The alarms ringing galvanized him to action, causing the armored man
to leap into the air and fire off his jet-pack. Unfortunately it also
caused him to crash to the floor from the great height of a foot and a half
above the ground. He shook his head disgustedly... just a dream. It had
just been a dream, and the alarm he had heard in his mind was really the
impatient screaming of his son.
Not really his son. The child Boba wasn't his son, but a clone, a perfect reproduction of him made at his own demand of the cloner Kaminoans. No age accelerations, independence blocks, or any sort of genetic modifications had gone into this child. It was a perfect reproduction of himself, the key to immortality if he was so inclined. Given to him to raise at 'birth,' or what passed for it in the cloning cylinders, the Kaminoans had had nothing to do with the child beyond providing him with food, clothing, medication as needed. It was up to Jango to provide the rest.
He supposed he didn't mind too much. It wasn't as though it was really that much of a burden... the Kaminoans provided care when he went off to do a job, and there was no woman at home to complain of his inattentiveness. Otherwise the baby was relatively quiet, or at least seemed so as far as those things went. Jango hadn't really had much experience with babies. His own childhood had ended in blood and fire, and he had been orphaned before he could know any brothers or sisters.
But these three am wakeup calls were really starting to get on his nerves. Not to mention the smell. He'd never realized how unbelievably offensive human waste could be until he found himself unexpectedly saddled with a tiny human that made messes at both ends. He also hadn't realized how piercing some sounds were until they ruptured his eardrums at irrational hours of the morning, and any hour of the day or night it felt inclined to bother him. Intellectually, Jango knew that it wasn't the kid's fault it was too young to operate any sort of food processor. Instinctively he just wanted to shut the kid up, however it had to be done.
Jango staggered through the tiny door, grumbling as he miscalculated the width and slammed into the doorframe with his shoulder. As smooth and coordinated as he could be on the job, somehow being woken up in the middle of the morning by a hungry baby made him lose all ability to maneuver. He managed to find the right buttons more by blind luck than any sort of skill. After a few minutes a heated bottle of something white he didn't want to think about too much popped out of a gap in the wall where normal adult food had been appearing for years before.
"All right, all right," Jango muttered, staggering over to the baby's alcove. "I'm coming." He picked up the baby awkwardly, still not entirely sure he was holding him correctly (actually he was holding the child more like a parcel or fuel canister than anything) and poked at its mouth with the bottle. The baby, more hungry than Jango was tired, grabbed it and began to make happy eating noises.
Jango stared down at the child as his eyes slowly began to focus and adjust to the dim light. He wondered, briefly, why he never was so incompetent and slow as he was when handling the child. Maybe this really wasn't something he was cut out for, but he was stuck with it if he wanted ...
Come to think of it, he didn't know what he wanted anymore.
It had sounded like a perfectly good idea at first. An heir, a son... a form of immortality. A perfect duplicate of him, raised by him, taught by him, presumably to grow up to be a better, stronger version of Jango Fett. But Jango was certain he hadn't been this loud, this messy, this... well, smelly. Was it possible that he could raise this squealing little shrunken little thing into a full-fledged bounty hunter? It didn't seem believable at 4:14 in the morning. He wondered if this was only a manifestation of his admittedly healthy ego. He wondered if he had been making a big mistake.
The infant burped, a noise that dragged him back out of his reverie. It was usually at this point that half of the contents of the bottle came back up, or the infant started squealing for something else, or both. Tonight, however, the kid was mercifully silent. Jango stared down, wondering if he really did know what he was doing.
"I'm not ready for this," he thought out loud. The kid burped again, as if agreeing with him, and squirmed a bit in Jango's arms. The man, nervous (as this usually meant the kid was about to make a mess at some end), began to hold the baby at arm's length. But the baby only squirmed a little, and made a tiny little squeak of a yawn. He stared up at the bounty hunter with big brown eyes, and the bounty hunter stared back at the tiny life in his hands. Life and death, and both being at the mercy of the hunter... this was not a new concept. That something should be so utterly dependent on him as a child, this was new.
The baby yawned again, only with the baby it wasn't so much a yawn as a squeak. Little Boba didn't have enough breath to take in a deep one and yawn it out in the expansive gestures that full-grown Jango made when exhausted. It struck the man as an epiphany, and he smiled slightly at the simplicity of it. Little Boba, making the faces and noises he had made before he had grown big enough to be a man.
And, Jango realized abruptly, it was his job to teach Boba how to be that man. Not just with lessons but by example. From this day on, every move he made and every word he spoke would be scrutinized by a more exacting authority than any he had served under in the past, or would serve under in the future. There was more here at stake than he had ever had before. This child was his not only for his own sake, but also the child's. Always the child, Jango realized now. He wouldn't abandon young Boba as he himself had been abandoned.
Young Boba, who was now asleep, Jango saw. And had probably been asleep for the last half hour. Jango stood, very slowly, so as not to wake the little boy. He might as well get some sleep too, while Boba was quiet and sleeping. Jango wondered what babies dreamed of; he didn't think he'd remembered a dream in his entire life, except perhaps the vivid nightmares from Concord Dawn. He put Boba back in the sleeping alcove, watched him for a little while longer before moving off to his own sleeping bunk. This time, he bumped into no walls, tripped over no wayward piece of armor. That might have woken young Boba, and from here on out that was something he would not do. Everything for the child, now, till Boba was grown enough to do things on his own. Everything in the name of his son.
