Sweat poured down CX-2’s forehead and into his eyes. He grunted with the strain of holding onto the loaded barbel. To his dismay, the fingers of his droid hand trembled even more than those of his human hand.
CX-2 was standing in the rehabilitation center beside the doctor, who he’d learned was called Dr. Ambose Pare. All around them were various exercise equipment, large inflated balls, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and an assortment of benches. Along the far end of the room was an obstacle course. Several other men and women were scattered about, attended to med droids or doctors.
High above them, cold white lights illuminated the space. That, combined with the subtle vibration underfoot, told CX-2 that they were aboard a ship.
Beside him, a trio of troopers walked by, accompanied by a med droid. Two males and a female, CX-2 noted.
Focus, he reminded himself.
“I didn’t realize they were letting old folks into service,” one of them leered.
“Hey, that’s not fair. He’s only doing what he was bred to do,” another said.
“What’s that?”
“Be cannon fodder,” he chortled. “And I’m sure he can manage it, even at his age!”
The female trooper snorted. “Better him than us.”
CX-2’s fingers finally gave out, and the barbel slammed into the deck at his feet. He managed to jump away just in time.
Behind him, CX-2 heard the female trooper say, “Take it easy, pops.”
CX-2 shot a glare at the trio. “It is highly likely that you are all older than I am.”
The taller trooper schooled his face into a mockery of seriousness. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Clones are still adolescents. Rapid-rise recruits, right?”
He elbowed his companion and burst out laughing.
“Thank goodness for rapid maturation,” CX-2 said. “Especially of the brain.”
Not all clones, though, he thought, the vision of a loud, boisterous, overgrown clone with one blind eye drifting unbidden to his mind’s eye. The behemoth grinned and waved a stuffed animal around under a slender clone’s nose.
It’s not real, he reminded himself. Clones don’t get that big. Just another stray thought.
He shook his head lightly to dispel the memory, but a knot of worry settled in his gut. These phantom memories should be gone now that his body was healed.
“Don’t you three have somewhere to be?” Pare said before turning back to CX-2. “Ignore them. Try it with a lower weight this time.”
“The problem was not the weight,” CX-2 insisted, trying to ignore the other troopers’ snickers. He reached up and readjusted his googles. “The grip strength of the prosthetic is weak. It needs to be adjusted.”
“No, this one doesn’t work like that. It’s a newer design. The hand is functioning as intended,” Pare said. “If it’s not working the way you want it to, it’s because it’s not fully integrated into your nervous system yet. You need more time.”
“It should have integrated by now,” CX-2 hissed.
Pare shrugged. “The electrical blast damaged your nerves. They may be healed, but they’re still new and untrained, so to speak. Asking them to integrate with droid parts this soon may be more than they can handle at the moment.”
He looked down at his datapad. “How are the other prosthetics doing?”
“They are functioning as well as I expected the hand to work.” CX-2 flexed his droid hand and glared at the offensive appendage. “Why the difference?”
“A hand is more complex than a foot,” Pare said.
“But it will integrate?”
“It should, yes.”
“How long?”
“I have no idea. Weeks. Months.”
CX-2 growled.
Pare rolled his eyes. “If you want it to go faster, pick up the barbell and get back to work. The more you work the hand, the more data the neurons have.”
“Data?” CX-2 grudgingly picked up the barbell and heaved it up once more. His fingers began to tremble immediately.
Pare shrugged. “Best analogy I can think of right now. Don’t think about your grip. Focus on breathing.”
“Yeah, breathe, kiddie clone.”
CX-2 wanted to hurl the barbell at the troopers. He gritted his teeth and tried to focus on Dr. Pare’s forehead.
A piercing, burning pain shot through his droid hand.
Hissing in pain and shock, CX-2 dropped the barbell and leapt backwards.
“Get it off! Get it off!” he yelled, pulling and scratching at the prosthetic arm. All he could think of was getting the burning metal off his skin, to stop the pain, stop the awful stench—
In a second, Dr. Pare was there beside him, pressing down on his arms to keep him from flailing.
“Stop! CX-2, stop!”
“It’s malfunctioning! Too hot! Get it off!”
CX-2 felt the sting of a needle in his neck and a second later, the panic ebbed away, replaced by quiet serenity. His muscles relaxed, dropping his limbs to the mat. His heart slowed, and his breathing followed.
“CX-2, are you still with me?”
The clone nodded slowly.
