The Suns of Solamonn - Chapters 3 and 4

Chapter Three

The guts of the gunship had been stripped down to their bare essentials and were as dark as the obsidian exterior. A quartet of jaundiced glo-sticks swung from the roof web, providing the only illumination and this, combined with the heady odor of engine oil and seven men, was too smothering for Scarp. He sat on a tub of something that had to be explosive, and rested his head on the cool metal of the exposed fuselage, staring through one of the vertical slits the troopers used for view ports. Below him a parched orange flatbed of Kiffu sped past in a blur, the solid color broken once or twice by the darker ruins of long abandoned lightning harvesters.


Kiffu truly was a ghost planet.
As he tried to quell the anxiety gnawing away at him, Scarp kept one ear on his brother and Sgt. Calz.
Pel was standing, hanging onto the overhead webbing and facing the old warrior.
“How long until we reach Miner’s Rest?”
Calz flipped open his holo-projector and the circling buildings sprang up into the gloom, surrounded by numerical data and flashing triangles. A green dot pulsed in the center of the stack.
“ETA fourteen minutes, twenty seconds. That green marker will be our ticket out of here.”
“Great, some more down-time.” The sarcastic voice drifted from the front of the ship and one of the other clones laughed.
Calz chose to ignore it and removed his helmet, fixing Pel with a tired stare. “OK, Jedi. We all know why we’re here, and you’ve made a wise choice to come along with us. However, I’ll be honest, I’ve seen what Jedi can do, and I admire your… abilities, but I don’t think we totally trust each other, and with good reason.”
“I sense no hostility in you, Sergeant.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. You can quit with the mind reading. I don’t want you probing around in my head, and believe me, I’ve worked with enough of you to know when it’s happening.”
Calz hadn’t raised his voice at all, but his words couldn’t have made more impact if he had broadcast them through a Flaff’ert Horn.

“Understood, Sergeant.”
Pel studied the grizzled warhorse for a few seconds, at once amazed and saddened that a person who had not yet reached twenty years of age could look so old. He reflected on the Sergeant’s attitude toward him.
Everything truly had changed.

A little over a week ago, this trooper would have been calling him General, Commander or even Sir; now he was just ‘Jedi’. It was extraordinary how the word could be made to sound so contemptuous, but he understood how conflicted Calz and his men must have felt. Pel, Scarp and the younglings were the first force-users the troopers had met since Order 66, following their decision to ‘take matters into their own hands’. By now the lies had spread far and wide, propagating the belief that the Jedi Order had turned on the Republic, but thankfully there were clones that had begun to question their orders, ‘free thinkers that slipped through the Kaminoan nets’ as the Council had once described them; secretly encouraging their individual liberation.


“What about them?” Calz indicated with his thumb toward Soolad, Janst’orr and Lig huddled together on a stack of storage lockers in the middle of the deck, surrounded by dark armored troopers.
“The younglings?”
“We don’t need kids getting under our feet when we’re working.”
“I assure you, they won’t get in your way, Sergeant. These children could be more helpful than you seem to think.”
“We’ll see about that. I’ll admit they seem to be taking this pretty well.” He rubbed a raw scar on his chin and looked at the tiny padawans. “Do they even know what’s going on?”
“Not yet,” Pel smiled, “but they soon will.”



Virus, once known as CT-2206, gazed down at the trio of younglings and raised an eyebrow. The Bith looked like his eyes would burst at any second, and the little tentacle-head returned his stare with a frown. However, the one in the middle, the one with aqua stripes on her head tails, held his look and smiled in return.
“I’m a healer, too,” she suddenly said, taking him doubly by surprise.
The scout trooper, Peko, cocked his head and looked at Lig.
“You can talk then.”
“Of course.”
“So how‘d you know Virus is our medic?”
“The Force told me.”
Peko threw his hands up and strode around Virus to join the busy pilot in the cockpit.
The medic knelt down in front of Lig and removed his helmet.
“Don’t worry about Peko, he’s never got used to you lot…”
Janst’orr’s teeth flashed, but not in a grin. “What do you mean, ‘you lot’?”
“Force users, “ replied Virus unapologetically, “you freak him out.”
“We freak him out?” said Soolad quietly, turning to look at the other visors bearing down all around him. Lig placed her hand on the back of Soolad’s neck, and he relaxed instantaneously.


