Chapter 14: A Mandalorian In the Archives
You'd think breaking into the most secure part of the Jedi Archives would feel… more dramatic.
Y'know—alarms blaring, laser grids, maybe a hovering droid yelling "Unauthorized access!"
Instead, it's just me. Alone. Standing in front of a locked holo-door that opens with the exact same swipe code as the cafeteria supply closet. This is why you don't re-use passwords, people.
"Wow," I whisper, glancing around the dimly lit corridor. "Centuries of galactic history and enlightenment, protected by… mild inconvenience."
Technically, I'm not breaking in. I'm just… repurposing my "Temple maintenance assistant" credentials from last month's lightsaber safety seminar. The badge still reads Ben K., Apprentice Mechanic, which isn't wrong. It's just not—strictly true.
I tug my borrowed utility vest tighter, push open the door, and step into the restricted stacks.
The air inside feels different—colder, quieter, heavy with the hum of a thousand sleeping holobooks. Thin blue light from the floating data-streams glows off the marble floors, reflecting endless towers of knowledge. It's gorgeous, in a "I definitely shouldn't be here" kind of way.
I hum a low tune under my breath.
Not just any tune. "Duel of the Fates."
Except slower. Jazzier. Spy-movie style.
Da-da-da-da-daaaa… chhh… snaps fingers
The rhythm helps me move quietly between aisles, scanning the glowing glyphs for the Mandalorian section. The ancient histories are near the back — conveniently marked "Cultural Conflicts of the Outer Rim." Subtle, Jedi. Real subtle.
A holo-drone drifts past, scanning for motion. I duck behind a column and nudge it gently with the Force, sending it spinning just far enough to misread its own sensor.
"Shh," I whisper at it, because apparently I'm now scolding robots. "You saw nothing."
Once it's gone, I head for the archive terminal and plug in my access chip. The console flares to life with the old Republic crest, then scrolls through data requests like it's deciding how much trouble I'm worth.
SEARCH QUERY: "Mandalorian Wars"
The results flood in. Old footage, reports, fragments of testimony from Jedi who fought in those wars — all compiled, sterilized, neatly categorized by moral lesson.
I start skimming, half-curious, half-annoyed.
"Right, so, we've got a few centuries of 'war bad, peace good,' followed by an appendix on how to rebuild your planet after near-annihilation. Real inspirational."
A few holos play automatically as I scroll. A Mandalorian fleet under siege. Jedi armadas moving in perfect formation. And then—Satine Kryze.
Her younger self flickers on-screen: calm, composed, addressing the New Mandalorian council.
I slow down.
She looks so much like Korkie it's eerie. Or maybe we look like her. Hard to say.
"Huh. So peace apparently comes with about fifty committee meetings per day," I mutter. "No wonder Mom looks tired."
Mom.
That word still feels weird when I think about her. I mean, I'm not technically supposed to know, but it's also not exactly a well-kept secret. At all. I figured it out before I was five. Honestly, it has to be the most obvious lie of all time.
Satine only has one sister, and was under sixteen when I was born. Trust me, it's not her. But here I am off-track, again.
I keep reading.
Turns out, after the Wars, Satine pushed Mandalore into demilitarization—something called the New Mandalorian Reforms. The archives praise it like a miracle of diplomacy. But the more I read, the more I notice what's missing.
There are entire sections of the record—especially the recent ones—flagged with the Council's sigil.
ACCESS RESTRICTED — LEVEL SEVEN CLEARANCE REQUIRED.
I lean closer. "Level seven? I barely rate level two and a half." And I only had that much because of all the detention work I've had to do in the library.
Out of curiosity, I tap for metadata. The file headers show names I recognize: Kryze, Satine. Kenobi, Obi-Wan. Sundari Political Network.
So yeah—clearly the Jedi are keeping a very close eye on Mandalore.
And that's when the irony hits me.
Here I am, a Jedi Padawan-slash-Mandalorian spy, trying to research my homeworld's peace movement — and it turns out the Jedi are the ones secretly monitoring us.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
I flop down on a nearby hover-step, rubbing my face. "You'd think one of them might mention it. 'Oh, by the way, Ben, your mom's government is on the Council's classified watchlist.' Great dinner conversation."
For the record, yes, I do have a little meta knowledge rattling around in my head. You don't just stop remembering the plot of The Clone Wars when you wake up inside it. Before it. Whatever. It doesn't matter, because it's all fuzzy anyways.
