The Clone Republic (Clone 1)

by Steven L. Kent

  The man with the beard looked pleased as well. “Well, this is a rare pleasure,” he said, and he spilled a stack of gold-colored chips on the table. The other players groaned as Kline circled the table again, gathering cards and replacing them with new ones.

  “I’ll raise you,” Guttman said, and he carelessly tossed a stack of chips into the pot.

  Some of the other players placed their cards on the table facedown and backed out of the game.

  “Very aggressive move,” the bearded man said as he matched Guttman’s bid. “I have three kings.”

  Guttman sighed and leaned back in his chair as the man raked in his winnings, including the pistol.

  I watched this with growing irritation. Guttman, apparently enthralled by this situation, looked back at me and winked. Fortunately, no one could hear what I was uttering inside my helmet.

  “Do all soldiers carry these?” the man with the beard said as he hefted Guttman’s particle-beam pistol. He did not touch the grip or the trigger. Instead, he treated the gun as if it might explode, gingerly pinching the barrel with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Mostly we carry M27s,” Guttman said, “like the one Harris was wearing. I prefer the particle beam though, it’s worth a lot more money.” He laughed and squirmed in his seat, apparently anxious to start the next hand and win his weapon back.

  “Quite a hefty weapon,” the man said. “It must be very sturdy.”

  “You’d think so,” Guttman replied, “but they don’t do so well in the desert. We have piles of broken guns lying around our barracks.”

  “Is that so?” the man asked. “Replacements must be easy to come by?”

  “You kidding?” Guttman laughed. “Gobi Station used to be an armory. The place is a damned munitions depot. Isn’t that right?” Guttman asked, turning in his chair to look at me.

  I did not answer.

  “I see,” said the bearded man. He seemed to sense the tension coiling between Guttman and me. “So I shall need to take special precautions to keep this in working order.”

  “Can we get on with the game?” a player called from across the table.

  Kline dealt another hand of cards. This time Guttman had two queens and a king facing down, with a four and eight facing up. From what I could tell, he was not happy with these cards. As he had done in the last game, Guttman pushed three cards forward, then tossed some chips into the center of the table. Everybody else followed.

  Kline pivoted around the table a second time, giving Guttman two fives and an ace. A few of the other players grimaced. Kline tapped his cards against his tiny chin. Guttman ripped a thunderous fart, then feigned embarrassment while giggling under his breath. Throughout the last hand, he had kept one platinum chip hidden under his cards. When his third bid came, he selected that chip and slid it forward. “I call,” he said.

  Three of the other players grumbled and threw down their cards. Kline rolled his slow brown eyes. He looked at his cards, looked at the chips on the table, looked at his cards, and dropped his hand as well. “I’m out,” he said.

  The bearded man stayed in.

  Silently, Kline proceeded to move around the table changing cards for the three players who stayed in the game.

  Guttman took two.

  So did the man with the beard. Whatever the man got, it made him happy. He grinned and threw a platinum chip and two gold ones onto the table. They jingled and spun as they settled on the pile.

  Guttman’s beefy hands hid his cards from my view; but I got the feeling he was strong. He started bouncing so hard in his chair that I expected it to splinter. He looked like a drowning man fighting for air. His chips were low, and I thought he might need to leave the game; but Guttman whispered something to Kline, and the dealer handed him another rack of chips. With a wicked grin, Guttman selected three gold chips and tossed them in the pot. Only then did I realize how Guttman had gotten that second rack of chips: He’d wagered my pistol.

  I started to get up, but Guttman raised a hand to stop me. “It’s okay, Harris,” he said. “I have everything under control.”

  I wanted to kill Guttman, but I couldn’t. My pistol was gone, and the only chance I had to get it back would be if Guttman won the hand.

  The bearded man’s eyes positively sparkled now. He smiled across the table at Guttman. “You are quite the player,” he said.

  “How many?” Kline asked.

  “Two,” said Guttman, and he pushed two cards forward.

