skonen_blades: (Default)
White clam chowder and over-easy eggs. Soup and eggs for short.

Mass was the problem with colonizing. Getting mass near C was expensive. The smaller the load, the better. Sending ten thousand colonists was impossible.

But sending ten thousands eggs and ten thousand loads of semen was way cheaper.

The ship had a chilled cargo of those two ingredients to make human babies. Womb ships, they were called. They had a skeleton crew of scientists, techs, teachers, and caretakers trained to take on whatever challenges might arise at first contact with the target home but after they’d landed and seen that everything was alright for seeding, they’d get underway.

The birthing tanks would be unfolded and irrigated with dehydrated amniotic solution. These giant uterariums would then be flooded with the soup and eggs slurry sometimes referred to as brunch. The old exponential dance would start and babies would pop up like strawberry Christmas lights on the vine. Tendriled, manufactured, multiumbilicals would snake out and attach themselves to a thousand belly buttons. Each tank was filled with fraternal millituplets.

Wait time was the human usual. The children would be boosted with learning enhancers and xenoviral protection. A small percentage were always lost to errors in cell replication no matter how tailored the dna but the average yield was 90% or 900. Harvest would happen in two-year stages, nine hundred per year. This was called the familial ladder. Ten years of baby making before shutdown for 9,000 humans.

The crew would foster them with help from the AI adoptives, working as a team to cram as much knowledge and mental health into them from the get go before they took on their new world.

It was a system that had worked twelve times before. Twelve Edens had successfully flowered with no humans needing expulsion from angry gods.

This was going to be unlucky thirteen.

The tailored enzymes would fail and the entire crop would be born sociopathic and cruel unbeknownst to the crew. As the children grew, they schemed and the crew began began to meet with accidents. Before any of them figured out was what happening, they were gone.

The children were geniuses. As the other batches reached fruition and were born, they were taken in by the first two waves and taught to be just as awful.

The planet survived and flourished. They developed weapons and a reputation. They broadcast torture videos and vile non-consensual pornographic videos. Their system of government was opaque. It seemed like anarchy but they had such organizational skills.

Their planet is isolated. Quarantined. Embargoed. Struck off the records as a failure, they’re monitored for signs of extra-system aggression. They’re an embarrassment.

A closeted mistake until sixteen minutes ago when their entire planet, now decades into post-womb colonization and nearly five generations deep, completely disappeared off of everyone’s scans.

And reappeared near Earth Prime bristling with nuke barrels and planet crackers pointed at our race’s home.

The pirate planet had come home, prodigal son returning.

They didn’t open fire immediately but they did send a message system-wide on all channels before they started the war.

“No more wombships.”

After a heated exchange of nuclear fire that the pirate planet lost, they drove their planet straight into Earth. Terran defenses didn’t stand a chance.

We no longer use wombships for colonization but we are still trying to figure out how those little bastards made a whole planet capable of faster-than-light travel. None of the other Edens have come anywhere near that kind of technology. The philosophical implications of their success don’t bear thinking about.

Evil might be smarter than good.




tags
skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
“We need backup!” shouted Officer Saul into his cruiser’s police radio.

Heavy fire was peppering his unit with smoking holes. Someone was playing the drums on his car and Saul had no idea where the bullets were coming from.

It was just after lunch and they’d responded to an emergency call in this alley. They were pinned down and immobilized. It was only a matter of time before the bullets found something explosive or worked their way through the armour to Saul and his partner.

Their car shimmied under the hail of bullets like a shivering dog.

“Snap it back!” shrieked Officer Markowitz. He was Saul’s partner.

Both cops leaned into their head cradles, nestling the studs on the back of their necks to their seat-jacks, and hit the red panic buttons.

Immediately, the last three days of recorded data, memories and thought processes were shunted back to HQ.

Thunder kept kicking the car hard. It wouldn’t be long before the bullets made a doily out of the roof. How did neighbourhood kids get this much ammunition?

“Okay, let’s go!” yelled Saul.

“On three!” bellowed Markowitz with a maniacal grin. This was not going to go into the databanks. It was also a one way trip if this hailstorm of bullets kept up. They both knew it.

“One, two….THREE!” shouted Saul. They rolled magnesium grenades out of what was left of their car-door windows. The flash was fairly weak under the glare of the noon day sun but anyone looking directly at it would be blinded for a moment.