She smiled sweetly at the medic. “Where are we going, Virus?”
“Your bosses didn’t tell you yet?” Virus reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a long, cuboid container. He depressed a button on one end and a drawer slid out of it, revealing several tiny globes that seemed to quiver with the vibration of the ship’s thrusters.
“Thirsty?” he said to Lig, and he reached in, taking one of the gelatinous spheres and popping it into his mouth.
“Very,” she replied, and took one of the globes from his outstretched hand.
“What are you doing?” hissed Janst’orr, “it could be poison!”
“I don’t think so,” replied Lig, and she placed the ball onto her tongue. As she bit down it seemed to explode in her mouth, filling it with the sweetest water she had ever tasted and squirting out onto Virus’s chest plate.
“Don’t waste it!” he laughed, and then offered the container to Janst’orr and Soolad.
A quick check to see that Lig was still breathing was all it took for the other two to hastily grab a globe each and ram them into their mouths. They hadn’t had fresh water for days.
The look on their faces was enough to tell Virus that the treats were appreciated, and he hid the container back in his belt. “They’re Felucian grub polyps, pretty good eh?”
Soolad swallowed hard, then coughed. Janst’orr looked like she was chewing a swamp-wasp.


Virus nodded his head toward Pel as he continued. “When we met your boss here, he said you lot had been hiding that harvester for a week now.”
“That’s true,” said Lig, warming to the clone very quickly, “Masters Pel and Scarp brought us here for survival training, two days before the…” her voice petered out in a whisper.
“Before the order came through, I get it,” Virus sat fully on the floor of the deck now, his armored legs splayed either side of the younglings’ seats, “looks like the training paid off.”
He studied the little Togruta; her delicate features and tiny frame.
What was the Jedi Order thinking of, training children for the war?
He suddenly saw the irony in his line of thought and smiled ruefully to himself.


Lig looked at the troopers surrounding their little party, hanging on every word.
“Do you all have names?”
“Sure,” replied Virus, “we used to have numbers.”
“Before we became aruetiise, “ hissed the trooper next to Soolad.
Calz’s head snapped around and he looked vibro-daggers at the armored man. “If I hear that one more time from you I’ll be letting you off this crate, and we won’t land first.”
“Sorry, Sarge.”
Virus looked at his Sergeant, then back to the younglings. “You’ve already met Sergeant Calz,”
“Why is his armor different?” interrupted Soolad.
Virus looked back to Calz. The old man was deep in conversation with Pel. The reverence for him was palpable in Virus’s tone. “He’s one of the originals. He’s done it all. Refused promotions so that he could stay with his squad, and paid the price by being dumped on every backwater poodoo mound in the outer rim. I’d follow him to the end of the galaxy.”
“Looks like you’re gonna.”
The children turned with Virus to the source of the comment; it was the trooper who had just been reprimanded.
Virus winked at him. “All the way, Rece.” He turned back to Soolad who seemed to be most enamored with the statuesque troopers. “This is Rece, formally of the 38th, joined us with Peko, our scout.”
Soolad looked to the front of the ship and could see the top of the scout’s helmet above the brace.
Virus continued. “Rece can drive anything, as long as it weighs over sixty tons.”
“That’s just my speeder, ner’vod,” added Rece, a touch of lightness finally in his voice.
“On the other side of the cabin is Digger, he’s from my battalion, the 442nd.”
“Yeah, despite Virus’s best efforts, I’m still standing,” Digger chuckled from behind his visor.
Virus craned his head back to the cockpit. “You haven’t met our pilot yet. Another original, he served with the Sarge. Hey, Carud, give the kids a wave!”
A black-gloved hand appeared, silhouetted against the violet stained sky, and did a mid-air salute.


