Rogue Clone

by Steven L. Kent

  “Thanks to Huang, I can carry my gun in public. The head of security asked me how many men I need. Hell, he even upgraded my room.”

  I was lying on a bed with a queen-sized mattress covered by a blue and white quilt. My room in the Dry Docks dormitory looked like a suite for important executives. My bedroom included a media center with a holographic screen and there was a separate office with a desk and reference shelf. The setup included a wet bar complete with liquor and tumblers, an ice maker, a sink and three stools. Having grown up in an orphanage and spent most of my life living in barracks, this was a lifestyle I had never imagined.

  “What does Klyber have to say about Huang?” Freeman asked.

  “He’s got other things on his mind,” I said. “He’s going to tell the Joint Chiefs about his ship tomorrow.” Klyber built the Doctrinaire working directly with friends on the Linear Committee, just as he had worked in secret with the committee with the Liberator project. Huang and the other members of the Joint Chiefs supposedly knew nothing about the Doctrinaire . At least they should have known nothing about it. I wondered whether Rear Admiral Halverson was also spying for Huang. Johansson did not know me from Marston. Halverson knew my real name and make.

  “Will you be there when he makes the announcement?” Freeman asked.

  “I’m not allowed in. Only top brass gets in that room.”

  “No guards? No wonder Klyber’s nervous,” Freeman said.

  “It’s all top brass,” I said. “He’s with civilized company.”

  “They stabbed Caesar to death on the floor of the Senate,” Freeman said, giving a historical reference I would never have guessed him to know. “Caesar thought he was in civilized company, too.”

  Freeman would not have learned about Caesar from the works of Shakespeare. War and the engines of death interested him, not literature. I thought about this for a moment and decided that Klyber would be safe enough on the floor of the summit. It was out of my control, anyway. Once Klyber entered the conference room, there was nothing I could do.

  “You flying back with Klyber after the summit?” Freeman asked, ending my chain of thought.

  “Nope,” I said. “My job is to get him from his transport to the meeting, and from the meeting to the transport.”

  “Think you will see Huang at the meeting tomorrow?” Freeman asked.

  “Yeah, I need to thank him for the swank accommodations,” I said. I sounded more confident than I felt. Huang, never hid his hate of all clones, especially Liberators. All clones, except his own top secret model. Before initiating the attack on Little Man, Huang transferred every last Liberator in the Unified Authority military to the invading force. If he wanted me dead, sooner or later he would succeed.

  “How did Huang’s office know you were headed to Golan?” Freeman asked. “Who told them about you?” His low voice reminded me of distant gunfire. His flat expression conveyed no emotion. If he were a poker player, no one would read his bluffs. But Ray Freeman did not trouble himself with card games. That would be far too social an activity for him.

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea.” Half of Klyber’s senior staff officers had arrived the day before. I checked the manifest. Captain Leonid Johansson was among them.

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Freeman said after a long moment of thought. “Those weren’t Huang’s men in your room. He could have let you rot in jail if he wanted to hurt you.”

  I was about to sign off when Freeman changed the subject. “What do you know about Little Man?”

  “The battle or the movie?” I asked, trying to sound smarter than I felt.

  “The planet,” Freeman said.

  I had only seen a hundred-mile strip of the planet at tops—just a straight swatch from the beach where we landed to the valley in which we fought the battle. Before landing, we had a briefing. I tried to remember what the briefing officer had said. “It’s a fully habitable planet,” I said. “Well, not fully habitable. That valley where the Mogat ship crashed is plenty hot.”

  “Hot as in radioactive?” Freeman asked.

  “As in highly radioactive. You wouldn’t want to go anywhere near there. Every place else should be OK. Why do you want to know about Little Man?”

  “My family is moving there.”

  It never occurred to me that Freeman had a family. I thought of him as a freak of nature . . . like me, the last clone of his kind. “Your family? A wife and kids?”

  “My parents and my sister.”

