Rogue Clone

by Steven L. Kent

  Doctrinaire to power up for a broadcast?”

  The floor of the summit goes silent. The atmosphere of that great chamber suddenly becomes a vacuum of sound. Bryce Klyber turns his narrow, bony head toward Che Huang. Klyber is a fleet admiral, the highest-ranking man in the Unified Authority Navy, but Admiral Che Huang is the secretary of the Navy and a member of the Joint Chiefs. Klyber has powerful friends on Capitol Hill. Huang has the backing of the Pentagon. Neither man is about to back down.

  “The Doctrinaire?” General Smith asks. Smith clearly has no clue what Huang is talking about.

  “Admiral Klyber has been developing a self-broadcasting fighter carrier,” Huang says in a voice that is both arrogant and bored. “Haven’t heard of it, Alex? Don’t feel bad. It’s Klyber’s little secret. He’s been building it with funding from his pals on the Linear Committee.”

  “Is that true?” General Smith asks.

  If there is one thing that senior officers do not like, it is being left out of the loop. This feeds into their paranoia and leaves them feeling ambushed. Anger and astonishment show on General Alex Smith’s face. Triumph shows on Huang’s.

  “Of course it’s true,” says Huang. “This is Bryce Klyber. He has a long record of calling on friends in high places to skirt regulations. This is the same officer who made the Liberator clones . . . one of which is in this very facility.”

  The room remains silent.

  “I’m prepared to discuss the Doctrinaire,” Klyber says. Then he turns to Huang and adds, “And after that, perhaps we should discuss your furtive cloning projects.”

  Che Huang turns stark white, but for only a moment, and then he turns blood red. He slams his fist on the table but says nothing.

  “May I take the floor?” Klyber asks. Not until General Smith nods and leaves the dais does the well-cultivated Bryce Klyber leave his place at the table. Klyber is urbane, discreet, and circumspect in his approach. Across the table, Huang is so angry he can barely stay in his chair. He fidgets and his hands are clenched into fists.

  Klyber has clearly come to this meeting planning to discuss his top-secret project. He takes a data chip from a case by his seat and places it into a slot in the display board. A schematic of the Doctrinaire appears.

  “Gentlemen, let me begin by apologizing for not informing you about this project sooner. You should know that the project was not even discussed within the Senate. National security the way it is at this time, the members of the Linear Committee specifically requested that I wait until a moment like this to discuss the project.

  “As this project was paid for using the Linear Committee’s discretionary funds rather than the military budget, it seemed like a fair request.”

  When it comes to the merging of military matters and politics, Bryce Klyber has no equal. Huang must already have realized that he picked the wrong venue for this fight. He picks up a data pad and pretends to read notes, his eyes fixed on a spot in the middle of the pad. When Johansson leans forward and whispers something, Admiral Huang’s jaw tightens and he acts as if he does not hear him.

  Dressed in civilian clothes, a cap covering my hair, and carrying no visible weapons, I passed through Honolulu Airport without being noticed. This was not like entering the spaceports on Mars or in Salt Lake City where they had large security stations. Flights in and out of airports like the one in Honolulu originate on Earth and never leave the atmosphere. By the time you were on an Earth-bound jet, you were clean. You were clean, that is, unless you flew a rare self-broadcasting craft.

  Freeman did not meet me in the airport. Being met by a seven-foot black man with arms like anacondas and tree trunks for legs did not lend itself to inconspicuousness. With nothing but an innocuous overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I strolled through the open air lobby of the private craft terminal and headed for the street. A few minutes later, Freeman swung by in a small rental car and I hopped into the passenger’s seat.

  Freeman had selected a convertible. Most people drove these cars so that they could enjoy warm island weather; however, sun worship had nothing to do with Freeman’s decision. He simply did not fit in most cars. He sat scrunched behind the steering wheel, and everything above his nose was higher than the windshield. He looked like an adult trying to squeeze into a child’s go-cart.

  “Have you ever been to this island before?” I asked Freeman, trying to ignore the sight of him in that driver’s seat.

