I was enjoying a bland cup of caf as I sat in my expanded quarters, while reading some newer reports. Damn Mi-Kus, he knew I didn’t want an expanded quarters, but damn him he used the exact schematics required for a Dreadnought Heavy Cruiser Model 4-M Command ship. So now, instead of the combined sleeping quarters, office with an adjourning private shower, I was stuck with a fully separate office. The only upside of my expanded workspace was moving around my furniture some, with my liquor cabinet behind me on my left, with the officers blade on my right, on the wall.

  I look over the reports on the finished retrofits. All of my squadron’s, no wait, battlegroup. All of my battlegroup’s three Dreadnoughts have been successfully upgraded to Model 4-Ms. This was the second phase of standardized retrofits the Republic had sanctioned for older ships. The ships affected by the upgrades were mostly the Dreadnoughts, Invincibles and the upgrade package of the Hammerhead corvettes, as they were the only ships still in a large enough use to be worth designing standardized improvements for.

  The Model 4 Dreadnought had a few more automated systems than previous models and a few upgrades to internal systems to increase internal space just enough to make up for carving into the lower bow of the ship to install either an ion cannon battery, or a missile tube turret. Despite my love of boarding actions, I was glad my subordinates opted for the missile tubes. They certainly improved my squadr- battlegroup’s range and versatility, not to mention my training on missile armed cruisers back on Fondor. As long as I had the munitions for it, which I currently did, the tubes could be used for Proton torpedoes, Concussion missiles and even anti-fighter fragmentation missiles. They may be intercepted by smaller Corvettes and point defense turrets, but if they hit, they could do a lot of wonderful damage. A knock at the door interrupts my pleasant thoughts of testing out the range on my new ordnance.

  “Come in.” I bark, as I open the door from my desk. Probably Chain. As predicted the Clone Captain enters the room, his helmet wedged between his arm and waist. His face bears a tinge of nervousness as he salutes.

  “Come, sit.” I order as I take another sip of my caf. R4 hands me a new datapad with the preliminary draft of what the Clones within my unit are actually owed, “So I’ve had R4 run a preliminary look over the typical rates of members of my command, mainly the Little Revenge, as you’re almost entirely attached to her. Average monthly rate is about two thousand three hundred credits for the shinies and around two thousand five hundred for the ones that have stuck around since … well since I’ve taken command. Plus hazard pay, because let’s be honest here, with all the fighting there’s only been maybe a month total of us not fighting, each serviceman gets a bonus of two fifty for every day in direct combat and a two hundred bonus for whenever we’re on campaign. So really-”

  “Sir.” Chain interrupts me.

  I raise my eyebrow at him and take another sip of caf. He continues as he sees I’m not going to continue: “Sir … I’ve consulted with some of my brothers and … why?”

  I blink in mild confusion at the absurd question. They were people, how else should I treat them? Did they expect me to discard them once the war was over? I wasn’t some Kuati fuck, every resource needs to be cared for, maintained and appreciated, sentient or otherwise. I place the datapad to my right on my desk as I lock my fingers together in front of me.

  I lean back into my chair as I speak: “Chain, which world do I hail from?”

  “Fondor, sir. You’ve mentioned it before.”

  “I would like to tell you something about my homeworld. During the Mando wars, Fondor was a major producer of the Republic’s warships, but she was run with an iron fist by a couple thousand families descendant from the first colonists. The others they oppressed, including the other seven to eight thousand families which remained of Fondor’s first settlers. The shipyard masters oppressed the people, their workers, heavily. They would send the twelve times cursed strike breakers to kill anyone who tried to resist, or hire the nine times damned from the poorest Tapani worlds as scabs for slightly better pay whenever the people banded together against their employers, braving starvation and thirst.”

  I take another sip of caf as I look at the man before I continue: “My family, one of the ten thousand settler families, who had fallen from grace like nine thousand others, turned our weapons upon the strike breakers and scabs. My father still has the holsters of the heirs informal whose parents stitched the heads of those travel hating puppykickers they dumped for the lizards to feast upon.”

  “Sir, what is the point of this?”

