The Clone Betrayal

by Kent, Steven

  “No one is questioning the Air Force’s role in the war,” MacKay said in a calming voice. “I’m just curious about your methods. From what I can tell, the Army lost nearly six hundred thousand soldiers and sustained a ninety-five percent casualty rate. The Marines sent four hundred thousand soldiers and lost ninety-seven percent of the men they sent.

  “It would appear that your fighter pilots had a much higher survival rate. How many pilots did you lose?”

  Up to this point, Senator MacKay showed nothing more than polite curiosity. Apparently unaware of these statistics, the congressmen around him looked up from their notes.

  “We did not lose any pilots,” General Smith growled. He was a chubby old man with white hair and a bushy white mustache, but all of the decoration on his uniform made him something more. He was the ranking member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest-ranking officer in the Unified Authority military.

  “No pilots lost?” MacKay asked, clearly impressed. “Your pilots must be very good.” He paused for nearly a minute as he looked through his notes, then turned his attention to General Morris Newcastle, the highest-ranking officer in the Unified Authority Army.

  “As I understand it, General Newcastle, your gunship pilots did not fare so well. Didn’t you suffer a much higher casualty rate with your attack helicopters?”

  “Yes, sir,” barked Newcastle.

  Smith and Newcastle regarded each other as adversaries. As the head of the Joint Chiefs, Smith held the rank, but he waged his portion of the war from an office in Washington, DC. Mo Newcastle, on the other hand, ran the show on New Copenhagen from ground zero. Smith remained the ranking member of the Joint Chiefs, but Newcastle emerged from the war as a hero.

  “You had a higher casualty rate?” Senator MacKay asked again, looking for clarification.

  “We lost every gunship we sent out,” Newcastle said.

  The senator considered this, then went back to his notes. “That’s a very high rate,” he said. The people in the gallery laughed.

  “We sent you out with our finest equipment,” MacKay mumbled as he ran through his notes. “Didn’t you have Limbaugh Attack Helicopters? Was there an equipment failure? Would you have been more effective with Cobra Attack Helicopters?”

  “No, sir,” Newcastle said. “The Limbaughs worked just fine. The problem wasn’t the equipment.”

  “So attack helicopters were more vulnerable than jets?” another senator asked. He sounded confused.

  “Helicopters make easier targets than jets. They fly slower and closer to the ground,” Newcastle said. He and General Smith traded glares. “But I would not say that was the problem.”

  “You wouldn’t?” asked MacKay.

  “No, sir. We lost most of our gunships during the first battle outside Valhalla, but they were extremely effective . . . too effective. The enemy made them their chief target.” Newcastle sat back as if satisfied with his answer, then mumbled, “At least our pilots went out.”

  “What was that?” a congresswoman asked. “What did you say?”

  “I said that our gunships entered the fight,” Newcastle answered.

  “Entered the fight?” MacKay asked.

  “Yes, sir, our pilots showed up for the fight. General Hill determined that the situation was unsafe and refused to launch his fighters.” General James Hill was the Air Force commander on New Copenhagen.

  “What do you mean he refused to launch?” the congresswoman asked. She sounded incredulous.

  “The Air Force was grounded,” Newcastle repeated.

  “How can that be?” Senator MacKay asked the question first, but several politicians echoed him. Every man and woman behind the bar now stared in Smith’s direction.

  General Smith launched into damage control. “We couldn’t fly our jets under those conditions. The alien army had the planet surrounded with some sort of ion sleeve . . .”

  “I believe you referred to it as the ‘ion curtain’ in your report,” MacKay said.

  “Yes, sir. The ion curtain shut down the electronics in our jets before my pilots could reach a safe altitude.”

  “But that sleeve did not affect your attack helicopters?” MacKay asked.

  “Our pilots had to fly low. They kept to a couple of hundred feet. Flying that low made them sitting ducks, but at least they went up,” Newcastle said.

  Newcastle and Smith whispered fierce messages to each other which the camera could not record. Smith said something, and Newcastle smiled and nodded.

