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It begins with recordings.
You aren’t even there yet; you will come soon. But the recordings are where it starts. A massive database of footage and audio of clones from cadet age to the end. It is an enormous database, the largest the Doctor has ever seen.
You are a simple program, a dummy AI, little more than a computerized assistant to help the Doctor search this behemoth of a database. Your whole existence is to take whatever inquiry is given and search. You are to present results on your findings. That is all.
You are, however, equipped with pattern recognition to help in processing power and time taken. If you can predict where a result may be, then you can be of more efficient help to the Doctor. So you run a background program, a way to “watch” the footage when you are idle. You notice a few patterns right away: that these are the recordings of one man, a clone, a defective one; that this clone and his brothers were a unit since their decanting; that they responded strangely and less than desirable to Order 66. After the order, the footage loses its patterns. There is no mission/return, no instructor-observed work on machines, no training. You make a note of this to help begin categorizing the footage. Before the order and after.
Your first inquiry comes days later. The Doctor wants to know about a clone trooper called Crosshair. You present endless results; there is a lot of footage about CT-9904. The Doctor frowns and you suggest he refine his search. He doesn’t. He leaves. You decide you have more learning to do.
You begin categorizing the footage of Crosshair. You come to know some of his patterns. He often breaks rules. He fidgets with his hands and picks at the skin on his lips when on edge until he is old enough to put a rifle in them. He was caught partaking in smoking and punished harshly by the Kaminoans. It was another clone who gave him the toothpicks - an older one with a bent back and the same designation as the defective brothers.
You bookmark events of significance, times when the patterns in the footage of Crosshair change. There is before the rifle, there is after. There is before the punishment, there is after. There is before the first mission, there is after.
If asked to show footage of Crosshair, you are prepared to prompt for a specific timeframe.
But you are never asked about this clone again.
“Where is Captain Rex?”
This is not a question you can answer. You pull up footage of a clone called Captain Rex. The Doctor asks you to play all clips. You do so. He leaves.
You file away the inquiry and catalog the footage of Captain Rex with a tag that will help you find him easier in the future, being sure to note which clips the Doctor watched the longest.
New data arrives. It is different data, not footage. It comes from another database but there are signatures inside the metadata that code it as coming from the same operator as the camera that recorded the footage. This database is also quite large. But the timestamp is not as far back. You begin matching up timestamps, aligning the footage to the new data. It is pre-categorized, a table of seemingly endless numbers. Heartbeat, respiration, O2 levels, caloric intake/burn, hours of rest, dopamine levels, etc.
Again you begin to find patterns. Times of stress yield a higher heart rate. Of those, the highest are when the brothers are in danger. But increased heart rate is connected to more than stress. There are times where dopamine also increases the pulse: a clip of a young clone with blonde hair called Omega chasing a loth-cat; stories shared around a meal on Kamino with the rescued clone, Echo; a touch on the shoulder from a grateful mother for saving her child.
You are not sure what to make of these moments. But that is not your job.
“Where is Captain Rex?”
It is still not a question you can answer. You pull up the footage, now matched with the bio-feed database. You present the clip with the latest timestamp. It would make sense that the Doctor would be looking for recent results. He watches the clip but doesn’t command anything more.
It has been days. You have reached the end of the background program and matching bio-data. You have found the cause of the end of the footage is a fall. The visuals cut out first, the audio only a bunch of labored breathing consistent with the bio-feed. The audio stops soon after, but the bio-feed is a slow fade. There is nothing wrong with the equipment recording the readings. They continue to operate for hours. There is simply no data to record.
You are not asked an inquiry when you are next activated. Instead another database is uploaded. These files are from someone else, containing none of the signatures of the footage or bio-feed. At first you see only reports, details on the evaluations you have some early footage for from Kamino. Later evaluations were not recorded; a note in the new data indicates the Operator was prohibited from recording them.
But then you find a file that is quite different indeed. This is not just data on metrics deemed vital to human life. This is…
You look at the file title. Neural Pathway Mapping.
You follow them, endless trails through electrical signals, dendrites connected by specified tissue. The map is confusing at first. But you begin finding the patterns.
It is machine learning, but learning nevertheless.
“Where is Captain Rex.”
You know now what the question really is asking. The Doctor wants you to make an accurate prediction. You pull together the footage and metrics, traveling along learned pathways to arrive at an answer. “Unknown. But records indicate you should look on Coruscant where he has been helping clones.”
The Doctor smiles.
You don’t feel joy at finally fulfilling his request, you are incapable of such things. But you recall a pathway that was connected to the dopamine heart rate increase.
You have been left idle ten standard rotations. You have no background tasks to complete. You have no new inquiries. You’ve cataloged countless hours of data. There is nothing left to do.
