Some genuinely murderous looks on the faces of the Nulls as they walked past us, helmets off.
Though really, it all started a bit earlier.
Left up on the ridge as forward lookouts, radio propped between them, one of Drill’s people and one of my own scouts both reported, almost simultaneously, that morning back at our camp had kicked off in a pretty entertaining way.
Master Palek, calling the morning formation, a massive kid encased in armor red enough to hurt your eyes just looking at it, came up short on the count.
The ones who’d pulled night watch were still out at their posts, since nobody had actually relieved them yet.
And nobody on staff had a good answer for that, which meant there was suddenly some genuinely inspired swearing echoing across the general channel.
While Nest wisely stayed quiet and played dumb, I went and found Master Kal and asked him to pass word to the rest of our instructors, explaining that we’d just dropped by for a friendly visit and would be back within the hour and a half.
Also worth mentioning, the reason for the visit was completely natural, since our long-suffering Alpha-02 had turned up bound tight and unconscious, dragged straight into the Nulls’ camp, and figuring they must be bored out here since they’d taken the trouble to kidnap our most cheerful commander, we decided the polite thing to do was return the favor with a friendly visit of our own.
And, naturally, feed Master Kal while we were at it.
Wouldn’t want the hosts going hungry, after all.
Skirata took that whole speech with a completely straight face, reached into the nearest crate without even looking, pulled out a flask, took a drink, then, once he’d confirmed the connection back to our camp was solid, took a second drink and pulled his helmet back on.
An hour and a half later, catching sight of some genuinely furious expressions on the Nulls walking past him, helmets off, arms full of crates, Fett apparently decided enough was enough and called me over.
End result of that conversation, a perfectly logical decision, since we all clearly love visiting each other so much, the whole “friendly visit” program officially falls under my authority now.
As in, formal exchange visits.
For example, Scar and Dench take their squads out to some random grid square with a supply of rations, and a day later we visit them without any food of our own, hungry and irritated.
Naturally, Dench and Scar are stubbornly refusing to share their food with us, since apparently they don’t have enough for themselves either.
Basically, the Citadel simulator, except now with live opposition.
A couple of months went by.
Not that it’s really my problem, I just write up the scenarios and pick apart the instructors’ after action reports, except now…
hm.
It’s honestly a little uncomfortable to admit.
I just know more than the average recruit here, though maybe that’s overstating it, hard to say for sure, but the gap in training shows regardless, you’d have to be blind to miss it.
A dangerous number of near misses have started stacking up close to actual skill level, in my opinion, and that’s exactly where the difference between my world’s approach and this one starts mattering.
Credit where due, we can shoot accurately from basically any position now.
Hard not to pick that up fast when live fire barely gives you room for error.
Prone, mid-roll, jumping, falling backward off a cliff into a river, doesn’t matter.
But something else has been bugging me.
Counterattacks, sure, defense, absolutely, but the actual concept of dodging a frontal assault?
Breaking the line of fire entirely?
Using real cover properly?
Barely registers.
Covert movement and using terrain for cover only really gets applied before the first shot’s fired.
After that, it turns into some chaotic street shootout scene, everyone waving weapons around, ducking behind whatever’s closest, and after a dozen exchanged shots, maybe one guy ends up grazed by a chipped brick ricocheting somewhere.
That’s roughly, and oddly enough, exactly what happened to Drill back on the platform during our escape, took a piece of shrapnel off a crate.
The explanation for that gap’s simple enough.
Mandalorian armor, same as whatever future gear we might eventually earn, katarn armor, is genuinely solid, built to take two or three direct hits and keep functioning.
Theoretically.
But standard clone armor, based on what full scale testing’s shown us, might as well be cardboard.
And the Mandalorians teach tactics based on their own personal combat experience, which naturally assumes their own personal gear.
Not that Fett hasn’t tried, mind you, drilling Mandalorian ideology into the Alphas at every opportunity, and honestly I’ve picked up on it too, this fierce personal attachment they all have to their own beskar’gam, this constant drive to keep improving it, and how most of us can theoretically get access to upgrades from what’s already available, since the Republic, well, you get the idea.
Anyway, none of that’s why I got into the technical side of things out of some idle curiosity.
But, first things first.
In the beginning there was the word.
And the word was “Down!” And that word left my mouth.
And I, following that very word, hit the dirt flat and hard.