  Kline leaned forward and took the cards, then dealt new ones. I saw what they were as Guttman inspected them—two queens. Guttman spilled two-thirds of his chips onto the table.

  “Unexpected,” the man with the beard said. “Wiser men . . .” With this he slid Guttman’s blaster into the pot. “This sees and raises the stakes, does it not?”

  Guttman pressed his fingers on the tops of his cards. “You must be pretty confident,” he said.

  I sure as hell did not feel confident.

  Perhaps it finally dawned on Guttman that he might have to explain how he had lost both of our pistols. Perhaps, having no more guns to pawn, Guttman finally noticed the jagged edges behind the bearded man’s smile. He gathered up the few chips he had left, and said, “Let’s see what you have.”

  The mystery man showed all of his cards—three kings and two aces.

  Guttman let out a long breathy whistle. “A crowded house? Nice hand,” he said as he turned over his cards, showing four queens, “but I think the pot is mine.”

  He turned to grin at me, but his smile vanished when he saw that I had climbed out of my chair. “I would like my pistol,” I said to Kline.

  “Don’t leave now,” Guttman said. He jumped to his feet and walked over to me. Putting his hand by his mouth to block others from hearing, he whispered, “I’m just getting my stride. I’m about to clean these suckers dry.”

  Stepping around Four-Cheeks, I grabbed my gun.

  “Listen, pal,” Guttman said, grabbing me by my shoulder. Before I realized what I was doing, I spun and slammed my fist into Guttman’s mouth. His legs locked and fell out from under him as he dropped flat on his ass. Rather than attempt to get up, he sat where he fell, wiping blood from his split lip.

  “I’m leaving now,” I said. This time, Guttman made no attempt to stop me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Old and sparse and dilapidated, Gobi Station did not have air-conditioning or any other form of climate control. It did not matter during the winter, when a cooling draft blew through the open-air corridors and enormous verandas, but winter ended so suddenly that it seemed like somebody switched it off. One day we had a breeze and the next morning the winds were withering. Daytime temperatures reached a dry 120 degrees. When the desert cooled after sunset, the temperature dropped to a tolerable 90 degrees.

  Glan Godfrey continued making his cursory announcements every few days as we ate breakfast out of Meals Ready to Eat (MRE) tins. He didn’t care if we listened or if we whispered back and forth as he spoke. A couple of weeks after my first visit to Morrowtown, however, Godfrey showed up for breakfast with a regulation haircut and a shave. He told us to put down our forks and pay attention.

  Godfrey passed around a photograph. Someone called, “Pictures from home?”

  “Shut up and listen,” Godfrey said in an uncharacteristically severe voice. “The entire Central Cygnus Fleet is on alert. Command is looking for this man. His name is . . .” Godfrey paused to check the bulletin. “Amos Crowley. Have any of you grunts seen him?”

  “Doesn’t he live in Morrowtown?” Lars Rickman joked with the man sitting next to him.

  I was laughing with everybody else when Dalmer passed the picture my way. Crowley had intense dark eyes, white hair, and a thick white beard. I looked over at Taj Guttman squirming in his seat. We both recognized him, though Guttman clearly did not want to say anything. It was the man from the card game.

  “What is he wanted for?” I asked.

  “The bulletin doesn�
�t say much about what he’s done,” Godfrey said. He held his notes up and read in a soft voice that almost seemed meant for a private conversation. “‘Crowley is sought for involvement in several seditious activities. ’ The brass in Washington labeled him an enemy of the Republic.”

  “He’ll fit right in on Gobi; nobody likes the U.A. over here,” someone bawled from the back of the room.

  “Crowley was a general in the Army,” Godfrey said. The laughing stopped, but I could hear men whispering to each other. “That makes him special. He was the highest-ranking general in the Perseus Arm before he disappeared. Now Washington wants a word with him in the worst way.”

  “He might be here,” I said, and the hall went silent. “I saw him two weeks ago. One of Guttman’s card games.”

  Glan Godfrey turned toward me. “Are you certain about this, Harris?”

