CX-2 staggered against a control panel, shook his head, and blinked away the blurring of his vision. He leveled his blaster at the hazy figure of the traitorous clone before him. But just then, a laser blast caught him in the side, sending him spinning. He didn’t have time to duck or dodge as the clone commando called Hunter hurled the electrospear straight at him. It struck CX-2 full in the chest, pinning him against a tower, purple lightning searing through his armored body and grounding in the metal behind him. He slumped over, hanging by the electrospear goring him. Every inch of him was badly burned, and his vision swam in and out of focus…darkness, then a flicker of cognizance….then darkness again.
So much pain.
His broken mind curled in on itself.
Then a voice, like the brush of wind across his mind, brought him back to the surface, and his mind cleared for a second.
“I’ll find Omega. You should stay here.”
He knew that voice…didn’t he?
“Not a chance,” another voice responded, this one raspy.
CX-2 closed his eyes. He knew that voice too. That voice had to be a hallucination because the owner of that voice would never come back…He’d made his choice, left his brothers behind…CX-2 blinked, dazed, his mind scrambled and screaming in pain.
Come back? Come back where? What choice? Brothers? No, that voice belonged to a clone who’d washed out of the CX program…a defective clone…
Darkness crept in once more from the edges of his vision. The last CX-2 heard was the sound of two beings stumbling away. Then the darkness claimed him.
* * *
Grand Moff Tarkin picked his way through the rubble of Dr. Hemlock’s Tantiss Base, a sneer of disdain etched on his already-lined face. A deep scar created by the rampaging zillo beast had left this section of the base open to the outside world. A cool breeze and the smell of an approaching storm wafted by the grand moff.
“This one’s not dead,” a stormtrooper said.
The shock in the trooper’s voice made Tarkin slow to a halt, then turn. The stormtrooper had two fingers at the throat of a black-clad assassin pinned to a tower, the long haft of an electrospear protruding from his chest.
The stormtrooper turned to Tarkin. “But he won’t last much longer if we don’t get him immediate medical attention.”
Tarkin eyed the obvious scorch marks all over the assassin’s suit and the blood pooling below his booted feet. He turned to an aid. “This is one of Hemlock’s creations?”
The aid glanced down at a datapad. “Yes, sir. Indoctrinated clones repurposed to serve the Empire with complete obedience. Lethal assassins and commandos.”
“And incredibly durable as well, it seems. Very well. Perhaps we can glean some information from him.” Tarkin turned and walked away, not bothering to watch the stormtroopers as they pried the injured clone free and attended to his wounds.
* * *
CX-2 woke slowly. The pain that had covered every inch of him was fading.
All around him was warm, weightless, dim. Comfortable. His muscles relaxed, and he slipped once more into oblivion.
* * *
Once more, CX-2 drifted back towards consciousness. The pain was gone, he realized, and the fog that cradled his brain was slowly ebbing, as though a drug was wearing off. He wanted to sleep just a little longer…but now he was awake…And still alive.
Where was he?
CX-2 opened his eyes but, as usual, couldn’t see much. He needed corrective lenses. That hadn’t changed. With all the modifications, couldn’t they have at least improved his eyes?
He waved an experimental arm and felt the warm, gelatinous liquid ripple and wave around it. Bacta.
He looked down.
Someone had removed his prosthetics, leaving him without feet, half of one leg, and one hand. That didn’t bother him. If someone had bothered to float him in a whole vat of bacta, an expensive miracle healing liquid, they would no doubt return his prosthetics to him. But something else caught his eye that sent a shiver down his spine.
The center of his chest bore a thick round scar, from which branch-like frost-white scars zigzagged away as though he’d been skewered by lightning.
Electricity shearing through his body.
Pain.
“I’ll find Omega. You should stay here.”
CX-2 doubled over as the phantom pain returned.
“Not a chance.”
Arms hauling him up. Cold. A bright light shone in his eyes.
“What’s going on? Is he seizing?”
“Get the mask off him!”