Spotty. I wasn't exactly a walking Wookieepedia before this, you know. I watched the movies, the shows, played a few games. That's it. Half the time I'm winging it.
And really, what's a fan to do when the timeline's already diverging?
Research. Proper, hands-on, archival digging. Jedi-style.
A soft beep breaks the silence. I glance down at my belt—my communicator's flashing.
…oh no.
The display reads: INCOMING HOLO-CALL — KORKIE KRYZE.
"Of course," I hiss under my breath. "The one time I'm breaking twenty-three Temple rules, my brother decides to FaceTime me."
I glance around in panic. No one's nearby, but the holo-projectors around me are still active. If Jocasta Nu catches me taking a personal call in the restricted stacks, I might as well pack my robes and move to Tatooine.
The comm keeps buzzing. Korkie's patience level is approximately zero.
I could ignore it…
…or I could answer.
I sigh.
"Yeah, sure, why not," I mutter, hitting accept before I can overthink it.
A flicker of blue light fills the dark aisle as the holo springs to life — and there he is.
Korkie Kryze, in all his perfectly groomed, annoyingly composed glory. His tunic's pressed, his hair's combed, and behind him stretches one of those marble Mandalorian council chambers that looks like it was designed specifically to make everyone inside it feel underdressed.
He blinks. "Ben? Why does it look like you're calling me from a broom closet?"
"I'm not," I lie immediately, ducking lower behind a holoprojector column. "It's… uh, an active learning environment."
Korkie raises an eyebrow. "You're hiding in the Archives again, aren't you?"
"No," I protest, offended on principle. "I'm researching. Academic research. Jedi stuff. Historical inquiry."
"So you're spying for Auntie Satine."
I groan. "Do not start."
Korkie smirks, leaning back in his chair. "I'm serious. She's always saying, 'I wish I knew what the Jedi thought of Mandalore's politics these days.' And now here you are, sneaking through their archives like a tiny secret agent."
I fold my arms. "First off, I'm average height for my age. Maybe even above average. Second, this isn't spying, it's—"
"Espionage," he finishes helpfully.
"—homework," I correct. "That I'm definitely authorized to be doing." By which, I mean it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. Jedi will grant forgiveness. They will not grant permission.
He just laughs, that irritatingly diplomatic chuckle that sounds like he's about to host a press conference. "You know, if you're going to lie, at least sound confident about it. You sound like a guilty protocol droid."
I roll my eyes. "Glad to see Mandalorian politics haven't dulled your sense of humor."
"Oh, they have. I just save it for you," he says, leaning forward slightly, tone shifting. "Speaking of which—things are getting bad here, Ben. Really bad."
The words drop heavier than I expect. I glance up from my datapad, pulse steadying. "How bad?"
He sighs. The blue holo flickers, and for a second I catch a glimpse of the view outside his window—Sundari's skyline, all domes and gleaming towers under the glass canopy. Even through the distortion, I can see smoke trails in the distance.
"The Council's voted to withdraw Mandalore from the Republic completely," Korkie says. "Auntie Satine's tried to put a positive spin on it, but her hands were tied. The New Mandalorians have just been getting too much push-back. There are protests in the capital. Some are calling themselves the 'True Mandalorians.' again. Others are just—angry. They want to rearm."
That word hits harder than I want it to.
Rearm.
For a planet that's supposed to be the galaxy's model for peace. The biggest redemption story to date, that's a terrifying step backward.
"She's still holding it together," Korkie adds quickly. "But the Senate's calling her reforms 'fragile,' and the Trade Guilds are starting to pull funding. She's barely sleeping."
I rub my neck, feeling useless across the light-years. "She always did say peace was harder than war."
Korkie nods. "Yeah. She also said you'd probably forget her birthday again."
I blink. "What? No— I— okay, yes, but in my defense, the Temple doesn't celebrate birthdays. It's a very anti-cake environment."
He chuckles softly, but the humor fades fast. "She misses you, you know."
My throat tightens. "She doesn't say that."
"She doesn't have to."
There's silence between us for a long moment — just the faint hum of the holo-feed and the flickering blue light casting weird shadows over the archive shelves.
Then, like he's deliberately changing the subject, Korkie says, "She met with Uncle Obi-Wan last week."