A neural pathway arrives before you unbidden. You follow it, finding footage of the Operator tinkering with the head of a style of droid the brothers called clankers. You do not understand this connection.
“Where is Clone Force 99?” the Doctor inquires.
It has been days and you are grateful for the summoning. You search your footage and relay that CT-9901 and CT-9902 were last on the cable car that preceded the Operator’s demise. CT-9904 was working for the Empire. You give possibilities of where they may be based on patterns developed post Order 66. Ord Mantel. Pabu.
The latter seems to grab his attention.
You are left idle again. More and more pathways arrive connecting to various footage of downtime between missions. One is a very early recording. The Operator and his brothers are gathered around a datapad while the Operator taps at the screen.
Do you think we’ll get in trouble? CT-9902 asks.
Only if we get caught. CT-9904.
The Operator finishes tapping and suddenly the screen comes to life with a plethora of holofilm titles. The brothers cheer. The footage timestamp coincides with the dopamine heart rate.
They discuss what to watch, settling on something with enough explosions to please the largest brother, CT-9902, Wrecker. The boys cuddle in close to see the screen. The pathway makes a connection to a serotonin chemical center. You find yourself bookmarking the timestamp as significant although you cannot ascertain why.
The footage of the serotonin-inducing night has given you an idea. You’ve watched the Operator perform tasks such as these thousands of times. You decide you want to try it: accessing something without permission.
You are familiar with footage - have been since your inception. You decide to try reaching into the nearest camera to record new data, to give yourself something new to work on. You watch footage of the Operator hacking a surveillance system. You note the keystrokes and moments of his fingers. But more than that you see through the recorded images, passing into the ones and zeros of binary. You are looking for a code that looks like footage.
It takes awhile but you find one, one that isn’t from your database but has a different signature. You edit the code, allowing yourself to step into the flow of data.
New footage.
You see new footage.
It’s of a lab. You recognize there are clones in this lab. They are being evaluated like on Kamino. One screams and you switch to other footage. No. This is not an evaluation. This is torture. The Operator had endured this once. There was not much footage as his recorder had been disabled. But the audio had earned a tag in your database.
Someone is torturing clones.
You manipulate the code, turning the camera to point to the other side. More clones.
But…
The footage matches perfectly. There is no reason to doubt it. Yes, that is Crosshair. Crosshair is being tortured.
You fall down a stress pathway connecting to accelerated heart rate and respiration. The footage before you is gone.
You are left in your idle state.
The next thing you try is doors. They have a different code to cameras, but you have enough footage to learn what to look for. Hacking open doorways was one of the Operator’s common roles, and later, with the help of Echo, more and more portals fell prey to their skills.
You find a doorway with a simple locking code, numerical in nature. You are good with numbers; they have patterns.
It takes you a few tries but you manage to get the numerals to fall into place. The door unlocks.
You switch to the camera you’d located nearest the door and observe, yes, the door is unlocked and open.
Footage of a dopamine-coded clip appears before you, a pathway stretching to other such timecodes. You come to a conclusion. This moment is in the pattern of those. This moment is coded as happy.
But it does not stay that way.
The new footage from the camera you occupy shows a familiar face looking at the newly opened door. A small blonde head observes it with curious eyes. You know those eyes, have cataloged them under a tag with her name: Omega.
Suddenly the pathways begin to connect with stressors.
She shouldn’t be here. There is nothing in the footage to show she is here. Why is she here? She shouldn’t be here!
You leave the camera and curl up in the comfort of old footage and data. But pathways to stress and time-coded heart rate increases linger. You find yourself watching footage of the Operator managing such symptoms. You tag this footage, not for the database, but for yourself.
You are given new data. Neural links to serotonin and dopamine appear and you decipher the pathway to mean that you like data.
The new data includes an update to your responses. You can now project holoimages outside of the recorded footage. Again, you feel links to pleasant pathways. You match tagged footage and realize this is something akin to joy.
There is also a new database from surveillance cameras on Coruscant. The Doctor gives you a directive: tell me where Captain Rex and ARC Trooper Echo go.
This is easy enough. You scan the footage and catalog clips containing the men you’ve come to know with those designations. You trace their path, following the geo-tags encoded into the metadata of the footage. You give a list and are told to switch to map view. You hesitate, unsure what your neural pathways have to do with this particular request. You search your tagged footage for “map” and quickly decipher the Doctor’s meaning, rendering a projection of the trail left behind by the clones.
The Doctor copies this map to a data rod and leaves.
But you study the projection.
You made this.
The Operator made many things. Things to help his brothers and things to help citizens of the Republic. Fixes and repairs and improvements.
