Chapter 1
Muffled, watery voices float in and out of the warm darkness that surrounds the child. There is a beep, loud enough that the child absently wonders what it is. The beeping continues, bubbles rising up and bursting against the edges of the darkness that holds it. Something like a sucking noise startles the child, and the warm darkness it was surrounded by falls away, replaced by cold and bright, white light.
The first thing it notices is the change in temperature, texture. Cool air floods its lungs. It tastes dry, the complete opposite of its previous environment, so it inhales again through its nose.
"Airways are clear."
The child's eyes snap open and are immediately met with a burning sensation. Something drips into its eyes and it tries to rub it away, but the burning turns into a stinging and worsens. He whimpers, startled by the pain and the voice that had come seemingly out of nowhere.
"Step down."
The child, somehow, knows what those words mean, but they are not as smooth and muffled as what it had heard while still in the darkness. They feel fake and unwelcoming.
Still blind, eyes still burning, it shifts its feet out until it feels a dip, a slope with enough traction that it doesn't slip and fall down. Bracing its small hands on the solidity beneath it, it stands and flails around, searching for something to catch itself before its wobbly legs give out.
"Take your time."
The child slows its descent and eventually comes upon flat, even ground. It is aware of a light passing in front of its face but can't tell what it is. It shivers from something other than cold, something deeper and more primal. Being unable to see, unaware of its surroundings or what was talking to it causes an unpleasant feeling to settle in its stomach.
Something speaks, different from what had been monotonously giving commands up until that point. Their voice is soft, smooth, and reminds the child of the fluid it had just been released from. "Open your eyes, child."
The child obeys and is blinded by a bright light. Squinting does nothing to stop the brightness, so it tries it's best to block the light with small fingers. Something wavers behind the light, something long and slender. The child believes it is where the voice is coming from.
"Can you speak?" the voice asks.
The child, unused to so many sensations, jolts violently when a needle is pushed into the soft skin of it's arm. Overwhelmed by the cold, the lights, and the pain, it begins to cry.
"This will not do," a deeper voice says, so unlike the fakeness of the first and smoothness of the second. This one is grating, frigid like the floor and not nearly as soft or gentle as the one that had called it "child". The child imagines the owner must look the way the voice sounds.
"He is just scared. Come here, young one." A hand pushes against his back and guides him across the cold floor. He is still crying, although much softer this time. The warm tears roll down his cheeks, but he doesn't know to wipe them away.
With clearer eyes and the bright light gone, the child can look at his surroundings. He sees crystal clear pods in the large circular room, each either holding or releasing other children. They form rows that curve with the perimeter of the walls, each ring growing smaller and smaller.
Bluish liquid drains from a pod nearby with a loud gargle that startles him. The recently released child stumbles and falls to the ground, immediately bursting into tears while an odd, mechanical thing with arms and legs rushes to help him up. He is just as naked and confused as the rest of the children, but only a few speak as they make their way around the gentle curve of the room.
The owners of the voices peer down at him, one with a small rectangle in its hands. It has large, yellow eyes and a crest that makes it look taller than it really is. Its small head moves with grace when it turns to its companion, similar and size and shape. "Take these ones to the showers. I will finish up."
By the time the child makes it full circle with the tall, slender person, there are about 30 other children behind him, gathered in a small bunch but not quite touching. the wetness that had covered them when they first exited the pods was drying and becoming sticky. Experimentally, the child sticks his small hand to his chest and marveled at the resistance when he pulls it away. He does it again and again, across his arms and legs. Next to him, another child copies his actions.
"You will be allowed to shower soon. We just have to take some measurements," the tall person says. "Come here please."
The children obey, stepping through a set of doors into a clean, white room. There is a heavy smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. The child is lead to a small chair, still naked, and told to sit, which he does. Another one of the stiff, mechanical people with glowing eyes holds the child's arm, pressing a needle to the skin and injecting a clear liquid. The child jumps and cries again, unable to hold back the tears. He is not the only one to wail, but he tries his best to not to whimper when he receives three more shots.
