“What would you like to drink?” he asked.
She was not the beer type, not in this setting. If he went home with her, he thought he might find beer in her fridge, but he thought she would order something with vodka or whiskey.
She said, “How about a whiskey sour? Was that what you expected?”
He smiled. “Not far off,” he said.
“How often do you troll these parts?” she asked.
“Is that what I’m doing? Trolling?”
A smile crept along the left side of her mouth and spread to the right. Her eyes sparkled in the bar light. She said, “I bet you can name every bar in the east end.”
He said, “You’d lose that bet,” then signaled the waitress as she walked past and asked for the whiskey sour.
“With whiskey, not bourbon,” the girl said. As the waitress walked away, she told Watson, “Sometimes they use bourbon instead. It’s supposed to be more upper-crust.”
“Good to know.”
“Do you have a name?” she asked.
He let her control the conversation because she wanted to lead. He didn’t mind. He said, “Travis.”
“Travis?” she asked in a voice that suggested she did not believe him. “Not Bob? Not Frank or Ted?” She laughed, and added, “That’s a good name; how long have you had it?”
“All of my life. What is your name?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to answer that,” she said.
“It’s Tina,” said the girl with the red hair.
“Bitch,” said Tina.
“Slut,” said the redhead.
“You’re just jealous,” said Tina. She smiled at Watson, and said, “She’s just jealous. Anna and Kim wanted in.”
The drink arrived in a four-inch glass, a wedge of lemon balanced over the rim, a bright cherry drowned near the bottom. Tina let the waitress place the drink on the table, waited for her to leave, then lifted her drink. Watson could tell that she saw the waitress as competition. He saw it in the way she turned quiet and watchful as the waitress approached.
“What kind of work do you do?” she asked.
“Government work.”
“Are you a holdover from the U.A. government? I hear things are tough.”
“I work in the Pentagon.”
“You work with the clones?” She was interested. “Shit, that must be scary.”
“Not really,” he said. “Usually, it’s pretty boring.”
“You don’t plan attacks or anything?”
He laughed, and said, “Purely civilian work. I’m natural-born…but then every clone thinks he’s natural-born. Maybe I’m fooling myself.” As he said this, he thought about Harris, who knew he was synthetic. Does he know he’s a duplicate? Watson wondered. He could not possibly have survived Freeman’s bullet.
The video files had polluted his mind, and he was having a flashback.
“What are they like? Are they polite to you? Do they really not know they are clones?”
“They’re just people. There are nice ones and real bastards. I mean, well, they’re soldiers, but they’re just like everyone else.”
“Do you really believe that?” she asked. “They’re not…I don’t know, violent and scary? Don’t they scare you?”
Watson noticed that she had used the term “scared” twice now. He wondered why she feared them. “They have never given me any reason to be scared.”
“You must be brave,” she said.
“Not particularly,” he said. He was telling the truth.
They talked for an hour. He bought her three drinks, but she barely touched the third. By that time, her friends had left the bar. Watson paid the tab and left the waitress a large tip.
Tina took Watson home to her apartment. She was not drunk, and neither was he. He let her control the conversation and he let her decide when to stop talking. After that, he took control.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
The ringtone woke Watson. He sat up in bed, found his pants, and fished his phone from the pocket.
Tina asked, “Do you always get calls at three in the morning?”
He looked at the phone and saw the call was from Admiral Cutter. He said, “Comes with the job. The guy on the phone is an admiral.”
She moaned, and asked, “Why is he calling at three in the morning?”
“He’s in space. He probably doesn’t care about Earth time zones.”
Tina rolled so that her back faced him as he climbed out of bed. Speaking in a whisper, he said, “Watson.”
Cutter asked, “Have you heard from Harris yet?”
“Not a word, Admiral.” Watson drifted across the apartment as he spoke, leaving the bedroom, crossing the hall, and hovering in the kitchen near the sink. It was a small apartment. The bedroom and the bathroom had doors. The kitchen, living room, and entry blended into each other.
Watson glanced back at Tina lying on her bed with her sheets pulled up to her chin, and asked, “Are you sure the man who went to Mars was really Harris?”
“Who else could he have been?”
“The Unifieds may have assassinated Harris. While I was at the archive, I saw a video feed…”
Cutter interrupted to say, “I know what you’re talking about, but he didn’t die. The Unifieds shot him when they attacked Terraneau.”
“What if he did die? What if they killed him? Could the Unifieds have killed him and recloned him?”
Cutter said, “No, that’s our Harris all right. There’s only one Wayson Harris, thank God.”
“But what if he did die on Terraneau?” asked Watson.
“That would make the one we have now a very good imposter.”
“He’s a clone. Clones should be the best kind of imposter.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Cutter.
“Freeman killed Harris on Terraneau. I saw it. I saw the video feed,” said Watson. “His whole chest was blown out. Ray Freeman shot him.”
“Freeman?” asked Cutter. “That doesn’t make sense. Freeman and Harris are friends. Harris may be the only man in the universe Ray Freeman wouldn’t kill.”
