Dear Reader, This is part I of a multi-part tale. I started publishing this story on another site, but I decided to publish it here as well and take a different bent on it. So, if you're reading and think, "Hey I've seen that elsewhere! This is plagiarism!" , no, no, it's just me posting here, too. I'm a clone fan through and through, and that's what this story is about - the relationship between Anakin Skywalker and his clone troopers, Captain Rex, in particular. It seemed to me that TCW always focused on Anakin's attachment to Obiwan, Ahsoka, Padme, his mother . . . but what about his attachment to his troopers, which seems to me to be incredibly strong. No slash in this, but there will be some brutal stuff in later chapters.

The title is taken from a line in Watership Down, by Richard Adams, in which Pipkin refers to the rabbits in Cowslip's Warren as seeming "sad, like trees in November." Given that the clones are meant to fight and die, I thought it was an apropos title. I welcome feedback, and I hope you enjoy. Peace, CS

Chapter 1 Rustling in the Breeze

"I know that plans and reality may be two different things, but I think my demands on life are minimal."

Moshe Dayan

"Damn . . . for the love of . . . "

He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he picked himself up off the floor and frowned at yet another patch of bloody skin – this time on his left knee. If he kept on at this rate, it wouldn't be long before he had more broken skin than whole. Both elbows were already raw and streaked red; he had welts—dozens of them on his arms and legs; and a sizeable bruise was forming above his right eye.

Taking a beating might be something he had grown used to, but usually the one delivering the pounding was an easily identified enemy.

Not a brother.

"Point. Game. Set. I win again."

He raised an eye and regarded the speaker with an expression mildly accusative and only marginally more dismissive. "That's only because you cheated. You always cheat. And next time I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me before activating the grav."

"Are you whining, Commander? You were already practically on the floor. I just . . . speeded your descent. Besides, the goal is to win. I do whatever it takes to beat you." The man smiled wickedly. "Not that it's difficult; it's like playing against an old man. I buried you five straight, Cody."

Cody adjusted his head gear, deciding it was improperly labeled 'protective.' It had protected him very little from his brother's overly aggressive manner of sportsmanship.

Zero gravity ball—or, in common parlance, z-grav—was a grueling enough game as it was – a hybrid of racquetball and demolition wrestling, played in the weightlessness of zero gravity; but the way Rex played it—without rules and with a vehemence that bordered on diabolical—it took on a whole new character as a test of manhood and strength, cunning and brutality.

Cody had never known anyone as competitive as Rex; and that was saying something, considering that millions of clones shared the same DNA that ran through Rex's veins, including Cody himself. Yet, there were none who could bring the fight to each and every situation with the same single-minded determination as Rex.

"Okay, then . . . youngling," Cody droned, picking up Rex's accusation of geriatrics and responding in kind, as if he were indulging an over-confident child, despite the fact that Cody was only one chronological year older than Rex. And given that the clones aged at twice the rate of traditionally reproduced humans, that never put Rex more than two years behind Cody's physiological age." Let's make it best 8 out of 15."

Rex grinned. "Are you sure you can make it through three more games? You, uh, you look pretty rough."

Cody walked over to the grav-act panel and re-activated zero gravity. "I'll try." He pushed off and stopped his motion halfway up the wall. Rex floated up beside him.

"I'll even let you serve," Rex held out the ball in an overly magnanimous manner.

"I thank you, but that's not necessary," Cody replied.

"Suit yourself." Rex could not hide his taunting smile.

But that didn't bother Cody in the least. In fact, it was one of the things Cody most liked about his brother. The arrogant, over-confident bravado was as much a part of Rex as the trade-mark blond buzz cut he sported – a look no other clone dared attempt, a look that defined Rex and Rex alone.

Rex might have a healthier dose of swagger than most clones, but he also had the skills and the brains to back it up. Rex was the consummate officer, loyal not only to his commanders but also to his brothers. It was that determination to protect both those he served and those who served under him that formed the basis for his unwavering enthusiasm for whatever task he undertook.

Of course, there was also the matter of his commanding officer . . . and Rex's personal mission to be the best captain any superior could ask for.

Cody had long concluded that a good deal of Rex's surety in his abilities came from serving under General Skywalker – an effective yet unorthodox leader, if ever there was one. Not that Cody was under any illusion that Rex's cocksure manner was solely due to the general's influence. Rex had been a hotshot before meeting Skywalker. The Jedi General had only loosened the coils of rigid thinking by which Rex had been constrained, opening up a whole new world of methods by which a Jedi and his captain could fly through any mission by the seat of their pants.

Amazing how similar the two were in their approach to combat . . .

