Four days later, CX-2 waited patiently as Pare tapped on his datapad.
“Well,” the doctor said with a sigh, “whether I like it or not, you have shown proficiency in the entire list of exercises. All that’s left is to test your overall strength, coordination, and agility.”
Pare waved for CX-2 to follow him and led the clone over to the obstacle course.
“This course is designed to test a variety of movements, from everyday actions to mission-ready movements. There are three sections, each designed to test a different aspect of your physiology. Usually we just have you do part of the course, according to whatever body part you needed rehabilitating on, but you needed everything, so you get to run the whole course.”
He led CX-2 away from the course and into a chamber that abutted the course. A bed and a desk sat against one wall and an armor stand holding a full set of stormtrooper armor stood along another.
“You’ll start off in here lying down on the bed. When I say go, you’ll get up, put on the armor, and sit down at this desk.” The doctor rapped his knuckles on the duristeel desk, making a stylus jump. “Then you flip over this card,” he tapped a small white square, “and draw whatever it says.”
Pare led the clone through a door into a second chamber, where three large jars of droid parts and a handful of tools were laid out on a table. “Next you’ll come in here. Unscrew the lids, assemble the droid. It’s just a kit droid, so you won’t need any prior technical knowledge; just assemble.”
The doctor led CX-2 out another door, which led out onto the rest of the course they’d seen from outside. Several posts had been sunk into a sandpit, and on the other side was a long, thin board propped up against the base of a pile of boulders. A door stood at the top.
“This part is simple. Pick up that weight,” he pointed at a misshapen metal blob at their feet, “and get it to the other side of that door.” He pointed at the door atop the boulders.
Pare grinned. “Easy, right?”
CX-2 shrugged. “Everything but the drawing will be easy.”
Pare clapped the clone on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine. All you have to do is finish, alright?”
“You will not be timing me?”
“Oh, I will, but only for data collection. Nothing for you to worry about. You ready?”
Out of the corner of his eye, CX-2 saw a movement towards the front of the first chamber. His head whipped around.
Nobody was there.
“CX-2?”
The clone scanned the area. All he saw were two stormtroopers walking towards them. One of them removed its helmet, revealing the scarred face of Captain Kirgard.
“Looks like we made it,” the captain said with a grin. Beside him, Dahl removed his helmet.
“Good luck,” Dahl said, punching CX-2’s shoulder good-naturedly.
Dr. Pare cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”
CX-2 took one last look at the shadows but saw nothing.
“If you’re looking for Ferrus,” Dahl said, “she’ll be late. Had a malfunction with her weapon she needs to clean out.”
“I was not looking for her,” CX-2 said. At that news, though, some of the tension eased out of CX-2’s shoulders. He turned to the doctor.
“I am ready.”
Dr. Pare escorted the clone into the first chamber, then tapped his datapad and said, “Go.”
CX-2 rolled off the bed and bolted to the armor stand, pulling on each bit as quickly as he could and tightening it down. The movements were automatic, familiar.
CX-2 then slid into the chair. This would be the most difficult part of the test, he knew. He picked up the stylus and flipped over the card.
On the other side was a picture of a DC-17 blaster.
“Here I was thinking you’d give me something difficult to draw,” the clone said dryly.
“Picked something you’d be familiar with,” Pare mumbled as he tapped furiously.
Gritting his teeth, CX-2 forced his droid hand to draw the first lines.
This is the hardest part, he reminded himself.
If his hand had been working normally, CX-2 knew this wouldn’t be a problem. He’d drawn up hundreds of technical drawings before, after all. It was just this infernal hand—
CX-2 froze in mid-line. He’d drawn technical drawings?
“Is everything alright?” Pare asked, looking up from his datapad.
“Yes.” CX-2 went back to the drawing. In truth, the drawing was proving easier than writing had. His lines weren’t as confident as they should be, but they weren’t uncontrollable squiggles, either. He sketched the textured grip and a few other details, then set the stylus down and bolted for the door.
“Not a race,” Pare called after him.
No, but it is a matter of pride, CX-2 thought as he overturned the first jar of droid parts onto the table and began to assemble it.
To his surprise, CX-2 hardly had to think about where each part went. The instruction card sat unnoticed by his elbow as his hands worked almost of their own accord, plugging the power source into the main board, connecting the motivator, snaking wires through the wheel housings. As he worked, a sense of calm flooded him. His hand didn’t shake.
He liked this.
