“Is there any way to pick up what he’s saying?” I asked.
The MP controlling the monitoring station fielded the question. “No, sir. The camera does not have audio. It’s for checking inventory.”
“Too bad,” I said.
“He’s been doing that the entire time,” Villanueva said, sounding somewhat disgusted.
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Beating himself up. Watch his lips. When you see him pucker and grimace like that, he’s saying the word, ‘SPECK.’ He says ‘speck’ just about every other word.”
As Villanueva said this, the man rapped himself across his forehead with his tablet three times in rapid succession. He puckered, then grimaced, puckered, then grimaced, puckered, then grimaced. Watching his lips move, I imagined him shouting the word.
“Dangerous or not, he sure as hell is crazy,” Villanueva said.
“He’s both,” I said.
If everything the coroners had said about Sergeant Lewis proved true, he’d kept fighting long after he should have curled up and died. Guys like that don’t throw in the towel. You can pull a gun on them, and they just keep fighting.
“I’m going in after him,” I said.
“You don’t need to go in there yourself,” Villanueva said.
“I have plenty of men . . .”
“Alone,” I added. Was I afraid? Was I facing my fears? Was I climbing back on the proverbial horse? God, I hoped not.
“Sir . . .”
“I have a better shot at nabbing this guy without your boys getting in my way.”
“That’s bullshit,” one of Villanueva’s MPs whispered to the man beside him. Then in a louder voice, he said, “Sir, may I suggest that we send in ten men and piggy-pile him, sir.”
It was not a question of climbing back on the horse; I wanted a rematch. I hadn’t taken Lewis seriously, and he’d damn near killed me. If this lunatic was the same clone who’d attacked me in my quarters, I’d managed to scare him away the first time we met; but I was the one on the ground when he ran away.
Commanding officers do not generally participate in arrests, and I should have sat this one out. At most, I should have notified Hollingsworth and had him send Marines to assist in the arrest. I was running this operation too far from the rule book, but I didn’t care.
“You really plan to go in alone?” Villanueva asked, the mirth in his voice too apparent.
“I do,” I said.
“General, we’ll be able to watch you on the surveillance cameras,” said one of the MPs. “I’ll have men waiting right outside the door if something happens.”
“That’s good, but I don’t want you jumping the gun on this one.”
“No, sir.”
“This is almost sure to come to a fight,” I said. “Don’t come running at the first sign of trouble.”
“At what point should I send in help?” Villanueva asked.
“Good question,” I said, not sure how to answer the question. “If I give the distress signal, come in running.”
“What’s the signal?” The MPs sounded worried. They didn’t want a general dying on their watch.
“If you see me flat on my ass and begging for mercy, come in after me.”
The MPs laughed. Villanueva did not. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I hope that’s not the same signal you used last time?”
The MPs stifled their laughter, but the point was well taken, I still had plenty of bruises on my face.
“I’ve got the situation under control, Captain,” I said, fixing Villanueva with my coldest glare, “and you have your orders. Give me five minutes, then send your men after me.”
Villanueva followed me as I left the security room. “You do know that this is crazy, right?” he asked, as I headed toward the cargo hold.
“I know,” I said. He was correct, but a combat reflex had already begun to flood my veins with hormonal courage, and I felt the old excitement. “Don’t sweat it. Just get my safety net ready. I seriously doubt he will kill me in the time it takes your MPs to break things up.”
The cargo hold had twelve-foot ceilings lined with bright lights. It was a maze with crates and shelves instead of walls. I entered, heard someone shouting, and followed the sound. The infiltrator’s tone of voice reminded me of a man scolding a dog. As I got closer, I heard the thwack of him smacking himself with his tablet.
“Stupid. Gawd, you are so specking stupid. And now you’re stuck here! And what, you think he’s ever specking coming back?” A pause, then he shrieked the word, “SPECK!” Agony and probably insanity rang in his voice.
When I turned around a corner, the clone, the sailor, the infiltrator heard my footsteps and turned. There was nothing spectacular about him, just a standard-issue clone, standing five-foot-ten, with brown hair cut to regulation length and wearing a sailor’s uniform. His brown eyes fell on me, and I saw recognition. He went silent, dropped the hand with the tablet to his side, and saluted.
I returned the salute, and asked, “Who are you speaking to, sailor?”
He gave me an embarrassed grin, and said, “I was talking to myself, sir. It’s an old habit.” In his eyes, recognition turned into hope. I was his target, and I had returned.
I pretended to think about what he had said, then responded, “You might want to work on that; people won’t understand. They might think you are dangerous.”
“Dangerous, sir?” he asked.
“I don’t think you’re dangerous. I don’t think you’re dangerous at all.”
“No, sir?” he asked.
“No, not in the slightest,” I said. “You couldn’t even finish me off when you had a gun, and now you’re not even armed.”
Still standing at attention, he smiled. “Maybe you got lucky.”
“Maybe I did. On the other hand, maybe you got lucky, too,” I said.
