The essence of battle is not the fight itself,
but whether the goal is achieved.
(folk saying).
***
Silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the ventilation system, wrapped the ship like an invisible shroud. Thousands of clones, clad in identical armor and clutching an array of weapons, stood ready—waiting for the signal that would send them into another fight. They expected nothing else. Their entire purpose, the very essence of their existence, was to take up arms and destroy the enemies designated by the Republic.
They saw nothing strange in that. They had been bred and trained for one purpose only.
They had been created for war.
And they would fulfill their duty with honor.
Now, at last, their languid wait was over.
An alarm siren wailed anxiously and monotonously throughout the ship, shattering the heavy silence and announcing that the fires of war would soon ignite. The pounding of boots, the clang of metal, the hiss of opening doors, the roar of engines, and the barked orders of commanders filled the corridors and decks with life.
Sergeant KC-13Q-341 bellowed to his squad:
"Move it, you bastards!" he shouted, standing in the passageway as the clones rushed out into the corridor. "Assemble in hangar L-3, now! And if anyone forgets the extra thermocouples, I'll send them to the supply corps to scrub floors for hutted grandmother! Forty-First—yes, I mean you, you slacker!"
When the last of the troopers cleared the quarters, the sergeant followed, closing the formation.
"Forty-Seventh," called KS-13RT-7041, addressing the trooper ahead, "think our tin cans will be of any use?"—referring to the captured droids.
Some clones had been puzzled by the command's decision to use captured droids in battle. Some saw them as little more than decoys to draw enemy fire, while most were simply indifferent. Orders were not to be questioned.
Without turning, KS-13RT-7047 muttered into his helmet comlink:
"If the separatists waste their missiles on them, all the better. But still, there are many more enemies. The report said they've got not only B-1s but heavier units too."
"Well, in that case, I've got you, brother—along with your rocket launcher." Forty-First slapped him on the back, where a PLX-1 missile launcher and a heavy pack with five rockets hung.
"Hey, that's what I'm here for!" said the ever-upbeat KS-13RT-7045, hefting his Z-6 rotary blaster cannon.
"Cut the chatter! Forward, forward, forward!" the sergeant snapped.
Chains of clones wound through the corridors, gathering together like raindrops on glass. Squads formed into platoons, platoons into companies, and companies into battalions. The flow of troops poured into the hangar, where they assembled into perfect ranks.
Life bustled around the silent, disciplined rows. Technicians completed last-minute maintenance on combat vehicles; pilots climbed into the cockpits of gunships and fighters suspended on the rail ramps beneath the hangar ceiling. Bridges extended toward the gunships, allowing the clones to march aboard in ordered lines. Crews checked their weapons one final time, menacingly spinning the barrels of their blasters and laser cannons.
Clones on speeders froze near the landing hatches on both sides of the ship, ready to rush forward at the first order.
KR-13-Q17 ran his hand along the side of his speeder. The engineers had done fine work—fitting it with a salvaged droidek shield generator. Now, at least, he didn't have to fear small-arms fire. Jumping onto the seat, he powered up the reactor and toggled the separate activation switch for the shield, which enveloped the entire speeder in a faint shimmer. Though the BARC carried only light cannons, Q-Seventeen also had his "pocket artillery"—two dozen fragmentation and EMI grenades attached to special straps.
Over the loudspeakers, the regiment commander's voice rang out:
"Third Battalion, load up! Move, move, move!"
The clones hurried up the ramps and took their places. Twenty-seven troopers fit into each gunship. Six B-1 droids were already in the compartment, standing stiffly at the stern. Three were assigned to carry rotary blaster turrets; the others bore heavy power cells. Each had an E-5 slung across its back.
After losing an entire regiment on Donovia, the surviving heavy weapons had been redistributed. Now, every squad carried either a Z-6, a DC-15x sniper rifle, or a missile launcher —sometimes both. The captured droids were relegated to hauling equipment, forming mixed crews.
The landing hatch hissed shut, sealing them off from the outside world.
"All ships, prepare for takeoff! I repeat, all ships prepare for takeoff!" The dispatcher's voice cut crisply through the noise.
"Attention—three minutes to drop! Hang tight, men—we're entering atmosphere!" came the pilot's voice over the intercom.
The clones fastened their safety restraints. The gunship shuddered slightly as it moved forward along the launch ramp, its engines flaring.
"Get ready! Drop!" the pilot yelled.
The gunship plunged downward, tumbling through the launch bay before stabilizing and roaring toward the planet's surface. It shook as the mass driver accelerators propelled it ahead. Under the cover of Republic fighters, the LAAT and a few dozen of her comrades descended toward the droid positions.