Aggressive. Violent. Competent.

And very often, impetuous.

"Just serve," Cody said evenly.

Rex let go of the ball and it floated before him for a second before he slammed it with the narrow, flat-sided paddle. Cody made an easy return, launching himself away from the wall and coming to the opposite side just in time to spring down and away again as Rex sent the ball flying into an upper corner. It ricocheted at a right angle, slowing down, and headed towards the bottom corner where Cody was waiting.

Cody drove the ball straight up and watched as Rex flew across the top of the court with such speed and reckless abandon that, even as he returned the ball, he crashed into the far wall and rebounded into open space. Rex's progress through the air was so quick that Cody had already hit the ball and sent it into the starboard wall, where it angled straight for Rex, floating and flailing desperately in the center of the court. Striking the ball provided just enough propulsion to send Rex slowly back towards the port wall, from which he would be able to push off on the next exchange.

Except there was no next exchange. Cody barely tapped the ball before launching himself towards the grav-act panel. One sharp jab of his elbow reactivated the artificial gravity, and from mid-air, Rex came crashing face-first to the floor, the ball landing beside him, with a series of mocking bounces.

Cody walked over, pulling off his head gear. "I think I win this one."

Rex groaned and pushed up onto his knees. "What—what—what—"

"Are you trying to say something?" Cody poked.

"That doesn't count! You activated the grav – while the ball was still in play!" Rex protested, getting to his feet and raising a hand to his nose, which was bubbling forth a bloody spume.

"Yes."

"You cheated!"

Cody's face was like stone. "I did what I had to do to beat you." He loved using Rex's own words against him.

"That's—you never break the rules," Rex said in disbelief, although Cody thought he recognized a hint of misplaced pride in his voice. "I'm impressed."

"Hm, don't be," Cody chastised gently. "I was trying to teach you a lesson." He held out a small hand towel. "You're getting blood all over the place."

Rex accepted the towel and attempted to staunch the bleeding. "You did teach me a lesson," he replied. "I've learned that even you can be driven to play dirty."

"No, I was trying to teach you that you're not the only one who can win by cheating. And our enemies are better cheaters than you and I will ever be."

"Yes, but I expect the enemy to cheat. Not you."

"You know better," Cody told him. "The longer the war goes on, the more cunning our enemies get."

"They're droids. They're not that creative," Rex disagreed.

"Their leaders aren't droids," Cody pointed out. "And there are plenty of Separatist-aligned planets with populations perfectly willing to fight against us – and they're not droids."

Rex inclined his head in concession. "Point taken." Then, as if already bored with the conversation, he picked up the ball and attempted to hand it to the commander. "Your serve."

But Cody would not take it. "No, I think we're done."

"Wait, you said best 8 out of 15," Rex stated.

"Yeah, I didn't mean it." Cody gave a cheeky grin. "I just wanted to knock you on your fourth point of contact. Once was enough."

Rex clapped him on the shoulder. "I think I'm finally rubbing off on you."

Cody took it in stride, his smile still in place. "Too bad it's not the other way around."

"I thought we were supposed to have some downtime."

The lament was something General Obiwan Kenobi had heard before from his former padawan and now fellow Jedi and general, Anakin Skywalker. Though military leadership had conceded the truth fairly early on in the war that even men bred for combat – even clones – needed time away from the battlefield, time to regather their strength, not to mention their wits, that had not necessarily translated into action. Since the war's beginning, it was an unfortunate situation that most clones had not experienced more than a week of rest away from the battlefield, and some clones not even that. Units like the 501st Legion and 212th Attack Battalion, over which Skywalker and Kenobi exercised command, respectively, had seen combat almost nonstop since the battle of Geonosis, the opening salvos of the war.

"Let's wait until we hear what this briefing is about," Obiwan replied calmly. "It may just be a situation brief."

Anakin simpered, stopping just short of a more dubious expression of skepticism. "Do you really believe that?"

"Anything's possible."

"Oh, that makes me feel a lot better."

They entered the command briefing room and found Admiral Yularen awaiting them.

"Good, good. Now that you're here. . . " The admiral spoke over his shoulder to the clone communications officer. "Raise the Jedi Council."

Within seconds, contact was established and the holo-conference began.

Yularen started directly. "Sector intelligence reports that Separatist forces are in the process of establishing a base on Pylotta, the fourth moon of Pylanee to use as a launch platform for operations in the Riggi system." He nodded at his top intelligence officer, a Khil named Kamat, an identification and recognition expert with vast experience deciphering the often poor quality holo images that were turned over by the intelligence teams. Kamat had a look of wisdom that was in contrast to his waving mouth tendrils, vestiges of an aquatic past that brought forth a voice almost musical in quality. At the press of a button, a series of reconnaissance images opened up within the holo projection.