CX-2 got to the final jar and tried to twist it as he had the other two. But instead of spinning open, it remained stuck tight, refusing to budge. With a glare at his droid hand, the clone got a better grip on the lid and heaved on it, but it still wouldn’t budget.
CX-2 flipped the jar over with a clatter and peered down at the seal. There he noticed a glob of clear, solid epoxy that had bonded the jar to the lid.
Ferrus’ words echoed in the clone’s mind: “You’ll never join this squad, Reboot. I’ll make sure of it.”
The shadow he’d seen darting in here before—that must have been Ferrus. She must have done this in the hopes that his inability to open the jar would disqualify him from service.
CX-2 picked up a long flat screwdriver and wedged it into the epoxy, then worked it this way and that until the lid popped free.
Satisfied, he went back to work. Ferrus was going to have to do better than that to make him fail.
Before he knew it, CX-2 had flicked the power switch and activated the droid. Its head swiveled around to fix its optical device on the clone and beeped.
CX-2’s shoulders slumped a little as he rose. He wished he had more time to tinker with the droid. Instead, he patted its head gently and headed out to the obstacle course.
CX-2 grabbed the misshapen weight with one hand. It was heavier than he’d expected, too heavy to be carried comfortably with one hand. This was going to be harder than he’d expected.
Wrapping both arms around the weight, CX-2 jogged to the edge of the sand pit and jumped in. His boots sank several inches. He had to yank his foot up to free it from the sucking sand, then repeat over and over with each step. After two meters, the clone was panting and grunting with each step.
He tripped and plunged face-first into the sand. He flailed a bit, dropped the weight, tried to get his hands underneath him. He pushed up and sucked in a gasp of cool air just as something g beneath the sand grabbed hold of his shoulders and yanked him back under.
Panic seized CX-2, and in that moment, his broken mind hauled him back through time to a forgotten memory.
CX-2 was standing in a cold, empty hallway beside a clone with a crosshair tattoo over his eye. They were both wearing plain white jumpsuits. They could have been in any Imperial facility. The strange tattooed clone was gripping CX-2’s shoulders tightly. He glared at CX-2, shock and betrayal written on his gaunt face, and…and something else that CX-2 couldn’t identify.
“Don’t do this,” the gaunt clone begged, his voice low and raspy. “You’re not one of them! Listen to me! It’s Hemlock’s reconditioning! It’s not really you!”
CX-2 yanked himself out of the other clone’s grip, felt his face turn away, and heard himself yell, “Escape! Crosshair is attempting to escape! In the north corridor!”
The clone called Crosshair released CX-2 and stumbled away.
The memory faded away, leaving CX-2 gulping sand and suffocating. He lashed out and struck at whatever was holding him under. It released the clone. CX-2 reared back and up, breaking through the surface of the sand, and coughing up tiny beads of quartz.
“CX-2! Can you hear me?”
The clone realized he hadn’t actually freed himself. Instead, he’d been hauled up by the backplate of his armor by Captain Kirgard.
When CX-2 had coughed and vomited all the sand up, he opened his watering eyes and saw Dahl wrestling with a crab-like creature. The stormtrooper hailed it up out of the sand, then shot it neatly in the face. It twitched, then went limp.
Pare hurried over to CX-2.
“Are you alright?”
CX-2 nodded. “What was that?”
“No idea. Crab of some sort. I have no idea how it got in there.”
From the smug look on Ferris’s face, CX-2 had a pretty good idea where the crab had come from.
Kirgard brushed the sand off the clone. “Report it. I’ll do the same. That needs to be investigated.”
“I will.” Pare turned his attention back to CX-2. “We’ll continue your test later after you’ve had time to recuperate. Maybe in a few days.”
CX-2 caught sight of Ferrus behind Kirgard.
“No shame in giving up, Reboot,” Ferrus said, her lips curling into a smirk.
CX-2 gritted his teeth. “No. I’m finishing it now.”
With that, the clone hailed himself up onto his feet and picked up the discarded weight. Sweat from his regular hand made its surface slick, and his droid hand had gone back to shaking slightly. He gripped the weight tighter and jumped back into the sand pit.
He made it across with some difficulty, but this time no crabs ambushed him. He hauled himself up onto the balance board and quickly hurried across.
Crosshair. That was the clone’s name in the memory. Was that who CT-9902 was?
Was it even a memory, though? CX-2 felt as though his brain had been scrambled. He couldn’t tell what was true and what had been fabricated by his damaged mind.
