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hard, he had taken his boy outside.
Jango tapped his son on the shoulder and nodded toward one of the quiet eddies, and the younger one, his face showing all the
exuberance of a ten- year-old boy, lifted his pocker, an ion-burst-powered atlatl, and took deadly aim. He didn't use the laser sight-
ing unit, which automatically adjusted for watery refraction. No, this kill was to be a test of his skill alone.
He exhaled deeply, as his father had taught him, using the technique to go perfectly steady, and then, as the prey turned sidelong,
he snapped his arm forward, throwing the missile. Barely a meter from the boy's extended hand, the back of the missile glowed
briefly, a sudden and short burst of power that shot it off like a blaster bolt, knifing through the water and taking the fish in the
side, its barbed head driving through.
With a shout of joy, the boy twisted the atlatl handle, locking the nearly invisible but tremendously strong line, and then, when
the fish squirmed away enough to pull the line taut, the boy slowly and deliberately turned the handle, reeling in his catch.
"Well done," Jango congratulated. "But if you had hit it a centimeter forward, you would have skewered the primary muscle just
below the gill and rendered it completely helpless."
The boy nodded, unperturbed that his father, his mentor, could always find fault, even in success. The boy knew that his beloved
father did so only because it forced him to strive for perfection. And in a dangerous galaxy, perfection allowed for survival.
The boy loved his father even more for caring enough to criticize.
Jango went tense suddenly, sensing a movement nearby, a footfall, perhaps, or just a smell, something to tell the finely attuned
bounty hunter that he and his boy were not alone. There weren't many enemies to be found on Kamino, except far out in the watery
wastes, where giant tentacled creatures roamed. Here there was little life above the water, other than the Kaminoans themselves,
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and so Jango wasn't surprised when he saw that the newcomer was one of them: Taun We, his usual contact with the Kami-
noans.
"Greetings, Jango," the tall, lithe creature said, holding up a slim arm and hand in a gesture of peace and friendship. Jango nod-
ded but didn't smile. Why had Taun We come out here-the Kaminoans were hardly ever out of their city of globes-and why would
she interrupt Jango when he was with his son?
"You have been scarce within the sector of late," Taun We remarked.
"Better things to do."
"With your child?"
In response, Jango looked over at the boy, who was lining up another rollerfish. Or at least, he was appearing to, Jango recog-
nized, and the insight brought a knowing nod of satisfaction to the crusty bounty hunter. He had taught his son well the art of de-
ception and deflection, of appearing to do one thing while, in reality, doing something quite different. Like listening in on the con-
versation, measuring Taun We's every word. "The tenth anniversary approaches," the Kaminoan explained. Jango turned back to
her with a sour expression. "You think I don't know Boba's birthday?"
If Taun We was fazed at all by the sharp retort, the delicately featured Kaminoan didn't show it. "We are ready to begin again."
Jango looked back at Boba, one of his thousands of children, but the only one who was a perfect clone, an exact replica with no
genetic manipulation to make him more obedient. And the only one who hadn't been artificially aged. The group that had been
created beside Boba had all reached maturity now, were adult warriors, in perfect health.
Jango had thought that policy of accelerating the aging process a mistake- wasn't experience as much a part of attaining warrior
skill as genetics?- but he hadn't complained openly to the Kaminoans about it. He had been hired to do a job, to serve as the source,
and questioning the process wasn't in his job description.
Taun We cocked her head a bit to the side, eyes blinking slowly.
Jango recognized her expression as curiosity, and it nearly brought a chuckle bubbling to his lips. The Kaminoans were much
more alike than were humans, especially humans from different planets. Perhaps their singular concept, their commonness within
their own species, was a part of their typical reproductive process, which now included a fair amount of genetic manipulation, if
not outright cloning. As a society, they were practically of one mind and one heart. Taun We seemed genuinely perplexed, and so
she was, to see a human with so little apparent regard for other humans, clones or not.
Of course, hadn't the Kaminoans just created an army for the Republic? There wouldn't be wars without some disagreement,
now, would there? But that, too, held little interest for Jango. He was a solitary bounty hunter, a recluse-or he would have been if
not for Boba. Jango didn't care a whit about politics or war or this army of his clones. If every one of them was slaughtered, then so
be it. He had no attachment to any.
He looked to the side as he considered that. To any except for Boba, of course.
Other than that, though, this was just a job, well paying and easy enough. Financially, he couldn't have asked for more, but more
important, only the Kaminoans could have given him Boba-not just a son, but an exact replica. Boba would give Jango the pleasure
of seeing all that he might have become had he grown up with a loving and caring father, a mentor who cared enough to criticize,
to force him to perfection. He was as good as it got concerning bounty hunters, concerning warriors, but he had no doubt that Boba,
bred and trained for perfection, would far outshine him to become one of the greatest warriors the galaxy had ever known.
This, then, was Jango Fett's greatest reward, right here, sitting with his son, his young replica, sharing quiet moments.
Quiet moments within the tumult that had been Jango Fett's entire life, surviving the trials of the Outer Rim alone practically
from the day he learned to walk. Each trial had made him stronger, had made him more perfect, had honed the skills that he would
now pass along to Boba. There was no one better in all the galaxy to teach his son. When Jango Fett wanted you caught, you were
caught. When Jango Fett wanted you dead, you were dead.
No, not when Jango "wanted" those things. This was never personal. The hunting, the killing, it was all a job, and among the
most valuable of lessons Jango had learned early on was how to become dispassionate.
Completely so. That was his greatest weapon.
He looked at Taun We, then turned to grin at his son. Jango could be dispassionate, except for those times when he could spend
time alone with Boba. With Boba, there was pride and there was love, and Jango had to work constantly to keep both of those po-
tential weaknesses at a minimum. While he loved his son dearly-because he loved his son dearly-Jango had been teaching him
those same attributes of dispassion, even callousness, from his earliest days.
"We will commence the process again as soon as you are ready," Taun We remarked, bringing Jango back from his contempla-
tions.
"Don't you have enough of the material to do it without me?"
"Well, since you are here anyway, we would like you to be involved," Taun We said. "The original host is always the best
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choice."
Jango rolled his eyes at the thought-of the needles and the probing-but he did nod his agreement; this was really an easy job, con-
sidering the rewards.
"Whenever you are ready." Taun We bowed and turned and walked away. If you wait for that, you'll be waiting forever, Jango
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