I've wanted to do this for so long. You guys don't even know.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Star Wars OR Star Trek, though that would be pretty cool. :)

Anyway, I've noticed that there's not really a ton of crossovers between these two fandoms (and it's understandable, honestly, with the amount of stuff you've gotta take into account to write a good crossover) and I decided to rectify that.

So here's the biggest (or at least one of the biggest) crossovers that I will probably ever write. I'll try to make sure everyone stays in character, and if it seems wrong TELL ME so I can FIX IT.

In the meantime, please enjoy.

It was a simple mission, involving a rescue and medical assessment of the USS Horizon. Apparently they'd had some run-in with a giant space squid (McCoy believed it, too. After going back in time, nothing would shock him ever again) and were badly damaged as a result.

The medical teams would follow them over with engineering to take care of the damage, but the command crew was heading over first. It wouldn't be fun, but it also wouldn't be dangerous, and so McCoy was content with the job. After everything they'd been through in recent months, a normal mission was long overdue.

Jim's eyes had been twinkling at him as they'd stepped onto the transporter pad, his voice holding a fond humor as he addressed the doctor. "Don't worry, Bones. This'll be the worst part."

McCoy could practically hear Spock's eyebrow going up on his far right, and rolled his own eyes. "Don't say things like that, Jim. You'll jinx it."

"I was unaware that you were a practitioner of such a primitive form of superstition, doctor."

"With our record, I won't be surprised if we never make it to the Horizon at all." McCoy declared smugly, and Spock's disbelief became almost palpable.

"Fascinating."

"Oh, lighten up, Bones." Kirk's laugh finally manifested itself. "We'll be back before you know it! Energize, Mr. Kyle."

McCoy's stomach turned as the young man sent them off. Transporters had always turned his stomach. He had barely finished materializing, and could already feel that something was wrong. "This isn't the Horizon."

He turned as he said it, and felt his stomach tighten when he found no one at his side. He was alone. Time for Jim to eat his words. The captain had jinxed them all.

"Dammit." McCoy murmured the word as he began to take in his surroundings, his eyes roving over the forest-y world that had enveloped him. The trees were large, their thick blue-colored trunks close together while bright green foliage practically dripped from the low-hanging branches.

Under different circumstances, McCoy might have considered his weeping surroundings and the humid air as wonderful (being from Georgia, it had taken him a while to get used to the stale air of a Starship). As it happened, though, he wasn't too pleased.

He quickly removed his communicator from his belt, and tried to contact the ship. A few minutes and several curse words later, he was trying to contact anyone.

"I'm gonna wring Scotty's neck when I see 'im next …" He knew that whatever had happened, Lt. Kyle had probably had nothing to do with it, and blaming Scotty for his misfortune made him feel slightly better about the situation. In all honesty, the Scotsman was probably even angrier than the doctor was about the malfunction.

Any small amount of humor that McCoy found in his situation was torn from him as a faint sound reached his ears. Off in the distance there was a high-pitched scream, and it took him about three more seconds before he recognized it as a type of vehicle.

Probably flying, if the sound of its engine was anything to go off of (not that he was any expert).

He was proved right when more sounds joined the first, and frowned when the racket drove the native wildlife screeching from the trees. It sounded like the pilots were taking their vehicles pretty fast.

Then a new sound filtered through, and McCoy's heart stopped.

It sounded like … discharges. Weapons fire.

Shooting.

Being returned, as well.

A battle, then.

The ground rumbled beneath his feet soon after an eruption from the distant sounds, and McCoy felt his heart start up again, going three times as fast to make up for the time lost when it had stopped.

"Aw, hell."

Panic bubbled up inside of him, and it was only years of being a surgeon that kept him from bolting immediately away from the battle. McCoy didn't have any desire to be caught in the middle of it, naturally, but also knew that it would most likely hold a few of the answers as to where he was and where his missing friends were.

For a long moment he deliberated. The equipment being used didn't sound 'Fleet commissioned (especially the vehicles), and so it was likely that neither of the factions involved in the fight were members of Starfleet.

McCoy also knew that he would easily be killed if he wandered over into a war zone, with no idea which side was fighting for his ideals (if either side even was) and whether or not he wouldn't be immediately killed on sight.

In the end, his decision was made for him, and he was quite suddenly scrambling to get to the side.

Scrambling to hide.

There was a large brown vehicle breaking through the foliage near him, scraping through the trees at an alarming rate.