Markowitz and Saul high-fived each other, shouldered open their battered doors, and both tucked and rolled out of the cruiser, guns pointed skyward and firing.

Their bullets rained up, the ammunition from an entire street gang rained down.

Markowitz felt the bullets stitch their way up his body to his eye before it all went black.

Saul flash-cooked with a laugh when the bullets finally pierced the armour of the car’s gas tank.

----


Back at HQ, bodies awoke with shuddering gasps. They were right beside each other in the clone tanks.

Markowitz’s fresh body was weak and unused but healthy with a 90 per cent match of features from the previous one. The moments before his death spooled out in his head.

Saul’s body was shorter this time, and more muscled. They were getting low on matching stock for him. His body type was less common.

They had at least two weeks of physiotherapy ahead of them to get them back up to cop status.

“It’s a good thing we called for backup,” Said Markowitz.

“You got that right.” said Saul, and called in an air strike for the alley.





tags
skonen_blades: (borg)
Clone Transport.

We called them Vegetable Trucks. Some people called them Meat Wagons. It was just like hauling medical supplies.

The bodies in the back were kept in a nutrient-rich fluid that looked like green dish soap. Each container was a long, transparent coffin to make them easier to package and stack. Their vitals were on readouts on the side of each box and the whole cargo space was kept at a specific temperature.

The factories started the creation process on new batches every day. They aged at the normal human rate in the pools. Orders were received for a certain age, blood type, genotype, marrow code, and body shape. Like ordering wine, I guess, or single malt scotch.

People used them for organ backups, science experiments, medical teaching aids, collision impact studies, weaponry efficiency tests, sex toys, and body doubles in movies for extreme stunts.

The laws in place made it impossible to give them anything more than a brainstem to keep their vitals going. They had the same rights as a steak.

One could place an order for something as specific as a 28.5-year-old, 1.5-meter-tall, female blue-eyed redhead on a poor diet with lung cancer and healed fractures in both legs. You could send a body and face scan of a target model if you wanted it to look exactly like someone in real life.

Some age groups were more expensive than others according to the rules of supply and demand. The ones in the prime of life were the most expensive and anything extra could get very pricy indeed.

There were always rumours, of course. Rumours of clones given cognitive abilities and being used as slave labour, prostitutes and soldiers. Those rumours were hard to really believe, though, considering the endless numbers of real humans that were always there to fill those roles.

What wasn’t a rumour was delivery truck drivers occasionally busting open the crate of an attractive model and having sex with it or killing it for fun. There were psych tests for applicants and stringent security measures but at least two or three times a year, a driver was caught handling the merchandise.

Personally, I can’t imagine it. I’ve been hauling clones for six years now. It’s good money and I’d never do anything to jeopardize that.

Sometimes, though, on the open road with the moon shining down and nothing around of me for miles, I can’t decide if I’m alone or if I have sixty humans in the back keeping me company. That can get a little creepy.

Like right now.

I feel like a ferryman taking souls across an unseen border into a different world.




tags
skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
Liposuction for the brain:

A ludicrous symposium written on the back of a napkin in the shade of a walrus tongue by two scared clones of Jesus.

The Iron Age has hurt us. We tear the buildings down. In the movies, the bad men have scars.

I have a physics bill that I want passed into law. I want the senate of universal field equations and religious ideals to ratify it. I need to have it added to the unseen constitution in between Newton and Hawking.

A cross between gravity and pheromones. Snake-like emotion rays in a red clay jug. This is a broth made from weaselbone stock and seasoned with mulberry bush. This the straightest line between two points that doesn’t respect law.

I stripped the seconds out of this watch. All of them. They’re in a bag in the freezer. They’re great with ice and vodka.

The watch still works but it doesn’t tell time anymore. It’s a watch for a mime.

I wrapped up Rome and sold it to a time-traveling salesman. He sold it to the States a hundred years ago. This is Temporal Tennis.

I make soap out of the fat that I suck out of my ideas.


tags
skonen_blades: (hluuurg)
I ordered it months ago. The new me. It was almost here.

The truck from CB-Chem was making that loud beeping noise that trucks make as it backed into my driveway. I had passed the physical, I had forwarded the down payment, and I had aced the psych test.

Today was the day. More important than a birthday. More important than a funeral.

