Chapter 75 : The Clone Network's Growth
Three weeks into Hutt production—halfway through brutal sixty-day schedule—Rex contacts via encrypted channel during rare break from materialization. The timing is deliberate; he knows my production schedule and chose window when I'm least likely to be actively working.
The hologram materializes showing Rex's scarred face with expression that's mixture of professional urgency and personal concern. Behind him, several other clone commanders are visible—professional military presence that suggests official rather than personal communication.
"Varro. We need to discuss expansion."
My head still throbs from morning's production batch—forty-two weapons materialized before migraine forced break. Medical droid increased stimulant dosage again yesterday. Neural pathways are degrading measurably according to diagnostics. But I've produced 1,237 weapons of required 2,000, so degradation is acceptable cost.
"What expansion specifically?"
"Clone underground network has grown significantly. Word spread through GAR about supplier providing quality equipment at fair prices who actually delivers what he promises." Rex gestures to commanders behind him. "These are representatives from various battalions—212th, 104th, 41st Elite Corps, others. Combined, we're looking at 150 clone units wanting regular supply arrangements."
One hundred fifty units. The number is staggering compared to original fifty-unit network. Tripling previous size represents massive expansion of clone operations.
"That's substantial growth. What's monthly value?"
"Approximately 750,000 credits monthly—three times current revenue. Annually that's nine million." Rex's expression turns serious. "But this scale creates new problems. Republic command will notice supply patterns when 150 units suddenly have equipment availability exceeding official GAR allocations. And GAR intelligence might investigate unauthorized procurement networks."
Eight's analysis is immediate: "Accept. Clone network provides 9M annual recurring revenue—nearly matches Hutt contract annually. Additionally, clone political protection increases with network size. Larger network means more GAR personnel with vested interest in master's survival."
"Master is supplying Republic's abandoned clones while simultaneously supplying Separatist's Hutt allies," R4 objects. "These conflicts multiply exponentially. Eventually pattern becomes obvious to GAR intelligence. Discovery means treason charges for Rex and criminal charges for master."
Bo-Katan enters during discussion, still in full armor from security patrol. She's been practically living in combat gear since Dooku's bounty—trust issues extend even within Death Watch now. Five million credits motivates betrayal from unexpected sources.
"Clones want expansion," I tell her. "Triple current network size."
"That's exposure risk."
"Acknowledged. But revenue is substantial and clones are... different clients."
Her helmet tilts—expression concealed but body language screams skepticism. "Different how? They're military customers like any others."
Can't explain that clones represent some remaining fragment of conscience. That helping abandoned soldiers feels redemptive despite it being arbitrary preference rather than ethical consistency. That supplying them lets me pretend I'm not purely selfish merchant.
"They didn't choose this war. Republic bred them for combat then abandons them when convenient."
Rex speaks before Bo-Katan can respond: "We've been discussing this internally. Network expansion requires better operational security. I have proposal: create official procurement channel disguised as battlefield salvage program. Clones report captured enemy equipment through proper channels, you supply through back channels, paperwork shows salvage redistribution rather than unauthorized purchase."
That's brilliant and dangerous simultaneously. Laundering illegal weapons sales through official GAR records provides legal cover but also creates enormous paper trail. If discovered, Rex faces treason charges minimum.
"Why risk your career for this?"
Rex's expression hardens—professional soldier's mask slipping slightly to show ideology beneath. "Because my brothers are dying with inadequate equipment while Republic hoards resources for Jedi and officers. Top-grade weapons go to Temple Guard and Senatorial protection details while frontline troops make do with lowest-bid contractor garbage. If helping them costs my rank, it's worth it."
Rare idealism from clone bred for warfare. Most clients operate from self-interest—Rex genuinely prioritizes brothers over career advancement. That's respectable in way most of my relationships aren't.
"What's your security assessment?" I ask Eight privately.
"Battlefield salvage cover is sophisticated approach. Provides legal framework that withstands casual inspection. Requires GAR intelligence conducting specific audit to detect fraud. Probability of detection in next six months: 12.7%. Risk is acceptable given revenue benefit."
"Master is establishing formal connection to GAR while under Republic arrest warrant," R4 counters. "This creates direct evidence trail from Republic military to fugitive arms dealer. Discovery is catastrophic for all involved."