My heart skips.
"Oh?"
He smirks. "Oh, so you knew."
"I may have… seen them. Briefly."
"How was it?"
"Awkward," I admit. "Lots of politics, some reminiscing, the usual. Pretty sure most of it was about me, which was…" I shrug, grinning faintly. "Weirdly nice, actually."
Korkie's grin softens. "She looked happier that day. I think seeing him helped. And I think she'd be even happier if you sent her a message that wasn't about missing laundry tokens."
"That was one time," I protest. "And those were Temple-issue tokens! You can't just replicate them."
He snorts. "You're hopeless."
"Maybe," I admit, smiling despite myself. "But I'm a hopeless student of galactic history. Which is why you, my dear sibling, are interrupting vital academic research."
"Oh sure," he says. "Because nothing screams 'academic research' like whispering in a dark corner surrounded by restricted files."
"I prefer to call it immersive learning."
Korkie's laughter echoes through the holo-feed, bright and easy, and for a second, I forget about the weight of the Archives, the rules, the Jedi code — all of it. It's just us again. Two brothers talking, like nothing's changed.
Then he looks at me — really looks at me — and says softly, "Ner vod."
My stomach twists.
My brother.
It's not that he doesn't call me that sometimes — it's just that when he does, it means something's hit deeper than either of us wants to admit.
He adds, "Don't let the Jedi wash the Mandalorian out of you, okay?"
I laugh, but it comes out awkward. "They can try. I'm more stain-resistant than I look."
He smirks. "Sure. I can already hear it fading. You're starting to sound like them."
"I am not."
"You are! Say 'schedule.'"
"What? No—"
"Say it."
"…Schedule."
Korkie bursts out laughing. "See?! No accent. You've gone full Coruscanti."
"Unbelievable," I grumble. "I risk life and limb for historical accuracy and this is what I get—phonetic betrayal."
He's still laughing when the holo starts to flicker again.
"Connection's dropping," he says. "I'll tell Auntie Satine you're behaving."
"Liar."
"Always," he says with a grin, then: "Stay safe, Ben."
And then he's gone.
The Archives feel too quiet all of a sudden.
The holograms keep spinning their soft blue light, but it feels colder now. Distant.
Maybe Mom was right.
Maybe peace and order really can't coexist.
The Jedi talk about balance, but they don't really live it.
I close my communicator and start to slip it back into my belt—
—and freeze.
Footsteps.
Light, deliberate, approaching from the far end of the aisle.
A voice — sharp, unmistakable — calls out,
"Padawan Kryze? Is someone in the restricted stacks?"
My stomach drops.
Jocasta Nu.
Oh, kriff.
...
Of course it's her.
Because why wouldn't the literal head librarian of the entire Jedi Order decide to take a midnight stroll through the restricted archives tonight of all nights?
My hand flies to the console, slapping at the shutdown command. The screen sputters, freezing on Satine's face mid-blink. "No, no, no, don't you dare buffer—"
The holo fizzles out. Darkness floods back in.
I stand perfectly still, like that'll somehow make me invisible. It doesn't help that my breathing sounds like a podracer engine in the silence.
Her footsteps echo closer.
Think. Think, think, think!
If I move now, she'll see me. If I don't move, she'll definitely see me in about five seconds. I need a distraction. Something loud. Something—
CLANG.
The Force provides.
Across the aisle, there's a metallic crash so violent I almost duck on instinct.
A thin, tinny voice follows:
"No, no, no! You are holding the hydro-spanner backwards, you blundering bolt pile!"
Another voice — slow, confused, and sounding about as bright as a spent power cell — answers, "Error: define 'backwards.'"
I peek around the column.
Professor Huyang — ancient, stately, and perpetually exasperated — is locked in mortal combat with a repair droid twice his size, both surrounded by scattered datapads and spare wiring.
Huyang's photoreceptors flick my way. I mouth, cover for me.
He stares. Then, with the robotic equivalent of a sigh, straightens up and raises his volume dramatically.
"THIS WAS NOT IN MY MAINTENANCE PROTOCOLS, MASTER B—OH!" He spots Jocasta Nu rounding the corner. "MASTER NU! HOW DELIGHTFUL TO SEE YOU THIS EVENING!"
Jocasta stops dead, robes swishing. "Professor Huyang? What—by the Force—are you doing in the restricted section at this hour?"