You work your whole life just to get a decent Replacement. The best bodies are the most expensive. They’re in the bloom of youth and they’re based on your genotype. Built to your specs and built to last. The expensive ones, anyway.

The cheap ones are the ones that may have a flaw or two. They might have a lot of artificial parts. They might have no warranty. They might have poor eyesight or uncorrected chromosomes. They might not be the colour, height or sex that you desire but they’re what’s available and beggars can’t be choosers.

If you can’t afford a cheap replacement, you go into state-sponsored storage. Power outages over the decades were not uncommon. You took your chances in storage.

If you had no next of kin to save up and bail you out of storage, you died for real.

That’s wasn’t me.

I worked very hard at a reputable games company. I put in lots of overtime. I saved all of my money. Every bonus went towards the capital. I had a nearly top-of-the-line copy of myself arriving in the driveway. The body in the back of the truck had all of it’s hair, perfect eyesight, stamina and strength. It even had this generation’s upgrades.

It was the best I could afford which was better than most. I counted myself lucky and privileged. I had earned this new shell.

My feeble 87-year-old frame quivered in anticipation. I remembered with a smile the other four times I’d been Replaced. I looked forward to opening my eyes in the new, young, me. Memories intact, future bright, a lifetime ahead of me.

A lifetime spent saving up for a top-of-the-line body to replace me when I reached the new body’s expiration date.

I was wearing the suit that this body would be buried in.

There was a knock at my door. The technicians were here.

I was nervous like I was on my way to the prom. I swallowed hard, smoothed my hair, wiped the sweat off of my hands and opened the door.



tags
skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
It’s a little ticklish when the needles go in but the anesthetic keeps her from moving. It keeps her laughing on the inside.

Grown from a vat of jaguar with a splash of greyhound and a swirl of human, she’s extremely thin and toothy. This is her last treatment before she’s shipped off to Overman Ranker’s Field Farms for training.

She’ll be part of an Assassin’s Guild nick-named The Circus. All of the killers are animal hybrids. The term ‘guild’ is a bit of a misnomer. ‘Kennel’ would be more accurate. The assassins are little more than happy pets that are conditioned to be stealthy and to kill without mercy.

An animal’s nose full of the scent from the victim’s clothing is much more efficient than a photograph/dossier when it comes to tracking a man down in the dark.

Tyrania is two years old. She’s either happy or in pain. No other emotions exist within her. The pain of punishment tells her what not to do. Right now, she’s happy. The spinal tap keeps her immobilized while the nano-somes do their knitting and pearling to the building blocks of her epidermis.

After training, she’ll be able to pass for human. The skeletal creature on the table with dark spots dotting the long, grey fur will become something more akin to feral super model when the process is finished.

She’ll be killing in the higher classes. It’s the bear-and-croc mods that they send to the poor places.

Her long nails are retracted and painted a garish red. The newborn killers always choose cosmetics that look like blood on their nails and lips. It’s comforting to them. It’s frightening to see them smile in the mirror after their first reward of makeup. More often than not, they’ve smeared a line of lipstick around their lips. Their eyes glass over with the dreams of blood as they tilt their head at their reflection.

They get trained to be human on the Field Farm. I mean, they get trained to kill people in any number of ways with the aid of mental downloads and grueling days of physical training but they’re also told how to act at the dinner table and how to keep a conversation going.

We teach them to be background. They’re expendable so there’s no exit routes planned when they’re sent on missions.

I miss the ones that don’t come back. I don’t like the ones that do. They change after a successful mission.

This one here, Tyrania, is looking straight up at the ceiling as I prepare the depilatory cream. I’m in her peripheral vision. I give her a wink.

I feel like a dentist operating on a child.



tags
skonen_blades: (gasface)
My name is Control V. My boss calls me Paste. I am a clone.

I work for the government. I am a secret agent.

There are a few of me kicking around. I don’t know how many. I am given orders that I can’t disobey. I get through metal detectors. I smile and shake hands. When I’m close to my mission’s objective I carry out my orders. Maybe murder. Maybe courier service.

This is the life of an expendable snowflake. This is the life of a genocopy.

The real me is fetal in a bunker, kept like a baby in a high-security specimen jar that might as well be a museum. I don’t have his memories but I am told that he was the best secret agent available and that he volunteered for this.

This was his reward for being the best.

They shattered him into splinters and now we roam around the world like Styrofoam coffee cups in human form. Shadows of the master. Rainbows thrown by the prism. We are given whatever fraction of his abilities that will help us most.