Panting, Dr. Pare shifted his weight off the clone’s limbs. “This is why psychological rehab is important, CX-2. There is nothing wrong with the hand. It’s not malfunctioning; your brain is. You’re having phantom pains from a hand that isn’t there anymore.”
CX-2 laid his head back on the mat. He could hear one of the troopers mutter something about broken old clones, but the drug made their words seem as inconsequential as dust.
Dr. Pare laid down on the mat beside CX-2 and stared up at the ceiling with him, which felt odd…and oddly comforting. Together, they stared up at the distant gray ceiling and listened to the hum and indistinct chatter echoing through the rehab deck. A waft of fresh air from the hidden ducts cooled the sweat on his brow.
A thought slowly filtered through the drug-induced calm of CX-2’s mind.
“I did not have these problems with my prosthetics before.”
Pare grunted. “Or you might not remember the rehabilitation Hemlock gave you.”
The thought of Hemlock working patiently with any clone day after day to strengthen weakened and ill-coordinated muscles and prosthetics seemed a bit far-fetched, but CX-2 didn’t say so.
“The Empire needs me functional.”
“I know. But there’s no way to get around this. I can’t sign off on you until I’m reasonably certain you aren’t going to fall apart on the battlefield.”
CX-2 traced the lines of the metal seams in the ceiling and let the thrum of the deck beneath him pull him into a sort of trance. But before long, the quiet in his brain was replaced by the usual buzz of activity.
“The sedative seems to be wearing off,” CX-2 said.
“Good,” Pare said. “It was an extremely short acting one, just meant to snap you out of whatever was bothering you.”
“So I can continue?”
Pare sighed. “I recommend a break. This episode indicates that you’ve pushed yourself too hard already today. We can pick up again tomorrow.”
CX-2 sat up, then rocked onto his feet. He straightened and turned to the doctor.
“If it is a phantom pain, as you say, then I can ignore it.”
“It’s not that simple,” Pare protested.
Ignoring the doctor, the clone stepped over to the barbell and lifted it once more.
Shaking his head, Dr. Pare joined him.
But a few minutes later, after nearly dropping the barbell on his foot again, CX-2 had to admit that perhaps a break was in order.
“I’ll tell you what.” Pare handed the clone a satchel. “Since you hate inactivity, you can work on this while you eat. Come see me tomorrow and we can continue.”
* * *
The mess was just as stark as the rest of the ship, all cold metal and harsh lighting. The only decoration was a larger-than-life holovid in the corner of a stern Imperial officer extolling the virtues of obedience and reminding the troops that their sacrifice protected billions of citizens from the ravages of the unhinged, radical Rebels.
CX-2 sat in the mess at a table all alone, his food untouched and growing cold. His droid fingers trembled uncontrollably as he attempted to finish writing the sentence. Before him lay several wads of crumpled flimsiplast.
His fingers twitched of their own accord from the effort, flinging the stylus over the edge of the table to clatter on the floor.
With a growl, CX-2 stood and retrieved the stylus. When he turned around, the three troopers from earlier were huddled around his feeble attempts.
“He’s not even literate,” one of them said, pointing at the flimsiplast. “Look at this. My three year old nephew writes better than that.”
“It’s almost cute,” the female trooper snickered. She looked up at CX-2 and puckered her face into a pout.
“Are you trying to learn how to write, little clone?”
The stylus snapped in CX-2’s fingers.
“Oh, don’t get so upset,” she continued. “You’re still a kid, right? I’m sure you’ll get it eventually.”
“What’s going on here?”
All three troopers stiffened and turned to face a captain as he approached. He had a jagged scar that stretched from the corner of his mouth up to the corner of his eye. Blue eyes, CX-2 noted. Not a common color in the clone’s experience.
“Ferrus. Speak.”
In a clipped voice, the female trooper said, “Just helping out a fellow trooper, sir.”
The captain looked unconvinced. “How exactly is snickering and laughing helping him out, Private? Hm?”
Ferrus stared straight ahead, not daring to speak.
“That’s what I thought,” the captain growled. “You two–” he gestured at the male troopers. “Get out of my sight. If I see you ‘helping’ out the rehab patients again, you’ll be cleaning out the refreshers with your toothbrush for a month. Ferrus, sit down and shut up.”
The two troopers scampered away, leaving CX-2 alone with the captain and a fuming Ferrus.
“Mind if we join you?” The captain gestured to CX-2’s abandoned tray.
CX-2’s eyes lingered on Ferrus. He couldn’t say no to a captain, though, so he said, “No, sir,” and sat. He pulled another stylus from his bag.
