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Fox arrives on Kamino with legal authority, a bad feeling, and enough weapons to make the Kaminoans visibly uncomfortable.
He considers all three encouraging.
Rain lashes the platforms of Tipoca City while Lama Su stands before the central defense display, tall and composed in the way Kaminoans become when explaining why everyone else is wrong.
“The additional barriers obstruct production traffic,” the Prime Minister says.
“They obstruct invasion traffic,” Fox replies.
His new Phase II armor is black and Guard red, built around an ARC cuirass with reinforced shoulder plating and a kama protecting the backs of his legs. Water sheets from the sharp edges of the armor and runs over the gold visor of his helmet.
Lama Su’s gaze lingers on the red-dominant paint.
“We have operated successfully without these measures for many years.”
“Rishi Outpost operated successfully until assassin droids killed nearly everyone stationed there.”
“The outpost fulfilled its purpose. Kamino received warning.”
“From two privates who destroyed the station.”
“An effective result.”
Fox’s hand tightens behind his back.
Private Hevy detonated the base manually because the remote controls failed. Droidbait, Cutup, and Sergeant O’Niner died before him. Only Fives and Echo survived long enough for Cody and Rex to arrive.
Effective result.
Fox files the phrase beside every other reason he hates Kamino.
Master Shaak Ti stands near the display, silent but watchful. She supported most of Fox’s recommendations, though support from a Jedi still feels like standing on a bridge whose structural records have been classified.
Lama Su gestures toward the map.
“You have diverted personnel from training and production.”
“I reassigned instructors to defense rotations.”
“You armed maintenance staff.”
“They asked.”
“You established evacuation routes through restricted genetic facilities.”
“They contain people.”
“They contain developing units.”
Fox looks at him.
“People.”
Lama Su’s eyes narrow slightly. “The Senate has not adopted that terminology.”
“I’m not the Senate.”
“No,” Lama Su says. “You are a clone.”
Fox’s right temple gives one warning pulse.
Shaak Ti’s lekku shift.
Fox keeps his voice flat. “I’m the Chief of Defense.”
That title changes the room.
It always does.
Lama Su may consider Fox defective property wearing an impressive rank, but the regulations carry the Chancellor’s signature. Kamino’s defense falls under Fox’s authority whether the Prime Minister likes it or not.
Fox enlarges the city schematic.
“External shield generators here, here, and here. Underwater proximity sensors cover the support pylons. Blast doors divide every major corridor into defensible sections. Cadet evacuation routes terminate in hardened shelters instead of exposed landing platforms.”
“These alterations have reduced daily output by three point eight percent.”
“If the Confederacy captures the facilities, output drops by 100 percent.”
“Your logic assumes an attack is imminent.”
“My logic assumes the enemy wants the only facility producing the Republic’s army.”
Lama Su regards him with the distant patience usually reserved for simple animals.
“The Chancellor values production.”
Fox almost smiles.
“Then tell him the defenses protect his profit margins.”
Shaak Ti looks toward him.
He knows what she hears.
The language is ugly.
It is also the only language men like Palpatine and Lama Su consistently understand.
Fox’s attention returns to the rows of illuminated chambers beneath the city. Men and women not yet born float in artificial oceans, unaware that their lives are already measured in contracts, strategic value, and replacement rates.
Fox will protect them anyway.
If doing that requires calling them assets, then he will weaponize the word until it breaks.
“Construction continues,” he says. “This discussion is over.”
Lama Su’s expression cools.
Fox turns away before the Kaminoan can remind him where he was made.
Every step toward open defiance feels easier than the last.
Fives and Echo graduate from ARC training 12 hours before the Separatists arrive.
Their formal certification consists of three signatures, an armor inspection, and an instructor telling them that surviving the course only proves they are slightly harder to kill than before.
Fives thinks the speech lacks celebration.
Echo thinks it is statistically accurate.
They stand in one of Tipoca City’s new armories while rain hammers the outer walls. Their ARC armor is still too clean, their ammunition cartridges fully stocked, and their kama attachments stiff from disuse.
Fives turns slowly in front of a reflective panel.
“Do I look more dangerous?”
Echo checks the seals on his forearm computer. “You look exactly the same, but with more places to store ammunition.”
“That’s more dangerous.”
“That’s more explosive.”
“Same thing.”
The alarm begins before Echo can answer.
It is not the old Kaminoan warning tone.
Fox replaced that one.
The new alarm is louder, lower, and accompanied by a recorded voice stating the nature of the threat.
“Hostile fleet emergence detected. All defense units report to assigned stations. This is not a drill.”
Fives looks at Echo.
Echo looks at Fives.