Someone yanked an oxygen mask off CX-2’s face and he gulped in great lungfuls of air. Recycled, clean, medically sterile air.
The fresh air and cold metal decking beneath his bare flesh brought him back to the present and the pain that had arced through him a second before faded to a mere memory. He blinked in the bright light.
Figures were clustered around him. He waved them off.
“I am…I am fine.”
Medical droids and doctors in their white lab coats now marred by wet bacta spots stepped back, save for one. CX-2 could just make out a bearded face and the glint of spectacles perched on his nose.
“Let’s get you up here on the table just to make sure, okay?”
CX-2 allowed himself to be hauled up onto the exam table. The doctor pulled out a scanner and passed it over the clone’s scarred body.
“I cannot see,” CX-2 said. His voice was hoarse, raspy. Like the voice in his memory.
The doctor glanced up from his scanner. “Oh, that’s right.”
He turned and pulled a pair of goggles fitted with adaptive lenses out of a drawer, then handed them to the clone. “Here. Try these on.”
CX-2 did so and finally was able to look around the room.
Along one side were a trio of bacta tanks large enough to hold a Wookie. All but one had an occupant floating almost completely naked in pale blue fluid. The rest of the room was taken up by several rows of exam medbeds, each surrounded by a plethora of instruments and tubes. Med droids trundled between beds, stopping to administer to a patient or answer a question.
CX-2 shivered. He was still wet, and the medbay felt colder than space.
A second later, the doctor draped a gown across the clone’s shoulders. CX-2 blinked in surprise.
“Gets pretty cold in here, I know. Let me finish these scans, and then you can get dressed.”
CX-2 pulled the gown closer around himself. It did little to cut the chill, but even its light pressure on his skin was reassuring. The scanner emitted several beeps, then chimed. The doctor smiled and entered something into his datapad.
“Looks like that dip in the tank was your last, trooper. Most of the damage seems to have been repaired.”
“Most?”
The doctor shrugged. “Everything we can fix, at least. A few months of rehab will have you on your…uh…feet in no time.”
He glanced at the empty air below CX-2’s leg stumps and shot the clone an apologetic smile.
“I’ll look into your new prosthetics. They had to build new ones for you after–”
“After I was blown up?”
The doctor winced. “Yes. But you should adjust quickly to the new prosthetics. The majority of your rehab will deal with the psychological trauma of your ordeal.”
CX-2 snorted, then coughed until a wad of bacta came up. The doctor offered him a plastic basin, into which he spat. He wiped his mouth. “That is a first. No one cares about a clone’s mind.”
The doctor looked offended. “I prefer to have my patients be completely whole before they leave my care; otherwise, they tend to return to me sooner rather than later, and often in a body bag.”
CX-2 couldn’t fault the doctor’s logic.
“I suppose I am lucky to be alive after being electrocuted.”
The doctor shrugged. “Actually, most people survive electrocution, even massive lightning strikes, believe it or not. It was the stab wound to the chest that almost got you. It was lucky we got you into a bacta tank when we did.”
CX-2 stared at the doctor. “What exactly happened? Medically speaking?”
“The electrospear cracked your sternum, punctured both lungs, and put pressure on your heart. It didn’t actually directly damage the heart. But your biggest problem was the massive amount of blood loss. Your suit’s compression helped you survive longer than you should have.”
CX-2 watched the doctor as the man poked at his chest, throat, and flashed a light in his eyes.
“Perfect. What’s your designation?” the doctor asked, picking up his datapad once more.
Without hesitation, CX-2 said, “CT-9902.”
As soon as the numbers had left his lips, CX-2 knew they were wrong.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” The doctor frowned. “CT…?”
CX-2 frowned. That wasn’t his designation. “I meant CX-2. I…must have gotten confused.”
The doctor’s expression softened. “That is completely understandable. Electrocution often messes with the victim’s neurological system. I’ll be sure to include a thorough neuro exam in your workup to make sure we know what’s going on. Have to know what’s going on if we’re going to treat it, right?”
