The Clone Alliance

by Steven L. Kent

  “You guys pulled off a coup turning out the lights,” I said, full of admiration for the SEALs.

  “Not just the lights,” Illych said. “We sent two teams into the military sector. Alpha Team took out their broadcast engine. Tango just knocked out their shield generator. Considering all the trouble these guys have caused, we wanted to shut them down for good.”

  Philips and I ran into the street. Seen through the night-for-day lens, the scene had no more depth than an old black-and-white photograph. I saw it in the ghostly blue-white. I could see details clearly enough. I could see clearly enough to know I was staring into an empty street. I looked both ways, then switched to heat vision to make sure that no one was hiding. The walls gave off no heat, but tanks, men, and weapons all had heat signatures. The block ahead of us was clean.

  “When are you pulling out?” Illych asked.

  “We’re not,” I said. “We’re going to hang around until the Green Machine arrives.” The “Green Machine” was a Corps name for the Army.

  I didn’t really need my visor to know that the coast was clear. Mogat soldiers typically did not wear armor. They would have needed torches to see anything. With the power out, Mogatopolis was nothing more than a big specking cave. I felt the excitement of a battle won. We had the advantage now. We had better armor. Once the Army arrived, we would have comparable numbers and better equipment.

  “Harris, what are you talking about?” Illych asked.

  I ran through an alley using a building for cover, not that anyone would be able to see me without some kind of vision enhancement. The tanks and trucks had spotlights—big specking deal. I’d see the spotlights a mile away.

  “The second wave,” I said. I stopped and parked myself against a wall. “They’re sending the Army in to occupy…”

  “What are you doing?” Philips broke in.

  “Quiet,” I snapped.

  “Harris, the Army isn’t coming. The Confederate Arms Navy is engaging the Mogat Fleet right now. Once we chew through their Fleet, the Mogats will be landlocked. All we need to do is pin them down on this rock for another two hours and…”

  “No Army?” I asked.

  “Why would they send in the Army? Now that the power is out, everything down here is going to revert back to elemental gas.”

  “Distilled shit gas,” I whispered. The briefing officer had told us that everything down here was made of the stuff.

  “They’ll all be dead,” Illych said.

  “We’ll all be dead,” I repeated. I felt stunned. I felt like I had received a knee in the groin. This was pain and confusion that even the combat reflex could not mask. I thought of Samson, blinded and captured by the Philistines. In a final show of faith, he killed himself and the Philistines by toppling their temple down upon his head.

  Only Samson volunteered to pull the temple on his own head. And then it struck me: the Unified Authority might have been God; but the clones were the sacrifices, not the high priests. Those speckers were offering me up to die.

  “Harris, you have to get out of there,” Illych said.

  “And go where?” I asked. “Where the speck are we supposed to go?” Even if we made it topside and boarded the transports, who would pick us up? If it were not for my programming, I would have shoved the muzzle of my M27 in my mouth and pulled the trigger. I felt numb. I felt dizzy. The Unified Authority had betrayed us. I should have known they would. And by leading my men into the trap, I had betrayed them.

  “Master Sarge, what is going on?” Philips said.

  “The battleships are still up there,” Illych said. “If you make it up before they leave, they’ll take you.”

  “No, they won’t,” I said. “They came to kill Mogats, not rescue Marines.”

  “Harris, you need to hurry,” Illych said. “Without their shields, those Mogat ships won’t last long against the fleet.”

  We were a distraction, I thought. They sent us here to clear the way for the SEALs. That was all they wanted us for, and now we’ve outlived our purpose. “Those specking assholes. Ah, shit,” I said as I rested my gun on a the ground. “Bloody hell.”

  “Harris, you need to get your men topside,” Illych said.

  “Harris, what the speck are you doing?” Philips asked.

