Return of the Mandalorians(FanFic) (Page 1 of 2)

Many thanks

It's the second part of the intro and later chapters that will start making real changes (or at least new theories and additions) to Star Wars info.

Here is the second part of the intro.

This one starts taking some swipes at possably established material in Star Wars; and latter chapters will do so even more.  So if any of this is factually imposable, let me know so I can perhapes make changes latter or scrap this as a serious idea. 

If it is imposable, I hope you can enjoy this story anyway as a alternate history.

Here goes!

                                                                    *     *     *

Four Months Latter

 
Kam Tarik stood, arms folded, ignoring the comfortable chair he had been offered fifteen minutes earlier.  The middle aged senator from Taris stared blankly at the durasteel walls that surrounded him.  His only companions in the waiting room were two armed guards, who occasionally glared at him from their posts around an armored doorway. 

Born to an upper middle class family, Kam used his keen mind and ruthless tactics to take over Taris’s orbital construction yards by his mid thirties.  In his early forties, his enterprises were making three times more than his predecessors had ever earned. 

Then the Empire came.  Nationalizing his construction docks into the Imperial war machine, the Empire kept Tarik as an advisor.  For fifteen years Kam was forced to stand by as Imperial overseers ran HIS company.  When the opportunity finally came, he leapt at the chance to break away from the Empire.  Hearing of the Rebel victory here on Endor, he quickly organized a revolt and ousted the Imperials.  Kam then contacted the Alliance, who greeted him and his planet’s orbital shipyards with open arms.  Now four months later, he stood here waiting to meet the Alliance leader.

Looking at this place, perhaps Taris isn’t so bad after all.  The Alliance of Free planets, formerly known as the Rebel Alliance, had set up its headquarters in the refurnished main complex on Endor.  Though operational, the facility was still in rough shape. 

When the armored door finally slid open, Kam stepped aside for a small delegation of Sullustans as they exited.  A young man followed them into the waiting room and motioned to Senator Tarik, “The Chief Councilor will see you now, sir.”  Kam walked with the aid down a short hallway into Mon Mothma’s office.  Mon Mothma was standing in front of her desk, her customary long white robe offset by her auburn hair. 

“Welcome, Senator Tarik.  I am sorry that I was unable to see you sooner; please,” Mon Mothma motioned to a chair in front of her desk.  As Kam took his seat, Mon Mothma turned to her aid, “Thank you, Malan, that will be all.”  The aid bowed curtly and left through a side entrance.

“It was an unexpected pleasure to get your request for this meeting” Senator Tarik lied as he leaned back comfortably. 

Mon Mothma moved to her chair behind her desk.  “Not at all.  I try to meet all new members of the Alliance in person.  Also, there is a matter of great importance that we must discuses.”

I’m sure there is Tarik thought with no amusement.  No senator is asked to come this far for a simple welcome.  So, how will you try to steal my shipyards, rebel?.  Betraying none of the fear or suspicion he felt, Kam continued with the formalities.  “Please continue.  If there is anything I or my people can do, you need only ask.”

“I have a plan in mind for the concentration of prisoners of war; specifically clone stormtroopers, into a single camp.  We have considered many planets for this camp, and my advisors and I consider Taris the most suitable.”  Mon Mothma leaned back slightly and watched her words sink in.

Tarik’s considerable self restraint failed him as he became visibly shocked.  Is this a joke?  The senator wasn’t sure if he should be amused or insulted.  He nearly laughed as he asked, “You want to turn my home world into a prison camp?  I wasn’t even aware your forces were holding a large number of prisoners.”

A faint grin crossed Mon Mothma’s face; though it was born of her understanding, not from any pleasure.  “In a civil war of galactic scale it is inevitable that prisoners will be taken.  Though stormtroopers typically fight to the last man, the few we have captured on the hundreds of worlds we have fought for and liberated add up to rather a large figure.  You don’t really believe we of the Alliance summarily execute our prisoners like the Empire often does, do you?”

“No, I suppose not.”  Senator Tarik composed himself.  This may be a ruse. I’ll play along; for the moment.  “But why Taris; we only have a small city on the planet’s surface.  All are real assets are off planet;” Tarik carefully withheld any direct mention of orbital facilities, delaying the inevitable confrontation.  “We have no facilities that could even be considered for conversion into such a facility.”

Mon Mothma, despite her reputation as a fierce and unyielding leader, beamed a sense of trust and compassion.  “We understand that.  I will not force this plan upon you, as there is a limited danger.  However, I hope you will give me a chance to explain.” 

“Very well” Senator Tarik allowed, but he remained suspicious.

“My staff and I have done considerable research on your home world since it has joined the Alliance of Free Planets.  We learned that Taris was leveled during the Second Sith War by Darth Malak nearly four thousand years ago.  In all the time since then, less then five percent of the planet’s surface has been reclaimed.  This reclaimed land is in a single, concentrated area directly below the heart of your orbiting space stations; an area that took the least amount of damage during the Sith War.  The rest of the planet is barren except for some smuggler and bandit hideouts in the ruins.  With your permission, our plan is to set up a camp for captured Imperial clones in an area opposite of your city.  They will build their own facility using materials supplied by us.  When they have a livable compound, they will then commence working on a reconstruction effort.  They will build a small, functional settlement.  When they are done, they will be moved and the process can be repeated on some other part of Taris.  You can use the abandoned compound as a lure for immigration to your world.”  Mon Mothma let her shoulders relax slightly.  “It sounds like slave labor, I know.  I rejected this plan myself when it was first proposed.  But ever since the Emperor’s death, the clone stormtroopers in our custody have fallen into a state I can only describe as extreme despair.  Hundreds have let themselves starve to death.  They only existed for the purpose of enforcing the Emperor’s will.  With him gone, the clones apparently feel they have no reason to go on.” 

Senator Tarik narrowed his dark eyes.  “I have never heard of any of this.  I was led to believe that there are still clones fighting with the Empire now.”

Mon Mothma nodded.  “That is true.  Many clones are still fighting for the Empire, but they had officers to look up to.  They were somehow able to adjust to the Emperor being gone.  However, most of the clones I am describing were already in our custody or were abandoned by their officers on Rim worlds, so they could not make that adjustment.  Like your native Taris, hundreds of other worlds joined our cause after the Emperor’s death.  However, a closely held secret is that most of those worlds joined us unopposed only because their stormtrooper garrisons failed to counter the revolt.  Those clones not massacred in their barracks were captured, leading to the sudden explosion in number of prisoners we now have.  Overpopulation in our current prisoner facilities is part of the reason for this proposal.  Also, I feel that if we can get them to do something constructive, it might help to rectify some of the deeds they committed in their past.  With proper reeducation, it may even be possible they could one day become model citizens in the New Republic.”

The two shared a long silence as Kam pondered the proposition.  Senator Tarik finally looked up.  “You said there would be a ‘limited danger’ involved.  To what were you referring?”

“Yes, there will be some risk involved.  The worst possibility being that if the Empire should learn of the camp, they might try to free the clones.  However, we know that ever since the Clone Wars, the Empire has never attached much sentiment to their clone soldiers, or any of their low ranking combatants.  They have also never had a manpower shortage.  Therefore, we have concluded that the Empire views your orbital docks as a much more tempting target than a POW camp would.  In any case, we will endeavor to maintain utmost secrecy for this project.”