  “It was the Republic which forced the hands of the shipyard masters.” I continue, ignoring the question, “Despite a strike of ten billion souls, it was the Republic which finally ensured our food, our water, our wages. It may not have been slavery, but there is a reason every syndicate remaining holds high the values and principals of the Republic of old. There is a reason every Union has a portrait of Senator Lux Antilles of Alderaan and Supreme Chancellor Tol Cressa. Let me pay forward the relief my forefathers received from those who were far superior to many of our current politicians.”

  “So … peer pressure from dead people?” Chain asks.

  I blink in mild confusion, then a laugh creeps up through me: “Yes, I suppose that’s a way of seeing it. Though I think the goodness of my heart and the righteousness of the cause are better arguments.”

  “So, its just your morality?” Chain asks.

  “Well you all saving my life more than a handful of times certainly helps as well.” I joke.

  Chain tries to process everything for a moment before quietly asking a new question: “Why do you think the other officers haven’t even mentioned something like this. I asked a couple brothers in other units about it. Not even Wildhog and Clover have heard an officer mention paying us for fighting for the Republic.”

  “Well, that’s simple and may come down to a couple reasons. A good usual first is ignorance. Maker knows I didn’t know y’all weren’t being paid. A slightly disappointing second option would be apathy. Wages aren’t really talked about in the Judicials, never mind the Navy. We’re too busy fighting and trying not to bite dust. There’s also a couple officers I know who just don’t care about cash. Mostly because their families have served for Maker knows how long. They see it as a pride thing and have enough generational wealth and influence built up from the service of their ancestors to never have to worry about cash in the first place. Third option I’d give ya would be malice. There’s a couple idiots who don’t understand you’re people, sentients. I just happen to be lucky enough to realize my mistake.” I answer.

  Chain has an incredulous look on his face and I finally realize I had forgone the usual offer of caf. I hesitate before making my decision, if it wasn’t too late to try and get him paid, it wasn't too late to offer the man a cup of caf: “Would you like some caf while you think through it?”

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  He simply nods and I get up to turn on the caf dispenser near my office’s entry. Also a fine addition I suppose. A bit less than a minute later I’m handing the cup of caf to my Clone Captain and return to my seat.

  Finally the officer speaks up: “Thank you, sir. I … I don’t think I’ll, any of us will fully understand what your trying to do for us until the war is over, but thank you.”

  I let a sigh escape me and rub the bridge of my nose before answering: “Don’t thank me yet. I’ll be burning a lot of political capitol with this and I haven’t really started yet. I’ll see about running it by a couple friends throughout the Navy before I try bringing it up with some of my more … powerful connections. So don’t thank me, please. Not until I’ve actually gotten something for y’all.”

  “You’ve at least promised to try, sir.” Chain offers.

  I sigh again and nod simply. It wasn’t worth the argument. I finish off my caf before turning towards my Clone Captain: “Anything else to report?”

  He closes up at the question. His cup freezing halfway between his mouth and the table for a long second before he manages to continue the motion by taking a sip. I keep my face schooled. Couldn’t have been something major, or else it’d be in my report. Maybe they want more paint? It’d make sense, they did use up a decent bit of it for the wonderful artwork on the ships.

  Chain finally makes up his mind as he speaks: “Well … this isn’t easy to say, sir, but … Private Jo-Ji Miles is pregnant.”

  The information processes for a bit. Miles, Miles, Miles. Wasn’t she an arms-man? I think … her name came up for a possible promotion I still needed to doll out. Wait, what did she have to do with anything? I mean … okay she’d need to either be put on leave, dismissed or have the pregnancy terminated.

  “This is a problem, how?” I ask.

  Chain avoids my gaze as he answers: “The father is Trooper CT-7617-76, he goes by Doodle.”

  oh. Oh. Oh fuck. That could be a problem. What’s usual protocol for this? Well parental leave for one. Oh, but do Clones qualify for that if they’re not being paid: “Well can’t say that’s good.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do they want to keep it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn.”

  “Quite so, sir.”

  Alright so follow standard protocol: “Do you know if this was done on purpose?”

  “Doodle mentioned that she had an implant.”

