The Clone Redemption (11 page)

“Captain Miyamoto has sent for you,” said the ensign.

Already wallowing in insecurities, Oliver jumped to conclusions. He assumed this meant he would not be allowed to attend his men's Kamikaze farewell. At first he was angry, then he felt more ashamed than ever. Maybe he did not belong at the ceremony. Maybe a leader who did not accompany his men on a suicidal mission did not deserve to attend their last ceremony.

Oliver saluted and acknowledged the order. He turned to Warren, tried to sound upbeat, and said, “Give my regards to Admiral Yamashiro.”

“The admiral is not here,” said the ensign.

Not here?
thought Oliver.
It's not just me. He's dismissing the SEALs from his mind. Perhaps we haven't lived up to his expectations.
As these thoughts ran through his mind, the master chief began to believe he had dishonored his men. It was not a rational thought, and he knew it. It was part of his neural programming. He knew that as well, but he could not do anything to change it.

Oliver did not speak as he followed the ensign up to the bridge. He considered all the things he might have done wrong and all the reasons Yamashiro might have for dismissing him. Only a day had passed since he took command of the SEALs. The only misdeed that came to mind was showing the video feed of Illych's mission to his men.

They passed several sailors on the way to Miyamoto's office, both male and female. The men mostly ignored Oliver. A pretty female petty officer third class smiled at him. The ensign noticed this and scowled. Oliver pretended not to see her.

Rumor had it that the SEALs protected the female sailors in the Japanese Fleet. In the three years that the Fleet had been in Bode's Galaxy, none of the women had been raped or assaulted. The women credited the SEALs for the men's lawabiding behavior.

The SEALs did not fraternize with women. Because they saw themselves as hideous, they spoke to almost no one, especially not women. When women looked in their direction, the SEALs turned away and felt ashamed.

The ensign took Oliver to Captain Miyamoto's office, just off the bridge. When Miyamoto came to the door, he and the ensign spoke in Japanese. Oliver listened, pretending not to understand.

Miyamoto asked, “Why did you take so long?”

The ensign answered, “He did not know the mission was canceled.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him the admiral was not aboard the ship.”

Miyamoto grunted, then asked, “What's wrong?”

“Sir, a woman smiled at the
kage no yasha
as we came to meet you.”

Miyamoto laughed, and said, “Do not worry, the women in the Fleet see them only as their protectors. If she has a dog back on Earth, she probably smiles at the dog the same way.”

The ensign nodded, and said, “Yes, sir.” He saluted Captain Miyamoto and left the office.

Miyamoto kept the master chief standing at attention as he sat behind his desk. He said, “At ease, Master Chief.”

Oliver relaxed his posture.

“We have canceled the mission,” said Miyamoto.

Having just overheard the conversation at the door, Oliver had to pretend to be surprised. He asked, “Was there a reason, sir?”

Miyamoto had been the first officer to question the idea of sending men down to the moon, though he would never admit it. He persuaded Yamashiro to reconsider wasting men on a fruitless mission. Now he said, “Admiral Yamashiro canceled the mission. I do not believe the admiral needs to explain his decision.” Then, in a moment of charity, Miyamoto sighed, and said, “The admiral does not wish to risk men for a closer look at ancient artifacts.”

Miyamoto Genyo was the kind of commander who never showed any emotion other than anger. “We lost a dozen men learning about hundred-thousand-year-old ice and empty silos. There is no point throwing away more lives,” he said, using a voice that reeked of disapproval. Miyamoto relied on disdain and scowls to distance himself from his men. He did not want to appear concerned about the lives of the SEALs.

“Sir, what if the sites have military value?” asked Oliver.

“Military value? Master Chief, did you look at the recon photos? Those sites are of no strategic value except as target practice.”

He thought,
Maybe Master Chief Illych's death was not so meaningless. He taught us that your injector pods make excellent torpedoes.

Freeman nodded as I entered the room, and continued fiddling with his communications computer. The time was 07:00 according to the Space Travel Clock. The virtual versions of William Sweetwater and Arthur Breeze should have arrived at their virtual lab.

“How much can we tell them?” I asked Freeman as I took the seat beside him. The last time we had spoken with Sweetwater and Breeze, Freeman and I were cooperating with the Unified Authority, and the aliens had just burned Olympus Kri. Even then, the ghosts were behind the times. They did not know that the clones had formed their own empire, and Freeman had warned me not to tell them.

Freeman said, “We can tell them about Terraneau.”

“Won't they already know about it?” I asked.

“The only things we can tell them are things they already know.”

“How much trouble will we cause if we leave the script?” I asked.

Freeman did not respond.

“Are we going to ask them where the aliens are going next?” I asked.

Freeman nodded.

“You do realize that the Unifieds have probably told them that we died on Olympus Kri. They may be surprised to see us,” I said.

Freeman said, “Only Andropov would have that kind of clearance.” Tobias Andropov was the chairman of the Linear Committee, the executive branch of the Unified Authority government.

“Andropov is handling this himself?” I asked.

Freeman responded to my question with a glare. As far as he was concerned, he'd already answered the question. “Unless they ask, the only thing we will tell them about ourselves is that we are alive.”

