Of course, who else would launch into a whole speech about patriotism aimed at the Mando’ade except our resident senator?
Alpha-02, to be precise.
Preacher, that’s what I call him, kicked off some grand, self-important speech about how we, the elite of the elite, deserve to have everything handed to us, since he, son of Mandalore, the planet, not the ruler, was about to personally lead everyone off toward some glorious promised land of a training center, where apparently they’d go around asking the “defective” ones for help.
Give the guy an armored car, a proper beard, and a commanding voice, and he could probably storm an actual palace somewhere.
For rallying a mob to raid a woodshed in some backwater village, though, this speech was more than enough.
Frankly weak stuff, even for the rank and file.
Explains why he leaned so hard into military history and political science during lessons.
Turning into a proper recruiter.
How did these Kaminoan overseers even let something like him slip through?
When I tried, gently, to point out that maybe we should sit down and actually plan this properly, I got a couple of snorts, some sheepish glances, and a healthy dose of condescension for my trouble.
Good riddance to the lot of them.
Good luck, buttercups.
No shame in it.
None at all, really.
Well, almost none.
What actually stung was that most of them fell for it.
Nearly the entire Series 00 batch of Alphas went along with him.
Rare genetics, wasted on nonsense like that.
If they bought into it, that’s on them.
What actually bothers me is the time we’ve lost now because of it.
Only five of us left in our quarters, myself included.
So: me, heavy weapons specialist KS-8851, signals and tactics officer ST-0407, technician TR-0241, and Dench.
Just Dench, a clone from the odd DW series, number 306, whose original assignment, of all things, had been as a nursery caretaker for growing clones.
This sweet, quiet, unassuming guy turns into someone else entirely the second anything sharp or explosive lands in his hands.
This absolute maniac, bless him, is a genuine bomb-making prodigy.
I still don’t fully understand how someone builds a working stun grenade out of toothpaste and food flavoring, but he did it.
I spent a full day afterward in the training room trying to reconstruct the formula with the computer’s help and got nowhere.
Neither of us figured it out.
As for why Dench is like this, apparently whenever he’s given an order, something goes off in his head, a snap, and he drops straight into what I’ve started calling his “blast mode.” No idea how he wasn’t cut from the program entirely, but honestly, we need a psycho like him around.
So there I was, standing off to the side, thinking through an exit strategy, when Dench spoke up from the couch: “So what’s the plan…
Commander?” “You, Denny.” “I’m Dench.” “And I’m not Groot, and I’m definitely not your commanding officer.
I’ll shove my boot in the mouth of whoever tries to put me in charge of any of you,” I shot back.
“So you’re not Groot, or did you just pick that name for yourself?” Dench asked, still grinning.
“He’s got a point, though,” the signals officer chimed in.
“You’ve got the sharpest tactical thinking out of all of us.
I can only run strategy calculations based on known variables and keep comms up.
That’s my whole skill set.
He’s right, one thirty four.
Plus, Alphas are Alphas.
Once reality catches up with them, they’ll come crawling back expecting us to carry them.
Take the lead.” I looked between the other two, a little stunned, hoping someone would back me up.
What kind of nonsense had gotten into everyone, had we all been drugged?
Fine, I’d deal with the philosophical questions later.
Need to think this through.
Give me a second.
Hard to focus.
Okay.
Stop.
There it is.
“Alright, everyone.
Working theory, we’ve all been slightly poisoned.
Something in the air, some kind of sabotage, whatever, I’ll go with temporary insanity for now.
First thing: does everyone agree we’ve got no shot at reaching that platform solo, especially not as a crowd hauling gear?” The remaining four looked at each other silently, then nodded.
“Okay, here’s the rough plan, so we don’t lose track of ourselves.
We use the Citadel as our staging point.
There’s a gap between the bunker and the outer wall with the turret emplacements, only visible from the second floor observation post.
Food first.
KS-8851, that’s your callsign for the length of Operation Fifty-One.
