Retreat The bulkhead of the observation center slid open almost silently, and a warrior in Mandalorian armor stepped into the room lined with holoprojectors.
He wasn’t alone.
“Oya, vod’ika.” A warrior in green turned toward the one in gold-colored armor standing by the screens.
Pulling off his helmet, he grinned.
“Oya, brother.” The other man answered, removing his own helmet, and looked into the face of the one whose genes had gone into more than three hundred thousand sentients now growing behind the walls of this facility.
“What do you make of the new series, Cal?” “This batch?
They’re too passive, Jango.
I’ll run them through the tests, and if the results hold at this level, the Kaminoans will get excellent support staff and future logistics crews out of them.
Maybe tacticians or signal officers, but not much initiative to speak of.” “They promised us sharp ones.” “They’re physically weaker than the last batch too.
Might be worth pulling them out of Series K.
Wouldn’t want them dragging the whole line down.” “I saw the numbers.
But that’s the price of freedom.
Speaking of which, the chips.” “Here’s where we stand,” Kal Skirata said, and it was him, pulled a data chip from his belt and pressed it into Fett’s hand.
“Best estimate, the implant fully breaks down and dissolves within a year.” “Did you check whose it is?” “Not yet.
Everything’s within tolerance.” “Fine.
Let’s see what comes out of them,” the mercenary said, nodding toward the monitors.
It seemed someone had picked me up and carried me off at some point.
Cursed siren.
We woke up back in our pens.
Naked again.
Everything hurt.
Ugh.
Have to try.
Stand up.
Ah.
Even opening my mouth hurts.
Feels like yesterday I’d been lifting a loaded barbell with it.
Breakfast hit the second I managed anything close to upright.
Same slop as always, just brinier this time.
The water ration had gone up, though.
Tedious as it is, I’ve learned to pay attention to the little details, since eventually they add up to the whole picture.
No physical training today, then.
Not this morning at least.
And where were our clothes?
Running around naked feels wrong after a full adult life spent wearing something.
Over in the corner, the rest of the group huddled together.
Was I really the only one up and walking around?
Fine.
I felt better after moving around a bit.
Noticeably better.
“Eat,” I told the nearest kid, “and the sick feeling will pass.” The others slowly got their feet under them.
Shy, maybe.
The auto feeder kicked in, and everyone stirred at the smell.
I headed for the shower, trying not to think too hard about what exactly I’d passed out in the night before.
Brr.
Coming out of the washroom, I caught a strange sight.
The whole group went dead silent the second they saw me, though it was obvious they’d been in the middle of some conversation, all of them looking my way.
For the sake of appearances, I let a couple of seconds pass before saying anything.
“Uh.
Guys, what’s going on?” “CT-134,” the hundredth answered, “this is the second time you’ve pointed out the obvious answer when the rest of us missed it.
You’re sharp.
Some of us talked it over.
So.
Would you take point if it came down to it?” “Uh.” Honestly, I hadn’t given it a thought, but right then the door opened and yesterday’s nightmare walked back in.
He waved at us from the threshold, and, having learned our lesson, we scrambled into two ranks, forming something like a formation.
Naked.
“Su cuy’gar, ade.
Yesterday you saw a line you couldn’t cross.
Yesterday you were lower than bantha dung.
You saw exactly how weak you are.
How small.
How pathetic.
But for some reason my superiors think something worthwhile might come out of you lot, so as much as I’d rather send you off for recycling, I’m going to help you instead.
I’m going to make you stronger, faster, and deadlier.
I’ll teach you to move quieter than a shadow.
I’ll teach you to take down anything, anywhere, always, with whatever you’re holding, and with your bare hands if that’s all you’ve got.
I’m going to turn you into real weapons.” The sergeant raised a clenched fist.
“Understood?” “Sir, yes, sir!” came the answer, as one.
“Then, congratulations, you lot.
You officially carry the title of clone cadet now.
Get into your new uniforms.” Trays with red standard-issue suits and something close to sneakers slid out from the ceiling.
“Don’t you dare disgrace that title, or…” He let it hang there.