“The other risk in a venture such as this of course is a mass breakout.  I see this possibility as most unlikely.  One of my most trusted advisors recently visited our current prisoner facility.  He assured me that ever since the Emperor’s death they barley move around or talk, much less make trouble.  However, that possibility is another reason we chose Taris.  If the entire camp were to revolt, your planet’s inhospitable nature would leave them stranded.  No form of long distance transportation would be allowed to stay at the camp for an extended amount of time, and the camp will be placed at a location too far for them to travel on foot to any settled parts of your world.”

Senator Tarik again thought over Mon Mothma’s words.  If this offer is all it seems to be, Taris and I may be able to benefit in more ways then one.  If only. . .  When he finally looked up, a slight grin spread across his face.  “I think we can come to an arrangement on this.”

Mon Mothma smiled back and offered her hand.  “Excellent!  There are many details that we must work out.  But you must be tired; Malan will show you to your room.”  A moment after she pressed one of the buttons on her desk, the young aid returned through the side door entrance.   

“Until tomorrow then,” said Tarik.

“One last thing, senator.  You now personally own Taris’s orbital shipyards again, don’t you?”

A cold chill ran down Kam’s spine. Now it comes.  Turning slowly, he replied in as even a tone as he could muster; “Yes, I do.”

“Good!  The Alliance needs starships badly, and we are now in a position to pay well for your company’s service.  If you like, I will have the contract my advisers have been working on taken to your room.  Review it when you have the time; no rush.  And thank you again for coming.”

“My pleasure.”  Following the aid, Senator Tarik was completely baffled.  One question rang in his mind that he couldn’t answer.  What’s her angle?

Really great.  I was really enjoying it.  Only one criticism.  I guess the one hole would be the clones.  WOuld they not be somewhere in their 70's or older by this time?  I'd say they'd be more of a burden the a help in the war.  I'm pretty sure if the Republic began disposing of their clones in the Clone Wars, would not the Empire have slaughtered all who hindered them?

Ok, this is the chapter that intro’s Boba.  Hope you all like my interpretation of his character, and feedback is always appreciated.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1   

Two years latter

It was good to be in command Slave I again.  The low hum emanating from the custom MandalMoters engines, the feel of the cockpit and its controls.  Though he would never admit to having such emotions, Boba Fett truly had a strong personal connection to the ship.  He had grown to manhood behind these controls. 

Since losing the vessel over Tatooine two years ago after a nearly fatal encounter with that young Jedi, he had used several different vessels.  Slave II, a Pursuer-class patrol ship once used by Mandalorian mercenaries in times past, had served as his primary vessel for roughly the last year.  It was a decent ship, but it couldn’t compare to Slave I.  The years of modifications and upgrades made to Slave I had created a ship in his own image; fast, efficient, and deadly.  No other ship would ever truly replace it.  Dengar, Fett’s partner since he found Fett dying in the Tatooine dunes, had Slave II in the Oseon system for a little time off with his wife. 

Too bad I can’t just tell him to keep Slave II and go his own way.  The galaxy’s belief that he had died two years ago had come in handy, however, and Fett wasn’t ready to throw away the advantage.  Slave I, a unique and exotic design, was nearly as famous as its owner.  Dengar was also useful for some menial tasks, like arranging contracts with clients Fett didn’t trust with the knowledge of his survival.  Therefore, he decided to have Slave I put into storage.  When came to ‘return from the dead,’ he could reclaim it and pick up his career as the galaxy’s best and most famous bounty hunter.

The collector who had purchased Slave I from the Alliance - The New Republic, I should say.  Still can’t get used to that thought Fett, never had the nerve to enter the vessel.  Rumors about Slave I’s security systems had scared off most buyers and reduced the price to almost nothing.  The only buyer with the guts to purchase Slave I hired a moving crew to transport the ship via freighter to his home on Toprawa.  There, he had it placed inside his beachfront villa as a new piece for his collection of strange artifacts.  Not wanting to ruin the belief that he was dead, Fett infiltrated the villa and took Slave I back rather then trying to bargain for it.  In any case, Boba Fett is not the kind of creature who buys his own property. 

Wonder how many credits it will cost to repair that hole in the roof, pondered Fett.  It had been the most difficult infiltration for him in some time.  The security had been tight.  A communications jammer prevented him from simply contacting the ship’s navigational computer and remotely flying it out.  He suspected that the collector must have a less then legal means of supporting his craving for rare and exotic items, considering the level of security systems employed.  Formerly employed, Boba reminded himself with mild amusement.

As Slave I dropped out of hyperspace, the planet Bandomeer raced into view.  As Fett kicked in the sub-light engines, he set course for the orbital station’s parking hangers.   

                                                                                 ***

How much more boring can this get? 

Lieutenant Surran and his two wingmen were halfway through their patrol shift.  With all that’s happening in the galaxy, command sticks a whole garrison here on Bandomeer; about as far from the action as you can get.  And I get stuck here watching them.  Surran banked his X-wing to the left, keeping to the predetermined flight plan. 

Suddenly, Surran’s comm unit broke through his mental grumbling, “Blue flight, this is Beta control.  A ship has just entered your sector.  Its transponder codes appear clean, but our initial scans show that it resembles a ship reported as stolen from Toprawa.  You are to intercept and detain.  An assault team is being preped and will board the vessel when you have stopped it.  Green flight is also scrambling and will assist if necessary.”

“Roger that Beta control; moving to intercept.”  Lieutenant Surran slid his blast visor into position over his eyes.  “Blue flight, this is Blue leader.  Move to attack formation three; and charge up your ion cannons in case this barve doesn’t want to cooperate.”  Bout time we got something to do. 

                                                                        ***

Boba Fett’s masked gaze snapped to the threat indicator that had suddenly come to life.  X-Wings?  What are they doing in this sector?   Three of them were coming straight for him.  As Fett considered prepping his weapon systems, his sensors picked up five more fighters coming from what appeared to be a new hanger on the space station. 

“Unidentified vessel, by authority of the New Republic, you are ordered to stop and prepare to be boarded.  Failure to comply will re. . .”   Fett switched off his comm unit.  He them performed a bottom-over-top loop that 180’ed his course in the blink of an eye.  I don’t have time for this.  Too much Republic activity here to safely store the ship, anyway.  What are they doing here?  Pushing Slave I’s throttles to the max, he began setting new hyperspace coordinates.  As the navi computer processed the destination, Fett looked up in time to see a large warship drop out of hyperspace directly in front of him.  A light indicating an incoming message from the dreadnaught prompted Fett to turn his comm unit back on. 

“. . . and after that, you miserable thief, I’ll have your skull mounted in my TROPHY ROOM!!!”

So, the collector really was angry about the hole in the roof, thought Fett.  He aborted his jump to hyperspace and made a sharp turn to his left.  As he did so, the number dots on his sensor screen grew larger as the Dreadnaught launched its own fighters.  This makes things a little more interesting.

                                                                        ***

Who the hell is that?!?   Ã¢Â€ÂœBeta control, this is Blue flight leader.  An unidentified warship has just dropped out of hyperspace and appears to be pursuing our target; how shall we proceed?”  Lieutenant Surran watched as the dreadnaught turned in response to the smaller ship’s maneuver. 