The thought of his mind being scrambled by the electrical blast made CX-2 feel as though ice had been poured into his gut. What else had it done to him? Had it affected the rest of his nerves? Would he still be able to move? Function normally? Fight? The doctor’s cheerful attitude did nothing to ease the feeling.
The doctor was tapping on his datapad, unaware of his patient’s unease. “I thought you’d need at least one more session in the bacta tank, so your prosthetics won’t be ready until tomorrow morning. I’m sorry for the delay. Until then, why don’t you get some rest?”
They wheeled CX-2 down the hall and deposited him in a featureless room with a stiff bed and a small desk.
The doctor indicated a red button near the door. “If you need anything, press this and one of my staff will come to assist you.”
Then they were gone.
CX-2 laid back on the bed and stared up at the gray ceiling.
CT-9902. What was that number? It wasn’t his. Why did he blurt it out so readily?
CT…Clone Trooper. That was obvious. But 9902?
The door whooshed open. CX-2 sat up.
“Don’t get up on my account, soldier,” a gaunt man with the pips of a moff said. “I am Grand Moff Tarkin. I understand that you are one of Hemlock’s clone commandos.”
CX-2 nodded slowly.
“It’s a miracle you survived,” Tarkin continued. “Most men–even clones–would not have survived what you went through.”
“I have survived worse.” CX-2 couldn’t remember what, but he knew he had.
Tarkin gave the commando an appraising look. “What can you tell me about Hemlock’s research?”
CX-2 thought back. He’d been injured, but before that…fighting…further back… “I do not know.”
“You cannot remember, or you never knew?”
“I never knew. I was kept in a cryotube until my activation, at which time I received my orders.”
“Which were?”
“To eliminate CX-1, who had become compromised.”
“And then?”
“To find the child clone Omega and return her to Dr. Hemlock.”
“Were you successful?”
“Yes.”
“Why did Hemlock want this child?”
“I do not know. I only follow orders, not question them.”
“Hm. Good soldiers follow orders, yes?”
That phrase…Tarkin seemed to put some emphasis on the words, as though CX-2 ought to recognize the phrase. And he did, almost. But he couldn’t remember what they meant.
CX-2 mulled over the phrase. It hadn’t been a phrase given to him by Hemlock. On the surface, it seemed correct. But what if the orders came from a superior who was misinformed? Should a soldier blindly follow those orders in light of new information?
“Soldier? Is everything alright?”
CX-2’s attention snapped back to the grand moff. “My apologies, sir.” He held his remaining hand up to his head, which was now aching. “I seem to be experiencing some residual side effects of my injuries. The doctor spoke of neurological effects.”
Tarkin pursed his lips. “Very well. I will leave you to rest. We will resume our discussion later.”
The grand moff turned and left with his stormtrooper entourage.
CX-2 laid back on his cot.
His head was spinning, as though he were caught between two opposing currents.
He’d told Tarkin that he’d survived worse than being electrocuted. Had that been a lie? In the moment, CX-2 had been as certain of that fact as he could be of anything.
But what exactly had he survived? And why couldn’t he remember it? Was it…real? Or just another random idea conjured by his damaged brain, like that clone trooper number?
CX-2 sat up again, irritated. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, then looked down at his leg stumps.
Well, he did have quite a few prosthetics. It stood to reason he had survived a terrible accident at some point in the past. He could feel the hard surface of the spinal stabilizer just under the skin of his back as he leaned up against the wall. Something extreme enough to shear off three of his limbs and require a new spine, to say nothing of whatever else had been damaged and repaired with bacta.
But what had it been?
CX-2 found himself aching for his prosthetic limbs so he could stand and pace. Instead, he drummed his fingers on the bed.
His mind had wandered while talking to a superior officer, a grand moff, no less. Surely that was evidence of his current state of mental instability. All of this must be as he’d said to Tarkin: the effects of his recent injury.
With a sigh of exasperation, CX-2 laid back once more and ordered the lights to dim.
