One Zabrak seems to be having some kind of breakdown.
“They caught me, ha-ha-ha-ha, ME!
You, ha-ha-ha-ha-ah!” “Where are you?!” “…Ohhho-ho-ho-hooo…
You won’t believe this!!
I…” A few, many hours earlier.
A picturesque clearing opened up beneath a rocky ledge worn smooth by a river, low grass on one side, forest on the other.
A scattering of hills covered in tall grass barely broke up the sightlines if you actually studied them closely.
“I don’t like this clearing,” the lying clone muttered, lowering his thermal scope.
“Grumbler doesn’t like it, shocking,” said the second clone, scanning the clearing from the far side of the tree-lined hill.
“I say we shift a klick right, tuck in behind that hill closer to the rocks.” “This our destination?” “Yes,” I answered.
“Cut the chatter.
Thirteen, Fortieth, sweep it again.” I switch channels.
“Dench, this is CT-134.” “Cap?
What’s up?” “Denny, you got shovels on you?” “Yep,” and somehow, even over comms, I can hear the grin in his voice.
“Good.
I need your steadiest people, a full squad.
I’m jumping over now, transport’s on the way.” “Consider it done.” “Comms off.
Alright, you three, up onto the rock.
I see ledges you can use for the climb.
Set a hidden observation post, stay alert, report anything to The First, and I mean anything, even if it’s just flies landing wrong.
Move, move, move.
Thirteen, Fortieth, as you clear the area, set a second post on the far hill, needs a wide viewing angle.
We’ll be there shortly.
Watch, wait, report.” “Copy.” “Copy.” I shake off the involuntary comparison to some droid stuck repeating “roger, roger.” Something to think about later.
I run a hundred meters into the thin treeline, mount up on a ronto, and push it as fast as the animal will go, back toward the main column, or more accurately, its current resting point.
Ground that takes the column nearly a full local day to cover, the ronto clears in an hour and a half to two, without even breaking a sweat.
After the crossing, at the next command meeting, I quietly pulled Zero-Two aside and laid it out straight: “I don’t like you, you don’t like me, doesn’t matter, we’re fighting on the same side.
For the Republic, for whatever version of Mando ideals you personally believe in, doesn’t matter.
I’ve got a plan.
You’re going to hear it.” End result, our column stretched out for kilometers.
Tens of kilometers, really.
First came a jetpack burst over the treetops using full fuel reserves to clear distance from the crossing point, then adjusting the rally timing with the wagon train for a proper rest.
Everyone’s exhausted at this point.
Especially my little bat squad.
And yes, I did put a bat symbol on all their shoulder plates.
I personally took one bantha, loaded four of my scouts onto it, and rode ahead to scout our final destination point.
All that’s left now is coordinating the shuffle of cargo and the rest of our understrength regiment into this clearing.
Most of the clones’ armor batteries hadn’t even drained fully yet, no real activity, no real drain.
Which put us a solid three days ahead of the original schedule, one last crossing still to go, though that’ll cost us some time.
I need the engineers and demolitions team out here setting up shelter positions.
And, of course, leaving a few surprises behind.
We’re not walking straight into the clearing, we’re taking the rocks and the gorge off to the right instead, river down there, thick underbrush, genuinely miserable and therefore completely unexpected terrain for deploying troops.
We’ll be spread thin, but that’s a minor issue, with the right distribution it’s workable anywhere, and honestly that part’s not my problem anymore.
I can’t even describe how much I miss music.
It really does wonders for clearing your head.
All I’ve got left is whatever scraps of old rock songs I can still hum from memory.
I’m even starting to lose my grip on my own first language.
Small stuff, in the grand scheme.
The ronto’s getting noisy though.
I adjust the strap on my carbine.
No predator attacks yet, which doesn’t mean we’re not being tracked, far from it.
Just some drag branches rustling, probably better to cut them loose.
What drag branches?
Right, a couple small trees, lashed by cable to the animal’s hindquarters on either side, meant to help erase our tracks.
Bad idea, in hindsight.
Wild swamp rontos, smaller cousins of ours, barely leave a trace even in soft ground, provided they avoid crushing young saplings.
Which meant we had to weave between paths constantly, or cut fresh ones.
And we left a mess behind either way, mud clinging to everything in thick layers in some stretches.
No idea how, honestly, especially after one particularly brilliant staff decision routed us straight through a swamp.
Going around?
Never heard of it, apparently.
Some old saying about real heroes always taking the long way around, whoever came up with that clearly never met our staff.
Out there, at least, the drag branches actually earned their keep.
As improvised sleds, mostly.
And then I just forgot to detach them afterward, so we left them behind.
Before all that though, part of our already-portioned food supply got mishandled.