Lig had left her crate and moved closer to the bandaged man. His head was drooped and fresh bacta dripped down to soak into the bandages covering his face.
“Who is this?” she said, sidling closer still.
“That’s Rev, short for Marev, it means ‘fist’”
Lig looked more closely at Rev, and then placed her hand on his leg. He didn’t move. Virus watched her, curious.
“He’s first in and last out, which is why he usually ends up this way. He fought with General Windu.”
“Why is his armor different?” Soolad had edged forward to get a better look, but he still wasn’t brave enough to fully leave his seat.
“You like that?” Virus grinned, he’s scrapped so many SBDs now, that he’s taken to wearing their head plates, confuses the hell out of mechs, and scares the muck outta wets.”
Suddenly Lig’s tiny voice cut in.
“His head is broken.”
“What?” Virus shuffled over to where Lig stood, one hand on Rev’s bandaged forehead, the other on his arm.
“His head is broken. Master Pel?”
Pel looked over Calz’s shoulder and caught her look.
“Yes, youngling?”
“Can I mend him?”
Pel looked at Calz. The sergeant shrugged. “As long as she doesn’t kill him.”
Pel nodded at Lig, then noticed that Scarp was intensely watching her. Lig was Scarp’s pride and joy; it was inevitable that she would become his padawan. However, then there was the matter of training Soolad and Janst’orr.


Lig closed her eyes as Virus studied Rev’s vitals, displayed as a series of projected colored lines on his thigh plate. Other than the throb of the engines, all was still. Virus suddenly realized he was holding his breath and exhaled slowly, quietly, turning off his external mike so as not to distract the little force-user. Then, as soon as she had begun, Lig pulled back and smiled. “Everything’s back where it should be.”
Virus studied the lines, which were indeed reading normal rates for a fit young man. He leant forward as Rev slowly opened his exposed eye.
“How do you feel, Rev?”
The wounded clone coughed, and then spat a clear globule onto the deck. “Headache’s gone.”
Virus shook his head slowly and looked at Lig.
“He had a fractured skull.”
“Now it’s better.”
Sergeant Calz nodded curtly at Virus, then turned back to Pel. “She may be of use.”
“I’m happy to hear that, Sergeant.” Pel looked over to Scarp, who was beaming from ear to ear; the first time in many days.


As Lig sat back down, Janst’orr’s eyes followed her, and Lig could detect a trace of fear in her. Before she could act on this, a high voice sounded out.
“I’ve seen clones before,” it was Soolad, feeling braver now that the grub polyp had re-hydrated him a little, “and they’re white. And shiny.”
“Not all of them,” replied Virus, “you never seen RC’s?”
“He means commandos,” interjected Janst’orr, determined not to be left out of the conversation.
“Republic Commandos, missy,” corrected the medic, “and what about ARCs? Pretty as a shrill-hen, some of them.”
“Why are you called Ashes?” asked Lig.
“It’s a long story,” started Virus.
“And one that can wait,” interrupted Sergeant Calz, suddenly slinging his DC-15 onto his shoulder, “ETA three minutes.”
Virus jumped to his feet. “You kids better go sit with your bosses. Time for the Ashes to go to work.”

Chapter Four

RMP-0019 sat next to his pilot and tapped three gloved fingers on the central control hub that separated his seat from MPP-3232’s. He was fully aware that his squad had already established that his finger tapping denoted one of two things, anxiety or anger, and given their circumstances a wise clone would bet on the former. His modified LAAT lurched once more, plummeting then leveling as Kiffu’s lightning raged all around, and RMP-0019, known simply as Cap to his men when not on duty, surreptitiously tightened the straps securing him to his seat. It wouldn’t be seemly for a police captain to be tossed around inside this can like a dried heta bean.


