Four hours after the escape.
Meanwhile, in the C-2 level observation center of the student wing, Tipoca City Cloning Center.
“Cui’ta bu’na hiikra nissa na do’yama!
It’s naku rak shebs akkaru zak!
And, most important, who?
Who, I’m asking?!
Di’kutla’ade!!” “I agree, Jango.
What’s left is finding out exactly who.” “Then find out.
Search every landing pad in this city, anything capable of leaving atmosphere, but we get them back.” A heavily armored fist left a solid dent in the bulkhead.
“Jango, settle down.” A Zabrak in black Mandalorian armor, helmet off, kept his focus on the wall of monitors.
“The whole complex is sealed, the automated defenses are live.
Every staff member’s been checked, thoroughly, twice over.
This had to be one of the trainees.
My money’s on one of your Alphas.” “That’s not possible!
Even if it was one of the cadets, someone helped them get out.
From the inside.” “Any confirmed desertions?” The Zabrak turned from the screens and met Fett’s glare head on, almost daring him.
“There’s still a dozen and a half future commandos loose on this level trying not to trip our own traps, and you’re losing it over five who slipped out who knows where?
Where exactly are they flying an atmospheric shuttle in a storm like this?
If the cadets panic and turn back, either the Kaminoans pick them up, or more likely our own people do.
Nobody’s cleared orbit, and if they tried, we’d catch them before they got there.
If they cause trouble, we neutralize them.
Though I doubt they’d fire on their own at close range.” “Yes, I know they’re locked to the planet.
Hold on.” Fett went still, scanning an incoming report.
“Sons of—” Two warehouses cracked open two levels down.
Just found out.
Carbines and twelve sets of armor missing.” “Doubting your own children now?” Narun Daal, a grizzled old Zabrak veteran, grinned.
“You’re right.
I just hope their loyalty doesn’t run counter to the order’s own standards.
Fine.
Flush these rats out and tie it off.” Then, already speaking into his comlink, “Boba, get the ship ready.” And, quieter, to himself, “There should be a Ramu-A four hundred series platform somewhere on this planet…” Pumped full of bacta and painkillers, Drill had the blissed out look of someone who’d never touched anything stronger than water in his life.
Or Dench, if Dench had actually been drinking.
“Broootherrs, I luuuv you guyyys sooo muuuch…” That was Dench, fully checked out.
Blowing raspberries against his own lips with two fingers, “bleblebp.” We’d genuinely worried about him for a bit there, understandably, especially watching Nest dig a shard of shrapnel out with a knife.
Shallow wound, nothing torn, thankfully, not that I’d studied field medicine deeply enough in either life to be poking around inside a living person’s wound with any real confidence.
Still, better safe.
He hadn’t lost much blood either, most of what we saw was smeared around, though it looked plenty dramatic in the moment.
All things considered, we got off easy.
While Drill chases whatever pleasant clone dreams painkillers give you, Fifty-One’s busy patching his own armor with a piezo cutter he found in the toolbox.
About ninety minutes left before the mission deadline, and we’re basically cruising according to the autopilot.
Genuinely beautiful out here.
Dawn’s breaking.
Ocean in every direction.
The comedown from our first real fight in this world is nearly done.
Even short, broken sleep works wonders, turns out, even under conditions like these.
I’ve already worked out my explanation for the guards we roughed up, just in case.
Orders were given, orders were followed, end of story.
Not that anyone actually set limits beyond a destination and a deadline, so really, that covers everything.
Plenty of time to think now though, since the adrenaline crash brings its own flood of hormones.
My head’s suddenly crystal clear.
Hormones really do a number on a person.
Didn’t realize how much pressure had built up until it lifted.
Nearly talked myself into some conspiracy theories there for a second.
Honestly, I feel dumb out here.
Not from the training, or whatever a growing body demands physically, just from the total lack of information.
I desperately want to know what’s actually happening outside these walls, how people actually live.
What music they listen to.
What books exist.
Our education here is completely lopsided.
Live for the Republic, die for the Republic.
And what even is the Republic, beyond a running list of dates and events narrated by some cartoon Jedi on a screen for half an hour a day.
No adult mind ever fully accepts a restriction like that.
You can adapt temporarily, sure, but it’s just a mask over the real thing.
And eventually, as it settles into your actual identity, it dulls the sharpness of your thinking.
Which means slower reactions.
Across the board.
Whoever designed this program made a mistake somewhere.
You can’t raise genuinely capable soldiers loyal to some mythical homeland without ever actually showing them that homeland.
Instilling a goal is good.
Actually seeing it is better.
So that same old restless longing for something just out of reach keeps clawing its way back up in me.
And also, we got lucky.
Stupidly, absurdly lucky, over and over.
Running back through everything that happened, the real danger the whole time was that auto turret.
The guards had been aiming for limbs from the start, trying to detain us, not kill us, and it was only once things got heated that somebody lost their nerve and started throwing grenades.
Crawling out through the vents turned out to be the right call too, unnecessary as it felt at the time, but correct.
As for navigation, we lucked into that too, same as the shuttle.
