The interior of the Acclamator swallowed them whole.
The boarding ramp funneled directly into one of the vessel's primary hangar decks — a cavernous chamber carved from layered durasteel and industrial reinforcement beams. The scale was staggering. The ceiling arched high overhead in ribbed supports, cables, and conduit lines running in ordered webs between structural frames. Bright utility lighting cast hard reflections across white armor and metallic surfaces, while the low thrum of the ship's hypermatter reactor pulsed faintly through the deck plates like a mechanical heartbeat.
Thousands of clone troopers filled the space.
They stood in organized formations that stretched across multiple levels of the hangar, white plastoid armor gleaming beneath the lights. Racks of helmets and blaster carbines lined the side-loading troop bays; rail systems overhead carried suspended cargo platforms where AT-TE walkers rested in secured clamps. The massive six-legged walkers were braced against the deck with stabilizing locks, their armored frames dark and purposeful, cockpit windows reflecting the light in sharp glints.
Rows of LAAT/i gunships occupied the forward portion of the bay — angular fuselages ready for deployment, side doors open for rapid embarkation. The scent of coolant and machine lubricant mixed with the sterile tang of recycled air. Beyond the hangar's open interior, additional decks could be seen through grated catwalks — barracks levels stacked in disciplined tiers, each prepared to house sixteen thousand soldiers within this single vessel.
And there were twelve such ships deploying.
Kael stood at the threshold for a moment, absorbing it.
The clones nearest them snapped to attention in synchronized precision, helmets turning toward Yoda's small figure and the Mandalorian-armored Jedi at his side.
Yoda moved forward calmly, cane tapping against the deck as if the thunderous scale around him were merely a backdrop.
A clone officer — marked with yellow striping along his pauldrons and helmet fin — stepped forward and saluted sharply.
"Grand Master," he said, voice identical to every other trooper in the bay, yet carrying the weight of rank.
Yoda inclined his head in acknowledgment but did not linger.
"To the bridge, I must go," he said quietly. "In charge, I must find."
He turned slightly toward Kael.
"Talk to those you will be fighting with," he added. "Understanding brings connection."
Kael exhaled faintly beneath his helmet.
"Great," he muttered under his breath.
Yoda's eyes flickered with faint amusement before he turned and disappeared along an ascending ramp leading toward the upper command decks, where the narrow, mostly windowless bridge relied on holographic displays rather than open viewport grandeur.
Kael remained where he was.
A datapad had been handed to him upon boarding — likely by a logistics officer whose face he could not distinguish from the others. He activated it now, scanning the information scrolling across its surface.
Twelve Acclamator-class assault ships.
One hundred ninety-two thousand clone troopers.
One thousand six hundred LAAT/i gunships.
Four hundred LAAT carriers.
Two thousand one hundred sixty AT-TE walkers.
One hundred self-propelled heavy artillery turbolasers.
The numbers did not read like a deployment.
They read like inevitability.
Kael stared at the figures for a long moment.
He had fought alongside small units before. Coordinated strikes. Tactical engagements.
This was something else entirely.
This was a planetary-scale war.
He lowered the datapad slowly and looked up.
Troopers stood in organized clusters nearby — pilots distinguished by specialized visors and additional equipment harnessed to their armor. Drivers and heavy weapons specialists bore subtle modifications: reinforced pauldrons, additional comm gear, and thicker knee plating. Some troopers had already begun minor personalization — a painted stripe here, a small symbol etched into a pauldron there.
They were physically identical.
Yet subtle differences emerged the longer one looked.
The strange thing was not their sameness.
It was their demeanor.
There was no fear in their posture.
No uncertainty in their stance.
If anything, there was anticipation.
Helmets angled toward the ramp where LAAT gunships would deploy. Hands rested steadily upon DC-15 rifles. Conversations occurred in low, efficient tones, identical voices carrying what sounded almost like eagerness.
They were ready.
Kael felt it in the Force — not aggression, not bloodlust.
Purpose.
They had been made for this.
He did not understand it.
He had known battle before. Known the weight of stepping into violence.
This was different.