And what in the world had triggered it?
Simple, Fett, probably, may his helmet fill with something unpleasant, had gotten an order to clean out some pirate outfit, or at minimum take down their leader.
Most likely just some drifting raiders deciding to lean on the nearest mining crew near us.
By that point Nest, firmly settled into logistics work and apparently rebranded “Chess” at this point, had already locked down our food supply from that same farm we’d basically cleaned out of every last one of their cattle, and the local colony had gotten hit hard by these raiders too.
Turns out Rishi isn’t exactly the friendly frontier it looked like at first.
Outer Rim, what can you do.
Either way, the fact remains that our friend “the swamp Mandalorian” decided this was a great opportunity for a live test.
Ha.
My little squad, with the mouse patches on their shoulder plates.
That’s apparently what he had in mind.
Rather than bother with anything useful like coordinates, he gave us the rough direction the raiders had retreated in, and issued an order stating plainly that nothing and nobody was to remain standing at their base, then handed us total freedom on how to get there.
That was it.
No numbers.
No known composition.
No weapon inventory.
Nothing.
Nest, sorry, Chess, graciously went and asked around at Carnush-31 about who exactly was leaning on the local administration, carefully, since drawing too much attention to ourselves out here isn’t exactly in our interest either, considering what we actually are.
All he managed to dig up was that the gang was mostly Trandoshans, led by a Rodian and some unidentifiable figure of roughly human shape who apparently never takes his helmet off.
Total headcount, somewhere around thirty.
For a mining village security detail that barely broke a dozen and a half strong, that’s a serious threat.
Sure, the raiders weren’t being especially bold about it yet, but that’s always how it starts.
Before heading out, two things worried me specifically, exact numbers, and what kind of equipment they had.
Nobody gave us a deadline, and there wasn’t much point sitting around debating it either.
So we moved out as one full unit, twenty five clones strong, unconventional platoon composition and all, Drill leading three medics, Scar with four soldiers running a pair of two-man gun crews, what we’ve started calling a Z-5 configuration, Dench with four grenadiers, and Salty and I covering standard DC-15 sniper loadouts along with a dozen of my scouts, who, lacking real names beyond their base designation, Alpha, or AA-17 technically, just got numbered off in order.
Mouse-One, Mouse-Two, Mouse-Three.
We beat everyone else to the punch before anybody could argue about it.
Honestly, I feel steadier around these guys.
None of that typical Alpha arrogance in them, though to be fair, Salty himself is basically a model of calm and good sense.
Chess joked once that he’s basically cosplaying me.
Why would he even do that, he’s not exactly a kid in the…
damn it.
Actually, yeah, he kind of is.
So we push forward, spread three at a time, twenty meters apart in a fan formation through the Rishi jungle, screening a slower line behind us where Scar, Dench, and Drill are hauling most of the heavy gear.
Heading roughly along the route connecting Carnush-31 and Kishti-2, the local exonium processing station, our main lifeline out here, honestly.
We’re covering serious ground.
Not entirely clear what exactly we’re even looking for.
These guys could be anywhere, but they’d come in on foot to shake down the locals for supplies and cash, which means their transport either had to be a flyer, in which case we’re in trouble, or a repulsorcraft, in which case there’s a real chance of spotting a faint trail of scorched fern tops from the repulsor wash.
Nobody trained us for that specifically, so I’m being extra careful here.
Over the past couple months our camp’s accumulated so much junk and improvised gear that clearing it out in a single day’s basically impossible, easier to just torch the whole pile.
Worth calling a halt soon and briefing the guys properly.
I’m on point, but nine sets of eyes beat one, and we’re closing in on the range where alertness actually matters, plus our own people still need better camouflage.
Mud smear, maybe?
Not ideal either, but for now…
I call my scouts over.
“Alright, listen up.
We’re watching for scorched grass tips against fresh green growth, forming a visible trail.” People move around out here with no ID markers at all.
Trying to pick out faces under a helmet is basically pointless.
Someone really should’ve thought of a better system.
“What exactly are we looking for?” “Picture the top of the grass lightly singed, like it brushed a flame but never actually caught.” “And what’s that look like, exactly?” “It’s…
okay, come here.
See that strip between those trees, right about waist height?
That’s exactly what it looks like.” And that’s when it finally clicked.
com/Hezzario