  He shook his head.

  The Unified Authority maintained vacation spots on Earth as a way of reminding citizens on the 180 outworlds which planet was home. Hawaii was a living museum, and the only commerce conducted was tourist-related. Hawaii had a police force, garbage men, and air traffic controllers, but the only reason they were there was to keep the place nice for tourists. There were pineapple and sugarcane farms, but they were productive museum exhibits run by the government. They existed only to show visitors what island life had been like five hundred years before. Their production methods were antiquated and much of the produce was sold as souvenirs.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “There’s a place called Sad Sam’s Palace,” I said.

  “The boxing arena you told me about?”

  “Boxing, wrestling, professional fighters, amateur challenge. It all depends what night you go,” I said. “The Palace is near Waikiki. Can you find it?”

  The March sky was a mixture of sunshine and shadow, and the city was drenched with moist air. Clouds the color of stainless steel gathered around the mountains to our left, choking out sunlight. To the right, the sky over the ocean was nearly clear.

  Freeman and I drove along the outskirts of Honolulu. He sat in his seat, cramped behind the wheel, watching the road and quietly scanning every turn and approaching vehicle.

  “I came in clean,” Freeman said. To avoid drawing attention to himself on Earth, as if a seven-foot black man could somehow make himself inconspicuous in this homogonous society, he took public transportation in from Mars. With a war brewing and security at an all-time high, he didn’t even bother trying to smuggle a gun in with him. “Any idea where I can find something?”

  I thought about that for a moment. “No. Colorful shirts, yes. Alcohol, yes. I know where they sell a fruit drink that will knock you flat.”

  “Where do you get the shirts?” Freeman asked.

  “The International Marketplace,” I said. “It’s a bazaar for tourists. You want bathing suits, hats made with coconut leaves, candles, or Hawaiian shirts, that’s the spot. Guns . . .” I didn’t see any.

  “Clean wholesome place?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “Think you can find it?”

  Finding the International Marketplace was no problem. It was in the middle of Waikiki, the heart of the tourist area. It was a wide open lot with trees and carts and buildings with walls made of faux lava rock. The time was just 1700 hours on what looked like a slow day. There was only a sprinkling of tourists around, and the sales people aggressively chased anyone who walked by their stands.

  “You looking for sandals, sugar?” a girl called to me as we walked by her store. Not one customer stirred inside the store, just the sales girl and rows of shelves with leather and rubber sandals.

  Freeman turned and glared at the woman and she shrank back.

  “Didn’t see anything that you wanted?” I asked.

  Freeman said nothing.

  “Probably a good thing,” I said. “I doubt she had anything your size.”

  We passed jewelry, candle, and clothes shops, and Freeman ignored them. Hucksters came to show us shirts and luggage. Freeman pushed past them without looking back. Then we passed a stand selling perfume and Freeman stopped. Beside the stand was a warty little man in shorts and a golf cap. The man had no shirt. His body was skinny but muscled. His stomach muscles showed distinctly, and his chest was flat and carved with sinew.

  “Wait here,” Freeman growled. He went to the man and they spoke ve
ry quietly.

  “Get specked!” the man yelled suddenly. “What kind of a store do you think this is.” He threw his hands in the air. Even reaching all the way up, the man’s fingers barely came level with Freeman’s eyes.

  Freeman said something in his soft-thunder voice and the man lowered his hands.

  “Go speck yourself!” the man yelled. “Who do you think you are?”

  Freeman dug into his pocket and rolled out some dollars. I could not see how many dollars he peeled off, but I saw him place them on the counter. The warty man shook his head. Freeman laid out more. The man shook his head. Freeman peeled off two more bills. When Freeman went to retrieve his cash, the little man placed his hand over it.

  Putting the money in the front pocket of his shorts, the warty little man trotted into a service corridor. He returned a few minutes later with a colorful red shirt folded into a neat square. The shirt did indeed look large enough for Freeman to wear.