"Routine diagnostics!" Huyang declares far too loudly. "My assistant here was attempting to recalibrate the atmospheric filters, but alas—"
The repair droid interrupts with a loud bzzt. "Error. Clarify: was 'alas' a command?"
"NO," Huyang snaps, wings flaring. "It was a lament!"
I duck further behind the column, pressing both hands to my mouth to keep from laughing. Jocasta looks like she's aging in real time.
"Professor," she says, in that tone that could vaporize an entire generation of Padawans, "the filters were recalibrated yesterday. And this—" she gestures at the toppled parts "—is most certainly not standard maintenance."
Huyang tilts his head, as if consulting a data file only he can see. Then, very solemnly, he begins to quote poetry.
"'A machine of metal, given form, yet forged with care and soul—'"
"Oh, not this again," Jocasta groans.
"'—Knows not the silence of the forge, nor rest within the whole—'"
The repair droid whirrs. "Processing… statement illogical. Recommend memory wipe."
"Blasphemy!" Huyang cries, clutching his chest plate. "You see, Master Nu, this is why I must continue these lessons! Without culture, our droids are doomed to barbarism!"
She pinches the bridge of her nose. "You are not teaching droids poetry again."
"I am preserving the arts," Huyang counters, hands on hips. "Would you have them all reduced to soulless code?"
"I would have them quiet after curfew!" Jocasta snaps, then whirls around. "And I expect the restricted section secured when you're done, Professor."
"As always, Master Nu!" he says, voice pure sunshine and deceit.
Her footsteps fade, each one echoing like a judgmental metronome.
Only when the door hisses shut does Huyang turn, his entire frame rotating toward my hiding place.
I step out, sheepish. "So, uh… thanks for that."
"You are welcome," he says dryly. "Though I should like to know why I was drafted into a covert operation without consent."
"I wouldn't call it covert so much as…" I gesture vaguely. "Unauthorized academic enthusiasm."
His optic sensors narrow. "You were in the restricted Mandalorian archives, were you not?"
"…Maybe."
"Ah." His tone softens, metallic but somehow warm. "Your curiosity does you credit, young Kryze. Though your methods, perhaps less so."
I rub the back of my neck. "Yeah, I figured."
He studies me for a moment. "Your people are craftsmen, warriors, philosophers—now, pacifists. An unusual evolution. Perhaps your curiosity honors them more than your secrecy shames you."
I blink. "Wait, was that… a compliment?"
"Do not grow accustomed to them," he replies immediately.
"Right, because that'd be too healthy for my self-esteem."
He makes a whirring sound that might be amusement. "Ben, there are rules for a reason. Archives hold more than history; they hold power. And power, in untrained hands—"
"—leads to the Dark Side, yeah, I know." I raise both hands. "I wasn't trying to, like, uncover Sith holocrons or rewrite galactic history. I just wanted to understand my family's part in it. The stuff no one tells me."
He hums thoughtfully. "Understanding one's lineage is no small thing. Even Jedi cannot wholly separate from where they began."
I glance down at the pile of datapads. "Yeah, well, try telling that to everyone else in this building."
For a while, the hum of the archives fills the silence. Soft, rhythmic, like breathing.
Finally, Huyang says, "You are not wrong to seek truth, Padawan Kryze. But next time, do so during daylight hours. With supervision."
"So I'm not grounded?"
"You are absolutely grounded," he says without hesitation.
"Yeah, thought so."
He gestures toward the fallen parts from his earlier "battle." "Now help me clean this up. I cannot, in good conscience, allow the archives to suffer disorder—even if it saved you."
I crouch beside him, stacking datapads in neat piles. "For the record, Professor, your dramatic poetry routine? Brilliant."
"I improvised," he admits, modestly. "Though I suspect Master Nu will schedule another evaluation for my 'operational stability.'"
"Worth it," I say.
A quiet chuckle — or something like it — hums through his vocoder. "Indeed. And, Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you require a distraction," he says, his tone suddenly conspiratorial, "do remember: I am quite adept at stagecraft."
I grin. "Noted."
As we finish tidying, he powers down the terminal with a smooth wave of his clawed hand. The last flicker of blue light fades, leaving only the soft glow of Coruscant's skyline through the window slits.
It's peaceful.
Almost enough to make me forget I just committed light treason by Jedi standards.