“I found the feed in the U.A. Archives. It was dated December 18, 2516. Harris landed a civilian aircraft on an airstrip outside Norristown. He stepped off the plane, and Freeman shot him in the chest.”
“And you’re sure he died?” asked Cutter.
“The bullet blew out his chest.”
Cutter whistled. “If anyone could kill Harris, it would be Freeman,” he said. “But they couldn’t have killed him and replaced him. Not Harris. It’s just not possible. Liberator DNA is in short supply.”
Watson listened quietly, but he was not convinced.
They spoke for a few more minutes, then Cutter hung up. Watson stole into the bedroom as silently as he could, but Tina was already awake. She said, “Is everything okay?”
“My boss is on Mars,” Watson said.
“Oh, God, I hear Mars is a mess,” said Tina.
Watson climbed under the sheets with her. She kept her apartment cold, but her body was warm, and she pressed herself against him. She was young and athletic, with long legs and a flat stomach. She had that girl-next-door kind of beauty, friendly, not glamorous. He liked her more than most, but he had no intentions of seeing her again.
“He’s a Marine. He’s used to bad places,” Watson said as he silently asked himself, Could Harris have died on Terraneau? He was the last of the Liberators, but that did not make him bulletproof. Watson decided he would not know the answer until he found Freeman, and he wondered how Freeman would react when he was found.
His thoughts did not remain on Freeman for long, however. Tina distracted him.
Leaving Tina’s apartment building, Travis Watson knew without looking behind him that the only moving car on her street was following him. He decided someone other than Ray Freeman must be driving. People did not see Freeman until it was too late.
It was a particularly cold day for April in
Washington, D.C. Puddles gleamed like mirrors along the curb. Dressed in his suit and tie, now wrinkled from spending a night folded on a desk, Watson pretended not to notice the car.
He was not a fighter or a soldier by nature. He was tall—six-foot-five, and naturally strong, but he had a peaceful disposition. What would Harris do? he asked himself. He’d have a gun. He’d turn around and shoot.
He asked himself another question, What would Freeman do? First he answered, He probably carries a nuclear missile in his pocket. Then he came to another conclusion, This wouldn’t happen to Freeman; you can’t find him unless he wants to be found.
Watson continued along the street. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the car, he stopped and stared into a store window; but the car was too far back. After a few seconds, Watson moved on.
When he reached an intersection, he stopped to consider his options. If he crossed the street, he would catch a glimpse of the car, but he might catch that glimpse as the car ran him down.
He walked to the corner and stopped. Pretending to read the street sign, he watched the car out of the corner of his eye. It was a silver-colored sedan—four doors, dark windows, absolutely nondescript. The car pulled beside the curb and waited.
Instead of crossing the street, Watson turned right and headed around a corner. A moment of silence passed, then he heard the hum of a car engine.
In his imagination, Watson saw Freeman behind the wheel of the car. In his mind’s eye, Freeman held a rifle that was equipped with a microphone and a scope, and asked, “Identity confirmed?”
He reminded himself that he’d already decided that Freeman wasn’t driving the car. Hoping to reassure himself with the sound of his voice, Watson whispered, “Not even close.”
He wished he were still in bed with Tina.
Maybe it’s the clone pretending to be Harris, he thought. No, real or an imposter, Harris was on Mars.
Not Freeman. Not Harris. Watson was still scared, but not as scared.
He started to reach for his cell, but then he stopped. The phone might act like a catalyst. Suspecting he would call for help, the people in the car might react.
A row of storefronts opened onto the sidewalk. The first was a pawnshop with a window full of jewelry. Watson passed it.
The next store was an old shoe shop that must have gone out of business years ago. He stopped and pretended to look at the dusty display in the window. Mice had gnawed holes in the shoes and left pellets along the shelves; spiders had built a network of webs. The display would have fit better in a haunted house than a store window.
Watson entered the third shop—a small convenience store. He walked up to the checkout stand, and asked, “Got a back door?”
Violent or not, Travis Watson stood six-five. His size made him intimidating. Even when he smiled, and he was not smiling at that moment, he intimidated other men.
The clerk, a man in his fifties, nodded, and said, “It’s got an alarm.”
“Can you let me out without setting it off?” asked Watson.
“I’ve got a key?”
“There are men waiting out there on the street, I need to get away from them,” said Watson.
Starting to warm up to Watson, the clerk asked, “Do you want me to call the police?”
The men in the car had driven slowly down an otherwise-empty street. They had not broken any laws.
“Better not,” said Watson. “Just let me out the back and say I went to the bathroom if anybody asks.”
“We don’t have a bathroom.”
Watson glanced back at the street and saw the car hovering. “Just let me out the back.”
The man pulled the key from under his register, pointed it at the back of the store, and clicked the single button. He said, “You’re good to go.”
“Thanks.” Thinking the men in the car might be watching, Watson forced himself to walk calmly. He stepped around some shelves and entered a small employee area with a table, some cases, and a janitorial closet. The metal door at the very back did not have a knob. Watson pushed and the door swung open to an empty alleyway. He looked to the right, then to the left, and stepped out.