"Pylotta is a massive moon with an equatorial diameter of almost 16,000 kilometers," Kamat began. "80 percent of the surface is water. There are at least a dozen major landmasses and varied climates, as well as landscapes. Our concern is on this landmass here in the southern hemisphere; it's called Yempshew. As you can see, it stretches nearly halfway around the planet more or less between the thirtieth and fiftieth parallels. On the southernmost point, here, almost aligned on the terminus, is where the Separatists appear to be building their base."

He zoomed the image in to show a mountainous region with shallow, flat valleys running northwest to southeast.

"The terrain is difficult from the coast all the way up to the base. It's mostly bare volcanic rock along the coast, but as you move northward away from the sea, these mountains – the Ypreian Range – rise up, and they are heavily forested. At this time of year, mid-summer in the southern hemisphere, it's sweltering hot, even in the higher elevations, but the humidity hovers around 50 percent, so it's rather pleasant weather." A pause, then he spoke into the voice recognition sensor. "Show me latitude: 47°37′56″ N, Longitude: 13°00′06″ E, elevation 574 meters."

Again, the image adjusted, and a broad valley appeared. There were clearly several landing pads and guideways in various stages of construction, though it looked very rough. A derelict cinder block building stood at one end of what looked like a pair of old aviation-style runways; and a few large hangars lined either side of the tarmac. When Kamat spoke again, his words explained what they were looking at.

"This is an old abandoned airfield, left over from the days when the Pylottans were only advanced to aviation. Within fifty years of achieving hyper-space capabilities, they had all but abandoned other modes of flight. The airfield was maintained for a while, but it's since fallen into disrepair."

Another adjustment to the image.

"But they had a reason for maintaining it as long as they did, and the Separatists have a reason for choosing it as a base. These mountains all around it, they have massive underground bunkers, some large enough to fit a Dreadnaught-class heavy cruiser. This used to be a remote war headquarters for the Yempshew Union. Not only that, but it is a difficult place to aggress and an easy place to defend. As an airfield, they also used it to deliver supplies to the surrounding villages and bring tourists and researchers in and out of the area, because, as you can see, it's quite remote. The mountains make it hard to mount a ground assault, and they also make bombing runs tricky, given that one concussion too many could bring about massive landslides, destroying any number of small villages."

Anakin, never one to mince words, cut to the chase. "Who are these Pylottans aligned with?"

"Now, that's a complicated matter," Kamat replied. "Although the planet has a ruling head—the Office of the Orator—the continental leaders have chosen different sides in the war. The Orator is a man named Deccat, and he has no desire to be involved in the war at all. The Yempshew leader is Praetor Hube, and he has given his approval for the Separatists to establish a base on his continent. But from what intel has gathered, while the Separatists are providing raw materials and machinery, they're not providing manpower—or droidpower, as it were. The Yempshews are the ones building the base, with the agreement that once the war is over, the base will revert to their exclusive use."

"It's being built by forced labor?" This from Mace Windu.

"It doesn't appear so, General Windu," Kamat replied. "It looks like these workers are willing, well-kept, and well-paid. Even more . . . " He scrolled the image to show the northwest end of the valley. "This is about two kilometers from the airfield. It's a military post. Recently constructed, and there are at least 1,500 Yempshew soldiers stationed there."

"So, any attack on the airfield will likely bring the army down on us," Obiwan noted. "An army of humans on an undeclared planet."

Anakin didn't care whether the enemy was human or whether the planet had claimed neutrality. Not everyone on the surface was neutral. He spoke up. "A battalion could take both locations, gentlemen. The 501st could knock this out in a matter of hours."

"What's the defensive capability at the airfield?" Master Windu asked.

"Intel shows that it's lightly manned since it's still under construction. This small building here seems to be the only place that's shown any signs of life – sort of a sentry, lookout point. But there are constant foot patrols in the area. It's definitely going to require a light touch," Kamat replied.

"A light touch?" Obiwan sniffed. "I assume that means we're going in."

"As it turns out, Skywalker is right," Mace stated, and he sounded almost reluctant to admit it. "A battalion-sized element can handle this. But it's got to be a quiet job. The Head of the Interplanetary Council has already been in touch with Orator Deccat, who has given the go-ahead for our forces to take over the airfield and leave a contingency force behind to augment the military presence he'll be sending down to hold and establish control in the area."

"How is that quiet?" Obiwan asked.