Not really his son. The child Boba wasn't his son, but a clone, a perfect reproduction of him made at his own demand of the cloner Kaminoans. No age accelerations, independence blocks, or any sort of genetic modifications had gone into this child. It was a perfect reproduction of himself, the key to immortality if he was so inclined. Given to him to raise at 'birth,' or what passed for it in the cloning cylinders, the Kaminoans had had nothing to do with the child beyond providing him with food, clothing, medication as needed. It was up to Jango to provide the rest.
He supposed he didn't mind too much. It wasn't as though it was really that much of a burden... the Kaminoans provided care when he went off to do a job, and there was no woman at home to complain of his inattentiveness. Otherwise the baby was relatively quiet, or at least seemed so as far as those things went. Jango hadn't really had much experience with babies. His own childhood had ended in blood and fire, and he had been orphaned before he could know any brothers or sisters.
But these three am wakeup calls were really starting to get on his nerves. Not to mention the smell. He'd never realized how unbelievably offensive human waste could be until he found himself unexpectedly saddled with a tiny human that made messes at both ends. He also hadn't realized how piercing some sounds were until they ruptured his eardrums at irrational hours of the morning, and any hour of the day or night it felt inclined to bother him. Intellectually, Jango knew that it wasn't the kid's fault it was too young to operate any sort of food processor. Instinctively he just wanted to shut the kid up, however it had to be done.
Jango staggered through the tiny door, grumbling as he miscalculated the width and slammed into the doorframe with his shoulder. As smooth and coordinated as he could be on the job, somehow being woken up in the middle of the morning by a hungry baby made him lose all ability to maneuver. He managed to find the right buttons more by blind luck than any sort of skill. After a few minutes a heated bottle of something white he didn't want to think about too much popped out of a gap in the wall where normal adult food had been appearing for years before.
"All right, all right," Jango muttered, staggering over to the baby's alcove. "I'm coming." He picked up the baby awkwardly, still not entirely sure he was holding him correctly (actually he was holding the child more like a parcel or fuel canister than anything) and poked at its mouth with the bottle. The baby, more hungry than Jango was tired, grabbed it and began to make happy eating noises.
Jango stared down at the child as his eyes slowly began to focus and adjust to the dim light. He wondered, briefly, why he never was so incompetent and slow as he was when handling the child. Maybe this really wasn't something he was cut out for, but he was stuck with it if he wanted ...
Come to think of it, he didn't know what he wanted anymore.
It had sounded like a perfectly good idea at first. An heir, a son... a form of immortality. A perfect duplicate of him, raised by him, taught by him, presumably to grow up to be a better, stronger version of Jango Fett. But Jango was certain he hadn't been this loud, this messy, this... well, smelly. Was it possible that he could raise this squealing little shrunken little thing into a full-fledged bounty hunter? It didn't seem believable at 4:14 in the morning. He wondered if this was only a manifestation of his admittedly healthy ego. He wondered if he had been making a big mistake.
The infant burped, a noise that dragged him back out of his reverie. It was usually at this point that half of the contents of the bottle came back up, or the infant started squealing for something else, or both. Tonight, however, the kid was mercifully silent. Jango stared down, wondering if he really did know what he was doing.
"I'm not ready for this," he thought out loud. The kid burped again, as if agreeing with him, and squirmed a bit in Jango's arms. The man, nervous (as this usually meant the kid was about to make a mess at some end), began to hold the baby at arm's length. But the baby only squirmed a little, and made a tiny little squeak of a yawn. He stared up at the bounty hunter with big brown eyes, and the bounty hunter stared back at the tiny life in his hands. Life and death, and both being at the mercy of the hunter... this was not a new concept. That something should be so utterly dependent on him as a child, this was new.
The baby yawned again, only with the baby it wasn't so much a yawn as a squeak. Little Boba didn't have enough breath to take in a deep one and yawn it out in the expansive gestures that full-grown Jango made when exhausted. It struck the man as an epiphany, and he smiled slightly at the simplicity of it. Little Boba, making the faces and noises he had made before he had grown big enough to be a man.
And, Jango realized abruptly, it was his job to teach Boba how to be that man. Not just with lessons but by example. From this day on, every move he made and every word he spoke would be scrutinized by a more exacting authority than any he had served under in the past, or would serve under in the future. There was more here at stake than he had ever had before. This child was his not only for his own sake, but also the child's. Always the child, Jango realized now. He wouldn't abandon young Boba as he himself had been abandoned.
Young Boba, who was now asleep, Jango saw. And had probably been asleep for the last half hour. Jango stood, very slowly, so as not to wake the little boy. He might as well get some sleep too, while Boba was quiet and sleeping. Jango wondered what babies dreamed of; he didn't think he'd remembered a dream in his entire life, except perhaps the vivid nightmares from Concord Dawn. He put Boba back in the sleeping alcove, watched him for a little while longer before moving off to his own sleeping bunk. This time, he bumped into no walls, tripped over no wayward piece of armor. That might have woken young Boba, and from here on out that was something he would not do. Everything for the child, now, till Boba was grown enough to do things on his own. Everything in the name of his son.