McCoy winced when–after a large and resounding crack–one of the trees came slamming down onto the forest floor, and the huge machine glided right on over it, little more than half a foot off the ground. He couldn't help but stare at the design of the vehicle, as it seemed impractical and overlarge. It didn't look as though there were any guns attached, which had him wondering what it was meant for.

He wasn't about to ask, at any rate.

"Not even three minutes in and I'm a commando!" He growled angrily as he hunkered down into the foliage on the forest floor, hoping that he wouldn't be noticed. "This'll be the worst part my foot!" McCoy knew that the ship could be a rogue ship, not having anything to do with the battle. He knew that it could also be a ship from the group that would most likely help him.

Yet the chance that it could be an enemy–someone who would shoot first and ask questions later–was far too great.

He didn't have much confidence in the driver after the decimation of that tree, anyway.

Leonard McCoy waited quietly for the ship to pass, holding his breath despite his inability to hear anything in the racket that was slowly beginning to surround him.

For indeed, ground was being won in the battle, and the sizzling noises of the fight were growing ever louder in his ears. McCoy knew that soon he would have to either run away or choose a side, and so it was with a new desperation that he pulled out his communicator, hissing fervently. "Jim! Spock!"

Another crack resounded from nearby, and a new tree came barreling down next to the first victim, a ship just like the other floating over its carcass. He tucked away his communicator, not understanding why the pilot hadn't just used the first trail instead of making his own.

Then he pulled out his medical tricorder. If he was going to contact one of the sides in this battle, it was going to be the right one. He took a discreet reading of the vehicle, surprised to find that it had no shielding.

He was even more surprised to find that it also had no life forms inside of it. Something still moved, but the tricorder could pick up no signs of organic life.

"The hell?"

McCoy had no time to dwell on his discovery, since at that point in the battle; there came a loud screech from behind him, shooting over his head with a desperate edge to it. He could see the shape of something large flying away from him, and felt himself cringe reflexively when the sound of multiple cracks reached him, signaling the death of more trees.

If they kept going the way they were, the whole forest would be decimated by the end of the battle.

The vehicle was descending–no, crashing–violently into the forest, leaving a large trail of destruction in its wake before coming to a smoking stop. The Starfleet doctor made certain that the other vehicle was gone before moving forward, his tricorder still in hand.

He could see white even from as far away as he was–not the deep metallic brown like the first two vehicles–and knew that it probably came from the other team in the battle, so he had hope that there would be people inside (which was strange, since normally he didn't hope that when something had just crashed).

The lack of life in the other vehicle still had McCoy rattled, and so it was with hope that he put on an extra burst of speed, praying that the ship wouldn't blow up before he arrived.

He didn't have to focus very hard on moving quietly, since the screaming battle behind him would have made it nearly impossible to hear his clumsy footsteps anyway.

Smoke had already enveloped the ship by the time he reached it, but that didn't stop him from heading in, trusting his medical scanner more than his eyes. There were three people still alive in the vehicle (and thank heavens that there were even people in there at all), all in need of immediate medical attention.

It would be a cold day in Hell before Leonard McCoy let someone die in front of him without at least trying to save them.

He held his breath as he neared, his eyes squinting to see the carcass of the ship through the cloying smoke as he stumbled forward. He could see flames licking at the roof of the ship from the inside, and knew that he didn't have much time to get the survivors out before the vehicle likely exploded.

McCoy found his way in through a very large hole blown in the side, exposed wires dangling dangerously from the edges. He avoided them deftly, entering and immediately crouching to better see through the smoke.

His eyes were watering, and he was forced to glare down at his tricorder for some answers as to the survivors before moving forward. According to his readings, two of the men would still be mostly coherent, and so he spoke while he moved. "I am Lt. Commander Leonard H. McCoy, and I'm here to get y'all out."

"Lt … commander?"

A voice to his left slurred as he moved forward to retrieve the one that was definitely unconscious.

"Yeah, so I outrank ya." He knew that it was a pretty big gamble, using his rank like that in somebody else's army (did they even have Lt. commanders?), but he also knew from experience that soldiers responded well to orders. "Can you walk?"

There was a hacking cough from even farther to his left, and the original voice spoke quietly in lieu of his companions inability to respond, "Sir … ya gotta get out … this ship's gonna blow any second now, an' we're as good as dead."

