competitions with other cohorts. Although they had initially shipped out together, over time that original cohort had broken, as most ARC troopers worked alone.
He found himself seeking identification on the troopers he encountered, helmet or neck chips that told the time and place of decanting. A cohort brother could be relied upon to remember certain ceremonies and shared perils, always good for a bit of extra companionship. Family within family, a touch of home on a distant, hostile world.
He fondly remembered twenty-kilometer training runs with his cohort, tried not to remember how many brothers he had watched die during his two extended campaigns and dozen smaller actions. In most instances ARC tactics were a blend of lightning attacks and applications of overwhelming force, with punishing combinations of aerial bombardment and devastating ground engagement.
But as satisfying as those victories had been, he longed to take more personal and subtle action as well. He felt that there were aspects of himself yet untapped. He did not fear death, but one thing he did fear was the possibility of ending his life without discovering the depths of his abilities. That, as he understood such things, would be a waste.
Nate shrugged his rucksack over his brawny shoulder and headed to the op center, wondering what the day’s conversation would bring.
Ten minutes later he was ushered into a small office tucked away beneath an ammo dump and a people-mover ferrying workers back and forth to the city.
His commanding officer, a Mon Calamari major named Apted Squelsh, sat hunched over papers when Nate entered, and for a moment seemed not to realize that she had company. Then she looked up. “A-Nine-Eight?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Take a seat, please.”
Nate did so, easing into a hard-backed chair of densely veined Corellian hardwood. He ran a thick thumbnail along the arm’s grooved channels as the major finished reading the screen, and then folded her hands to speak to him.
“You performed admirably during yesterday’s exercise,” she began. “Your unit had a fifty percent reduction in both genuine and sim casualties, with no loss of speed or efficiency. That’s what we like to hear.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I have a new assignment for you,” Major Squelsh said, blinking her huge dark eyes. “I assume you are prepared?” Not a real question, but a bit of ritual byplay.
“One hundred percent, ma’am.” The ritual response.
“Very good. You will accompany and assist two Jedi to a planet called Ord Cestus. Do you know it?”
“No, ma’am, but I’ll get up to speed immediately. My support?”
“Four men,” she said.
At last! Actions like these were the doorway to advancement, sought after by any ARC trooper worth manka spit. “Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“It concerns Admiral Baraka.” He paused. “Is the admiral aware of the fatality statistics?”
“Of course.” Squelsh’s eyes were level, her plump broad lips pressed together tightly.
“And did he say anything you might want to share with us?”
The major paused for an intense moment, then replied, “He said, ‘Well done.’”
Nate held his face steady, unwilling to display his emotions to a commanding officer. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“That is all.”
Well done. They’d left flesh and blood and brothers all over that beach and in the pitiless depths, and “well done” was the best they could get.
Typical.
Nate left and took the beltwalk to the hololibrary to put in a few hours researching the target planet. True, he’d get a briefing packet before he left, but he found it valuable to do his own research as well. Briefing packets were generally quite specific to the mission, and prepared by researchers who had never humped heavy ordnance up a cliff.
Nate was so immersed in his research that he barely noticed when another trooper began reading over his shoulder.
“Hmmm,” said the other trooper. “I’m Forry. I was near
He found himself seeking identification on the troopers he encountered, helmet or neck chips that told the time and place of decanting. A cohort brother could be relied upon to remember certain ceremonies and shared perils, always good for a bit of extra companionship. Family within family, a touch of home on a distant, hostile world.
He fondly remembered twenty-kilometer training runs with his cohort, tried not to remember how many brothers he had watched die during his two extended campaigns and dozen smaller actions. In most instances ARC tactics were a blend of lightning attacks and applications of overwhelming force, with punishing combinations of aerial bombardment and devastating ground engagement.
But as satisfying as those victories had been, he longed to take more personal and subtle action as well. He felt that there were aspects of himself yet untapped. He did not fear death, but one thing he did fear was the possibility of ending his life without discovering the depths of his abilities. That, as he understood such things, would be a waste.
Nate shrugged his rucksack over his brawny shoulder and headed to the op center, wondering what the day’s conversation would bring.
Ten minutes later he was ushered into a small office tucked away beneath an ammo dump and a people-mover ferrying workers back and forth to the city.
His commanding officer, a Mon Calamari major named Apted Squelsh, sat hunched over papers when Nate entered, and for a moment seemed not to realize that she had company. Then she looked up. “A-Nine-Eight?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Take a seat, please.”
Nate did so, easing into a hard-backed chair of densely veined Corellian hardwood. He ran a thick thumbnail along the arm’s grooved channels as the major finished reading the screen, and then folded her hands to speak to him.
“You performed admirably during yesterday’s exercise,” she began. “Your unit had a fifty percent reduction in both genuine and sim casualties, with no loss of speed or efficiency. That’s what we like to hear.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I have a new assignment for you,” Major Squelsh said, blinking her huge dark eyes. “I assume you are prepared?” Not a real question, but a bit of ritual byplay.
“One hundred percent, ma’am.” The ritual response.
“Very good. You will accompany and assist two Jedi to a planet called Ord Cestus. Do you know it?”
“No, ma’am, but I’ll get up to speed immediately. My support?”
“Four men,” she said.
At last! Actions like these were the doorway to advancement, sought after by any ARC trooper worth manka spit. “Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“It concerns Admiral Baraka.” He paused. “Is the admiral aware of the fatality statistics?”
“Of course.” Squelsh’s eyes were level, her plump broad lips pressed together tightly.
“And did he say anything you might want to share with us?”
The major paused for an intense moment, then replied, “He said, ‘Well done.’”
Nate held his face steady, unwilling to display his emotions to a commanding officer. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“That is all.”
Well done. They’d left flesh and blood and brothers all over that beach and in the pitiless depths, and “well done” was the best they could get.
Typical.
Nate left and took the beltwalk to the hololibrary to put in a few hours researching the target planet. True, he’d get a briefing packet before he left, but he found it valuable to do his own research as well. Briefing packets were generally quite specific to the mission, and prepared by researchers who had never humped heavy ordnance up a cliff.
Nate was so immersed in his research that he barely noticed when another trooper began reading over his shoulder.
“Hmmm,” said the other trooper. “I’m Forry. I was near
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