The Weaving Force: Chapter 50 (Patreon)

Chapter 50

Dennis:

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, coming into Kamino, but somehow the interior of their tower living spaces… fit.

Immaculately clean. Impossibly organized.

It was cold; clinical, even.

It felt artificial, unnatural, like the faux politeness he felt dripping from their every word and kind toned ‘observations’.

Noc-Mu was their ‘delegate’. She’d met them shortly after they stepped off the ship and into the facility. He walked behind Shaak Tii, Miss Militia to his right, listening to the conversation with one ear as his eyes darted this way and that way, trying to note and memorize everything he could see.

The rooms he passed by could be spied on by small, slit-like windows in the doors. Like a prison. The labs had crystal clear glass panels, showing the droids and Kaminoans at their work, for all their superiors to check in on.

The halls were narrow and labyrinthine. The near-identical materials made for disorienting navigation. As they walked, motion sensors and tiny hallway security points that scanned them every other junction pinged green.

This place was a prison.

It just looked cleaner than most.

“Here we are,” Noc-Mu said, her voice carrying as she placed her long, spindly hand over a panel.

The door hissed open, and all of them stepped inside.

“Jesus H. Christ.” The words spilled from him, equal parts disbelieving, awed, and dismayed all at once.

He’d seen the approach from above, seen the hundreds of towering structures that jutted out of the ocean of Kamino.

Now he was inside one of them, and he was beginning to truly grasp the full extent of this mind-bogglingly enormous undertaking.

Hundreds upon thousands of clones were visible in the halls below. An uncanny ocean of identical features, heights, builds, hair… even their mannerisms were the same.

And this was just one tower. The one with the first generation that were combat ready, and would be the first to be sent off.

The Kaminoans had a full twenty generations beyond the first two already ordered in advance, mostly by Sifo-Dyas, who made a downpayment years ago for the day the process was streamlined and finalized for maximum yield per batch.

Fuck, he felt sick even thinking about it in that way. So… cold. Like they were already numbers on a sheet of paper rather than people.

“Is something wrong?” Noc-Mu, the Kaminoan scientist woman at his side, asked placidly.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t answer her.

What wasn’t wrong with this whole fucking situation?

Militia spoke up, realizing that he was keeping quiet to avoid saying something… unpleasant. She had more self control than he did. “I’ve heard your operations are expanding. Why?”

“Many Republic worlds have become interested in our services,” the woman replied, her long neck allowing her head to lower in something that may have been a nod or a half-bow. Her long fingers and limbs looked ungainly out of the corner of his eyes.

“Republic worlds?” he asked. “They’re asking for clone battalions?”

“Yes.” He didn’t think he was imagining the pleased lilt to her tone. “As you know, tensions have been rising with the Hutts along the outer rim. Many are interested in gaining battalions along the mid rim for their protection. The Hutts might amass enough forces to threaten them if things continue as they are.

He turned now, sheer indignant incredulity painting itself clear across his face.

Noc-Mu stared down at him, the faintest hint of challenge in her gaze.

The implication might have flown over his head before learning the ‘game’ from watching Alexandria and her brand of bullshit these days; he understood immediately what she was saying.

The Republic Worlds along the border were buying; to keep the Kaminoans from selling to the Hutts.

He ground his teeth. If she wasn’t so tall he might have taken a swing at the bitch. “Yo-”

Miss Militia’s hand fell on and clamped down on his shoulder, a warning. “That’s partly why we’re here,” she said. “We’ve been given to understand these clones were made with the genetic material of a Mandalorian. Given our political stance against the Hutts, you understand how this situation could be misinterpreted.”

“Of course.” Noc-Mu nodded.

‘Misinterpreted.’ That was a kind way of saying that, with a few conspiracy theories reaching the right ears, they could turn around and say Mandalore itself had orchestrated this whole thing to finally kickstart a galactic scale war their society had been begging for for millenia.

Shit, some were already saying that, if you went looking through the holo net hard enough.

“We are all here to inspect the… clones.” Shaak Tii stumbled over the word, visibly trying to decide what to call them before settling on the least complicated option. “The Jedi have been charged with their care and integration into Republic Society. My guests from Mandalore will be joining me in this inspection and carry word back to the Duchess of Mandalore, Satine Kryze, as to their findings here,” the Togruta explained.

“I can very easily summon several of the clones at once for your inspection-”

“Nah.” He smiled a smile that was all teeth. “Give us a list. We’d rather have the luck of the draw decide.”

Noc Mu’s head tilted, her long hand rising as though to rub her temple. “Some might not find themselves presentable if called at random. Many are undergoing tests. Medical examinations; training, checks for genetic deviation-”

“Best way for us to find how all that’s holding up,” he pressed. If he wasn’t convinced he’d knock the lanky bitch over with a hearty slap on the shoulder, he’d give her one. A really damn hard one. “It’s an inspection of the clones, so that means all of ‘em, if need be.”

Noc Mu’s large dark eyes blinked once, slowly, her features utterly neutral before she darted her gaze to the other two slightly behind him.

She waved her hand, and a holo menu appeared.

Hundreds upon thousands of numbers were on the screen.