Turns out we robbed the laundry of Kal’s own N-series trainees, the exact ones who worked me over the day before.
That’s probably why the guards came after us so hard.
My fault, honestly.
Didn’t occur to me that our supposedly all white armor wasn’t actually uniform white, same as none of the doors around here ever really are.
Should have switched on the visor’s combat filter earlier, drops in red and yellow tint and pulls up identifiers and markings across the armor.
Probably would’ve flagged the difference immediately.
Real shame Drill got hit.
Was hoping he and Nest could crack the lockout on the stunners eventually.
Full power drain’s noticeably higher than standard settings at medium range.
We did grab an extra charge pack off the downed guards, though nothing stopped us from raiding the Citadel for more if we’d had the room to carry it.
And now we’re stuck riding along with this mercenary to who knows where, for who knows how long.
Doubt he’s got anything too severe planned for us, though after an exit like that, no telling what he’ll come up with.
Wonder how many other teams actually made it out.
Not many, probably.
Comm’s been dead silent in this shuttle the whole way, which suggests this whole thing was staged specifically to see if we’d commandeer it.
A lot of pieces are starting to line up, honestly, figure I’ll work out the rest eventually.
For now though, chocolate.
Not the real thing, but close enough.
Speaking of which.
“Fifty-One?” “Hm?” He doesn’t look up from the micro-welding.
“Did you happen to remember the flavor combo you punched into the synthesizer earlier?” “Uh.” Then, yanking his burnt finger back from the heated plate, “Ow, damn it!
You remember I said the machine fought back?
Pretty sure I just punched it and started loading containers after that.
Tried what came out though, tasted good, but honestly I’m more of a meat guy.” “Seriously, you didn’t note the combination at all?” I groan, disappointed.
“Broootherrs, I luuuv you guyyys sooo muuuch…” “This place is a madhouse,” Nest mutters, just loud enough to hear from the pilot’s seat, then adds, “Approaching destination.
Five minutes.” I get up quietly and walk over to the cockpit, trying to make out anything on the nearly flat water below.
Yeah, that speck on the horizon has to be it.
“What exactly is this place?” Nest asks, cycling through approach scans on his visor.
“No clue.
Run a couple loops, let’s get a look first.” We circle, taking it in.
Bright out here, calm, nobody around.
Well, almost nobody.
Turned out the whale feeding platform, or the local equivalent of one, had exactly one repair droid stationed there with a fully developed personality of its own.
Had, past tense, right up until Dench and Drill climbed out of the hatch.
One of them, in response to its indignant complaining, told it to shove off, we had a mission and were just passing through, and the other, after it started squawking about needing to report something somewhere, calmly put a stun charge straight through it.
The droid shrieked in outrage and, in a fit of pure spite, launched itself off the platform on its own wheeled base, diving nearly a kilometer straight down into the water.
Fifty-One offered a genuinely thoughtful “well done.” Nest, after a beat, added, “Should always go out like that.
We’re just not cool enough for that yet.” When I asked why, he just waved it off.
Didn’t have the heart to point out what’s probably waiting for us in a couple of years.
Drill gave up on his glitching gear and, muttering under his breath, went back to prying at his helmet with a busted tool, trying to squeeze a signal out through the shuttle’s transmitter.
Total silence out there.
And the stubborn droid had sealed the platform’s entrance airlock tight on its way out, killing any chance of exploring the place further.
Sure, I could’ve asked Denny to just blow the door, or Drill and Nest to hack it open, but honestly, why bother.
Fett’s running late anyway.
Would’ve loved a swim, but wasn’t exactly eager to match that droid’s dive record.
Oh.
There he is.
Who else would it be.
I call “line up!” and we snap into formation, all in white, waiting for the higher ups.
Fett brought the ship down smooth, and a couple seconds later the rear ramp dropped.
I called “Attention!” and we locked into position, weapons secured.
Something about the way he moved felt off.
Even from here I could tell he was tense.
Holster unsnapped, left hand held slightly back.
He looked ready to tear into someone.
Please tell me nobody actually died back there.
Fett kept closing the distance, and it felt like the tension kept rising with every step.
Then he stopped.
Froze in place.
So did we.
Breathe in, breathe out, and hope for the best.
I take one small but deliberate step forward.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Fett shift his weight slightly, tensing further.
“Sir, mission complete, sir.
Reporting clones KS-8851, ST-0407, TR-0241, and DW-306, Dench.
Temporary squad commander, clone CT-134, reporting in.” I finish the report.
We stood there.
Waiting.
Silent.
One minute passed.
Still standing, still silent, still waiting.
Two minutes.
We waited, kept quiet, held formation.
Nothing but distant waves crashing against the towering, monstrous spire of a landing platform built for maybe two shuttles at most, and the wind hissing faintly through the helmet’s external mics.
Dramatic?
Sure, why not.
If we’re about to get torn apart anyway, might as well appreciate the moment.
Then, almost imperceptibly, something in the mercenary’s posture eased.
Just like some scene out of an old movie from my past life, he exhaled.
“Well, damn it all, you actually pulled it off.”
com/Hezzario