcase was killed. Actually, he died—he gave his life to save thousands of men."

"Oh, no . . . I am so sorry to hear that," Maree condoled. "The others must be devastated."

"They were," Anakin replied. "They still are. They try not to show it."

"He was a courageous man," Maree recalled. "I can believe he would give his life for others."

Anakin was silent. To this day, he could still not get past the idea that, had he not been called away on Umbara, the situation never would have deteriorated to the point where Hardcase had had to make the choice between his own life and those of his brothers.

"What he did turned the tide of the battle," Anakin went on at last. "But . . . Umbara wreaked havoc with the battalion."

"Umbara?"

"The name of the planet where the battle took place." A pause. "I was called away by the Chancellor. They sent another Jedi general to fill in for me, and he . . . he was a traitor. He led the battalion to the brink of destruction. He drove a wedge between Rex and some of the men, and . . . the only thing that held the battalion together was the strength of Rex's leadership. But it changed him. I could tell his faith had been shaken, his faith in the Jedi, in the Grand Army . . . in the reasons we're fighting this war." Another agonized pause. "So many things have happened, Doma. We . . . we also lost Fives."

"That's terrible. Was it in the same incident that injured Echo?"

"No, no, Echo is another story. There's a lot to tell you, Doma," Anakin frowned.

"Tell me," Maree replied. "It's a long walk back to the healing rooms."

Anakin proceeded to tell her what had happened to Echo at the Citadel and his subsequent recovery from the enemy. He then recounted the events that began on Ringo Vinda with Tup, ending with Fives' death.

"Tup and Fives . . . they both lost their minds," he concluded. "Fives became paranoid and didn't even trust me or Rex. When he drew down on the Coruscant guards, they had no choice. He had gone crazy."

"But why? What would cause such a thing?"

"Apparently, the clones all have inhibitor chips in their brains, meant to keep them from being too aggressive," Anakin explained. "Fives' chip malfunctioned."

Immediately, Maree recalled the anomalies found in the scans taken of the clones who had needed cold field treatment after the crash.

"Inhibitor chips?" she inquired.

"Yes, every clone has one."

"Well, that explains it," Maree remarked. "We saw the chips in the cold field scans when your men crashed-landed here before. And then we noticed, after some of them had been treated in the cold field, the chips had disappeared. They were organic matter, and the cold field rewrote their molecular code to match the host tissue."

Anakin looked at her sharply. "Rewrote the molecular code?"

"After treatment in the cold field, the chips were gone," Maree confirmed. "Rex was one of those men. Did you notice any increased aggression on his part? Or Kix? Or Sixer? They were all in the cold field."

"No, nothing," Anakin replied.

"Very peculiar," Maree opined. "One would think that the removal of a chip meant to curb aggressive tendencies would consequently result in an increase in aggression."

"Yes . . . you would think so," Anakin agreed. "I saw what happened in Tup and Fives. There was nothing like that in Rex or Kix . . . or anyone else."

Maree was pensive. "Inhibitor chips. I've never heard of such a thing. Even when our scientists and doctors studied the scans, they couldn't see a reason for the presence of the chips. They had no idea what their purpose was. And why would an army want to inhibit its soldiers' aggressive tendencies? Wouldn't they want them to be as aggressive as possible?"

"In battle, yes," Anakin agreed. "But for an army this size, they needed them to be obedient, compliant." He considered for a moment. "Did Rex or any of the others ever tell you about their template?"

"Template?"

"They . . . didn't originate from created DNA," Anakin explained carefully. "The Kaminoans used the DNA of a bounty hunter as their template."

"A bounty hunter?"

"A man named Jango Fett," Anakin replied. "He was known for his efficiency. And his ruthlessness. He had an independent streak, and his particular kind of independence wasn't something that they wanted in the army. The inhibitor chips were implanted for that reason."

"But they're all very independent thinkers," Maree noted.

"And very obedient," Anakin added. "For the most part."