Sleep was elusive, however. His mind spun around and around, grasping at wisps of thoughts so immaterial that he might have been grasping at chaff on the wind. This made him even more frustrated. He ought to be able to figure this out…shouldn’t he?
Finally, sheer physical exhaustion from his newly-healed body forced CX-2’s mind to slow and sleep.
* * *
The next morning, CX-2 flexed his new droid hand. It was made of sleek black metal, matching his new armor. His other hand, his normal, pale human hand, rested lightly on the black helmet laying beside him on the exam table.
“Touch your thumb to each finger, please,” the med droid said.
CX-2 did so, marveling at the delicate sensory receptors on the tips of each delicately articulated finger that allowed him to feel even the slightest of touch. It wasn’t quite the same as his real hand, but he knew that with time, his brain would adapt so that he wouldn’t notice the difference.
“Excellent. Now stand. Let’s see how the foot and leg appendages perform.”
CX-2 obediently stood. He wobbled, his human hand darting out to grab the shoulder of the med droid.
“Are you alright, CX-2?”
CX-2 gritted his teeth, then forced himself to let go of the droid. “Yes. Temporary loss of equilibrium is to be expected with new prostheses. I will require a moment to become accustomed to them.”
CX-2 took a tentative step forward, leaning onto the new mechanical foot. Satisfied he could balance sufficiently, he took another step, and then another. Wobbling like an Ewok on stilts, CX-2 hobbled from one end of the room to the other, then back again. By the time he returned to the droid, he was sweating, but his gait had already significantly improved.
A slow clap resounded around the room. CX-2 looked up and saw Tarkin walking towards him, stormtroopers in tow.
“I was told you are making a remarkable recovery,” the grand Moff said, “and by the looks of it, I don’t doubt the good doctor’s assessment. I was hoping I might have a word with you.”
This statement was more for the med droid, CX-2 knew. The commando glanced at the droid, which bobbed away muttering about other patients to attend to. CX-2 leaned back against the exam table but did not sit.
“Excellent.” Tarkin crossed his arms over his chest. “I would like to revisit our conversation from last night.”
CX-2 nodded and clasped his hands together. The clash of alloy against flesh was still jarring.
“Can you tell me what you saw of Hemlock’s base on Tantiss once you were activated?”
“Hallways. Clones being led from one place to another.”
“Clones? You’re sure?”
CX-2 cocked his head. It was a stupid question. “I do not know of another large group of identical men, sir.”
Tarkin’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he merely said, “Continue.”
The clone shook his head. “A room where members of Clone Force 99 were held, strapped to medbeds.” CX-2 shrugged helplessly. “That is all. I was a soldier, not a scientist.”
“Pity.” But Tarkin was watching the clone commando thoughtfully. “The doctor tells me that you are refusing psychological rehabilitation. Is this true?”
“It is a waste of time. Endless hours of telling a droid how I feel will delay my return to duty by months.”
“Eager to return to battle, are we?”
“It is what I was designed to do.”
Tarkin regarded the clone with an inscrutable expression. “And that little episode last night?”
“I was merely tired. It will not happen again, sir.”
The grand moff seemed to consider the clone’s words for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. I happen to agree with you. You are of far more value to me in the field than in the medbay. I will order that you be run through a series of tests to ascertain your battle-readiness as soon as the doctor clears you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
After Tarkin had left, the doctor returned, face ashen and brow furrowed.
“You did that, didn’t you?” He glared at CX-2. “You soldiers. Never willing to slow down and stop until you’re dead.”
“That is what I was made for,” CX-2 said dryly.
The doctor hrumphed as he poked at his datapad. “You aren’t leaving this medbay until you perform these activities flawlessly.” He turned the datapad around so that CX-2 could see the list. He had to scroll down several times for the clone to see them all.
CX-2 could see the doctor watching for a reaction, but he had none to give.
“Acceptable. I should be able to complete everything on your list with a high degree of accuracy within five days. Shall we begin?”