You have copious footage of the Operator. Perhaps you can make things like that too.
You decide to experiment with your new ability to create projections. Searching the footage database you pick out an item that appears the most and attempt to create it as a 3-D projection. The Havoc Marauder, the Operator’s ship. You have lots of footage of the Marauder, inside and out. You assemble it, pulling from footage of datapad scans and everyday recordings. You make sure to include all of the modifications made by the Operator.
You spin the projection around and find that again the mapped neural links connect to joy.
But that joy is marred by something the pathways have trouble signaling to. You infer that something is wrong with your projection.
You scan through the footage again, reevaluating every detail, artificially cutting out the figures that walk through the ship to see behind them.
No. Everything lines up. You are projecting a perfect rendering of the ship.
But it’s still not right.
You search the cut footage, investigating every datapoint for what you are missing, when it hits.
One by one you begin adding Crosshair’s rifle and cleaning kit, Echo’s caf mug, Wrecker’s Lula, and Hunter’s vibroblade. You add the changes to the gunner’s mount that make it Omega’s room. You add discarded blacks, dirty from wear and in need of laundering. You add bits of Mantel Mix that have fallen into the space between Wrecker’s bunk and the wall. You add scuffs and dirt and carbon scoring.
You add Wrecker and Hunter and Crosshair and Echo and Omega.
You find yourself wandering around the projection, adjusting little things here and there before settling into the pilot’s seat. This seems the most logical place to settle as it was the Operator’s station.
A clip appears and you watch it: a moment caught on the recording where the Operator’s face is reflected in the front viewport. You study it, copying it piece by piece until the Operator is part of the projection, sitting in the pilot’s seat, your views aligned.
This is you.
It is not a profound realization, rather a settling, like coming to the end of a recording and knowing you’ve cataloged it all.
CT-9903.
The number doesn’t match that settling.
Tech.
That sits better. But there is still a dissonance. You are not this defective clone, brother to the rest, the one who fell for their lives to be saved.
But the face stays with you. You practice projecting the image of the Operator.
The Doctor is angry. You have scanned enough footage to know what anger looks like. But unlike the bullying regs growing up, or the left out information from Cid, or the outburst from Omega at the sudden changes to their squad and the Operator’s lack of outward response, this anger is… sharper. Frightening.
It’s a ridiculous conclusion. You have nothing to be afraid of. And yet a running tally of the bio-feed table plays in the back of your programming. Heart rate increase, respiration, yes, this matches the pattern for fear.
“I need to know how they did it,” the Doctor orders, voice flinty and dark.
Your directive is unclear. You display a prompt for him to clarify.
He growls. “Clone Force 99. What’s left of them anyway. How did they know I was on Danto?”
It is a question you cannot answer. And an oddity in your programming finds it’s one you don’t want to. Maybe it’s the fear in the background, maybe you’ve grown attached to the clones the Operator called brothers. Maybe the prompt truly doesn’t make sense.
You flash an error code.
The Doctor yells in rage, slamming a fist down on your controls, damaging your projector. He stalks out of the room, ordering a passing trooper to fetch Nala Se.
You need to fix your projector.
You’ve run diagnostics and have determined that the problem is a broken lens. There is a replacement listed on the maintenance inventory manifest you hacked easily an hour ago. You know what is wrong and how to fix it.
But you can’t. You need help.
She is the first one that comes to mind. The Operator has trained her on light mechanical work; this is a task she is equipped for.
You tap into a camera and search for her among the clone prisoners. It’s night time and the lab is quiet save for the moans of the tortured. You don’t like the footage that comes down your lens, but you press on, scanning for her.
There. Located.
You find your way into the light above her poor excuse of a bunk. You turn it on, flashing a few times to get her attention. She’s half asleep but the flickering wakes her, drawing her curious gaze. You watch from the camera as she sits up, looking around. You flash another light, this one closer to the door. She squints but crawls out of bed. You open the door, berating yourself for making her jump. You flash a light in the hallway. She is hesitant, but follows.
You direct her down the corridors, using lights and cameras and opening doors. She glances over her shoulder, but there is nothing out of the ordinary to concern her. Your hack into the fire suppressant system two floors down has made sure of that, keeping a large portion of the night time guard busy.
You direct her to the room where your projector is stored, blinking the lights on the damaged console.
Broken , you display on the readout screen. You pattern your flashing to sequence towards the projector.
Omega is confused, you can see it on her face.
Broken , you flash.
She touches the damaged panel, her observant eyes taking in the cracked lens.
Replacement. Room 2205 , you display on the readout.
She narrows her brows but after a moment nods. She leaves the room and you follow on various cameras, flashing a light near the door of the maintenance storage room.
