Good Soldiers - A Star Wars Short Story
Good Soldiers - A Star Wars Short Story
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Crosshair stared through his rifle scope, aiming carefully at the makeshift target he’d hung from a tree. It swayed lightly in the wind, he steadied his breath, readied himself to pull the trigger, and then didn’t. He let out a long sigh. No matter how often he tried to practice, he never could seem to get himself to pull the trigger.
The thing was, he was as physically healed as he could possibly be. He wasn’t in pain anymore—the medical droids on Pabu had made sure of it—and he helped where he could around the island, trying to rebuild the destruction he felt at least somewhat responsible for. But no matter how much the droids prodded at him or he followed Hunter's demands to go and rest, Crosshair was not whole. Sure, he wasn’t physically whole without his hand, he knew that. And yes, he missed the brothers whom he’d lost. But there was something else that was absent as well, a piece of him he couldn’t quite place.
Omega was happy on the island which warmed his heart (though he was reluctant to admit it) and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had no real reason to be afraid. Despite the lack of threats, however, he still found himself checking around every corner for intruders and sleeping restlessly, ready to wake at even the smallest of sounds. He’d tried to find some medical root of his problems but the droids said there was nothing wrong with him, so why was he still so lost?
His finger feathered the trigger until Echo's footsteps came clicking through the silence.
“Are you going to shoot that?” Echo mused as he leaned against the banister next to Crosshair.
Crosshair wasn’t exactly in the mood for jokes and he’d been hoping to avoid Echo during the clone’s Pabu visit. In fact, he’d been rather hoping to avoid everyone for the day. Clear his mind. Get focused again. Of course, no one ever seemed to let him do that.
Crosshair only grumbled in return but lowered the rifle. If Echo wanted to talk like he always seemed to when visiting the island, then fine, Crosshair would talk if only to get it over with faster.
“I didn’t see you at the landing pad,” Echo continued.
“And?”
“I didn’t manage to catch you on my last visit either. I’m starting to think you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Maybe I am.”
Echo shrugged. “I dropped Emerie off today. She’s been set up with a hut on the North side. I thought you should know.”
“Mmhm.”
“Does that… bother you?”
“Does it bother Omega?”
“It didn’t seem like it.”
“Then it doesn’t bother me.” Crosshair raised his rifle, hoping the conversation was over, but when Echo didn’t leave, Crosshair sighed. “And?”
Echo swallowed, turning his gaze to the calm sea. “Y’know, after Skako Minor, it took me a while to adjust. I was lucky to have you all around. A team… A family.”
“What are you implying?”
Echo turned to face him then. His gaze was fierce, commanding. Crosshair would have returned the gaze if he’d still be a soldier, but he wasn’t anymore. He didn’t know what he was, but he certainly wasn’t a soldier. So insead, he glanced away.
“You’re isolating yourself,” Echo said plainly, no longer circling around the point. “And nothing will get better if you keep this up.”
“What makes you think I’m not better?” Crosshair grumbled in return.
Echo raised an eyebrow. “Would you like me to give you a list?”
Crosshair did not.
“Look,” Echo added. “Rex gave me coordinates to a repurposed Republic medical frigate. We’ve already had other clones treated on the ship. It’s safe. And I’m on my way there now. I think you should join me.”
“The droids have confirmed that I am fine.”
“They can give you a hand, Crosshair. If you want it.”
That caught his attention. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wondered about his options. Of course, he knew about bionic possibilities, but the droids on Pabu didn’t have the right knowledge or access to medical equipment to complete such a demanding procedure. Crosshair had begun to think that he wouldn’t ever have the opportunity to even consider a prosthetic and was willing to adjust accordingly, but Echo's words were proving otherwise.
“Did Hunter put you up to this,” Crosshair asked hesitantly.
Echo frowned even more than usual. “No. As I said, I was already on my way there and I thought I would extend the offer.”
“Hm.”
“You don’t have to, but it might be good to get off the island for a while. Explore your options.”
Crosshair finally lowered his blaster once again and sighed at the target swinging in the tree. Maybe it would be good to get away, but the truth was, it scared him immensely. Everywhere in the galaxy seemed to be incredibly dangerous for someone like him. Everywhere except for Pabu. Somehow, the safety of the island was so unheard of that it was almost a prison in itself by comparison. How could he ever leave when the rest of the galaxy wanted him dead? But part of him also worried that if he didn’t leave now, he might never muster the courage to do so again and then he’d truly be stuck. For the most part, he liked Pabu, but he still wanted his freedom.