  “What are they doing on Little Man?”

  “Colonizing,” Freeman said.

  “Colonizing?”

  “They’re neo-Baptist,” Freeman said.

  “Which means? Why are the neo-Baptists colonizing Little Man?”

  “The neo-Baptists want to establish colonies, like the Catholics.”

  “And they got permission to land on Little Man?” I asked.

  “Does it matter?” Freeman asked.

  “It matters,” I said. “That planet is in the Scutum-Crux Arm . . . one of the hostile arms. If the U.A. finds them, they’ll think it’s a Mogat colony. That was why we went to Little Man in the first place . . . to kill Mogats. The planet is listed as uninhabited, and the last I heard, Congress wanted to keep it that way.”

  Freeman did not like long conversations. This current conversation was epic by his standards. We spoke for another minute or two, then signed off.

  I lay in bed thinking about what he’d said. Freeman was right. Why would Huang spring me from the brig, then send a trio of goons after me? It made no sense.

  Before falling asleep, I browsed the news. U.A. forces had claimed another three planets in the Cygnus Arm, including Providence. During the last week, they had claimed control of five planets in the Perseus Arm, four planets in Norma, and one in Scutum-Crux.

  “These are all outlying planets,” an Army spokesman told news analysts. He gave a cautious spin on the latest events. “The insurgents tend to evacuate them before our troops arrive. The fighting should be much more fierce as we approach more settled territory.”

  What he was not saying was that the Navy could easily have obliterated the insurgents’ transports. That was the problem with winning a civil war. Sooner or later you had to repatriate the enemy, and you didn’t want the sons of bitches to hold a grudge.

  From everything I could tell, this civil war was unspectacular. The big media outlets tried to build it up as if the entire Republic was unraveling before our eyes; but the truth was that except for a very few terrorist attacks such as the one on Safe Harbor, the Confederate forces were in retreat. Except for the self-broadcasting fleet, which they had only used twice, the Confederate Arms had no Navy and no way to defend themselves from Naval attacks.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bryce Klyber sat at the breakfast table in his dress whites. The man made the uniform; but in this case, the uniform was something special. Fleet Admiral Klyber had four stripes and a block on his shoulder boards. He was the first man in nearly several decades to have that much gold on his shoulders. When he wore his khakis, he had five stars laid out in a pentagonal cluster.

  The climate of this summit must have agreed with Klyber. He looked thoroughly energized as he spread marmalade over a triangle of toast. His posture, erect as always, now looked pert. A slight smile showed on his face as he looked up to greet me.

  “Lieutenant Harris,” he said.

  I saluted, and he returned the gesture.

  “You look surprisingly fit, considering your adventures from last night. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, sir.” I did not feel surprisingly good. In fact, I felt predictably dour. My ribs hurt. It felt like the bandages around my chest shrank over the course of the evening making it considerably harder to breath. The left side of my skull felt like it had caved in.

  Before him, spread across the snowy white of the linen tablecloth, Admiral Klyber had a plate of scrambled eggs with a side of bacon and smaller dishes with toast, a half gr
apefruit, and sausage. Banished to the far side of his table sat a bowl of grits. The spread also included carafes holding coffee, orange juice, grapefruit juice, and hot water for tea. The admiral, who would walk away from this meal with less than 150 pounds on his six-foot, four-inch frame, hardly looked like he knew where to begin. I would have gladly joined him for the meal, but the invitation did not come.

  Using his fork, Klyber stabbed at a strip of lightly-cooked bacon and twirled it as if eating pasta. He stabbed the individual kernels of his scrambled eggs with the fork. He scooped a segment of grapefruit and savored it for several seconds. In the end, he ate a small portion of each dish except the grits, which he did not touch at all.

  “Permission to speak, sir?”

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, I was wondering about my status with the Marines. Now that Huang knows I am alive, am I back on active duty?” I asked. Considering my narrow escape from my last tour of duty, I had no desire to rejoin the Marines.

