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CCs were trained in a lot of areas. Colt had received thousands of hours of training on weaponry positioning and even more on offensive and defensive tactics
Troopers? According to their training, they were the easy part. Just bark orders and watch them do what he told them.
Sometimes, they did. Sometimes, they did just what Colt told them. Because they believed he knew best or because they had been told they were supposed to follow orders, Colt wasn’t sure.
Colt had chosen his Command staff because they didn’t believe either of those things. Because they challenged him into rethinking if they weren’t sure, and because they followed to the letter when they were.
Caring for those troopers? Supporting those troopers? Probably never crossed the Snakes’ minds. He knew what they’d think of those questions.
Why waste time putting something disposable back together?
“Scenic route?” Bacara asked as they walked the halls. He’d been silent most of the way, responding with short nods when others greeted him, or when cadets would stop Colt with questions or news to share.
“Something like that,” Colt agreed. Mostly, he’d kept them away from the halls near training rooms, classrooms, or the sims, kept their course charted to avoid any chance encounter with Cort Davin. Bacara’s former trainer was on-world, and while it wasn’t the same as keeping Neyo from Priest, Colt would still rather avoid it.
Bacara made a little sound under his breath, but didn’t complain.
Colt hadn’t known Bacara as a cadet beyond crossing paths in training rooms. He certainly hadn’t known his name if he had one, and might not have paid him any attention if it wasn’t for how closely Neyo stuck with him after he was taken from Edee.
Between Neyo’s connection to him, and his formidable reputation, Colt couldn’t help but want to get a measure of the man when he’d come to Kamino for ARC training early in the war.
No surprise, The Marine measured up.
Not only was he alarmingly good, he was a mentor to the other ARC candidates, and more open to correction than many cadets Colt had worked with.
And yet.
There was something about Bacara’s quiet. Colt wasn’t the chattiest brother ever decanted, but Bacara’s reserve was more than just a thoughtful kind of quiet. Coming back to Kamino after a year in the war, Colt could see it as isolation, as a sort of disconnect. Could see it in the cadets who were currently under trainers like Priest and Davin, the way they couldn’t relate to their brothers the same way anymore, the gulf that divided them from their vode.
Commanders were never taught how to handle the emotional needs of their men.
The Alphas tried to be role models, tried to show how to provide care, how to brace a struggling vod to get him through, how to talk down a brother who had gotten lost in his own head.
Alpha 17 had nodded Bacara in Colt’s direction with a look, and Colt could guess his role in the plan.
“This one, tat.” Colt gestured to an unmarked door.
Bacara was silent, the kind that was concerning, and that was coming from a vod who worked side-by-side with Blitz daily.
He tapped in the code, and the doors opened nearly silently. Maintenance had outdone themselves on that repair.
Colt nodded once to Baar, and led Bacara into the room, and removed his helmet.
Bacara took the hint and did the same before he gave the space a slow once-over. “Any maintenance rooms left on this planet?”
That made him the only vod who saw the ik’aade for the first time and wasn’t overwhelmed by them.
“Enough of them.” Colt fought down a grin. “A few needed ‘repurposing’.”
Over Rancor’s years on Kamino, they had claimed one forgotten corner after another, taken over one small task after another. The Kaminoans didn’t care what task they picked up as long as the benchmarks were met.
Basic maintenance staffing? Sure, give the men off patrol something to oversee.
Routine cadet training? Better they handle it than waste a trainer’s time on that.
Security priorities? Best to make sure the system is fully integrated with their defensive assignments.
Bacara moved slowly around the room and Colt let him explore. The ik’aade were asleep, almost too big for their gearcrates now. They were definitely mobile enough to climb out of the crates, but precautions (and extra mats) had been added.
They ate food now in addition to the bottles. They chattered words to one another and the ori’vode who watched them. More than eight months after the Battle, it was harder and harder to see the tiny, flailing ik’aade Blitz and Hammer had rescued. Another few months and they would be the right size, right age, of a cadet ready to decant.
When that time came, Colt would be out of excuses for keeping them apart from the first-cycle cadets.
“Are they…” The pause was a long one. Bacara looked over to Colt, frowning. “Have they been damaged?”
