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"Medics are karking terrifying."
It is a truth universally agreed among the clones of the GAR that their medics are to be feared. The Jedi who command them laughingly agree; GAR medics, like temple healers, tend to be authoritative, brusque, and downright pushy. Who hasn't tried to avoid an unneccessary medbay trip, then been bullied into it anyways?
Their men haven't. Clones never attempt to avoid medics, not for treatments, tests, or routine checkups. They laugh, when their Generals are laughing, about overzealous doctors. The Jedi see this, and hear this, and assume clones are speaking in lighthearted jest when they say how frightening medics are.
The Jedi ought to know better. As a rule, clones do not freely admit to fear.
It goes like this:
Among Jedi, among natborns, doctors visits are things children squirm and cry about. They are enticed and cajoled by parents or crechemasters into getting their temperture taken, their heartrate measured, their hearing checked. Wail or scream, and they are comforted. Regardless of good behavior, they are rewarded with a sticker and a lollipop come the end, and the comfort of an adult who loves them and has never left their side.
Clone cadets are never bribed or cajoled into anything. They are ordered. If those orders are not obeyed, they are punished, and their disobedience is recorded in a little annotation beside their identification number in Kamino's records. That annotation does not go away.
Clone cadets go to the doctor often. Much more often than all but the sickest of natborn children. They are, after all, products which must be kept to specification; beyond that, they are experiments who must be carefully monitored. Every week, the identical children file in neat lines to get their biometrics measured and recorded. No injury may go unnoticed, no irregularity unobserved. Flaws must never be covered up on the assembly line.
No clone cadet has ever received a lollipop or sticker for going through Kamino's medical centers. Then again, no clone cadet has ever thrown a tantrum to try to avoid going to the doctor, either.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say: no adult clone has ever resisted receiving medical attention. Those foolish enough to do so as cadets were not granted the privilege of reaching adulthood.
"I'll be fine," the General says breezily. "The Force is a wonderful healer, and it's not anything serious besides."
"That's the medic's call to make," says the Commander reproachfully. "Do you really want them chasing you down with a sedative so they can get you into a scanner?"
The Jedi laughs at the presumed exaggeration. "And I suppose you'll protect me from their schemes?"
"No, sir," says the Commander primly. "I'll be right there helping them strap you to the cot."
"Alright, alright, you've made your point," says the Jedi, still smiling.
"Not my point," chides the Commander. "The medics point. At the tip of the needle. That's the point you should be worried about."
"Very well, I surrender!"
The Commander laughs at this, because his Jedi does. Nothing they've said strikes him as particularly funny, but then, Jedi are known to have peculiar senses of humor.
Some things, even bred-in obedience isn't enough for. A cadet in too much pain, or a cadet unfortunate enough to know what awaits them, might nonetheless try to resist.
That is what restraints are for. Sedatives. The medics are well-trained in their use. Restraints are less expensive than anaesthetic, after all, and high pain tolerance is a fine thing in a soldier.
(Rumors swirl that paralytics are also cheaper than anaesthetics. That you never know which one you're going to get at the end of a needle. The whispers stay quiet, though. No one truly wants to know.)
Jedi make poor patients.
The medics of the GAR agree on this. They make new protocols to accomodate the idiosyncranies of their generals. It's a new problem for them; how to ensure cooperation from beings who outrank them, and can physically overpower them as well.
All sorts of new procedures are developed. "What's this?" a Jedi asks, and the clone medic, mindful of the hierarchical relationship between clone and jedi, answers. However slow answering questions makes the proceedings go. Because Jedi make poor patients.
On Kamino, medics are not beholden to their patients. Injuries are frequent, and damaged cadets are assigned to the medical trainees in accordance with what topics need to be taught, and which cadets are worth little enough to be worth losing to an in-training surgeon.
Cadets are experiments, and products, and they don't need to be told what is being done to their bodies. That information is relevant to the doctors, and the scientists with their detailed spreadsheets, and the trainers with their lesson plans. There is no reason for a cadet to be told how they are being treated, which measurements are being taken, or even what is wrong with them in the first place. Soldiers need to be able to inflict wounds, and receive them. They don't need to know anything else.
Jedi aren't afraid of medics. Not true, bone deep terror like their men have. It's subtle, and those clones who notice assume it's because Jedi have simply mastered their emotions. They know not to be afraid.
This isn't the case. The reason Jedi are less afraid is because, when they go injured to the medics, they have every expectation of coming back.
The medics have to go about it differently, treating Jedi. It's the obvious things, at first. When all their patients had been identical, they hadn't had to worry about age, or allergies, or species. No need to individualize treatments when clones had never been individuals. No need to adjust dosage beyond a coefficient for a cadet's growth factor. No need to ask if something hurts, because sensors can determine the problem, and they've been taught that their patient's pain is none of their concern.
Jedi are different species, sexes, heights and weights. Jedi ask for painkillers. Jedi ask to be told what is wrong with them, what will be done to treat them, and what the potential side effects may be. Jedi sometimes refuse treatment, and because they are superior officers, the medics must let them.
It's not the biggest difference, though. Not the species, not the Force abilities, not the insistence on a thing called "consent."
Jedi are individuals. They are born, not made. They are skilled, valuable in ways clones can never be. Jedi are not, and clones always are, replaceable.
Like veterinarians, clone medics were trained in the art of euthanasia.
It never took long to learn. The Kaminoans overproduced for their order in order to ensure its quality. They made extra, expecting the weak, the aberrant, the disobedient, and the unlucky to be culled. From the time they were cadets, trainee medics had plenty of their fellow products to practice upon.
