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Cynthia has mastered the art of turning a front desk into a checkpoint, provided the person waiting is someone she considers beneath her.
Cynthia Hale is explaining the concept of identification to a clone that is apparently too rude to understand basic instructions.
“I’ve already told you,” she says, keeping her voice slow and precise. “This credential doesn’t authorize entry.”
The clone stands on the other side of her desk in red-and-white armor, helmet tucked beneath one arm. Its identification card remains in Cynthia’s hand, where she has been examining it for nearly four minutes.
The card identifies it as CT-1186, call sign Dusk, assigned to Senate Escorts and Patrol.
Cynthia doesn’t bother remembering that.
There are thousands of them. They all have numbers, pointless nicknames, and faces copied from the same two dead mercenaries. Learning individual names would imply individuality, and Cynthia refuses to participate in that absurdity.
“My credential is active,” it says.
Its tone is controlled, but Cynthia hears the insolence beneath it.
“The system says you’re assigned to the western barracks.”
“I was reassigned this morning.”
“I don’t have that reassignment.”
“It’s in the Guard network.”
“This is the Guard network.”
The clone’s jaw tightens.
Cynthia smiles professionally.
She knows exactly where the reassignment is. The notification appeared on her terminal twelve minutes ago. Commander Thire transferred the thing from western barracks security to the Senate patrol pool, which grants access to the command-side equipment rooms.
Unfortunately, the authorization hasn’t been entered into Cynthia’s local visitor log.
That means she can refuse it.
Not permanently, perhaps. One of the officers will eventually notice and force the matter. Until then, the clone can stand where it belongs, on the public side of the desk, waiting for a civilian to decide whether it may pass.
“I’m due at equipment issue,” it says.
“Then you should’ve ensured your records were correct before arriving.”
“I didn’t write the transfer.”
“That sounds like an internal military problem.”
“It is an internal military problem. This is a military building.”
Cynthia’s smile becomes thinner.
Clones have become increasingly argumentative since the Chief of Defense restructuring. Promotions, wages, legal representation, medical autonomy. Every month brings another committee insisting that manufactured soldiers should be treated like citizens.
The Pantoran senator is largely responsible for that nonsense.
So is Speaker Tovaan.
Cynthia had applied to work as a GAR receptionist because she imagined polished offices, senior admirals, Jedi generals, and important civilian officials. She expected to coordinate meetings and process military correspondence from a respectable desk.
The hiring manager sent her to Guard Headquarters.
Nobody warned her that the building would be full of clones.
They move through the corridors as though they belong here. They talk to one another, joke in the lifts, complain about assignments, and occasionally look directly at Cynthia as if they expect the courtesy reserved for people.
She corrects that expectation whenever possible.
“Step aside,” she says. “You’re blocking the desk.”
“There’s no one behind me.”
“That doesn’t change procedure.”
The clone takes one slow breath.
Cynthia waits for it to lose its temper.
They are supposed to be unstable. Everyone knows that. Copies of a violent bounty hunter, armed and permitted to move through civilian society because the Jedi need bodies for their war.
If it raises its voice, she can call security.
Admittedly, security will also be clones, but the irony is useful.
“Contact Commander Thire,” it says.
“I don’t contact senior officers over routine access complaints.”
“He ordered the transfer.”
“Then I’m sure he has more important things to do than explain paperwork to you.”
The front doors open.
Speaker Mira Tovaan enters Guard Headquarters carrying a slim black case embossed with the stupid vulptex beneath one arm.
Cynthia immediately straightens.
“Speaker Tovaan. Good morning.”
Her voice changes automatically, becoming warmer and more respectful.
Tovaan is young for a senior aide, only a few years out of junior service, but her position demands proper recognition. She speaks for the Office of Defense in the Senate chamber and has direct access to the Chief.
Cynthia finds her unpleasantly severe for a Rodian and far too willing to defend clones, but she remains a civilian.
That matters.
“Good morning, Ms. Hale,” Tovaan says.
Her dark eyes move from Cynthia to the clone waiting at the desk.
Cynthia places the identification card facedown.
“Is there a delay?” Tovaan asks.
“An access discrepancy. I’m handling it.”
The clone turns slightly toward Tovaan.
“Speaker.”
“Trooper.”