  So we are still the bullet. We are still a commodity. Even if I can lead my men out, why should I? This will just happen again. Even as I considered this, I knew that I had to try to escape. They programmed survival instinct into my being. They also gave me aggression, and I found reason enough to live in the idea of revenge.

  “How long do we have?” I asked Illych. I had picked up my gun and begun running to the next corner. Philips remained a pace behind me, gun ready.

  “Till the Navy leaves or the whole city reverts back into elemental gas?” Illych asked. “You have two hours until everything down here melts. The Navy will be long gone by then.”

  “Harris, can you get to a transport?” the low resonant voice of Ray Freeman asked. I had forgotten about Freeman.

  While we were back on the transport, I’d suggested that he listen in on my communications. Back then I said that he should listen in so he could keep an eye on our troop movements. “Freeman?” I asked.

  “Are you pinned down?” Freeman asked.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, more for Freeman than Illych, though they both heard me. I was so angry and ashamed that I could barely think. The combat reflex protected me against fear, not humiliation. I had to get my men out. I had to get them to a transport. I knew this, but my actions were as mechanical as my breathing and heartbeat. All that ran through my head was anger and embarrassment.

  “Semper fi, my ass,” I whispered. I was a faithful servant to an unfaithful master. I was a fool. If I made it off this planet, I would turn my back on the Unified Authority once and for all. My programming might prevent me from fighting against bastards like Brocius, but I did not have to die as one of their pawns.

  “Get moving,” Illych shouted, before signing off. Freeman said nothing. He had offered to help; now he was already on his way to the transport.

  I changed frequencies to call to the colonel commanding the operation. This asshole must have had more enemies than friends. He was the highest-ranking sacrifice sent out here to die. Some general back in Washington, DC, had probably asked, whom should we screw on this one, and everyone agreed on this jerk. I should have known something was wrong when they sent an asshole colonel to command a sixty-thousand-man landing. Where was the boatload of generals trying to claim the victory for themselves?

  Now that I thought about it, I should have spotted the whole plan from the start. The combined Navy only had sixty-two self-broadcasting ships. Sixty-two ships would not have enough space for all of the men and machines. Then I thought about the elevator shafts. It would take days to funnel one million men through those shafts.

  “What is it, Harris?” the colonel asked.

  “Call the men back to the transports, sir,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” the colonel asked. “Hold your position.”

  “We’ve accomplished our mission,” I said.

  “We’re supposed to hold our position until reinforcements arrive,” the colonel said.

  “There won’t be any reinforcements,” I said. “The Army’s not coming.”

  “You’re full of…” The colonel paused. “Harris, give me a minute.”

  “We don’t have a minute,” I said, but the colonel was already gone.

  I switched frequencies so that my entire platoon could hear me. “Boys, we’re in trouble.” I did not have time to explain everything. I would not have explained it all, even if I had. They would need whatever fight they had in them.

  “We need to make a run for the transports,” I said. “When I give you the signal, fire everything you have at the Mogats in front of your building; then when I clear you, run out the back door and keep running. Do you read me, Marines?”

  “
What about the ones in the back?” Evans asked.

  “I’ve got them,” I said. “You just start shooting when you get my signal.”

  “Where are you?” Greer asked.

  “I’m two blocks out the ass of your building. You hit them from your side, and I’ll hit them from back here.”

  “There are too many,” Greer said.

  “We don’t need to kill them, they’re already blind,” I said. “Just run on my command and keep running until you are topside and harnessed into your transport. You got that, speck-sucker? That is an order.”

  It was in their programming. These boys could not disobey a direct order.

  Peering out from behind a wall, I saw that the street was filled with enemy soldiers and tanks. Most of the tanks had searchlights. The trucks had headlights, and the soldiers held flashlights. Soldiers sat on the turrets of the Rumsfelds shining spotlights down into the street. Foot soldiers milled around the beams of the lights, talking and drinking. They looked confused, not blind. These men could not have realized the extent of what had happened to their world. They had the enemy trapped, but no one had given them their next orders. Without their power grid, they could not communicate with their commanders.