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly feeling like a Marine again.

  “What about you, Guttman?”

  “It was a while ago . . .” he said. “I mean, I guess that looks like him, but I was . . .”

  “You festering sack of eye pus,” Godfrey said in a voice that echoed a dawning realization. “Did you bet your sidearm?” When Guttman did not answer, Godfrey’s glare hardened. “Shit, Guttman, you lost your sidearm, didn’t you?”

  “I won it back with the next hand.” Guttman sounded scared.

  “Shut your speck-receptacle!” Godfrey snapped. “Fleet Command is going to want a full report. I’ll be surprised if we don’t all end up in front of a firing squad for this, Four-Cheeks.” He glared at Guttman for another moment, then turned toward me, and said, “Harris, come with me.”

  Taking short, brisk strides, and not saying a word, Godfrey ushered me to his office. He worked in a cavernous chamber that had probably once served as an entire office complex. The platoon could have bunked in the space. Real estate was never a problem on Gobi.

  Godfrey’s desk sat in a far corner. Light poured in through arc-shaped windows along the domed ceiling. “I need you to report what you saw to Fleet Command,” Godfrey said, as we walked toward his desk.

  “You want me to do it?”

  “I’m not letting Guttman anywhere near Command. Harris, we’re in trouble here. Admiral Brocius has taken a personal interest in this hunt. You think I’m going to show him that moron?”

  “Brocius?” I asked, feeling numb in the knees. Vice Admiral Alden Brocius, the highest-ranking officer in the Central Cygnus Fleet, had a reputation for being hard-nosed.

  Godfrey chuckled bitterly. “Brocius is personally directing the manhunt.” He looked at me and smiled. “Don’t worry about your career, Harris. You’re on Gobi, you’re already in the shits.”

  Godfrey crouched in front of his communications console and typed in a code. A young ensign appeared on the screen. He studied Godfrey for a moment, then asked the nature of the call. Godfrey said he had a positive sighting of Amos Crowley, and the ensign put the call on hold. When the screen flashed on again, Brocius, a tall and slender man with jet-black hair and brown eyes, stared back at us.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” the admiral asked in a brusque voice.

  “Two of my men spotted General Crowley.”

  “I see,” Brocius said, sounding more interested. “You have a positive identification?”

  “Yes, sir. One of the men who identified him is with me now.”

  “Let’s have a word with him,” Brocius said.

  Godfrey saluted and moved back. I stepped forward and saluted.

  “What is your name, son?”

  “PFC Wayson Harris, sir.”

  “You saw Amos Crowley?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you believe he is still on Gobi?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe he has left the planet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you believe he is still on Gobi?”

  “He did not tell the private his plans, sir.”

  “I realize that,” Brocius said, starting to sound irritated. “Do you think he is still on Gobi?”

  I did not know how to answer. I had no idea if Crowley was still on Gobi, and Brocius did not seem to care. It seemed like the admiral wanted me to say that Crowley was still here. I stole a glance at Godfrey and saw him nodding.

  “Well, which is it?”

  “He may be here, sir.”

  “I see. Very well then, put the sergeant back on.”

  Godfrey stepped up to the receiver. “Your man does not seem confident,” Brocius said. “Still, if there is anything to it . . . I’ll send someone to investigate.”

  Perhaps I overestimated Crowley’s importance. I don’t think that I expected the Central Cygnus Fleet to converge on Gobi, but I did expect a significant force. I expected marshals guarding the spaceport and a surveillance fleet blockading the planet . . . a full-blown manhunt. Admiral Brocius did not send any of those things. He sent one man—Ray Freeman.

  Three days after my interview with Admiral Brocius, a beat-up barge appeared in the sky above our base. It was early in the morning, and the barge left a contrail of oily smoke in the otherwise immaculate sky. Lars Rickman and I happened to be standing in a breezeway enjoying the 90-degree morning chill when the ship first appeared. We watched as it touched down on the loading area beside our outer wall, its gear making a shrill grinding noise as it settled on the tarmac.

