Armistice

Scene 37

Phiatalleika Esoro wandered the elliptical corridors of Tipoca City's central hub, flitting away down adjacent passages whenever one of the elegant, surreally tall natives of the planet swept toward her, their glimmering garments swishing softly as their long limbs carried them regally along their way. She hid in a storage closet once, too, just like a clandestine operative in some cheap holo-drama. She had to smother a giggle with one hand as she crouched amid the cleaning droids and packages of nameless steri-wrapped appliances. If only Master Che could see her now!

She raised a hand to tug at her bun, only to remember that her thick ebony hair was now twisted into the far more practical plait recommended by Master Kenobi. With a straightened spine, she opened the door on silent pistons and peeked out into the now abandoned concourse. Which way? She had been charged with finding someone who was not a Kaminoan, a staff member perhaps…

And then it occurred to her. Staff here would not likely be on the public levels, or even the main laboratory complex. She needed to find the guts of this operation, the inner workings that kept any huge institution running. Why, even the Jedi Temple had kitchens and a vast laundry, water cycling and ventilation maintenance systems. And people to run them, and to fix the droids that did the most menial labor. And, by the same immutable but seemingly universal law of architectural symbolism that set the Council Chamber high atop the loftiest spire, those functions were all relegated to the basements, to the realms beneath the Temple's massive edifice that clung more closely to earth than sky.

Tipoca City might be the same. She needed to get to the underwater sections.

A hurried search of the nearest intersections and gleaming white alcoves at least yielded fruit: a large lift which carried her down, down beneath the surface of the undulating waves. Its curved transparisteel wall afforded her a view of the darkening realm without as she descended: salt spray disappeared and was smothered in liquid greens and blues, striating shafts of light quickly fading to a uniform indigo, a murk in which exotic forms darkly flowed. Before her wide eyes, a beast of monstrous proportions – a leviathan of scale and beak, sides flanged with leathery wings – frolicked and then sank back into the obscurity of the oceans depths. So distracted was she by the sight of primordial sea life that she did not even hear the soft chime of the lift compartment as it hit bottom.

She paid for her inattention severely. Mental shields slackened by childish curiosity, she was struck full in the face by the muted anguish rolling through the Force, that same sickening perversity that stained the plenum everywhere in this place. She gasped and reeled back against the smooth wall outside the lift, struggling to reestablish her equilibrium. This was not the pain of individuals, the suffering she was well trained to channel, ameliorate, succor and combat; this was the other, the inexplicable - the torture of Life itself, wrought on a grand scale. It took her several minutes to recover, and even then dark spots swam before her eyes.

"Ah, excuse me, Miss. Are you all right?"

It was a kind voice, one rasping and untutored, but conveying a remarkable fortitude and gentleness of spirit. Phia looked up, to find herself face to face with the oddest creature yet: a clone.. or a parody of a clone. He was…older… perhaps even an old man, unlike any of the others she had seen. And beyond this, he was deformed – a hump pulled his spine into a pitiable curve, forcing his stooped shoulders down and forward, and thrusting his aged head out like a tortodon's. His twinkling brown eyes peered out at her from beneath heavy lids, and the age lines were apparent in his deep olive skin. One gnarled hand was just plucking at the hem of her robe sleeve, solicitous but not disrespectful. He was dressed in nothing but a standard grey unisuit, and emblazoned on the sleeve of this drab uniform was the simple designation "99."

Phia warmed to him immediately, the Force surging in concord with her sentiment. A friend, an unlikely but sure ally. "Yes, yes, thank you. I'm sorry.. I just need a moment to adjust." Would he raise the alarm? Report her to a superior?

But the clone whose only name seemed to be his abbreviated serial number merely gazed upon her in wonder, much as she stared back at him. Their eyes, old and young, twinned pools of amber brown, met in a realization to which only one of them could give any rational voice.

99 shone in the Force – dimly, softly, to be sure – but shine he did.

Phia's sharp intake of breath startled her kind interlocutor, for he straightened as best he could and craned his head over one shoulder, tendons in his neck popping out like twisted cords. "Over here, then, Mess hall's empty this time of morning. Let me call you someone to help if you're ill."

"No, no, I'm fine," Phia assured him, echoing Master Kenobi's favorite mantra. "I'm simply new to your home… it takes some getting used to."

99 shrugged this away, his mentality limited perforce to those aspects of existence deemed most important by his engineers… or perhaps not. For even as he shepherded her into a nearby hall, his gait shuffling and uneven, there was a defiant glimmer of interest lurking beneath the artificially smooth contours of his mind, a razor-thin legacy of that Light in which he claimed the barest share. "You with another Service Corps intern group, then?"

To lie outright was distasteful. But Phia had learned a few things by way of example on this mission. "I am a learner, yes."

99 sat beside her, a strange enchantment binding them to one another. Possibly he felt, but could not understand, an affinity with his visitor, the beacon call of Light to Light, that ephemeral but real connection existing between every Force-wielder and his or her brethren, however humble. "Well, you aren't supposed to be down on this level. Nothing here but my brothers and me and the mess and lavatories." He chuckled, a wheezing excrescence of mirth. "I expect you got muddled with the lift system."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure that's it. Just give me a moment and I'll be on my way… so there are many Service Corps groups here?"

99 appeared more than happy to have a companion with whom to chat. His existence – as a menial servant, she surmised – must be monotonous indeed, trammeled in on all sides by the dreariest predestination imaginable. "Oh no," he prattled, amicably. "Last one was a few months ago. Nice folks, too. Met one of the students… name escapes me. Shee? Shah? Shu? – Smart fellow, much smarter than me. But he came down and passed the while with me. After duty shift, of course I always fill my role. My brothers depend on me, and I will never let them down."

"How lovely," Phia murmured, subtly encouraging.

"He was a lab tech, always doing things up on the generation decks. He even let me help him with one or two experiments." His chest swelled with pride. "I may not be good for much, but I'm one of the first Batch. That's my number there, see? 99. One of a hundred, I was. Not all of us made it." He shook his head, morosely. "Only me left of us, and a handful of others. All officers now, my batchmates that made it."

There was something important here, the young apprentice healer understood. The Force swirled, urging her to attend. What statement among the rambling discourse was the vital clue she did not know, and so she merely committed it all to memory. Master Kenobi would surely know what gem to mine from this indifferent ore.

"Yes," 99 continued, "They keep me on because I'm dutiful. I'll never let my brothers down. I can still serve, even though I got some dents and quirks. That fellow understood. He was a bright one, like you. There's something similar about you, can't say what. He used my blood sample for his experiment, see. Because I'm a first-batcher. My chromo-somethings are good and strong, almost as good as the venerable Fett himself."

Phia nodded, dark intuition making a strong plea for her attention. "Your genes – they were only replicated once, and so their integration factor is probably close to 99 percent."

The malformed clone nodded, content to allow the technical terms to slide off his mind like rain droplets off polished steel. "99. That's me," he grinned, displaying a row of charmingly crooked teeth.

"How long ago were you… born?" Phia ventured.

But the question proved too difficult. "Oh, lots of years," her new friend replied, after a tentative hesitation. "I'm from the beginning."

"Of course, " she smiled, weakly, her heart breaking for this poor, loyal, bright being who had no beginning and no end but that granted him by the cool technicians above.

"Let me show you the way out – and how the lifts work," 99 offered, creaking clumsily to his over-large feet and holding out a gallant hand to her.