  Without saying a word, Freeman took the shirt and left. When we got back to the car, Freeman unfolded the shirt. Inside it he found a pistol and three clips filled with bullets.

  “How did you know he’d have guns?” I asked.

  Freeman looked at me in surprise. “Who would buy perfume from an asshole like that?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “In the interest of time, I will not go into every detail of this ship,” Klyber says. “A complete . . .”

  “Why not give us the complete rundown?” Huang interrupts.

  “As I was saying,” Klyber continues, a trace of a smile showing in his expression, “a complete set of plans has been forwarded to each of you. As the Linear Committee has not gone public with this project, your discretion is requested.” He is laying an obvious trap, knowing full well that Huang will not be able to control his arrogance long enough to avoid it.

  “I would, however, like to go over a few of the finer points of the ship. The Doctrinaire has twelve decks and a bridge. She measures a full two miles from wingtip to wingtip.

  “The Doctrinaire has four launch tubes, each of which is loaded with a complete squadron of seventy Tomcat fighters for deep space combat. She also has . . .”

  Leaning back in his chair with a bored expression that demonstrates that he has heard all of this information before, Huang says, “Two-thirds of the ship is taken up by the engines.”

  Klyber smiles. “Quite right, Admiral Huang. With a ship of this size, power generation is a major concern. Especially for a ship that is self-broadcasting.”

  The response to that is so enthusiastic you might have thought Klyber has announced that God himself has enlisted in the Marines. One dozen small conversations open up across the room. Several officers turn back to whisper to their aides while others begin speaking among themselves in louder voices.

  “Admiral Klyber, you have not yet told us the regeneration time needed to power your broadcast engine,” Huang calls out in a voice that cuts through the din, a sneer across his face.

  “I believe we just learned that the Mogats have reoutfitted their broadcast engines so that they can charge and broadcast every eight minutes. How long will it take your colossus to charge its broadcast engine, Admiral Klyber?”

  Klyber nods to acknowledge the question. “Fair question. Our best intelligence showed that the ships in the Galactic Central Fleet required fifteen minutes per broadcast. We set a higher standard, of course . . .”

  “How long?” Huang asks.

  “The broadcast engines in the Doctrinaire require ten minutes,” Klyber admits, but he does not seem unhappy to admit this. In fact, his smile only broadens. Either he is bluffing or he has an ace up his sleeve that neither Che Huang nor Leonid Johansson know about.

  “Ten minutes?” Huang asks.

  “That is correct.”

  Stepping away from his chair, Huang repeats, “Ten minutes.” He moves around the table and approaches the dais. “So, assuming you manage to fly this juggernaut to the battle before the GCF ships depart, they will simply be able to broadcast off before you can recharge your engines and follow them.”

  Klyber pauses to consider this. The look of confidence on his face does not fade. “Well, of course, you realize that we have no way of tracking a self-broadcasting ship? We’d have no way of knowing where the GCF ships had broadcast themselves.”

  Huang’s expression turns to fury. “We’re all quite aware of that, Admiral Klyber. My point is simple. If the GC Fleet appears . . . oh, for the purposes of this discussion, we’ll say they appear near Olympus Kri. And let’s say you have a three-minute response time. It seems unlikely, but let’s say you manage to get your colossus ship there in three minutes. Your ship will have five minutes to engage the enemy before they fly off to another target, very likely their primary target, while you sit around charging up the Doctrinaire’s broadcast engine.

  “Brilliant plan, Admiral,” Huang snickers. “You’ve created a trillion-dollar boondoggle.” He stands triumphant, his arms folded across his chest, his head high, and his eyes staring angrily at Klyber.

  “That is a concern,” General Smith says. Several of the officers around the table nod in agreement.

  It is at this moment that Klyber drops a bomb that even Johansson does not expect. “Admiral Huang, you’ll note that I said ‘broadcast engines.’ The Doctrinaire does, in fact, have two such units, each working independent of the other.