Behind Cap, nine of his ten man squad sat bouncing with every shuddering lurch of the gunship, each man silently praying that their pilot would deliver them from the turbulence sooner rather than later, their visible thoughts distorted by the angled plexi-plast of their helmets. They sat in rows of four and five facing each other across the deck, sandwiched between the cockpit and the holding cells. Above them, slotted into the roof, were their DC-15s, net guns and foamers. The Republic Military Police were ready to take down anyone or anything, efficiently and without prejudice, and deliver them back to Coruscant. As ‘32 finally dropped the ship below the cloudbank, Cap heard a static pop in his earpiece and a familiar voice, his own voice, cut through the interference.
“Captain. 3278 reporting.”
“Go ahead, ’78.”
“Sir, contact confirmed, repeat, contact confirmed.”
Cap smiled and ceased his finger tapping. “Excellent work, ’78. Transmit coordinates.”
As a row of figures ticker-taped across the bottom of his visor, Cap relayed them to every man in his squad. “How old is this intel, ’78?”
“It’s fresh, Captain. The target is holding position right now – point oh five east of Miner’s Rest.”
“And you can confirm it’s Calz and the other renegades?”
“We’re the only other clones on this whole dreffin’ planet, Captain.”
“Good. Maintain position,” Cap glanced at 3232 who was holding up four fingers.
“ETA four minutes.”
“Four minutes, confirmed, Captain.”
Cap patched his mike into the squad network and spoke quietly.
“Gear up. We have confirmed contact and they are all in one place. ’42 and ’67, I want you manning the grapplers, we may have to execute an airborne arrest.”
“Yes, sir!” All nine, identical voices rang in his earpiece, and Cap thumbed the safety on his DC-15. On, off. On, off. If Calz wouldn’t come quietly, and he suspected he wouldn’t, then he would be removed from the wanted list, permanently.

Janst’orr watched from the back of her perch as the rear doors opened and Pel and Peko gunned the swoop out, dropping several meters before the repulsors kicked in and sent them screaming towards town. The doors closed immediately, and she turned to watch the activity ensuing on the flight deck. Scarp, Digger, Rece and Soolad were standing around Sergeant Calz, who had removed his wrist projector and settled it on a storage barrel having magnified the holographic image of Miner’s Rest, and the group watched as a new, golden circle rapidly approached the red outlines of the building.
“OK, they’re almost at the gates.” Calz had removed his helmet, and Janst’orr could see fresh lines etched into the skin around his eyes. This man had known a lifetime of stress in as many years as she had been alive. She looked past the huddled group to the front of the ship where Lig sat next to Rev, her eyes closed, her tiny hands on his face. Rev seemed to be sleeping. Virus watched them both as he monitored Rev’s vital signs.



Janst’orr could feel waves of jealousy washing over her, and she clenched her teeth, attempting speed meditation to calm the ripples. She knew her feelings of resentment towards Lig were wrong, and yet she didn’t understand why she had them in the first place. Master Scarp had repeatedly told her how everyone had their own strengths; Soolad’s force-push was unparalleled and Lig’s healing powers would make her the stuff of legend, but Janst’orr knew only one thing, how to wield a saber, and she prayed to the Mon Cal Gods that it wouldn’t be a red blade.

Calz dipped his finger into the projection and highlighted a cavernous space in the center. The buildings around it receded to nothing and enhanced details appeared on the three dimensional schematic.
“The docking bay has two exits,” he pointed at a bright square in one corner, “Peko and the Jedi will enter here, infiltrate the cruiser and open the loading hatch.”
“What if she puts up a fight?”
Calz looked at Digger and grinned, sheepishly. “If she thinks Peko is me, then she’ll welcome him with open arms.”
Virus interrupted from the front of the ship. “Should’ve put some gray in Peko’s hair if you wanted to pull that off.”
Digger and Rece chuckled as Calz pointed at Lig. “Careful, we’ve got her now. You’re expendable.”
Virus laughed and turned back to his data pad.
Scarp tugged his hair out of the overhead webbing and bent lower to stare at the schematic.
“Who’s she?”
Calz looked at him and cocked an eyebrow.
“The owner of the cruiser we’re stealing.”

