The Clone Assassin

by Steven L. Kent

“Why didn’t she warn Harris?” asked Freeman. “Was she working for them?”

  “What do you want me to do about Story?” asked the man at the door.

  “Tell Story I’ll be down in five minutes.” He glared up at Freeman, and said, “She didn’t warn Harris because she thought they were his clones. She would have tried to help once the trouble started, but there was another person in the room keeping her quiet. There was another guest at the party.”

  Freeman ran the data through his head and said, “You were there.”

  “Right again,” said Pugh. “That other person was me.”

  Freeman said “Where is Harris?”

  “He’s safe,” said Pugh.

  “Take me to him,” said Freeman.

  “He’s safe, Freeman. That doesn’t mean you are.”

  Freeman sat over Pugh and considered the information, not worried about Pugh’s screaming for help; he’d already conquered the gangster. Freeman said, “Your men didn’t spot the clones, they were waiting for them.”

  Pugh laughed. “You know, Freeman, you’re a smart man. You’re not just muscle. Tell you what; I’ll take you to Harris. First things first, though, I got a favor I need done.”

  • • •

  “How do you like that, the chief of police has come to chat with me in my humble abode. To what do I owe this honor, Officer Story?” asked Pugh as he came down the stairs.

  “You tell me, Pugh,” said Story.

  “If I had to guess, I would assume this was a social call. I can’t think of any other reason for you to be here.”

  “What about a missing Marine?” asked Story.

  They stood in a foyer, just inside one of the dormitory entrances. With two of Story’s policemen stationed outside the door and three of Pugh’s men guarding the halls, no stragglers would disturb them.

  Story wore a suit and tie. Pugh wore a short-sleeved button-up. Both men were tall, heavy, in their forties. Both men exuded confidence. They met each other’s gazes and toyed with each other’s patience.

  “Harris, right? Wasn’t that his name?” asked Pugh.

  “That’s the one,” said Story. “He’s a three-star general. The Pentagon sent a few guys down here. They’ll send a whole lot more if we can’t find him . . . or if he turns up dead.”

  They sat together on a couch in a foyer. A moment later, one of Pugh’s men brought them each a cup of coffee. Pugh said, “I heard you found dead clones in his hotel room.”

  Story asked, “How did you hear that?”

  “We’re in a relocation camp. Most of your officers live here. You snuck one of them in this very building, a policeman living on the first floor; imagine that. You didn’t really think you could keep that a secret did you?”

  Story said, “I hoped I could.” He asked, “What do you know about Harris?”

  “How would I know anything?” Pugh asked, inwardly hoping the policeman accepted this answer more readily than Freeman had.

  “The same way you know about the clones,” said Story. “Mazatlán may be a small town in a big territory, but you control it. Not much happens around here without your hearing about it.”

  What do I want Freeman to hear me say? Pugh wondered. Freeman was hiding in the next room. He wouldn’t know if Pugh passed notes to Story as they spoke. The big merc had two M27s, but the police had guns as well.

  The son of a bitch hit me, Pugh reminded himself. He deserves whatever he gets.

  But Pugh knew that he would not hand Freeman over to the police if for no other reason than because he was scared. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t trust the police any more than he trusted Freeman, but it wasn’t true. He had spies among the police.

  Story drained his coffee, and said, “Your coffee isn’t any better than ours.”

  “You expected something better?” asked Pugh.

  “Of course.”

  “How would we get good coffee? We’re living on the same rations as you.”

  Story didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “You should have seen the guy who came looking for that Marine. They sent a giant.”

  “I heard about him. A black man, right?” In his imagination, Pugh saw Freeman listening in, cocking his M27s as he heard these words and preparing to fight. He hoped that was the case. He wanted to send Freeman the message that he wasn’t scared even if it wasn’t true.

  “How did you know that?” Story asked as he placed the empty coffee cup on the floor beside his chair. One of Pugh’s “friends” trotted over and took the cup away.