After a few seconds, the control station responded.  “Blue flight, this is Beta control; new orders incoming.  The larger vessel has been ID’ed as a pirate vessel.  More friendly units are on the way.  Hold position until reinforcements arrive.”

     Ã¢Â€ÂœAcknowledged, Beta control.  Holding position.”  Surran and his flight pulled back on their throttles and turned onto a parallel course with the dreadnaught.  Five old but still common Z-95 Headhunters left their mother ship and streaked after the fleeing vessel.  Their using their ion cannons.  Whoever’s in that dreadnaught, he must want that guy alive.  Poor bard doesn’t have a chance.

Lieutenant Surran was about to contact control and ask if he should assist the fleeing vessel when it again made a 180 loop. 

“Is that maniac attacking?!? ” called one of Surran’s wingmen.

“Keep the comm clear, two.  But yeah, I think he is.”

                                                                       ***

“What is that thief up to?”  Zan Miz’var, pirate and collector of unusual items, squinted through the forward transparisteel viewport of his flagship as he tried to make out what his latest purchase was doing.  Then he saw the red bolts firing from Slave I’s laser cannons.  In the seconds that it took for Slave I to pass the pursuing Headhunters, it destroyed two of them.  And rather then turn away from the oncoming dreadnaught, Slave I kept coming right at them!   

“Lock on with our turbo lasers and fire   Let’s just call it a bad investment and end this.”  Zan was not pleased with the order, as Slave I was an excellent addition to his collection, and a bargain at that.  However, watching the craft coming at him sent shivers down his spine.  He had been a follower of the late Boba Fett’s career.  No living creature in this galaxy can fly Slave I that well.  Too many of the systems were voice coded.  The only one who could be at those controls is . . .  But that’s imposable.  Maybe Fett had a partner nobody knew about who was familiar with flying Slave I.  Still, is it really imposable?

The panicked voice of Zan’s tracking officer cut into his thoughts.  “SIR  The target has dropped from our tracking sensors; we can’t get a lock! ”

“Check your system, find the problem now,” Zan ordered.  He looked back out through the view port as Slave I cut loose with its lasers on the Dreadnaught’s forward shields.  Heading strait for the larger ship’s bow, Slave I came incredibly close to a collision.    It dove underneath the dreadnaught just before striking it.  Zan turned from the view port to his tracking officer.  “Where did he go? ”  The officer could only give a befuddled shrug. 

Zan’s second officer was also looking through the forward transparisteel port when Slave I disappeared from view.  Still looking toward the ship’s bow, he pointed out the view port, “What’s that?” 

Zan looked and saw a small cylindrical object slowly sliding across the forward shield.  “That’s a seismic charge, SHIELDS FULL FORWARD, PREPAR FOR IMPACT!!!”

The shield control officers quicklypushed the proper levers all the way and watched as the forward shield indicator lights went bright green.  “Forward shields at maximum, Sir!”

Looking again at the canister shaped device, Zan and the command crew braced themselves for the coming explosion.  A moment later, the device continued to harmlessly bounce along the shield as the dreadnaught moved under it.  It was a trick!

His gaze darted back to the shield status board.  Zan felt a knot tighten in his throat when he saw the aft quarter shield’s indicator light was a dim yellow.  “EQUALIZE THE DEFLEC . . .” Zan’s words were cut off by a shuddering explosion.  Slave I had fired a full salvo of Dymek missiles into the rear quarter.  “Get the deflector shields equalized now ” 

The panicked defense officer looked to Zen.  “Sir, our shield generators were overloaded by that last attack, all our deflector shields are off line!”

Zan, doing his best to compose himself, looked back to his young lieutenant.  “Tracking, it’s up to you.  If you can get a lock, we can blow him to atoms!"

The tracking officer was nearly in tears.  “I’m sorry, sir.  He’s jamming us somehow!  There’s nothing I can do!!”

Then it’s true.  Only Boba Fett could do something like this.  “We’re in over our heads.  Plot a course back to the station.”

“There he is; to port!” shouted the second officer.  “Our fighters are right on him ”

Zan looked over his left shoulder out the bridge’s portside transparisteel viewer.  He had assumed the surviving fighters had been destroyed by now.  There were only two now.  Slave I was heading strait at the dreadnaught’s bridge, the fighters right behind it. 

As Zan watched Slave I pass less then a couple meters from where he stood, his eyes were caught by the fake seismic charge.  It had drifted right up against the bridge, and a red light was starting to blink on it . . .

                                                                     ***

Lieutenant Surran and his wingmen had just joined with their reinforcements when they saw the explosion.  It engulfed the whole of the dreadnaught’s bridge where the two Z-95s and the ship they were pursuing apparently collided with the larger vessel.  When the flash and flying debris subsided there was no sign of the smaller vessels.  The dreadnaught, its hull breached and exposed to the vacuum of space, was breaking up. 

Surran’s wingman again came on the comm unit.  “What happened?”

“Not sure.”  Surran continued to study the Dreadnaught as it lost structural integrity.  “Looked like the smaller ships ran right into the bridge.”

“Sure seems weird, that guy looked like a serious pro.  Hard to believe he’d 'accidentally' run into something like that; and at least one of those fighters would have pulled up.”   

“Yah, well, he pulled some close ones back there.  Guess he just ran out of luck; and the explosion must have fried the Headhunters to.  Come on; let’s get over there and see if anybody got out.”

Perhaps the untouchable Boba Fett isnt so untouchable?

This is really good. Cant wait for more

My story as a game??  Hmmmmmmmmmmm. . . . . . . .   I like the sound of that!      Thanks terra

Any and all help is appreciated

Hoping to have the next chapter up soon

No suggestions yet for improvment??  Great!  I must be doing something right     (or nobody's reading this  )

Ok, in this one, I'm doing something that I've never seen done in Star Wars: i'm showing a corrupt and evil side of the New Republic.  I explain it some in the story, but the short of it is that all major groups have bad eggs in the mix, even the Rebels.  The Alliance needs all there best personel at the front, which leaves more suspect troops behind for prison duty and the like.  And some of those 'suspect' personel are here in my story.

Enjoy!   

Chapter 3

I’ve had this feeling before.  The memory of waking up in Dengar’s hidden lair on Tatooine after blasting his way out of the Sarlacc was still clear in his mind.  This place had a much better climate.  Boba Fett managed to open his eyes for the first time in what seemed like years.  Taking in his surroundings, Fett could see that he was lying in the spare bunk just inside Slave I.  Looking to his left, he could see the coffin-like prisoner cages in which he had transported so many bounties. 

He couldn’t feel his legs, though he wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.  As he was pondering whether he still had legs, Fett heard someone entering the ship.  A well built human walked by, carrying a sack in one hand and Fett’s EE-3 blaster rifle in the other.  He wore a ragged white shirt with the sleeves torn off.  His brown trousers showed signs of having been repaired many times over.  His light brown hair was cut in a short military style.  Setting the bag down in the portside passenger seat, he collapsed into the second seat next to it. 

“What’s in the bag,” Fett managed to say. 

