#clone troopers

Preface: hunting dogs

I once heard some natborns talking about a tradition on their homeworld. Their ancestors, in an effort to make it easier to get food, would train animals to help catch their prey for them. They were talking in a language I didn’t recognize by ear, but the translator said they called these animals “hunting dogs”.

I think about that sometimes, the way that name is phrased. Hunting dogs. A description of a purpose and almost as an afterthought, a name. The most interesting part of it, at least to me, was the fact that they described these specific animals as almost a separate species from their nonspecified brethren. There were dogs, and then there were hunting dogs. One of them could be anything from a pet to an enemy to a meal. The other was narrow- it gave them, by virtue of their name, a purpose.

We clones were like those hunting dogs. We were designed, shaped, and created for a purpose. One purpose: to fight and die. Some of us asked questions. They pestered, poked, and nagged until they got someone to listen. They’d always get ‘reassigned’ shortly afterwards. We all knew what happened, the penalty for being too curious. Some of us asked questions; most of us didn’t.

The natborns that sparked this idea, they said one more thing. They said that there was only one thing to do with a hunting dog that didn’t hunt: it had to be put down.

Good soldiers follow orders. Yes, sir. In this army there isn’t room for any other kind.

Entry 1

Year 0, month 3

Hoth

Every so often, the thought comes to me: I’m all alone out here.

It’ll happen at the oddest moments, brought on by the most random of things. Footprints in the snow, a speck on the horizon, or even just listening to the quiet in the shuttle. That last one is what gets me, really. Quiet. There wasn’t ever any quiet, before. There was always something happening. Banter, arguing, the thump of boots or the hum of engines. I try to fill the void in the air, but nothing seems to work as well as company. The broadcasts aren’t the same as they used to be- less music, more propaganda. Or hey, maybe it was always like this. Maybe I just used to agree with what they were saying.

The other thing I miss about the broadcasts was the recognition. The reminder that I wasn’t alone. They always made me feel connected to the rest of the boys, even systems apart. There was always this feeling of community, knowing that there was another pair of ears listening to the same music as you. Ears that maybe, even likely, looked just like yours.

The boys and I, we used to joke that the only reason any natborns could tell our squad apart from the others was the eyes. Even behind a visor, you can see where somebody’s looking. And we always, no matter what, had our eyes on each other. Gave you a feeling of safety, knowing there was someone watching your back. It got to a point with us where we wouldn’t even have to talk to coordinate, someone would just do something and everyone would pick up on it. Only so many expressions you can wear when you all have the same face, and we could read every one like a book. One time Kaz’s comms went out in the middle of a mission. Czzt, no more voice on the other line. I remember looking across at him, and seeing a certain tilt to his faceplate that just made me burst out laughing. The boys thought I’d gone crazy, but then they saw him too. Something in the angle, the set of his shoulders, you could tell he was laughing right along with us. The way the rest of the mission went, you couldn’t even tell he wasn’t hearing orders. He knew the plan same as the rest of us, and he could tell what we were thinking before we even thought it.

Kriff, I miss him. I miss all of them