His talent for disguise, for instance, or his quick reflexes. Some of us are amped up romantically for ‘seduce and destroy’ missions.

Every time the phone rings and I see that it is my boss, I feel a little tingling of fear that he’ll say the word that will cause all of my synapses to fire at once, wiping my mind clean of anything in a tiny supernova of death inside my skull.

I can no more throw away my phone that I can tear off my own arm. I am conditioned.

I am an extension of policy. Technically alive but not human.

I’ve been stationed here in the Frankfurt airport for a year and a half. High numbers of undercover agents from other countries come through here. I am on standby to intercept them if necessary. Most of my time is downtime. I am a mole.

I get the feeling that most of my brothers are not given this long to roam. I handle baggage and try to keep from talking to my co-workers. I’m friendly but I reveal nothing. I don’t attend their poker games or parties.

I tell them I’m busy then I go to my pre-furnished apartment and stare at the wall until I get tired. I sleep until my alarm clock tells me it’s time to get up and go to work again. Once every month or two, I get a call with details about a mission.

I stare out the airport window on my lunch hour and wonder why I’m afraid of the call that will kill me.

That’s not supposed to happen. I think it’s because I’ve been alive too long and am starting to value it. That in turn makes me fearful that my boss knows that I’ve been alive too long and that makes me even more afraid that the next phone call will be my last. It’s a cycle gathering volume in my head.

I look at the planes landing and taking off against the blue sky and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful in my life.





tags
skonen_blades: (gasface)
It wasn’t until I opened my eyes that I knew what had happened.

Lisa Sagan and Andrea Hawking were helping Petra Turing make sure my vitals were stabilizing. It was Henrietta Einstein that was chairing the ‘wake. I could see my dear Shelagh Netwon looking down from the observation booth with tears of joy in her eyes.

I’d been caught and killed. They’d had to wake up another copy of me.

I needed to know how much memory I was missing and if the Two-X project was still functioning.

We’d wrested control from the governments. We were the smartest minds on the planet. We’d taken over from the war-mongering males and turned the entire continent into a matriarchy that was feared and respected.

It wasn’t enough.

We need the world to be with us if we were to conquer space.

“Don’t try to move” said Carla Marconi. I bristled at the sound of my old enemy’s voice but remained still. Soon, I would leave this hospital bed and be debriefed and rebriefed. The project was safe. I could see that much from here.

The black ceramic hummed above us in the nuclear cooling tower. Miles long, it crackled with barely restrained power. It wouldn’t be long before the world would fear us and have no choice but to obey. It was regrettable but the quickest solution.

The weapon is of my design.

My name is Tamara Tesla. A glorious future awaits.



tags
skonen_blades: (cyril)
We put Jesus24K99 into his cage for our own protection. The anti-coagulants weren’t holding. He was destabilizing. He’d bleed out soon.

The hole in our research was the stigmata. The actual crucifix had been uncovered in a basement vault of the Vatican. The nails from the cross had been scraped for flakes. The DNA, when used to make clones, had created short, dark babies.

Obviously not Jesus.

We tinkered with the DNA, adding a lot more milk to the coffee, if you will, to make the clone more acceptable to Middle America. We needed an Aryan beauty the likes of which would make women swoon and men envy. We needed today’s Jesus, not the old one.

Blond, emaciated babies were being created in our lab. They refused to eat. They cried a lot. Vials of their tears had cured cancer in my wife and two of the assistants. Even Jeffrey’s back was normal again.

Plans were afoot to release the cure for a price that was low enough to afford but would still make our company billions under masked creation papers. Lies, basically. The cure for cancer. Probably the cure for AIDS. Who knows? Maybe the cure for everything. If nothing else, at least these crying babies could make the people of earth healthy again.

Unfortunately, it made me picture rows and rows of eyeless Jesus Baby Clones crying into suction tubes in cages like chickens in KFC farms. I got back to work.

Most of them had turned out hemophiliac. We had no idea what to do when the holes in their hands and sides appeared. The baby Jesus in front of us that we'd just put into his cage, the last of the last batch, was moving sluggishly.

It was like the some unseen force was killing these babies, like what we were doing was not for the greater good and we were being sabotaged.