  Philips and I crouched behind a wall and watched the Mogats for a moment. “Hold this,” I whispered, handing the case with the gas cartridges to Philips. I was wearing my helmet. I could have screamed the words at the top of my lungs and the Mogats would not have heard me, but I whispered. It was a natural reflex. There might have been ten thousand Mogats around us.

  Philips took the case without saying a word. He was not afraid, but the smart-ass style had run out of him. He was serious now. He wanted to walk away from this battle with his skin intact, and he wanted to make sure the other members of the platoon went with him.

  I leaned my M27 against the wall, then pulled the canister shooter off my shoulder. I broke it open at the hinge and loaded a canister of noxium gas in its chamber.

  Once I fired the shooter, it would take three minutes for the gas to dissipate. I aimed the shooter so that it would spit the canister deep into the Mogats’ ranks and fired. The muzzle of the shooter did not flash like a gun, it simply emitted a quiet belch. The darkness remained total as the canister spiraled through the air and struck a tank no more than twenty feet from the back door of the building.

  There was a crash and a moment of silence, followed by screaming and yelling. They wanted to run, but they could not. Panic and death came too quickly.

  I had my second cartridge loaded before the first even hit the ground. This time I aimed at the Mogats in the rear, the ones closest to Philips and me. I fired again.

  The Mogats had already begun to panic when the second canister dropped. By now they were screaming in pain as well as panic. The men near spotlights might have seen the gas seeping in around them, but most only heard the shouting caused by an undefined death. I fired the third canister right in the middle of the crowd. Each canister unleashed enough gas to cover hundreds of square feet.

  Someone else might have described the scene as pandemonium, but to me it spoke of entropy. The Mogat troops fell into disarray from which they would never again organize. They ran, they panicked, they dissolved into the street.

  On the other side of the building, the other Mogats must have heard the noise. They must have wondered what had happened. I waited a few more moments before radioing up to Evans. I wanted to make sure the noxium gas evaporated before he came running out.

  “Light ’em up!” I shouted at Evans over the interLink.

  In the street before us, all was still and quiet now. Any Mogat who was going to escape had escaped. The rest had died. I could see the bodies by using my night-for-day vision. The dead men still looked human, more or less. The bodies, strewn along the ground like toys thrown in a pile, had limbs and hair. Their faces had no more distinct features than a giant blister; and they would squash like overripe melons if you stepped on them. Given another hour, the bodies would burst under their own weight.

  Quick flashes of light that reminded me of sheet lightning broke and faded on the other side of the building. Evans and his squad had begun firing their rockets at the tanks. The flashes followed each other quickly, with less than a second’s separation. The audio equipment in my helmet picked up the explosions and played them as ambient noise.

  The rockets made a sizzling sound when they launched. Their explosions reverberated and echoed through the dark city. I imagined millions of civilians around me, scared, huddled like mice in their apartments, hearing the explosions and praying to whatever god the Mogats believed in for the battle to end. I thought about those three boys who had tried to stand up to my platoon with a knife. I spared them. Big specking deal. I’d bought them a few more hours and a more painful way to die.

  For the Mogats, the universe was ending. They would all die. I could not save them if I wanted to. I might not be able to save any of my men. I might not be able to save my own sorry carcass, not that it deserved to be saved. Friend, foe, soldier, civilian…if we did not escape this very moment, we would all die as one. The men, women, and children would certainly die. They were innocents, but they could not be saved.

  Exploding rockets and firing cannons make different sounds. To the untrained ear, it all sounds like a big bang. Once you’ve been in combat, you learn to listen for pitch, intensity, duration, and volume. I heard the sound of the tanks returning fire.

  “Evacuate the building. Now!” I yelled. “Now! Now! Now!” Without shields, those shells would tear right through the building. In another minute, the entire building would come down.