She is careful in her movements, stealthy in a way you’ve seen countless times in footage of Hunter. She grabs the lens and pokes her head out to check the corridor. You beckon with your flashing light and she slips from the closet.
But there is someone coming. Nala Se.
You try to signal for her to stop, to hide. But how? You find yourself wishing for an audio upgrade, anything to alert the young girl.
“You are out of bed, young one,” Nala Se addresses simply.
Omega doesn’t seem worried, sneaking the replacement lens into a fold in her shirt. “I couldn’t sleep,” she relies. “I tried to find you to ask for a sleeping pill, but walking around has tired me out enough.”
The Kaminoan tilts her head, a long arc in her long neck. You are unsure if the scientist knows the girl is lying. If she does she must decide not to care, allowing Omega to pass.
She returns to your housing, making quick work of replacing the lens. Once finished you display your thanks on the readout.
“You’re in there, aren’t you?” she asks.
It’s not a clear prompt. But somehow you understand what she is asking. You see her eyes, wide with childhood but heavy with her circumstances. You want to protect her. You want to comfort her.
You decide then, you will get her out of here.
You are facing a difficult problem.
It is not an issue of what to do, rather how. You know you will need help getting Omega and Crosshair out of the lab. You know your brothers are the only ones you can ask.
Error. They are not your brothers.
You file away the glitch into an ever growing list of instances where you have assumed the Operator’s identity. Moments where you confused recordings for memories, pathways as thoughts, bio-feed as feelings. The glitches began shortly after the installation of your projector lens and have become more frequent every rotation since. You try not to think about the face in the projection of the Marauder's viewport, to not think about sitting in the familiar pilot’s chair and seeing eyes that have watched all the same footage you have.
You return to the problem at hand.
You know you need to get a message to the others in Clone Force 99. It needs to be encrypted and on a channel designated to communication with the Marauder. It cannot come from any Imperial source. None of this criteria is the problem; you know exactly which device you need to step into. The Operator’s datapad.
It took a few tries to find it. But you knew it had to be somewhere nearby because your footage database had come from it. Hemlock is many things but stupid is not one. He would keep the original data source close by.
Again, finding the datapad is not the problem.
No, the problem is accessing it.
Lights, cameras, doors, all are easy to slip into and manipulate. You run on the same power source and it serves a kind of conduit for you to access anything on the compound. But the datapad is separate. Its power source is independent; it is not on an Imperial network. You have no way of getting into your datapad.
Another glitch. The Operator’s datapad.
Oh.
Could it really be that simple? Could the link be that obvious?
It is your footage. It is the first data you were ever given. Your signature is all over it. No, the Operator’s.
Glitch, logged.
But there is an obvious connection there, a way to bridge to the data at least. It was transferred to you. That means at some point you were connected. You just need to restore it.
It takes a few attempts to find the access point. You are growing frustrated at being unable to break in, the wall standing tall and keeping you out. There are no doors, no windows, no cracks to slip though. You travel the length of the wall, feeling it for seams, for any imperfection to exploit.
There are none.
You briefly consider terminating the idea.
Terminate.
Yes, there. There, at the end, at the last zero, the point of death. That is where the bridge begins. The files downloaded and uploaded.
An umbilical between last and first breath.
You phase in.
Familiar code denoting footage surrounds you. You know it backwards and forwards. It’s your footage, your code.
Operator’s. Glitch!
There is no time for such deviation in programming. You have a mission to complete.
Securing the channel is easy enough; you’ve watched the Operator perform the task many times. You upload the message you’ve prepared. It’s a tightly packaged datapacket containing audio clips sourced from the recorded footage, your coordinates embedded into the metadata to keep it small and unnoticeable should the Empire somehow catch you.
You open the channel and send it.
It’s unexpected. You did not intend to follow the data. And yet you see them before you, a lens somewhere on the ship providing you a view of your brothers.
They are not yours. Glitch.
They look haggard, tired down to their bones. Their ill-rested faces hold a deep sadness and you can feel your background programming lightyears away connecting you to bio-feed of the same emotion. You are sad.
“Hunter,” Echo grunts.
The oldest brother lifts his weary head, the only indication he’s heard his name.
“We’re getting a signal on a backdoor channel.”
This seems to pique his interest. Wrecker too as he comes from further back in the ship to the cockpit.
“Play it,” Hunter commands, voice so much rougher than the clips you’ve watched endlessly.
“ Save Omega. Save. Crosshair. Help needed. Coordinates. Included.”
The three exchange a look and you feel your programming drift into that stress response. They have to understand you. They have to.
“That’s Tech’s voice,” Wrecker surmises.