“We’ve been ARCs for 12 hours,” Fives says.
“11 hours and 43 minutes.”
“Do you think they’ll revoke it if we die immediately?”
“They’d have to complete paperwork.”
“Then we’re immortal.”
The armory doors open.
Commander Cody strides through with his helmet under one arm and a blaster already in his hand.
“You two are assigned to internal defense group Aurek.”
Fives snaps upright. “Where?”
“Cadet sectors and primary armory access.”
Echo pulls up the route on his vambrace. “That includes three gestation-wing junctions.”
“Yes.”
Fives’s humor disappears.
Cody notices.
“Fox believes the Separatists will target the young first.”
“He’s right,” Echo says.
“He usually is. It’s extremely irritating.”
The city shudders.
Somewhere beyond the walls, turbolasers begin firing.
Cody puts on his helmet.
“Congratulations on graduating. Try not to embarrass the ARC program before lunch.”
Fives locks his helmet into place.
“No promises, sir.”
Cody finds the four cadets in a maintenance shaft they have absolutely not been authorized to enter.
He knows this because the hatch bears three security seals, and all three have been removed without triggering an alarm.
Hunter emerges first.
He is leaner than the other cadets, with half his face marked in dark ink and his attention fixed on sounds Cody can barely hear through his helmet.
Behind him comes Tech, carrying the control core from a Kaminoan training turret.
Crosshair follows with a long rifle that cadets are not supposed to possess.
Wrecker brings up the rear carrying the rest of the turret.
Not pieces of it.
The entire turret.
Cody stares at them.
The four cadets stare back.
“What are you doing?” Cody asks.
Tech adjusts his goggles. “Improving the western corridor’s defensive capacity.”
“You stole a turret.”
“We relocated it,” Hunter says.
“It was bolted to the floor.”
Wrecker grins. “Not anymore.”
Crosshair looks past Cody. “Droids are coming.”
Cody hears nothing.
Then Hunter turns his head toward the far corridor.
“Two squads. Maybe three. Heavy feet. No organics.”
The comm in Cody’s helmet crackles.
“Internal breach, western training sector. Aqua droids moving toward cadet habitation.”
Cody looks at Hunter again.
Interesting.
“Can you install that turret?”
Tech glances at the torn cables hanging from Wrecker’s shoulder. “In 47 seconds.”
“You have 30.”
Wrecker sets the turret down hard enough to crack the floor.
Tech begins connecting wires.
Crosshair climbs onto a support brace, settles his rifle against one shoulder, and sights down the corridor.
Cody opens a channel to Fives and Echo.
“Change of route. Western training sector.”
“We’re two minutes out,” Echo answers.
“You have one.”
Fives cuts in. “How are we supposed to remove a minute?”
“Run faster!”
Cody closes the channel.
The first aqua droid rounds the far corner.
Crosshair fires once.
The bolt strikes precisely through the droid’s central photoreceptor. The machine crashes backward into the unit behind it.
Cody looks at the cadet.
Crosshair lowers the rifle by a fraction.
“What?”
Cody has met fully trained snipers with less control.
The rest of the droids appear.
Hunter moves before Cody gives an order, drawing two vibroknives and slipping into the blind angle beside the corridor. Wrecker braces the half-connected turret by hand while Tech bypasses its safety locks.
“This may discharge prematurely,” Tech warns.
Wrecker’s grin widens. “That’s the fun bit.”
The turret fires.
The recoil drives Wrecker half a step backward and turns the corridor into a storm of blue bolts.
Droids collapse.
Hunter reaches the survivors, moving between them before their targeting systems compensate. Crosshair shoots around him with terrifying accuracy, each bolt passing close enough that Cody’s instincts scream.
Hunter does not flinch.
The cadets have done this before.
Perhaps not against live droids.
Cody decides he does not want the answer.
Fives and Echo arrive from the adjoining junction and open fire.
Fives sees Wrecker holding the turret.
“Is that regulation?”
“No,” Cody says.
“Good. I was worried the rules changed.”
Echo takes position near Tech. “Can you access the local doors?”
“I already have.”
Blast doors slam down behind the droids, trapping the remaining units inside the kill zone.
Fives whistles through his helmet.
“I like him.”
Tech does not look up. “That assessment is premature.”
“It usually is,” Echo says.
The last droid falls.
Silence returns, broken only by the hum of the stolen turret.
Cody surveys the corridor.
Four cadets. Two newly graduated ARCs. No clone casualties.
He points at Hunter.
“You four report to me after the battle.”
Wrecker’s face falls. “Are we in trouble?”
“Yes.”