The other creature showed surprising reflexes, jumping up from the chair and leveling the blaster rifle at Fett only a second after he heard Fett’s voice.  The stranger quickly lowered the weapon when he saw who had startled him.  “You shouldn’t scare people like that.”  Leaning the rifle against the chair, the weather-beaten figure walked over to his patient and checked the monitors that read out Fett’s status. 

“Will I live?”  Each word seemed to drain strength.  Fett was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. 

“I didn’t think so at first, you were really torn up.”  The stranger lifted the blanket covering Fett’s legs.  They were wrapped in medical applicator sleeves.  “Your wounds are healing faster then they should be.  Is this bacta?” 

“Kolto . . .  From Manaan.”

“Never heard of it.  Thought it looked different; I was afraid it was some kind of hydraulic fluid at first.  Works awfully good, I’ll give it that.”  The stranger covered Fett’s legs again.

Fett studied the other creature for a moment.  “What’s your designation?”

The stranger stiffened and looked back into Fett’s eyes for a moment.  “Designation?”

Fett was having a harder time talking.  “Clone . . .  Designation.” 

Tensing himself further, the stranger asked, “How did you know?” 

Fett examined the man for a moment.  “Your face. . . seen it before. . . on a clone.”

The former stormtrooper was surprised.  Though his face wasn’t an uncommon one for an Imperial clone, he wasn’t used to being recognized outside of his armor.  “I was given the designation YT 597 at the cloning facility.  And you had better rest before you talk yourself to death.”  With that, the stormtrooper increased the anesthetic flow into the bounty hunter and walked back to his chair.

Never been accused of that before thought Fett as darkness again took hold of his vision.

                                                                   ***

Colonel Nix Caldrone sat in his spacious office, feet up, leisurely watching one of the Republic sponsored entertainment HoloNet channels.  Never a field officer, Caldrone slowly worked his way up the military ladder working with support units.  The closest he came to battle was on Hoth while working as a commissary.  Ever since then, he had been about as far away from the action as he was now.  And he loved it. 

The Colonel’s desk mounted comm link broke into the swoop bike race he was watching.  “Captain Gran’ell would like to see you, sir.”  A look of disgust came over the colonel.  Just as the third heat was starting, thought Caldrone with dismay.  That Bothan laser brain had better have something important.  “Very well.  Send him in.” 

Captain Horst Gran’ell entered the colonel’s office with all the military precision and flare he could muster.  His perfectly clean and creased uniform contrasted greatly with Caldrone’s, which hadn’t been changed in a couple days.  As usual; thinks he’s in a bloody parade.  “Yes, captain. What is it this time?”  Though muted, Colonel Caldrone continued to watch the ongoing swoop race. 

The young Bothan stood rigidly at attention before his superior’s desk.  “Colonel Caldrone, I again beg to report that Scout 5 is overdue.  The team only had supplies for ten days.  It has been over two weeks since they left.”

“Is that so?”  Caldrone watched as a swoop bike narrowly avoided a course obstacle on the muted holo.  “I thought I told you that those recapture missions were pointless.” 

Captain Gran’ell tried to avoid showing the frustration in his eyes by stared over the colonel’s balding head.  “Yes you did, sir.  However, this patrol must be in trouble.  Only you have the authority to transfer troops from guard duty to patrol and security work.  If I had a few more men to search . . .”

Caldrone cut off his second in command with a wave of his hand.  “We’ve had this discussion before, captain.  With so many of our troops on loan to the Taris security force, I cannot waste personnel chasing every runaway stormtrooper who decides to die out there in the wastes.  If you can’t keep track of your people, maybe you should stop wasting your time out their in the ruble and focus on making the lazy barves we have work harder.  You’ll have to make due with the forces you have.”       

Seeing that he would never get what he wanted, Gran’ell gave up.  “Very well, sir,” he said in despair.  Turning on his heel, he left the colonel to his swoop race. 

                                                                        ***

“Who was the last Mandalorian to use a Basilisk war droid in battle?”

“Mandalore Ordo, during the Onderon civil war.”

“Very good, son.  That’s all for today.

“Dad, when will the Mandalorians be strong again?”

“Soon, son, very soon.  If everything goes as planned, I will be the greatest Mandalore ever to lead our people.  And you will be my right hand, son.”

“Why won’t you tell me how you’ll do it?”

“We have powerful enemies, son.  Enemies that can see even into your thoughts.  Soon I will tell you everything.  But not untill we've left this place.  But come now; the Geonosians are executing the two Jedi and the female.  Count Dooku has invited us to watch with him.” 

“NO!!!”  Boba Fett sprang into a sitting position, unsure if he had yelled out loud or only in his mind.  Breathing heavily, Fett could feel a cold sweat running down his face.  Control yourself! Boba ordered himself.  Haven’t had that dream in years.  Looking around, he saw that he was still lying in Slave I’s spare bunk by the loading ramp.  Clearing his head, he removed the blanket covering his still legs.  Look at this waste.

Having heard Fett’s yell, the stormtrooper ran into the cargo area.  Fett was unfastening the second kolto sleeve.  With a cold look, Fett regarded YT 597.  “Do you have any conception of how expensive this is?”

Bewildered, the stormtrooper shrugged.  “No.”

“Considerably more then your clone hide is worth.”  Sitting on the edge of the bunk, Fett carefully put the applicator sleeves into their compartment next to the nearly empty kolto tank they were attached to.  “How long have I been out,” asked Fett in a more even tone as he tried to stretch his legs. 

The stormtrooper had to think for a moment before answering.  “You got hit nearly two weeks ago.  I had a hard time stopping the bleeding; you shouldn’t hide your medical supplies so well.  Your right leg got infected before I could find that bacta applicator; or whatever it is.  You’ve had a pretty bad fever for the last few days.  I don’t know if you remember, but you woke up about five days ago.  That was the first sign of hope I got that you wouldn’t die.”

Fett thoroughly checked his legs.  The sleeves had been left on far longer then needed.  Nearly all outer traces of any wounds had been healed.  “Any more patrols come this way?”

“One came close, but I led them off.”  YT 597 watched as Fett got to his feet, one hand against Salve I’s bulkhead for support.  “You sure you’re ready to be moving around?”

“I’ll get by.”  Looking at the prisoner cages opposite the bunk, Fett saw his Mandalorian armor and helmet inside the top compartment.  Sitting back down, he motioned to the armor.  “Give me those.”

The stormtrooper walked over and picked up the worn pieces of equipment.  He stared into the visor of the helmet for a moment.  The black gleam from the T-shaped macrobinocular plate seemed to stare right back.  When he put the armor down next to the scared figure before him, he looked at Fett for a moment.  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

Picking up his helmet and examining it for tampering, Fett seemed to ignore the question. 

“A Mandalorian I mean.”

Stopping for a moment, he concealed his surprise at the question and continued to check his scared helmet.  “You could say that.”

“I thought so when I saw the T-visor on the helmet; but I wasn’t sure until I heard you talking while you were out.” 

“What did I say?” asked Fett.

“Not much made any sense to me.  But I picked up a lot of words and phrases.”

Fett began to examine the rest of his armor.  He noticed the attempted repairs to the lower portions of the flight suit.  “Go on.”

“You talked a lot about the Mandalorians, reforming the clans, and I guess their history.”

“A creature will babble about the craziest things when it’s delirious.”  Fett began to examine the red painted armor gauntlets and their weapons. 