So, with one long, reluctant sigh, Crosshair agreed. “Fine.”
Echo was pleased enough by that answer and Crosshair only stopped by the house long enough to change into his armour (which he still kept at the ready next to his bed, just in case). Echo gave him a nod and they made their way up to his ship, though Crosshair kept his head low as they walked. He passed right by the rest of the Batch on the landing pad and raced up the ramp and onto the bridge, unwilling to struggle with any sort of goodbye. You’ll be back, he tried to remind himself. It’s not really a goodbye. but the worry was still there.
Echo joined him a moment later, typed in the coordinates, and took off, steering the ship up and out of the atmosphere. Crosshair watched as they left the blue sky of the island and neared the stars and the dangers of space. It felt like he was on a mission. He had his armour and his weapons, anticipating a battle. But he didn’t want to fight. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be willing to fight again after that night on Tantiss. Tech was already gone and he’d been too close to losing the others as well. Crosshair still wasn’t convinced that he should have made it out of that base, but he was certain that the others were deserving of life.
Echo pushed the ship into hyperspace and the stars zipped by the windows.
“To be quite honest,” Echo said into the silence. “I haven’t fully decided what I’ll ask of them either.”
“You’re going for yourself?” The question had escaped before Crosshair had processed it and he realized rather glumly that he’d now entered himself into a conversation he wasn’t sure he wanted to have. It was clear that Echo was trying to stage some sort of intervention and now Crosshair was encouraging him. It was not a well calculated move, Crosshair's tactical abilities were obviously dwindling along with the rest.
“This time. I usually try to stay far away from these places.”
“I… can relate.” The sterile walls of a medical scenario, the long repeating hallways. It was all too similar to places Crosshair would rather forget. He hadn’t considered that Echo might still feel the same.
“Most of the time,” Echo continued. “I send others here. Feels wrong to take myself. Like I’m admitting defeat.” He chuckled. “Rex would laugh at that. He says part of our job is to take care of ourselves. I told him I don’t remember that bit in the manual.”
Crosshair searched for the right words. “What is your… ‘Issue’.” He decided afterwards that those were in fact, not the right words.
“My legs,” Echo said simply. “Been having trouble with them for a while. Pain and such. Figured it was time to sort things out.”
How long was a while and why Echo had never mentioned this pain before? Maybe they could have helped. Then Crosshair stopped himself. After all, he really wasn’t one to call anyone out for not asking for help. “I hope they can improve things for you.”
“Me too,” Echo agreed with enough resolve and exhaustion that Crosshair became convinced this had been bothering Echo for much longer than he was letting on.
They spent the remainder of the flight in comfortable silence. Echo scrolled through recent intel updates of the bridge while Crosshair found a spot in the back of the ship to clean his rifle. It was a pointless effort, his rifle hadn’t been shot since Tantiss and yet he’d still been tending to it daily. What if he did need it though? What if some new, unexpected threat arrived? It was better to be prepared.
He ran his bronze brush through the bore. One would think losing a hand would impede his ability to complete tasks that had once been second nature, and for more than a few rotations, it had. He’d been stubborn enough, however, to refuse any sort of assistance and had instead found new strategies. Things weren’t as easy as before and often took a bit longer, but he was fine enough—not that he’d ever admit it if he wasn’t.
The ship eventually slowed to a halt in front of the towering medical frigate and Echo steered them into the landing bay. He gave their clearance code before bringing them to a full stop and meeting Crosshair by the boarding ramp.
“Ready?” Echo asked him.
Crosshair gave him a small nod and the ramp lowered, revealing a doctor and two medical droids waiting to greet them. With his heart pounding loudly against his ribcage, Crosshair followed behind Echo and was glad to let the latter do the talking. Echo, at least, seemed to be acquainted with the head doctor and they spoke easily as they walked. Though if what Echo had shared on the ship was true, Crosshair wasn’t so convinced that any of this was easy for Echo at all.
They were led down one of those terrifying endless hallways and were each steered—albeit rather reluctantly—into parallel private rooms. Crosshair let the more advanced medical droids run their countless tests and tried to focus on anything but reality. He thought about the Marauder, about the rest of the Batch and wished things could go back to how they were when they were younger.
You wouldn’t have known Omega, a voice in the back of his mind reminded him and he supposed it was right. In some ways, things had been better when they’d been a solid team running special missions for the Republic, but they hadn’t been a family yet. Omega had brought them that gift, and while he wasn’t sure what “normal” families felt like, the Batch was the closest thing he’d ever had to one and that brought him a certain amount of comfort.
