The Clone Alliance

by Steven L. Kent

  As it turned out, we didn’t need a week to pass on Yamashiro’s invitation. Had he returned within twenty-four hours of dropping us off, we would have had more than enough time. By lunch that next day, both William Grace, chief member of the Linear Committee, and Gordon Hughes, chairman of C.A.T.O., had already agreed to meet with Yamashiro.

  “Next week?” Grace asked, when I explained that I would not be able to signal the Sakura right away.

  Hughes politely expressed his disappointment. “That’s Yoshi,” he said. “He’s always so darn cautious.”

  I did not mind waiting. I had a good idea how I wanted to use those few free days.

  At one point during their conversation, William Grace asked me if I had any questions about the alliance between the Confederate Arms and the Unified Authority. I could not pass on the opportunity. “What about war criminals?” I asked.

  “Criminals?” Grace asked. “What do you mean by ‘war criminals’?”

  Gordon Hughes sat silent, curious to hear what Grace might say.

  “The Confederate Arms sent terrorists into Unified Authority territory to attack civilian targets,” I said. “What about William ‘The Butcher’ Patel? What about…”

  “Ah, William Patel,” Grace said, a smile coming to his face. “If I am not mistaken, you were in Safe Harbor when he set off a bomb.”

  “It wasn’t just a bomb. He destroyed an entire city block,” I said.

  “Those were desperate times,” Grace said. “We were at war, Harris. I don’t suppose we shall ever invite Patel to the Capitol for tea; but in light of our new arrangement with the Confederate Arms, I think that a pardon is in order.”

  “I see,” I said. “What about Tom Halverson? Are you going to pardon him for sinking the entire Earth Fleet?” Halverson was a U.A. admiral who had defected to the Confederate Arms. He’d led and commanded the fleet that attacked Earth.

  Grace and Hughes huddled together and spoke in whispers. “I suppose we will extend full amnesty to Tom,” Grace said. “We can’t very well arrest the man commanding our combined fleet.”

  “Commanding the fleet?” I felt staggered.

  “Certainly,” Grace said. “Halverson is the commander of the Confederate Arms Navy. Chairman Hughes has made it very clear that he will not trust anyone but Halverson to command his self-broadcasting fleet.”

  Freeman distanced himself more and more as the meeting continued. He let me do all of the speaking. When the politicians asked us questions, he sat mute. He did not ask questions himself. Freeman’s face remained as implacable as ever, but something in his posture showed a certain restlessness on his part.

  We broke for lunch. Freeman and I ate downstairs in a cafeteria with our driver and some guards, while the politicians and officers ate upstairs. Freeman only said one thing during the entire meal. He mumbled, “I’m going to walk,” as he ate his sandwich. He said the words so quietly that no one else in the room could possibly have heard him.

  Freeman did not want to leave his life in Grace’s hands, and maybe he had the right idea. Now that we had delivered Yamashiro’s message, neither William Grace nor Gordon Hughes showed interest in Freeman or me. We returned to the same conference room and sat ignored as all of the big shots discussed the benefits of adding Shin Nippon’s four battleships to their navy.

  As the conversation shot back and forth, I noticed Freeman sneak a furtive glance at the door. He climbed out of his chair. The conversation froze, and everyone turned to look at him. Having delivered our message, we might not have mattered to anyone, but when a seven-foot giant stands, people instinctively stop to watch him. It was an instinct of self-preservation, I suppose.

  Looking profoundly nervous, a guard approached Freeman, his hand on the grip of his pistol. Freeman spoke quietly, his rumbling voice so hard to hear from a distance. He said, “I need to go to the restroom.”

  Grace nodded to the guards, and said, “Perhaps you could show Mr. Freeman the way.”

  Freeman left with the guard. As they left, I already knew that I would not see Ray Freeman again for some time to come.