“You also mentioned your father.”

Fett froze.  After a moment, he slowly looked up and locked his gaze into YT 597’s eyes.  Setting the gauntlets down, he rose to his feet.  Fett’s voice had an edge that YT 597 could almost feel, and his piercing glare seemed more deadly then the blaster slung over his shoulder.  “I have many secrets in my life, stormtrooper.”  Thou obviously still weak, every molecule of Fett’s body seemed on a hair trigger, waiting for the order to tear the stormtrooper apart using only his bare hands.  “It is most unwise for a creature to meddle in them.”

YT 597 held his ground.  “I don’t mean to intrude into the secrets of your past; but I must ask.  Was your father Jango Fett?”

Boba's eye's widened slightly; a show of surprise that only a few had brought to him in all his life.  He had never called his father by name, and knew that he wouldn’t have said it in his sleep.  “How do you know that name?” 

“Stormtroopers have secrets, to.  Since we were first used in the Army of the Republic, clone troopers have passed down a legend that we are the descendents of the last leader of a great warrior race called the Mandalorians.  His name was Jango Fett.  We have also been told that he raised a clone as his son.  The legend says that someday, after the death of our master the Emperor, that Jango or his son would return and lead us back to our roots as Mandalorians.  I humbly ask again, are you the son of Jango Fett?” 

   In all his years, Boba Fett had never thought much of Imperial stormtroopers.  Not exceedingly bright, suicidal in their tactics, and blindly faithful to the Emperor.  He knew that his father had been the template for the clone army of the Republic.  Boba also knew that he was in fact a clone of Jango, and not his literal son.  But he never thought of stormtroopers as his brothers or his equal.
 
The stormtrooper standing before him didn’t look much like him.  He had a lighter completion, strait brown hair, and a less defined jaw.  However, they were exactly the same height.  Their physical build was also very similar.  New genetic material had obviously been introduced in the nearly forty years since his father had been selected as the template for the clone army; but was it possible that some of his father’s blood still ran in this creature’s veins?  Father; why didn't you tell me this??
 
“I am.”

The stormtrooper dropped to one knee, his head bowed.  “Then I pledge myself into your service, my master.” 

“Are you insane?”  Fett looked down at the kneeling creature.  “What do you know of the Mandalorian ways?”

The stormtrooper looked up into Fett’s eyes.  “Nothing, my master.  But you could teach me.”

Fett narrowed his gaze, “And why should I.” 

YT 597 paused for a moment, searching for an answer.  “Because. . . Because we are brothers; because it’s my birth right.  A birthright given to me by your father.”

Fett turned and hobbled away a few steps.  He had grown accustomed to the universal belief that he was an emotionless shell.  In many ways he had proven that believe correct.  Deep in his soul, however, there was one sentiment he had held on to.  The hope of one day living his father’s dream.  The dream of leading a Mandalorian Crusade as his forefathers had.  Searching the Galaxy and beyond for worthy opponents.  Finding Honor and victory where defeat is assured.  In his own way, that is the life Fett had been leading ever since his father died on the sands of the Geonosian arena.  But it wasn’t the same, and he always knew it wasn’t.  He had watched for opportunities to reform the clans, but they never came.  The current inhabitants of the planet Mandalore were a shadow of their former glory.  Fett secretly visited the planet periodically, ostensibly to buy replacement parts for his armor and weapons.  In actuality, he was gauging the people.  In his estimation, the people of Mandalore would not fight as a whole again for generations; if ever.  Those who had any desire for the old ways joined the so called ‘Supercommandos.’  Few were little more then local militia parading about in Mandalorian armor.  He had begun to accept it as a fact that he would never lead the Mandalorians back to glory.   Twice he had the chance to live in the Mandalorian ways, but he refused them because they were not on the scale he and his father had dreamed.  Perhaps this stormtrooper offered him another, if not his last, opportunity. 

YT 597 was still on his knee, watching Fett as he pondered the issue.  “Master?”

Fett turned.  “Stand up.  A Mandalorian kneels to no one.”

“Yes, my master,” said the relieved former stormtrooper as he rose to his feet.

“And don’t call me master.  To be a Mandalorian is to be part of a brotherhood.”

“Yes ma . . . oh.  What should I call you?”

Fett paused for a moment.  Looking down, he stared into the black visor of his helmet.  “Call me Mandalore.”

YT 597 snapped to attention.  “Yes, Mandalore!  What is your first command?”

It's all speculation and wishful thinking on my part.  I’m about as big a Mando fan as I am a Boba fan; maybe more.  So it really moves me to combine my two favorite StarWars characters/topics.

And if not for the existing EU that came out before Ep. II, this is probably the general path he would have taken.  Traviss and others are trying to send him that way now; though they’re moving around the existing EU rather then just ignoring it like I’m doing

Should have more soon, and thanks for the support

This is great! One of the better Boba Fett fan fics ive read. But i must offer a bit of criticism: the stormtroopers of the Empire, dont have any trace of Jango in them. The only true copys of jango are in the 501st. And the Stormtroopers have a much smaller life span then the Clone Wars clones. Like a normal Stormtrooper, would be ready for combat at age 5, or so. So YT 597 would be ageing rapidly. Thats all i can think of, but other than that its all good. I hope you finish it, im looking forward to seeing the end.

Well one thing.  I hav to say I'm not a fan of how you portray the trooper as completely innocent of the world.  It seems ridiculous.  Is he a POW?  If he is, it means he has fought.  He comes aross as very child-like and I'm sure anyone who has fought in war would be much more hardened. 

It is a really interesting concept and I look forward to Chapter 5.

Thanks a lot for the tips on Imperial clones, Mandal.  I wasn't sure about whether or not any of Jango's genetic material was still used, but it doesn't really matter either way.  That part about Imperial clones having a really short life span hurts though............not sure if I'll be able to take that into accout in my story or not.  It really kills my long term plans.  You sure about that?  How many good years do they have?  And what's your souce?  *not doubting you, but I'd like to see where you got that as I've tried to look it up and failed; and I'm curious just how canon that is*

Here it is, hope you all enjoy

Chapter 5

As the last vestiges of light faded from the Taris wastes, Mandalore Fett and YT 597 watched as the work detail they had been observing started back for the barracks, their shift over.  The guards used force pikes set on low to prod slow moving individuals in the right direction.  None of the prisoners resisted or tried to defend themselves.  They slowly walked back to their barracks, heads down, stirring a cloud of dust as they dragged their feet up the path leading back to their camp.  Those jabbed by a pike only raising their hands defensively and stumbling back into line.

Mandalore scanned the formation as it worked its way out of the ruble and into the city of simple barracks’s, mess halls, and support buildings they had constructed.  There must be five thousand prisoners in each of those work crews; and only about fifty guards combined.  They must really be sure of themselves; that will work to our advantage.  Several binary loadlifters used another trail away from the site. Most had been working to haul away the debris freed by the prisoners, while others used pincer like graspers to crush chunks of foundation too large for the men to move.  The ponderous droids worked their way to a large building at the edge of the completed settlement that apparently served as their hanger. 

So this is the fate the New Republic gives to the most feared army in a thousand years; mindless slaves building their own prison.  A fate far worse then death for a Mandalorian.  The question now becomes is there a soul of a warrior locked in those minds, waiting to be freed.  Or are they just what everyone believes; useless servants of a dead tyrant.   