Mace was unfazed. "He is the planetary leader, and he has the right to govern his own planet. Our job is to take that airfield and hold it; or barring that, destroy it so it can't be of any use to the Separatists. That is the ultimate goal. We have to keep them off that planet. Put your best minds on it. Devise a plan and we'll have another briefing at 1900 hours."

When the holo-conference ended, Admiral Yularen looked expectantly at the two Jedi generals sharing the briefing room with him. "Which battalion will be going in?"

Not surprisingly, before Obiwan could even open his mouth, Anakin had volunteered the 501st. "I think this sounds like a good job for my guys." He looked to his former master. "Your air wing of the 212th can drop us in—"

"May I interrupt, Sirs?" Kamat said in a quiet voice that yet commanded attention.

"Of course, Major," Admiral Yularen replied.

"There is no way to take gunships to the target without giving away your presence," he pointed out. "They would hear gunships echoing through those mountains long before you arrived. Their patrols would spot a battalion-sized element well in advance. You're going to have to find a way to get in there undetected, blind them, and then get the rest of the battalion down without word getting to the outpost."

"What do you suggest?" Anakin asked.

But it was Admiral Yularen who spoke next. "I suggest you go bring your firsts-in-command and other tactical planners and we'll meet in War Room 3 at 1315 sharp. This is a plan that must be developed together."

"Agreed," Obiwan nodded. "Then we'll see you at 1315."

With that, he and Anakin walked out of the room.

"Great. So much for downtime," Anakin simpered.

"Yes, well, I didn't see you hesitate to volunteer your battalion," Obiwan said. "Honestly, Anakin, one might think you enjoy battle more than peace."

"Well, at least Rex will be happy to hear we're going into action again," Anakin grinned gamely.

"What a surprise that is," Obiwan said drolly. "Are you sure he wouldn't rather be blasting droids right now as opposed to taking downtime?"

Anakin grinned. "You might be right."

The doors to the lift opened, and the two Jedi found themselves face-to-face with their first-in-command clone officers.

Obiwan took in the two men's appearance and a crease formed on his forehead. "Maybe we should wait for the next lift."

But Anakin already had one foot inside the door. "No, no, there's plenty of room. Besides, I can't wait to hear about this one."

Obiwan stepped inside and the doors closed behind him. "Deck B-12." A pause. "Another friendly game of z-grav?"

"Yes, Sir," Cody replied.

Rex nodded his concurrence.

Obiwan allowed some humor to curl one corner of his mouth. "If you keep beating each other up on the court, you're leaving very little to our enemies."

"Uh, one of us is much more beat up than the other . . . Sir," Cody pointed out, referencing himself. "Not all of us play the game as if it were a matter of life and death."

Anakin's chest swelled with a strange sense of vicarious accomplishment. He looked to Rex, "I take it that means you won."

"Of course, I did, General." Then, seeing the turn of Cody's head from the corner of his eye, he quickly added, "Well, all but the last game. The commander pulled a fast one on me."

"Is that what this is all about?" Anakin gestured towards the bloody smear down the front of Rex's shirt.

Rex actually gave a small laugh. "Yes, Sir."

Anakin's gaze went to Cody. "I hope Rex didn't bust you up too badly."

"No worse than usual, Sir."

Obiwan shook his head in mock chastisement. "Are we going to have to ban you two from the recreation decks?"

"No, General," both men replied in unison.

Obiwan looked skeptical. "Mm, I suppose that remains to be seen. In the meantime, go get yourselves cleaned up. We've got a mission brief at 1315 hours in WR3."

"We'll be there, Sir," Cody assured him.

The lift arrived on Deck B-12, and the two Jedi generals exited.

They'd not gone a half-dozen paces before Anakin gave in to temptation. "Looks like my captain mopped the floor with your commander."

Obiwan was not ruffled. "When your captain puts his mind to something, there's no one better. Except my commander."

Anakin tried to think of a witty comeback, but his mind simply would not head in that direction. Instead, he said earnestly, "We got lucky, you know?"

"Hm?"

"With Cody and Rex. They suit us perfectly, and they've managed to stay alive."

Obiwan nodded his understanding and agreement. "I think they became the perfect clone officers for us. They're bred to be adaptable. And they both seemed to have adapted to our leadership styles – different as you and I may be." He chuckled. "And if you and I have managed to work together all these years, it's no wonder those two manage to work together as well. That is, unless they render each other senseless first. Honestly, what's the purpose in knocking yourself out playing a ridiculous game?"

Anakin shrugged. "It's fun."

"Fun?"

"They're soldiers, Obiwan. Competing where death isn't involved . . . that's their idea of fun."

Obiwan wasn't sure if he believed that.

But he feared . . . it just might be the truth.