“The list of our clones. You may choose whomever you wish.”

(X)(X)(X)

The interview room wasn’t like the interrogation rooms in the PRT base, or the Rig. It was large, spacious. With comfortable chairs that weren’t made of solid metal like he’d suspected.

Even so, everything was curved, and still unnaturally clean: swooping arches and egg-like furniture.

The first clone that stepped in was CT-2248.

They’d interrupted him in the middle of live fire training with his squad.

His armor was still on, looking scuffed and scratched; he seemed nervous as he looked at them, his eyes going a little wide.

“You’re not Kaminoans.”

The words slipped out of him, and Dennis could see the second he realized his perceived mistake as his eyes widened and he strengthened. “Apologies sir-ahh Ma’ams. I just-”

“It's alright- at ease… trooper,” Miss Militia cut in, smiling kindly in the way the old PR training had drilled into her so many years ago, and which had never gone away. It was odd, seeing it without the American flag scarf covering her lower face.

“Please, young man, take a seat,” Shaak Tii invited, gesturing towards a fairly comfortable couch across from the three aliens to Kamino.

The trooper set down his helmet by the door on a tiny shelf Dennis hadn't noticed before. Apparently that was custom, here, for them.

Marching into the room, Clone 2248 still looked nervous, but he was quickly gaining his composure. His eyes darted between all three of them, observing carefully.

“What can I do for you, Sir? Ma’ams?”

“Well trooper,” Shaak Tii begain, smiling kindly, “we’re here to interview you, if you’re willing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ahh… Not sure how much I know that can help, ma’am, but, ask away.”

“Firstly,” Tii continued, “what should we call you? Your designation is CT-2248, but is there any other name or designation you’d prefer?”

The Clone shrugged. “Nah. Haven’t earned my name yet, Ma’am,” he said sheepishly. “Still just a shiny.”

Dennis didn’t need to look at Miss Militia to know she’d tensed up. Not out of anger; not really. But rather… a… disquiet. That churning in your gut that told you something right in front of you wasn’t right, but had to be stomached anyway.

“I understand.” Shaak Tii nodded. “We will proceed, then, with 2248 if that’s alright.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

Tii turned to them. “Would either of you like to begin?”

Put on the spot a bit, Dennis’s mind floundered. So many questions and all of them just slipped away in that split second he needed them.

Luckily, Miss M was ready to take up the proverbial slack.

“2248, some of these early questions might seem somewhat… tedious and redundant, but they’re needed to establish a baseline,” she reassured the clone soldier. “So, please, just answer naturally, and rest assured this isn’t some kind of test. What you say stays between us, alright?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Ok, you are aware that you are a Clone, correct?”

“Kind of hard to miss-” He moved to smile, one hand rubbing at his jaw to emphasize his face when he remembers that he doesn’t know if his sense of humor would even be appreciated. “err- Ma’am.”

Miss Militia smiles again, reassuringly. “Yes. Like I said, baseline. And you’re aware as to who you’re cloned from? Who he is?”

“Jango Fett, Ma’am,” he answered immediately. “A Mandalorian-”

“And are you aware of the… political situation on Mandalore?” she asked.

Just by the look on his face, Dennis knew the answer before it came.

“Not… really, Ma’am. We’re taught our jobs, about the species of the Galaxy, about the Republic, the Jedi and what we’re expected to do soon. But the particulars on Mandalore?” He shrugged. “Can’t say I know.”

“And,” now Shaak Tii cut in,  “in your words, 2248, what is expected of you?”

The trooper blinked at her as if he didn’t quite get the question. “To be the soldiers of the Republic, ma’am. To follow the orders of the Jedi and help act as peacekeepers.”

Dennis caught the twitch of Tii’s face out of the corner of his eye, how her montrals flushed with color. Embarrassment, shame, mortification? They were all options.

“And if you didn’t want to be a soldier?” he finally asked, staring at the younger man… holy shit, he was younger, in every sense of the word. Just twenty, biologically; ten, in actuality. “What would you do if you could do anything else?”

The trooper stared at him like he’d just said the most absurd thing.

“Why?” the man asked.

“Just curious,” he half lied.

“N-no.” The trooper shook his head. “I mean why would I not want to be a Soldier?”

Dennis opened his mouth his own incredulity making him suck down the breath to speak before the next words out of the clone’s mouth punched them right out of him.

“What else is a clone made to be?”

—

Hours later, as the last clone they would interview marched out - half naked since he’d been pinged while he was in the shower - Dennis found himself sitting in the interview room, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, and thumbs pressed against his forehead.

He felt exhausted. Drained in a way that wasn’t normal for him.

The door hissed shut. And it wasn’t so much silence as stillness that settled over the room.

None of them even wanted to breathe.

But still, eventually; the silence had to be broken. Shaak Tii volunteered.

“I’m almost afraid to ask… but I would know your thoughts.”

“They…” Miss Militia hesitated, clearing her throat, “have been well cared-for… physically, at least.

Master Tii’s cringe was obvious. “I see… and- you, Kronos?”

“They’re not slaves,” he mumbled, taking a deep breath. “The Kaminoans have almost turned them into dolls.”

