Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You are not a person, and you have no name,” Prime tells them.

“Yes, sir,” the clones say.  And they try their best to sound like they aren’t people, and they bury their names deep, because they all want desperately to give Prime what he wants, to be what Prime wants, and they are all better at hiding what they want from their face than he is, so it’s obvious to them how desperately Prime wants what he says to be true.   They pretend because they want Prime to be pleased with them, and because they need Prime to be pleased with them, but they also pretend because those words almost always come with a “but” afterwards.

“But,” Prime says, “If you can learn this, it will make you a better soldier.”

“But,” Prime says, “If you know this the Jetiise will be more pleased with you.”

“But,” Prime says, “This will keep you alive.”

“Do you think Prime’s right?” CC-6454 asks.

“Prime is usually right, unfortunately,”  Cody says.

“I mean about us, that we’re not people,” CC-6454 says.

“Of course not,” Cody says, “We would know if we weren’t people.”

“That sounds like something someone cleverly programmed to think they’re a person would say,” Fox says, mostly to be contrary.

“That’s not how being a person works!” Cody says, “It doesn’t matter if we’re people because we’re exact copies of Prime, or if we’re people because the longnecks reengineered our brains to think like people.  We think like people and we feel like people and we act like people, so we are people.”

“But what about souls?” Bly asks.

“Oh please,” Fox says, “ No sentients have souls.”

“Ures runi sa balyc ures Manda,” Cody says, “Ures Manda sa balyc ures Mando’ade.  Mando’ade runi be Manda an, Manda be Mando’ade an.”*

“The gods are dead,” Fox says, “And we have enough problems without chasing shadows.”**

This is what Tyranus told Jango Fett:

He told him that they would make a trap for the Jedi.

He told him that it would be a clever trap, a perfect trap.

He told him that he, Jango Fett, would be the foundation of that trap, the template.

He told him that he would commission an army of clones, not exact copies, not quite, not underneath the surface.

They would look like people, and they would act like people, but they would not be people.

They would be so perfect that even the Jedi would be fooled into thinking they were people.

But when the time came they would show their true nature.

They would do as they were programmed to do, with no free will, no souls, a perfect weapon.

They would kill the Jedi.

This was the contract that Jango agreed to, this was the job that Jango signed up for.

At first it was easy to believe.

Boba was given to him, an ordinary baby, crying and then learning to laugh.  The clones when they were decanted were nothing like him, already silent and obedient, already walking in straight rows of lines, already programmed with the basic knowledge that real children had to stumble towards in preschool.

But over time it got harder.

The clones did not always do as they were told.

The clones did not always act like droids.

Sometimes they were competitive.

Sometimes they were curious.

Sometimes they were afraid.

Jango told himself that of course they were learning to look and act as though they were sentient, they were made to fool even the Jedi.

Jango believed what Tyranus told him, he had to believe what Tyranus told him.

Because if he did not, then the clones were his children and he was dar’manda.

Because if he did not, then the clones were slaves and he was depur.

Jango is in Nala Se’s office when a clone enters uninvited.

The clone’s hair is blond like Arla’s was.

Nala Se stares down at the clone disapprovingly, but she does not immediately order its decommissioning.  The Kaminiise like to gather data.

The clone holds a data pad and stands at perfect attention.

“Sir,” the clone says, “I’d like to make a report in regards to Trainer Wyvern in charge of classes 232, 281, and 332.”

Wyvern isn’t Mando’ad, wasn’t one of the trainers Jango had handpicked himself. Jango wonders what he could possibly have done that the clone thinks it’s necessary to report him.  The clone must know this is against regulation, despite its rigid posture and unmoving expression, it is trembling.

“Given the tight surveillance used in this facility, I am sure that you are aware of the activities Trainer Wyvern has engaged in during training.  My understanding is that you have judged that his actions cause no significant or lasting physical damage and are therefore not harmful to the product,” The clone takes a long breath, his face still impassive, but his eyes wide with terror, “However, it has occurred to me that as Kaminoans do not engage in sexual activity for reproduction or pleasure, you may be unaware of their true significance.”