Almost.
...
Kamino never grew less strange with familiarity.
Even now—standing once more beneath its bleached corridors and endless rain—Obi-Wan felt the same quiet unease prickling beneath his skin. The city floated upon the sea like a pearl carved from bone, gleaming under flashes of lightning. Every sound echoed: the soft patter of rainfall against the transparisteel windows, the gentle hum of sterile machinery, the muted rhythm of his and Anakin's boots.
It was the sound of perfection. The sort that felt wrong.
"Welcome back, Master Jedi," Taun We said with her serene, almost musical tone. Her expression was unreadable, though her narrow features managed a flicker of warmth. "We received your transmission and were most… gratified. We trust this time your return with your Order's authorization?"
Obi-Wan inclined his head politely, concealing the faintest twitch at the word authorization. "Indeed. The Council was most eager to verify the progress firsthand."
A partial truth, if one squinted. The kind that tended to pass in diplomacy—and espionage.
Anakin walked beside him, his robe damp at the hem from the landing platform. His expression was a mix of curiosity and irritation, eyes constantly flicking toward the towering Kaminoans and their endless white hallways. "Do they all look like this?" he muttered under his breath.
"They are cloners, Anakin," Obi-Wan replied softly. "Uniformity is… thematic."
Anakin gave a quiet snort. "Creepy is what it is."
Obi-Wan didn't disagree.
Taun We's elongated stride guided them through the corridor to a turbolift, its walls smooth and white as eggshell. "Prime Minister Lama Su regrets he cannot join you today, but he has authorized a complete inspection of our facilities. It is rare that our clients wish to view the process so… comprehensively."
Clients.
The word sat poorly with Obi-Wan. "Yes, well, the Jedi Order prefers to understand the… scope of such undertakings."
The lift opened to a vast observation deck, and for a long, silent moment even Anakin had no words.
Rows upon rows of figures stood below, tiered like the amphitheaters of the Republic Senate—except instead of seats, there were growth pods. Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands.
Each pod glowed with faint blue light, liquid-filled capsules where embryonic shapes floated—some humanoid, some nearly formed. Beyond them, further levels descended into mist, their depths lost to the ocean's reflection.
The air hummed with temperature regulators and heartbeat monitors, the sound overlapping into an eerie, mechanical lullaby.
Taun We's voice was a whisper beside him. "The first generation are already entering advanced training. By the time production stabilizes, we expect full deployment capacity within a standard cycle."
Anakin stepped forward, eyes wide. "That's… an army," he said, voice small against the glass.
Obi-Wan's reflection looked back at him in the transparisteel—rain streaking across both their faces, as if the storm outside had seeped in.
"Yes," he murmured. "An army for the Republic."
He'd meant it to sound factual. It came out like a confession.
Taun We gestured gracefully. "If you would follow me, Master Jedi, we can proceed to the training levels."
The next chamber was a cathedral of motion. Clones—hundreds of them—moved in formation across polished floors, blaster rifles raised in synchronized drills. Others ran obstacle courses while Kaminoan overseers adjusted data readouts. From above, it resembled an intricate dance: every breath measured, every movement mirrored.
"They learn quickly," Taun We said, clearly proud. "Conditioned for loyalty, obedience, and efficiency. They will perform their duty without hesitation."
Obi-Wan's eyes tracked one squad that faltered mid-step. The instructor barked a correction; the troopers resumed in perfect rhythm, faces expressionless beneath close-cropped hair.
"Without hesitation," Obi-Wan echoed quietly.
Anakin, beside him, crossed his arms. "So we're… making soldiers now?"
Obi-Wan's gaze lingered on the endless rows of faces—each identical, each alive. "Someone has," he said softly. "In our name, no less."
Taun We's long fingers brushed across a console, summoning a holographic display of genetic readouts. "All troopers are based on a single donor: the bounty hunter Jango Fett. His physical and mental attributes proved ideal. He requested no genetic tampering beyond the acceleration process."
"Fett," Obi-Wan repeated, the name rolling in his mind like a pebble in a river. "A Mandalorian name."
"Indeed. Though he claims no allegiance to the clans. His genetic code serves as the foundation of our project."
"Mandalorian," Obi-Wan said again, quieter this time. The word carried a weight that stirred memories he preferred untouched—of helmets, jetpacks, and the scent of iron in the red sands of Concordia. Of a woman's voice, measured and steady, declaring peace while surrounded by ghosts of war.