Accelerating, the gunship surged forward, then pulled up sharply at the last moment, hovering just centimeters above the icy terrain as its side doors slid open.
Clones jumped out one by one, spreading into skirmish lines to the left and right. The gunship, still firing all its weapons, shot skyward again, leaving another squad behind.
"Forward! To those rocks! The equipment will be here soon—secure the foothold!"
The droids, outpacing the clones, scurried ahead. One set up a three-legged stand, and Forty-Five quickly mounted a blaster cannon onto it. Another positioned a power battery and plugged a cable into the Z-6's socket.
"Cover the position!"
"Roger Roger!" replied the droids, taking up firing stances on either side of the gunner.
The clones took cover behind boulders and chunks of ice. Ahead, columns of enemy droids emerged from the snow.
They moved in their typical formation: ranks of B-1 battle droids marching in front, followed by lines of B-2 super battle droids. Between them skittered the bow-eyed DSD-1 dwarf spider droids. Looming above were the towering Octuptarra tri-droids, and farther back, their colossal fifteen-meter Octuptarra Magna-Tri variants. The awkward OG-9 homing spider droids trudged alongside—ungainly but heavily armed and mobile. In the distance, the silhouettes of IG-227 and NR-N99 Persuader-class tanks rolled into view.
"Everyone—open fire!"
KS-13RT-7041 braced his rifle between two stones and opened up on the advancing lines. The droids responded instantly—hundreds of red, blue, and green blaster bolts streaked through the freezing air.
I hope I've got enough ammo, Forty-First thought cheerfully. There are a lot of tin cans out there. But that just means every shot counts!
He had once considered swapping his long DC-15A for the lighter DC-15S carbine—but now praises himself for his laziness. The rifle's powerful bolts could cut through most droids even at long range. Carbines weren't useless, but they needed several hits to finish the job. Still, with a thousand rounds in his portable power supply, that wasn't much of a concern.
From somewhere to the right, heavy charges were flying toward the droids, sent by a single sniper. He chose heavy droids as his targets - at a distance of four hundred meters he could hit both B-2 and DSD-1 with confidence.
To the left, Forty-Five unleashed sweeping bursts from his six-barrel blaster. A standard battery could handle only two hundred shots—laughably small for a weapon that fired one hundred and sixty-six rounds per minute. A heavy battery offered tens of thousands of shots, enough to drain four gas cartridges entirely. Overheating was a problem, but on this frozen world, that was a small mercy.
Forty-First checked his HUD—everyone in his squad was still alive. Not bad. Swapping out his power cell, he resumed firing, joined by his brothers. Then a blast from a heavy droid forced them all to dive for cover.
"Take that, you bastard!"
The missile from KS-13RT-7047's launcher streaked through the air and struck the tri-droid square in the junction of its three legs. The massive machine toppled forward, crushing a dozen B-1s beneath it. The launcher beeped cheerfully as the reloading mechanism chambered another rocket.
Turning left, Forty-Seventh fired again—this time at an OG-9. The armor-piercing warhead burrowed into its round chassis, detonating the reactor. A burst of plasma and fire engulfed the machine as it collapsed into the snow, sending up a towering plume of steam.
"Great shot, Forty-Seventh!" KS-13RT-7041 gave him a thumbs-up.
Behind the clones, raising a cloud of snow dust, an AT-TE tank landed, firing at the advancing enemy from the get-go. Its main cannon boomed again and again, blasting into the densest clusters of droids, while its anti-infantry blasters fired continuously. More clones poured from the troop bays to reinforce the front.
Overhead, V-19 Torrent fighters streaked by, rying to help the ground troops with their guns. But their blaster cannons lacked the power to make a serious dent in the droid armies. Of course, a direct hit was guaranteed to vaporize any droid, turning it into a pile of scrap metal, but close bursts were of little help. Random anti-air fire from the Separatists made precision runs nearly impossible.
Forty-Seventh silently unstrapped his pack, retrieved two rockets, and began reloading the launcher.
Speeder bikes zipped past, their riders firing as they went. Bolts splashed across the shimmering film of their protective shields. One unlucky scout was hit by a heavy blaster bolt—his speeder erupted in flame and crashed into the ranks of droids like a meteor. The rest leapt over the enemy lines in swift, arcing motions and vanished behind them.
We've entered the battle. We're defending the Republic. And that's all that matters, thought Forty-Seventh, hoisting his launcher back onto his shoulder and scanning for a new target.