Chapter Text
970 Post Ruusan Reformations—Eight years before the start of the Clone Wars
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The Kaminoans always kept their stark-white training environments identical, all the way down to the humidity in the air, as if war could be rehearsed like a sterile equation. Sterile and cold, lit by the artificial glow of luminators hanging overhead. Rain drummed a steady rhythm against the transparasteel dome above, a sound Vhonte Tervho had long since tuned out. Their silver eyes swept over the formation below.
Omega-class clones. They stood at attention in crisp blue cadet fatigues; tiny, half the size of their Alpha-class brothers, but with the same mandokar in their eyes.
Jango Fett stood beside Vhonte, armored arms cradling a sleeping Boba in the crook of one elbow. His buy’ce was off, clipped to his belt, and his expression was carved from stone. Vhonte could practically smell the skepticism wafting off him.
“They’re small,” Jango muttered.
“Your cadets start at this size too,” Vhonte reminded him, though it hardly mattered when the Alpha cadets didn’t stay that way—they packed on bulk like roba hogs and stood a head above even the RC cadets. They were designed to be all muscle, even at their tender age.
Thankfully, Tiarek—Kaisa’s rescued CT—had escaped the upgrade. Standard issue in every way—except for the blond curls, the anomaly that nearly got him killed. Vhonte hefted him a little higher and soothed the sleepy noise he made—somewhere between a mumble and a grumble—away with a hand on his back.
He wasn't upgraded, but he felt exceptionally heavy tonight; both boys were round in the tummy, stuffed to the gills with Kaisa’s tiingilar. They hadn't planned on bringing him, but both he and Boba and begged so sweetly—then Reks'ika promptly fell asleep on the way, too warm and comfortable in his ba'vodu's arms, Boba following his ori'vod's lead as always.
Jango grunted. "Nala Se just can't help but tinker. First the Nulls, then that damn mutant batch… I only learned about these a week ago. Females."
Vhonte tilted their head slightly, watching the little ones. Little girls, lined up ten by ten in crisp rows, eyes sharp but uncertain. They were two years old, but looked younger than the other cadets Vhonte had been training. Their posture was good. Their instincts were already there.
They were just so shabla small.
Vhonte now understood why Jango had insisted his riduur stay behind with Cassus—his eldest son, but the smallest. Cassus’ birth had been too strenuous on Kaisa’s body, and she would never carry another child. Never bear the daughter she always wanted.
Tiarek buried his face deeper in Vhonte’s neck and sighed, as if in agreement.
Jango shifted Boba in his arms, his grip unconsciously tightening. "She tweaked them to be immune to androgen. Their karyotype is still XY, but on the outside, they look completely female."
Karyotypes were beyond Vhonte's understanding. Echani only had one type—EE—and unlike inefficient Humans, they could both carry a child and sire one. "And on the inside?" Vhonte asked.
"No uterus, no ovaries." Jango's nostrils flared. "A set of gonads where they would be. Since they can't use testosterone, their body converts it to estrogen. Once they're grown they'll look like standard females." For just a moment, Vhonte saw a spark of humor in his dark eyes that they'd thought was permanently extinguished on Galidraan. "A bunch of female mes. Hope they're not too ugly."
Vhonte snorted. "And why did they do this?"
"Nala Se is proposing they be used for dark ops and intel gathering. Infiltration, assassination, slicing, subterfuge. Honeypots." Jango shook his head, disgust twisting his mouth. “As of now, they look like my clones, just… ”
Vhonte studied the children below. Their features were a little softer, but the only real difference at this stage of life was their size. “Tiny or no, they’re yours, all the same.”
Jango was quiet for a long moment, jaw tightening. He stroked Boba's back mindlessly. The toddler squirmed in his arms, but stayed asleep. “I want you to train them,” Jango finally said.
Vhonte exhaled hard through their nose, glancing at the man beside them. "And just what is it that makes you think that I'm the right choice to train up honeypots?" they asked sardonically.
Jango gave them the same disgruntled look he'd been throwing their way since they were both cadets on The Purgill's Glory. "You're not just one of the only remaining Haat’la Mando’ade, Vhonte, you’re an assassin—and you’re the best I've ever known. You can slice anything, blend in anywhere, pick any lock, you’re damn good at all of it. You can disappear in a crowd or make yourself invisible in a shadow. No one ever sees you coming. And we both know you can trick anyone you want into bed."
"I resent your implication," Vhonte bit off. "I have never tricked anyone into bed. Misrepresented myself for a cause, yes, but not tricked."
"My point is that you're the best choice for the job," Jango said with a smirk. "You are what these agents need to be. So teach them."