Satine would have hated this place.
"Master?" Anakin asked softly.
Obi-Wan blinked, realizing he'd drifted. "Hmm?"
"You went quiet," Anakin said. "That's… usually a bad sign."
"I'm thinking," he said.
"Also a bad sign," Anakin muttered.
Obi-Wan gave a faint, distracted smile. "Noted."
As they walked, Anakin's frown deepened. "So this whole army—someone ordered it from the Kaminoans years ago? Without telling the Senate?"
"Apparently so," Obi-Wan said.
"And we're sure, it's not Sifo-Dyas." Anakin pressed.
"In as much as we can be." Obi-Wan sighed. "There's still a great deal of mystery surrounding what happened to him after his disappearance. He was prone to visions, and often led by them. It's not impossible that he saw something so dangerous he felt the best course of action was to build an army. But I find it unlikely that under any circumstances, he wouldn't inform the Council of it."
"Then who—?"
"That," Obi-Wan cut in, "is precisely what we're here to find out."
They passed another training yard—this one filled with clone cadets sparring hand-to-hand under artificial rain. The water sluiced off their armor in rivulets, indistinguishable from the storm outside. One cadet stumbled and fell; his partner helped him up instantly, without a word. No hesitation. No complaint.
Anakin watched them. "They're like… droids. But human."
Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. "No, not droids. They can think, adapt. They have potential."
"Potential for what?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
The path curved upward toward a command center that overlooked the ocean — an endless, glassy void broken only by lightning and the faint pulse of stormlight beneath the clouds. Kamino's rain pressed against the transparisteel walls in constant rhythm, a ceaseless, liquid applause that reminded Obi-Wan of blood rushing through veins.
He paused at the window, hands folded neatly behind his back. From here, Tipoca City's towers looked like the bones of some colossal creature rising out of the sea — vertebrae of white alloy and light. The Kaminoans built as though they believed themselves immune to nature, to decay.
Yet everything here, even the light, felt artificial.
Behind him, Taun We and Anakin spoke in low tones about accelerated aging protocols and cognitive imprinting. Obi-Wan only half-listened. His focus was elsewhere — on the faint reflection of himself in the glass. The image of a Jedi Master in rain-dark robes, face calm, eyes tired.
The Order had once prided itself on peacekeeping. Now they were walking through the blueprint of a war.
"Master?" Anakin's voice brought him back. "You all right?"
"I'm fine," Obi-Wan said. It was automatic. Reflexive. The lie of every Jedi who didn't have the energy to explain the truth.
Anakin's gaze flicked toward the cadets below, the ones running synchronized drills. "They don't even look… real," he said. "Just copies."
"All life begins as a copy of something else," Taun We interjected, in her serene way. "A cell divides. A pattern repeats. What is individuality, if not variance within a sequence?"
"That's a creepy way to say 'people,'" Anakin muttered.
"Perhaps," Taun We said, unfazed. "But an accurate one."
Obi-Wan watched as a young clone paused at the end of his drill. The boy couldn't have been older than twelve, and yet there was a quiet, mechanical maturity to his movement — as if he'd been taught not to exist between actions.
Their eyes met through the glass. For a moment, Obi-Wan thought he saw something — curiosity, faint and questioning. Then the instructor barked a command, and the boy turned, vanishing back into formation.
There was no defiance. No individuality. Only obedience.
He exhaled slowly. "They've been alive only a few years, and already they march like veterans."
Taun We's tone carried unmistakable pride. "We ensure each unit matures with optimal conditioning. Their loyalty is absolute."
"To whom?" Obi-Wan asked.
She blinked, long and deliberate. "To the Republic, of course."
And yet the Kaminoans hadn't even been in contact with the Republic in regards to their commission. That was the part that disturbed him most. If no one had questioned the identity of their "client," then obedience wasn't a virtue here — it was a design flaw.
Anakin leaned close. "I don't like this place," he whispered.
"Nor do I," Obi-Wan admitted softly.
For a long moment, they stood in silence, listening to the storm batter the city.
Then Taun We gestured toward a side corridor. "Would you care to see the combat testing floor? Our newest batch has begun live simulations."