  “I hear he knocked one of your boys flat on his ass.”

  “That got out, too?” asked Story.

  “Yeah, well, what happens at the scene of the crime doesn’t necessarily stay at the scene of the crime.”

  “What do you know about the crime itself?” asked Story.

  Pugh put up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. He said, “Nothing.”

  “You knew about the clones.”

  “Okay, as I understand it, there were dead clones at the scene.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, the Pentagon sent a giant black man down to investigate it. That’s it. That’s everything I know.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  They went to the sitting area in which Freeman had first introduced himself to the gangsters. Pugh said, “I hope you don’t mind having this discussion in the open with my boys around. The last time I had a private meeting with you, I ended up with a sore jaw.”

  Freeman, who sat with an M27 on his lap, had already evaluated the situation. Pugh had five of his men, big, beefy guys, most of whom would not think twice about attacking a smaller, unarmed enemy. Pugh hadn’t come to fight. If the discussion went violent, he would back away and let his men handle the action.

  Two of the men were scared. Freeman saw it in the way they insisted on looking him in the eye, in their overly corrected deadpan stares, and in the way they hid their hands. Another of Pugh’s men looked like the type who ran, two of them would fight and die.

  These weren’t Pugh’s best men. Watching the way that Pugh regarded them, Freeman saw that they were expendable.

  Lights blazed under the awning, illuminating everything and everyone beneath it, shrouding the surrounding grounds in shadow. Freeman could not be certain, but he would operate under the assumption that Pugh had an assassin in the shadows holding an M27.

  He hoped it was the M27. If Pugh went to his former allies, the ones who’d left those SCUBA tanks on the beach, there might well be a trained military sniper behind that trigger.

  Showing no nervousness, Freeman said, “You mentioned a deal.”

  “Yeah,” said Pugh. “I got somebody I want you to visit.”

  “Who?” asked Freeman. While he listened, he watched the men around him for clues about the assassin. Did they become more restless? Did they look ready to duck for cover?

  Pugh sat near the edge of the tent. He would run. He would hide in the darkness. Anyone coming after him would make an easy target.

  Pugh said, “This may come as a shock, but I don’t necessarily get along with my competitors.

  “I’m a big fish here in Mazatlán, but every city has its own big fish, see, and some big fish want to nest in other fish’s ponds. Over in the mountains, there’s a shark named Petrie. He’s the biggest fish in the Territories. Back on Olympus Kri, he was the big fish there as well.”

  “What kind of business does he do?” asked Freeman.

  “Same as me, girls, gambling, guns, drugs. The difference between him and me is that he kept it up on Mars. I wanted to hang my shingle, too. There was plenty of demand at the spaceport, but I couldn’t get my hands on the merchandise.”

  Seventeen million people living in lawless squalor, Freeman reminded himself. Anyone with drugs to sell or private rooms for sex would make a fortune.

  “How did he do it?” asked Freeman. All the cargo coming into Mars Spaceport was shipped in by the government. The sp
aceport was so crowded that the only uninhabited areas were high-security ones.

  “Simple enough,” said Pugh. “Ryan has friends in high places.”

  “Who does he know?” asked Freeman.

  “Riley.”

  “Martin Riley?” asked Freeman. He knew the name. Colonel Martin Riley had been the head of Spaceport Security when the New Olympians lived in it. He was also one of the first “converts,” one of the first clones that the Unifieds captured and reprogrammed. They’d reprogrammed Riley and all his men. After their “conversion,” Spaceport Security clones joined forces with the Unified Authority.

  Pugh said, “Petrie had another ally, a guy named Franklin Nailor. You heard of him?”

  Freeman nodded.

  “I figured.”

  Nailor was a mystery. The things that some people knew about him, everyone knew. Everybody knew that Nailor was an important player and that he worked for the Unified Authority Intelligence Agency during the war, but nobody knew anything else.