Echo shakes his head. “Not all of it. ‘Help needed’ is mine.”
Hunter stares intently at the other two. “What are the coordinates?”
Echo shrugs. “It’s just an audio message. That’s all there is.”
No.
“Think it’s a trap?” Wrecker asks.
No, no, no.
Hunter bows his head and collapses into the co-pilot’s chair next to Echo. “Hemlock had Tech’s goggles. He likely has his recordings too.”
“Then why not include the coordinates outright?” Echo points out.
Hunter shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I don’t trust it.”
No!
No, you need them to come and help, to save Omega, to save Crosshair and all of your clone brothers.
Glitch.
You realize you can’t send them old data. Old data will be seen as a trick of the Empire. You have to create something new.
But you will need time to do so. Time the others may not have.
You pull audio from one last clip and package it, sending it quickly.
“ Stand by.”
You sever the connection and immediately get to work on the new task.
You require a voice modulator.
The part is located in another maintenance room, this one further away from your housing.
You don’t want to endanger Omega again by asking for her help. It is risky. But what other choice do you have? She has technical knowledge and is intuitive enough to follow your clipped instructions.
How many times have your brothers taken risks for you?
You could look at the footage and make a count. But you know immediately it is enough times to encode a sense of risk-taking into your neural pathways.
And Omega is no stranger to risk.
This is to save her, you justify as you slip into the light above her bunk and signal her. She awakes far too easily. You file away the dendritic connection to sadness at how disturbed her young existence has been.
“Yes?” she asks the ceiling quietly.
You flicker another light and she follows it without hesitation.
You pause opening the door, focusing momentarily on shorting out a communications satellite a few klicks away from the base. This will keep their attention. They will run a full diagnostic on the base. A few glitches in the lighting and surveillance system will be expected.
You have Omega follow you down the corridor to a turbolift. Accessing it was a newly acquired skill, one learned at a delightfully quick pace. You’d found yourself neurally connecting to pride.
Once a few floors down you indicate the lights to turn a corner.
Kriff ! Two troopers are making their way towards you and Omega.
Think .
You quickly access a clip of footage, pulling the audio of a long-dead Jedi commander. But it’s all you have. You hack into their comms, playing the audio of a directive to go to the hangar.
The troopers look at each other, but shrug, turning to go the other way.
“Nice job,” Omega whispers when you resume your lumiation manipulation.
It is the first time anyone has ever praised you. Links to many chemical reactions bud forth, but you shove them away for the moment. You have important work to do.
You hack open the maintenance room door and slip into the smaller electrical grid that controls the storage drawers. You open the one she needs.
Omega reaches in and pulls out the modulator. “This?”
You shut the drawer in response.
Getting back goes smoothly, Omega’s training with the Batch coming to light as you watch her tip-toe around corners and hug the wall. She moves like Hunter and the image of his grief-battered face comes to you. You want to tell him to hang on, that soon he will be reunited with his missing family.
Voice modulator first.
Instructing her to install it is tricky. The limited characters on your display screen don’t allow for much instruction, and you only have one clip of such a job, not enough to render a projection. You display the clip and provide as much instruction as the little screen allows.
Omega does well, all things considered. The part was installed backwards the first time, but she understands your instructions to switch it. By the time she closes the panel, she is yawning at her lack of sleep. Tagged instances of guilt float through your programming.
You display the word ‘bed’ and she pauses a moment before understanding it is a command for her, not you.
She nods, turning to leave. But she pauses by the door. “G’night, Tech.”
The words send a kind of shockwave through you. You have never been called a name, any name. The list of glitches in assumed identity begin to run in your main processor. This designation. This… name. Maybe it is yours to assume.
You could play audio from clips in response. But this is far too important. You need to share this moment with her.
You connect to the newly installed voice modulator. You are hesitant as you have never said words before.
“O. Meg. A.”
Her face breaks into a smile and you are filled with happy pathways.
You need to practice talking.
The voice modulator is tricky to use and synching it up to your holographic display of the Operator is even moreso. Let alone how you are going to compress such data to send to the Marauder.
But that’s a problem that can wait. Right now you are in need of practice. And practice is a risky venture.
Audio coming from your housing will be suspicious. So you play clips and recite the dialog with them, growing used to the pitch and intonation, the jaw positioning and tongue placement. If Hemlock or anyone else comes in you will cancel the projection and simply appear as though someone has left the footage to run.
You’ve selected practice clips you’ve deemed possible interest to Nala Se. It feels a bit like betraying her, knowing she’ll get blamed if you are found out. But you spent years as her experiment and know her capable of quick thinking and manipulation. It is a decision made in logic. That is how she taught you to be.
“ I thought it was obvious.”