It set them apart from the others. While not a punishable offense, killing one's fellow soldier was generally frowned upon by the trainers. Sparring accidents, equipment malfunctions — these things happened. Product was lost. It reflected negatively on whichever cadet was at fault, for their lack of control as much as the loss of revenue that their dead training-mate represented. It was an inconvenience to be avoided where possible.
It was the cadets on the medic track who were taught to kill their fellows.
It started young. Aside from routine checkups, decommissioning was among the most common procedures performed on Kamino. The scientists didn't wish to waste their time on it, and of course, it was a valuable skill for the medics to learn. So cadets killed other cadets, calmly and clinically as they'd been ordered to do.
From the very beginning, medics were different. Medics were scary.
"You can't trust a medic," one of the troopers said, in a tone that might pass as joking. "You never know what's in those needles of theirs."
"He's hurt!"
CT-4043, still in his fifth growth cycle, paused in his training drill to rush to the side of his batchmate, CT-4045.
One trainer opened her mouth to reprimand him; the other shook his head, muttered to her that it meant less work for them. She shrugged, and turned her attention to the other cadets running their drills.
CT-4045 was hurt. Really hurt. He'd fallen from the equipment they'd been learning to pilot, and his arm didn't look right and neither did his leg. He was whimpering with pain, and CT-4043 knew that meant it must hurt a lot. CT-4045 hadn't made a sound even when they'd started live-fire drills last month.
He tried to help CT-4045 to his feet. It didn't work; CT-4045 couldn't stand. CT-4043 carried him instead, taking him to the trainers, hoping the cadet in arms would count as an acceptable reason not to salute. "Permission to bring CT-4045 to the medical wing, sirs?" he asked, trying to keep the strain out of his voice.
One trainer rolled her eyes; the other nodded his permission. CT-4043 was relieved; he could feel CT-4045's erratic breath.
CT-4043 carried his batchmate as quickly as he could to the medical wing. He wasn't yet tall enough to open the door easily, and CT-4045 had started crying louder as they walked, so CT-4043 didn't want to put him down. Luckily, an older cadet was passing by, who operated the door's entry pad for them.
The medic on duty was a little older than CT-4043, but not by much. Not as old as the cadet who'd helped them in; CT-4043 wondered if he could open the door without reaching or not.
"Place him here," the medic-track cadet said, gesturing to an empty cot. His tag identified him as CT-3828.
CT-4043 did so immediately. CT-3828 might only be a fellow cadet, but he was a medic, and medics were to be obeyed.
"He fell," CT-4043 said, listing off the specifications of the equipment CT-4045 had been climbing on. He didn't know if he was supposed to speak without being spoken to, but he was scared for CT-4045, and didn't want to listen to him cry.
CT-3828 wasn't listening. That was probably for the best; he should be focusing on CT-4045. CT-4043 didn't know if he should stay or go, but no one had told him to leave, and CT-4045 had opened his eyes and was looking at him, so hurt and scared, so he wanted to stay.
CT-3828 hadn't said a word since telling CT-4043 what to do. He was taking notes on a datapad, making notes on CT-4045's condition. He touched CT-4045's arm where the bones didn't look right, and CT-4045 moaned in pain. He brought a meddroid to do a scan. He made more notes, then went away to the back of the room, where an older cadet was working. He showed the datapad, and there was a quick exchange of words.
CT-3828 opened a drawer, and measured a clear liquid to put in a syringe. He returned to CT-4045's side. He gave CT-4045 a small, brief smile, then injected the syringe into his neck, near where his collarbone looked misaligned.
CT-4043 held his breath. CT-4045 blinked for a moment, then sighed. Tension eased from his form, as his whimpers quieted, and pain drained from his expression. Another medical cadet appeared with a stretcher.
CT-4043 was relieved. CT-4045 wasn't in pain anymore. They had taken the pain away, so they could take him to surgery and fix him. CT-4043 had done the right thing, bringing his batchmate here so quickly.
CT-4045 looked too relaxed, on his cot. Like he was asleep, but his eyes hadn't closed. Was that normal for surgery drugs?
The second medic cadet, CT-3601, helped CT-3828 move CT-4045 onto the stretcher. They weren't being as careful of his injuries as CT-4043 thought they ought to be. He should know: he'd carried CT-4045 all the way here, he knew how many types of movement had made him hurt worse. If they were about to fix him, surely they wouldn't want to make their jobs harder?
CT-3828 and CT-3601 wheeled the stretcher away. CT-3828 had left his datapad unlocked on the cot. CT-4043 knew he shouldn't, but he hoped the pad might tell him when CT-4045 would be back for training. None of the medical cadets had said a word to him, after all. He'd like to be able to tell the trainers when CT-4045 would be back, so they'd be less mad at him for leaving in the first place.
It took CT-4043 a moment to parse the unfamiliar data formatting on the screen. He didn't dare touch it, in case someone noticed, so he had to crane his neck sideways to get a good look. Finally, he found CT-4045's number on the screen.
CT-4045. Training accident. Repair costs estimated above price threshold. Unit terminated, 0500 hours.
Jedi always ask their medics what is wrong with them, and what will be done to fix it.
Clones do not ask. They would not be answered if they did, of course. But even were that not the case, they still would not ask. The answer is too likely to be the one they fear.
"Medics are karking terrifying," says CT-4043. He is half a galaxy away from Kamino, three years into the war. He has a name now, one he chose, but some things don't change.
"I know, right?" says his squad leader. He has memories just like CT-4043. Every one of their millions of brothers does. "I swear, they give them special training just to scare us."
It's a joke.
They laugh.