Grab containers from the gym, under the bandage supplies, rinse them out in the showers, and fill them with two weeks’ worth of lightweight rations from the mess.
Leave one or two under running water while you fill the rest, then bring everything straight to the Citadel.
Clear?” “Mm-hm.” “Go.
Next, ST-0407, comms, callsign Nest.
Head to the command terminal, and along with TR-0241, and let’s give him the callsign Drill, try to hack into whatever you can reach.
We need floor plans, technical corridors, ventilation routes.
Bonus points if you can access the camera network in the corridors and rooms I’ll point out later, but for now just get access to everything you can.
Once Fifty-One’s done with the food run, get him a helmet, one of the interactive ones, I really need that map.
Give him a hand if things get complicated.” I nodded toward my newly assembled pack mule.
“Dench, you’re Dench—” “I’m Dench,” Dench cut in, nodding.
“Don’t interrupt.
You still got your toys?” The word “toys” got a grin out of him that could only be described as anticipatory, and he shook his head yes, or something close to it.
He’s probably a little unhinged, honestly.
“Perfect,” I said, and I mean it, this guy genuinely worries me a little.
“Bring everything.
We meet at base in twenty minutes.” “Where are you headed?” Drill called out as I was already halfway to the door.
“Recon run,” I called back over my shoulder, already moving.
Good, everyone’s occupied.
And still running the math in my head.
They’ll handle the food logistics.
I doubt our techs will manage to crack much, but my job’s checking whether there’s actually a viable way into the warehouses in the first place.
Given there are probably a stupid number of storage areas scattered across this whole building, or whatever this sprawling hive of a facility even counts as, would be nice to at least scope out the closest ones.
That’s the plan.
And Fett’s clever, I’ll give him that.
So, here’s the corner.
Check surroundings.
Check.
Checking for what, exactly, that’s the real question.
He didn’t hand us anything technically impossible, we could theoretically march straight to the front line right now if we had to.
The real problem is the climate requirement.
Fine.
So it’s a test with a hook built in.
Start with armor.
Standard clone armor’s going to run too big for us at this size.
But there should be some scaled to fit, I remember seeing perimeter guards wearing white armor that looked properly sized.
Adjustable, sure, but…
There’s also the fabric training gear from the Citadel, minimal protection, but the task specifically called for hot, humid conditions, if my memory’s not failing me.
So, right here.
Down this corridor.
Which means we’re actually looking at armor with a closed breathing loop or at least active cooling, which loops us right back to standard armor.
And we still don’t have our own set yet, obviously.
Next problem, finding this landing platform and actually getting there.
Our block’s guarded, so we’ll have to get past security somehow.
Fett’s whole “don’t get caught” comment sounds ominous.
Meaning they’ll at least attempt to stop us.
And they’ll be watching the cameras too.
Could stage a distraction, but that risks drawing a lot of unwanted attention, which we don’t need.
Climbing out onto the nearest platform’s an option, but without a floor plan or a clear exit point to the surface, that’s suicide.
Diving blind into a permanent storm and swimming toward wherever looks promising isn’t a real plan either.
And I can’t shake the feeling we’re going to be watched closely through all of this.
Still, we’ll grab weapons from the Citadel armory.
There are enough rifles to arm a company.
Stun-only, but that’s all we actually need.
Hoping Drill can find a way to unlock live fire mode, since I’d rather not commandeer actual combat weapons, let alone head to the surface carrying them without authorization.
One more level down and I’m there.
Still need to figure out how to get past security, that’s the real question.
Deal with it later.
Gear first.
There, made it.
A couple dozen meters short of the next turn, I slow down and catch my breath.
Warehouse doors ahead, one guard.
Suspiciously easy.
Where’s the second one?
Feels like a setup.
Gut instinct says so.
Recon first.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Let’s work.
“Sir, permission to ask a question?” I say to a visibly bored clone in internal security gear.
