Work Text:
Nala Se walks through the long white corridors to the clones’ medical bay. Troopers march past in tight formation, each one perfectly uniform, created precisely to match their original specifications. Behind them small cadets trail their older mirrors in imitation, small brown faces all alike, dark hair in the same short military style. She has only to glance at them all to see her own flawless work marching beside her.
She allows herself a small, secret smile. There have been some clones with flaws, of course. Adjustments to obedience, size, intelligence. ability. She is most curious to see how the clones of the 99 designation fare as they age.
Her work, she suspects, is not unlike that of the artist or musician. Like them there is an idea she carries in her mind, the delicate dance of DNA and genetic modification, a vision she has planned and put into motion through the work of her own hands and her own vision. Now there is only the waiting to see the finished product that remains. She knows what she expects of her enhanced clones one day. Yet she also anticipates there may be surprises to occur in their development, unexpected interplays of inspiration or epigenetic accidents leading to something greater than the sum of their parts. It is a pleasant source of anticipation in her day to day, to see the finished music that her work might make.
She reaches the medical bay and the doors slide open for her. She is mildly taken aback at the scene of disarray that appears. A clone cadet, bio-equivalent to a seven-year-old human, sits hunched over himself on the floor, surrounded by scattered medical equipment that appears to have been thrown or kicked around the room. AZI-3 hovers a safe distance away from the clone, and seems relieved to see her.
“Doctor Se,” he says, pitching his voice modulators to a quiet scale. “You have asked me to inform you of any medical visits regarding clones of the ninety-nine designation. This is CT-9904, and he is here with a minor injury, but he is proving… difficult.”
Nala Se nods. CT-9904 would be identifiable from across any room nearly instantly; with his modifications, it is obvious. The clone’s proportions are unusual, thinner and taller than would be expected at this stage of development, and streaks of gray pepper his dark hair despite his young biological age. She had expected that variation. On many species her work has shown an inextricable link between hair color and visual development, and humans are no different.
“CT-9904,” she murmurs. “Please explain yourself.”
The clone unfolds himself and gets awkwardly to his feet, bowing his head briefly to her before looking down at his boots. The injuries are apparent, a blue-black bruise swelling his right eye shut, scrapes up and down his rather thin, angular face. He sniffs, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. It comes back bloody.
“There was a fight,” the boy says slowly. His voice is odd, slightly raspy, with an accent to his Basic that deviates from the norm. That variation had not been anticipated. One of her intriguing surprises.
She waits, giving him an expectant look. He takes a deep breath.
“The other clones didn’t like that I’m different.” His fists clench at his sides. “I beat all of their scores in marksmanship. It’s so easy. They got mad… they started it. I tried to finish it, but there were more of them than me.” He crosses his arms over his chest, scowling, then wincing.
“Fights are not uncommon at this stage of training,” Nala Se murmurs. “The tendency is typically outgrown.” Though there is the matter that with his enhanced visual acuity, CT-9904 has been training in marksmanship with clones four cycles ahead. Perhaps seeing a clone so much earlier in his development excel has triggered the aggressive response from the standard units. She turns to AZI-3. “What is the prognosis?”
“There is a hairline fracture of the right zygomatic arch, but with the rapid growth rate and the improved healing capabilities, this is not expected to have any negative long-term effects. Which I have tried explaining to him!”
“I don’t believe you!” the boy bursts out. Nala Se tilts her head to one side, studying him.
“Why?”
The boy looks furtive, anxious, fidgeting where he stands. His hands twist together. At last he stammers, “I can’t see!” He tries to open the swollen right eye and fails, hissing with the effort.
“I have informed him that this is temporary,” says AZI-3. He addresses the clone directly. “The swelling needs time to come down, and then you will see normally again. All of the scans indicate that your eye itself was not damaged, only the tissue surrounding it. You should be back to normal within ten rotations.”
“Are you sure? But that’s -- it’s all I -- I have to --” His face is flushed. “It’s what I’m for!”