His smile faded as he said, “Maybe.” Then he said, “You know who I am and you still came. Doesn’t that seem a little foolish?” Amazingly, he remained at attention, chest out, shoulders back. I’d seen how fast he could make his move, though. I wasn’t fooled.
“I know what I’m doing,” I said.
“How do you know I’m not armed?” he asked.
“Because my MPs have been watching you for hours. If you had a gun, you would have shot yourself instead of trying to beat your head in with an inventory tablet.” I pointed to a camera hanging from the track along the ceiling. It was not the small and discreet kind of camera preferred by security personnel. The camera hanging from its bracket was as big as a boxing glove and had robotic claws for pulling cases.
“You were watching me on an inventory drone?” he asked.
I shrugged. “You were entertaining.” As we spoke, he seemed to collapse in on himself. He was like the kid who comes into the game full of bravado, then misses a shot and falls apart.
“Are they still watching us?”
“Sure,” I said. “But I can signal them to look away if you think you want another shot at me.” I was kicking a handicapped man, taking candy from a kid. He was broken. He was still trying to stand at attention, but now his shoulders slumped, and his expression fell.
“Are you going to arrest me, sir?” he asked.
“Unless you give me a reason to have you shot,” I said.
“No, sir,” he said. “I won’t do that.”
The clone made no move as I signaled Villanueva to send in his MPs.
Like Samson without his hair, I thought. He stood at dazed attention as a pair of MPs entered the cargo hold and put him in cuffs. I watched the scene with bemusement, my combat reflex fading into a pleasant memory.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“I heard you brought in a live one,” Sam, the apprentice coroner, said. He sounded impressed.
“More or less,” I said.
Seaman First Class Philip Sua was bound, drugged, dressed in a straitjacket, and placed in an incapacitation cage. He had remained awake for the trip down to Gobi, bu
t that didn’t make him lucid. A river of drool cascaded from his lips, and his eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking and corpselike.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “The first clone is beaten until his insides turn to pudding, but he keeps fighting. The second clone surrenders without a fight. A coward and a maniac cut from the same DNA, that doesn’t add up. Maybe something went wrong with their neural programming.”
It was now 03:00, Gobi time, and the station was silent except for the swarms of guards patrolling the corridors. Down in the subterranean levels, the halls remained bright as ever.
“The first one must have known he was going to die,” Sam guessed. “You know, maybe he knew he was as good as dead, so he kept fighting as one last act of defiance.”
“Okay, that explains why the first one fought to the death, but why did the second one give up so easily.”
“Was he bleeding?”
“No.”
“Injured in any way?”
“No.”
Sam thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe he didn’t feel like committing suicide.”
We were alone in the morgue, well, mostly alone. Sergeant Kit Lewis was in the room. He was all over the room. His mostly skinned carcass lay on a table. What was left of his face, now rolled inside out and pulled below his chin, hung like the collar of a turtleneck sweater.
Sam blinked to clear his tired eyes, and asked, “Who do you have examining the live one?”
“They’re flying some kind of crime shrink in from Morrowtown,” I said.
“Dr. Morman?”
“You know him?” I asked.
“I’ve worked with Morman before,” he said, speaking quickly, as if giving the doctor short shrift.
Why couldn’t Terraneau have been like Gobi? I asked myself. The locals respected us here. And it wasn’t just Gobi. We were greeted as heroes on all of the worlds we had liberated except for Terraneau.
“Have you found out anything more about Lewis?” I asked. Anything more than cause of death?
“Good timing. If you’d asked that question an hour ago, I wouldn’t have had anything to show you,” the kid said. “Then I had another look at the DNA. How much do you know about DNA?”
“I thought DNA was a dead end,” I said.
Sam shook his head, and said, “It is and it isn’t. The DNA itself isn’t much help.”
“I don’t follow,” I said.
“There’s gene expression and gene regulation. With gene expression, you can create two radically different creatures using identical strands of DNA. You said this man was unusually strong. It’s basic epigentics—same DNA, different cell divisions.”
“And in English?” I asked.
“Instead of looking at his DNA, I had a look at his chromosomes.”
“Chromosomes? The stuff that make you a boy or a girl?”
“I take it biology is not your strong suit,” Sam said as a joke, but it sounded so patronizing that I wanted to hit him.
He pointed to a slide on the wall. “Lewis, here, has the exact same DNA as any other military clone, it’s just arranged differently.”
“If Lewis had the same DNA as every other clone, why isn’t he like them?” I asked. “Same DNA, same everything, right?”
“That’s what I am trying to explain,” Sam said, his irritation starting to show. I think he was used to being the student. Now I was the one with a million questions, and he lacked the patience to answer them.
“DNA is the basic building block. Genes are made of DNA; but you can change genes by changing the layout of the DNA.”
Seeing I was still confused, he picked up a syringe and a glass dish. “What do these have in common?” he asked.
“They’re lab equipment,” I guessed.
“They’re made of glass. Glass is made of sand. If I have molten glass, I can make a bowl or a syringe, right. Once I melt the sand, I can use the glass to make a bowl or a syringe.”
“Okay, I get that,” I said.