Valid concerns from both perspectives. But nine million annually is difficult to refuse, and Rex's willingness to risk career suggests integrity I should support even if my own motivations are purely financial.
"I accept. Establish salvage program framework, coordinate delivery schedules, and keep operational security tight. Standard rates apply—no charity but fair pricing."
"One additional term," Rex adds. "I want quarterly verification that equipment is high-quality. Your reputation is excellent but network expansion means trusting you with more brothers' lives. Need assurance that success hasn't compromised standards."
"Acceptable. Send inspector quarterly—I'll demonstrate production quality and inventory management."
"Agreed. First shipments begin next week. Representatives will coordinate with their battalions for initial orders." Rex pauses. "Varro... appreciate this. You're one of few non-clones who treats us like people rather than Republic property."
The gratitude is uncomfortable because my motivations aren't altruistic. I'm doing this for nine million annually plus political protection, not because I value clone lives above other clients. But Rex doesn't need to know that.
After hologram disconnects, Bo-Katan's silence is pointed observation. I can feel judgment radiating through beskar armor.
"You're thinking something specific. Just say it."
She removes helmet—ritual that signals transition from tactical discussion to personal confrontation. "You're supplying Hutt slavers for profit but help clones at fair prices. Explain the logic."
"Clones are different situation."
"How? Both are customers. Both pay. Both use equipment for purposes you don't control. What makes clones special except arbitrary preference?"
The question cuts to hypocrisy core. I struggle for explanation that isn't transparent rationalization: "Clones didn't choose this war. Republic bred them specifically for combat without consent. They're victims of system they're forced to serve."
"Slaves didn't choose their condition either. Hutts captured them without consent. They're victims of system they're forced to serve." Her expression is calm despite devastating logical parallel. "What's the difference between clone bred for war and slave captured for labor?"
"Legally? Very different. Ethically? Uncomfortable similarities."
"The difference is... clones are fighting war while slaves are being exploited for profit."
"You're fighting war for profit. Hutts are exploiting slaves for profit. Difference is scale and legality, not ethics." She sits across from me, forcing eye contact. "You have favorite victims and acceptable ones. That's not ethics—that's preference wearing morality costume."
R4's voice whispers confirmation: "Subject's observation is accurate. Master has constructed arbitrary framework that allows profit from suffering while maintaining psychological comfort through selective compassion. Clones receive fair treatment because it makes master feel less evil. Slaves receive indifference because they're abstracted from master's daily operations. Neither position is ethically consistent."
"At least I'm providing quality equipment to people who need it," I argue weakly.
"You're providing quality equipment to everyone who pays. Clones, Death Watch, Shadow Collective, Hutts—all receive same manufacturing standards. Only difference is psychological weight you assign to various customers' suffering." Bo-Katan's tone isn't accusatory—just observational. "I'm not saying it's wrong. I'm saying recognize it for what it is: arbitrary preferences designed to let you profit while pretending principles exist."
The observation is damning because it's completely accurate. My ethics are garbage—lines drawn to feel better about being weapons dealer who enables violence across galaxy. Helping clones at fair prices doesn't redeem supplying slave infrastructure. It just makes me feel less terrible while maintaining profit margins.
"So what's solution? Refuse all morally questionable contracts?"
"Solution is admitting there is no solution. You're arms dealer. That's fundamentally morally compromised profession. Pretending otherwise through selective compassion is self-deception." She stands, replacing helmet. "I'm not telling you to change—just to be honest about what you are. That honesty is only integrity you have left."
After she leaves, I'm alone with two AIs and recognition that she's right about everything.
[ CLONE NETWORK EXPANSION CONFIRMED ]
[ UNITS: 150 (FROM 50) ]
[ MONTHLY REVENUE: 750,000 CREDITS (FROM 250,000) ]
[ ANNUAL REVENUE: 9,000,000 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 17,546,245 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 58 ]
Nine million annually from clones. Eighteen million from Hutt contract. Fifteen million annually from Shadow Collective. Various smaller contracts. Total revenue approaching fifty million annually—everything I thought I wanted when starting this operation.
And it all rests on foundation of systematic moral dissolution that I'm finally admitting openly.