The sound of coughing and gagging from the column filled the clouded air.  The air filter in Mandalore’s helmet kept the dust out of his lungs; and the guards wore breath masks.  However, YT 597 only had a rage to cover his nose and mouth with, while his brothers had nothing.   

Stalking the column from the hill-like mounds of debris that rested above the camp, the pair stayed out of sight.  The column passed the first erected buildings, moving toward the mess hall.  The mess hall was in the center of a well lit open area about one hundred and fifty meters in diameter, with barracks surrounding the outside of the area.  A light hung over the entrance to each of the buildings.  The mess hall had large flood lights on poles above each of its four corners.  The buildings were prefabricated multipurpose plasteel storage units converted for use in the camp.  As the column approached, two doors opened.  Inside, Mandalore could see stacks of food parcels on the left and right of each door.  The guards then split the disorderly column into four single file lines, two entering each door.  Shortly after entering the building, the columns exited the rear and broke up; each man finding a place on the ground to sit and eat.  Shortly after all the prisoners had left the mess hall, one of the guards removed his breath mask just long enough to blow a whistle.  Upon hearing it, the prisoners slowly rose to their feet, leaving the parcels and whatever might have still been in them for the sanitation droids that scurried from their port adjacent the hall.  Forming back into their column, they marched to a long, narrow building on the outskirts of the eating area. 

“They’re being marched to the showers,” whispered YT 597.  His emotionless expression couldn’t conceal the anger in his eyes.

Mandalore detected the hate that was building in the man next to him.  “What happened there?”

YT 597 looked away for a moment.  When he returned Mandalore’s gaze, he was grinning slightly.  “That’s where I woke up.”

“What do you mean?”

YT 597 looked back toward the showers.  “After I learned of the Emperor’s death my mind seemed to be in a nebula.  I have almost no memory of my capture, coming here, or of the things I did while I was a prisoner.  Only incomplete images and scenes; like in a dream.  All that changed about four weeks ago.  I remember standing in one of the shower booths, my clothes still on, trying to get off the layers of dust that had hardened to me.  One of the guards walked by and said something.  I didn’t say anything back to him, I don’t think I even understood what he said; I just kept rubbing at the dirt that was caked to my face and chest.  Suddenly my entire body seized up.”  YT 597’s stare hardened; his memory replaying the incident before his eyes.  “The guard had stuck his force-pike into the water around my feet.  I could feel the electric currents running through my body as I was frozen there.  When he finally pulled it out, I just collapsed onto the floor.  I could feel the water evaporating from my skin.  As he walked away, I clearly heard him talking to himself.  He said ‘I bet that felt like he was hit with a Mando disrupter.’  He said it with a laugh.”  YT 597’s hands had formed white knuckled fists as he recounted the story.  “Strangely enough, despite the pain, I felt like I’d waken up from a long sleep.  For the first time since the Emperor’s death, I was aware of my surroundings.  I felt alive again.” 

“Go on.”

Hearing Mandalore’s voice brought the former stormtrooper back to the present.  Though he relaxed his hands, hatred still kindled in his stare.  “I managed to shake off the effects of the shock and got to my feet.  The only thing I could think off was killing the guard who had done that to me.  I looked out of the stall and saw him walking down the row; he was still laughing.  I stepped onto the walkway and ran after him.  It had been so long since I had run my legs nearly buckled under me, but I kept going.  He heard me coming and started to turn just as I reached him.  I hit him with all the force I could.  He must have hit his head pretty hard when we landed, cause he didn’t even try to get up.”  YT 597 again cast a burning gaze in the direction of the shower building.  “He looked up at me as I stood over him with the pike in my hands.  I set it to maximum and shoved it down into his chest.”  YT 597 looked down at the white dust at his feet.  He picked up a handful and watched it slowly pour out of his palm.  “I don’t know how long I pressed the pike into him.  I only stopped when one of my brothers grabbed me.  He told me follow him; that we had to hide in the ruble.  I guess he had been awake for some time, but had been acting unchanged.  We ran toward the entrance.  A guard somewhere behind us must have seen the body and yelled out.  As we ran through the doorway, the man who was helping me ran into another guard.  They both hit the ground.  I stopped; I didn’t know what to do.  He yelled at me; telling me to run.  The last I saw off him he was struggling for the guard’s blaster.” 

  Mandalore watched as the still soaking prisoners were ushered outside.  “And you blame yourself for leaving him.”

YT 597’s sharp stare darted to the man next to him.  “I could have helped him ”  Together we could have killed the guard and escaped.”

“Perhaps.”  Mandalore’s dark visor gleamed slightly in the moonlight that was falling around them.  “Your heart is in the right place now.    You were confused and disoriented, and can’t be blamed for your actions then.  What matters is that you would have helped if you could.  In the future you will know what to do.”  Mandalore leaned slightly closer to YT 597.  “Tell me.  When you killed the guard who had mistreated you; how did it feel?”

The question surprised YT 597; his eyes looked away for a moment.  Looking back at his leader, a slight sneer showed on his face.  “It was good.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”  Running his dirty fingers through his short brown hair, his mind wrestled with the question.  “It felt good because I was getting even for what he had done to me; but not just because of that.”  YT 597 closed his eyes, searching for the words to explain his feelings.  “It felt good because he thought he was strong and I was weak.”  Opening his eyes, he clenched his right hand and returned Mandalore’s dark gaze.  “Because he was armed and armored while I had nothing; because I won in the face of certain defeat and killed him with his own weapon.”

Mandalore gave a slight nod of his head.  “So it is true.  You have the heart of a Mandalorian.”  Mandalore put his hand on the other man’s shoulder.  “Come; let’s see if your brothers do too.”

Slightly confused by Mandalore’s reaction to his answer, YT 597 shook his head and followed his leader down the jagged slopes and broken foundations toward the camp.  When they finally reached the cleared area that the camp rested in, the work detail had been broken into groups of five hundred and each sent to a barracks.  Moving undetected behind one of the barracks, Mandalore and YT 597 watched as the guards emerged from the dull gray metal buildings and met with the perimeter defense units who arrived to relieve them.  Over one hundred strong and armed with heavy blaster rifles rather then force pikes and pistols, the perimeter defense unit’s job was to keep the prisoners in their barracks and foil any escape or riot attempts.  As the guards headed back to their own barracks, the perimeter units broke up into three man groups and started patrolling the camp. 

Pulling his head back from watching the Republic troopers, YT 597 turned to Mandalore.  “This could be tricky; there’s more night guards then there used to be.  You don’t need any ID to open the door; you just turn the handle.   But there’s no way to open it from the inside.”

“Let me worry about that; step aside.”  Moving around the corner of the barracks, Mandalore positioned himself in a kneeling stance facing the mess hall.  With a flick of his wrist, a targeting reticle appeared before Mandalore’s eyes on his HUD.  Extending his arms strait ahead, his left hand supporting his right, the bright red crosshair moved in unison to the center of his line of sight.  Breathing slowly, Mandalore patiently waited for the perfect window of opportunity.  With a seemingly benign clenching of his fingers, a dart fired across the open field toward the mess hall from his Mandalorian armored gauntlet.