"I see. So the inhibitor chips were meant to prevent them from rebelling or disobeying," Maree surmised.

"Millions of clones have been produced. It was important to keep them . . . following orders, under control." Even as Anakin spoke the words, he felt his own distaste at the idea.

"And you said the chips have worked?"

"With a few exceptions," Anakin replied.

Maree was silent and pensive for several seconds. At last, she said, "It is unethical. Everything about the creation of this army was unethical." She made a quick glance back over her shoulder. "And yet, the end result is astounding and wonderful."

"They are amazing," Anakin agreed. "And Rex . . . the most amazing of them all."

Maree looked at him. "You speak as highly of him as he does of you."

"He's the best man I've ever known." Anakin realized, as he spoke, that these words came a surprising truth. Rex was the best man he'd ever known – more so than even Obi-wan. For while there had been instances of anger, disagreement and contention with Obi-wan, nothing like that had ever happened with Rex. Rex had been more than the ideal first-in-command; he'd been the sounding board, the companion, the supporter, the voice of non-condescending reason, and the daring follower into the unknown.

Maree spoke softly, not wanting to give away too much. After all, she was not sure how much Rex had divulged to his commanding officer and fellow soldiers. "I can echo that sentiment."

"Of course, she can." The last time he'd been here, Anakin had seen Rex and Maree together in an intimate embrace, so he knew the two had feelings for each other. Just how far those feelings extended, he had no idea; but knowing the kind of man Rex was, Anakin had imagined the attraction would be deep and lasting.

Maree continued speaking. "That's what makes this so horrible. It's—it's hard to see him like that and believe it's real. I couldn't have imagined this in my worst nightmares." A pause. "I saw what kind of beings the Copians were when they attacked us, but I . . . I can't fathom anyone inflicting such . . . torture on anyone."

"Their entire society is built upon torture," Anakin explained. "They're masters at it, and that makes them one of the most evil species in the galaxy. They don't deserve to exist."

Behind General Skywalker and Doma Maree, Cody listened unobtrusively to every word that passed between them. When he heard the general say that the Copians did not deserve to exist, he could not help but wonder just how far his destructive rage had extended on Copia. Yet, as curious as he was, he wasn't sure he truly wanted to know the answer. The mere fact of General Skywalker's unexpected display of raw power had come as a shock; for while Cody was well aware of the general's strength with the Force, he'd not even remotely imagined it had grown to such an extent that a mere thought could kill.

And if a thought could kill . . . was it possible a thought could heal? Or restore life?

Could a thought save Rex?

"No, that must be impossible. If he were able to, the general would have already done it. He would have already saved Rex. Even if it is something a Jedi can do, he doesn't know how to do it yet. But I've never heard of the Force being used to bring someone back to life." He caught himself with a rueful scorn. "He's not dead. Don't think of him as dead. He's still alive. He's got a chance. Even a small chance is better than no chance at all."

His thoughts brought him back to the discussion on board the ship, of whether DB's Eagle could heal Rex; and it raised another question. They were now on a planet with access to countless animal souls—the same kinds of souls that had saved DB. Could there be another such intervention now?

True, Double Barrel's miraculous deliverance had been an aberration, the unplanned consequence of a rash decision made by the Doma. But could she not make a deliberate decision to harness the power of the perfected souls? She had said, at the time, that the souls gave their power willingly.

What harm, then, could there be in making use of that which they gave so freely?

As Cody mulled these thoughts on the walk back to the healing rooms, he was slowly coming to the realization that everything he had considered fast and firm, every rule and regulation to which he'd so faithfully adhered, the unquestioning acceptance he'd shown to the dictates of those exercising authority over him . . . none of it mattered anymore. He had been ready to give up everything to find Rex, with the idea that he would, at some point, return to his duties; but he'd also been prepared to be sent to prison for going AWOL. He had never considered the idea that he might choose not to return at all. Now, his own fate was of no account. He had only one desire, one goal; and that was to do everything he could to save his friend from death.

Consequences be damned.