Crosshair looks bored. “How much?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Tech pushes his goggles higher. “Will this interfere with our graduation evaluations?”
Cody looks at the neatly destroyed droids.
“No. I suspect it will accelerate them.”
Hunter tilts his head.
Cody’s comm erupts with another breach report.
He turns toward the cadet shelters.
“Stay together. Protect the young. Follow Echo’s orders.”
Fives looks offended. “Why Echo?”
“Because he understands instructions.”
“That feels targeted.”
“It was.”
Cody runs toward the next junction.
Behind him, he hears Wrecker ask whether destroying a wall counts as protecting it.
Echo answers that it depends which direction the wall falls.
This is going to become a problem.
Shaak Ti sensed the assault before the first Separatist cruiser clears hyperspace.
The dark pressure touched Kamino’s storms, followed by the mechanical emptiness of thousands of droids and the cold focus of Asajj Ventress.
Then the Republic’s new defense network woke up.
Shield generators rise from concealed platforms. Orbital mines change position. Underwater sensors illuminate swarms of aqua droids approaching Tipoca City’s pylons.
Fox’s preparations spread across the planet like a second nervous system.
The Kaminoans complained about every credit.
Now every alarm reaches the correct garrison before the first drilling ship breaches the waves.
Shaak Ti stands in the primary command center while officers call out reports.
“Separatist cruisers entering weapons range.”
“Trident-class assault ships descending beneath cloud cover.”
“Underwater batteries tracking.”
“Enemy boarding craft approaching the eastern platforms.”
Fox stands at the center display in full armor, red and black against Kaminoan white.
“Fire the underwater batteries.”
Lama Su turns sharply. “Those weapons are positioned near structural supports.”
“They’re aimed away from the city.”
“The concussion may damage production facilities.”
Fox does not look at him.
“The Tridents will damage them more.”
“Chief, I must object.”
“Objection recorded.”
Fox touches his comm.
“Battery teams, fire.”
The ocean beneath Tipoca City flashes.
A moment later, three Trident ships break apart under the surface. Shock waves strike the pylons, but the reinforcement braces hold exactly as Fox’s engineers predicted.
Lama Su says nothing.
Shaak Ti watches Fox shift fleet icons across the tactical display.
He does not command like a Jedi.
Jedi respond to the living Force, adapting to movements as they unfold. Fox constructs possibilities in advance, then leaves space for chaos because he expects everyone involved to make at least one terrible decision.
It is not elegant.
It is extremely effective.
“The first wave is a distraction,” he says.
Admiral Yularen’s hologram turns toward him. “For what?”
“Ventress.”
Shaak Ti feels the assassin’s presence moving through the lower city.
“She is inside,” Shaak Ti confirms.
Fox marks three locations.
“Likely objectives are the DNA archive, central command, and the primary gestation wing.”
Lama Su steps forward. “The genetic archive must be protected above all else.”
Fox finally looks at him.
“No.”
“The original samples are irreplaceable.”
“So are the people in the gestation wing.”
“The samples ensure continued production.”
Fox’s helmet hides his face, but anger changes the air around him.
“Master Ti, take the archive. Cody has the cadet sectors. I’m assigning Guard ARCs to the gestation wing.”
“And you?” Shaak Ti asks.
Fox looks toward the storm beyond the command windows.
“I’m removing their air support.”
He leaves before anyone can object.
Lama Su watches him go.
“He exceeds his function.”
Shaak Ti looks at the casualty projections.
“His function is defense.”
“It is property.”
Something in the Force shifts dangerously.
Not from Fox.
From hundreds of clones in the command center who heard.
Shaak Ti turns toward Lama Su, suppressing urge of her people to growl at the string bean.
“You should choose your next words with care.”
The prototype fighter shakes around Fox as the launch rail hurls him into Kamino’s storm.
The craft has no official name yet.
Project Aegis calls it an advanced low-signature interceptor platform. The engineers call it Prototype Seven. The ARC pilots have started calling the entire line Talons because of the red-edged wings and the way they tear formations apart.
Fox likes Talon.
He will deny this if questioned.
Four more prototypes launch behind him, piloted by ARC instructors stationed on Kamino. Their black hulls vanish against the storm clouds until lightning flashes across their armor.
“Chief, Talon Two,” a woman’s voice says over the encrypted channel. “Enemy fighters at bearing 1.8.7.”
“I see them, Sable.”
“They don’t see us.”
“That’s the point.”
Fox angles downward.
The prototype’s targeting system feeds movement predictions directly across his visor. It is sensitive enough that most pilots overcorrect within seconds.
ARCs adapt.
Fox had helped design the training standards for that too.