  “Yeah, well, Petrie is the reason I hooked up with those clones. Petrie has the Unies watching his back. He’s bigger than me already, having the Unies on his side makes him much too big to live with if you see what I mean.”

  Freeman asked, “Why would the Unified Authority bother with a New Olympian gangster?”

  “I don’t know if the entire Unified Authority is buddying up with Petrie, but Franklin Nailor is.”

  “So the clones that came to get Harris weren’t working for Nailor?” asked Freeman. That explained why they were late. If the attack on Harris wasn’t part of the Unified’s plans, maybe it was in reaction to it.

  Pugh said, “They weren’t working for Nailor, and they sure as hell weren’t working for the Unies. And they sure as hell weren’t working for Harris. You should have seen the way they went after him.

  “They never said who they were working for, just who they were working against.”

  “And the girl?” asked Freeman.

  “She didn’t have anything to do with it. I told you that. I said I’d help them hit Harris so long as Kasara walked out without any new holes.”

  “Your men met them on the beach?”

  “Just like you said,” Pugh admitted.

  Freeman looked at the men around him. The talking had gone on long enough for four of them to have relaxed; one still looked ready to spring. If he pulled the M27 off his lap, Freeman could have hit all five of them and left Pugh breathing . . . and he knew which one he’d have to hit first.

  And the assassin? he wondered. By this time Freeman had determined that Pugh had brought along the assassin for protection rather than an ambush. He was the ace Pugh had hidden up his sleeve.

  “You let them into Harris’s hotel room,” said Freeman.

  “Yeah. I waited until Harris went into the shower, then I let them in. Kasara thought they were his men right up until the third guy shot him. The first two went into the bathroom, and we never saw them again. They had guns, M27s. You’re holding one of them.”

  Pugh paused, looked Freeman in the eye for just a moment, then looked away. He said, “Harris put those first two out of their misery like he was doing them a favor. Something crashed in the bathroom. The water was still running. It sounded like somebody dropped a glass or something. Kasara said something about making sure he was okay, and I told her, ‘Jeez, the man is in the specking shower.’ That was enough for her up to that point because it all happened so fast.

  “Another moment, and the third clone peeks into the bathroom. He fired a shot, and that was everything I saw. I mean, that did it. Kasara started screaming and shrieking and trying to run to help him. My niece and Harris are . . . um, attached at the hip, if you know what I mean; she would have done whatever it took to save him. Can you believe it? Three trained commandos attacking a Liberator clone, and my skinny little niece wants to run to the rescue.

  “I had to grab her and wrestle her to the bed. She barely weighs a hundred pounds, that little girl, but she put up a fight that time.

  “When I heard the shot, I figured it was over, then Harris came charging out of that bathroom like he’d been fired from a cannon. He was like a rocket, like a missile, and he flew into that last clone and snapped his neck as neatly as you please. I tell you what, at that point I’m thinking, ‘Shit, I put my money on the wrong horse.’

  “But he was hurt. His feet were all shredded and the blood leaking from his gut . . . you could have floated a yacht in it.

  “By this time, Kasara was crying and punching me and begging me to help him. I made a snap decision. Snap decisions always bite you on the ass, you know that?

  “I rolled Harris up in a blanket and carried him out of there. I took him to a secure place; somewhere we could hide him. That’s where he is right now, hidden.”

  Freeman thought about the hotel room, how it had looked that morning, and later that evening when he broke in. He thought about the blood on the floor in the bathroom and the huge stain just outside it. There hadn’t been any blood anywhere else. The story fit.

  “You had your men clean the room?” asked Freeman.

  “If you mean sweep up the shells and remake the bed, yeah, my men cleaned the room. We had the room clean before the police arrived.”

  At the moment, Ryan Petrie didn’t matter, neither did the dead clones or the girl named Kasara. Freeman had come for Harris, not to take sides in a gang war, but he was a patient man. Having spent his life working with generals and politicians, Freeman understood the gangster’s mind. Favors, bribes, and power bought allies.