Cap loosened his restraining straps and strode to the rear starboard section of the gunship where he patched his wrist-projector into a sprawling comm bank. The panels displayed a multitude of colored lights and waveforms, revealing the equipment’s extraordinary Intel capabilities. Normally, RMP-2388 would be manning this station, but he was sitting alert with his brothers, checking his kit, his face identically impassive as the rest of the team as they waited for Cap’s next command. ’42 and ’67 were standing with their backs to each other at huge, floor mounted tripods. Their hands gripped slender stocks and their thumbs hovered over the firing switches. The bodies of the grapplers were deceptively compact, but the menacing, multi-barbed hooks that emerged from the front of each device left nothing to the imagination.


Cap keyed in his pass code and the face of another Jango Fett clone shimmered into view. Cap saluted as the face spoke.
“RMP-0019, report.”
“Positive identification, Commander. We will be intercepting target in ninety seconds.”
A sudden flickering on the face was caused by electro-static interference from Kiffu, not through any emotional response from the clone commander.
“Message received, Captain. I will contact Lord Vader immediately. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cap switched off the holo-link and turned to his men. Their blue armor gleamed, highlighted by violet slashes flitting through the door slits; their black shoulder pads denoted their status in the newly formed Republic Military Police and their new helmets, with the vertically extended visors, framed their hardened features. Cap couldn’t be more proud. He faced the front of the ship and gripped his rifle.
“’32, open the doors.”

The black gunship, commandeered and repainted by the Ashes over a week ago, hung motionless in the sky half a click outside the town walls, testament to Carud’s piloting skills as he countered the electro shock waves of Kiffu’s ceaseless storms. Calz stood at his shoulder and tapped him lightly on the helmet.
“The wind direction is perfect, ner’vod. How about conjuring up a little cover for our departure?”
“I hear you, Sarge,” nodded Carud, and he tapped a short command into his armament panel, loading a low yield seismic charge into one of the ship’s belly tubes.
“Smokescreen away.” He fired the tube, blasting the tiny device into the arid desert below them. The charge commenced to burrow for five meters through dry, orange clay and rock before exploding in a shower of pebbles and dust. The cloud of debris caught the breeze, and drifted towards Miner’s Rest.
“Perfect,” grinned Calz, “perfect, son. I haven’t seen this much dust since Geonosis…”
Suddenly his com-link burst into life and Peko’s urgent voice yelled in his ear.
“Sarge! Watch your sixes, we’ve encountered a Blue Boy, and where there’s one…”
“There’s a squad.” Calz finished. “Status?”
“He’s out cold, Sarge, but unconfirmed if he called in the troops.”
“Get that cruiser’s hatch open, Peko, we’re coming in.”
“Roger that, Sarge.”
Scarp made his way over to Calz.
“Blue Boys?”
“Police,” replied Calz, silently gesturing to the rest of his men, who immediately assumed defensive positions on either side of the ship, “The RMP has been on our tails for a week now. I think they’re looking to prove their worth.”
He strode to the middle of the gunship and ushered the younglings into a depression between two crates.
“Stay here, things could get messy.”
“But we…” Soolad began.
“Do as he says!” Scarp bellowed, and he swung his broadsaber from his back; no easy feat in the cramped quarters.