The captain sat between the clone and the female. “What are you working on, soldier?”
With a glance at Ferrus, CX-2 handed over the sheet. “Dr. Pare instructed me to write this sentence twenty times. It is to improve the dexterity in my replacement hand. I…am having difficulty adapting to it.”
“Ah. Good old Pare. A good man. Really knows his stuff. You listen to him, you’ll be back to your old self before you know it.”
My old self. CX-2 stared down at his traitorous fingers. His thoughts drifted back to his earliest memories, of stepping out of the cryotube at Tantiss Base. He had no idea who he’d been before that. It shouldn’t bother him, he knew; he was a loyal soldier of the Empire. But…well, it did bother him a little. And it bothered him that his mind was more of a mess than the mottled brown slop on his tray.
With a sigh, he shoved the sheets away and pulled his food towards him.
Just then, another trooper sat down opposite CX-2 and the captain. His dark tousled hair was just a hair longer than regulation and a stubborn shadow darkened his jawline. He grinned at the captain and nodded courteously at the clone.
“I’m Captain Kirgard,” the captain said, offering a hand out to the clone. “This is Dahl.”
“CX-2.” He shook the captain’s hand.
Dahl’s eyes lit up. “Oh, so you’re the new transfer. Saw your name on the roster last week and that you hadn’t been cleared by Medical yet. I know you won’t join us for a bit yet, but officially you’re in Vulture Squad, along with me, Kirgard, and Ferrus.”
CX-2’s face darkened at the mention of the woman.
Kirgard saw the clone’s expression. “She’s a bit rough, I’ll grant you, but if you need something blown up, she’s your woman.”
A voice echoed unbidden in CX-2’s mind.
“…but when you need to hit a precise target from ten klicks, Crosshair’s your man.”
CX-2 took a bite of his slop to hide his dismay at the ghostly voice. It’s not real, he reminded himself. Just ignore it.
“What do we call you?” Dahl asked, breaking through CX-2’s thoughts.
“CX-2.”
Kirgard said, “He means a nickname. Clones use nicknames, don’t they? Since you all just have birth numbers?”
“CX-2 will suffice.”
Dahl snorted. “That makes you sound like a droid.”
Speaking up for the first time, Ferrus drawled, “I know what we can call him. Cripple.”
Kirgard glared at her, but Ferrus only smirked and shrugged.
“Or how about Misfire?” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it! Reboot! Get it?”
“That’s enough, Ferrus.” Kirgard shot a glare at Ferrus.
“We’ll come up with something,” Dahl reassured the clone, though CX-2 wasn’t sure why this was so important to the trooper.
“What are Vulture Squad’s primary mission objectives?” CX-2 asked.
Kirgard took a swig from his cup. “Rooting out insurgents, mainly.”
Dahl shook his head. “Sometimes I can’t believe how many idiots are out there trying to fight against the Empire. It’s the way of the future. Why fight it?”
“Some people are just braindead womp rats,” Ferrus said, not looking up from her food. “Give them security, and they shoot you in the face. Protect them, and they’ll sacrifice their firstborn trying to curse you.”
Kirgard looked at CX-2. “Only way to keep people safe is to get rid of dangerous extremist rebels like that. That’s what we do. And we’re very good at it. From what I saw of your record, you’ll fit right in.”
CX-2 nodded. “I agree. I look forward to working with an elite squad again.”
Kirgard chewed a roll thoughtfully. “Any idea how much longer Pare wants to keep you prisoner?”
CX-2 said, “Pare has agreed to assess my recovery in four days. I am determined to pass.”
CX-2 caught Kirgard’s glance down at the flimsiplast and the look he exchanged with Dahl.
But Kirgard just smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t mind getting you sooner than expected. We’ve been down a man for too long already.”
Ferrus snorted.
An alert beeped on Kirgard’s wrist. Dahl and Ferrus groaned.
“Duty calls.” Kirgard stood, then placed a hand on CX-2’s shoulder. “With any luck, we’ll be back to cheer you on during your test.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As they left, Ferrus leaned in close so that Kirgard couldn’t hear her words.
“You’ll never join this squad, Reboot. I’ll make sure of it.”
As Ferrus strutted away after the other two stormtroopers, CX-2 had an inexplicable urge to toss his tray at her back, but thought better of it. Kirgard seemed reasonable enough, but CX-2 didn’t want to test that theory. And besides, if he wanted any chance of succeeding, he needed to eat to keep his strength up.
Flexing his hand, he picked up the stylus once more and got back to work.