“Your vision will return in time, CT-9904. Your enhancements remain intact. The droid tells the truth,” says Nala Se. “There are other skills you may continue training in during this time. I will see to it that you are assigned extra training in stealth and hand-to-hand combat as you heal.”
The clone gives her a worried look, then nods, letting out a long breath.
“Please help AZI-3 clean up this mess. After that, you should return to your quarters. Your fellow cadets should be returning from their own training soon.”
The clone laughs slightly, a small smile shifting on his face. “Wrecker’s going to be mad he missed the fight. He could have taken them all out. I know it.”
“Hmm.” She sighs. This is not the first time these particular clones have been at the center of discord among the standard cadets, and she has a strong suspicion it will not be the last. Yet another unique trait in a batch full of them. She wonders which one of them will be in here next.
CT-9904 is led into the medical bay by red-painted clone troopers, stripped of his armor and walking with his head down. Nala Se is waiting. She has been curious to assess the effects of the inhibitor chip on her modified clones; the chips themselves had not been modified or calibrated for the minds of this particular batch, and she had long wondered if she would ever see the effects on them were the chips to be activated. Here then is her opportunity to learn, though her curiosity feels subdued from what she had anticipated. Perhaps it is merely that she feels disquieted by the presence of Admiral Tarkin in the chamber beyond.
My work does not need your supervision, Admiral, she thinks, then turns to the clone at hand.
CT-9904 has only rarely needed medical assistance after completing his training; as his squad’s long-range sniper, he has typically avoided the types of injuries accrued by the others. It has been multiple cycles since she has last seen him up close, and he sits obediently on the examination table under armed guard, his eyes shadowed, his face grim.
“How do you feel, CT-9904?” she asks.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he bites out, looking away. “There’s nothing wrong with me. Perhaps you should look at Hunter. He’s been acting irrationally.”
“He will be examined in time,” she assures him. “There are some questions I am going to ask you.”
He shrugs, huffing. “All right.”
“Have you had any episodes of seizures?”
He sits up straight, looking at her suspiciously, a wary surprise in his eyes. “No.”
“Have you experienced any episodes of fainting?”
“No.”
“Have you experienced any disorientation?”
“No.”
“Have you experienced any headaches?”
A short, sharp intake of breath. His eyes focus beyond her, fixating in the direction of the Admiral, and a guilty look crosses his face. “...yes.”
“Thank you, CT-9904. The examination will begin.”
One of her new medical droids hovers forward, extending a long hypodermic. The clone’s eyes widen. “Is that necessary?”
“Yes, it is.” The droid injects him in the shoulder. He grimaces, but then his expression slides into something dreamy, a placid, half-lidded stare. He slumps where he sits and the droid eases him onto his back, preparing him for imaging. Nala Se recuses herself to the outer chamber.
She has read CT-9904’s report of Kaller, contradicting the reports from his squadmates. They have informed her of his attempts to convince his squad to follow orders. It is a fascinating finding. CT-9904’s chip may be working -- she will run the necessary tests to confirm, but the headaches are the earliest stage of an incomplete chip activation -- yet loyalty to his squad appears to be superseding its commands.
Admiral Tarkin waits for her as the test commences. As she has suspected, the chip is partially working, but CT-9904’s mutations have muted its effectiveness. She transmits the order to amplify the chip’s effects as the Admiral looks on.
The amplification process is one that she has never used before in practice, though it was developed for theoretical use in an event such as this one. As she watches it becomes plain that the dose of sedative has been insufficient for such a procedure. CT-9904 trembles, hands curling beside him, his chest rising and falling jerkily. She assesses his vitals. They are stable enough, but the elevated heart rate and erratic breathing are consistent with pain.
She considers adding further sedation, but the process is nearly complete, and she refrains.
The arms of the machine retract. She checks her datapad. The clone’s vitals have returned to normal, and he is starting to stir.
“Did it work?” Admiral Tarkin asks, voice clipped with impatience. “If not, you may begin the decommissioning process. But if it has worked, I would like the same procedure performed on the remaining squad.”