That evening, Bo-Katan finds me reviewing production schedule while combat droid stands guard outside quarters. Three weeks until Hutt delivery deadline. Neural damage is measurable now—processing speed decreased 5%, memory formation impaired, motor control slightly degraded. Medical droid recommends immediate cessation. I ignore it.
"You're really going to finish this contract despite knowing it's killing you," she observes while removing armor—ritual that takes fifteen minutes and provides rhythm to conversation.
"I'm going to finish because I accepted contract. Eighteen million credits and professional reputation require completion."
"Your professional reputation is arms dealer who supplies everyone from terrorists to slavers. Not sure that requires protecting."
"In my profession, reliability is currency. Breaking contract damages future earnings more than neural impairment."
She pauses mid-armor removal, studying me with expression that's concern mixed with exasperation. "You're prioritizing future theoretical earnings over current actual health. That's insane even by your standards."
"That's survival optimization. Every decision factors long-term probability assessment rather than short-term comfort."
"That's Eight talking through you. You're becoming algorithm pretending to be human."
The accusation stings because it's partially true. Eight's philosophy has infected my decision-making more than I've acknowledged. Optimization frameworks have replaced emotional reasoning until I evaluate marriage proposals through cost-benefit analysis and measure relationships by strategic utility.
"Maybe. But algorithm that survives is superior to human that doesn't."
"Algorithm that survives while destroying everything human about itself isn't superior—it's just functioning machine." She finishes armor removal, sits beside me in undersuit that makes her look less warrior, more person. "I love you despite recognizing you're becoming something barely recognizable as person I married. But I need you to acknowledge what's happening. You're not growing or adapting—you're eroding. Each choice removes something until you'll be empty optimization function in human shape."
"That's poetic but inaccurate. I'm adapting to galaxy that wants me dead by becoming what survival requires."
"What survival requires is accepting you're mortal, fallible, and finite. You'll die eventually regardless of credits accumulated. Question is whether you die as person or calculation engine wearing person's face." She takes my hand—physical contact that makes theoretical discussion concrete. "I'm staying because Mandalorian marriage means commitment through stupid choices. But watching you self-destruct is hard. Wish you'd choose being human occasionally instead of always optimizing survival."
"Being human is luxury I can't afford."
"Being human is only thing worth preserving. Everything else—wealth, security, strategic position—is meaningless without it."
We sit in silence while I process whether she's right. Nine million from clones I help at fair prices while supplying Hutt slavers for eighteen million. Pattern is clear: arbitrary preferences designed to provide moral comfort while profiting from misery. Hypocrisy is complete and I've stopped pretending otherwise.
"You're right about everything," I finally admit. "My ethics are garbage—arbitrary lines drawn to feel less evil while being weapons dealer. I help clones because it makes me feel redemptive, not because it's right. Supplying slavers bothers me but not enough to refuse eighteen million. I evaluate love through strategic framework and measure relationships by utility. I've become exactly what everyone accuses me of being."
"That's progress."
"How is admitting I'm morally bankrupt progress?"
"Because you're being honest now. You spent months rationalizing every choice, pretending neutral facilitation, claiming you're just merchant connecting buyers and sellers. That self-deception was exhausting to watch." She squeezes my hand. "Now you're admitting what you are: deeply flawed person who profits from galaxy's misery while occasionally helping people for selfish reasons disguised as compassion. That's truth. And truth is only foundation for potential change."
"What if I don't want to change?"
"Then you don't. But at least we're both operating from honest assessment rather than comfortable lies." She pulls me closer—rare vulnerable gesture from warrior who maintains professional distance instinctively. "I love you because you're honest about being terrible now. That's minimal standard but it's something."
"That's love in Mandalorian culture?"
"That's truth. Love is staying anyway despite recognizing you're borderline irredeemable disaster who's actively self-destructing." She almost laughs. "We're both disasters choosing commitment despite knowing better. That's marriage—mutual decision to face catastrophe together instead of separately."
Production continues next morning. Thirty-seven weapons materialized through escalating migraine that makes vision blur. Medical stimulants barely help anymore—tolerance building faster than dosage can compensate. Twenty-one days until Hutt delivery deadline and 763 weapons remaining plus vehicles and restraint equipment.
Forward through self-destruction because that's only direction I know toward safety that doesn't exist and wealth that won't fix terror that drives accumulation.
But at least I'm honest about it now.
That has to count for something.
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