  “How much . . .” MacKay began, trying to retake control of the meeting. “Excuse me. How much . . .” He banged his gavel five times, and the noise in the chamber faded. Finally, he asked, “In your opinion, General Newcastle, how much of a difference would the fighters have made?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Newcastle said.

  “General, what I’m asking you is, if the Air Force had sent out its fighters, how much of a difference could they have made?”

  “Flying low? You mean if they had to fly low like my chopper pilots?”

  “Yes, General. If they had entered the battle flying low, would you have taken fewer casualties?”

  Newcastle did not even pause to consider the idea. “They would not have made a bit of difference, Senator. The enemy would have shot them out of the sky.”

  “I see,” said MacKay. He was not on a witch hunt, not Senator Evan MacKay. The politicians on either side of him would have liked nothing more than to further their careers at the expense of Al Smith or any other sacrificial goat, but not MacKay. “I’ve read your report, General. You stated that your missile defenses were effective. You said you had more than enough equipment. What went wrong, General? Why did we lose so many planets? Why did our military come so close to losing the war on New Copenhagen?”

  “It was the first time we encountered an alien army,” explained Alexander Smith. “We never experienced anything like that before. They did not use spacecraft to travel, so we could not attack them until they reached our planets. Then they spread that ion screen around our planets, obliterating any chance of naval support.” He sounded anxious as he spewed a stream of reasons why his military was so badly outgunned.

  Newcastle shot Smith a fleeting, mysterious smile that faded quickly as he turned toward the bar, and said, “The problem was lack of discipline.” He paused, and added, “Cowardice.”

  “Are you referring to the pilots not flying their fighters?” the congresswoman asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Newcastle said. “I am referring to our enlisted men.”

  “The cloned soldiers?” MacKay asked. He sounded surprised.

  “Yes, sir,” said Newcastle.

  “Are you saying you had a problem with the clones?” MacKay repeated.

  “Yes, sir. They did not perform well in battle,” said Newcastle.

  “As I understand it, clones are programmed to follow orders without question,” MacKay said.

  “That is correct, sir,” Newcastle admitted.

  “What are you saying, General? Are you telling us that their programming failed?” MacKay asked.

  “Senator, their programming broke down under stress. We saw vandalism . . . graffiti . . . men disobeying orders. I’m not sure this was in the report, but one of our clones attacked and killed a superior officer.”

  “Are you talking about something that happened on the battlefield? Was it friendly fire?” MacKay asked.

  “No, sir, it was not friendly fire. Both men were off duty and we were not under attack, and the clone in question was a Liberator. He attacked and killed his superior away from the battlefield.”

  Arguments and confusion broke out through the chamber. Senator MacKay banged his gavel and tried to regain order.

  As the room quieted, Newcastle continued, “Senator, if you want to know what went wrong on New Copenhagen, we crumbled from the bottom up. Our enlisted men proved ineffective, undisciplined, and unreliable in battle. What went wrong was that we entrusted
our future in the hands of clones.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Every restaurant in Washington, DC, had the hearings playing for the lunch crowd. This was a town in which the favorite sport was politics, and congressional hearings were the Super Bowl.

  I glanced up at the screen as I pulled up to the counter at my favorite diner.

  “Corned beef on rye?” the waitress asked as I approached the counter. She looked like she was in her sixties, a stubby woman with badly dyed red hair and a waxy complexion.

  “Same as always, Helen,” I told her. Having eaten lunch at her counter at least once a week for over a year, I knew Helen better than any woman alive.

  She placed an empty mug on the counter and grabbed a pot of coffee. As she poured, I asked, “Quiet day?”

  “You’re early; it’s only eleven,” she said. “We just finished with breakfast.”

  The clock on the wall said 10:46.

  “Yeah, I was in the neighborhood,” I said. The diner was near Union Station, not far from Capitol Hill. It was a long way to go for lunch, but they made a good sandwich, so I manufactured excuses to come to the area.

