The battered Republic frigate *Resolute* hung in high orbit above a nameless rocky moon, its gray hull scarred by fresh carbon scoring and patched with hasty durasteel plates. Emergency lighting strips cast a sickly amber glow along the corridors, flickering whenever the old ion drives cycled through another maintenance purge. The air recyclers labored audibly, pushing a stale mixture that carried the sharp bite of scorched wiring, machine oil, and the faint, sour undertone of too many bodies crammed into too little space. CT-4827 moved through the narrow passageways with the rest of the survivors from Geonosis, boots clanging against the grated decking in a rhythm that matched every other set of footsteps. Phase I armor had been stripped for repairs; now he wore only the black body glove and a fresh set of fatigues, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar against skin still tender from bacta patches.
The mess deck was little more than a converted cargo bay, tables bolted to the floor and ration dispensers humming along one bulkhead. A handful of squads had already claimed spots, their low voices blending into a steady murmur that rose and fell like distant artillery. CT-4827 found an empty stretch of bench near the far viewport, the transparisteel streaked with condensation and micro-meteor pitting. He set his DC-15A across his knees, the rifle still warm from the armory's quick diagnostic cycle. The barrel gleamed under the overheads, matte finish wiped clean of sand and blood. He pulled a polishing cloth from his belt pouch and began working it along the length of the weapon with slow, deliberate strokes. Metal met fabric with a soft hiss. Each pass erased another faint scratch, restoring the surface to a mirror-like sheen that caught the amber light and threw it back in thin silver lines.
Around him the others settled in. CT-4815 dropped onto the bench opposite, tossing a pair of ration bars onto the table. The wrappers crinkled as he tore one open, the synthetic protein smell sharp and chemical in the recycled atmosphere. "Got extra," he said, voice carrying the same flat Kaminoan inflection as every brother. "Trade you for that extra power cell you scrounged on the surface."
CT-4837 leaned in from the side, already chewing. "Keep your cell. I'll take the bar. My gut's been twisting since we lifted off that dustball. Tasted like I swallowed half the arena floor." He laughed once, short and dry, the sound lacking any real humor. "You see that walker go down? The one that crushed 4822 and the other poor bastard? Looked like a toy someone stepped on."
CT-4815 nodded, mouth full. "Saw it. Heard the comms cut out mid-scream. One second they're calling for covering fire, next—nothing. Like flipping a switch." He gestured with the half-eaten bar. "Geonosians hit us from every angle up in those stands. Sonic weapons made my teeth feel loose. Thought my helmet was going to crack open like an egg."
More voices joined in, the stories tumbling out in the easy rhythm of men who had trained together since decanting. They spoke of the red grit that had worked its way into every joint, the way super battle droids kept advancing even after losing limbs, the precise sound a B1 made when its motivator failed and it folded like cheap scaffolding. Laughter came in bitter bursts when someone described a Geonosian warrior losing its wings to a lucky shot and pinwheeling into a tank tread. No one mentioned the names of the fallen. Designations only. 4829. 4834. The numbers passed between them like spare ammunition—acknowledged, then set aside.
CT-4827 kept his eyes on the rifle. The cloth moved in steady circles now, polishing the receiver group until the metal reflected the faint stubble on his jaw. He said nothing. The scar along his temple pulled slightly with each breath, the bacta having knit the worst of it but leaving a raised, pale line that refused to fade completely. It itched under the overhead lights, a constant reminder of the moment the bolt had skimmed past. He could still feel the heat of it, the way the plastoid had softened for an instant before hardening again. The others bore similar marks—bruises, burns, fresh grafts—but on him the line felt different. Distinct. He pushed the thought away and ran the cloth along the stock once more.
A ration bar landed beside his elbow. CT-4815 had slid it over without looking. "Eat something, 4827. You've been quiet since the shuttle. That gash on your face making you rethink your life choices?"
The table chuckled. CT-4827 picked up the bar, peeled the wrapper, and took a mechanical bite. The taste was bland, salty, designed for nutrition and nothing else. He chewed, swallowed, and returned to the rifle. The metal had grown warm beneath his fingers, the polishing cloth dark with residue from the battlefield that no armory solvent had fully removed.
Across the mess deck a wall-mounted holoprojector flickered to life. The image resolved into a grainy Republic News Network feed, the anchor's voice tinny over the ship's aging speakers. "—latest reports from the Outer Rim confirm Separatist forces have seized control of the Bothan hyperspace relay at Kothlis. Droid armies under General Grievous are said to have overwhelmed the garrison in less than six hours. Casualties are estimated in the thousands. Republic command states reinforcements are en route, but sources close to the Senate describe the situation as fluid."
The image cut to shaky drone footage: columns of battle droids marching across a rain-slicked landing platform, AAT tanks rolling behind them while Republic troopers fell back in ragged lines. Smoke rose in thick pillars against a slate-gray sky. Another clip followed—starfighters dueling above a shattered orbital station, Republic ARC-170s exploding in silent fireballs. The anchor continued, tone professionally detached: "Count Dooku has issued a statement claiming these victories prove the Republic's clone army cannot match the efficiency of droid legions. He urges systems still loyal to Coruscant to reconsider their allegiance before more worlds fall."
The mess fell quieter. Someone muttered, "Grievous. That's a new one," but the words carried no bravado. CT-4827's hand paused on the rifle. He stared at the holofeed, the blue-white light washing over the scar on his face. Kothlis. He had never been there, yet the numbers scrolled at the bottom of the screen—estimated clone losses, destroyed gunships, captured supply depots—felt too familiar. Another planet, another slaughter yard. The same white armor crumpling under droid fire. The same identical faces going slack. The feed showed a close-up of a fallen trooper, helmet cracked, features hidden but the posture unmistakable. Interchangeable. The word echoed in his skull like a misfired round.
He resumed polishing, the cloth moving faster now, chasing a stubborn smudge near the muzzle. The certainty from Kamino—that every brother was a perfect copy, that losses were calculated and acceptable, that the Republic's cause was absolute—felt suddenly thinner. Not shattered. Not yet. But stretched, like the hull plating outside that had taken too many glancing hits and still held together by sheer engineering stubbornness. He had watched eleven designations erased on Geonosis. Now the holofeed promised thousands more across the galaxy. And for what? A relay station whose name he had never heard before this moment.
CT-4815 noticed the silence. "You good over there? That scar's looking nasty under the lights. Medics say it'll fade, but you'll have a story to tell the next batch of decants."
CT-4827 met his brother's eyes—brown, steady, identical to his own. He managed a single nod. "It's fine." The words came out clipped, automatic. He set the rifle down, the barrel now gleaming like polished obsidian under the amber glow. The cloth disappeared back into his pouch. Around him the stories resumed, lighter now, shifting to complaints about the frigate's lukewarm caf and the way the bunks smelled of previous crews. Someone started a game of sabacc with ration chits as stakes. Laughter returned in careful increments.
Yet inside his chest the unease lingered, small and sharp as a sliver of shrapnel that had worked its way past the armor. The war was bigger than one drop on one planet. Bigger than this frigate limping through its resupply cycle. And for the first time since decanting, CT-4827 wondered whether the template they had all been poured from included room for questions. Or whether the Kaminoans had simply forgotten to program that part in.
He stood, rifle slung over one shoulder, and left the mess without another word. The corridor outside swallowed him in its flickering amber light, the deck plates vibrating faintly beneath his boots as the *Resolute* prepared for its next jump. Behind him the holofeed continued its quiet recitation of distant defeats, the words fading into the general murmur of brothers who still believed the mission was everything.