YT 597 looked to see what Mandalore had shot at.  A team of guards was half way across the open area and calmly walking in his direction.  “You missed.”

“Keep watching,” responded Mandalore as he reloaded the launcher; this time with a HE explosive rocket dart..........just in case.

The moment Mandalore stopped speaking one of the mess hall’s floodlight trees erupted in sparks and fell to the ground.  “How did you do that,” asked a saucer eyed YT 597.

“Never ask stupid questions while on a mission; come on.”  Already on his feet, Mandalore swung his blaster rifle from his shoulder and into his hands.  When they reached the front of the building Mandalore shouldered his weapon and sidestepped his way to the door, keeping the guards to his front.  “Open it,” he ordered.

Turning the handle, YT 597 slid the large door open just enough to slip through.  He starred into the blackness of the barracks for a moment.  “Don’t shut the door or we’ll . . .” Before he could finish he heard the door’s lock snap back into position.  He turned to see Mandalore stepping away from the closed door.  “. . . be trapped.  Well, we’ve got a long wait until the guards find us in the morning.”

Mandalore walked past YT 597.  “Trust me,” said Mandalore calmly as he stepped deeper into the complete darkness of the prison barracks.  His helmet’s light amplification adjusting automatically, allowing him to clearly see the two rows of triple bunk beds stretching to the end of the building.  It was painfully obvious that the building was overcrowded.  Many prisoners were sharing beds, while dozens more slept on mats or just blankets on the floor.  To Mandalore’s right several prisoners waited in line to use the barracks’s single refresher.  The stench from the backed up unit even penetrated the air filters in his helmet. 

Leaving the refresher, a prisoner slowly shuffled back to the bunks.  Although he was identical in height to YT 597, the prisoner had dirty blond hair, a slightly leaner physical build, and a different face.  There was more diversity in the barracks than Mandalore had expected.  The Empire must have been using well over a dozen models of clone when the Emperor died.  There are at least ten different faces in here. 

When the prisoner tried to pass, Mandalore turned and stepped in front of him.  The prisoner stopped for a moment, then tried to walk around the armored figure.  Mandalore stepped to the side, again blocking the clone’s rout.  Unable to get by, the prisoner just stood there.  Examining the creature before him, Mandalore observed the prisoner’s slouched posture, his distant expression, and unfocused eyes. 

Using his left hand to lift the prisoner’s head, Mandalore raised his right index finger and moved it back and forth in front of the prisoners face.  “Look at me, trooper.”  The prisoner showed little response.  “LOOK AT ME ”  The clone shuddered slightly and looked up; though his gaze was distant and unfocused.  “I am Boba, son of Jango Fett; does that mean anything to you?”

The man began to show a glimmer of reaction.  His eyes cleared for a moment, and he seemed to try to concentrate on the words he had just heard.  However, he began to fade again. 

In a quick motion, Mandalore grabbed the prisoner by the shirt with his left hand and struck him across the face with the other.  The prisoner’s eyes cleared again and he raised his hands in a show of defense. 

Using only one hand to hold the prisoner up, Mandalore pulled him closer.  “I have come to rebuild the Mandalorian clans; will you join me?”

The prisoner looked blankly into Mandalore’s visor, confusion spread across his face.  Then, as if some part of his mind had suddenly been unlocked, he understood what had been said.  Shaking his head slightly, he rubbed the side of his jaw where he had been hit.  “You’re the lost son of our Father Jango Fett,” asked the prisoner weakly.     

“I am,” responded Mandalore as he let go of the prisoner’s shirt.   

YT 597, who had been watching the exchange, came forward and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “It’s true.  He’s been teaching me about our heritage.  With his help, we’re going to escape this place and live our dreams.”

The former stormtrooper gathered his thoughts.  He was still confused, having just awakened from the murky existence he had been living in for over a year.  He again gazed into Mandalore’s visor.  “You have come to return us to the ways of our ancestors?”

“First answer two questions.”

A ray of hope was beginning to show on the prisoner’s face.  “Anything.”

“Are you part of a secret Mandalorian cult inside the Imperial stormtrooper corps?”

The prisoner turned to the man standing next to him.  YT 597 gave him a nod.  “Yes.  Now that the Emperor is dead, all clone stormtroopers wait for the day when a true Mandalorian comes and leads us back to the ways of our fathers.”

Mandalore tilted his head back slightly.  “I am that Mandalorian.  Will you follow me on a crusade that will forever be remembered in the annals of our people?”

The prisoner had a light in his eyes that even YT 597 could see through the darkness of the barracks.  “Yes.  I’ll follow you to the ends of the galaxy if you ask me.”

Mandalore put his hand on the man’s shoulder.  “And perhaps beyond; if that is where our destiny lies.  Come, we’re leaving.”

As Mandalore and the prisoner moved deeper into the barracks, YT 597 looked back over his shoulder as he followed.  “But you locked the door. . .”

                                                                                                                                      ***

A chill ran through Colonel Caldrone as he stepped out of the shuttle and into the night air.  As the small craft lifted off, Caldrone scanned the landing pad.  The first project to be ‘financed’ by senator Tarik, it was his pride and joy.  Originally designed to be just large enough to land a single large freighter, the senator made a friendly suggestion that a much larger pad would be much more profitable for Taris and for the colonel.  Claiming there had been a mix-up with the design plans he had been sent, Caldrone was able to explain away the size and cost in materials.  With the war raging and supplies in high demand, it was actually easier for him to skim extra resources into the camp then it would have been in normal times.  The New Republic was swamped with matters far more important then his camp, and inconsistencies on his projected supply needs could never be fully investigated. 

Rubbing his hands together, he entered the primary control tower, which was part of the durasteel wall that surrounded the pad’s perimeter.  Entering the operations deck, Caldrone was greeted by the night watch officer.

“Colonel, welcome back.  How was your trip?”

“Tolerable, lieutenant.”  Caldrone was only able to conceal most of the satisfaction he really felt about the trip.  “Is the inspection team on schedule?”

The young officer dutifully checked his arrivals readout.  “Yes sir.  TOA is still estimated at zero nine hundred hours.” 

“Very well.  I’ll be in my quarters.”

The young deck officer started to turn back to his panel, but then a thought hit him.  “Colonel; how did you know we had an inspection coming?  We only got the landing authorization a few hours ago.”

Damn!!!  Caldrone thought for a moment.  “My droid contacted me shortly after I left Taris.  Why?”

The lieutenant realized he had overstepped his bounds and shifted to the defensive.  “No reason sir.  It just seemed odd that you would already know considering you where off station.”

“On your toes; that’s good.  Just save that observant nature for those murderers out there,” said Caldrone as he pointed out the south viewport toward the prisoner camps. 

“Yes sir; I will sir,” the lieutenant responded, unsure if he was in trouble or not.     

Old fool; letting yourself get caught by a young punk like that.  This is no time to get sloppy.  One more inspection and the galaxy is yours.  Caldrone took the lift down to the underground section of the facility.  The most sophisticated part of the compound, it was largely built by professional builders during the early stages of the camp’s construction.  He decided to detour to his office and update his financial files.  Locking his office door behind him, Caldrone settled in behind his large desk. 