The Separatist formation appears beneath the clouds, dozens of vultures escorting bombers toward Tipoca City. Their sensors sweep past the Talons without locking.
Fox selects the lead bomber.
“Break on my mark.”
His thumb settles over the internal missile controls.
“Mark.”
Five Talons emerge from the storm.
Missile bays open for less than a second.
The first volley guts the bomber formation before the vulture droids understand they are under attack.
Fox rolls through the debris and fires his laser cannons. A vulture explodes beside his wing. Ion fire from Sable disables three more, leaving them tumbling toward the ocean.
“Chief,” Talon Four says, laughter hidden beneath professional calm, “these things are obscene.”
“Focus, Rook.”
“I’m focused on how much I love this fighter.”
“Get in line,” Sable says.
Fox cuts through another formation.
The prototype reacts almost before his hands move. It is fast, armored, and vicious enough to make the old V-19s feel like cargo shuttles.
Riyo had compared him to her younger brother opening a new card collection when he first described it.
Fox had denied looking excited.
She laughed at him for several minutes.
A warning flashes.
Two bombers break toward the western city platforms.
Fox dives.
Rain and cloud become grey streaks across the canopy. The ocean rises fast enough that his instincts begin calculating impact survival.
He waits.
The bombers commit to their approach.
Fox fires both ion cannons at the first and destroys the second with a missile through its central bay.
The disabled bomber falls toward the city.
Fox accelerates beneath it, angles his shields, and clips its wing just enough to alter the descent.
The bomber crashes into the ocean fifty meters from the platform.
Water erupts over the city.
“Chief,” Rook says, “that was deeply stupid.”
“It worked.”
“General Skywalker says that too.”
Fox feels personally insulted.
“Finish the formation.”
The Talons turn together.
Above them, Separatist cruisers begin withdrawing from Kamino’s defensive range.
The attack is already failing.
Echo realizes the CIS has made a serious tactical error when Ventress enters the cadet corridor and finds six ARCs waiting for her.
Technically, four of them are still cadets.
This distinction seems less important with Wrecker holding a cannon ripped from a training vehicle.
Ventress ignites both lightsabers, red light reflects across the wet floor.
Fives raises his rifle.
“You know, I thought ARC graduation would involve more drinking.”
Echo sights on the assassin. “You drank before the ceremony.”
“That was preparation.”
Ventress smiles without humor.
Hunter shifts beside them. “She’s not alone.”
Two commando droids drop from the upper maintenance rails.
Crosshair shoots the first before it lands.
The second reaches Tech.
Tech ducks, catches its wrist, and triggers the door controls from his vambrace. A blast door closes on the droid’s torso with enough force to cut it in half.
Fives looks at him.
Tech adjusts his goggles. “The timing required only basic calculation.”
“I definitely like him.”
Ventress attacks.
Echo’s world becomes red blades and blue blaster fire.
She deflects their shots, driving forward with enough speed to force Fives and Echo apart. Hunter circles toward her blind side. Ventress senses him and sends him crashing into the wall with the Force.
Wrecker roars.
He fires the cannon.
Ventress leaps.
The bolt tears through three walls and probably several regulations.
She lands on the ceiling support above them.
Crosshair fires where she will be, not where she is.
The bolt clips her shoulder.
Ventress’s eyes widen.
Then Fox’s voice fills the corridor through the public address system.
“Internal defense units, enemy fleet is retreating. Seal all access to the eastern platforms. Do not pursue outside city limits.”
Ventress hears it too.
Her expression changes.
She looks toward the window, where damaged Separatist ships climb through the storm.
The mission is lost.
She throws both hands forward.
The Force hurls everyone backward.
By the time Echo regains his feet, she is gone.
Fives groans from beneath part of the damaged turret.
“Did we win?”
Wrecker lifts the wreckage off him with one hand.
“She ran away.”
“That counts.”
Tech checks the corridor schematics. “She is moving toward an external escape craft.”
Echo contacts command. “Ventress is withdrawing. Cadet sectors secure.”
Fox answers almost immediately.
“Casualties?”
Echo looks around.
Hunter is standing again. Crosshair has a shallow burn across one arm. Tech’s goggles are cracked. Wrecker appears delighted.
“Minor injuries,” Echo says. “No losses.”
A pause follows.
Then Fox says, “Good work.”
Fives goes still.
The words mean more from Fox than a ceremony ever could.
The CIS retreats from Kamino with half its assault force destroyed.
Tipoca City remains standing.
The cadet barracks remain secure.
The gestation chambers never lose power.
For the first time in the war, an attack on Kamino ends without the defenders counting bodies faster than the rain can wash away the blood.