  “They got Evans,” Thomer called back.

  “Out of there!” I screamed. The planet was dissolving, the building was crumbling, and Thomer was taking roll. “Move it!”

  “Are there Mogats out the back?” Thomer shouted. I could tell he was running. He sounded winded.

  “The street is clear!” I yelled.

  I’d started to say something else, when the colonel’s voice sounded over the interLink. He shouted, “Everyone, fall back to the transports. Anyone who does not make it back to the transports in fifteen minutes will be left behind.”

  Had he somehow reached Washington or just gotten the lowdown from an officer in the Confederate Arms Fleet? Somehow, he now knew the truth.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-TWO

  Marines understand exactly what it means when they receive the order to fall back. It means that your invasion has gone to shit. Fall back means that you cannot hold your position, and the situation has become critical. It means that the enemy is on your heels. It means stragglers will be captured or killed. Marines are trained to lead the way into battle. They don’t much care for the order to fall back.

  Of all the Marines that landed on the Mogat planet, only my platoon had begun its retreat when the colonel gave the order to fall back. The rockets my guys fired from the building crippled a lot of Mogat hardware, and my gas had opened a route for them to escape.

  The back door of the apartment building flew open, and out ran my platoon, or what remained of it. A twenty-man stampede. They ran straight ahead, straight into the clutter of bodies that filled the street. By this time the noxium had largely accomplished its purpose. Without so much as a glance at the ground, Sergeant Greer stepped into a corpse. He should have tripped over that dead soldier. Instead, he kicked through him.

  Philips and I saw the scene from two blocks up the street. Our boys dashed out of the building. Moments later, another platoon followed. They could follow us if they liked, but I would not waste time waiting for them.

  I jumped into the street, making a pinwheel motion with my arm to direct my men on. “Philips, take the lead,” I yelled. He knew the way to the elevator station. I had shown it to him in the Laundromat.

  “You heard him,” Philips called over the interLink. With the platoon under fire, the lowest-ranking man took the lead. “This way…now move it!
”

  I had just joined Thomer at the back of the pack when the first of the Targs rounded a corner ahead of us. Its spotlight cut through the darkness. Its beam looked as hard and pale as a marble pillar. The light never found us; and inside the tank, the driver only saw what his spotlight showed him.

  A moment later, one of our grenadiers fired a rocket at the Targ. After the explosion, the jagged remains of the turret looked like an enormous crown. Small fires danced on the top. I saw spotlights and headlights cruising back and forth on the streets around us. Those tanks should have had radars; but for some reason, the drivers were hunting for us by sight.

  By this time we had almost reached the elevator station. The road we were on came to a dead end at the door of the station—which towered above everything around it. The elevator station reached all the way to the ceiling, a hundred feet above us. With the power down, I could now see a rough rock ceiling instead of a sky overhead.

  Three Rumsfelds rolled out onto the street a thousand feet behind us. Their searchlights sniffed along the ground until they located Marines from the other platoon. Machine guns opened fire.

  “Light ’em!” I yelled over the interLink.

  My last remaining grenadiers spun and fired rockets at the tanks. One actually hit his target. The other two missed. At a thousand feet, a shot from the hip was too much to ask. They fired again and hit a second tank. Seeing the wreckage of the tanks on either side of it, the third Rumsfeld ambled for safety.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Philips called back to me. He had already reached the door of the elevator station. He stood in the doorway, letting other men pass him, his M27 pointing up the street. “Now they know we’re here.”

  My training told me to stay on the street and clear the way for the other Marines. My programming ordered me to survive. The Mogats used Targ Tanks like wolves. They dodged in and out of alleys and streets, picking at groups of Marines, herding them away from the elevator station. There must have been thousands of tanks rumbling around the city. I might get some of them, but I would never get all of them. The most I could accomplish now was saving my men. By waiting and trying to save another platoon, I would only endanger the few men I had left.