He almost looked sorry to say it. Colt didn’t take it as a criticism of their care. It was easier to see the vod’ikaade for what they were when they were newly rescued - small, fragile ik’aade who needed care and attention.
Now, months forward, they looked more like cadets. Undersized, strangely-proportioned cadets.
“No damage.” Colt came to stand beside him, looking down at an ik’aad chewing his fist. He gently tugged the fist from his mouth and pressed a ring of heavy plastoid into his hand. That immediately went back into his mouth. “The other batches on their tower won’t be ready to decant for ten months.”
Bacara shook his head, frown deepening, one careful finger stroking a wayward dark curl. “But look at them.”
Colt nodded, reaching out to brush his knuckles on a full, chubby cheek. “After the battle, they were so small. Half this size. The tanks had cracked, leaked…” Colt had only seen helmet cam footage. The worst of the damage had been cleared up before he was out of medical. “They are growing fast. On pace to be as big as any of their brothers when they come out of tubes.”
Their quiet conversation was enough to stir one of the others, and a dark head popped over the side of the gearcrate.
Colt knew exactly what was going to happen next, but instead of stopping it like he would on a regular night, he let it happen. The ik’aad scrambled up the wall of his gearcrate and tumbled into the next one with a very vod-like grunt.
“Should we…?” Bacara’s head snapped towards Colt, ready to move on his word.
Colt shook his head.
After some rattling and grumbling, one dark head, and one lighter head popped up, attention focused directly on their ori’vode.
“Buir!” The dark-haired ik’aad threw his arms out.
“Shhhhhhh,” Colt put a finger to his lips reflexively. He pointed to his chest. “Ori’vod. I’m ori’vod.”
That got a momentary frown, followed by a quieter but more insistent call. “Buir now!”
“Blame Havoc for that.” Colt sighed and did as requested, kneeling beside the crate as the ik’aad slapped his hand on Colt’s bracer.
“Off! Off!”
“They don’t like being held against the armor,” Colt explained to Bacara, who had crouched next to him without any prompting.
The blond ik’aad sized up his two or’vode before pitching himself at the end of the crate with enough momentum to start a tumble over the side.
Colt knew two things his fellow commander did not.
One, this was a common method of escape for the ik’aade.
Two, the mats were carefully arranged for just this sort of daring plan.
Bacara’s hands shot out to catch the ik’aad before he could tumble to the mat in a pile of giggles like usual.
And he held him.
There’s a moment when Bacara simply held the ik’aad suspended in his hands.
A moment when he’s no longer considering a small cadet of questionable quality. The moment when he’s realized he has an ik’aad in his large, calloused, capable hand.
A tiny, fragile brother who has complete trust in him.
“Ori’vod.” The ik’aad giggled, kicking his feet with glee. “Ori’vod!”
Bacara was still.
Perfectly and completely still.
Colt did not interrupt. The moment Pots shoved an ik’aad into his arms was tucked away with the most precious memories of his life. Bacara would decide what this moment was to him for himself.
Colt let him have the time he needed, and instead focused on boosting the other ik’aad out from the crate. The ik’aad toddled a few steps to drape himself dramatically over Colt’s legs.
That movement was enough to set Bacara into motion again, easing the ik’aad in his hands to his feet like he was the most fragile thing in the galaxy.
The ik’aad moved just far enough to throw himself on top of his brother and send them both rolling on to the mat with happy laughter.
That got a little chuckle out of Bacara.
“They are--” He shook his head. His voice was just a little rougher than usual.
“Yeah.” Colt agreed, as he began stripping off his armor. “They are.”
He began to peel off his kit, tossing his gloves and bracers into a pile on the mat. Seconds later, the two ik’aad scrambled for the new toys.
Colt caught them both by the backs of their former-blacks-turned-onesies and gently hauled them away from the armor.
“Here.” Bacara leaned in, scooping one up in each hand and pulling them out of trouble.
“Thanks, tat.” Colt bit back a grin, and focused on removing his armor. “They like it when you talk to them.”
Bacara needed a moment to process that, but he’d always been a fast learner. “See, buir’s got his bracers off. Then, the rerebraces come off. Have to do it in order.”
“Ori’vod,” Colt corrected with a sigh. He caught himself before he could remind Bacara what would happen if a trainer heard a cadet call him ‘buir’.