  “Ah, that is the question,” Klyber observed. He folded his napkin and placed it on the table, then fitted his cap on his head. “I’ve wondered about that myself. What would be the safest course with Admiral Huang lurking about? Do you have any suggestions?”

  “No, sir,” I said, though I considered killing Huang a solid option.

  “I have taken the liberty of reassigning you to the Doctrinaire for now. You are on my roster. I doubt Huang’s men will arrest you right under my nose.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Klyber nodded. “I assume you have no desire to go back on active duty?” He tried to act nonchalant; but his cold, blue eyes met mine and I saw a glint of excitement which I quickly dashed.

  “Join the Marines again? No, sir.”

  “Understood, Lieutenant. Then I suppose we should regroup after the summit and discuss your options. You’ve spent two years on the lam as it were, and I see no reason why you could not turn up absent without leave again.” With this he started for the door.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  He turned back and gave me a sharp-edged grin that revealed his top row of teeth. “And now, Lieutenant, perhaps we should head out to the conference room.”

  Four armed guards met us as we stepped out of Klyber’s suite. They were Army, dressed in formal olive greens and armed with M27s. They marched with perfect precision, matching our pace as they walked in a pack directly behind us.

  I also had my M27. Beyond that, I had spent some time earlier this morning patrolling the route from Klyber’s room to the conference area. Golan security had posted guards along the route the day before. My job was to escort Admiral Klyber to the door of the conference room and then, after the conference, to deposit him safely on his transport.

  We traveled down a brightly-lit hall with gleaming white walls and bright ceiling fixtures. Our footsteps echoed off the walls as we approached the final stretch of the corridor. As we drew closer, I heard loud chatter. From here, the summit sounded like a cocktail party.

  We rounded that final corner and there it was, a large glowing lobby, obviously prepared especially for the purpose of this summit. Surrounded by the stark white corridors of the Golan executive complex, this lobby looked like a mirage. An oversized Persian carpet covered the floor. Black and red leather furniture sat in small formations around the room. There was a long table covered with bowls of fruit, pastry trays, and silver carafes.

  From what I saw, the meeting looked more like a college reunion than a military summit. Officers in dress uniforms spoke cheerfully as they caught up on old times. I saw more bars and stripes floating around that gathering than I had ever seen in my life. Old generals with graying hair, stout bellies, and well-trimmed mustaches talked in genial tones like old friends swapping stories in a bar. One Army officer held a fat cigar in his fingers. He waved his hands as he spoke. The cigar smoke seemed to tie itself in a knot above his fingers.

  Behind every swaggering general and admiral stood a couple of lesser officers watching quietly and taking mental notes about everything that was said. Admiral Halverson, Captain Johansson, and a handful of Navy men stood off in one corner waiting for Fleet Admiral Klyber. He was their shark. They were his remoras. When they saw Klyber, they drifted out to greet him, then silently fell into his entourage.

  Having delivered Admiral Klyber to the summit, I started to leave. I had rounds to make. I wanted to check in with the security station and do one last sweep of Klyber’s quarters, but Klyber summoned me back. “Stay for a moment, Harris,” he said, making a very discreet nod to the right. Following his eyes, I saw Admiral Huang heading in our direction. “This may be my moment to do a bit of body guarding on your behalf.”

  “Admiral Klyber,” Huang said in a tone that was rigidly formal but not unfriendly.

  Admiral Che Huang stood just over six feet tall. He had broad shoulders, a massive chest, and a commanding presence. Standing beside Huang, Klyber looked old and frail.

  More than two years had passed since the last time I had run into Huang, years that had not been especially kind to the man. I remembered him as having brown hair with streaks of gray. Over the last two years his hair had changed to salt and pepper with large gray patches around his temples. His cheeks had hollowed.

  Huang’s eyes narrowed as he turned toward me. “Lieutenant Harris. I heard you were here.”

  I saluted. The admiral did not bother returning the salute.

