"What a dump," Sinilian remarked, kicking the droid wreckage that abundantly covered the entire surrounding space as far as the eye could see. B1 battle droids, B2 super battle droids, LM-432 crab droids, pieces of Droidekas, smoking hulls of AATs, NR-N99 Persuader-class droid tanks, the awkward hulks of Octuptarra tri-droids... It seemed that over the past fourteen hours, the corps of the Ghent (army) system army participating in the "sweep" of the last CIS stronghold on Hypori—the 187th Reconnaissance Corps, the 190th Assault Corps, and the 212th Reconnaissance Corps—had encountered the entire range of Confederacy combat equipment.
They walked across the battlefield in hopes of scavenging something useful—information on technology, intelligence data that could be extracted from the remains of the droids. None of the Jedi were here. Two clone officers stood knee-deep in droid wreckage, trying to fish out at least something. One must learn from their mistakes. Evolve with every battle. Hellagen imagined for a moment what a battlefield of this scale would look like if they had fought only living beings today. And in that same instant, he felt sick. And terrified. A war of sentients against sentients meant mountains of decomposing corpses, entrails smeared across the landscape, and puddles of blood.
However, it was enough for him that he now had to pull his own people out from under the droid wreckage, removing their number plates and marking "killed in action" in the datapad. Rex hoped that perhaps someone from the 804th Legion would turn out to be alive, but hope was fading fast. The longer he turned over corpses, checking vital signs, the less he hoped for a miracle. Half a day of fighting—and the legion had been wiped away like a bantha's tongue.
The territory of the Separatist base, like the space around it, had turned into a graveyard of combat equipment, which clone medics were now scouring—the only ones who remained optimistic about the thought that after such a slaughter, wounded could be found among the smoldering machinery. Traumatized, maimed, shell-shocked—but alive.
They were accompanied by engineers—these were mostly interested in the machinery. The army command's directives sounded harsh but clear: not a single combat vehicle should remain on the battlefields. It didn't matter if it was suitable for further operation or not—no one cared. What could be repaired would be returned to service. What was already dead would be used for parts. Parts that had no possibility of restoration went to the smelter. Moreover, this applied not only to the equipment of the Republican war machine. CIS droids were also subject to expropriation—everything they could restore and reprogram was sent as training models for teaching volunteers, militia, or "shinies." True, no one really knew where the Separatists' blaster and other weapons disappeared to. But Hellagen could bet that the logistics officers weren't just filing reports stating that all small arms and heavy weapons of the droids were "beyond restoration and disposed of." Obviously, the command had its own plans for these extremely inconvenient but no less deadly weapon samples. And at the very top, at that. It wasn't for nothing that the Christophsians, who had earned the nickname of the Grand Moff's "personal servants" in the army, were the ones handling the disposal of the small arms.
"You should get a haircut," Hellagen's thoughts were interrupted by a phrase from Lodbrok, who suddenly appeared in his field of vision. The Marshal of the 178th Reconnaissance Corps, as befits the "silent ones," had crept up on both of his colleagues completely noiselessly. And this despite the fact that he moved by the same path—through the wreckage of hulls, mountains of broken transparisteel, and puddles of technical fluids.
The commander of the 190th Assault Corps looked with a smile at his colleague, who had been perfectly "shaved" by the enemy. During one of the local battles for the Separatist stronghold, Lodbrok had been scorched by a makeshift flamethrower from one of the Skakoan technicians. The very ones whom the HoloNet called "non-combatants posing no threat." Yeah, they should show those journalists what these "victims of the Techno Union leadership's ill-conceived policy" did to one of the platoons. After a bath in a vat of molten metal, where the clones were thrown by the Skakoans after blowing up the service bridge the clones were moving across over the reservoirs of glowing raw material, even identifying the corpses became a huge problem.
Sinilian, who held his helmet under his arm like Hellagen, wore an unregulation hairstyle. Measuring Lodbrok's burned face with a glance, he smirked.
"The fried 'silent one' has arrived."