  I drank my coffee black, not that I liked it that way. I preferred cream and sugar; but I was a Marine. I had an image to uphold.

  From across the counter came the voice of Senator MacKay. General Smith, according to your records, the Air Force did not lose a single jet during the battle for New Copenhagen. Is that correct?

  I heard this and laughed. “Damn right they didn’t lose a jet. The speckers never left the damn hangar,” I muttered.

  On the screen, the senator paid little attention to General Smith as he answered the question. It was a throwaway question. His old man’s glasses riding low on his nose, Senator MacKay sat running his pen over his notes while he waited for an answer.

  Our pilots took their chances just like everybody else, Senator, answered General Alexander Smith. He sounded angry.

  I heard the annoyance in Smith’s voice and realized a dustup was coming. “This should be good,” I mumbled to myself.

  No one is questioning the Air Force’s role in the war. I’m just curious about your methods. Senator MacKay rattled off the casualty statistics, but the camera stayed on Smith. The general looked ready to leap out of his seat and rush the bar. The “old man of the Air Force” clearly thought his bravery had been challenged.

  It would appear that your fighter pilots had a much higher survival rate. How many pilots did you lose?

  Helen brought me my sandwich, but I didn’t look in her direction. I watched General Smith’s face redden as he said, We did not lose any pilots.

  She looked up at the screen and yawned. “I can change the channel if you want,” she offered.

  “Leave it,” I said without looking away from the screen. “It’s getting interesting.” I had been grilled in a congressional hearing once. Military types found themselves at the mercy of politicians when they entered the Capitol. If the senators began pissing on General Smith, the most the old man could do to defend himself was comment on the lovely shade of yellow.

  “Suit yourself,” Helen said, and she walked away.

  As I understand it, General Newcastle, your gunship pilots did not fare so well. Didn’t you suffer a much higher casualty rate with your attack helicopters?

  General Newcastle; I knew that bastard. I attended briefings with him on New Copenhagen. He was all bluff and bluster, an officer who talked a fierce fight but stayed away from the battlefield. He returned from New Copenhagen a hero to everyone but the men who served under him.

  We lost every gunship we sent out, Newcastle told the committee.

  My eyes still on the screen, I picked up half of my sandwich and took a large bite. Watching Senator MacKay and Mo Newcastle gang up on Smith brought a smile to my face. General Newcastle discussed equipment with the committee for a minute, then he showed his fangs.

  General Hill determined that the situation was unsafe and refused to launch his fighters. Newcastle’s testimony hung in the air like the mushroom cloud after a nuclear explosion. There was a moment of devastating silence followed by utter confusion.

  The moment I heard Newcastle’s charge, I knew it would cause a feeding frenzy. Having finally found a blemish in the military’s new, all-but-sainted image, the politicians moved in to attack.

  He refused to launch? asked a lady senator. Senator MacKay might have been the chairman at this hearing, but this gal had a nose for blood. Sensing headlines, she wanted to move in for the kill; but she didn’t know how to close the deal. She had not done her homework as thoroughly as MacKay.

  General Smith explained that his fighter jets were unable to reach a safe altitude, but madam politician wasn’t interested. I watched in fascination. This was theater. This was fun. There was something hypnotic and satisfying about watching Al Smith sweat like a stuck pig. Laughing and muttering jokes to myself, I wolfed down the second half of my sandwich in three bites and chased it down with a jolt of black coffee.

  The flogging continued until Senator MacKay banged his gavel, and asked, In your opinion, General Newcastle, how much of a difference would the fighters have made?

  I don’t know what you mean, Newcastle said.

  General, what I am asking is, if the Air Force had sent out its fighters, how much of a difference could they have made?

  Flying low? You mean if they had to fly low like my chopper pilots?

  Yes, General. If they had entered the battle flying low, would you have taken fewer casualties?

  I should have seen it coming. When push came to shove, the fraternal order of natural-born officers presented a united front. They might have it out between themselves in private; but in front of Congress, they protected their own.