“Understood, Admiral. I will assess him myself.”
By the time she enters, CT-9904 is clumsily sitting up, breathing hard. He raises one hand to his right temple, shaking his head. “What happened?” he asks.
“You have been found clear to return to duty. With your squad.”
CT-9904 frowns, his face going cold. “My squad disobeyed orders.” He gets off the table, swaying slightly, and straightens up. “Good soldiers follow orders.”
“And if your squad does not?”
“Then they need to be eliminated,” CT-9904 says evenly. His eyes are blank, devoid of the suspicion and wariness that had been plain earlier. She nods, feeling a slight pang. She would have preferred to have had the time to study the interplay between the clone’s mind and the partially activated chip in case there were new insights to be gleaned. Observing him for several weeks would have been most intriguing. But she is certain now that in this regard, at least, CT-9904 is no longer unique.
“Status report,” Nala Se asks, gazing down at the unconscious clone in recovery.
The medical droid catalogs the clone’s injuries while removing the field bandages marred by strikethrough. The list is long and troubling. Ion burns to the chest, hands and face. Concussion to the right temple. Corneal abrasions. Right shoulder dislocation, replaced in the field. Inhalation injury. It is disheartening to see such a unique specimen in such shape. The corneal abrasions are the most concerning, given the nature of his enhancements, but the droid’s readings confirm that they are thankfully superficial and should heal without issue.
“How did this occur?”
“Exposure to an ion engine, Doctor,” says a human woman with a clipped, stern voice, her helmet carried under her arm. “We were shocked he survived. None of the other clones with him made it.” Nala Se gives her a cool look. One of Admiral Tarkin’s conscripts , her training nonstandardized, her breeding unknown. She does not understand the Admiral’s obsession with ‘updating’ the army of the Republic, no, Empire , and it is an affront to have one of those inferior soldiers here in her own medical bay.
The soldier is still standing at attention. “Will the Commander be all right?” she asks, and there is something calculating in her eyes. Nala Se frowns. Clones would never show such hints of naked ambition.
“Yes. There is extensive treatment to be done, but he will likely be fully rehabilitated within a matter of weeks.” They have repaired far more grievous injuries to their clones over the years. Kaminoan work was strong, and it was reparable when desired. “CT-9904 is valuable to the Empire, and he will recover.”
The soldier frowns. “Even with the seizures?”
Nala Se gives her her full attention. “He has had seizures?”
“Two, on the journey back from Bracca,” she says. “I thought the medic told you. Is that from the head injury?”
“There will be no further questions,” Nala Se says. “You may leave.”
The woman shoves her helmet back on, nodding, and finally leaves. Nala Se immediately locks the laboratory door behind her.
There is a faint groan from the bed. CT-9904 raises his left hand weakly before it drops back against his chest. He coughs, the sound amplified in the oxygen mask looped over his face.
She casts her eyes over the blistered flesh above his right ear, then directs the medical droids to set up the imaging device to assess the chip. CT-9904’s breathing rattles in the confines of the imaging chamber. It is disconcerting.
The machine whirs, its testing cycle complete, and it retracts to leave CT-9904 back in the open. She frowns at the results on her datapad.
“The inhibitor chip is damaged,” she tells the medical droid at the clone’s side. “Swelling in the brain has interfered with its functioning. The seizures are the result of an improper connection.”
CT-9904 fumbles at the oxygen mask on his face, making a garbled noise. He manages to pull off the mask, and rasps, “Take it out, then.”
Nala Se stiffens.
She has made a mistake.
She has never spoken of the chips in the presence of a clone beyond Omega. Now in her curiosity, with CT-9904 so wounded as to appear unconscious, she has erred. She turns to him, wondering how she should proceed. Despite what she had said about CT-9904’s value to the Empire, she is certain there would be no repercussions if he were to not survive his injuries.
“What do you mean?”