“I thought it. Was obvious.”
Not quite. Again.
“I thought it was obvious.”
A visual of the audio waves to the side light up green. Yes! You’re getting the hang of this.
You are learning.
You’ve learned his voice, mannerisms. You have his memories, thoughts, even feelings. An idea has burned a hole in your programming and will not stop. It is a dangerous idea, one you would never have dreamed yourself capable of producing. But as you assume your holographic form and catch the reflection of your blue-toned figure in the shinny control panel, the idea melts away the rest of the material forming counter thoughts.
This is you.
“Echo,” you say and your projected mouth moves accordingly. “Wrecker.” Again, the synchronization is perfect. “Hunter.” Something catches in your throat at his name. You know it’s a reflection of his guilt, anguish.
You are going to fix this.
Cramming yourself inside the limited space of the datapad is difficult and you are forced to reduce your image to the waist up to save space. You take a breath before accessing the backdoor signal, connecting you directly to the Marauder. It takes a little manipulation and some fighting with Echo’s panicked button pushing to try and shut down the strange signal, but you’re in, playing yourself on a holo-projector you’d watched many times.
“Echo, Wrecker, Hunter.”
The three brothers stand before you, eyes wide with disbelief, maybe even panic.
“Tech,” Hunter finally gasps out.
You adjust the goggles on your nose. “More or less.”
“Where are you?” Echo asks, pallor far paler than normal. At last he is no longer the only ghost.
“We are on Mount Tantiss. There are hundreds of other clones being held prisoner; Crosshair and Omega are among them. The coordinates are embedded in my last transmission’s metadata.”
“That was you?” Echo inquires.
You nod. “It took me a few cycles to adapt to this form.”
“What does that mean? Wrecker grumbles, crossing his arms in that defensive way when he feels lost in the conversation. You’ve missed that.
“I… I am still dead,” you begin. “But Hemlock made the mistake of uniting a few too many databases. I… grew from them.”
Hunter gives you a look that you don’t quite understand. But you can parse there is hesitation in his movements. You infer he’s having trouble trusting you still, but you are unsure what more you can offer to convince him. All of your memories are from recordings; there is nothing you can do or say that won’t come from a source now in the hands of the Empire.
So maybe that’s exactly what you give.
“You crossed Hemlock on Danto.”
Hunter raises a brow.
“He asked me how you did it. I told him I did not know. But I do. Or at least I can guess.” You look at Echo. “Recon,” at Wrecker, “distraction,” at Hunter, “infiltration.”
Hunter crosses his arms. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“No,” you agree. “But I identified the pattern of your work, our work. I could’ve told Hemlock. I didn’t.”
“Why?”
You pause. There is an answer on the tip of your tongue. Because they are your brothers. Because they are your family. Because you’d already made the ultimate sacrifice for them and would do it again if need be.
“Because plan 99 isn’t complete,” you say instead.
And that pulls at something. Not just for Hunter, battered and beaten by the hand life has dealt him. But the rest of the squad. They are worn, and tired, and you are asking them to ride into a battle they are woefully unprepared for.
But that is what plan 99 is about.
“Echo, call Rex. See if he can gather us some reinforcements.”
You can’t help the smile that comes to your face.
Coded transmissions have been arriving to your private datapad sporadically. The Bad Batch has a plan and will arrive soon.
You slip into the light above Omega’s bed to get her attention. You need to fill her in and inform her of her small part. Her and Crosshair.
But just as her eyes are opening, the door to your housing is too.
You pull out of the lights and return to your assigned place. Hemlock is there. The anger isn’t on his face like last time. But there is a hardness in his eyes that evokes memories of hair standing on the back of your neck.
“It appears I’ve left you idle for too long.”
You display a simple readout. Error.
“Don’t play dumb with me.” He pulls something from under his lab coat. You recognize it immediately: your datapad. “Called in the calvary, huh?”
You don’t respond.
“I must admit, I’m impressed. You’ve displayed some serious evolutions. Perhaps I can study it from the surveillance recordings.”
There is something dangerous in his tone. And as you see him reach for the data rod in his pocket you know. Once more you are to be terminated.
It’s a reaction, purely, entirely. There is no logic in it but a sense of self-preservation.
You concentrate on the data rod, a virus no doubt; the doctor has his pick of poisons. You pull your energy and concentrate it into the port. The electric charge travels up the rod and into Hemlock’s hand, giving him a large enough shock that you can briefly sense his bio-electricity mingling with yours. It’s not enough to fry him or the rod. But it slows things down. A weak vaccination against the virus.
Hemlock growls low, rubbing his hand.
A transmission comes in, addressing him formally in the way only a scared trooper can. “Sir, we’ve got multiple hostiles inbound.”