Carud swore from the front of the ship and craned his head back. “Sarge, this dust cloud has fouled up my sensors, it’s as good as an EMP!”
“Use your eyes then, Carud.”
“Viz is down to ten meters, Sarge. We could be… wait! There’s something to port!”
Calz rushed to the side of the ship and peered through one of the slats, then leapt back, pulling Digger and Rece with him. “Down!” he yelled, just as the ship rocked sideways as a grappling hook burst through the door like it was flimsi-film. The soldiers leapt to their feet, their yells muffled by the sound of the squealing crunch of tearing metal, and the entire door flew off and into the cloud. Orange dust filled the cabin and those without helmets had to cover their mouths.
Calz stood defiantly in the now exposed flank and shouted into the air.
“We won’t fight you, ner’vod!”
A dark shadow slowly solidified as the Police LAAT hovered into view, and Scarp could see six, blue-clad troopers with their guns raised, and one at a grappler which was at that moment disengaging the cable that held the gunship door.
Scarp watched as one of the policemen stepped to the edge of their own craft, and he could see though the large visor that he was identical to every other clone he had known. The man yelled back.
“That makes things easier, Calz! You’re under arrest.”
“What’s your name, soldier?”
I’m not a soldier any more,” replied Cap, and my name is RMP-0019. Now, power down.”
“You know I can’t do that, ner’vod.”
“I am not your brother, Calz. You and the other traitors have no family.”
Scarp saw Rece bristle at this remark, as had Calz who placed a hand on Rece’s chest.
“Leave it, son,” he said quietly, “they are the traitors.”
Cap yelled once more across the swirling divide. “Final warning, power down!”
Calz looked at Scarp. “I can’t kill my brothers.”
Scarp returned his gaze with compassion. “There are alternatives, Sergeant. Soolad!”
The little Bith poked his bulbous head out from between the crates. “Master?”
Scarp gestured for him to join him. “I may need your help.”

Cap watched as his quarry appeared to huddle in a conference. He squinted as he tried to make out the two other figures standing by the clones. One was a giant humanoid, and the other one appeared to be a child. He spoke loud enough so that his men could hear him.
“Prepare yourselves. Sergeant Calz will not come quietly.”
Suddenly he heard one of his men mutter, “What is that?”
Cap turned, just in time to see a spinning blur of red and blue light disappear under his ship’s belly. There was a blinding flash and the LAAT lurched sideways. Cap found himself on top of a pile of his own men, staring at the open sky through the doorway.
“Pec stabilizers are gone, Captain! We’re going down!”
It was his pilot’s voice, and now the sky was starting to rotate above him. The sight was almost mesmerizing, but his current predicament took precedence.
“Level out!”
“I can’t, Captain! Five seconds to impact!”
Cap braced himself, and the final seconds seemed to stretch out forever. After a while he realized that they really had stretched out, and ten seconds later he opened his eyes and saw his men slowly untangling themselves and standing up, all of them walking towards the open door which displayed the electrified landscape of Kiffu. They had landed. But how?
“Captain, I can’t explain this, but…”
“Quiet, ’32! Find a working comm and contact the Commander. They need to know a Jedi is down here!”

Calz looked in astonishment at the huge Jedi Knight and the tiny Bith as they slumped together, sweating, in the middle of the cabin. He had watched the man’s saber fly out and take off the police ship’s stabilizers, and saw them spin down to certain doom, and then watched as Scarp and the youngling had reached out with their hands, grasping at invisible threads, and lowered the ailing ship gently to the ground. He had seen it all, yet he still didn’t believe it.


The air whipped through the exposed cabin, clearing out some of the dust as Carud flew the ship over the town walls and directly to the open-topped docking bay. Digger looked over the edge, and grinned when he saw Pel standing on the roof of a cruiser, its dorsal load bay open wide and ready to receive its package of AWOL clones.
As Carud skillfully piloted the craft downwards through the hatch, Pel leaped on and glanced at his brother and Soolad.
“So, what have you been up to?” he winked, “We thought you weren’t coming.”
As the ship’s debris-clogged thrusters finally powered down, Calz turned to his men.
“We’re not out of this yet, boys. Grab your lids and ‘15’s. Carud, get our new crate into the air.”
Calz’s men shouted their affirmation in unison, and went about their heavily practiced routines.
Calz turned to Scarp and Pel. “They know we’ve got Jedi with us. That’s going to bring down more heat than you could ever expect.”
Scarp pushed a few sodden strands of hair from his eyes and fixed the Sergeant with a smile.
“You have five Jedi with you, Sarge. That’s more heat than they’ll ever expect.”


Lig and Janst’orr emerged from their hiding place and joined the others as they disembarked one ship for another. Janst’orr watched as clones and force-users helped each other down from the deck. “Now where are we going?”
When no answer was forthcoming, she hoisted up her robes, and ran to join her tiny clan as they followed the clones into the depths of the ship.