"Not if I've got anything to say about it." McCoy snarled, forced to cough right afterwards. He reached the unconscious man first (his life signs were low, and he would likely die if he breathed in any more smoke), and without looking too far into it he picked him up and backtracked, struggling under the weight of unfamiliar armor and a thick shroud of smoke.

"I … I can't move, sir." The voice–it had an Australian accent–came hesitantly. "My arm is trapped, an I think Slip broke 'is leg …"

The third (almost constantly coughing) man had definitely broken more than his leg, but there wasn't time to say it. He would have to wait.

McCoy spared no breath as he stumbled out of the ship, tearing towards one of the trees at full tilt, taking the time to rest his patient on the other side of it before running back to the other men.

He paused to hold his breath again, entering and immediately going to the man who'd first spoken to him. "What's your name, son?"

The man was barely discernable through the billowing smoke, and McCoy had to get his face very close to the tricorder to read its output.

"CT-8882, sir, but they call me Triple-Eight."

McCoy had mainly asked the man the question to keep his mind off of his situation, but had to do a double take at the name. He never got the chance to ask about it, as the terrible cough came from his left again and the man before him added.

"That's CT-7823, he's called Slipstream. An' Laff is the one you took out … the others are dead."

McCoy gritted his teeth as he realized what he'd have to do to get the man's arm out from behind the crushed machinery, and pulled out his phaser with a single mind. "Try not to move too much. I'm gonna get you outta there."

"You really should get goin', sir. This ship's not gonna last much longer."

"I'm not leaving until y'all can leave with me." McCoy turned his weapon to the right setting, and then quickly began cutting away the offending machinery. Another cough came from the side, and he swore quietly.

"Sir-"

"Not another word outta you!" He poked Triple-Eight in the chest lightly as he spoke, then let his free hand rest on the man's good shoulder to steady himself as he worked. "I'm a doctor, and ain't no way in hell I'm leavin' you two in here to die."

The man didn't protest again, though McCoy had no doubt that he wanted to.

By this time, all of them were coughing, though Slipstream seemed unable to stop.

The work of cutting the man free seemed to take hours, when in reality only two minutes had passed. But two minutes was all it took for the fire in the vehicle to begin growing, the smoke becoming a feral creature determined to take all breath from them. "Can you stand?"

"I- I think so." Triple-Eight said, stumbling to his feet.

"Then get the hell outta here!" McCoy snapped, turning to the other man and kneeling beside him. He picked him up–the same as he had with the first–following Triple-Eight out of the ship and running towards the same tree where he'd hidden the first man.

"Doctor!" The shout came from the armored man limping at his side as the roar of the fire grew almost exponentially, "Sir! It's gonna blow!"

McCoy wasted no time, increasing his sprint forward just as the explosion ensued.

It knocked him off his feet to fling him down angrily, and he wrapped himself around his patient. He refused to let the man die after just having torn him from the wreckage.

McCoy's world became a swirl of color and light, the explosion ringing in his ears as he slumped over his precious cargo.

"Doc?!" Triple-Eight's voice was alarmed, and his query was punctuated by a violent cough.

"I'm all right …" McCoy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to allow his body time to process all that had happened.

"Is Slip … is he-?"

"You're pal's alive." The Starfleet doctor breathed deeply through his nose, and the man in his arms had another coughing fit. The man appeared to be unconscious after the blast, and McCoy muttered another curse.

"Do ya need help liftin' 'im up, Doc?" Triple-Eight asked.

"Go around that tree an' make sure your other buddy is alive, will ya?" McCoy asked, flapping a hand dismissively. "I'll follow you with this one."

"Right." The man immediately obeyed, and Leonard was left blinking the smoke out of his stinging eyes before pulling himself to his feet, arms full of armored soldier and legs made of jelly. He would have liked to just begin treating the men, but knew that being out in the open during a full battle was a terrible idea.

So he stumbled on.

Moments later the four of them were huddled on the other side of the tree, and McCoy got his first real good look at them. They were in white armor with similar colored helmets, though it was dented and scuffed where it had been so recently abused.

He had put Slipstream down in the most comfortable position that he could find with a tri-ox hypo, leaving his helmet on as it filtered the smoky air that they still breathed. The man had broken a few ribs along with his leg, but his condition was fairly stable.

McCoy began to more earnestly scan them, and almost immediately hissed some air out from between his teeth. He had been initially very relieved to discover that the vehicle had organic life inside of it, but he was hard pressed now not to become alarmed once again when his tricorder told him in no uncertain terms that he was dealing with three clones of the same man.