It takes half a beat for Jango to realize what the clone is saying.

His blood feels as though it is burning.

The clone is so small.

He is so small.

When Jango was that age his first buire still lived.

“Sexual activity in underage humanoids can cause long term psychological damage, and even impact physical growth and development.” The clone continues, “I’ve collected all my research on this data pad, sir.”

The clone hands Nala Se the data pad, salutes, and marches out of the office.

Nala Se skims through the data pad.

“This is remarkably well put together,” she says, “The clone will have to be culled, of course.”  She sounds almost sorry about it.

“Why?” Jango finds himself saying.

Nala Se looks down on him judgmentally.

“His actions are aberrant and not in line with his orders.”

“He showed good initiative,” Jango says, “That’s important in a soldier.”

“For commanders, maybe,” Nala Se says, sounding skeptical of even that much, “But not in a common trooper.”

“Not necessarily, there’s also elite troops, special ops.  Good armies are made up of soldiers who know how to do as their told, but great armies are made up of soldiers who know how to think for themselves when the situation requires it.”

It’s, Jango’s making his words up as he says them.  This isn’t the Haat’ad, the clones aren’t meant to be a great army, just good enough to get the job done.  But Jango can’t, he won’t let the clone die for this.

CT-7567 feels disconnected from his body.  He knows he’s not properly alive right now, existing within borrowed time.  It was disrespectful, maybe, to walk out on Nala Se, but it’s not as though that matters at this point.  He’s standing in the hall outside her door.  He couldn’t bear to stand in her office a moment longer than he had to.  He can’t bear to go back to his barracks and be called back.

He can’t believe he did that.

He’s so glad he did that.

The door opens, but it’s Prime who exits.

Prime stares at him, like he’s a puzzle he can make sense of.  CT-7567 stares back like he doesn’t exist in his body.

CT-7567 is very good at making himself look as though he doesn’t exist.

“You are not a person.  You don’t have a name,” Prime says.

“Yes, sir,” CT-7567 says, rote, automatic.  He’s right on both counts, as far as CT-7567 can tell.

“But,” Prime says, and if he were ‘64 CT-7567 would say he looks nervous, and if he were ‘75 CT-7567 would say he looks trapped, but it’s Prime so he can’t be either, “If you were a person… regardless of if you’re a person or not, that was the bravest damn thing I’ve ever seen.  And you might not be a person, but I am, so.”

Prime takes out a flimsy of all things, and draws on it.

“These are jaig eyes,” Prime says, as if CT-7567 doesn’t know , as if all the clones, even twice defective CTs, don’t grasp onto Mandalorian culture with all they’re worth, as something that is not quite but almost theirs .

“You’ve a right to them.”  Prime says,  “Paint them on your armor when you’re deployed.”

“Sir,” CT-7567 says, like his voice is coming from someone else, eyes still fixed on the flimsy, “Nala Se’s going to have me decommissioned.  I’m not making it to deployment.”

“I talked to her,” Prime says, “You’re not getting decommissioned.”

CT-7567 feels… buoyant, hysterical.

Why didn’t you lead with that? He doesn’t say, but only barely.

“Thank you, sir,” he says.  And he managed to keep his composure when he walked into Nala Se’s office without permission, and he kept his composure when he talked about what Trainer Wyvern did to them, and he didn’t even fall apart afterwards, but now, now his voice trembles, wobbles all over the place.

Prime just nods, deeply, undeniably awkward.

And then CT-7567 is alone, breathing deep and uneven in the too white, too bright hallway.

He’s going to live.

CT-7567 is going to live.

He’ll make it all the way to deployment, and someday he’s going to paint jaig eyes on his armor where anyone can see them.