Cynthia suppresses a grimace.
Tovaan always acknowledges them.
Not merely by rank when rank is unavoidable, but by those ridiculous names if she knows them. She has been seen eating in the Guard mess, speaking with medical staff, and carrying files through command corridors without a civilian escort.
An uppity aide with poor boundaries.
The clone says, “My reassignment hasn’t been accepted at the desk.”
Tovaan looks at Cynthia.
Cynthia keeps her expression pleasant.
“The local system hasn’t received the proper documentation.”
“The order was transmitted at 0813,” Tovaan says.
Cynthia’s fingers pause near the terminal.
“How would you know?”
“I approved the attached Senate patrol allocation.”
Of course she did.
Tovaan sets her black case on the desk and opens the public authorization screen. The transfer order appears immediately, bearing Commander Thire’s signature, Defense Office verification, and the time stamp Cynthia had already seen.
Tovaan points to the lower line.
“The credential activated seventeen minutes ago.”
“My terminal may not have refreshed.”
“It refreshes automatically every thirty seconds.”
Cynthia smiles.
“These military systems can be unreliable.”
The clone says nothing.
That is worse than arguing. Its silence feels smug.
Tovaan closes the authorization screen.
“Please return the trooper’s identification.”
Cynthia does not appreciate the phrasing.
She also cannot refuse a direct request from a senior aide without a concrete procedural excuse. The order is valid, the credential is active, and Tovaan has displayed the evidence on Cynthia’s own terminal.
Cynthia turns the card over.
The clone holds out one hand.
She places the identification on the desk instead.
It picks up the card.
“Your access is active,” Cynthia says. “You may proceed.”
The clone looks at her.
For one moment, Cynthia thinks it may say something rude enough to justify a complaint.
Instead, it addresses Tovaan.
“Thank you, Speaker.”
“You’re already late for equipment issue,” Tovaan says. “Tell Sergeant Scope the delay was administrative.”
The clone’s gaze flicks toward Cynthia once more.
“Understood.”
It leaves through the inner security doors.
Cynthia waits until the doors close.
“Speaker Tovaan, Guard personnel are required to maintain accurate records. I can’t simply allow every clone through because it claims to have been transferred.”
“No,” Tovaan says. “You should allow them through when the system confirms they’ve been transferred.”
“The confirmation wasn’t visible.”
“It was visible to me from the public side of your desk.”
Cynthia feels heat rise beneath her collar.
Tovaan retrieves her case.
Cynthia forces a patient smile. “Is there something else I can help you with?”
“Yes.”
Tovaan removes a datapad from the case and places it in front of her.
It contains a formal access review.
Cynthia’s name appears at the top.
“So far this month,” Tovaan says, “you’ve delayed forty-three Guard personnel with valid credentials. Thirty-eight were clones. The remaining five were civilians you mistook for clones because they were wearing helmets.”
Cynthia stares at the figures.
“I process hundreds of entries.”
“You do.”
“Errors are inevitable.”
“Repeated errors following a consistent pattern aren’t generally considered inevitable.”
Cynthia looks toward the security doors.
Two clones stand beyond them, pretending not to watch.
She knows they are listening.
They always listen.
“I don’t appreciate being accused of misconduct in front of military property,” Cynthia says quietly.
Tovaan’s expression does not change.
“Then we can discuss it in Commander Hound’s office.”
Cynthia’s stomach drops.
The Commander of Investigations is a clone, but it possesses enough institutional authority to make Cynthia’s life extremely unpleasant. Its massiff has also bitten three visitors this quarter.
“The issue hardly requires Investigations.”
“I agree. You can resolve it by following access procedure without selectively obstructing Guard personnel.”
Tovaan takes back the datapad.
“I’ll review the entry records again next week.”
Cynthia smiles because there is nothing else she can safely do.
“Of course, Speaker.”
Tovaan walks toward the inner doors.
They open for her immediately.
One of the clones beyond the checkpoint steps aside and addresses her by name. She answers it with the same courtesy she would offer a senator.
Cynthia watches them disappear into the corridor.
Then she looks at the next clone approaching her desk.
It carries a medical crate and has a valid logistics credential displayed openly against its chest plate.
Cynthia straightens the papers beside her terminal.
“Identification,” she says.