With electronic chips in their heads and arms, like animals (which, why would you need two chips in every clone? What purpose could they serve?)

Had the situation not been so dire, McCoy most certainly would have questioned Triple-Eight on those points. As it was, he removed the first clone's helmet (and oh, he hated that their numbers made far more sense now), finding a darkly tanned human underneath. He was completely bald, save for a small and neatly trimmed goatee.

"Will Laff be okay?" Triple-Eight was hovering anxiously to the side, and McCoy gave him a hard look.

"He'll be doing better than you soon if ya don't sit down and stop worryin' ta death."

"Sorry, Doc." The man sat rather contritely, his left arm hanging loosely at his side. "Is there anything I can do to help? What's wrong with 'im?"

"Cracked skull." McCoy answered, professionally putting the idea of their neural chips aside, then took out his phaser, knowing what he would have to do.

"Isn't that the thing you cut me out with?" Triple-Eight inquired.

"It is, but I'm gonna modify it to see if I can't fix the break." Sometimes, it was best to just be honest with your patients.

The clone never had the chance to reply to that, as a nearby explosion cut him off. His helmet hid his face, but his voice was grim as he stood. "Do what ya gotta do, Doc. I'll keep a look out." He pulled a large black gun from his belt one-handed and sneaked away.

McCoy didn't answer, too busy pulling the phaser apart and thanking God that he'd brought his larger medkit. It only took him a few moments before he was tearing apart the dermal regenerator as well.

Then came the tricky part. McCoy was no engineer, but it wouldn't have been the first time that he'd been able to modify a dermal regenerator into a bone knitter by fusing it with a phaser.

Hopefully the two would separate again afterwards, but McCoy wasn't about to let that fear stop him from saving a man's life.

Slipstream was beside him as he worked, completely unmoving, and the Starfleet doctor did his best to speed up his work. Three lives were depending on him now, and he couldn't afford to lose a moment.

So it was with complete focus that he brandished his makeshift bone knitter, working quietly on Laff's head. The man would certainly have a whopping headache when he woke up (along with quite a concussion), but according to the scans would eventually make a full recovery.

The sounds of battle grew continuously closer even as McCoy finished his work, giving the man a tri-ox hypo along with a healthy painkiller. A small wheeze from his other patient had him moving over faster than he had anticipated, stopping the man from sitting up and taking off his helmet. "Hold on there, son, you've got three broken ribs! Do ya want a punctured lung to go along with it?"

A weak cough came from the clone, and it managed to sound so indignant that Leonard was abruptly reminded of Jim.

"I'll help ya take off your helmet, but only if you quit movin'."

His reply was a small hand signal of what he assumed to be assent, and then he was pulling the man's helmet off.

Even though he had been expecting it, seeing the same man as the first still came as a shock to him. McCoy silently vowed to have a word with whoever was in charge (he'd hunt them down if he had to) when the battle was over, but for now put his moral indignance aside in favor of studying the man before him.

Slipstream was fairly clean-shaven, with a head full of dark hair and a pair of long sideburns. He had two similarly dark eyes, glittering with pain and intelligence, and it was his slow blink and small cough that had McCoy acting once more.

"All right, kid. I'm gonna put ya back together. You just focus on breathing." He pulled out his bone knitter, beginning to remove the armor only for a tan hand to grip his wrist and a quiet voice to wheeze.

"Tri-p … wh- where?"

"Now, no talkin' until I get these ribs taken care of." McCoy patted his shoulder, glancing at Laff automatically before trying again.

"Trip." The clone insisted, his eyes determined.

Now McCoy was thinking of Jim again, and so it was with a sigh that he deciphered what the man meant. "You're friend is on lookout. He's fine."

"Th- … the cor- … poral?"

"Both of your friends'll be fine." McCoy went back to his work when another explosion sounded nearby, lowering his voice. "Now hold still."

The clone finally complied as McCoy carefully removed the armor (the white sections seemed to stick to the black under-suit in an adhesive manner, but it wasn't something the doctor had time to study. He was sure Spock would have found it fascinating), beginning his work on the ribs underneath.

About 20 minutes later, they were wrapped and the battle continued raging towards them while he began his work on the clone's leg.

Triple-Eight "Trip" had come back to check on them several times before moving out again to protect their small group. He never left before giving a report, however, always with a serious tone and the utmost concern for his vode (brothers, apparently).

