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The Fett Farm

I couldn’t sleep, and I figured I’d do something productive.

It’s based on some events of Episode II. If you haven’t seen it yet, this may surprise you, as it depends on certain events that the movie sets up. However, if you know that movie’s title, and have half a brain, this story won’t surprise you all that much. Anyhow,

The Fett Farm

Inspiration and copyrights, George Lucas. Based on events in Episode II.

I am a clone. They tell us that when we turn three. Nobody ever notices before then.

We grow up in batches of 48. From the moment of conception, we learn, train, play, fight-all with our 47 brothers. That is the way it is done. There is no other way. I am 6C0029. This means that I’m midline, towards the right, in formation. I am one of the oldest, part of batch number 29. My crib was third from the right, third from the front in the nursery. Running, sleeping, fighting, exercising, that is my position. Though they cross-train us so that we are adaptable in the event of casualties, I am only truly comfortable with two men to my right, two men in front of me, and the rest of my brothers filling in the rest of the grid. That is the way it is done. There is no other way.

Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to be part of A row, to be a squad leader. To be in charge of the column behind me. To know what the extra training consists of. But there lies the problem: they work harder than the rest of us. I am happy in my position, but sometimes I am curious. I want to know what they know. But I’ve never asked, because I don’t need to know. I will never be a squad leader, because I’m part of C row. That is the way it is done. There is no other way.

My brothers and I specialize in General Infantry. This is because we have an odd batch number. Of the even numbers, those divisible by 4 become pilots, the rest go to Armor. Batch 1 was command staff. They say that when they begin batch 101, it also will become command staff. Batch 99 will be Special Operations. I don’t envy any of them. Officers always have the shortest life-expectancy on a battlefield, and SpecOps go where there’s the most danger. Worse, they’ll all be split apart from their brothers once they graduate. I can’t imagine what that would be like. I don’t want to.

I’m the loader for Heavy Weapons Team I. They tell us that before batch 5, they would have competitions among the brothers, in marksmanship and athletics. They discontinued them with batch 4 because there were no champions. Most of the time there were more than 10 equally-scoring contenders for first place. So now there are no more competitions. That is the way it is done.

They tell us, when they tell us that we’re all clones, who the original is. A man named Jango Fett. I saw him once. A man, talking to one of the Trainers, on a catwalk overhanging the cafeteria. A man who looked like my brothers. A man who, apart from the Trainer, was alone. I couldn’t look at it for very long; I was nauseated. A man, alone. And he looked like my brothers.

He may have been a great man. I never found out.

My batch will graduate in just over three months. It will be the first time I’ll be anywhere other than Kamino or its moons. Our training, now, is less and less focused on combat, because we’re as good as is possible. Now, we indoctrinate ourselves for vistas other than that of stormy ocean, for crowds of people all unique. For so long, I’ve worn the grey uniform of a cadet, the same color as the ocean outside. Soon I will wear the white uniform of a soldier. I’m competent, confident, and aggressive. I have to admit, though: I’m a little nervous about going out into the galaxy. We all are. After all, we’re only eleven.

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