The Clone Republic

by Steven L. Kent

  Not grasping the concept that McKay could have moved, I stood by the door puzzling the obvious. Kaiser opened the door. “Can I help you, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “I was looking for Captain Gaylan McKay, sir,” I said, feeling uncertain of myself.

  “McKay?” he asked. “This used to be his office. I think they moved him two decks down.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, with a salute.

  Captain McKay had been knocked down. He now worked out of an office near the rifle range, in the Marine compound. “Like this office?” McKay asked as he opened the hatch to let me in. He made no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice.

  “You’ve got a lot more space, sir,” I said.

  “Yes, it certainly is an improvement space-wise,” McKay agreed, stepping back and allowing me in.

  “I’ve got more than twice as much floor space as I used to have.” He looked around the room. I could not help but notice his sour expression. He pressed his lips together, and his eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t ask for more space.

  “Have a seat, Harris,” McKay said, sitting down behind his desk. He stared hard at my face for a second. “You look like shit.”

  Without thinking about what I was doing, I reached up and rubbed the scar over my eyebrow. “I got in a fight, sir.”

  “A fight?” McKay said, sitting forward and looking concerned. “I hope I am not going to receive a misconduct report.”

  “No chance of that, sir,” I said. “I entered an Iron—”

  “You went to Honolulu, didn’t you?” McKay interrupted.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Didn’t anybody warn you about going to Sad Sam’s on Friday night?” McKay laughed. “You’re lucky to be alive, Harris.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  McKay smiled and leaned back in his chair. “One of the good things about being a Marine, Sergeant, is that you cover your scars with a helmet when you are on duty.” He laughed. “I don’t know who did that to your face, but I hope I never run into him.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Do you know why I have been given this spacious new office?” McKay asked.

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “It’s a demotion,” McKay said. “I’ve been moved down two decks and one million miles from command. I’m not sure if anybody has told you yet, but Admiral Klyber was transferred out.”

  I could understand the bitterness in Captain McKay’s voice. Captain Gaylan McKay might have only commanded a couple of platoons; but under Klyber, he’d had access. He oversaw the color guard and had high-profile assignments. He attended briefings with generals and admirals. With Klyber no longer there to protect him, the officers that McKay had bypassed would make him pay dearly.

  “Has Admiral Thurston taken command of all three Scutum-Crux Fleets?” I asked. McKay laughed, and the full weight of his bitterness showed. “No. I’m not sure Klyber would have relinquished command to the boy. Admiral Huang is overseeing Scutum-Crux in the interim.”

  “Huang?”

  “So far he’s been running the Scutum-Crux Arm from DC.” McKay seemed to take comfort from my shock. “Thank God for small miracles. I get the feeling Huang wanted this post all along. He and Thurston march in perfect lockstep. I think old Che Huang wanted Barry out and Thurston in before he took over. Now that he has what he wants, all we can do is sit back and see what he does with it.”

  “When did Admiral Klyber leave?” I asked.

  “He was gone before we landed on Hubble,” McKay said. “I did not hear about the change until a week ago. It’s a different fleet now. Did you see the new ships when you flew in?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I never thought I would see battleships in the Central Fleet.”

  “Yes,” said McKay. “And minesweepers, and communications ships. You don’t gin ships out of thin air. Huang and Thurston must have had them ready before Klyber transferred out.

  “We got another present from Huang—new men. We’re back up to two thousand three hundred sea-soldiers on board the Kamehameha .”

  “That’s a step in the right—”

  “And we have three new platoon sergeants. They’re Liberators,” McKay said.

  “I met one,” I said, “Sergeant Lector.”

  “That would be First Sergeant Booth Lector,” McKay said, rubbing the sides of his head as he spoke.

  “That one is a piece of work. He’s probably the worst of them.”

  “The worst?” I asked.

  “He took your platoon from Grayson a few days after you left. He came in the same day we got the new drill schedule. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it.”