Apparently content with the scans, the droid began explaining their newest bionic limb options from integrated cybernetics with full aesthetics and touch sensation to others that were less human but designed for improved strength, speed and durability. How was he supposed to make such an impactful decision? Sure it was a decision that only really affected him, but how could he be trusted with it? Clones weren’t supposed to make their own decisions like this, they were followers, weapons and tools designed for a war. This wasn’t right. Besides, how much did these prosthetics even cost? He certainly didn’t have any credits to offer. Was Echo paying? Rex? Hunter? Pabu itself? He couldn’t ask that of them. He didn’t deserve their kindness.
And then he saw it: him with a gloved hand, a parallel to Hemlock.
His heart thundered against his ribs, his senses overloading as blood rushed through his ears.
“If you could remove your armour so we can have better access to your arm—” the droid started.
“What?”
“Your armour—”
Crosshair abruptly jumped to his feet and stalked out of the room.
It was stupid—he knew that—but he couldn’t stand another moment in that suffocating cubicle surrounded by examples of just how broken he was. It was all pointless anyways, two hands wouldn’t fix him. He’d be just as empty as before only with some new thing for people to stare at and question him about.
And who did that droid even think it was? Asking him to remove his armour so he could be open to any incoming enemies? That would be truly idiotic in a foreign environment like this. Echo said it was safe here, but safety could change in an instant.
“Crosshair? Sir!” The droid called after him as he rushed down the hallway as quickly as he could. If the droid had been closer, Crosshair might have even thrown something at it.
He didn’t know where he was going or who he’d find there, but he needed out. His heart was too loud, the lights too bright, the stuffy white walls were too clean. He couldn’t do this, coming here had been a terrible idea.
“Hey,” a voice said from behind him and he jumped, whipping his head around only to find Echo standing with concern written across his face. “What’s going on?”
“I’m done. You go and deal with whatever it is you came here for and then we’re getting off this frigate.”
“Did something happen?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“You don’t have to be stoic anymore, none of us do.”
But somehow that only worsened his anger. “Talking is a prime way to expose our weaknesses and get ourselves killed.”
“And actively avoiding ever sharing anything is a great way to damage trust and loyalty, the one thing us clones have that’s kept us alive.”
“Fine,” Crosshair hissed. “You want me to talk then I’ll talk. That medical droid is an incompetent pile of scraps who thinks the best way to keep its patients safe is to remove their armour and weapons. What if the Empire shows up? What if Hemlock finds me?” Crosshair’s voice cracked and Echo put a hand on his tense shoulder.
“Crosshair,” he said calmly, his frown deepening more than usual. “Hemlock is dead.”
Crosshair blinked.
Right. Yes. Hemlock was killed on Tantiss. How could he forget?
Heat thrummed to his face and he turned away, walking once again. Echo, however, could not be shaken and followed quietly at Crosshair’s side until he finally stopped by a window and stared out at the stars. Somewhere out there the mountain still stood, Crosshair’s prison cell lying empty.
“For a long time,” Echo said into the silence. “I thought I had to prove to everyone that no matter what had been done to me, I was perfectly fine. And I guess that’s what I did, but it didn’t mean it was true. For me, the nightmares never did go away.”
“I know.” Crosshair admitted softly, He’d witnessed all those times Echo had given up on sleep to wait out the night in the Marauder’s cockpit.
Echo snorted. “Guess I wasn’t as secretive as I thought then. Though I think people assume I struggle because of what the Techno Union did to me… physically. I disagree. They took nearly everything about me apart and put it back together, including my mind. I think that’s the worst bit: my brain doesn’t work the same way it used to. I woke up feeling like a whole different person, someone I didn’t even know anymore.” Then he smiled slightly. “But I got used to it and it turns out I’m still me. Different, but me. I mean, it’s not perfect, but I really do feel alright on the inside now too.”
Crosshair studied Echo for a long moment. They hadn’t known each other before Echo’s captivity on Skako Minor. As far as Crosshair was concerned, this was the person Echo had always been.
“And do you know what I’ve been realizing?” Echo continued as he met Crosshair’s gaze. “Everyone changes. Some of us get pushed into it faster than others, but we’re not so strange. And we can keep changing too, we’re allowed to evolve--supposed to, even.”
“I’m not like the rest of you,” Crosshair mumbled. “I... don't deserve this.”
“Why? Because you fought for the Empire? What about all the other clones we saved on Tantiss? They were former Imperials too. And Rex and I are still getting distress calls from defecting clones needing out. Do they deserve to hate themselves for the rest of their lives because of the Empire’s orders?”