“I know…” He swallows, coughing, flecks of blood-tinged fluid dotting his lips. “I know about the chip. They told me.”
“Who?”
“Clone Force 99,” he manages. “Said it’s… controlling me. But I don’t --” He presses the oxygen mask against his face again, taking in several deep breaths before removing it again. He squints up at her through blepharospasm, eyelids struggling to open despite the pain of the abrasions. “I don’t need a chip to be loyal. To --” His chest heaves. “To be a good soldier.”
CT-9904 suddenly stares off into space, his good eye transfixing on the ceiling. His jaw slackens, and she recognizes the prodromal signs of an impending seizure. Nala Se gives a swift look to the medical droid. “He will need an anticonvulsive. Immediately.” The droid complies, heading off the seizure before it can truly begin.
Nala Se hesitates. There are three paths remaining to her now. Euthanasia of the enhanced clone to prevent possible awareness of the chip from being spread to other clones; treating the injuries but leaving the clone in his current state, potentially compromised by seizures and prone to worsening degradation of the chip; or --
She makes her choice, recalling the clone’s words. CT-9904 and his cohort have always represented a new era in experimentation for her. Perhaps by removing his chip now, she may continue to be surprised.
The walls of Tantiss press in around her, a windowless narrow world of her cell and the hallway beyond. Tipoca City lies beneath the waves of her homeworld, her lab, her work, her calling buried in the sea; and now there is only the Empire and its brutal destruction.
She has been a fool. She had so buried herself in her work that she had blinded herself to the dangers of being indispensable. She knows that she will never leave this planet alive.
The days are endless, the monotony almost worse than the clumsy efforts of the Empire to extract the information they needed by force. Their interrogation droids had been programmed for human physiology, and while unpleasant, their methods had failed to force her to share her scientific knowledge. They have since given up on that, and now Hemlock attempts to use the clone Omega as a bargaining chip, despite having no idea of her whereabouts.
Nala Se cares little for his efforts. She cares little for anything at all, now.
The one slight bit of interest in her day is her daily walk. They bring her to the lab once daily under heavy guard and supervision, perhaps hoping she will be enticed by the technology to resume her old work. She has no interest in the lab, refusing to examine its machines and capabilities, but she watches closely the clones walking by under their own guard, amusing herself with guessing which batches they had arisen from. She has no way to confirm her guesses, but to her trained eye, subtle changes in the degree of aging -- the appearance of fine wrinkles starting at the edges of the eyes and corners of the mouth, a slight shift in glossiness of the hair, faint alterations to the gait -- provide significant clues. It puts her in mind of happier times, when she could truly focus on science and take pride in the results of her labors.
One day -- or perhaps night, there is no way to tell -- she awaits the lift with her captors and a group of clones stops beside them, waiting for the same lift. She turns to study them and is taken aback. One clone stands above the others, several inches taller despite the slump in his shoulders.
Her mind swirls with questions. Had the removal of CT-9904’s chip -- omitted from his final medical report after his injuries on Bracca -- come to light? Was he sent here for betrayal of the Empire? Or had he merely been injured and deemed unfit to return to duty, so was sent here for study to remain useful?
He does not meet her gaze. She is not sure he has even noticed she stands beside him. His face is skull-like, his skin sallow from lack of sunlight, deep shadows etched beneath his eyes. A flicker of movement catches her eye and she notes a fine tremor, nearly imperceptible, along the edge of his hand. He shakes his hand almost subconsciously, a small, subtle jerk she is not sure that even he has detected. There are no obvious injuries, but there is an emptiness that is apparent, a lack of something vital.
She does not know what has brought him here, but she knows that he is a soldier no longer.
The lift arrives and the guards herd them within. Force is not required; the prisoners know their place. They stare down at the floor, heads bowed.
Nala Se gazes away from the ruined clone beside her. The music she had once carried in her head, the clever dance of DNA and ingenuity, the spark of creativity, of creation, falls silent. She does not speak to him, nor he to her.
There is simply nothing to say.