Next, they are weighed and measured. An orange beam of light passes over each of them, slowly going down and then up. It beeps and flashes green when it's finished. The children all wait while the mechanical person operating the scanner moves through the group, slowly scanning each child. Without warning, the light flashed red and gave a low beep.
"Try again," the person says.
The mechanical person obeys, and the light flashes green. The child doesn't know what would have happened if it had been red again, but he imagines it wouldn't have been anything good. He's glad his result came out green.
"Come now, hurry," the person says. The group is lead through another set of doors into a warm, steamy room. The child's skin prickles with the sudden heat. "Rinse yourselves off and come to me when you are done. There are droids here if you need assistance."
The child eyes one of the "droids" as it hands out soap. He accepts the small bar and sponge but isn't quite sure how to use them. He doesn't say anything, however.
Water streams from shower heads lining the walls. The child experimentally sticks his hand in the water and is delighted to feel it's warmth and gentle pressure. He is the first to place his whole body under the shower and gasps at the shock of it. It feels nice and dissolves the stickiness that clings to his skin. The soap smells clean and he prefers it much more to the chemical scent of the previous room. He rubs the soap in his hair as best he can to get rid of the lingering stickiness.
The other child, the one who had mimicked him when he was patting himself, stands under the shower to his left. His stubby fingers comb through his hair as the drains gurgle with the soapy runoff from his body.
The first child watches and matches his movements, pulling on his dark, wavy hair. He rubs the injection sites on his arm and flinches when they protest.
"You have two minutes," the person says.
The child is moving to rub down his legs when a tiny hand reaches out and grabs a fistful of his hair. It isn't rough; he's not forced to tilt his head to relieve any pain. The two children lock eyes and neither moves for a moment. Then, the boy feels the grip on his hair lessen a bit.
"Soft…" the child says, almost barely audible above the showers' steady noise. His golden brown eyes look in something akin to wonder at the other child's hair. He gently strokes the other's head, smoothing down a small section. "It's soft."
"Time is up," the person says. The showers automatically shut off without so much as a provocation. The children follow the person through yet another set of doors and into another warm room, this one dry with floors that aren't wet or cold. The person beckons a child forward to a spot in the room.
Two narrow columns stand on either side of a black square on the floor, and there are many others like it. When he stands on the black square, it sets off a blast of warm air that dries his skin. He yelps in surprise but doesn't cry. Bending his head, he dries his hair in one of the blasts of air and moves on, accepting a small bundle of clothing from a waiting droid.
"You will split up into three groups and dry yourselves off. When I come back, I want all of you dressed and lined up by the door."
The children don't say anything but obey immediately, a few splitting off and stepping onto the trigger pads. The sound of multiple driers going off fills the room.
There is no conversation.
The child touches the spot on his head where the other had grabbed his hair. Soft. He knows what that means. Soft is his skin, or the person's voice, and apparently soft is his black hair. He wonders what else is soft, and if he'll be able to feel it.
Soft, however, doesn't quite describe the clothing he is given. The shirt is long-sleeved and deep purple, made of a smooth material. It contrasts nicely against the whiteness of the room, and he appreciates the chromatic change in pace. The child pulls it over his head, admiring the way it looks on his body and the other children around him. Next is a pair of grey underwear and darker grey pants, and grey socks. He doesn't like their colors and wishes they were also purple. He pulls on black boots that almost reach his knees, using assistance from a droid to help get them on properly. There are no mirrors, but the child can guess how he looks based on what the others are wearing.
As ordered, they line up by the door and wait. The droids leave through a narrow side door.
The hair puller stands behind the child. His hand grips the child's and he squeezes back, not letting go even when the person walks into the room. On instinct, he stands up straighter.
"Turn and face me," the person says. "I will ask each of you a question, and I expect you to answer clearly. If you understand, say 'yes ma'am'."
"Yes, ma'am," the children say in unison. Now that they are facing forward, shoulder-to-shoulder, the child and the hair puller drop their hands.