I do not have time for this! CX-2 thought. I can worry about my head later.
He shoved the memory of the gaunt clone aside as he hopped off the balance board and faced the wall of boulders.
CX-2 stood for a moment, analyzing the pile and picking out the easiest path. CX-2’s arms were already aching from the effort of carrying the misshapen weight, but it was clear that he would need to use one arm to pull himself up the boulders, leaving him only one arm to hold the weight.
After another moment of deliberation, CX-2 wedged the weight under his droid arm and began to climb. If his droid hand gave out, he’d rather drop the weight than lose his grip on a boulder and fall.
He picked his way up his chosen path slowly but steadily. His muscles trembled all over his body. His droid hand was shaking so badly that it clattered against the weight, and sweat dripped into his eyes. But something stubborn inside of him kept him going despite the pain.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour instead of a few minutes, CX-2 reached up with shaking arms to shove the weight onto the last ledge, then hauled himself up after it. He stood and walked to the door, reaching out with his droid hand to the archaic doorknob.
The droid hand was shaking uncontrollably now. He grabbed onto the doorknob, but the hand refused to twist it.
That same stubborn streak refused to let CX-2 use his human hand. He needed to use this confounded droid hand for this last task to prove to himself that he really was healed.
With a grunt, he squeezed the knob and rotated his arm awkwardly.
The door clicked open.
***
Sometime later, after Pare had checked all his vital signs and grudgingly admitted that the clone was in excellent health, CX-2 found himself out of his armor and sitting in a lounge far more comfortable than he’d expected could exist on an Imperial Star Destroyer. It was still stark, gray, and cold, but soft chairs were clustered around duristeel tables, and a droid sat behind a bar mixing non-alcoholic cocktails for the patrons.
CX-2 sat with the rest of Vulture Squad at one of the tables, eyeing his own drink, which was an acid-green.
“It’s not bad,” Dahl said, seeing the clone’s skepticism. “It won’t beat a real drink, granted, but considering the regulations, it’s not bad.”
Kirgard took a sip of his own sunset-red drink. “Eh, it’s alright. Next mission planetside, once the mission is completed, we’ll find somewhere with something decent.”
Ferrus snorted. “Your idea of somewhere decent is a half-rotten bar with drinks that taste like fuel.”
Kirgard grinned. “Exactly.”
CX-2 took a tentative sip of his drink. It was fruity, with a sour bite. Compared to the bland rations, the drink’s flavors felt like an explosion on his tongue.
“Not bad, right?” Dahl said.
“Not bad,” CX-2 shrugged. “I didn’t realize Star Destroyers had lounges like these.”
Kirgard smirked. “It’s supposed to boost morale. Happy soldiers make good soldiers, or something like that.”
The other two chuckled.
“Here’s to CX-2,” Dahl said, raising his glass. “And to surviving Pare’s course, even though it tried to eat you.”
The four troopers chuckled as they took a drink.
CX-2 was used to working alone, but sitting here with Vulture Squad was pleasant, he had to admit. Ferrus had a sour look on her face and refused to look at CX-2, but Kirgard and Dahl seemed at ease around the clone.
Dahl looked to his captain. “How long until we deploy again?”
Kirgard leaned back in his chair. “Not sure. We’re on hold at Tarkin’s request.”
“Tarkin?” Ferrus said in surprise.
Kirgard nodded and took a sip, then made a face at his drink.
“What does Tarkin want with us?” Dahl asked.
Kirgard glanced at CX-2. “No idea. Guess we’ll just have to wait and find out.”
The captain’s glance made CX-2 uneasy. The clone had told Tarkin all he knew about Hemlock, which hadn’t been much at all. Did Tarkin think CX-2 was lying? The thought sent a shiver through him.
He half listened to the three others chat for a while, the rest of his mind mulling over the memory he’d seen while submerged in the sand of the obstacle course.
That other clone…he didn’t look like regular clones. He was gaunt, thin, and tall. He seemed familiar, but CX-2 couldn’t quite remember who he was.
Crosshair. That’s what CX-2 had called him. Perhaps if he could get to a terminal, he might be able to look up this clone and figure out who he was. And if he actually existed.
CX-2 told the others he was tired, which his shaking droid hand only confirmed, and quietly left the lounge.