  “What a wreck,” Rickman said, as we trotted down for a closer look.

  The barge had battered armor. Some of the plates around its cockpit had curled along the edges. There were rows of inset doors along its forty-foot hull that looked as if they might have housed an impressive array of weapons.

  “This bitch has been through a war,” Rickman said. He had a bemused smile as he looked back and forth along the spaceship’s dilapidated hull. As we walked around the rear of the ship, the hatch opened, and Ray Freeman emerged—the biggest man I have ever met, standing at least seven feet tall with arms and legs as thick as most men’s chests.

  Freeman was a “black man.” Understand that since the United States brought the world together in a single “unified authority,” racial terms like “African,” “Oriental,” and “Caucasian” had become meaningless. Under the Unified Authority, the Earth became the political center of the galaxy. Most commerce, manufacturing, and farming were done in the territories, and the territories were fully integrated. I heard rumors about certain races refusing to marry outside of their own; but for the most part, we had become a one-race nation. So when Ray Freeman, whose skin was the color of coffee without a trace of cream, stepped out of his ship, it was like the return of an extinct species.

  It wasn’t just that Freeman was taller and several shades darker than any man I had ever seen. It was that his biceps were the size of a grown man’s skull when he bent his arms, and his triceps looked like slabs of rock when his arms hung straight. And it was that you could see the outlines of those muscles through the stiff, bulletproof canvas of his sleeves.

  Freeman’s shaved head was so massive that it looked like he was wearing a helmet. A small knot of scars formed a paisley pattern on the back of his skull. He had a wide nose, which looked as if it had been broken several times, and thick lips. His neck was as wide around as either of my thighs. It completely filled the collar of his jumper, a garment that looked lost between Army fatigues and a pilot’s uniform. Dents and scratches dotted every inch of the massive armored plate that covered his chest and shoulders. Judging by the scars and battered armor, I knew this man had enemies.

  “Who commands this outpost?” Freeman asked.

  “That would be Sergeant Godfrey,” Rickman said, looking more than a little intimidated.

  “Take me to him,” Freeman said, in a soft and low voice that reminded me of gunfire echoing in a valley.

  Without saying a word, Rickman turned and walked straight to Godfrey’s office. Relieved to get away from the giant, I stayed ba
ck to examine this strange, old ship. When Rickman returned a few moments later, he mumbled something like, “tear off his friggin’ head and spit in the holes.”

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” Rickman said.

  “I think I’ll stay out of his way,” I said.

  “Don’t count on it,” Rickman said. “He sent me out here to get you.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not. You get to go meet with Chuckles down in Godfrey’s office.”

  I took a deep breath and headed for the barracks to grab my helmet. By that time, it occurred to me that Admiral Brocius might have sent the visitor, and I did not want to be caught out of uniform twice in one night. When I reported to Godfrey, I saw Freeman sitting cramped behind the sergeant’s desk as if it were his own. Godfrey met me as I closed the door.

  “Harris, this is Ray Freeman. He is here on orders from Admiral Brocius,” Godfrey said, using the interLink system built into our helmets so that Freeman would not hear us.

  “Here to catch . . . ?” I asked.

  “He’s a mercenary,” Godfrey said, “and a real charmer.”

  “Two men saw Crowley,” Freeman said in that same implacable voice.

  “The other man was Private Guttman,” Godfrey answered on his open microphone.

  “Get him,” Freeman said.

  “Go get him, Harris,” Godfrey said.

  As I started to leave, Freeman said, “You go get him, Sergeant. I want to speak with the private.” Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to go look for Guttman.

  Sergeant Godfrey left without looking back.

  “Remove your helmet,” Freeman said as he placed a folder with the Central Cygnus Fleet seal on the desk. “This is the man you saw?” he asked, pulling a photograph from the top of the folder.

  “Yes,” I said. “I saw him enter a poker game in Morrowtown.”

  “You’re sure this was the man?”

  I nodded.