Apparently I didn’t get it, though, because he sighed, and said, “It’s not like bowls are made from bowl sand and syringes are made from syringe sand. Glass fruit sand doesn’t come from glass fruit deserts. It’s all the same sand from the same desert.”
“Yeah, okay, one desert, one kind of sand,” I said, slowing as I finished the sentence because the meaning of what he had said finally dawned on me.
“Okay, so they don’t make bowls out of ‘bowl sand’ and syringes out of ‘syringe sand.’ It’s just sand. What you do with the sand once you melt it is up to you,” Sam said, making sure I understood.
I thought about what he was saying and saw a problem with it. “But it’s not the same with DNA,” I said. “They selected the specific genes when they made us. They spent—”
He put up a hand to stop me. “You said this clone was created as a spy. They designed him to break into your forts, right? Can you think of better camouflage than making him out of your DNA?
“Do you know what chromosomes are made of? You pair a strand of DNA with a protein. Do your security posts test for chromosomes?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“His DNA is identical to any other clone’s, but his chromosomes are different. Once I started with his chromosomes, the difference became obvious,” said Sam.
“Chromosomes?” I asked, shaking my head. It didn’t make sense to me. “I can see how you might make different chromosomes, but what does that get you. That’s the stuff that determines your sex, right? Women have two X chromosomes and men have an X and a Y.”
“Women have two Xs, most men have an X and a Y, but Lewis had an X and two Ys. He has the same DNA but a different set of chromosomes.”
“Two Y chromosomes? And the Y is what separates men from women. Does that make him more . . .” I almost said “manly.” “Would that make him strong?” Even as I asked the question, a more pressing concern came to mind—Could we configure the posts to read chromosomes instead of DNA?
“It could make him much stronger than other clones. The potential exists. Lewis was like any other clone on the surface, but his muscles could have been stronger, his heart was stronger . . .”
“What about his brain?” I asked. “What would that do to his brain?”
“Oh, yes, his brain. You know, the autopsy would have been a lot more productive if you hadn’t shot the subject in the head.”
“I didn’t shoot him,” I said.
“Okay, well, whoever shot him really specked up the works,” Sam said, holding both hands up in frustration. “The bullet blew more than half of his brain out of his skull, and the part that was left was in bad shape.”
He walked over to Lewis and placed his fingers around the bone-and-muscle remains of his chin. “It wasn’t a complete washout.”
He turned the head so the empty brain cavity faced toward me. “It’s not conclusive; but considering the amount of trauma done to this man, we’re lucky we found anything.”
“Found what?” I asked.
“I took a tissue scraping from the area just inside here.” The kid stuck his hand into the gaping brainpan and pointed to the part of the forehead that had not been destroyed by the bullet. During my time as a Marine, I had shot, stabbed, strangled, and exploded enemies, but I never played with their remains. I did not peel away their skins or pull out their organs. Watching Sam the cocky student coroner twist and turn the body made me queasy.
“We got this from his brain,” he said, using tweezers to hold up a gauss-thin strip of meat. “Its NAAs are so low, they’re almost not there.”
I asked the obvious question, “What is NAA?”
“N-acetylaspartatic acid.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” I said.
The kid was many things, but he was not a snob. When he continued, he did not speak in a condescending way. “It’s a compound you find in a normally functioning brain. Things go wrong when it’s not there. The lower the NAA level, the bigger the problems,
and this guy’s levels were really low.”
This information was interesting but not practical. I asked a practical question, “Is there any way we can configure our security equipment to track this?”
He smiled, nodded, and said, “Dead men don’t walk, blind men don’t see . . .”
It was a limerick or maybe a line from an old song. The second half went, “I gave her my heart, and she crucified me.”
“General,” he said, “I checked your chromosomes when you came through the door. A coroner can’t be too careful.”
Before leaving the morgue, I asked the kid to write up his findings and send them to Station Security along with recommendations about how the posts could be upgraded to scan chromosomes instead of DNA.
I returned to my quarters and stripped and showered and ran a laser across my teeth, then went to bed, all the while asking the same questions I had been asking before seeing the coroner—Why would one clone fight to the death and another surrender?
Part of the answer was obvious, self-determination. Clones start out alike, but that does not mean they stay that way. I grew up among clones. I knew brave ones and not-so-brave clones, but I never met a clone who was an outright coward. I went to boot camp with men who would not flinch in the face of death and clones who might hesitate before a charge but none who would run from the field.
But the clones I knew had been raised from infancy. These new clones had to have “crawled out of the tube” in their twenties. The Unified Authority did not have time to raise their clones, they needed them out and killing.
As I slid onto my rack, I thought about bowls and syringes and manufactured chromosomes. Sleep did not come so easily that night because along with the bowl and the syringe came images of the cadaver. I’d seen worse. I’d seen rotted, maggot-infested bodies of men. I once stepped on the body of a man killed by Noxium gas. My boot crushed through his chest. It was like stepping on overripe fruit.
It wasn’t the cadaver that bothered me; it was the casual way the damn apprentice coroner handled it that got under my skin. Lewis was a maniac and assassin, but he was still as human as me.
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