“You don’t want to disappoint me.
I’ll be waiting in the hall.
At ease.” The second he turned his back, everyone scrambled to sort out the new clothes.
Out in the corridor, forming something that resembled a formation more than a crowd of strangers pulled off the street, all of us equally green in matching red, we followed the sergeant in silence.
Things got interesting once we passed the turn that led to yesterday’s drill hall.
Instead, we were led along a tall glass corridor, almost like a tube, lined on both sides with capsules holding clones still maturing inside, and brought into…
I’m not even sure what to call it.
Some kind of training center.
It reminded me of a research facility out of some old sci-fi film, rows and rows of alcoves, niches, holoprojectors, and something constantly prodding at clones who looked a little older than us.
Once we’d each been sorted into an empty cell, the Master Sergeant told us the test would start now, and that we’d be reassigned afterward based on how we did.
Honestly, that prospect scared me and excited me in equal measure.
On one hand, it’s worth finding out how well the theory actually stuck.
On the other, there were bound to be trick questions buried in there, and we’d all be under a microscope.
Though looking over at the monitors of the older kids nearby, it didn’t seem too bad.
Someone here needs to be the best shot, someone the best demolitions expert, someone the one who thinks things through.
No telling yet which of us was built for what, but it’d be good to find out.
Who’s going to tell me, though.
The not knowing was starting to grate.
It’s almost too convenient, honestly, having a whole knowledge advantage over everyone here and no way to actually use it yet.
And our instructor was shouting again.
Helmets on, apparently, and we’d begin.
Fine by me.
I let the nerves go.
Here goes nothing.
The helmet’s visor blinked to life, a small yellow readout sliding into the corner.
Interactive, huh.
Calibration, sensitivity check, confirmation.
Blink twice to confirm visual input, and off we go.
First question.
A map of the area, troop positions.
Of course they’d open with tactics.
Four hours.
Sure, the questions matched the material we’d actually covered, but four hours, and I still finished near the back of the pack.
How?
I’m supposed to be the sharpest one in the room.
Infuriating.
Our sergeant marched us back, in formation again, into our familiar pen.
He lined us up at the entrance, told us we’d done well, and that tomorrow we’d be moved to the general barracks, and our real training would begin after that.
Then he called “at ease” and let us back inside.
Strange that nobody had thought to just walk out through that open door while it lasted.
The room itself, honestly, looked like the inside of a giant breast, cables converging toward the center along with a hatch that formed something like an areola.
But there it is.
The second the door shut behind our instructor, I actually pointed at it.
Worth a shot, in case it opened again.
Nobody stays cooped up forever, right?
Nope.
Sealed tight.
Since nobody was taking us on any excursions or letting us out of this glorified coop, I did the one thing every soldier back home knows how to do best: nothing at all.
I walked back to my usual spot and dropped onto the soft, probably silicone mattress.
The others talked among themselves, hesitant at first, comparing notes on the test, until eventually someone blurted out, indignant, “Did you all get more than a hundred and fifty questions too?” Wait.
Panic.
How many had I actually answered?
Thinking back.
Two hundred fifteen.
Oh, hell.
Guess I dozed off after that.
I’m fairly sure our reaction times got factored into the scoring too.
And why weren’t they showing us any films?
Where was lunch?
The feeder must have caught that last thought, because trays of food dropped down right on cue.
No films after lunch either.
But the others kept talking to each other.
Finally.
Fine, let’s call unsociable my default setting for now; I’ve been burned once already.
Realistically, I’m not getting off this planet; I don’t have the strength for it even if I tried.
It’s basically one giant ocean from what I remember, and who exactly is going to hide a runaway clone, even if I somehow made it that far?
The Kaminoans don’t even come near us; I caught a glimpse of a few in the corridor on the way to the test hall.
Strange-looking.
Plenty of people wandering the halls too; no way to track them all.
Okay, Gray.
Breathe.
In, out.
As the sergeant said, if you don’t understand something, do push ups.
Not the worst advice.
So I crawl out of my spot, give myself the order, prone position, and one, two, one, two.
com/Hezzario