These men had never seen a battlefield.
Yet they stood as though they had been waiting their entire lives.
Which, in a sense, they had.
Kael took a slow breath and deactivated the datapad.
"Alright," he murmured quietly to himself.
He stepped forward from the threshold and into the organized sea of white armor.
If he were to lead them into war, he would not remain an observer.
He approached a nearby group of troopers marked with blue striping, likely lieutenants and their squads, who stood near a row of secured LAAT/i gunships.
They straightened instinctively as he approached, helmets turning in precise unison.
For a moment, Kael said nothing.
He studied them.
And they waited.
The hum of the assault ship intensified subtly as engines spooled in preparation for departure.
War had begun moving across the galaxy.
And for the first time, Kael Vizsla stood not merely as a Jedi—
But at the head of an army.
The blue-marked troopers stood in disciplined formation beside their assigned LAAT/i gunship when Kael approached.
Thirty-six of them — a platoon, if the markings were any indication. Blue striping along helmets and pauldrons identified officers among them, while the rest stood in immaculate white Phase I armor, blasters held at rest across their chests.
As he drew near, their heads turned in precise synchronization.
He could feel it — their readiness. Not nervous energy. Not fear.
Expectation.
Kael reached up slowly and removed his helmet.
The seal disengaged with a soft hiss, and cool recycled air brushed against his face. Blond hair, slightly darkened from Kamino's rain, fell loosely across his brow. Blue eyes scanned the line before him, measuring not equipment, but presence.
For the briefest second, a few of the troopers' helmets tilted almost imperceptibly.
Perhaps they had expected a Mandalorian warlord beneath the visor.
Instead, they saw a young man.
Twenty-one.
Human.
Jedi.
"I'm Jedi Knight Kael Vizsla," he said evenly.
His voice carried without amplification, but it was firm.
"I'll be fighting alongside you on Geonosis."
There was no boast in the statement. No dramatic pause.
He glanced over the ranks stretching behind this platoon — thousands of identical figures filling the hangar's layered decks.
"I'd like to address all of you at once," he continued. "Can you help me organize the bay? Efficiently."
The blue-striped lieutenant stepped forward half a pace.
"Understood, sir."
Others echoed it immediately.
"Understood."
"Understood, sir."
Their voices were identical in pitch and cadence, but there was no hesitation in compliance.
"What's your designation?" Kael asked the lieutenant.
"CT-4112, sir."
Another stepped forward. "CT-6934."
"CT-8721."
Numbers.
Only numbers.
Kael's jaw tightened faintly.
"Right," he said.
He turned slightly, scanning the vastness of the hangar. Multi-level decks. Rail systems holding AT-TE walkers suspended overhead. LAAT gunships lined in rows like metallic birds of prey waiting to launch. Troopers assembled across catwalks and lower staging areas.
If he was going to speak, they would need structure.
"Form up by platoons," Kael instructed. "Clear a central corridor down the middle of the deck. Officers at the front of each unit."
The blue lieutenant nodded sharply and began issuing orders.
Within seconds, the rhythm of the hangar shifted.
Clones moved with mechanical precision, squads pivoting and reorganizing without wasted motion. Lines straightened. Columns widened. The endless white mass of troopers began reshaping itself into symmetrical divisions, creating a central open span stretching from one end of the bay to the other.
The thunder of boots against durasteel echoed in perfect cadence.
Kael watched it unfold.
It was almost beautiful in its efficiency.
And unsettling.
They did not question.
They did not hesitate.
They simply obeyed.
He stepped toward a nearby cargo platform — a low-maintenance lift used to maneuver equipment between deck levels. With a subtle gesture of the Force, he activated it and guided it forward into the cleared corridor.
It rose slightly as he stepped onto it — just enough elevation that he would be visible across the formation.
Not towering over them.
Level with the upper deck lines.
He did not want to look down on them.
He wanted to see them.
And for them to see him.
He placed his helmet at his side and let his gaze sweep across the assembled troops.
Thousands of identical white visors turned toward him in silent unison.
Blindingly pristine armor beneath industrial lights.