  “The lieutenant is here with me,” Admiral Klyber said.

  “Yes,” said Huang. “So he’s on the crew of your mysterious ship.” With this he left us.

  We watched him walk away, then Klyber gave me a wry smile. “How much does he know about my ship, I wonder?”

  “He should not know that you have a ship at all,” I said.

  “Yes,” Klyber agreed. “I really must have a word with Captain Johansson before we return to the Doctrinaire.”

  General Alexander Smith, secretary of Air Force and head of the Joint Chiefs, called everyone to attention. “Gentlemen, it’s time we begin,” he said, and the party started to funnel through a nearby doorway.

  “This should be an all-day affair,” Klyber said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Do you have plans for the day?” Klyber asked. “I hope you’re not going to waste the entire time checking and rechecking these same hallways.”

  “That’s the plan, sir,” I said.

  “Have you read the book I gave you?” Klyber asked.

  I nodded. “The story about Shannon?”

  “Did you learn anything?” he asked.

  “Not to expect hospitality in the Catholic colonies,” I said.

  “That’s one lesson,” Klyber said. “See you after the summit.” He joined up with Admiral Brocius and they entered the conference room.

  As I turned to leave, I had a dark premonition. I imagined Admiral Klyber stepping up to a podium to explain about the Doctrinaire. I pictured Admiral Huang stepping up behind him and whispering something. Klyber turns pale and looks back at him with a stunned expression just as Huang plunges a diamond-edged combat knife into his back.

  In my bizarre fantasy, I watch Huang’s knife jab in and out of Klyber’s white uniform. Huang stabs him four times as he turns to run and the other summit attendees close in around him. They stab Klyber again and again until his dress whites turn red.

  My disconcerting daydream ends with Huang looking down at Kyber’s corpse and saying the phrase that must have been hovering in my subconscious: “Beware the Ides of March.”

  According to the Earth date, it was indeed Tuesday, March 15.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The summit lasted ten hours. I met Klyber at the door when it adjourned. More than anything else, he seemed tired as he emerged from the meeting. He walked slowly, talked softly, and stared straight ahead. His breeding did not allow for slumped shoulders or bad posture; but he was, nonetheless, a defeated man. “We’re in for a tougher f
ight than any of them know,” he said. “Stupid bastards are too young to remember the last war. Kellan wasn’t even born yet.”

  General John Kellan, the new secretary of the Army, made big news a few years back by attaining the rank of general before his thirty-fifth birthday. His father and two uncles, all three of them senators, threw a party to commemorate the achievement on the floor of the Senate.

  When it came to mixing politics and service, Kellan was a mere piker compared to the illustrious fleet admiral. Nobody respected Kellan’s combat-free war record. Klyber had political connections that ran all the way up to the Linear Committee, more than forty years of active service, and an impressive war record. Even his role in the creation of Liberator clones meant something in Washington. The politicians may not have liked his Liberators, but it was the Liberators who saved the day in the last war.

  But Klyber did not look like a war hero now. His frosty blue eyes seemed lost in their sockets. He looked fragile instead of vibrant. This morning I might have described him as haughty. Seeing him now, the only word that came to mind was “wilted.”

  I led Klyber back to his room, our four-man Army escort in tow. We went to his room, and he stood silently near the door. I wanted to ask what happened, but I knew better.

  “Did you tell the Joint Chiefs about the Doctrinaire?” I asked.

  Klyber, pouring gin and water over ice, nodded. “Yes. You should have seen Huang. Admiral Huang said that he knew all about it. He sounded so familiar with the ship you would think I had invited him aboard for tea. Arrogant bastard stared me right in the eye and all but admitted that he had spies on board . . . didn’t flinch . . . didn’t even bat an eye.”

  “Johansson?” I asked.

  “Undoubtedly,” Klyber said. “I have a score to settle with our Captain Johansson.” Klyber stood beside his wet bar holding his glass of gin and staring at me with not so much as a glint of a smile.