“I can’t hate myself,” Crosshair grunted. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
Echo sighed. “I get that, but you have to cut yourself some slack while you’re figuring it out.”
“I’m supposed to be a sniper, Echo. What good is a sniper who doesn’t shoot?”
“You’re Crosshair,” Echo corrected. “And there’s a lot more that comes with that than just a rifle.”
Crosshair snorted but glanced down at his hand, or rather, lack thereof. A sigh escaped him and he felt the words he’d been pushing away beginning to bubble up in his throat as though he was finally being given permission to share them. Maybe he could try to figure this out, and if anyone would understand, it would be Echo. “Hemlock took it from me—my sniping. I don’t know what he did, but I couldn’t shoot anymore.”
“The tremor,” Echo acknowledged.
Crosshair merely nodded and continued as he flexed the fingers of his good hand. “I was useless then and I… couldn’t get rid of it. But, in a strange way, I’m free now.”
“Then maybe you deserve a fresh start.”
Maybe. But then again, Echo had never asked for a new hand. He seemed content with the way he was, perhaps Crosshair would one day be able to do the same. “Why not get a new arm?” Crosshair asked. “Why keep the scomp link?”
“Logistically, it’s useful for missions. Practically, it’s interfaced deeply with my brain meaning it would be a pain to change and mostly experimentation. I figure I’m done being an experiment and, at this point, I can’t really imagine having anything close to a human hand. This feels right.” Then he shrugged. “Maybe one day I’ll upgrade it, but for now it seems like more trouble than it’s worth.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“For medical reasons, not really out of choice. But with my arm, I have a choice and the way it is now feels like me so I’m leaving it. You also have a choice to do what feels like you. If you don’t want it then we’ll leave, but that’s up to you.”
“Even if I did, I don’t have the credits,” he admitted.
Echo shook his head. “That’s not your responsibility in this case. Senator Chuchi has been organizing clone rehabilitation programs exactly for this purpose.”
Crosshair wasn’t sure how he felt about that but he muttered reluctantly, “I’ll… think about it.”
“Good,” Echo said with a nod. “I’ll finish up and when I’m done, we’ll reevaluate.”
Which was how Crosshair ended up sitting in the corner of the rather spectacular left-wing waiting room. The windows stretched from the floor to the high, vaulted ceiling and comfortable sofas and lounge-chairs were spread throughout the atrium, with various models of droids checking on guests, most of whom—Crosshair assumed—were waiting to either see doctors or for their friends or family members to be treated.
He sighed and rested his chin on his hand. How did he end up here? A one-handed, decommissioned, ex-imperial clone. It wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured for himself when he’d been training back on Kamino. Everything had been about fighting and he’d always assumed he’d be sent out on missions with the rest of Clone Force 99 until he was killed out in the field and that would be it. There’d never been and after in his mind, he’d never even bothered to consider life without war.
He spotted a familiar face entering the room: another clone walking stiffly with a cane. Despite the features all the regs shared, Crosshair didn’t think he knew him personally. The clone scanned the room for empty seats and his eyes settled on Crosshair. Usually, he had the luxury of not being too recognizable as a clone thanks to his defective nature, but maybe the armour gave him away because before he knew it, the clone was limping over to him.
The other clone frowned. “Crosshair, right?”
Crosshair raised his eyebrows. “Do we know each other?”
“Uh—no, but I saw you around. In the Empire.”
Of course he had. Crosshair’s shoulders sagged.
“I’m Flick by the way. Didn’t have much time on the field before the Imperial Army, but I heard about your squad during training,” the clone—Flick—told him excitedly. “You guys pulled off some pretty impressive stunts.”
“Hm,” was all Crosshair offered in response.
“Can I… sit?”
“Fine.”
The clone lowered himself to the chair next to Crosshair with a slight wince before following Crosshair’s gaze to his leg. “Got crushed in a shipyard,” he explained. “The Empire was going to leave me for dead, but my buddy sent out a distress call and now we’re here. He lost an eye and I can’t really walk, but we’re doing good. And the food’s much better here, so there’s that.”
Flick chuckled and Crosshair was inclined to agree, but his mind drifted to Mayday. Flick wasn’t the first to be abandoned by the Empire. “We're disposable to them.”
“Yeah,” Flick agreed sadly. “But not to each other.”
