Love and Hate

Chapter 2: A New Mission

This is wrong! And we all know it! The General is making a mistake, and he needs to be called on it! We are loyal soldiers. We follow orders, but we are not a bunch of unthinking droids! We are men. We must be trusted to make the right decisions. Especially when the orders we are given are wrong! No clone should have to go out like this!

-ARC-5555, "Fives"

Secure briefing room, Fleet Support, Ord Mantell; three standard months after the Battle of Geonosis, one and a half years after the Fall of the Red Room

(RC-1136) Darman's P.O.V.

   The Fleet Support Base definitely wasn't built to accommodate tens of thousands of troops; the briefing room is actually a modified cold store, and it still smells like spice. There's a lot of details in the room to take in; the loading rails, the makeshift seats, the two commandos sitting next to me. But I keep my focus on the holoscreen in front of me.

   It didn't feel as bad as I thought it would, being revived after stasis. I'm still a commando, so I guess that means I did a good job. I'm feeling pretty positive. My helmet feels a little different, though. There's a lot more information on the heads-up display–or HUD, for short. I absentmindedly flick through the modes for a while with rapid blinks, trying to memorize the extra systems and hardware that's been installed since Geonosis.

   Sitting to my left is my new sergeant, RC-1309, who likes to be called Niner when superiors aren't around. Sitting next to him is RC-8015, whose nickname is Fi. They're the sole survivors of their squads, too. Well, I think it's good that we might all have something in common. At least we might be able to help each other. There's another makeshift seat, this one on my right, but it's empty. This will belong to the fourth and final member of our new squad--whoever he is.

   My attention shifts to Jedi Master General Arligan Zey, who's pacing up and down in front of the screen, his cloak breaking the projection each time he makes a pass. Another Jedi–who has yet to introduce himself–is splitting his attention between General Zey and the three of us helmeted commandos sitting completely still on the row of crates.

   The reflective surfaces of the wall allow me to discreetly observe an unusual alien. It's one I've never seen–or heard of–before. I've been trained to take in all the details of my surroundings, but it's hard not to just stare at the thing; it's about a meter and a half long, with glossy black fur and long, delicate legs. It slinks along the walls, thrusting its narrow muzzle into crevices and exhaling sharply each time it does. Earlier, I overheard General Zey address it as Valiqil; he also said it was a "Gurlanin", a shapeshifting species.

   I've heard about shapeshifters in training, but never actually seen a picture of one other than a Clawdite, which this thing definitely isn't. I'm watching its reflection in my peripheral vision when the door opens and another commando walks in, his helmet tucked neatly under his right arm. He salutes sharply.

   "RC-thirty-two-twenty-two, sir," he says. "Apologies for keeping you, sir. The medics didn't wanna discharge me."

   I bet they didn't; there's a strip of raw flesh on his face that starts just under his right eye, runs straight across his mouth, and finally ends at the left side of his jaw. I wonder how he got the medics to skip a course of bacta.