  “So an accident. Good, good that means I won’t even bother opening an investigation. Those take up too much time ans resources anyway. We’ll need to transfer her to admin, unless she’d like an honorable discharge or to take her parental leave early. Don’t think I could manage that for trooper Doodle, but maybe we could transfer him to security of the regional command’s headquarters over Toong’l?”

  “He would like to remain with Hope Company unless he can have parental leave with his … girlfriend.”

  “Suppose they won’t be able to get hitched either.” I mutter with a frown.

  “They did mention an interest in it, but … well.” Chain finishes lamely.

  “Damn it all. What world’s the Private from?”

  “Commenor.”

  “Well at least the kid’ll have a decent planetary citizenship. Well, not much else that can be done about it now. Remind me to look into this when I tackle your pay-stubs in earnest.” I may be able to give the poor sod some extra leave by shifting him to admin duty around the time the kid’d be born? I’ll need R4 to look into it for me.

  “So after the war?”

  “I’d hate separating a kid from a parent, but there’s not a whole lot I can do.” I mutter to myself.

  “At least nothing practical.” Chain agrees.

  “Fuck caf, I need a drink.” I say as I move over to the liquor cabinet.

  Chain looks slightly concerned as I grab a bottle of … ah, the mead. I’m not sure where I got this from, but I grab a pair of glasses I have for the drink and pour the overly sweet drink. I return the bottle to the cabinet and move over to Chain, who’s still sitting in the chair. I hand him the glass and forcibly toast the glass before taking a sip. Not bad, could use a bit of … tea maybe? Maybe some cheese. I return to my seat and consider our options. Nothing new came to mind, but the decision seemed sound.

  “Sir?”

  “No, nothing else comes to mind. I don’t suppose there are any other problems I should be made aware of?”

  “Other than you drinking on the job, sir?”

  “One glass won’t kill me. Besides were stuck in port for another week and a half. I’m mostly doing paperwork and trying to restock our supply of mines, sensor buoys and rations. Not to mention the request I made of the Merchant Fleet loaning us some ships.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “That I do.” I reply as I lift my glass up for another sip.

  In hindsight I’m not sure if I should be grateful or horrified that the King and Chief Ri agreed to my request of two Merchant Fleet Star Cruiser sections. I suppose they were trying to thank me for saving Dac, or for not conscripting the Merchant Fleet into the federal military such as what had been done to the defense fleets of Kuat, Rendili and countless others. From what I could gather there was some … mild discontent within the King’s council about my request. Seems a mixture of my forces seizing the first round of repairs and retrofits, as well as prepping the docks and shipyards for self destruction had angered some members of the Merchant Fleet and the actual owners of said yards. I had also somehow managed to insult Senator Tills, though I wasn’t exactly sure when. Too much of the battle is lost in a haze of adrenaline, caf and sleeping meds.

  I sigh as I look over the newest report. Nothing unexpected, simply a combined report of the worlds of the Tidal Circuit, Mon Cala’s first daughter of Ruisto, the inhabited worlds of the Dominus Sector, Jubilar Sector and Shadola Sector updating the regional command on their newly acquired customs and merchant outfits. That’ll need to be handed up the chain of command. Who was in charge of the Cerulean Spear theater again? Eh, R4 will know who to send it to. That damn systems army was a revolving door of Jedi Generals and Fleet Admirals being shunted away after repeated failures of breaking through Separatist defenses along the Perlimian.

  I suppose it could be worse, at least they had a stable office at Lantillies. There wasn’t even something resembling that for the Cerulean Spear’s North Central Slice Command. That regional theater had lost too many ships over the course of the war. I wasn’t even sure if it had a Marshal Administrator, let alone a permanently stationed reserve force in case of an enemy breakthrough. I sigh as I realize my slip up. I needed to concentrate on my theater, not some other poor lizardick’s.

  At least the new planetary customs and patrol forces are surprisingly standardized for something thrown together in a panic. After the federalization of planetary defense forces I had halfway expected them to simply mount a couple heavy blasters or light lasercannons on some poor idiot’s shuttle. To my surprise, each of the about twenty major worlds now have half a dozen Corellian corvettes and a few transports each, with the Tidal circuit including a couple MC30c frigates and Ruisto openly daring me to seize their newly expanded portion of the Mon Cala Merchant Fleet.

