Changing Times

Untitled Part 1

Assembled in the large durasteel chamber were sixteen clone troopers, all in small clusters bantering amongst themselves, trading war stories, or swapping news from the dozen fronts of the galaxy. All with helmets off (most of them spent so much time with their buckets on they relished every chance they got to go helmetless), most of them had now distinguished their identical profiles with unique hairstyles, facial tattoos, or battle scars. Paint schemes of all colors announced what units they had come from, though a few retained the unadorned white armor they had all begun with.

The dozen voices echoed in the wide, high-domed room, each blending together into one loud chatter. The more observant of the sixteen soldiers noticed that twelve repulsorlift doors ringed the chamber, one of which they had all come through ten minutes earlier, and the one opposite had just slid open silently.

"Sergeant on deck!" The first trooper to recognize the new clone striding into the chamber announced his presence to the others. Stories were cut short and the chatterers snapped their mouths closed immediately. Each man in the room stood to attention.

"Form ranks." The clone sergeant ordered. Instinctively, the men tucked their helmets under their left arms and assembled themselves into a phalanx four men wide and four deep. There was no bickering for who stood where, just swift, precise placement.

The clone commando came to a stop in front of the squad, sweeping his gaze from left to right across them. The men stared back into the sergeant's helmet visor, trying to discern any kind of detail from the blue glow. His navy blue Mark III Katarn-class armor cut an imposing figure compared to the men's standard Phase II infantry armor. Every plate was larger and thicker than theirs, able to withstand more fire, explosives, and shrapnel - evident by the myriad of scrapes, divots, and blast marks that speckled the armor's paint job. He was a standing reminder that though they were all cloned from the same Jango Fett, some of their lives were simply more worth protecting than others.

With a quiet hiss of a seal dissipating, the sergeant removed his helmet and tucked it under his left arm. His stern, freshly shaved face was chiseled from the same stone as the rest of theirs and sported a burn scar splayed across his left cheek. His military crew-cut was shaved a bit shorter than the standard regulation and silver strands of hair began to mingle with the black. Cold and analytical, his brown eyes swept across them all once more, this time meeting each of the other men's eyes.

"I'm Sergeant Mantle. Where are you from, boys?" He asked the assembly. The phalanx shouted their units at once."

"212th Attack Battalion, sir!" The orange-painted trooper in the front row announced.

"48th Brigade! Frontrunners, sir." The shaved and scarred infantryman barked.

"91st Recon, sir!"

"327th Star Corps, sir!"

"308th Honor Corps, Gra'tuar Company, sir!"

Each of them was proud of their origins. The clone commando let them finish.

"Perhaps I should have been more clear. What planet are you from?" There was only a moment's hesitation before they all shouted in unison.

"Kamino, sir!" Nine voices announced.

"Centax-Two, sir!" Three voices barked.

The nine men stared at the other three in confusion. The three claiming Centax as their home glanced back at the other clones, their eyes dancing between them all. The group faced the sergeant again and resumed their at-attention poses.

All clones who served in the Grand Army of the Republic - now, as of four months ago, the Imperial Army - had been grown and raised on rainy Kamino, only leaving once they were finally assigned to a unit and deployed. Centax-II, however, was one of the moons of Coruscant, the capital of the Empire and former Republic.