  “One engine recharges while the other one broadcasts. The Doctrinaire can self-broadcast every five minutes. Admiral Huang, we never believed that the Separatists would be so foolish as to commit their entire fleet into a single battle. The Doctrinaire was built around the notion that they would stage their battles with decoys and feigned attacks along several fronts.”

  At first there is silence as the officers assimilate this information. Then applause erupts. General Smith is the first to clap his hands, and the Air Force officers soon join in. Admiral Brocius stands up from his chair and applauds. He slaps his hands together so hard that the noise echoes. A moment later, Rear Admiral Thurston joins him, an appreciative smile on his youthful face. A general from the Marines stands silently and salutes. The applause lasts for several minutes.

  “What about armament?” Thurston asks, his enthusiasm evident.

  The board behind Klyber shifts to an exterior schematic of the ship. Klyber picks up an old-fashioned wooden pointer instead of the laser pointer that General Smith had used earlier. “She has two massive forward cannons for bombarding stationary targets such as cities and military bases. These cannons are both laser- and particle-beam enabled.” This is friendly talk, like friends telling each other about a new car over a round of drinks.

  Klyber slides the pointer along the outer edge of the wing. “The ship has three hundred particle beam turrets along with twenty missile stations and fifteen torpedo stations. And, as I mentioned a moment ago, she has a compliment of two hundred and eighty Tomcat fighters. Should the enemy attempt to attack her, the Doctrinaire could annihilate the entire GC Fleet.

  “Oh, and Thurston, you’ll appreciate this . . . Look at the shield antennas.” Klyber watches expectantly. “This is an entirely new technology.”

  There are rings around the antenna at the ends of the wings. Other U.A. ships do not have rings connecting their antennas. Their shields are flat panes broadcast from pole-like antennas.

  “We’ve developed a cylindrical shield,” Klyber says with the air of a father boasting about his son. “Those rings project a seamless shield that covers the entire ship.”

  “And the Mogats haven’t got a clue,” General Smith marvels.

  “Perhaps,” Klyber says in a voice that carries across the room, “but I am concerned about that. We paid for the ship with Linear Committee funds so that we could slip under the radar, but . . .”—Klyber turns toward Admiral Huang—“apparently we didn’t go undetected.”

  Suddenly, everyone in the room becomes silent. Huang looks at the other officers, hoping for s
upport. Rear Admiral Thurston, Huang’s closest ally, is too busy lusting over the schematics to see that Huang needs help.

  “Yes,” says General Smith, “it does appear that you had a breach of security.” Smith takes the dais and formality creeps back into the session. The officers return to their seats.

  Smith calls the meeting back to order. He turns toward Huang. “Admiral, while we are on the subject of secret operations . . .”

  Bryce Klyber’s combination of political and military acumen now comes to bear. It becomes obvious that he has briefed General Smith about Huang’s Adam Boyd cloning project. Klyber used himself as a decoy, and now that Huang has fired all his guns, Smith flanks and attacks.

  “General,” Huang interrupts. “My intelligence unit located the construction of a large project in deep space. Our radar showed repeated broadcasts in the Perseus Arm. We had no idea that this was Admiral Klyber’s operation when we began investigating . . .”

  But General Smith puts up a hand to stop him. Smith is smiling. He has no interest in beating the Doctrinaire horse any further. Everyone on the floor has now heard about the ship and shown their approval. The smile on Smith’s face is one of supreme satisfaction. He is the gambler who has no need to bluff. He is the only man at the table with all four aces in his hand.

  “Admiral Huang, general accounting found an anomaly in your books. Apparently, your branch has had a six billion dollar increase in spending on toilet paper and uniforms.” Smith’s smile turns wicked as he says, “We all hope the lack of one of these items has not led to a need for the other.”

  Huang does his best to look confused, but he is no actor. Instead of dropping his jaw, he clenches it. He glares at General Smith. “I have a staff that goes through the books and reports to . . .”

  “But a six billion dollar expenditure, surely that would not go unnoticed,” Smith observes.

  “Perhaps our inventory was . . .”