  “I saw it,” I said.

  “The drill schedule came down from Thurston’s office. Admiral Thurston is an officer who never leaves anything to chance.”

  “Where did he find three Liberators?” I asked.

  “Where did Admiral Thurston find the ships?” McKay asked, stepping out from behind his desk. He walked over to his shelves and looked at a model of the Kamehameha . “Where did he get the new ships? Where did he get the new officers? Harris, Thurston does whatever Huang wants, and Huang gives Thurston anything he needs. The bastards have an unholy alliance.”

  Turning back toward me, he added, “You need to watch your back around these Liberators, especially Lector. He’s just plain nasty. Two of your men have ended up in sick bay after hand-to-hand combat training, and it turns out that both were sparring with him.”

  “How bad?” I asked.

  “One had a dislocated shoulder. The other had a broken wrist. They both came in with concussions. Frankly, neither of them looked nearly as bad as you do.”

  McKay walked around his desk, then sat on the edge of it. “I’m afraid that I’m not going to be much help to you. Under the restructuring, I’ve been assigned to other duties besides your platoon.”

  “Understood, sir,” I said.

  “I’ve had a look at Lector’s files,” McKay said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been executed. Do you know anything about New Prague?”

  I thought for a moment. The teachers at U.A. Orphanage #553 seldom talked about military crimes, but New Prague was too big to ignore. “That was the massacre, the one in which an entire colony was wiped out.”

  “Albatross Island?” McKay asked.

  “The prison planet,” I said.

  “Did you ever hear about the uprising?”

  “Every prisoner was killed,” I said. “Even the guards were killed.”

  “Dallas Prime? Volga? Electra?”

  “All massacres where U.A. forces lost control of their troops,” I said. “Officers ended up in jail for those battles.”

  “Those were the first battles after the victory in the Galactic Central War. Those were the battles that convinced Congress to outlaw Liberators. Lector fought in every one of them. So did Marshall and Saul.”

  “Are Marshall and Saul the other Liberators?” I asked.

  “Yes. Tony Marshall and Clearance Saul.

  “I don’t know where Thurston found three Liberators. It’s almost like he collects certain kinds of soldiers. He’s big on SEALs and Liberators.”

  “SEALs, sir?”

  McKay returned to his seat. “Just before I got moved down hear, I heard that Admiral Thurston put in for ten full squads of SEALs. The way things are going, I think Huang has to be behind all of this, and that can’t be good for either of us. I get the feeling that Admiral Thurston wants the remnants of Klyber’s old fleet swept under the rug, if you know what I mean.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Kamehameha separated from the rest of the fleet without any warning. One night I went to the rec room and watched the new ships through the viewport. When I returned the next day, all I could see was stars. Thanks to Thurston’s mania for security, nobody knew where we were going. Even Vince’s gym buddies were in the dark.

  We spent three days traveling to the nearest broadcast disc station, during
which time Command did not see fit to release information. My men started getting nervous. They were ready to fight, but they wanted to know something about the enemy. I had a hunch that we might attack the Japanese refugees of Ezer Kri. Huang and several politicians spent a lot of time trying to convince the public that these “ethnic purists” were a dangerous enemy. I did not think the Japanese were a threat and I did not want to hunt them down.

  Under our restructured chain of command I no longer drilled my own men. Sergeant Lector ran the firing range and Marshall and Saul ran the training grounds. Needless to say, my platoon’s performance spiked, and its morale dropped. Under Lector’s guidance, our overall marksmanship score improved by 18 percent. Marshall and Saul coaxed an average of five seconds off the platoon’s obstacle course times. But absenteeism rose, too. The men disliked drilling under the new Liberators. Some feigned illness. Two privates from another platoon showed up at sick bay claiming they had appendicitis. After an examination, the doctor determined they were fit. On the way back to their platoon, both men

  “stumbled.” They limped back to the infirmary with broken ankles. I never heard if they broke their own ankles or if they were ambushed.