"This is deranged, ner vod." Vhonte turned. "You know it, and I know it. Honeypots? Spies? What's the plan, throw them in bed with a monk? For what purpose? What kind of war is coming?"
"I already told you I only found out about them a week ago," Jango snapped. "I think it's as insane as you, but they're here, and someone has to train them. I'd prefer it to be by someone like you. It's not only your skill set. You're tough, but you're not cruel. They'll need a gentler hand."
Vhonte didn't understand. "Because they're females? Why does that make a difference?"
"Because they'll need to blend into society. They won't be soldiers in the traditional sense. They'll be fighting a very different war than the others and working on their own more often than not. That requires them to be raised, not just trained."
"I'm a Tervho, not a Skirata. I'm not adopting them." Vhonte still didn't know how Kal could stand to raise children that he damn well knew were born for only one purpose: to die. It seemed more cruel than raising them as soldiers. Vhonte hadn’t seen their real father since they were six, they barely remembered them. It was Jaster who had raised them; to be a soldier, yes, but more than that. A survivor.
The clones weren't meant to survive. Their arms briefly tightened around Tiarek, too aware of what an anomaly he was—and it wasn't just the hair.
"I'm not asking you to adopt them. But you’re the only one I trust to do this right. These will be our most important intelligence assets. Their existence will be kept strictly confidential." Boba stirred in Jango's arms, fussing slightly before he went back to sleep.
“You’re asking a great deal from me.” Vhonte stared down at the little girls. What Jango was asking was totally contradictory; raise them but not love them, treat them like people but think of them as assets. If it were that simple, then Tiarek would be training with the others, not safely ensconced in their quarters, living a childhood other clones were denied.
It was hard enough, training children—and they were children, no matter how they were brought into the universe—as soldiers without names, without souls. Jango’s vision required Vhonte to close the distance, but stay apart. They didn't know if they could do it.
“I know, ner vod.” Jango put his free hand on their pauldron.
Vhonte handed Tiarek over to his father—kissed his curls once—and then descended the steps with their arms painfully light. They watched the cadets. Small hands clenched into fists at their sides. Wide brown eyes following their every movement. They were waiting, just as Vhonte had been, all those years ago when they stood before their mentor for the first time.
"You didn't ask to be born into war." Jaster Mereel strode back and forth in front of the formation, his helmet tucked under his arm. His rich brown skin, almost as dark as his armor, gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the hangar of The Purgill's Glory, his close-shorn hair a matte black that absorbed all light. His half-cape, red as blood, fluttered with his powerful steps. "But born into it you were, and as your Mand'alor, it's my duty to teach you how to survive it. It won't be easy. You'll hate me some days, but know that everything I do, it's to make you better. Stronger. Deadlier. You are the Haat'la Mando'ade, and you will be the best fighters in the galaxy when I'm done with you."
"Atten-tion!" Vhonte bellowed.
A hundred girls clicked their heels together and stood up straight, staring unblinking up at the storm above. They didn't flinch when a crack of lightning split the sky and the transparasteel shook with the booming thunder.
Vhonte walked between the rows, their arms behind their back. They stopped halfway down the line. "You, there. What is your designation?"
"O-43, Sir!" The girl was two, looked four, but spoke with the articulate tongue of an adult. The CTs spoke the same way. No matter how often they heard it, it never stopped being eerie hearing a toddler enunciate that well.
Vhonte considered the girls. They would need to get intel from the longnecks on every single strand of altered DNA to get a proper read on the girls' abilities. Hopefully they weren't as insane as Skirata's Nulls. Vhonte wasn't sure if they'd survive a hundred of those little bastards. "You are not clone troopers," they barked, continuing on walking, "you are special agents. It is my job to teach you how to fight a war on a different front than the one your brothers will. They are hammers, but you are knives. You will be shadows. Invisible. I will teach you how to be anyone, and how to not just fight, but survive any battle you are thrown into. It won't be easy. You'll hate me some days. But everything I do, it's to make you the strongest, deadliest warriors in the galaxy."
"Sir, yes Sir!" a hundred tiny voices chanted in unison.
Vhonte looked up at Jango—arms heavy with sleeping children—and nodded once, curt. Jango returned it and stepped away, his job done.
"From now on, you will identify yourself by a chosen name." Vhonte clicked their heels together, coming to a halt at the front of the formation. "Tomorrow, at the start of training, I want you all to report with a unique, individual designation. If you do not have one then one will be assigned until you learn how to make up your mind. Am I understood?"
Every Omega nodded once. "Sir, yes sir!"
Vhonte smiled. "Oya."
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