"Very funny," the scout commander replied in a serious tone, but a smile appeared on his disfigured lips. It was as white as the medium-sized flat scar on the right side of his head. Hellagen reflexively scratched his own. Yes, such "decorations" had appeared on all the clones who ended up serving in the three system armies under the operational leadership of the Grand Moff. The Christophsian scientists, after whose medical center the clones acquired such scars, did not particularly elaborate on the reasons for such medical intervention, citing a secret command order. What that order was and what the grounds for its application were, few knew. Mostly, the veteran fighters of the 204th Legion. But they preferred not to spread it among the other brothers. Yes, Hellagen's former commander knew how to keep his secrets. Or maybe (and this was the opinion of the majority) the time simply hadn't come yet to tell millions of clones that they were created as slaves. At one time, the "silent ones" even organized a competition to find the text of the order. And they became a general laughingstock when, after several months of searching, they still couldn't find anything.
The nickname "silent ones," which stuck to the GAR scouts, appeared at the height of the first year of the war. The commander of the enemy mercenaries, whose subordinates the scouts had quietly slit the throats of at night with vibroknives, ranted about it in the HoloNet for quite a while, complaining that after the death of his squad, he found himself thrown onto the scrapheap of fate because the CIS terminated his contract and gave him a kick in the ass without paying the promised fee. The nickname stuck among the clones, who began to call almost all scouts "silent ones" without distinction. At first, this insulting nickname genuinely annoyed the latter, then someone smart explained to them that in fact, such a nickname only demonstrated their professionalism and emphasized the uniqueness of their specialization. Unlike other clones of Jango Fett. And even more so—it strikingly distinguished the "old" clones produced on Kamino from the new ones the Republic had resorted to now.
These "new guys," according to those who had the "pleasure" of observing their work, were real madmen. Silent, sullen, lacking individuality. Natural "meat droids," unquestioningly executing orders. Several commando squads arriving straight from Coruscant, over a mug of something stronger than water in their standard flasks, said that the "new guys" were real killing machines, dressed in Phase II armor, which was developed based on criticism of Phase I during the first year of the war. This new armor was supposed to be issued as standard equipment for the Kaminoan clones as well. But for some reason, "there's too little of it in the warehouses." Only enough to dress the "new" ones. And the "old-timers," who settled in the Outer Rim under the command of Grand Moff Dougan and High General-Jedi Luminara Unduli and Adi Gallia, had to make do with the old armor. Which didn't even properly protect against small arms.
It was a good thing that through the Grand Moff's efforts, Infiltrator armor began to arrive for the Kaminoan clones. Not the easiest to handle—according to the commandos, in terms of its gadgetry and electronics, it was in no way inferior to Katarn-class commando armor, and sometimes even surpassed it. But it was strong, reliable, and comfortable. Completely airtight, with an excellent thermal regulation system and many additional equipment elements, the Infiltrator was received with a "hurrah" in the units. The armor was easily repainted: again—applying camouflage in accordance with the features of the terrain where combat operations were expected to be conducted became another mandatory directive of the Ghent (army). At first, most of the clones didn't understand the reason for such a strange order, but as practice showed, such masking significantly reduced losses. It was surprising that the "new guys" still flaunted in snow-white armor. In the three system armies under the operational command of Grand Moff Dougan, camouflage was not used only by idiots, "shinies," or shock clones from the former Coruscant Guard. The latter kept themselves apart from the line units, performing the duties of military police on captured planets. Not to say that the clones in the three armies were particularly rowdy in the cantinas, but there would always be a couple of thugs per corps who decided to settle scores with their fists.
Hellagen looked at the broken display of the computer built into his gauntlet. A commando droid had damaged it, slashing with a vibrosword. The blow had landed at a tangent, which saved him from needing a prosthetic. But the device would definitely have to be replaced—the blade had reached even the memory chip, which was no longer restorable. A pity—it stored the contacts of a certain beautiful lady from Christophsis with whom Hellagen spent time during shore leave. Eh, a shame he didn't know where she lived—considering the upcoming deployment to the rear for replenishment and rest, free time was expected. Now he would have to spend many hours searching for his acquaintance.