Jesus24K99 rolled onto his back and stopped moving. The pool of blood spread out beneath him, eventually slowing to a stop as his heart stopped pumping. The tattoo on his arm was scanned. The lights in his cage went out.

The compactor took over. He was added to the basement remains.

We hadn’t even figured out how to accelerate the aging process when we made a stable copy. There was talk of hiring an actor as Plan B and cutting our losses by sticking with the whole ‘cure for cancer’ thing.

I’d be out of a job if they did that but I was starting to think that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.



tags
skonen_blades: (cocky)
What a cliché. There I was, handcuffed to a chair and telling them that I knew my rights. Yelling at them about what an outrage this was. Straight out of a movie. I couldn’t help it. I thought I was above the law at this stage, you have to remember. A member of the political cabinet currently in power. What a naïve little twit. This was their lucky day.

She walked in quickly and slapped her briefcase down across the table from where I was sitting. Quickly and without ceremony, she started shuffling through the papers she had brought.

When she had them into three neat piles, she finally looked straight at me. Well, ‘looked’ isn’t the right word. It was more of a stare. She still hadn’t sat down.

I could hear the hums and pops of her internal headphones and I could see the reverse image of the data spooling down her glasses. My life was flashing in front of her eyes.

It was an uncomfortable thirty seconds later before my court appointed lawyer sat down across from me and steepled her fingers with a deep breath before picking the best way to proceed with my case.

“Senator Peterson” she began, “You have been illegally copying yourself in no less that three separate incidents. We have begun digging on your property and have found six bodies. It will take time to go through them but I have no doubt that the DNA will show that they are also you.”

She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose with her eyes squinted shut. She put them back on again and resumed.

“You are guilty of not only copying yourself but also of clone-slaughter. Your career in politics is over. I will try to keep you out of jail. Your regular lawyer will not take this case. No lawyer will. To be associated with you at this point would be career suicide.”

And there it was. It hit me hard. She spoke with such nonchalant authority. I knew this wasn’t a scare tactic. It hadn’t even occurred to me that my career could be in jeopardy, let alone over.

I’d need to buy time for Peterson-1 to get to a safe place.


tags
skonen_blades: (borg)
He’s sitting in the center of my living room when I get there. He has a gun. He’s missing an eye and there’s a cruel twist to his smile. He’s me.

It’s standard practice to have oneself cloned when one is the CEO of such an important company. Last year, there was a kidnapping and a ransom note. The kidnapping itself was kept quiet. We didn’t respond to their demands. They threatened to kill the hostage.

We woke up another version of me and said go ahead.

To be a CEO of a company that’s grown as large and as fast as this one has, you need a mind that deals quickly with high pressure situations and a natural talent for leadership. You need to be charming, ruthless, and efficient. There’s a reason I have no wife or children. I am all of these things. People will follow me into corporate battle on the slimmest of reasons. I have resolved conflicts between bitter rivals and competitive holdouts with one personal meeting. People trust me and want to follow me.

I have no doubt that my clone had a difficult and interesting time talking them out of executing him and taking control over the next year.

There has been a terrorist organization attacking my organization recently very efficiently and ruthlessly. People have been following the leader into battle to certain death. There have been a number of suicide bombings. This has been unheard of for years.

Now I know who’s been behind it all and the terrible loss of life.

It’s me. Sitting in the center of my living room when I get home.

“Hello, Nathan.” My clone says to me. “How’s life?”

He looks at me with the vat grown black market eye that’s a mismatched brilliant green and a little too large. It looks like it takes effort to stretch the eyelid over it to blink. It must be tricked out because it flashes red for a second and I find that I have trouble breathing. My knees go a little weak and I kneel. My vision is starting to swim.

He walks over and kneels beside me, cradling my head in his hands.

When he nudges the tip of the knife up against my eye and looks at me, I realize what’s going to happen. He’s going to take one of my eyes to replace the one he lost and then he’s going to take my place. He’s also going to keep me alive here for as long as he can to show me what real pain is. He’s going to show me what he’s learned over the last year with those soulless men. He’s going to show me what he has become used to.

I think of what I would become capable of if pushed in that direction and I feel my bladder let go and stain the expensive rug like an untrained puppy.



tags
skonen_blades: (meh)
Ah, those pesky Fetts.

Who would have thought that Boba Fett’s ‘dad’ would be the DNA basis for all of the Empire’s stormtroopers? Boba must have had so much disdain for the others.