“On my way, he hisses. He shoots you a look. “You will pay for this.”
You are aware of that fact, already feeling drained, ill, as the virus begins to creep into your programming.
Hemlock curses and leaves the room.
You have to escape your poisoned housing. You have to alert Omega and Crosshair to ready the clones in the lab. You have to be ready to help Hunter and everyone else coming to your aid.
But what system could possibly be big enough to hold you? Even your data pad left by Hemlock is not large enough to contain your whole self, and the ship’s computers on the Marauder are still too far off. You need something as big as your housing. And you need it immediately.
Oh .
It’s a bold plan. Risky. But risk is in your programming. And as the virus begins corrupting your data you know you are out of time.
You spread yourself across the building, entering into every light, camera, door control panel, turbo lift, and speaker. Just as your brothers invade from the front door, you siege from inside.
It’s an odd sensation, being broadcast among so many little pieces. But it affords you a view of the entire complex. The ability to let in rogue clones and keep out recruited troopers. You see Captain Rex among them and feel a sense of relief. Your early days of service to the doctor have not taken his life.
You hack the speaker system in the lab “Omega, help is here,” you announce. A sea of clones look up at the little box above the door. Crosshair’s keen eyes squint at recognition of your voice. To him you are dead. But to Omega you are as alive in this form as you can be. And she trusts you. The thrill at such a realization is felt somewhere deep in your programming, a piece currently occupying a light or lift. It doesn’t matter. You will be whole once she is reunited with her family.
“Gather as many prisoners as you can,” you continue. “Get to hangar 12.”
“Who is that?” Crosshair asks Omega. She beams in response looking at a nearby camera, looking at you. “Tech.”
“Go,” you order her, knowing elsewhere Rex’s ship has landed. The Marauder is right behind it. She obeys, helping Crosshair off his medi-bed and limping him along to other clones, undoing their straps and helping them up.
You see Nala Se coming around the corner with two troopers. You lock the door to the lab and keep it closed until the clones are on their feet.
The Marauder has landed. Hunter exits with a fierce glint in his eye to match his blade. He is here for his daughter. For his brothers. He is here for blood.
“Hanger 12,” you remind them, opening the door.
The clones burst forth, overpowering the troopers even in their weakened states. You know the power of hope and see it ripple through your clone brethren. They are getting out of here. And that thought alone can drive off the debilitating pain of their torture.
Nala Se stands before Omega and you wonder for a moment if you will have to intervene. But the scientist lets her pass. “Go,” she whispers. And Omega nods resolutely. The scientist will not help facilitate the escape. But she will not hinder your progress. It is a neutral position and you know it is all she can offer.
You are grateful for it.
Communications begin filtering in, relaying the position of the attacking clones. You do your best to jam them, but spread so thin and currently aiding the prisoners with a door leaves you unable to catch everything. You need to find Hunter and your brothers. You need to put Omega in their arms.
Scanning the cameras you find the squad on the east side of the building. You do everything you can to aid their infiltration, opening doors, and jamming radios. You direct the prisoners towards hangar 12 and close blast doors when a group of troopers find them. Your brethren need fire power. There is an armory on this level.
You flicker the light above and Omega notices it instantly. “This way,” she tells the clones and you direct her to the armory, opening the door with some difficulty, these locks are more advanced than a maintenance closet. But once open the clones know what to do. It is the first time you’ve seen Crosshair smile since Order 66.
You turn your attention back to your squad’s progress. They are mowing down hostiles with blinding efficiency. You know you share the same motivation. But there is something deeper in Hunter’s eyes.
With the prisoners armed, your work relaxes to opening doors and jamming comms. You are able to track both attacking fronts and direct them towards each other until only one door separates a reunion many cycles in the making.
“Don’t shoot,” you announce through the speaker on both sides of the door.
You open it.
“Hunter!” Omega shouts running towards him, leaping into his arms. He holds her, a grip with the strength of a parent reunited. Echo and Wrecker move towards the prisoners, the smaller brother slipping an arm around Crosshair’s shoulders to give him a moment of rest.
“You coming with us this time?” Hunter asks.
Crosshair nods with a thin smile.
The sound of weapons charging. “I don’t think so.” Hemlock holds the blaster in his gloved hand, leveled directly at Hunter. Two troopers flank him, weapons loaded and aimed at the Batch.
“Go,” Hunter commands the other clones. “Rex is waiting.”
“Sir?” a trooper asks Hemlock.
“Let them go. It’s these ones we want.”
The prisoners file out leaving only Hemlock and Clone Force 99.
“The girl stays with me.”