They were behind enemy lines, though Trip had managed to salvage some of the wreckage of the transport ship to set up a small perimeter with a few traps for any unsuspecting "clankers". Communications seemed to be out (McCoy frankly wasn't surprised), and as such, the clone was single-handedly leading away any enemies that drew near, waiting for the moment when he could make contact with a friendly.

Slip's voice had begun returning to him, 3 tri-ox hypos relieving his tortured lungs enough to reveal a fairly talkative man.

McCoy seemed to have stumbled on a small group from the 212 Attack Battalion, under the command of a General Kenobi. They had been ordered to take out a droid factory on the small moon of Riaj, with cover from the 501st Legion from above.

A lot of the terms and words made no sense to McCoy, though he found himself slowly harboring more and more anger for the leaders of this war, wherever it was and whomever they were.

"And this General Kenobi?" McCoy had Slip leaned up against the tree now, keeping him out of sight.

"He's probably leadin' the battle, Doc." Slip gave a very genuine grin. "He is a Jedi, after all."

"A Jedi?"

"Yeah. Haven't you ever heard of the Jedi?"

"Can't say I have." McCoy gave the kid another scan, reassuring himself that he was stable before looking him in the eye. "Are they the ones who thought makin' clones was a good alternative to recruiting their own men for a war?" He hadn't meant to get angry about it so soon, especially at someone who was definitely a victim in the affair, but it was beginning to weigh on his conscience in a way that he didn't like.

"We were built for the war, sure, Doc." Slip wiggled himself into a more comfortable position against the tree. "But it's mainly 'cause the Republic didn't have any real defense before us. Only the Jedi. The Jedi are peacekeepers, but they're the only reason we're making any-" Here he gave a small cough, "-headway in this war."

McCoy couldn't help but raise his eyebrows, recalling the wars in the history of his own universe and the different methods of defense that were invented back then as well. It made his moral sensibilities want to curl up and hide, but he knew that the people in this universe were just doing what they felt was necessary. It didn't mean he had to like it, though. "So you were created specifically to fight and defend the Republic?"

"Yes, sir. It's why we're the best defense." Slip was earnest as he explained. "Without us the Seppies would have already taken the core planets, and we'd all be under Sith control since that's who's been leading the Separatist movements."

"Sith?"

"They're like … evil Jedi, as far as I know." Slip's eyes looked up as he attempted to describe the word better. "They just want to control the Galaxy, and they'll kill anyone who gets in their way."

"But the Jedi don't do that." McCoy clarified, frowning when the clone nodded. So the Jedi were above controlling the galaxy, but not above creating a race of slaves to help them defend what they deemed correct.

"That's why the Jedi are the Generals. They're more powerful than any clone." Slip abruptly grinned, completely missing McCoy's grimace at his self-referral. "And our General's one of the strongest of the whole lot! General Kenobi always makes sure we're treated right, and he comes up with brilliant plans!"

"Sounds like a great guy." McCoy said it to be polite, but his heart wasn't in it. His whole world had been turned on its head, dumping him in an amoral universe where slavery was widely practiced under a different name, and machines fought on behalf of the enemy.

He hardly heard as the young clone began extolling the many virtues of his commanding officer, instead mechanically scanning the one called Laff to make sure he was still stable while he thought on his predicament.

If he had been paying more attention, McCoy would have perhaps recognized the signs of shock within himself, but as it was he could only think about where his two shipmates had ended up.

He could only pray that he'd find them soon, so that they could get out of this hellish universe as soon as possible.

"-apparently it's totally normal for the Jedi, since they can feel danger through the Force …"

"The Force?" McCoy turned back to his chatty patient, promising himself that he'd make sure Jim ate his words when he saw him again. It was the least his accident-prone captain could do after everything McCoy was putting up with.

Holy Kriff that was so hard to write. I don't think I've ever read more Wookieepedia/Memory Alpha than I did for just this chapter.

And to think; there's more on the way. -_- I think I might die. It's pretty difficult to mix these two worlds, since for how similar they may look, they are VERY different.

Well. Please tell me what you think of this first chapter, what you liked, what you hated, what you'd like to see more or less of ... just ... feedback in general would be nice. ;)

Also, as a note, I absolutely love the Clones, and I very much enjoyed coming up with my own. If you guys hated this, I won't write a ton more, but if you liked it lemme know so I can get bustin' on the next chapter!

Ta till later!