“Think for yourself” he must have thought to himself as he watched his clone brothers follow orders and die by the hundreds in their shiny white armour. There are twins and there are triplets but what is it called when there are hundred of thousands? Googuplets? They were the keystone cops of the universe and they were copies of him. The disgust he must have felt had to have been absolute. He achieved a certain emotional distance. He didn’t talk to them. He was in it for himself. He was a bounty hunter. He was a loner. He was bent on revenge over the death of his father.

He had no idea he had a sister.

In the cloning process, only males were produced. Theoretically, this kept them easier to control. The batches were grown with the X and Y chromosomes always kept at fifty percent each so the mix resulted in XY copies across the board. There were big jugs, for lack of a better word, of X chromosomes and Y chromosomes.

Occasionally, for reasons of maintenance, oversight, or laziness, the X’s would empty first and you’d end up with a batch of nothing but Ys.

This would give you huge overmales. They were too hard to control and didn’t live too long since their hearts had a hard time pumping blood through so much muscle tissue. They were giant beserkers with poor attention spans and learning difficulties; just as prone to attacking each other as they were to attack the enemy. Useless to the Empire in its battles. Two batches were tried out in the regular conditioning and the resulting casualties coupled with poor strategic performance ended the experiments. Double Ys batches were now flushed to the stormy artic oceans of the water planet that the cloning facility was based on.

Occasionally, for reasons of maintenance, oversight, or laziness, the Y’s would empty first and you’d end up with a batch of nothing but Xs.

Girls, in other words.

Sairo Fetts.

Standard procedure was that these batches were also flushed. That was not always the case.

Years before, a Kaminoan researcher named Bettian Sairo agreed with the uselessness of the YYs. He also agreed that having just males in the conditioning process made for easier control. It gave him an idea, however. There were sixteen cloning facilities on Kamino. His idea was to take one facility and produce nothing but women. His theory was that if several batches of women were also raised with no outside influences, their effectiveness as soldiers would be just as good as the men.

This was proved in a couple of controlled experiments with four female clones who were terminated at the end of the experiment.

He was given the green light for his plan.

Bettian began. His clones were named Sairo after him.

The double-X bitch-batches began.



Year one: Birth

Seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy eight pinhead hearts fluttered awake, pea sized lungs drew liquid breath and started growing. Hexagonal windowpanes spit forth babies dripping with ropes of blue mucus. They were washed. They were tagged. They started conditioning.



Year two: Indoctrination

The Sairos all had red hair. They passed their tests quickly and showed abnormally high aptitudes for spatial dynamics and engineering. Their combat skills were not as high in strength as the male batch statistics but they nearly doubled the numbers in flexibility and agility. Things looked good for Bettian.



Year three: Revolution

Bettian’s body was located floating in the ocean near to the wreckage of the station after the fight and the escape. The Sairos, advanced physically to the age of seventeen, had taken over, escaped from, and then destroyed the cloning station. No one was sure of the details or where they ended up. They had called in a cloaked pirate cargo freighter on encrypted channels under the guise of a pickup. They killed the crew and hijacked the ship. The freighter was found adrift in space parsecs away. They had set up routine answers for the monitoring scans back at the cloning station. Their disappearance wasn’t noticed until days after they had left. After entering the station to inspect the malfunctions and odd responses to their inquiries, the search crew incinerated when the charges that had been left behind were tripped and the station went up in a nuclear fireball of ions and steam.



That was years ago.

One of them, the last of to be created, had been given an accidental extra chromosome. The last squeeze from the tube has dropped in one extra X for her. She was XXX. She was the leader of the revolution. Powerful, unstable, psychic, pyrokinetic, telekinetic, intuitive, two steps ahead of her own insanity in order to lead, react and hide her power until the moment of flashpoint. She had the women netted and communicating with her mind.



A.

She told them to run, hide, marry and disappear.

Most of them did.

Some of them became mercenaries.

One Sairo mercenary has snapped and is hunting down the XXX. She is working her way through the rest of them, gathering as much information as she can as she goes along, planet to planet, hoping to come face to face with the Sairo that started it all.



Or



B.

She locked the doors on her trusting sisters in the pirate cargo ship and blew the locks after jetting off in an escape pod. They decompressed, screaming and betrayed. Red haired XXX Sairo Fett became a mercenary.



Poor Boba. He never knew he had a sister.



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