He made a call, and whispered, “Pentagon Security.” When an officer answered, he said, “This is Travis Watson with General Harris’s office.”
A moment passed, and the officer said, “You’re the general’s civilian assistant.”
“Yes,” said Watson.
“What can I do for you?”
“A car is following me.”
The officer said, “Okay, I have your location on satellite. Is it the silver sedan?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
“Listen, Mr. Watson, I’ve run a thermal scan on the car. There’s a driver and two men sitting in the back. Their engine is running. My guess is that they are waiting for you.”
“Yeah?” said Watson, his fears now confirmed.
“Head west.”
“What?”
“Take a right and walk to the end of the block, then turn left and head to the next intersection. It’s going to take me five minutes to get a car out there, so we need to put some space between you and that car.”
“What if they come after me?” asked Watson.
“I’ll keep an eye on them.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
“Interesting friends you got there, Watson,” said Major Alan Cardston, the head of the Pentagon’s security unit. “Want to take a wild guess where they came from?”
Watson and Cardston sat beside a conference table in the Pentagon Security office. Cutter was there in image only. His holographic image was visible through a windowpane called a confabulator. Looking through that device, it appeared that he was actually in the room.
Having arrested the men who had followed Watson, Cardston had called this meeting to learn what he should do with them.
“Are they stowaways from Mars?” asked Cutter.
“That was my first guess, sir,” said Cardston. “They are Earth residents with clean records.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Cutter. “Are you sure they were following you?” he asked Watson.
“They could be holdovers from U.A. military intelligence.”
“War criminals?” asked Cutter.
“Not criminals, just rank-and-file soldiers. We know they all served in the U.A. military,” said Cardston. “The driver was a staff sergeant. The two in the back were corporals. We only prosecuted captains and up.”
“You’re sure they were following you?” asked Cutter a second time.
“It’s a safe bet, sir,” said Cardston. “I don’t suspect three U.A. enlisted men hopped into a rented sedan to go for a 6:00 A.M. joyride.”
“I don’t like the implications,” Cutter said. “Do we know what they planned to do with Watson?”
“They say they don’t know who he is,” said Cardston.
“Maybe it had something to do with my trip to the U.A. Archives,” said Watson.
“That’s a safe bet,” said Cardston.
“And you are holding them now?” asked Cutter. “Does anyone know you arrested them?”
“No, sir,” Cardston said with obvious cheer.
“Not even their lawyers.”
“We haven’t asked them about lawyers.”
“That’s good,” said Cutter. “That buys us time.”
“What do you want me to do with them?” asked Cardston.
Cutter thought about that for several seconds before finally responding, “I’m open to suggestions.” He added, “Maybe we should throw them in a dark hole and forget about them.”
“Or we could let them go, sir,” said Cardston.
“Let them go?” Cutter asked.
“They were enlisted men, sir. Even if they are working for some faction of the Unified Authority, they’ll just be worker bees. If we let them go, maybe they will lead us to the brains of their operation,” said Cardston. “They may just be a dead end, in which case
we can pick them up again and ship them someplace far away; but they could be the tip of a conspiratorial iceberg.
“If we follow them, who knows where they might lead us.”
Cardston asked Watson, “What were you researching in the Unified Authority Archives?”
“I sent him. He’s trying to find Ray Freeman,” said Cutter.
“Freeman?” asked Cardston. He sat up straight and pretended to shiver, then he said, “That specker gives me the creeps.”
“Me, too,” said Cutter. “Watson says he watched a feed that showed Freeman shooting General Harris.”
“That’s got to be a fake,” said Cardston.
“Unless they recloned him,” said Cutter. “The Unifieds kept the feed in their most secure archive.”
“Interesting,” said Cardston.
“There’s something else,” said Watson. “The last time we heard from Harris, he sent us a message.” He looked at Cutter’s holographic image to make sure he had permission to continue.
The admiral said, “Maybe you can help us with it, Major. Harris said, ‘Anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed.’ He said it was a message from Freeman.”
Cardston thought but did not speak. Finally, he asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Sounds like gibberish to me,” said Cutter.
“What about you?” Cardston asked Watson. “Did you find anything in the archives?”
Watson looked to Cutter for permission a second time.
The admiral nodded.
Both men being clones, Watson worried how they might react. He said, “I think he means clones can be reprogrammed.”
“Reprogramming clones?” Cardston asked. He whistled.
“That’s neural programming, it’s different,” said Cutter.
“He did say anything, sir. Anything that was programmed can be reprogrammed,” Watson reminded the admiral.
“Why is neural programming different?” asked Cardston.
“Major, clones have brains, not circuits. I grew up in an orphanage, and I can tell you that I never saw anyone with a data port.”
“I grew up in an orphanage, too, sir,” said Cardston.
“What’s your point?”
“They do have data ports, but we don’t think of them as data ports.”
The Clone Sedition Page 16