Young men bred for war.
And none of them had names.
Only CT-designations.
Numbers assigned at creation.
A quiet realization settled in his chest.
If he ever commanded clones beyond this battle…
He would learn who they were.
Not what they were labeled.
No one should go to war as a number.
The hangar fell into near-total silence, broken only by the distant hum of engines and the faint creak of durasteel adjusting to power fluctuations.
Every helmet faced him.
Every soldier waited.
Kael drew in a slow breath.
The scale of it pressed against him — the responsibility, the inevitability, the weight of what they were about to become.
He did not ignite his saber.
He did not speak as a warlord.
He stood as a Jedi.
And for the first time in his life, Kael Vizsla prepared to address an army that had been born for a war he had never intended to fight.
The hangar settled into stillness.
Thousands of white helmets faced him, T-shaped visors reflecting the industrial lights above. The hum of the hypermatter reactor vibrated faintly beneath the deck plates, and somewhere in the distance, a loader mechanism shifted an AT-TE into final position, metal grinding softly against reinforced rails.
Kael stood on the raised platform, helmet resting at his side.
For a moment, he realized he had no prepared words.
No grand speech.
No rallying cry.
He had not trained for this part.
"I'm Jedi Knight Kael Vizsla," he began again, voice steady but unembellished. "I serve the Republic."
The words felt smaller than the scale of the room.
"We're heading to Geonosis," he continued. "To reinforce Jedi already engaged on the surface."
He paused briefly, eyes sweeping across the ranks. The clones did not shift. They did not whisper. They did not fidget.
They waited.
"We're going into a war," he said plainly.
Not a dramatic declaration. Not a prophecy.
A fact.
"I don't know what you're capable of yet," he admitted. "I've seen your training. I've seen the numbers."
His gaze flickered momentarily toward the suspended AT-TEs and the rows of LAAT gunships.
"But training and numbers don't tell me who you are in battle."
He let the words settle.
"I'll be on the front line with you," he said. "Not behind you."
There was no bravado in it.
Only certainty.
"If we push forward, I push forward. If we fall back, I fall back."
He shifted his weight slightly, conscious of how strange it felt to speak to thousands and yet feel as though he were addressing each man individually.
"The Republic owes you," he said after a moment.
That earned the faintest, almost imperceptible tilt of several helmets.
"You were created for this," he continued, "and you didn't choose it."
Silence thickened.
"You all look the same," he said honestly. "But to me, you're not just clones."
He glanced down briefly at the datapad still in his hand, at the endless lines of CT-designations.
"You're not numbers," he said, lifting his eyes again. "You're not equipped. You're not property."
He hesitated, aware that he was stepping into territory no Jedi had likely addressed before.
"You're soldiers," he said finally. "And soldiers are people."
The statement sounded almost awkward in its simplicity.
"I don't know your names yet," he added quietly. "But I intend to."
There was a faint stir now — not movement, but attention sharpening.
"If we come out of this battle alive," Kael said, "I'll have learned them."
His voice did not rise.
He did not attempt to ignite enthusiasm.
"I don't expect perfection," he said. "I expect effort. I expect discipline. I expect you to protect each other."
He looked across the endless sea of white armor.
"And I expect you to hold me to the same standard."
That was perhaps the strangest part of all.
A Jedi inviting accountability from clones.
He inhaled slowly.
"This isn't a speech," he admitted. "I've never led an army before."
A faint murmur rippled across the deck — not disorderly, but something like recognition.
"But I know this," he finished. "We walk into this together. And we walk out together. As many of us as the Force allows."
He stepped back slightly on the platform.
No flourish.
No salute.
Just presence.
For a heartbeat, the hangar remained utterly silent.
Then, in perfect synchronization, thousands of clone troopers brought their fists to their chests in salute.
The sound — plastoid striking plastoid — rolled through the chamber like a contained thunderclap.
Not because he had inspired them.
But because he had acknowledged them.
And in that vast warship filled with identical soldiers, something shifted — subtle, intangible, but real.
For the first time, a Jedi had spoken to them not as assets.
But as men.