They followed her down a spiraling walkway that opened into an enormous chamber — half training ground, half battlefield diorama. The lighting dimmed as blaster fire illuminated the arena below, streaks of red and blue cutting through artificial mist.
The clones moved with frightening precision. Each gesture, each motion, was part of a seamless collective effort. There was no hesitation between orders and execution.
"Observe," Taun We said, gesturing gracefully. "They have been bred for adaptability and instinct. The perfect soldiers."
The words chilled him.
Anakin spoke before he could. "And they'll just… obey anyone who tells them what to do?"
"They will obey the Jedi," she said, with complete confidence.
Obi-Wan almost asked her what would happen if that changed — if someone else gave the orders. But he didn't. Some truths were too dangerous to voice aloud.
Instead, he said quietly, "You've accomplished something extraordinary here."
"Thank you, Master Jedi," Taun We said, bowing slightly. "Your Order's commission has been our honor."
Obi-Wan caught Anakin's glance — that subtle mix of confusion and discomfort. He understood it well. Neither of them could admit how little they actually knew about the Order's involvement.
"This Jango Fett," Obi-Wan said, steering the conversation back, "you said he was a bounty hunter?"
"Yes. A most skilled specimen," she replied. "Prime Minister Lama Su arranged for his continued residence here, that we might preserve the integrity of the genetic source. His son, Boba, has proven quite the curiosity as well."
"Son?"
"A pure genetic duplicate — unaltered. Mr. Fett requested him as part of his compensation."
The thought unsettled him further. A man raising his own clone — his own child, in some sense. A mirror nurturing its reflection.
Mandalorians, Obi-Wan thought, had always lived in contradiction. Warriors preaching honor through war. Builders who worshipped destruction. But this — this was new. Mandalorian blood bred into uniform servitude.
If Satine ever saw this place, she'd tear it down brick by brick.
Lightning flashed, bleaching the world white for a heartbeat.
"Fett," Obi-Wan murmured again. The name pulled old memories from the dust — Vizsla, Death Watch, Concordia. The smell of fuel and fire, Satine's voice sharp as glass:
We must rebuild, not repeat.
He turned back to Taun We. "I'd like to meet him."
"Of course. Mr. Fett is currently on a contract off-world, but he maintains quarters here for his return. Shall I provide his contact information?"
"That would be appreciated."
Taun We inclined her head and moved toward a console.
Anakin lowered his voice. "You really think he knows who commissioned this?"
"I think," Obi-Wan said, "that anyone paid to be the face of an entire army knows more than they're willing to admit."
She returned with a small holocard — elegant and precise, Kaminoan craftsmanship at its most minimalist. "You may reach him through this frequency when he returns."
"Thank you," Obi-Wan said, tucking it into his belt.
They followed her back toward the main corridor. The air felt heavier now — thicker with questions. The hum of the clone nursery below carried through the walls, a heartbeat magnified a thousandfold.
When they reached the exit, Taun We bowed again. "The Prime Minister will be pleased to know of your satisfaction, Master Kenobi. I trust the inspection was illuminating."
"Oh," Obi-Wan said, allowing himself a small, polite smile. "Illuminating indeed."
As they stepped back into the storm, the Kaminoan architecture blurred into pale outlines against the endless rain. The drops soaked into his robe instantly, but he hardly noticed.
Anakin did, though. "So what now?"
"Now," Obi-Wan said, glancing toward the Starfighter docked nearby, "we contact Coruscant. The Council needs to know what we've found."
Anakin frowned. "You think they'll take it well?"
Obi-Wan didn't answer right away. He stared at the holocard in his hand — the one bearing Jango Fett's contact frequency — and felt the weight of the storm pressing around them.
Lightning struck somewhere across the waves, lighting the entire horizon.
"I think," he said at last, "that there are more secrets in this galaxy than even the Jedi realize. Better to be forewarned, and forearmed. Then to be taken by surprise."
They walked together toward the waiting ship, boots splashing through shallow pools on the landing platform. The roar of the ocean below swallowed everything — words, thoughts, and the quiet tremor of unease that followed them into the cockpit.
As the Starfighter lifted from the platform, the storm swallowed Tipoca City in white mist. The lightning faded behind them, leaving only a reflection of the endless sea.
An ocean of clones.
Identical faces. Identical destinies.
And somewhere among them — one man with a Mandalorian name, whose shadow stretched from Concordia to Kamino.