  They would not have made a bit of difference, Senator. The enemy would have shot them out of the sky, said Newcastle.

  I see, said Senator MacKay.

  General Smith spewed out a litany of excuses, hoping to explain why fighting the alien invasion was different than fighting a human war. He left out classified information about how we never fought the aliens themselves, just an army of avatars they projected onto the planet. That was why we called them the “Avatari.”

  Then General Newcastle joined in. The problem was lack of discipline. He paused for dramatic effect, then added, Cowardice.

  Are you referring to the pilots not flying their fighters? asked madam politician. She wanted a shill, some political target she could demolish to fuel her career.

  “Don’t do it,” I muttered, knowing exactly what Newcastle would say next.

  No, ma’am, I am referring to our enlisted men.

  The son of a bitch was going to sacrifice the clones. In battle and now in peacetime, whenever officers felt threatened, they sacrificed the clones.

  The cloned soldiers? Senator MacKay asked.

  Yes, sir.

  You had a problem with the clones? MacKay followed up.

  Yes, sir. They did not perform well in battle, said Newcastle.

  As I understand it, clones are programmed to follow orders without question, said MacKay.

  Senator, their programming broke down under stress. We saw vandalism . . . graffiti . . . men disobeying orders. I’m not sure this was in the report, but one of our clones attacked and killed a superior officer.

  I was the clone who killed his superior. As far as I knew, I was the only clone on New Copenhagen who killed a superior, and he deserved what he got. My only regret was that I only got to kill the bastard once. In a perfect world, I could have killed him, resuscitated the son of a bitch, and killed him a few more times.

  I pulled out my wallet and left enough cash by my plate to cover the sandwich twice over. I needed to get back to the office fast.

  Are you talking about something that happened on the battlefield? Was it friendly fire?

  No, sir, it was not friendly fire. Both men were off duty and we were not under attack, and the clone in question was a
Liberator. He attacked and killed his superior away from the battlefield, said Newcastle, as Helen came to check on me.

  Seeing the bills by my plate, she called, “Don’t you want some change?”

  “I’m in a rush,” I said as I started out the door. I felt like I was under fire. Watching Newcastle’s testimony was like watching bombs fall from the sky and not knowing where they would explode.

  Just before I stepped out into the street, I heard General Newcastle say, Senator, if you want to know what went wrong on New Copenhagen, we crumbled from the bottom up. Our enlisted men proved ineffective, undisciplined, and unreliable in battle. What went wrong was that we entrusted our future in the hands of clones.

  That was the explosion.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was an unseasonably warm day for March; the sun had broken through the morning drizzle, and steam rose from the streets.

  In another hour, lunch crowds would spill out of every building, but for now, just a few pedestrians strolled along the sidewalks. Men and women in suits walked at businesslike speeds in self-imposed isolation. Nobody paid any attention to me as I hurried to the car I had checked out of the motor pool. With my Charlie service uniform and clone genes, I almost expected people to see me and shout, “Traitor!” as I climbed into my Army green sedan with its Pentagon plates. Nobody did. These people had obviously not watched the hearing.

  An old man walked toward me as I opened my car door. He had white hair so fine I could see his pink scalp between the strands. He had faded blue eyes, and his lips were the same bloodless color as the skin on his face. When our eyes locked, he smiled, and said, “Hello.”

  “Good morning,” I said.

  He nodded and walked away without looking back.

  I sensed an imminent calamity, the same feeling I had when I pulled the pin from a grenade. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but that did not mean I was wrong. I had the brown hair, brown eyes, and olive complexion of a military clone. And thanks to the exhibit in the Smithsonian, everyone in town could now recognize Liberator clones.

  I drove around Union Station, then up Massachusetts. A police car stopped beside me at the last light before the freeway. The patrolman driving the car stared in my direction. He might have recognized me as a Liberator, but he would not have known what was said in the hearings. Other people might listen to the hearings as they drove, but not the police.