"Ma'am?" one child speaks up. He says the word like it's a name. "Are you male or female?"
"Do not speak out of turn," Ma'am says. She blinks her large, yellow eyes, staring at each of the children in turn. "I am female, but speaking out of turn will not be tolerated here. Understood?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"You will soon learn that there are rules you have to follow," she says. "You do not talk back to your superiors. You have a duty that is higher than most other beings', and you will risk your lives to fulfill it."
"Yes, Ma'am," they all say. The child isn't quite sure what "duty" is, and he gets the feelings none of the other children are sure, either.
"You are not civilians," she continues. "You are clones; soldiers, stronger and far superior to any regular human both physically and mentally. You are faster and smarter, but you are not to forget that you have orders." She pauses as if expecting a question, and she gets it.
A child raises his hand. "What are our orders, Ma'am?"
"To serve and fight for the Republic; it is why you all were created. You will be its backbone and protect its people."
Another hand, another question: "What is the Republic, Ma'am?"
"The Republic is the government you are all fighting for. The Republic stands for justice, peace, and for democracy. Your duty is to give your life if you have to in order to fight for freedom. Failing to pass exams, to perform consistently at your peak, to fight and give your all for the Republic will result in termination. You cannot desert," she says. The hardness in her faces makes it clear that there are no exceptions. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Ma'am!" The child feels a sort of jitteriness in his system. Their duty must have been important for Ma'am to put such emphasis on it. They couldn't even leave, which meant that they were needed.
Ma'am walks to the front of the line, her long legs swinging in languid fluidity. "Clone," she says, towering above the first child. "What is your number?"
He speaks without hesitation. "CT-eight-four-one-nine, Ma'am," he responds promptly. Ma'am nods and moves on to the next child.
"And you?"
"CT-one-zero-one-zero, Ma'am," he answers. When Ma'am nods, the little boy straightens with pride.
She continues down the line, asking each child his number and nodding when he answers correctly.
"CT-three-six-three-six, Ma'am."
"CT-eight-eight-two-six, Ma'am!"
As Ma'am slowly makes her way down the line, the child begins to feel as if his insides are shaking. It isn't quite a stomach ache, but the uncomfortable feeling is accompanied by his heart suddenly pumping faster and a prickly feeling in his armpits that prompts him to squirm. When Ma'am is three children away, he can identify what he's feeling: fear.
Ma'am had gone over the consequences of disobeying orders, of not performing to the standards or beyond, or failing at their duty-a word the child had yet to fully understand, but knew the importance of.
The children were the best of the best and should act like it, she'd said. Insubordination would not be tolerated. Slacking off would not be tolerated. Weakness, fear, failure would not be tolerated.
But what if the child failed to properly recite his number? Would he be forgiven, or would he be terminated, like Ma'am said? He does not fully know what "terminated" means, but something deep inside his tiny body knows it is unpleasant and likely painful, more so than the shots he received.
Ma'am is in front of the hair puller now, peering down at him with her large, yellow eyes. "What is your number?"
"CT-two-two-two-four, Ma'am," he says.
And then Ma'am is on front of him, giving him that same chilling look that clashes so fiercely with her soft voice. "And you? What is your number?"
Can she see him shaking? Is that why she blinks at him the way she does and tilts her head? The child opens his mouth and for a very terrifying second, nothing comes out.
When he speaks, it is not nearly as loud as 8826. "My number is CT-seven-five-six-seven, Ma'am."
Ma'am nods and moves on to the child next to him. Her voice melts away behind the frantic buzz of blood rushing in his ears. Strangely, he gets the cold feeling in his fingers again and his legs shake, but it's as if it's all being...released. 7567 feels a strange gladness that he recited his number without issue, that he wouldn't be slated as deficient, at least not for now.
This is more or less a "teaser" for a Captain Rex novel I'm writing with another person (from Tumblr). We want to see how it takes to the general crowd before we try to get any official Star Wars publishers to accept it.
So, tell me how you like it! We're currently accepting any and all critiques at the moment, considering how we want this to be perfect.
~AAx