* * *
Tarkin clasped his hands behind his back, his hawk-like face passive and unreadable. He was standing in Dr. Pare’s cluttered office. If it weren’t for this man’s incredible success rate with stormtrooper rehabilitation and knowledge of regenerative science, Pare would have been booted from the service long ago. As it stood, though, Pare may end up proving to be an invaluable asset to the emperor in the future.
Tarkin fixed the doctor with a bored stare. “What is your current assessment of CX-2’s current state?”
Pare scratched at his beard and glanced at his datapad. “Physically, he’s fit for duty. He’s passed every test I can throw at him. He beat the obstacle course in the rehab room faster than anyone else. Ever. He’s a phenomenal soldier, sir. But psychologically? I can’t recommend him for anything beyond clearing tables in the mess.”
“And why is that?”
Pare held out two fingers. “Two things: one, Hemlock broke his mind, sir. I mean, shattered him. Hemlock might have gotten a completely obedient soldier, but it came at the cost of that man’s sanity. During the obstacle course, a Mimban crab that had gotten into the sand attacked him. CX-2 blacked out, and I’m not convinced it was entirely due to lack of oxygen.”
Tarkin’s eyebrow shot up. “A Mimban crab?”
“I’ve already submitted a report. Security began their investigation an hour ago.”
“Hm. Very well. And the other reason?”
“I don’t think the reconditioning is holding. When he first woke up, I asked him what his designation was. Instead of replying ‘CX-2’ as he should have, he said ‘CT-9902.’ I looked it up on the off chance he wasn’t just spouting random numbers. That’s the birth number of the second defective clone of Clone Force 99, the one they called Tech. Before he died, he was a genius with computers, electronics, and such.”
Pare tapped his datapad and turned it around for Tarkin to see.
“Look familiar?”
“Indeed,” Tarkin said. The image of the defective clone warrior from Clone Force 99 did bear a striking resemblance to CX-2. “I recognize him. You’re sure he’s the same clone?”
Pare nodded. “Ran his genetics to be sure. Matched Tech’s genetic profile, right down to his genetic modifications.”
“You said he died?”
Pare nodded again. He checked his datapad. “He died on…Eriadu. Last year.”
Tarkin’s eyes lit up. “Intriguing. It seems our record of him wasn’t completely accurate. I wonder how Hemlock got a hold of him. I was under the impression that Clone Force 99 deserted the Empire.”
“They did.”
“Does he remember any of that?”
Pare shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked him because there is a risk that I might trigger a memory. But from what I’ve heard about Hemlock’s reconditioning, CX-2 shouldn’t be able to remember anything from his past life. The fact that he remembers his birth number shows that his reconditioning could be cracking.”
Tarkin looked thoughtful. “It could be that your information about this reconditioning is not completely accurate either. After all, you only have hearsay to go off of, correct?”
Pare nodded. “That’s true. All records of Hemlock’s methods were destroyed on Tantiss.”
“Perhaps Hemlock inflated the effectiveness of his methods,” Tarkin said. “If that is the case, CX-2’s minor lapses may not be of concern.”
Pare looked doubtful, but he didn’t argue with the moff.
Tarkin walked over to the viewport and gaze out at the rest of the fleet floating against the backdrop of stars. “I would like to test his loyalty to the Empire. Before his reconditioning, CX-2 failed a similar test. If he succeeds now, I believe it will be a much more useful gauge of whether Dr. Hemlock’s reconditioning is holding.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
CX-2 stepped up to the terminal and input his credentials. With an uncertain glance over his shoulder, he tapped in the request: CT-9902.
Access Denied.
CX-2 bit his lip, then tried again: Crosshair.
A list of rangefinders and their unique crosshair types flowed down the display. CX-2 rolled his eyes. He needed a more specific prompt.
Crosshair, clone.
Access Denied.
CX-2 groaned softly. He shut off the terminal and closed his eyes. His knee bobbed up and down to the rhythm of his agitation.
It had been a long shot to hope he could access personnel records from a public terminal with his lowly credentials. He’d hoped that since they were files from before the Empire that no one would care. But apparently they did. He’d need an officer to help him access those files.
But whoever this CT-9902 was–-Crosshair, if that really was his name—he was real. Otherwise, the terminal would have returned a “File Not Found” response.
That meant his visions were real, at least some of them.
CX-2 wasn’t sure what that meant, but he needed more information about that clone.
His comlink chimed.
“CX-2,” Kirgard’s voice said. “Report to the briefing room. We’ve got our orders.”
“On my way, sir.”
