Chapter Text
The book was bound in leather--real leather. Expensive, superfluous, and so very Brendol. The spine of the book was well-worn, but the glossy leather spoke of frequent care. Brendol must have cleaned and conditioned it regularly. These records, like all the others he kept, were meticulous. The contents of these, however, were more unusual.
Burned into the cover, the title read: Armitage.
The first few years consisted of loose sheets of flimsy that had been collected and hand-sewn into the front of the book at a later date.
--/--/7975 CRC
It has been an inauspicious year. Maratelle’s inability to provide me with an heir has been a source of constant frustration. She refuses to lie with me in any other context, so producing a son is the least she could do. But she has failed repeatedly in this task. Even so, she dares to scold me for using the help to fulfill my unmet needs. Insufferable woman.
However, I am forced to admit that this latest tyrst was…unadvisable. Some kitchen woman. Sema. Or Seta. I can’t recall. Though I doubt I’ll soon forget the woman’s disease . I’m sure it was her. Of course, I only realized what she’d done to me much later. Martella finially deigned to lie with me and, too, caught the infection. She, however, quickly showed the symptoms.
It was not abnormal, we were told, for symptoms to be absent in some. Martella was easily treated. I was informed that there may be irreversible damage due to the length of my infection. These include infertility. I do not think my outrage was uncalled for, yet Martella wagged the finger at me . It had been too long since I put her in her place--a fact which I remedied.
The kitchen woman was, of course, expelled.
--/--/7976 CRC
I grow weary of talk of rebellion. I say, let the rabble come. Let the Empire’s might crush them. I pity those fools sweating on Coruscant. Arkanis is safe from their petty squabbles.
And yet, I find myself at every turn accosted by my own traitors. There are always those who seek to benefit from the good fortune of others. That wretched kitchen woman is a prime example.
Instead of a more severe punishment, I magnanimously ended her employment and expelled her from my house. And how did she repay me? By concealing her pregnancy. By trying to deliver the child-- my child--in secret. It was only a matter of time before I discovered this betrayal. The only medical care available for such pathetic creatures is through the military (a horrible drain of valuable resources), information that I, as a commander of the military academy, have access to.
A bastard child. However, my attempts to secure a legitimate heir remain unfruitful… Perhaps, this is the Maker’s way of giving me what I desire.
--/--/7976 CRC
Separating the babe from his mother was difficult. But my methods, as always, were successful in the end. I don’t expect any more trouble from the wench.
The boy is…disappointing, to say the least. Small for his age, and cries non-stop. I trust Maratella to raise him according to my instructions, despite her objections. He is a Hux, and will be raised like one.
Although he’d taken the boy in, Brendol was almost resentful towards the boy. He could never forget the shame of being forced to raise a bastard in place of a real heir. Disappointment was the gospel of their relationship from the moment Brendol took the screaming infant into his arms.
--/--/7977 CRC
The universe is determined to spite me! Curse those rebels! They say we are to use a new calendar. ABY…What nonsense. I refuse! They can keep their damned calendar and their damned rebellion! Arkanis will remain. I will remain! The Empire will not fall.
That horrible boy will be the death of me. Months now, and he still cries at the slightest disturbance.
--/--/7982 CRC
The siege has nearly reached our walls. Though it burns me, retreat seems to be the only option. I have been in communication with Admiral Rax, who has promised to secure me transportation off planet. In return, I am to continue my work with the academy in service of creating an improved imperial army.
Armitage will come with me. Maratella on the other hand… Every day, my impatience with her grows. She objects to my methods of disciplining the boy. But I refuse to be softened. Neither his age nor his heritage excuses him. Rather, they make the punishment more suitable. Better to instill these lessons while they’re young.
Day in and day out, she tells me to be patient . But I cannot quiet the thought that a child of my pure blood would be more capable by now. I have hope that the cane will temper him.
The boy is small. He will be easy to smuggle off-planet. I don’t think I shall hold Maratella a funeral. Frugality is a virtue in times of war.
The first real page of the book only contained a date and a single sentence.