  I honestly didn’t understand all the hostility. Excluding Baros I hadn’t touched any of their ships. I hadn’t even shuffled around their crews. I suppose I could, but why would I? They weren’t standardized, which means every single one needs retrofits to get them to Republic Navy standard. Not to mention a reorganization of their structure, because I would rather burn in all nine Hells than have to give every single one of them independent orders. That might work for a couple squadrons, but certainly not some two dozen formations, each of which varied between a couple modified freighters, corvettes and a handful of fighters to a full flotilla section of escorts.

  I feel a sigh escape at the thought of the newly nationalized fighters. Where the kark would they fit in? I could hardly add them to the soon to be established or reactivated light outer rim sections. Maybe a command section forming the backbone of the rest of the lighter ships? I would probably need to request a few carrier Acclamators to provide for the fighters. I’ll tackle this after Pammant. By then the ships should be close to done with any retrofits and I’ll have a better idea of how to divide the ships and their crews.

  I would definitely need someone who is a decent administrator who also doesn’t mind not being at the forefront of the war. I’d wager Colonel Bvinsk could do it, but I knew better. He would be swamped until Pammant and hopefully Mintooine were in Republic hands. Maybe I would get lucky and one of the recently federalized Captains would be a good fit. I sigh as I drop the idea. After Pammant. I’ll deal with it after Pammant when I have time and a better grip on the losses we’ll suffer.

  A sigh escapes me. I needed more resources as always. This war was like a gluttonous monster, a demon or maybe even a devil. Hungry and impossible to sate while damning far too many lives to its service. I finish marking the report with my signature to prove I’ve at least gotten the damn thing before moving on to the requisition forms Colonel Bvinsk wanted me to sign off on to set up his office and the required security forces, cyber security and space. Looks like he wanted half the cargo holds of the Toong’l orbital station and I was willing to let him have it. It’d at least allow me to establish a couple more storage units throughout isolated space.

  In fact. I get out of my seat and turn on the miniature galactic map I had installed in the office shortly after my return. Let’s establish a small fuel depot between Baros and Targonn. I’ll have Commodore Hugh narrow down where it would be most practical, she was a decent navigator after all. I’ll need a tugboat or three to haul the thing, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. Then … maybe an emergency resupply station between Gand and Jubilar? That would certainly be useful for whenever High Command wanted us to retake the northern Triellus trade route. Finally, a supply depot in the Ash Worlds Sector. Cophrigin V would serve well. Almost in the direct center of the Ash Worlds Sector and sparsely inhabited. Not particularly close to anything of importance while being centrally located. Yes, definitely there.

  Now, if only it was so easy to establish these outposts. I’d probably need at least an Acclamator, the tugboats, a section’s worth of corvettes and a construction company or three. Yes, best do one company per site. Though this’ll probably also have to wait until after Pammant. I sigh, this upcoming campaign will not be easy, that much is certain.

  2. If it seems Thraken was a bit dismissive of the Clone's tragedy it comes down to a couple points. The first being that (in my worldbuilding) Fondor has had trouble with sentients needing wages to live. Without wages they suffered starvation, dehydration and homelessness. It is the generational trauma of not being able to survive without a wage which makes up Thraken's subconscious here. Another point here is the (current) undemocratic and oligarchical rule of Fondor kinda stifling the inherent awareness of sentient rights. As far as most Fondorians know, sentients all have rights and duties, but those are treated more like recommendations enforced at the barrel end of a gun and the standoff between workers not working and the ruling families possibly embargoing said workers. From this Thraken literally doesn't understand how his world's enforcers of rights (the Republic) aren't doing the same for everyone. In Thraken's eyes the Clones are equipment the same way a factory worker is part of the assembly line.

  TLDR: Fondorian culture is complicated and based on the tug of war between the ruling caste and their workers, with the Republic as referee.

  3. Let's be honest, the only reason we don't hear about a lot more Clone begotten kids is because they are relatively isolated from civilian populaces. Since in the fanfic the Navy and GAR also have a majority non-Clone membership, with the Clones acting more as elite Shock Troops there will be liaisons between more adventurous or romantic Clones and others . Based off of this: Clone Doodle's Baby as an example