"Admiring the views?" Lodbrok inquired. "Or looking for a razor to tidy up your appearance?"
"Why are you picking on me?" Sinilian asked tiredly.
"You look like a slob," the "silent one" explained.
Hellagen ran his hand over the lower part of his face, then moved to his head. Indeed. Since the last time he shaved, short stubble had grown on his head. And on his chin, there was a prickly thicket. In armor, it wasn't as noticeable. And who cares anyway, when your life could end at any minute?
"True enough," Sinilian said, tugging at the hairs sticking out of his once-even sideburns and spreading his hands. "When we return to the base, then I'll deal with it. Otherwise, I'll soon be stepping on my own locks."
"And don't forget your soldiers," Lodbrok smirked. "I saw a couple in the infirmary—true Wookiees."
"Not like yours," Hellagen chuckled. "You guys always find time before bed to read the Regulations."
Lodbrok's zealous adherence to the GAR Regulations had become an internal joke on Hypori. In dust, dirt, through the horrors of deaths and the non-stop meat grinder, the fighters of the 178th Reconnaissance Corps always looked in strict accordance with the Republican command's requirements for the appearance of its soldiers. The regulation haircut, which everyone was frankly tired of, was considered almost the height of fashion among this corps of "silent ones." And the only correct way to handle facial hair.
"If we keep fighting like this, we won't have any people left," Lodbrok turned somber.
"Yeah," Hellagen smirked mirlessly. His corps, which bore the main brunt of finishing off the enemy, had lost a quarter of its fighters. Irretrievably. For the scouts, everything turned out with much smaller losses—after all, their task was not a head-on collision with the enemy, but a maneuverable, "quiet" war.
"It's not the first legion we've lost, and not the last," Sinilian voiced the statistics known to everyone. "No one knew Grievous had stockpiled so much of this junk here!"
He kicked a piece of a droid once more. A B1 head, caught under the clone's heavy boot, flew upward, landing with a crash several meters from its previous location.
"I hope he wasn't trying to say that this isn't my fault," Hellagen thought. "I know that myself."
"For me, this one is the first," he said quietly.
"Better not to think about it, brother," Lodbrok placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder. Raising his head, the former scout of the 204th Legion met the sympathetic gazes of both his colleagues. "They certainly know the price of their words," flashed through his mind. The almost complete destruction of the 212th Reconnaissance Corps in pursuit of a CIS listening station was often cited as an example in clone conversations of the Jedi's ability to epically and pointlessly waste the lives of their subordinates.
"I'll try," Hellagen said. "Only if we stop thinking, how will we differ from droids then?"
"Did this urge for philosophizing appear before or after General B'ink Utrila and Commander Rennax Omani were assigned to your corps?" Sinilian asked with a smile.
"Not funny," Hellagen snapped gloomily, roughly brushing Lodbrok's hand off his shoulder. Rising to his feet with a jerk, he put on his helmet and then marched away from his two brothers.
Unlike most Jedi, those he had to work with now were distinguished from the rest by a complete lack of snobbery. The arrogance that almost all Jedi possessed—clones transferred from other armies to the Ghent (army) spoke of this more than once—the aura of mystery—none of this was present in General B'ink Utrila and her young blue-haired Padawan.
Neither considered it beneath them to sit with the soldiers during a break, eat the same food, or answer questions that most sentients in the galaxy would consider insulting or tactless. Even Lodbrok and Sinilian sometimes spoke of their generals—Racha Sitra and Xiaan Amersu—as young, shy, and lacking a broad outlook.
Hellagen's Jedi were different. They explained the reasons for the war to the soldiers without hesitation, spoke of the infantility of Republic citizens who didn't particularly want to fight. Of the obscurantism reigning in the Senate. Of victories and defeats. Of corruption in the highest echelons of power and the lobbying of others' interests instead of direct work for the benefit of the population. This partly agreed with the stories of volunteers who spoke of how the appearance of the current Grand Moff Dougan, back when he was a simple general, had radically changed the lives of the locals on their planet for the better. And even if the concepts of "prosperity for all," "work for all," and the like were new things for the clones, which they hadn't yet figured out, deep in their souls the soldiers understood that under the leadership of their Grand Moff, they were fighting for a righteous cause. Even if the templates in their heads about how magnificent the Republic they were dying for was were breaking.