The cord holding a bundle of ration packs together snapped, which kicked off my whole “brilliant” plan.
While Nest, our unofficial quartermaster on this whole trip, stood there groaning about it, I just walked up, patted the neck of a placid ronto standing nearby, and asked, “What do you think this is for?” Seven klicks out, along the river.
“We’ll catch up, you figure?” “Maybe they got lost.” “Let’s check both banks.
Which way did they head?” “If they even went this way at all.” “Hm.
I’ll scout ahead.” “Lost, you think?” “Hold on.
What?” “I’ll go ahead.
Check the shoreline for something worth a closer look.
Just to be safe.” “You think it’s them?” “Just want to confirm it.” A little later.
Column command meeting, and beyond.
“I’m pushing for the gorge, or the underbrush to the right.
Either gets us to the destination on signal, twenty minutes out, without being spotted based on the last intel we’ve got.” “Agreed, CT-134.” “Seconded.” “And if—” “I’ll handle the ‘ifs.’ Scar, can you spare three men?” “No problem.” “Then that’s the plan.” Good.
We stopped exactly where I wanted, tucked in the gorge behind the rock ledge overlooking the arrival point.
Unloaded gear.
Scar posted sentries, set up the chargers, and the rest went off gathering deadwood for fires and pine boughs to line the thin but surprisingly comfortable air mattresses.
Camp’s basically set.
Hm.
Three days of supply left.
Heh.
Should probably go check how our little surprise is coming together, then, hopefully, do the one thing every soldier in my old life knew how to do flawlessly, shamelessly catch some sleep.
POV: Narun Daal, Mandalorian, master of stealth infiltration and assassination.
The tracker chirped in irritation, flagging a bug caught in the detection radius, and honestly, I was relieved.
Almost, since there’d been nothing, no tracks at the crossing, none on the main routes I’d have taken myself heading toward the rally point.
Nothing at all.
Four kilometers deep, easily.
I’d been watching, caught the ping from somewhere in the swamp.
Smart move, if you’re trying to stay hidden.
How’d they even make it out here this fast though.
Let’s see what we’re dealing with.
What, where, where exactly is that signal coming from?
Reading from three meters down, in the swamp itself.
Someone hurt?
Drowned?
All five hundred of them?
Ah, there we go, tracks…
odd ones.
Looks like a whole herd of swamp rontos came through here.
But clone footprints are still visible underneath, unmistakably careless ones.
Trampled straight through, back and forth.
Fine, moving on.
At least there’s confirmation of survivors.
Though, why bother trampling around like that instead of just heading straight to the objective?
That’s a serious pace, faster than I expected honestly.
Wonder how many they lost along the way.
Alright, let’s close the distance.
Well, this is bold.
Genuinely not even surprised anymore.
Three clones lying out on a hillside, roasting some lizard on an open spit fire.
At night.
They might as well be lit up for kilometers, who does this?
Unless…
no, surely not.
Still, no heat signatures detected anywhere nearby, just those three, and even that reading’s weak.
Asleep, maybe?
Fine.
Time to teach these three a lesson.
I close the distance, calculate a jetpack drop, and, snap, brake hard, five meters of free fall.
“And who’s sleeping this carelessly out here?” Wait.
Are these decoys?
Then what exactly did I just land on?
Pure instinct kicks in and I flip on the electromagnetic signature scanner, and, gods, whatever’s listening, save me.
The scanner practically chokes trying to count the number of mines under me.
If I so much as shift my weight right now.
And if this whole thing goes off, that’s not just this hill gone, that’s half the valley turned to rubble.
And what’s this?
“Don’t move.” I carefully pull my helmet off.
Somehow it’s easier to breathe with it off, oddly enough.
“Sir?” I watch, stunned, as sections of turf across the hillside tilt back, three rifles now trained on me, held by clones stripped down to their armor lining.
A kilometer off, past the rock ledge, a flare shoots skyward with a sharp whistle.
Underestimated them.
“Confirmed,” I hear one of the clones report over comms.
“Ending combat alert, target identified, this is Master Narun.” Underestimated them again.
“Master Narun, sir, our intel officer would like to know what exactly you’re doing out here, sir?” What exactly is Fett teaching these kids.
No, honestly, let Fett sort that one out himself.
“Me?” Heh.
“I was tracking you…
hee-hee-hee…
I was searching for…” Full laughter now.
“Ha-ha-ha, and you found me first…
ha-ha-ha…
I, you…
hahahaha!
Aahahahaa!!
Unbelievable!” I fumble for the comlink through tears of laughter.
“Jaango!” Ahihehee!
Jaaaango, hohoh…” “Yes, Narun, go ahead.”
com/Hezzario