“What do you want, kid?” “Sir, just curious what’s actually stored in this warehouse, sir?” “This one?” He tilts his head.
“Why do you ask?” Definitely a setup, he hasn’t even asked for my ID yet, but I need to be sure.
“Sir, our instructor tasked us with figuring out what’s kept in this storage room.
Figured I’d just ask, sir.” Ask for my number.
Ask for my number, come on…
“This warehouse…
hm…” He made a show of thinking it over.
“This one’s got sets of your future armor, kid.
And who’s this instructor of yours?” “Sir, with respect, he told us not to give out his name, sir.” Complete lie, but now I know for certain we don’t need to go anywhere near this place.
At all.
“Well, aren’t you a loyal one.
Fine.
Consider the task complete.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper.
“You can tell your instructor you got in through the ventilation duct.
It’s down the next hallway, up the stairs on the right.” “Understood, sir!
Thank you, you’ve been a huge help, sir.” I put on my most earnest, grateful face.
“Go on, get moving.
And I’ve got a job to do.” The clone guard said, straightening up sharply, giving me one last knowing look.
I turned and jogged back the way I came, not bothering to conserve much energy this time, figured I’d earned it.
Rest at base.
Damn.
I really don’t want to know what would’ve been waiting for us in there, even if that guard had been telling the truth.
Rough.
Right, so, ventilation route, under the monitor.
At least that’s an obvious option.
If Nest and Drill come up empty at the terminal, we are completely screwed.
Though there are still other angles.
Could just wing it with the food.
Though I’m still hoping there’s something like standard ration packs, or an equivalent, stashed somewhere in this place.
Would make hauling everything a lot easier.
Not that it matters too much, this paste they feed us won’t spoil for weeks, as long as nobody sticks dirty hands straight into it.
Hopefully the others think to grab some kind of dishware, disposable stuff, no real pots around, but better than nothing.
I sprint into the Citadel building, straight for the bunker, and find Fifty-One already there, out of breath.
In full helmet already.
Huh.
Fast worker.
Four solid twenty-liter containers of food and one of water.
Good.
Question is how we move all this without drawing attention.
Catching my skeptical look, he speaks up first.
“Lighter than they look.
The synthesizer took a second to process why we suddenly wanted so many double portions, but it worked through it.
What’s next, Cap?” Cap.
Right, we’d all been running through an accelerated officer track lately, meant to eventually get us commanding units up to battalion size.
I pull on the offered helmet.
There’s a comm channel active.
Hopefully working.
“Cap?” Nest’s voice comes through.
“How’s recon going?” “Good instincts.
Patch me through to everyone.” “Done, all our helmets are linked up as a platoon now.
Range is about five kilometers.” Not bad.
Worth acknowledging, maybe later.
“Open the channel.” “Nest to all, Nest to all.” The second four separate “Copy” responses came through nearly at once in my ear, I started explaining.
“It’s me, guys.
To save time, Nest, Drill, report first, what have you got?” “This is Drill.
We’ve got layouts for the whole building, floors, technical corridors, ventilation shafts.
Not much use without labels though, it’s a bare schematic.
No idea where we actually are on it.” “Use one of the Citadel rooms as a reference point,” I said, “and anchor us to the map from there.” “Can’t, Cap.
There’s more than a dozen of them scattered through the building.” Took me a second, almost a full second, to actually process what that meant.
“Say that again?” I glanced upward, where two helmeted shapes were visible through the transparisteel above.
“I repeat, there’s no clean way to fix our position.
There are twelve identical training citadels in this building, Cap.
Still working on it.” Huh.
An ambush setup, essentially.
Though it makes sense, honestly.
A batch this size wouldn’t all funnel through one single structure.
“Keep digging.
Dench?
Right, question answered, I see him coming.” Right then, grinning ear to ear, he walked up to me.
A backpack.
He actually brought a backpack.
“Alright, guys.
Been thinking it over, and here’s what we’re going to do…”
com/Hezzario