The LAAT hovered over the setting sky. It was almost full dusk now. At fifty feet in the air, the soldiers got a good glimpse of the nighttime shadow hanging over the crowded city below. Dark, yet radiant.
The datapad had the details of their next assignment, as well as a detailed dossier on the man in question. Zanesh Matar was a blue-skinned Twi’lek. He grew up on Coruscant, majored in political science with a minor in philosophy. His first paying job was at a local clerk’s office. He started poor, but rose the ranks with his degree until he eventually paid his family out of poverty. He was a member of the worker’s party. There he gained significant popularity amongst the proletariat voters. And after several decades of social work, he became an elected senator.
483 searched the records for any hint of a military or combat background. There were none. Zanesh had never so much as registered a gun.
He was not a soldier. Which made their assignment that much more confusing to him.
Intelligence reported that Zanesh had hired out a transporter to take certain friends away from Coruscant. After interrogation, the transporter said that he never specified who he wanted transported, just that they were to drop the passengers at a designated location on Alderaan, where it was safe from Imperial control.
Zanesh had been under investigation since it became apparent to the empire that several Jedi had been fleeing Coruscant undetected. Small numbers, but noticeable once they started adding up. Several covert investigations turned up mounds of evidence against the man. The most recent confirming without a shadow of a doubt that he was smuggling Jedi out of the planet.
Pictures showed him leading Jedi students into his estate. Four young children, and a young girl, seventeen of age. The database had them all pegged as Jedi padawans.
After examining the pictures on the datapad, it occurred to 483 that these were the people that he would be ordered to kill. Not soldiers. But five children, and an unarmed politician.
32 sat beside the pilot while at the bunk was 483, and six other troopers. They were all eager for the fight. Some were ejecting and reinserting their magazines just to pass the time.
“I’m going to wipe them all out myself,” said 52 via the comm unit in his helmet.
“It’s been a while since we found us some Jedi,” said 91.
“Just be careful,” said 39. “Those Jedi are a cunning bunch. You underestimate any of them, even the kids, and you might not live long enough to regret it.”
How could his brothers in arms be so ready to kill children, when 483 himself wasn’t?
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
52 patted 39 on his chest, then pointed at the nervous 483.
“Look at him. He looks like he’s about to wet his damn suit.”
“What’s the matter with you?” asked 91. “I thought you 57th regiment guys were supposed to be hardcore. First you can’t take out a bunch of rebels. Now you can’t even handle some Jedi kids?”
483 said nothing. His mind was a mold of perplexity and shame. But was it shame at himself? Or shame at the others? Why was he the only one who felt so wrong?
32s voice piped in over 483s helmet.
“You flinch on me this time,” he said. “And I swear it’s going to be the end for you. Remember that.”
483 squeezed his rifle, covertly taking out his anger on the barrel of his gun.
Before the Clone War began, the clones in training underwent a specific procedure that had been designed to shape their psychological conditioning.
Each clone was given another clone as a partner. For two years the two were to share quarters, assist one another during training hours, and participate in two-man competitions against the other clones in order to reinforce their bond together. Then, at the end of the two years they were put inside a sparring room, and they were told to kill their partner with their bare hands, ensuring that all physical contact would be made up close and personal.
The program had been designed to prepare the soldiers for Order 66, whereupon they would be willing and able to kill the very Jedi they’d fought side-by-side with for over two years at the drop of just two simple words.
Staring at his brothers in arms, his rifle locked and loaded, 483 decided that though he might not have killed children and unarmed civilians before, he’d definitely killed soldiers before. And he could do it without an ounce of hesitation.