  The meeting broke up a few minutes after that. “Wild Bill” Grace shook my hand and left with his entourage. Gordon Hughes repeated that it was a pleasure to meet me and left with his entourage. My driver came to the room and suggested that we wait for Freeman. I told him, “That might take a while.”

  “Is he sick or something?” the driver asked.

  “No,” I said.

  I had a pretty good idea about what was next on the agenda for me. In the next day or two, the Marines would recall me to active duty. As far as “Wild Bill” and his U.A. generals were concerned, they owned me. I was a clone, created by the state. They had just as much right to recall me as they would to recommission a tank or an old battleship.

  A few minutes passed, and the driver looked at me, and said, “Should we go check on your friend?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Where shall we look?”

  “He went to the can,” the driver said.

  I laughed. “You think so?”

  “No?” the driver asked.

  “He isn’t there,” I said.

  With catlike speed, the man jumped to his feet and sprinted from the room. He knew that he did not have to worry about me, I was military. I would be here when he got back. I had no place to go.

  I sat at the table and waited. About three minutes later the driver returned, an angry look on his face. He pulled off his shades and placed them on the table, then walked over to me. He stood over me like an interrogation officer. The man was Intelligence, and he wanted me to know it. Gone was the pretense that he was just a chauffeur. “Okay, smart guy, so where did your pal go?”

  “How should I know that?” I asked. “You’ve seen him. You think he asked me for permission?”

  The driver thought about this for a moment, then said, “No, I guess not.”

  “You’ve had us under surveillance,” I said. “Where do you think he went?”

  “Who says we had you under surveillance?” the driver asked, holding the door for me to leave.

  “Don’t be an ass,” I said. “You’re from Intelligence, right?”

  “Let’s just say that I’ll have some buddies looking for your friend,” the driver said, sounding downright cocky. We headed down the hall. The armed guards were gone, replaced by men in business suits. A man in a black suit—probably another agent—held the elevator for us.

  “You better call them off,” I said.

  “You think we’re scared of Freeman?” the driver asked. He sounded a bit too confident, like a dog with its hackles up even though it is not sure of itself.

  “If you’re smart, Freeman scares you. What happened to the guy who walked him to the bathroom?” I asked.

  “We found him on the stairs.” The elevator doors closed behind us.

  “Dead?” I asked.

  “Unconscious,” the driver said. “He’s got a concussion and a broken wrist.”

  “So Ray took it easy on the guy,” I said. “Let’s see, he was unarmed, and he took out an armed agent. Now you have an agent with a concussion, and Freeman has a gun.

  “Yes, I’d be scared of Freeman if I were you.”

  “We’ll find him.” The driver stretched out the word “we’ll” so that it sounded like “Weeee’ll find him.” It sounded too comfortable. “He’s a seven-foot black man, how hard can he be to locate?”

  I could not help but laugh. The man did not have Freeman’s measure. The military police would not have taken Freeman so lightly; but these cocky Intelligence types, they thought they had the world under control.

  “So are you with Central Intelligence?” I asked.

  “Naval Intelligence,” the driver said.

  The elevator doors opened to the cool cement of the parking garage. Freeman might have been down here, or at least passed by. The dim lighting would have appealed to him. He would have had no trouble taking out guards and hot-wiring a c
ar.

  “You should have a file on Freeman,” I said.

  “We do.”

  “I suggest you read it,” I said.

  “You think so?”

  At that point I realized this guy was an idiot and saw no reason to keep talking. “Take me back to the base,” I said in a voice that did not hide my boredom. I took a seat in the back of the car and we drove out to the street.

  “What makes you think I haven’t read his file?” the driver asked.

  A pewter sky hung over the city. The air outside was humid and cool, but the clouds did not break.

  I looked out my window, speaking almost as if talking to myself. “If you’d read the file, you wouldn’t go after him. He’s a freelance contractor, but he works exclusively for the Unified Authority. He’s not going to the Mogats. He doesn’t like them. The only thing you are going to accomplish by sending agents after Freeman is losing men.”

