Slick picked up the glass again and made sure it was empty then pushed the empty away. He didn't have many credits; clones didn't get paid. He couldn't afford a second drink but they'd let him sit there until someone paying wanted his table. He glanced around at the makeshift bar.
It was made from a tarp slung over a rubble wall of some bombed out building on one side and held by scavenged metal poles on the other. Light was provided by whatever was available; a large shard of mirror catching the dying sun, some candles, and a military issue lamp.
Black market, Slick thought absently. He should report it but he didn't feel like it.
The Jedi used the clones, but didn't care for them. Sometimes Slick wished he didn't know as much about the process of his creation as he actually did. The Jedi had bought the clones; purchased with the same nonchalance that they moved stuff around with the Force; whether or not the something wanted to be moved. They'd given the Kaminoans specifications, approve Jango Fett as the template, modified them to their needs without taking into account that these clones would grow to be independent men.
If given the time.
His squad wouldn't have the time. He'd lost them today.
All of them.
Teknik. Five clones strong and brave and true.
Ven. Five troopers under his leadership.
Knife. Five men who had depended on him.
Roan. Five brothers who would not return to the barracks.
Eighteen. His squad.
The worst part was he didn't even have a scratch or a scar to remember them by. Nothing on his body where he could point and say, 'I got this scar when my squad died; I bled when my squad died.'
Sure, the general had covered them with his light saber but in its own way, that was a weakness. You couldn't depend on it; you couldn't depend on the Jedi to maintain cover as he moved forward in some random pattern ignoring his own plans.
They'd been behind the General. The general just loping through the zone, Jedi-quick, as though he knew he was immortal. Slick and his brothers were behind the general, trying to keep up in spite of being neither Jedi-quick nor immortal.
Softly, he repeated it again. Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. Teknik. Ven. Knife. Roan. Eighteen.
He'd been saying that, repeating their names, like a litany since he'd come off the battlefield. Teknik, Ven, Knife, Roan, Eighteen. He could feel all the anger and hate and pain whirl inside him, something building inside him.
A woman came by, young, dark-haired, and pretty enough to make some dark hunger twist inside his gut. She paused and smiled at him, her eyebrows raised in a friendly question. He waved her by with his fingers and a downward glance. If he didn't have credits for a second alcohol then she was well out of his price range.
She moved on but not before giving a soft sigh at his good looks.
Give her time, he thought, she'd find plenty more like me. His fingers gripped the glass. Just like me.
Looking down at the table, he made his fingers let go of the glass. He didn't have the credits to pay for it if he broke it.
At the moment, he was the only clone in there. As far as he knew, he was the only clone aware of this makeshift bar. He was in armor, theoretically on duty, but they didn't care. They took his few credits. In trade, he drank their brew, as bitter and raw as his emotions.
Slick raised his eyes and watched the woman go with regret. He would have liked to go with her, put his arm around her waist, and let her head rest on his shoulder. He would have enjoyed talking to someone not a trooper, someone not a Jedi. He would have liked to go with her, enjoy her company – in some bed of her choosing or even just sitting here at the table, basking in the warmth of her smile. He gazed at the young woman as she spoke to another patron then they both walked away with his arm around her waist.
Slick couldn't get married even if he did find a woman who'd want to stay with him, barely distinguishable from his brothers. Marriage was for citizens.
He earned no credits, he'd been bought and paid for, modified to fit some perceived need; his entire life conscripted to fighting for the Jedi.
He'd received his few credits – enough for a solitary drink – for lifting some boxes. He'd seen an old man trying to move his belongings from one burnt-out building to another only slightly more stable. Slick had suggested the refugee center but the old man was stubbornly against giving up his independence. It had taken Slick, with his strength, only moments to move the boxes to the doorway. He had meant it as a simple kindness. The old man had pressed the few credits into his hands.
"I'll not owe anyone anything," he'd said, not accepting the gift Slick had meant.
Slick understood. Gifts could only flow between equals. Not between citizen and clone. Not between master and slave. The old food hadn't even realized he owe the GAR for the entire planet, for his life. There was no such thing as independence.
Slick had no say, had never had the chance to voice his thoughts to anyone but his squad. Teknik, Ven, Knife, Roan, Eighteen. Bright and brilliant, strong and fierce, they had often debated the Rights of Sentience or their contract or what they knew about Jedi.
"They can't all be this bad in group maneuvers and tactics," Roan had laughed as they had armored up and grabbed their weapons for the planned assault.
Slick shook his head. Had that only been yesterday?
Slick still had no say. Troopers weren't citizens. He couldn't work without citizenship except as a trooper. . He couldn't serve on a trial board nor be judged by citizens – he'd go before a military board composed of Kaminoans, Jedi and a few of his brothers so thoroughly brainwashed they wouldn't think about going against anything the Jedi said; no one who had any more concern than the tinnies about shedding clone blood.
Slick looked at the military lamp again. Some refugee had stolen it and sold it for a few credits – a clone wouldn't do that. Clones had no right to own anything, not even their own labor, and they never thought about stealing because stealing implied ownership. There was none of that in the GAR except by the Jedi. He was bought and paid for; he didn't even have the right to his own life – that belonged to the Kaminoans and to the Jedi. Perhaps that's why the Jedi were so callous. Clones weren't men, but merchandise in human form.
The Rights of Sentience didn't apply to them.
He'd lost his brothers today - Teknik, Ven, Knife, Roan, Eighteen - and Slick's heart ached.
It was getting dark and he'd have to report to Senator Organa. He heaved a sigh as he rose from the table and looked at his BARC speeder. They'd be getting reinforcements soon. He'd have a new squad, probably coming in tomorrow or the day after. It was barely enough time to mourn his first squad, the brothers who had come out of Kamino with him.
But mourning was for people – not clone merchandise.
The girl came back, alone, a bit mussed, and looked at him shyly. She made a small gesture with her hand, come here, and ducked behind the corner of the building half of the bar.
Slick followed her, cursing under his breath. It was probably a trap, a few citizens too proud or stubborn or di'kut to be refugees waiting to steal his non-existent credits or the med pack from his belt. He didn't care. He'd be glad to meet them and glad to take his anger out on living flesh. He picked his helmet off the table and went, his thumb stroking the inner rim.
She was there alone and she smiled as he came near her and Slick paused in caution. There were no others around and he drew nearer, close enough to smell her perfume. Her arms went around his shoulders, around his armor and her fingers slid behind his head. She leaned against him, her face turned up, watching his eyes, smiling at his confusion.
"I haven't got..." he began with a shake of his head.
"Sssh. This is a gift." Her lips softly touched his, though he was too surprised to kiss her back. To hold his balance as she leaned against him, Slick put one arm around her waist and his instincts brought her closer to him. She rained kisses on his face. When her lips touched his a second time, he reacted. He began kissing her back, hesitantly at first, then with eagerness. With all the want and sadness in his soul
Slick was dizzy and trembling when she put her hands on his face and slowed, then stopped.
"I have to go, now," was all she said. She was breathless and her eyes were wide. The pulse in the side of her neck quivered rapidly.
It took Slick several minutes of leaning against the building to regain his equilibrium.