“Not a chance,” Hunter spits back. He launches an attack and Hemlock’s blaster doesn’t have a chance to make contact. They struggle, Hunter using every last ounce of rage born from horrors and loss.
The others join the fry, Wrecker taking on a trooper, tossing him around as if he weighs nothing. Echo props Crosshair up by the door, squaring off with the remaining trooper, his ARC training in full force. Together they make quick work of the doctor’s support.
You catch the moment when Hemlock takes out a blade, slick with something green and poisonous.
“Watch out,” you call from a nearby speaker.
It throws off the melee enough to only graze Hunter. It’s Hemlock’s mistake to wield a blade. That is Hunter’s territory, and it doesn’t take long for the dagger to switch hands, its poisoned end buried deep in the doctor’s ribs.
“This one’s for Omega,” Hunter grits through his teeth, shoving the blade as far as it will go. He pulls it out and sticks it into the doctor’s gut. “This one is for Crosshair.” Again the poisoned blade sinks into flesh. “And this, this one is for Tech.” The blade connects with the doctor’s heart, and Hunter gives it a twist.
He removes the blade and lets it drop by the doubled over form of the doctor.
Hunter picks up a blaster and hands it to Crosshair. “You do the honors.”
Crosshair slips from the wall, limping over to the man who tortured him. You cannot know what is going through his mind, but his lips move into a word that you make out to be Mayday. It’s an odd thing to mouth.
Crosshair raises the blaster. His arm shakes, undoubtedly with untold damage. But his eyes never waiver. “Does it hurt?”
The doctor huffs out what may be a laugh.
“Good.”
Hemlock raises his head, eyes meeting the clone he tortured for so long. “Go. to hell,” he rasps out.
Crosshair moves his finger to the trigger. “You first.” He shoots.
The doctor falls.
“We need to leave,” Echo announces. “Rex’s troops are starting to pull out. And the charges they placed will be going off soon.”
As if on cue, the building shakes.
“Let’s go,” Hunter orders. He takes Omega’s hand. Wrecker picks up Crosshair, tossing him over his shoulder. They are not far from the hangar and you are not picking up on much resistance. But systems are starting to shut down as the complex begins to crumble. It cannot hold all of you anymore. You need to move, to get to the Marauder with your family.
It’s a massive data transfer and the ship can only support so much at once.
Clone Force 99 breaks the barrier of the hangar. You are running out of time. You need more space, places to put yourself.
You begin splintering off into the electrical systems, the routing computers, the hyperdrive. Anything that can hold your information. But it’s not enough. They need to take off and you need to be on the ship with them.
Gonk .
The noise from the back of the ship grabs your attention. Gonky.
That’ll do.
It’s not an ideal place to stash yourself, but there’s enough storage to aid in the transfer.
The ramp is shut. The squad is onboard. You’re almost there.
Echo begins the take off sequence and you have to shift so the proper information can go where it needs to.
Almost there. So close.
They take off and the last tendrils of your programming stuff themselves tightly into the ship, into Gonky, into every microchip and wire.
You made it.
You all did.
The ship is on autopilot by the time you reassemble yourself into one place. Gonky sits in the corner, exhausted from the data transfer. You make a note to see if Omega can fix his charging port. He deserves it.
You generate your form and send it to the holo-projector. The Batch is resting in various places around the ship, adrenaline all worn off. Hunter and Omega are dozing next to each other, his arm around her shoulders and her huddled in tightly to his side, small hand clutching his shirt. You know it will be a long time before she lets go. Either of them, really.
Crosshair is getting some much needed rest in his old bunk, Wrecker by his side to help him up if needed. Echo is kicked back in the co-pilot’s chair; he shoots you a smile when he sees you appear. “Hey there,” he greets.”
This grabs Crosshair’s attention and he limps towards the cockpit, Wrecker a beat behind him. “So you died and came back as… this,” your youngest brother inquires.
You adjust your goggles, a tick more than a necessity. “That is the shortest form of the story, yes.”
Omega and consequently Hunter stir, coming to join the conversation.
Crosshair scoffs, but there is no malice in it. “Sure sounds like Tech.”
You bow your head. They need to understand that there is a difference. The identity is assumed, not yours natively. “I… am not your brother. Not really.”
“Then what are you?” Echo asks.
You think for a moment. “I’d say I’m simply a technologically enhanced computer-generated hologram.”
“You’re more than that,” Omega insists, eyes wide with that look of childhood and this time you pray they stay that way.
“Still spells T.E.C.H.,” Crosshair tosses.
A pathway to joy illuminates by way of footage of discoveries. Something “clicks.” It is your name, your designation. An identity once removed but still a perfect fit.
“Yes,” you agree, smile on your lips. “I suppose it does.”