  “Yeah? You think he’s a pretty tough guy?”

  “You have the files,” I said.

  “Okay, hotshot, fifty bucks says that we’ll have Freeman back in his room by supper.”

  “Fifty dollars?” I thought about the bets that Yamashiro made with his son-in-law. “That’s a scared man’s bet.”

  “You want to bet a hundred? Let’s bet a hundred,” the driver said.

  I did not actually have any money, and I said so.

  “Now who sounds nervous,” the driver said. “Tell you what…I think you’re good for it. I’ll spot you the money. If I win, you can owe me the fifty.”

  “So spot me a hundred,” I said.

  “Fine. We’ll make it a hundred. You can owe me the hundred on credit. I may not have checked your friend’s file, but I’ve checked yours, pal. You got a lot of back pay coming.”

  “Done,” I said.

  We did not talk after that. He drove me to the base without saying another word. I felt no compulsion to break the silence.

  As we pulled up to the barracks, the driver finally spoke. “Call me if you need to go somewhere. Go out on your own, and you’ll be in just as deep shit as your friend.” Then he pursed his lips into a sneer, and said, “On second thought, go out on your own, if you like. Believe me, rounding you boys up is not much of a problem.”

  As I entered the barracks, it occurred to me that I was just about back in uniform. Maybe I should have run with Freeman. That said, there was something strangely comfortable about returning to the service. Maybe I was still euphoric about escaping farming, Neo-Baptists, and Little Man; but maybe it was because the Unified Authority Marine Corps was the only place where I fit in.

  Entering my room, I spotted a package that someone had left on my bed. The note on the outside of the package said it was from Admiral Alden Brocius. Inside the package I found general-issue essentials—a leather toiletry kit with the emblem of the Unified Authority Marines embossed on it, and a pair of shades—glasses designed for viewing the mediaLink.

  Before the Mogats iced the Broadcast Network, the mediaLink had been the communications system that kept the galaxy connected. You used it to send messages, talk with people, hold conferences, etc. The mediaLink also carried news and programming. Each of the six arms of the galaxy had its own news networks and shows, but you could access them all through the mediaLink. You could use shades to access libraries of books, listen to music, and watch movies. The best part was that almost anywhere man traveled in the galaxy, mediaLink service was available for instantaneous access—all through the miracle of the Broadcast Network.

  When the Separatists destroyed the Mars broadcast discs, I assumed the mediaLink system went with it. Trapped on Little Man, I never stopped to realize that most planets had their own media and their own local-area mediaLink networks. They might not be able to access the galaxywide network, but that did not mean they would abandon communications and programming on a local basis.

  I did not miss the movies or the music. You could keep the mail, I didn’t have anyone to write to. What I missed was keeping up with current events. I missed the news.

  I sat on the edge of my bed staring at those shades, amazed at my excitement over such a simple thing. Finally, I slipped on the glasses. Little lasers projected interactive images onto the retinal tissue in my eyes. Using ocular commands, I sorted through menus until I found an all-news channel, then I lay back against my headboard and watched.

  The events of the day could not have been more mundane. With galactic communications shut down, I would only find local news. From what I could tell, life on Earth had not changed much since the Broadcast Network went down. The news analysts I saw never mentioned the war. They talked the economy to death. There was a lot of talk about sports and weather. No one so much as hinted that a top secret alliance between the Unified Authority and its former enemies might be in the making. No one mentioned Shin Nippon or even the Confederate Arms.

  I watched the news for three hours, then went to the mess for dinner. When I returned to my room, I sat on my bed and slipped on the shades. Sometime after midnight, I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  A warning tone sounded from the communications console beside my bed, waking me out of a restless sleep. For a moment I did not remember where I was as I fumbled around in the dark. My mouth felt dry. Finally I found the switch.