--/--/7982 CRC
I lost my temper.
A printed-out med-bot’s report was folded up and crammed in between the first and second pages.
--/--/5 ABY
Patient is a 6-year-old male with no significant past medical history presenting with father at bedside for evaluation of extensive injuries secondary to a fall greater than 6 feet onset 2 hours ago. Patient’s father reports the patient was playing unsupervised on a second-story balcony when the patient’s father heard a scream and a crash. He discovered the patient lying on his left side on the pavement. Patient was unconscious but breathing at that time.
On physical exam, the patient is unconscious and unarousable to painful stimuli. He has multiple large areas of ecchymosis with overlying abrasions to the torso, bilateral arms, left leg, and head. CT scan confirms suspicion for comminuted fractures of the left tibia, left femur, and left ribs 2-5. MRI head and neck revealed intracranial hemorrhage. Injuries consistent with history per father.
At this time, the patient’s father is not receptive to the recommendation that the patient be transferred to the children’s intensive care unit. Surgical droid to attempt emergent craniotomy and cauterization of the brain bleed.
Brendol’s cramped handwriting continued on the next page. From that point on, the notes were more organized. More clinical.
--/--/7982 CRC
6 years of work…They say he (who I shall henceforth refer to as A-1) will not survive another fortnight. What a waste of time and resources. A miscalculation, on my part.
But all is not lost. In researching protocol for my imperial cadet program, I came across a wealth of literature on cloning. In the end, I decided not to use this method for my army. The expense was too great to justify, especially when underdeveloped outer-rim planets already offer so many prospective cadets. But I believe I can replicate their process.
I will need a sufficiently large sample of DNA to account for trial and error. I doubt the boy will survive. Consider this my last act of mercy: putting the wretched thing out of its misery.
Note to self: remember to have someone come collect the med-droid scraps in the morning.
--/--/7982 CRC
Trial #26: Success. The first viable clone. A-2. Regular aging.
--/--/7983 CRC
A-2 is taking too long to age. I’ve recently fallen under scrutiny by Admiral Rax as well as several other senior officers. They’ve finally noticed Armitage’s absence. I’ve bought myself some time by claiming the boy is on an extracurricular retreat for several months. But I will need to present a child soon.
A-2 disposed of. Tomorrow will commence trial #27.
--/--/7983 CRC
Trial #27 successful. After studying the genetic modifications of clone army, I believe A-3 should age at ten times the normal rate.
--/--/7983 CRC
After 6 months, A-3 is the physical equivalent of a five-year-old. A-1 would have been nearing eight. I was able to pass it off as simply a poor constitution. But this one will not suffice. The extremely rapid aging has resulted in severe mental retardation.
There is one more event at which my “son” needs to make an appearance, after which I will begin again.
--/--/7986 CRC
A-4 is progressing well enough. Raising it has been difficult. Children are such noisy, incessant creatures. Even accelerated aging only soothes the pain so much. It almost makes me miss Maratelle.
It's baffling how often a child begs to be fed or changed or held. Leave it alone for a few days and it tries to die. I've had houseplants that fared better.
Chronological age: 2. Biological age: 4.
--/--/7988 CRC
A-4 has fallen deeply ill. Its prospects are quite poor. I always feared its feeble constitution would catch up with it.
It is a small consolation that I was able to have this “Armitage” make a few more public appearances. My colleagues believe my son to be a functional recluse as the result of an intense private curriculum. This likely bought me a few more years.
Age of death: 4 (chronological), 8 (biological).
--/--/7988 CRC
Fortunately, A-4 was not a complete waste. I was able to identify other genetic markers that can be tweaked. The changes are more subtle than I would prefer, but A-5 will be smarter and heartier than its predecessors.
--/--/7988 CRC
Maker! Save me from children . They bore me, infuriate me, terrorize me.
Last night, when I finally fell asleep through the crying, I dreamt. I dreamt that I took the crying thing on a walk. We came upon a parapet overlooking a deep black ocean. I stared down into it, wondering what I would see in my reflection if I were close enough. What would I be holding in my arms? A baby? A demon? I imagined seeing myself holding me in my arms. Then it shifted. The clone was a clone again, but so was I. A terrible rage overtook me at that moment. I held the babe over the parapet. I didn't realize I'd let go until I saw the waves swallow it.
