“I don’t think Klyber had anything to do with this,” I said.
“You can’t order this kind of hardware without HQ’s permission,” Lee said.
As our transport landed on the Kamehameha, I told Lee about the news story I had seen. When I described seeing Klyber in the Senate, he shook his head. “And leave the fleet to an underaged outworlder?” He smiled. “Klyber wouldn’t do that.”
But we both knew that he had.
Under Bryce Klyber, the fleet ran efficiently. Under Thurston, it ran precisely. Prior to returning from leave of absence, I would have thought running efficiently and operating precisely meant the same thing.
When Lee and I reached the barracks, we saw a training schedule posted on the wall. The schedule had slots for the gunnery range, exercise, obstacle and field training, tactical review, and meals. Nights were generally open. With Admiral Klyber at the helm, sergeants evaluated their own platoons and trained them accordingly. Now that Thurston controlled the fleet, officers attended drills and gave out evaluations.
“Damn,” said Lee. “Somebody is serious about this.”
According to the schedule, the platoon was drilling when we arrived. Looking at that schedule, I felt a cold spot in my stomach. Yes, it addressed important issues like tighter discipline, but I could not ignore the gnawing feeling that officers had wrestled away my authority over my men.
“I wonder what else has changed,” I said, as we went to stow our gear.
“Judging by this schedule, I don’t think you are going to need to worry about marksmanship anymore,” he said.
Maybe it was the emptiness of the barracks or maybe it was the pain in the small of my back. I looked around at the quarters. The beds were made, the lockers were neat. The air in the Kamehameha was dry and cool, and bright lights cast a dull glare in every inch of the room. I thought about the villa we rented in Hawaii. I thought about Kasara, her messy apartment, and the way she looked when I first saw her on the beach. I opened my locker, stowed my clothes, and saw my armor.
As I folded my duffel and placed it in the back of my locker, the clatter of boots cut through the silence. The hatch opened and my men clambered in. I expected to see Sergeant Grayson leading the group, so I was surprised when a man I had never seen before bellowed out orders. The man was a Liberator—First Sergeant Booth Lector.
Liberator clones, like Lector and me, stand just over six feet, three inches tall—four inches taller than later models. Something in Lector’s demeanor made him seem even taller. He seemed to fill the room. He had iron gray hair and a bushy mustache that came down along the corners of his mouth. His face, neck, and hands were covered with small scars, including a bald strip through his right eyebrow. Seeing that particular scar, I became very aware of a similar one I brought home as a souvenir from my fight with Boyd.
Upon seeing me in the office at the back of the barracks, Lector dismissed the men. His mouth curled into a snarl, revealing two missing teeth. The Corps did not waste other prosthetics on enlisted men, but even clones could get their teeth replaced.
“Sergeant Harris,” Lector said in a voice that was surprisingly high and stiff. “May I have a word with you?” He had entered my office, a soundproof cubbyhole of a room with a large window that opened to the rest of the barracks.
Glancing out the window, I saw the men in the platoon gathering around Vince Lee. By the pats on the back and the excited expressions, I could tell they were glad to see him. This new sergeant had clearly worked them hard, and they probably hoped that Lee and I would return things to normal.
Not all of the men came to see Lee, however. Several younger-looking privates quietly stowed their rifles and armor. It was difficult to separate the new faces from the old in an all-clone platoon, but I assumed these were replacements who had arrived while Lee and I were away on leave.
“Sure,” I said, feeling a bit off-balance. As I reached to shut the door, Vince Lee, who had already changed into uniform, stepped into the office. He stood silently in the entrance.
“Perhaps we could find someplace more private to speak,” said Lector. “Why don’t you come with me to the gunnery range.”
Standing behind Lector, where the sergeant would not see him, Lee shook his head. His mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes fixed directly on mine. Vince looked nervous, but he need not have worried. I was not about to go to the range with this man. Lector’s rage was primal and open.
“Look, Sergeant . . .” I realized that I did not know his name.
“Lector.”
“Sergeant Lector,” I said, “I just got back from two weeks’ leave. Perhaps we can talk later.”
“Excuse me, Harris,” Lee broke in. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I heard that Captain McKay is looking for you.”
“Maybe we can have that conversation when I get back,” I said, glad to excuse myself. Lector gazed at me. There was an angry chill in his expression. He also had an unmistakable air of competence. Talking to Lector, I had the feeling that he was a man who accomplished whatever he set out to do, good or bad. I remembered how angry Shannon was the first time I met him, but Shannon was a cool breeze compared to Lector. Lector’s anger seethed. It felt focused and vicious.
“We’ll speak later,” Lector snarled, turning sharply and leaving the office.
“That was scary,” I said. I thought Lee had made up that story about McKay to help me escape Lector. That was not the case. Captain McKay really was looking for me. Stopping only to put on my cap, I left the barracks.
McKay worked out of a small office in an administrative section, two decks above our barracks. He was a young officer on the fast track. Few majors or colonels had offices so near the top brass.
But a lot had changed in the two weeks that I was away. Stepping off the elevator, I saw a small, wooden plaque on the door. The plaque was new and so was the name—“Lt. Colonel Stephen Kaiser.” 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 b
een 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?”
The Clone Republic (Clone 1) Page 29