Star Wars One Read online

Star Wars: One

  (Fan Fiction)

  By Mortimer Jackson

  ***

  Copyright 2011 The Morning Dread

  ***

  Star Wars: One

  Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Star Wars, nor do I possess any creative licenses to the brand. This work should not be considered an infringement on the rights of the Star Wars license holders.

  Author’s Note: Certain details in Star Wars cannon are altered here for narrative purposes.

  Chapter One

  Ever since his birth in the hot labs of the Kamino cloning facility, number 483 had always believed that he was exactly like the others. That every trooper was the same as the other in nearly every single way. At least, every way that mattered.

  That was what the scientists had told them in their ten years of training. That was what their father had taught them. The man from whom they were born. And that was what his blood told them.

  The clones carried the genes of the Mandalorians. And Mandalorians fought as one. Always. 483 knew that as well as the rest.

  And yet there were days when he had his doubts. Days when he wondered if it was possible that he could somehow be different from the rest. Different from his brothers in arms. Different from his own flesh and blood.

  “Stop wasting time and shoot.”

  32 was number 483’s commander. The red tint on his uniform indicated as much. He had the same voice, the same gear, the same DNA, but the palette on 483’s uniform was blue, which put his rank below that of his commander’s. He was a soldier. A grunt. That meant he was meant to follow the commander’s orders to the letter, no matter what.

  483 had his blaster rifle aimed at the rebels. Sympathizers of the Jedi. Coruscant was overwhelmed with them. This was the third group they’d found this week since 483’s arrival.

  They had them lined up against the wall. Their hands were shaking above their heads. An old man among them begged the soldiers to let his son go. The younger man standing beside him. He looked like his father, minus thirty years of human aging. But they had the same hazel colored eyes.

  483 wondered if the father and son were more the same than they were different. If there was more to the two that set them apart than just their age.

  “483, I gave you an explicit order.”

  The commander’s voice echoed inside his helmet. 32 was losing his patience.

  “Can you hear me?” he demanded.

  The commander’s words were loud and clear. And yet 483 did not know what to do.

  He had killed plenty times before. But his enemies had been Separatists. Droid armies. And then highly trained Jedi. They were all soldiers, just like him.

  These people weren’t.

  The five rebels were lined up outside the old consulate building. They’d been moved there upon capture by order of their commander, number 32. There was a large poster on the wall with the emperor’s face. Below him were words that read “Support The Empire” in five separate languages, including basic.

  32 had done this before. He’d killed people here before. In his siege against the Coruscant insurgency, he wasn’t known to keep prisoners for very long. He would often order his unit to line up prisoners against this very wall, where the rebels could see the face of the emperor before they died.

  But these men were not soldiers. They were not like the ones that 483 had killed since the beginning of the Clone War, or before. These were unarmed vandals. People who went out of their way to deface government property with the insignia of the Rebel Alliance. Their only weapons were bags of spray cans, brushes, and tubes of paint.

  These were not soldiers. They were protestors. Petty criminals, and nothing more.

  “Give me that.”

  32 snatched the rifle from out of 483’s hands. The commander was angry. 483 could tell without even having to see his face.

  He grumbled underneath his breath.

  “You incompetent nitwit.”

  The old man turned around and shouted, “Wait!”

  But 32 didn’t. He squeezed the trigger and held it steady, firing on full-automatic, indiscriminately killing every one of the five unarmed men. All it took was two seconds, and then they were dead.

  32 gave 483 his rifle back.

  “57th regiment my hide. You boys aren’t worth spit.”

  And he walked away.

  Before being transferred to 32s unit, 483 had been member of the 57th regiment, one of the many that fought alongside the Jedi throughout the Clone War. They were the envy of every trooper that held stationary posts during the war, whether it be in the galactic capital of Coruscant, or in the old Republic colonies where danger was least likely to ensue.

  32 wanted a soldier in his unit who’d fought alongside the best. Who would be willing to do anything that was told of him, and to kill without mercy.

  Suffice to say, he was disappointed.