  After passing through several discs, the Kamehameha headed into open space. We traveled for nine days before we finally received our briefing.

  Captain McKay led our platoon into an auditorium for the session. I had never seen that particular chamber before. It was on the third deck, deep in swabbie country. No one turned us away, however. Twenty-three hundred Marines, all dressed in Charlie Service greens, filed into the semicircular auditorium, with its gleaming white walls and black, mirrored floor. I did not recognize the Navy captain who conducted the briefing. A short, slender man whose red hair and ruddy skin contrasted sharply with his gleaming white uniform, the officer was undoubtedly part of Thurston’s new regime. He paid little attention to us fighting men as we entered. By the sound of things, I got the feeling no one else recognized the briefing officer either. A steady stream of anxious chatter echoed through the gallery. In the row behind me, a sergeant made a pointless attempt to quiet his men.

  “Now listen up, sea-soldiers, and maybe we can teach you something new today,” the captain called in a flat and well-practiced manner. He stood and switched on a holographic projector. The translucent image of a planet appeared on a screen above his head. The planet was shown in 3-D and seemed to bulge out of the screen as it rotated.

  “Our subject today is real estate and how to protect your land against squatters. The Unified Authority owns the land.” The captain broke every word into syllables and pronounced every syllable with equal emphasis. Rolling from his tongue, Unified Authority was pronounced “Un-if-ied [a half second pause]

  Au-thor-it-tay.”

  “The Unified Authority decides who uses the land. When anybody steps on land without the express consent of the Unified Authority, they are squatters and trespassers. Do you understand me, sea-soldiers?”

  The captain paused, giving us a chance to grasp his meaning.

  “The planet you see twirling above my head is currently known as ‘Little Man.’ The reason I say

  ‘currently known’ is because the planet has not been colonized. When Little Man is officially settled, the Senate will rename it. But then, I am sure you all knew that.”

  Actually, I did not know that planets received new names when they were colonized. The captain picked up a laser pointer from the podium and shined it into the image on the screen. The translucent planet turned solid wherever the red beam of the pointer touched. Some of the planet was covered with steel gray seas, but much of it was covered with green lands and dust-colored mountains. The laser pointer cut across the surface of the planet uncovering valleys and lakes.

  “Gentlemen, Little Man has a breathable atmosphere. Little Man is the right distance from a star to grow crops. God made Little Man capable of sustaining life without help from Unified Authority science. We could land a colony on Little Man this very day and it would be self-sufficient within three years.

  “Since our topic is real estate, sea-soldiers, I want you to know that this naturally life-sustaining atmosphere makes Little Man a very valuable piece of property. Do you understand me, sea-soldiers?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” we shouted as a group.

  “And they said you Leathernecks could not be taught,” the captain muttered into his microphone.

  “The only problem with Little Man is location.” The screen dissolved into a map of the galaxy, with its six spiral arms. A glowing red ball showed on the outermost edge of the Scutum-Crux Arm. “Some of you sea-soldiers may not be familiar with astronomical maps. This is a map of our galaxy. As you can see, Little Man is located on the edge of the galaxy. In real estate terms, this is not a prime location.” The captain pointed to the red ball with his laser pointer.

  “The edge of the galaxy is called ‘the extreme frontier.’ For strategic reasons, the Unified Authority has not seen fit to settle the extreme frontier.

  “It has come to our attention that squatters have trespassed on this valuable piece of property. Your government wants these extreme frontier trespassers evicted with extreme frontier prejudice.