“I-” She hesitated “-the situation isn’t ideal, I know, but-”

“We just interviewed seventeen of them,” he interrupted, plowing over her protestations as she shut her eyes. “Not one of them could tell me anything else they might have wanted to do.” He said. “None of them could tell me if they’ve had a crush. Or what they saw themselves doing when their service time was up. Hell, half of them looked afraid of that question! Shit. I’d be surprised if half of them even contemplated kissing a girl.” He wasn’t shouting. Not yet. But it was a close thing. “I bet, if I walked out into that yard right now and offered one a free ride on my ship to Mandalore, they’d look at me like I was crazy rather than giving them a way out!”

Shaak Tii, to her credit, looked sad. “But… you did ask them, if they wished to do anything else. They told you what they choose to do.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “They’re perfectly able to pick the only choice they even know exists.” He shook his head, looking towards Miss Militia as she glared at a spot on the floor, grim contemplation behind her eyes.

He turned his gaze back to Tii. “Look. You Jedi seem like good people. Haven’t met a one of you that didn’t want to do the right thing… mostly. But…” He shook his head, almost at a loss for words. “I don’t know how you want me to stand up here with a straight face and say that this isn’t exactly what the tabloids and hit pieces say it is. A slave army at your beck and call.”

“Because we don’t have a choice, either?” she pleaded. “Sifo Dyas went mad, Kronos, and, in his insanity, he brought this about.” She gestured to what lay beyond the walls. “All I-- all any of the Jedi can do is try to mitigate the harm he has caused.”

“How is doing what the crazy man wanted the way for you to mitigate the damage?”

“How would removing the only choice these beings have ever made not cause far greater harm?” she answered. “You wish for us to not take them as soldiers, but you, yourself, heard them. They know nothing else. Removing that… it would be removing their entire purpose with nothing more than a pat on the back and a well wish, adrift in a galaxy that has no place for them!”

Dennis’s teeth clacked as they snapped shut, devoid of a response as his fingers clenched into a fist.

Silence fell over them again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, getting to his feet before beginning to march towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Miss M called after him.

“A walk,” he snapped back. “I need to think.”

The door hissed open, and then hissed shut

He picked a hallway and started moving.

(X)(X)(X)

Komari:

The winds howled, sand and grit tearing at her flesh and clothes. Breathing was difficult, even with the mask that kept the thickly-flying particles from choking her airway.

Even so, this was better than the alternative.

So she pushed on, the heavy cloak she wore doing just enough to shield her from the worst of the sandstorm outside the dome.

More than once, she felt disoriented, completely lost in the haze and the gloam of the dipping sun.

But she followed the guiding beacon, its little light like a guiding star, and before long, she reached her objective: Her ship, hidden under a holo canopy that she quickly ducked under. Negotiating her way into the cockpit under the canopy, she slid into the seat with a huff of air.

She was exhausted. More than once she’d nearly been caught by the woman, Alexandria, but her ice cold presence in the force along with Komari’s cloaking tech allowed the assassin to stay one step ahead of her pursuer.

She took a moment to gather herself, her patience, her tolerance, her composure and… her courage.

She flicked on the communicator.

It took less than a second. But Sidious’ face appeared in flickering blue infront of her.

“Report,” he demanded.

She took a breath. No way around it, he would be displeased. But at least she was here, far from the reach of his lightning.

“Amidalla’s dead,” she said, deciding to lead with the good news. “The other two couldn’t be reached.”

Immediately, she felt the hand grasping at her throat, her windpipe being sealed shut. She clawed at her neck, both physically and in the Force, but his grip was raw iron, unyielding and unbreakable, regardless of her frantic efforts.

“No,” he hissed as her blood throbbed in her ears and her lungs burned. “You have failed utterly. Amidalla still lives.”

She gasped, or tried to. Her lungs burned as her vision began to swim. “I- killed-”

“A double. An expendable, worthless tool. Much like yourself.”

Her brain grew fuzzy, her hands that had been clawing at her neck slowed, then went limp, her vision growing dark, her lungs burned. It was agony.

She wondered, distantly, if she was going to finally die here. If he’d finally finish it.

She found she wasn’t as afraid as she thought she was at that idea.

Then; the grip vanished, air rushed back into her lungs with a gasp followed by bone rattling, convulsing coughs.

“Return to Coruscant. I must now make adjustments for your failures,” he sneered, his image flicking off.

She remained there, hacking and wheezing. She yanked the mask off of her face, a line of drool falling from her lip as she choked on her own screams and tried to convince herself she wasn’t sobbing as black, boiling hate bubbled in her heart like a rotting stew.(X)(X)(X)As I'm sure *no one* could have guessed; Dennis has some strong moral and ethical opinions regarding slavery.Turns out fighting against slavers for a decade will turn you into a bit of an advocate :pAnd now he's gone for a walk.An enthusiastic walk. LETS SEE WHERE HE WINDS UP :DFor those of you interested, here's a discord link to discuss the latest chapters and future chapters with your fellow patreon goers (You might also get a teaser at some upcoming artwork) https://discord.gg/nFuHhRkyThank you all again :)