  “Colonel Harris?” The voice had a familiar stodgy quality.

  With my windows tinted against the sunlight and cool air pouring in through the vents, it felt like midnight in my room. The blood rushed to my head as I sat up, and I felt slightly dizzy but mostly alert.

  “This is Harris,” I said.

  “Colonel, please hold for Admiral Brocius,” the woman said in an officious manner.

  “Colonel Harris, how are you this morning?” Brocius sounded unusually chipper for an admiral. “I believe you served briefly under my command some years back.”

  Vice Admiral Alden Brocius commanded the Central Cygnus Fleet. I almost saluted when he identified himself, just out of reflex, even though he wouldn’t have seen me since our connection was only audio. That latent salute might have been programming in my Liberator nervous system, but it probably had more to do with my upbringing in the orphanage. As lowly clones in a military clone farm, we learned to salute by the age of three.

  “Colonel, I was wondering if you would join me for breakfast this morning,” Brocius said.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. I had not been recalled to active duty, so I did not technically need to call him sir. My recall was just a formality, however. Considering who had extended the breakfast invitation, I expected to be recalled to active duty by the time I finished my eggs.

  “Do you want to meet in the officers’ mess?” I asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Brocius said. “I know a little place near Annapolis that might be just right.”

  It took me two minutes to run a razor over my stubble and sterile-light my teeth. I did not worry about brushing my hair. As a veteran of the military orphanage system, I considered a crew cut the height of fashion—and I was always in fashion. The only fresh clothes I had was a colonel’s uniform. I dressed and left.

  A limousine idled outside the door of the barracks. As I approached, a driver in a petty officer’s uniform climbed out of the car, opened a door at the back of the car, then saluted. I returned the salute and climbed into the car.

  “Glad you could make it,” Admiral Brocius said, as I slid onto the seat.

  “I’m not familiar with the protocol. Am I supposed to salute the chauffeur before entering the limousine?” I asked.

  “You should if you are on active duty,” Brocius said. “But you are not on active duty yet.”

  “I get the feeling I may be recalled,” I said.

  “Would you like to return to active duty?” Brocius asked.

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” I said. That was a lie. I had also tried to convince myself that I did not want to be recalled, but I knew
it was a lie as well. I was designed for military use. I had recently chosen suicide over a quiet peaceful life on a farming planet.

  “I asked around. If you came back, you might not be able to reenter as a colonel,” Brocius said, pretending I had told him that I could not wait to reup. “That was never official, you know. Admiral Huang sort of muscled that last promotion of yours through for security purposes.

  “We might be able to preserve your officer status.”

  “I’m happy as a civilian, sir,” I said. I did not want to make this too easy for him.

  Brocius ignored this comment. “How do you see the war going?” He asked this with a relaxed but interested air. He sounded like a man asking a salesman for advice about cars. “What do we need to win this war?”

  The first time I had seen Alden Brocius, he had black hair, brown eyes, and the typical officer’s disdain for enlisted men and clones. He was tall and slender back then. That was four years ago.

  Over the last four years he had put on a few pounds and grown a beard. The hair on his head and in his beard had turned gray. He looked like a man struggling to hold on to his fifties. The wrinkles around the corners of his eyes blended into his cheeks. He looked tired.

  “What can we do to win this one, Harris?” he repeated.

  “The Mogats won’t engage in a surface war, they’re not that dumb, so you’re going to need a self-broadcasting fleet if you want to engage them,” I said. No brilliant observations there, but I did not have anything brilliant to add on the spur of the moment.

  “Do you think we have time to build another self-broadcasting fleet?” Brocius asked.

  “That depends how long it would take to build it,” I said. Then, realizing just what an asinine statement I had just made, I added, “I’ve been out of the loop, sir. I only know what you and the Japanese have told me.

  “From what I hear, time might be short. I don’t see the Mogats waiting around forever. I mean three years…”

  “Three years?” Brocius asked.