I felt better. I went home.
In the morning, I awoke to find the crib empty. It had not been a dream.
But it had only been 3 months. Plenty of time to begin again.
--/--/7988 CRC
A-6 will have the same modifications as A-5. More intelligent, stronger, and doubled the speed of aging.
A droid will be responsible for the rearing.
--/--/7992 CRC
A-6 has been the most promising subject so far. It is intensely talented, but disobedient. The droid has failed to instill in it sufficient piety.
It takes every opportunity to challenge me, testing my boundaries and my patience. It has taken to its studies, perhaps too well. Even without exposure to other children, it has realized its abnormalities. For some reason, this upsets the thing.
The babies were ruinous enough, but this is the first time I’ve been forced to endure a prepubescent . I shudder to think of the horrors of its teenage years.
--/--/7994 CRC
What could I possibly have done to deserve such ill fortune? To be plagued by such a child. It actively seeks to undo me. I am convinced it is malice. Something in it knows my hatred and seeks to return it in kind.
I would see them all burn. That whore of a kitchen woman and the witch Maratella. Admiral Rax and his meddling. That condescending son-of-a-bitch Pryde. What pleasure it would give me to personally fillet every one of those pathetic rebels. I’ve spent many a night dreaming of what I would have come to them.
Nail their hands and feet to the stones of Mapuzo. Leave their skin to fry and dessicate, let wild birds feast on their eyes and soft innards.
Or hang them from boughs in the jungles of Sarka for the Kohflies to exhanguinate.
But most of all, let them take Armitage. How it shames me to have such a pathetic thing walking around with my blood, with my skin . Damn how it looks like me. I should kill it for that. I have before.
But I only have enough of the original DNA left for one last attempt…
As I write this, I recall something I came across in my research of the original cloning process. Most mention of it was redacted, yet a few instances slipped through the cracks. A biochip, programmed for behavioral modification.
This is what turned them into the Empire’s army. The plans are lost…
--/--/7994 CRC
Two months of work, and I have it.
A-6 attempted to ambarass me at a function a few weeks ago. I relished in its destruction.
A-7 will, at last, be perfect. As a infant, it will not cry. As a toddler, it will not whine. As a teenager, it will not spite me. It will obey my every command, perfectly.
It will be my legacy.
True to his word, Brendol had raised A-7 like a droid. With the influence of the biochip, it could only obey. Without hesitation. Without question.
But it could think. Locked inside a prison of flesh and bone, the boy Armitage watched out of A-7’s eyes.
As time passed, his thoughts grew louder. His anger. He wanted to move. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Anything. But he couldn’t. Finally allowed into the academy, A-7 rose dutifully through the ranks. Every mission was executed without failure.
He began to scream in his head. Louder and louder each day until something snapped.
Effective, but not infallible, his hatred temporarily overrode the chip’s programming.
Even now, as he read over his late father’s notes, Armitage-7 could feel the chip taking back control. His hatred had held it at bay for longer than expected. But now his father was dead. The hate was leeching away, and fatigue was creeping in to take its place.
Phasma had disposed of the body. He hadn’t wanted to know where. Better to have plausible deniability.
The notes were the last remaining piece of evidence. His motive. Armitage-7’s bloody fingerprints bookmarked the pages where he’d gripped the book too tightly.
‘Freedom is more bitter than I expected,’ he thought. It would be his last thought for a very long time.
With his last sliver of independence, Armitage-7 hurled the leather book into the fire. The cold teeth of control fastened themselves around his neck once more.
Designation: A-7. Directive: Perpetuate the supremacy and prosperity of the First Order.
Like the rhythmic beating of a drum…
Designation: A-7. Directive: Perpetuate the supremacy and prosperity of the First Order.
It would be A-7’s heartbeat for the next nine years.
Designation: A-7. Directive…