Cody stands in the main hangar afterward while medics move among the wounded and maintenance crews drag pieces of aqua droids into salvage piles.
The four cadets wait in front of him.
Hunter stands straight despite the bruise forming along his jaw. Tech has replaced one cracked lens with a temporary field patch. Crosshair’s arm is bandaged. Wrecker is eating three ration bars at once.
Fives and Echo stand behind them, attempting to look uninvolved and failing miserably.
Cody studies the cadets’ files.
CT-9901. Hunter. CT-9902. Tech. CT-9903. Wrecker. CT-9904. Crosshair. Experimental genetic deviations. Nonstandard training results. Repeated disciplinary concerns. Exceptional performance in every test that matters.
The Kaminoans classify them as defective.
Cody has met defective plans, defective weapons, and defective senators.
These four are none of those things.
“You disobeyed 14 regulations,” Cody says.
Tech raises one finger. “Only 12 apply to cadets.”
Crosshair sighs.
Cody looks at Tech.
“13 now.”
Tech lowers his hand.
“You also defended three cadet sectors, destroyed 26 battle droids, delayed Ventress, and prevented a breach of the gestation wing.”
Wrecker finishes chewing. “So we’re not getting decommissioned?”
Fives’s posture changes sharply.
Cody hears the fear beneath the joke.
“No.”
All four cadets relax by degrees.
“You’re being reassigned to advanced field evaluation under my authority.”
Hunter’s eyes narrow slightly. “All of us?”
“All four.”
Crosshair glances at the others, then back at Cody. “Why?”
“Because separating you would be stupid.”
Fives leans toward Echo. “He adopted them.”
Echo nods. “He does that.”
“I heard you,” Cody says.
Fives straightens. “Congratulations, sir.”
Cody looks at the six young men in front of him and realizes he has made his life dramatically harder.
Fox would call it strategic personnel development.
Cody calls it collecting strays.
Either way, they are his now.
Fox lands the prototype with one engine damaged, no missiles remaining, and a grin he successfully hides before removing his helmet.
Mostly.
Sable sees it.
She says nothing because she values her assignment.
Lama Su meets Fox at the edge of the platform as technicians swarm the fighters.
“The destruction to the western production wing is unacceptable,” the Prime Minister says.
Fox looks past him.
The wing remains standing. The damage consists of two collapsed walls, a flooded storage area, and one training cannon embedded in a laboratory.
Wrecker’s work, apparently.
“No personnel were lost,” Fox says.
“Equipment was.”
“Equipment can be replaced.”
“Your defensive alterations disrupted production and damaged valuable infrastructure.”
Fox removes one gauntlet.
Rain strikes the scars along his hand.
“Your valuable infrastructure survived because I disrupted production.”
Lama Su’s expression hardens. “Kamino will submit a formal complaint to the Chancellor.”
“Mention the preserved profit margin.”
“You treat this matter with insufficient seriousness.”
Fox steps closer.
“I’m treating it with exactly as much seriousness as it deserves. Your city was attacked by a Separatist fleet. Every cadet sector held. Every gestation ward remained secure. The enemy withdrew with catastrophic losses.”
“The genetic archive was nearly breached.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Your clone pilots deployed unapproved prototypes.”
“I approved them.”
“You cannot unilaterally dictate Kaminoan operations.”
Fox looks at the Prime Minister through the rain.
“Yes, I can.”
The words settle heavily between them.
Fox can feel Shaak Ti nearby. Cody too. Fives, Echo, and dozens of instructors stand within hearing distance.
Lama Su seems to remember the title attached to Fox’s designation.
Chief of Defense.
Supreme strategic authority during active war.
Fox continues, “Effective immediately, all defensive systems remain active. Cadet shelters will stay stocked. Gestation facilities will retain independent power and shield access. Training staff will continue armed rotations.”
“This is a production facility.”
“It’s a military world populated by Republic personnel.”
“They are Kaminoan property.”
Fox’s temple pulses. The drill presses against bone. He smells blood before he feels it leave his nose.
Good soldiers follow orders.
His orders are to protect the Republic.
The men and women inside Tipoca City are the Republic’s army.
The unborn are future military personnel.
Strategic assets.
Profit.
Production.
Words the pain inside his head can accept.
Fox wipes the blood away with his bare thumb.
“If the Chancellor asks,” he says, “I protected his investment.”
Lama Su studies him.
Fox puts his helmet back on.
Behind the visor, his expression belongs only to him.
He did not come to Kamino to protect an investment.
He came to protect his brothers and sisters.
Born and unborn.
One day, he may stop needing to disguise the difference.