Star Wars: A Clone's Tale/Chapter One

CT-01/319 sat at the table eating with the others of his batch. 19 was poking at his at the nutrient capsules, not really interested in eating at the time. He briefly gave a glance to his brethren and looked back down at his meal. There wasn't much to look at anyway. 19 looked exactly identical to 76 next to him who was identical to 34 next to him. All of the boys had the same curled hair and dark skin. 19 was a clone, just like all his brothers. They were all clones bred for a single purpose. They were bred for war. They were part of an army. Ever since they were birthed, they had been training for combat.

Up until he was four years old, 19 had been set down in front of a holo monitor being taught about different weapons, tactics, trooper armor, vehicles, all kinds of things that they would be working with in their army. At the age of five, his teachers started 19 and his brothers in on simulations of sorts. That was almost a year ago, and at first they were simply exercises with dismantling and reassembling powered down rifles, but very quickly they escalated to firing drills and target practice. Some of the most recent simulations involved targets that shoot back. 19 still had a bruise on his arm from taking a shot.

45 was recounting a mishap in one of their sims over the meal, "So it's me and the target, he's drawn a bead on me. I have six shots left, and, obviously, it's the firing range, there's nowhere to get cover, so I'm left with something of a dilemma. If I lash out with all the shots I have left, I've used all ammo and I fail the sim. So I get the best idea I can think of: fire after he does and hope I get him. Well, somewhere, my brain mixed up the signals and I took the shot. I fired three shots a split second before the target did and nailed it square in the center. But now I've got a stun blast coming at me and nothing to block it with, so I drop to the floor, flat on my face, and the shot misses me by a kilometer." 45 was being his usual egotistical self. Even though they were all clones of the same person, each one still had a reasonably individual personality, possibly from the gestational wetware training in the cloning pods.

19 had had enough of 45's self absorption long ago, but was getting tired of holding it in, "About how you've gotten most of your scores, 45. By accident."

45 put down his fork and looked at 19, "Well, excuse me if we can't all be perfect soldiers, 19." 19 didn't have many friends among his clone brethren because he spent long hours studying, practicing, and prepping. The resulting extra work had made 19 a dead eye marksman, strong fighter, and brilliant tactician. This was the cause of much conflict between 19 and several members of his batch as well as other batches.

19 dropped his fork on his tray and stood, "Doing your best for a good cause isn't reason for strife, 45. Breaks up unit cohesion." He walked away, leaving 45 with his food and his thoughts. He deposited his tray at the return slot and left the dining hall for his quarters. On the way, he was joined by two Kaminoans, the long-necked, skinny inhabitants of the planet on which he currently lived. The taller of the two was Taun We, something of a secretary for the whole of the Tipoca City cloning facility.

She spoke with her graceful voice in a somewhat rehearsed tone, "319, I remind you that there is a strict schedule to be kept and you must stop leaving activities before the set end times.

19 had heard this many times before, "I'm well aware, ma'am. I'm simply not hungry right now."

Taun We sighed, "You also know then your lunch rations will be withheld and cannot be accessed later in the day. That's vital nourishment you've lost, 319."

"Once again, I'm aware, ma'am."

"Very well. Just be on time to the next activity." Taun We turned down another hall and left. The other Kaminoan stayed with him. This was Zalma Far. He had been working the Tipoca City labs for a long time and, for reasons unknown, had taken a shine to 19. He often hung around with him, offering little tidbits of advice from time to time.

19 made no effort to hide his problem, "How am I supposed to get along with everyone in my unit with stuck-ups like 45 in it?"

"No one's asking you to get along with him, 19." Zalma stated very bluntly, "We're just asking you to work with him."

19 snorted, "I'm not sure I can do that either."

Zalma grabbed the clone by his arm and stopped them both in the hallway, "Well you had better find a way to, soldier." Zalma Far only called 19 "soldier" when he really meant what he said and was trying to press a point.

He continued on, "I've always been very honest with you, 19, you know that, and I'm not going to stop now. You were designed to be expendable. Your whole purpose is to fight and die. 45 can be arrogant all he wants. When he reaches his first combat, that will more than likely change. If his personality doesn't recess with the combat training activating, then he might be killed. One way or another, you'll be rid of the parts of him you don't like."

19 never really wanted to accept that idea. He didn't like the idea of being expendable. In all practicality, the entire clone army was well-trained, well-armed, hard-to-kill cannon fodder. The only clones who weren't meant to fight and die were the commandoes, who were trained to be perfect killers. 19 just wasn't blessed enough to have been birthed as one of them. He was a trooper, a drone, more meat for the grinder. That was why 19 put in the extra hours he did. He determined long ago that, even though he was expendable, that didn't mean he had to be dispensable. He did his best to be the best at everything. One thing Zalma had told 19 was the instincts of cowardice and fear had been genetically spliced out of all the clones and replaced with a regulated focused aggression. 19 couldn't shirk combat literally to save his life. Combat was his life; it was bred into him. So to prolong his life, the best way to keep alive and be indispensable is to be better than the enemy and kill him before he kills you. As far as anyone knew, except among the commandoes, this was a unique mentality among the clones. Taun We and Lama Su wished they could find whatever genes spurred it and duplicate them in the rest of the troops, but were sadly compelled to rely on the training programs for that. 19 had long ago determined in his mind that if he was going to be cannon fodder, he was going to be the hardest-to-kill cannon fodder he could be.

Zalma placed a hand on 19's shoulder. That wasn't hard, since the top of 19's head only came to the top of Zalma's skinny waist. All of the clones in the army were chronologically half their mental and physical ages due to the growth accelerators.

"Not everybody likes the roles they are put in, 19. Yours just tends to be the more thankless of them. But for those others who are in that role with you, you have to learn how to function with them, not agree, function with them to accomplish that role to the best of your ability. Always remember that." The Kaminoan smiled, "I'll have your lunch capsules under your pillow for you tonight. Keep them out of sight, or I'm in trouble."

"You only do that if tomorrow's training is going to be especially hard."

Zalma smiled again, "I think you'll find it challenging and rewarding."

The PA system blared throughout the hall, "Gamma unit, report to Briefing Chamber B12. Repeat: Gamma unit, report to Briefing Chamber B12."

Zalma released 19's shoulder, "That's you. Better get going. You don't want to be late."

19 looked up at the Kaminoan and smiled, "Thank you, sir." With that comment, the clone turned down the hallway to his assigned activity.