  He said, “Tell me what I need to know about Petrie.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Location: Washington, D.C.

  Date: July 20, 2519

  The clones around the Pentagon accepted Travis Watson’s authority. Obeying authority figures was hardwired into their genes. Clones had trouble ascending to power, even those who wanted to, but accepting authority came naturally because they had been designed to take orders.

  Only a select circle of officers knew that Watson had replaced Cutter as the leader of the empire. Alan Cardston knew, and so did the top officers in Pentagon Security. They didn’t refer to Watson as “Mr. President” though. They simply called him “sir.”

  Military clones referred to all natural-born males over the age of eighteen as “sir.” When they became nervous, enlisted clones sometimes referred to authoritative women as “sirs” as well.

  As the “transitional president,” Watson had become the temporary head of the Enlisted Man’s Empire even though he had never served in the military. He had permission to run the Empire, but not to become a true citizen. The clones around him, officers and enlisted men alike, treated him like an outsider.

  He watched the officers who served under him. They guarded him and obeyed him, but they did little to hide their resentment. Why should they? They had liberated themselves from natural-born rule and conquered the nation of natural-borns that had created and abandoned them only to wind up with a natural-born ruler.

  Watson had many reasons for hoping Harris was alive—handing over the reins ranked high among the top.

  He wasn’t nervous of assassination. As far as he knew, the only clone who had killed his superiors was Harris, and Harris was missing. Outside of Hauser, MacAvoy, Ritz, Cardston, and Pentagon Security, no one knew about Watson’s coronation. Few people even knew about Don Cutter’s death. The assassin who had committed the crime was dead; Hauser’s MPs caught him trying to steal a transport. Once he’d known he was caught, he locked himself in the cockpit and killed himself.

  Freeman called on an official line. The receptionist said, “Sir, Ray Freeman is on the line.” Watson’s receptionist had always called him “sir.” He didn’t know about Watson’s recent job promotion.

  Watson nodded and took the call, wondering what Freeman would say about his becoming king of the clones.

  As soon as Watson identified himself, Freeman
said, “I’ve located Harris.”

  “Is he alive?” asked Watson.

  “I haven’t seen him yet,” said Freeman. “From what I hear, he is alive and convalescing.”

  “I’ll send a medical transport and doctors,” said Watson.

  “Not just yet,” said Freeman. “The locals say they aren’t ready to turn him over.”

  “I can send troops.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet? If they have Harris . . .”

  “I want to work with them.”

  “Work with the people who abducted Harris?”

  “They didn’t take him, not by force.”

  “I was in that room; he didn’t go willingly.”

  Freeman asked, “Do you know Harris’s girlfriend?”

  Watson asked, “You mean Sunny? Sure. I know her. What does she have to do with this?”

  “How well do you know her?”

  Watson started to say that he knew her well, then stopped to reconsider. He and Emily had doubled with Harris and Sunny on three, maybe four dates. She chatted mostly with Harris when they went out, asked Watson a few questions, and ignored Emily entirely.

  “I’ve talked with her.”

  “What about Harris?”

  “What about him?”

  “How serious is Harris about her?”

  Watson didn’t know how to answer the question. He started to say something about Harris loving her and stopped. Does he love her? he asked himself. He knew about Ava Gardner and Harris. She’d been a Hollywood screen goddess, then word got out that she was a clone. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The news of her origins broke about the same time that the Pentagon decided to abandon its military-cloning project. She was an innocent swept up in a time of fear and anger.

  Harris and Ava had fallen in love during the days when all clones were banished from Earth. She died during the second wave of the alien invasion. He never spoke of her. Cutter had talked about her, though. So did Colonel Ritz. Listening to them, Watson got the feeling that Harris would have married her.

  If the rumors were true, she had been unfaithful to Harris. She had taken up with a natural-born. Ritz and Cutter agreed about that much. They did not agree about what came next. Ritz thought Harris left her on a planet that the aliens were about to incinerate. He said Harris left her there to burn.