  “Do you understand me, Marines?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” we yelled, and we meant it. For all of his disdain and his condescending attitude, the captain knew how to communicate with Marines. Give us an enemy and aim us at said enemy, then let us do what we do best. Electricity surged through every man in the auditorium. The image shifted to the surface of the planet. “This will be a land-op. The enemy has established a stronghold along the west coast of this continent. That means, sea-soldiers, you will launch your attack here.” The pointer landed on a long stretch of beach. “You will establish a beachhead and force these squatters off our property. Do you understand me, Marines?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Once we have broken the enemy’s backbone, we will proceed through these foothills, chasing the enemy inland. You will be provided with limited air support for that part of your mission.” As the captain said that, a red trail appeared on the screen, marking the path we would take. The map vanished from the screen and was replaced by the face of a middle-aged Japanese man with graying hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. “This is Yoshi Yamashiro. From what Captain Olivera tells me, you sea-soldiers have a score to settle with Mr. Yamashiro from Ezer Kri. For those of you with short memories, he is the man who looked the other way when one of your platoons was massacred.

  “I may not be a Marine, but I understand that U.A. Marines always collect on debts. Is that correct?”

  At those words the enthusiasm doubled. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Sea-soldiers, the Unified Authority does not care if you return with prisoners from this conflict. You are to carry out your duties with extreme prejudice. I should not have to say this to you Leathernecks, but I will. Do not hesitate to fire when fired upon. Do you understand me, Marines?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  The briefing ended at 1800 hours. Lee and I stopped by the sea-soldier’s bar on the way to the barracks. We found a table in the back and spoke quietly as we watched other men enter.

  “Was I hearing things or were we just given permission to massacre everybody on that planet?” I asked, as the bartender brought us our beers.

  “That’s what it sounded like to me,” Lee agreed.

  “I may be mistaken, but isn’t that considered a criminal act?” I asked.

  “Shit, Wayson! We’re trying to prevent a war. Those bastards ambushed a platoon. They shot down a frigate.” He picked up his beer and downed it in two long swigs.

  Never before had I noticed the dangerous side of Vince’s programming. Vince Lee had received instructions from a superior officer, and he accepted those instructions without further examination. That was how his generation of clones was programmed to act.

  “If the news of this massacre gets out, we may find our citizenship
officially revoked,” I said. “The Liberators who fought in the Galactic Central War were never allowed back into the Orion Arm for massacring prisoners on Albatross Island.”

  “I heard that they killed the guards,” Lee said. “And how would that news get out, anyway? We’re on the extreme frontier.”

  I knew about neural programming. Dammit, I knew that the new clones were programmed to take orders, but still I could not believe my ears. “You’re not bothered by any of this?”

  “Hold that thought,” Lee said. He got up from the table and went to the bar. By that time, a pretty big crowd of noncoms and conscripts had drifted in. It took Lee nearly fifteen minutes to order four beers and return with the bottles.

  “Okay,” he said as he sat down. “I think you were just telling me your latest conspiracy theory.”

  “Get specked,” I said. “Look, Lee, we’re not going to do this drop in boats. If the plan is to trap and massacre the enemy, why not drop down on the land side of the foothills and chase the enemy into the sea.”

  “They’re Japanese,” Lee said. “Maybe they are good swimmers.” He shrugged and downed his next beer.

  “You think that’s funny?” I asked.

  “Calm down. Robert Thurston planned this invasion. The guy is a friggin’ genius. He kicked Klyber’s ass.”

  I put up my hand to quiet Lee. So many noisy Marines had come to the bar to celebrate by then that I could barely hear him anyway. But not all of the patrons were enlisted men. Captain McKay sat at a nearby table flanked by Lector, Saul, and Marshall.

  “What is it?” Lee asked. He started to turn for a look, but stopped when I told him to sit still.

  “It’s McKay,” I said. “He’s sitting three tables from us with Lector and his boys.” I had never spoken with Saul or Marshall, but they were cut from the same helix as Lector. The three ghouls spent their free time clustered together, speaking in quiet tones and bullying enlisted men. Just then, they were huddled around McKay.

  “The Kamehameha was a better place before they transferred in,” one of the privates from our platoon said as he joined us. “Got room at your table?”