“Security sign in; Colonel Caldrone.”  He couldn’t be more pleased.  Caldrone was always full of self satisfaction while recording another large addition to his accounts. 

The screen to the colonel’s computer came to life without his having to switch it on.  “Voice print access code recognized.  Welcome, Colonel Caldrone.”  The soothing female voice always made it a pleasure to activate the system.  "This system has had a security breech.”

Caldrone arched his eyebrow.  What’s been going on here?  “Source of security breech.”

“Data files were reviewed without authorization 15.24 standard hours ago.”

“Show security footage starting at the time of the unauthorized entry,” ordered the colonel as he rubbed his forehead.  The screen went blank for a moment, then returned to life.  The image of Captain Gran’ell, captured by a secret holo camera hidden behind a see-through panel opposite the desk, nervously opening the phony data files came to life.  As time passed, Caldrone could see Gran’ell becoming more comfortable as the files he accessed opened without difficulty. 

Take me for a fool, do you?  Caldrone hadn’t expected any trouble from his subordinates, but never the less took the precaution of setting up a dummy file that would easily be available to unauthorized entries onto the system.  He tapped a button on the corner of his desk, then proceeded to update his real financial records. 

As he was finishing, CZ-37 unlocked the door and entered.  “It is good to see you again, Colonel Caldrone.  I hope you had a pleasant trip.  What do you require?”

“Did I have any callers while I was away,” asked Caldrone as he completed the last entry. 

CZ-37 tilted its head as it tapped into its memory storage.  “Yes.  Captain Gran’ell was here fourteen hours, seven minutes, and twenty two seconds ago.  He requested to see you after the inspectors have gone.  He also said that you would be very interested in what he had to say.”

“I’m interested already.”  Caldrone grinned to himself as he shut down his desk terminal.  “Set the appointment for later that night so nothing will disturb us.”

“As you wish, Colonel Caldrone.  Will 10:30 that evening be late enough?”

Caldrone stood from his desk and looked at the near edge of his desk.  “That’ll be just fine.”

                                                                                                                                        ***

The harsh Sullust heat even burned through the captain’s heat resistant suit.  Through the volcanic haze, Captain Panah could see one of the stasis ships, its engines going from a low red to white, lifting off in the distance.  Its four oversized landing struts, shaped like the foot pads of an AT-AT, revealed their own engines as they slowly bent back into flying position. 

Who would have thought WE would ever use these damned things.  Turning around, he scanned another one of the monstrous vessels.  The engine compartment, which was an extension off the back of the squared hull, loomed over him and the main loading ramp.  About as long and far more massive then a Mon Cal Star Cruiser, the ship had only one purpose; the transport of slaves.  They carried millions of Wookiees and other enslaved species to the Death Star projects; and their deaths.  One and a half million single creature cells line the walls of the ship’s interior.  In stacks of four, the cells were designed for the prisoner to lie on his back through the entire journey.  Once all the cells were secured, they would be filled with a sedative gas that would render the prisoners unconscious for the duration of the trip, giving the ship its name.  After the battle of Endor the only three vessels of the type known to exist were captured.  Abandoned, they were still orbiting the far side of the moon where the Imperial fleet had left them.  We should have blown the evil things into space debris then and there.   

Prisoners were supposed to be inserted into their cells using some sort of device that was never recovered, making it necessary for New Republic guards to force prisoners to crawl into their cell.  This inefficient loading method was the reason all three ships were being used for the transfer.  Each ship was capable of carrying the entire camp population.  However, it would have been nearly imposable to load prisoners into the top rows and would have taken days to get them all on board.   

As his last act as head of security for the Sullust POW camp, Captain Panah watched as the last group of prisoners and their guards slowly emerged from the underground facility and made their way toward him.  Taken from the top security section, these were the only dangerous prisoners Panah had dealt with in the year since the camp had opened.  Attacks on guards and constant escape attempts had condemned these men to a life of chains and isolation.  Most were basic stormtroopers, each identical to one of the twenty seven clone variants that were cataloged in New Republic records.  Two hundred and seventy eight, however, were different.  All identical to each other, they didn’t match any clone seen before, and were initially the only fully conscious prisoners in the camp.  Slightly taller than the standard stormtrooper, they were completely different psychologically than any stormtrooper, clone or not, that anyone had seen before.  They seemed to posses a leadership trait that was remarkable for a clone.  Mixed in with the general population, they somehow began to wake up the other clones and started making trouble.  The number of conscious clones jumped to over a thousand, and all were getting harder to handle.  The decision to segregate the conscious clones before their numbers could grow further sparked outright attacks and large scale escape attempts.  Someone in New Republic intelligence decided that it would be better if no one knew about any of this until they could figure out how the unique clones were able to bring others back to their senses.  Several attempts by intelligence officers to interrogate the maximum security inmates as to how they had maintained or returned to clarity had gone sour, including the death of one New Republic intelligence officer and severe injuries to another. 

Standing at the foot of the stasis ship’s ramp, Panah watched as the prisoners shuffled past.  Tightly chained around the ankles, they made very slow progress.  The guards, who had their force pikes and shock shields out, struggled to watch the prisoners and fight off the heat at the same time.  The prisoners were only wearing the full body coveralls they had been issued.  The searing heat was cutting through them like a vibroblade.  Worse, their arms were secured behind their backs by maximum security forearm braces, preventing them from even protecting their eyes from the burning ash and dust that filled the air.   

“What do you think?”

Captain Panah looked over his shoulder to see the base commander.  “I don’t think they’ll give us any trouble, sir.”  Looking back at the column, Panah observed as the prisoners started up the ramp.  “They’re dangerous enough, but they’re also smart enough to know when to play along.”

“Maybe; just make sure your men are extra careful getting those barves into their cells.  It’ll be distracting enough getting them in there even if they wanted to cooperate.  If one starts to resist, it could spark a full blown riot.”

“We’ll be careful, sir.”

“I know you will.”  The general held a hand over his mouth and nose.  Unlike the others, he wasn’t wearing a breath mask. 

“You still think this is a mistake, sir?”

“Colonel Caldron says he has the facilities to deal with them, but I just can’t get over this feeling in my gut that something is wrong.”  A smile crossing his face, the old general looked over at his second in command.  “Maybe I’m just nervous about getting a field command again.” 

Captain Panah got a chuckle out of that.  “I doubt that, sir.”

“Anyway, it’s not my decision to make; about them, I mean.”  Turning to face the captain, the general extended his hand to his longtime subordinate and friend.  “Hurry back, captain.  There’s a lot of fighting left out there, and some fool wants us back in it.” 
Grinning, Captain Panah took his general’s hand and gave him a nod.  “I will sir.” 

                                                                                                                                 ***

“Come on, sergeant.  Let’s get these barves to Taris,” yelled the captain to one of the sergeants.

Barely able to squint due to the intense heat, the clones shuffled up the ramp as fast as their shackles allowed.  As they got farther into the loading bay, the heat subsided.

“Hurry, keep moving; our brothers behind us are still burning,” came whispers through the ranks.

Toward the back of the column, the shackles burning into his flesh, one of the clones never took his watering eyes off Captain Panah.  No longer.  When we reach Taris, we’ll put up with this no longer.  You’ll see, rebel.  Chained and shackled as we are, we’ll show you how we can die, thought JC 225.  Like Mandalorians