They sat in silence for a moment as a droid rolled by offering water. Once they were both sipping from small cups and the corner as calm again, Crosshair’s curiosity overtook him. “What will you do now?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Flick admitted with a sigh. “But my buddy and I were talking and I was saying we should move somewhere remote. No Empire, no Republic, maybe a town a quick speeder-ride away. We could raise a bunch of animals, plant some crops.”
“You’re going to start a farm?”
“Why not? Maybe I’ll learn an instrument instead, become a galactic superstar,” Flick said with a laugh. “Or an artist. Or a repairman. I could even open a cantina somewhere where clones are always welcome. The possibilities are endless.”
“That’s the problem.”
Flick shook his head with a smile. “That’s the fun bit. And for now, I’m just going to heal and then lay down on a beach somewhere and have a good, long drink. Then I’ll figure out the rest.”
Crosshair envied the clone’s calmness, the ease of his laughter. It seemed impossible he’d ever feel that way again, but everyone else seemed to think he wasn’t such a lost cause. Echo had said that people can change, and Crosshair knew that to be true, he’d certainly changed. But could he manage to change for the better?
When he really started to think about everything that had happened, all that pulsed through him was intense anger. Not only at Hemlock or Tantiss, but at himself for being so blind to the truth about the Empire. It was that blindness that had hurt his family and ultimately taken Tech from them. He wanted to repay them, rebuild what he could—though some things would be lost forever, some people would always be gone—but he couldn’t seem to fix anything when simply getting himself out of bed was a challenge.
Maybe he didn’t know what he wanted to do with the rest of his shortened clone life, and Flick was right, there were endless possibilities to explore, but he knew what he wanted to do right now: he wanted to help piece things back together on Pabu, be there for Omega and have a second try with the rest of the Batch. He wanted his family, and for that to happen, he’d need to give himself a second chance as well. A new beginning. He’d never be able to take back the horrible things he’d done, he’d likely never forgive himself for it all either, but he could at least try to make the most of the time he had left.
He glanced up at Echo moving towards them, his steps noticeably lighter. Crosshair gave him a quizzical look and Echo offered a pleased nod in return. So they’d been able to help him then. Good.
“I see you’ve found Flick,” Echo said as he stopped in front of them before addressing the younger clone. “It’s not very common to see Crosshair making friends.”
Crosshair only rolled his eyes.
“You and Dozer doing okay?” Echo asked Flick.
“Better. Shouldn’t need to be here much longer.”
“You should come to Pabu,” Crosshair said without thinking. Then he added quickly, “There are lots of beaches.” As if that would explain away his enthusiasm.
A warm smile spread across Flick’s face. “Sounds nice.”
Echo nodded in agreement. “If you’re feeling up to it, you can come back with us, but if not, I’ll make sure you and Dozer get the coordinates.”
“Thanks.”
Echo nodded for Crosshair to join him and they stepped across the room until they were far enough out of earshot that they almost had privacy.
“Did you make a decision?” Echo asked him carefully.
Crosshair didn’t need some fancy cybernetic prosthetic to live his life, he knew that. He was perfectly capable of completing tasks as he was and part of him really wanted to be done with tests and experiments and doctors. But then there was the part of him that wanted to start anew. He could see the possibilities forming in his mind, a small, glinting excitement for the future, maybe it was even hope. He would be living on Pabu with Wrecker, Hunter, Omega and Echo when he could be there. Dozer and Flick would join them, strengthening their little community. He could almost see himself smiling—it had been a long time since he’d smiled.
Maybe, with a new hand that he chose himself—one that could shoot if he wanted, or never even touch a blaster—he could make a life for himself. There would be none of Hemlock’s greedy experiments, not even the Kaminoins thrusting weapons into his arms as a child because it was all he’d been created for. No, this hand would be his just as this life was now finally his.
“I want it,” he told Echo as he glanced back at Flick who was still sitting near the corner. The younger clone had already managed to get a fancy drink from one of the droids and was sipping it gingerly when he caught Crosshair watching him. He lowered his glass with a smile and waved.
Crosshair raised his good arm and waved back. No more salutes, no more orders. He wasn’t a good soldier anymore, but the funny thing was, he didn’t seem to care. He was Crosshair. And when he made it back to Pabu with a new cybernetic hand and Echo, Dozer and Flick in tow, he was determined to try to live again. For himself and for his family.
That evening, he found an old, abandoned crate in one of the fishing yards and carried it back to the house. He carefully tucked his armour and blasters inside before stacking it away in the back of his closet. It was there, if he needed it, but if he ever pulled it out again, it would be on his terms this time.
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