Once Colt got the last of his armor off, he waved his fingers at the ik’aade to get their attention so the blond one would stop chewing on Bacara’s gauntlets. When he had his attention, Colt handed him a plastoid ring instead.
“Asked Nicks to make dozens of those. Apparently, they chew things when their teeth are coming in. Nat-borns do it, too.”
Rancor had learned a lot about ik’aade, like they chew things to get teeth to grow in, they didn’t have kneecaps, their pulses were visible in their skulls, most of it was weird.
Bacara considered for a moment and accepted the new information before offering Colt the pair of ik’aade back.
That was okay, too. Every vod cared about his brothers, but not every vod was interested in fussing over the ik’aade. It seemed to come more naturally to some than others. Given the way Bacara had cared for the younger vode during ARC training, Colt would have guessed he was one of them.
Commanders were never taught how to give a brother what they needed. The best they could do was guess, and even if Colt had become a karking good guesser out of self-defense, he was still wrong now and then.
Bacara had seen what he’d meant to show him, that there were vod’ikase who were counting on them to hold it together just a little longer, that there were reasons to keep fighting just a little longer.
Colt bounced one ik’aad while the other one vigorously chewed his plastoid ring.
He’d done the best he could to give Bacara what he knew Alpha 17 had trusted him to do, give a brother proof that there was a future waiting for all of them, a future counting on them.
Quietly, Bacara stripped off his armor.
And once the scarred armor was neatly stacked, Bacara waited, and Colt released the pair of vod’ikaade in his arms.
It was only seconds before the blond ik’aad took off a near-run, wobbling precariously for the sake of speed. The dark-haired one was on his heels, even less steady.
Bacara eased himself down beside Colt, bad leg kicked out, back propped on the empty gearcrate, watching the two chase a ball and tumble over one another. At some point, there was a clatter. Another ik’aad climbing out of his crate down the row. This time, Bacara watched with Colt as a tangle of clumsy arms and legs squirmed over the side and flopped on to the padded mat with a pleased little chuckle.
The newest escapee looked at his brothers racing around for a long moment and walked forward with full determination, one hand trailing the row of gearcrates, before coming to stand beside Bacara’s shoulder.
He tapped firmly on Bacara’s arm until the tat obediently raised it, and the vod’ikaad took his seat beside The Marine, legs kicked out. A perfect tiny replica.
The ikaad didn't say anything, just flashed clumsy battlesign with chubby fingers. Stay. Declarative.
After a moment, Bacara lowered his arm, keeping the drowsy ik’aad tucked into his side.
Edee men didn’t need to fill silences. Bacara might not officially be an Edee man, but as far as Colt was concerned, if Neyo had adopted him, me might as well be one. The silence between them was long, peaceful, filled with the even breathing of sixty-two ik’aade and the giggling of two.
Finally, eventually, Bacara spoke in that careful, halting way of his. “They are.”
Colt smiled, a little knowing thing.
“They are…” Bacara started again. “Perfect.”
Everything Rancor had done since they’d come to Kamino had been to protect their brothers.
Every failsafe, every scrap of paperwork, every menial job the Snakes tossed their way without a second look.
Everything Rancor had done for almost two years had been focused on securing their brothers.
Someday soon, everything Rancor had done would be to free their brothers.
They already had all the pieces in place.
All they were waiting for was the signal.
“This is war.” Colt kept his attention on the ik’aade as their bedtime energy burned up. “This is war, and sometimes we need a reminder of what we’re fighting for.”
We.
Not the GAR.
The Vode.
“Buir?” The blond ik’aad had melted into the mat, lower lip trembling.
Colt pushed himself to his feet, collecting the pair before the meltdown could start. He set the pair back in their crates with a tap of his forehead to each of theirs and returned to his spot beside Bacara. The other ik’aad was snoring gently, head pillowed on Bacara’s thigh, one of Bacara’s hands gently stroking the ik’aad’s back.
The tat met Colt’s gaze, nodded his understanding.
This war had made them.
And this war had cost them so much.
The only way to keep going was to find the things that could keep them going, and to hold that close.
And maybe, Colt could give Bacara a little bit of that to take with him until they could all come home.