When Hellagen pointed out this injustice—fighting for a state afflicted by unfavorable factors—General B'ink Utrila, seeing the same silent question in the eyes of the other clones of the corps, smiling sadly, advised the clones to look at it from a different angle. They were fighting not for the benefit of corrupt and vile people, but for the happiness of the defenseless and those first sentients oppressed by them. For their own future life.
With this openness, they reminded Hellagen of his past commander—Dougan. To a slightly lesser extent—High General-Jedi Luminara Unduli, who for a time led the 204th. Among the fighters of Dougan's Fist, there was even a joke that anyone who leads this unit soon gets a promotion. Marshal Nyx wouldn't let them lie.
But returning to the Jedi, Hellagen mentally found their openness attractive. From soldiers arriving from other system armies, the fighters had to hear stories about despotic, negligent, short-sighted Jedi. Yes, there were also those with whom it was frankly pleasant to serve. For example, Master Even Piell, who not only demonstrated personal courage but also, unlike many others, managed his subordinates excellently, striving to reduce losses among them. Among the fighters of the 7th Air Corps, Obi-Wan Kenobi enjoyed almost unquestionable authority—thoughtful, deliberate, and cautious, masterfully using ambush and trap tactics. The fighters of the 501st Legion spoke quite favorably of Anakin Skywalker—their former direct commander. Although, in Hellagen's opinion (and he was not alone in these judgments), neither the first nor the second were particularly outstanding commanders. The first was a pedant and kept to himself. His plans were always "brilliant," even if they sometimes resulted in the loss of all personnel of a particular unit participating in a battle. Skywalker, on the other hand, was a typical Jedi, although he fancied himself "not like that." Bold, ambitious, always eager to be the first on the battlefield and destroy as many droids as possible. Yes, he sometimes had sensible thoughts—but for the most part, it was a reflection of Kenobi's tactics. In Skywalker's straightforward style.
Captain Boroda (Beard)—the commander of Torrent Company from the 501st—spoke particularly negatively about the latter. While Rex, the legion commander, was always restrained in his judgments, Boroda said what he thought. In particular, when he learned that Commander Ahsoka Tano was assigned to his legion, well... in short, he didn't have a high opinion of the Togruta's commanding talents.
That was before the start of the battle on Hypori. However, by his own admission, before the evacuation of Dougan's Fist (eh, one remembers with nostalgia the time when only the 204th Legion was called that, and not a task force of four corps), Boroda admitted that the Togruta had turned from a small, impulsive, and sharp-tongued Jedi brat into a promising commander. Hearing this, Hellagen only smiled. The 7th Air Corps was given the task of clearing a space mine production complex. Where droids were everywhere. The 501st attacked the production workshop, while the other three legions captured resource warehouses, administrative buildings, and the finished product storage itself. Despite the desperate resistance of the droids, the 501st suffered the fewest losses of all the legions in the 7th Corps. This despite the fact that there were more enemies against it than against all the others. Cody and Rex then still muttered something sheepishly about how they never expected so much spirit and tactical flair from Commander Ahsoka Tano.
Yes. Under the Grand Moff's command, slowly but surely, the clones' worldview was changing. For better or worse—it was hard to say. The mere fact that Dougan was a staunch opponent of aimless storms, mass head-on enemy attacks, and other favorite tactics of most Jedi made the clones listen to his words. Yes, even if he didn't appear on the front lines that often. But where he was—there was always victory. Christophsis, Ukio, Melida/Daan... They say it was Dougan who achieved a reduction in the level of dissatisfaction with the Republic on Ryloth. And the operational base on Pantora didn't appear for no reason.
Much could be set against a positive opinion of the Grand Moff.
But certainly not by the clones.
For them—specifically this Jedi—was ideal. Well, or almost.
The little things he did for them were enough to set him apart from the mass of others.
Improved equipment.