I wondered if he would have been more honest with the real William Sweetwater and Arthur Breeze. Generally aloof, Freeman had adopted the scientists back on New Copenhagen as if they were his pets.

When we fought the Avatari on New Copenhagen, I was a lieutenant. Now, thanks to the ambush at Olympus Kri, I was the leader of a great empire. I was the head of state, but Freeman was the high priest, bringing down sacred revelation from ethereal beings only he could contact—William Sweetwater and Arthur Breeze. He would tell me what to say, and I would obey. He passed me the little communications computer, and I typed an access code into it, then gave it back to him.

The screen flashed to life, showing a large laboratory. Sweetwater, who was working near the camera, looked up, and said, “Now here's a surprise.”

Freeman put up a hand to stop him, and whispered, “Are you alone?”

“ At the moment,” Sweetwater said in his friendly, gravelly voice. “Raymond, aren't you supposed to be dead?”

“Not that I know of,” Freeman said.

“How did he die?” I asked.

Sweetwater gave the lab a visual sweep, then stepped closer to the camera. “They said you both died on Olympus Kri.”

“We went to Terraneau after Olympus Kri,” I said.

“We heard about Terraneau, what a tragedy. We heard no one survived.” Sweetwater always referred to himself in plural; it was one of his quirks.

“We got a thousand people off Terraneau,” I said.

Sweetwater shook his head. Anger and depression showing in his eyes, he said, “Arthur tracked the Avatari signal to Bode's Galaxy. The Navy should have sent a fleet to destroy their home world by now.”

“They sent the Japanese Fleet,” I said. Then I had to grit my teeth to stop from swearing because, below the table, Freeman had dug the heel of his oversized boot into my shin to get my attention. He was right, of course. The launch of the Japanese Fleet would have taken place between Sweetwater's death and digital resurrection. I had wandered into dangerous grounds.

For his part, the dwarf did not seem to notice. He asked, “Are we correct in assuming that you are no longer working with the Unified Authority?”

Not wanting to risk another sub-table attack, I looked at Freeman for cues on how to proceed. He met my gaze and gave me a single nod.

“Yes, sir, that would be a correct assumption,” I said.

“Are you fugitives?”

After glancing back at Freeman one last time to make sure that I still had permission to speak, I said, “Enemies might be a better description.”

“I see,” said Sweetwater. “We're out of the loop up here on the Wheel.” The virtual versions of Sweetwater and Breeze lived on a computer simulation of the Arthur Clarke Space Station—better known as “the Wheel.”

I was about to say something, but the dwarf scientist put up a hand and shushed me. Someone had entered the laboratory. Before I could see who, our connection went dead.

Unless some four-star survived the ambush at Olympus Kri without telling me, I was the highest-ranking officer in the Enlisted Man's Empire, and I did not consider myself fit for command. I was a combat Marine, not an admiral. I understood the movements of troops and companies, not fleets. I was made for the battlefield.

I wanted to find my successor. All of the two-star and three-star candidates died at Olympus Kri, leaving me with three one-star admirals to choose from. One look at the field, and I already knew that the pickings were slim.

Along with being the ranking officer in the meeting, I was the lone Marine in attendance. I brought Don Cutter with me as an advisor. As the captain of a fighter carrier, he would know the officers by reputation if not from experience.

Cutter and I were the only people actually sitting in the room, the other officers attended as holographic images sent in via the broadcast network. We sat at one end of a long table, watching the other attendees through a transparent screen that looked for all intents and purposes like a pane of glass. Naval officers called this device a “conferencer.” We Marines called it a “confabulator.” Around Washington, D.C., it was known as a “social mirage.” It facilitated the feeling of having all participants in the same room by placing holographic images of remote attendees around the table as if they were actually there. Looking through the confabulator, I saw each officer in his assigned chair with a virtual plaque that identified his name, rank, and fleet. If I allowed myself to stare at the virtual attendees, though, I could see a slight translucence in their faces.

The three admirals in attendance chatted among themselves, occasionally pausing to glance back at me through the window. They were scattered across the galaxy as well. One of them was in the Perseus Arm, one was in the Sagittarius Arm, and the last was in the Norma Arm.

I came to the meeting thinking I would hand over the reins of the military to one of these men; but as I watched them, I had second thoughts. Looking through the confabulator, I saw an enclave of assholes.

I called the room to order by asking, “Have any of you heard from Warshaw?”

“Warshaw” was Admiral Gary Warshaw, the commander, chief, and architect of the Enlisted Man's Empire. He was the officer who rebuilt the broadcast network, a man with a knack for finding options in hopeless situations.

Somewhere inside me, I still hoped that Warshaw had survived the ambush at Olympus Kri. The arrogant prick strutted like a peacock, and he wasn't worth shit in combat situations, but Warshaw was a great organizer. He'd created an empire out of chaos.

All three of the admirals shook their heads.

“No one?”

I asked, “Have any of you heard back from your commanding officers?” They gave the same response. That didn't surprise me. All of our top brass had been at Olympus Kri when the Unifieds caught us flat-footed.

Looking around the table, I noted how the three admirals looked similar but with unique features. They were all clones, all five-foot-ten, with brown hair and brown eyes. Two of them looked to be in their early thirties, the other in his fifties. He had rims of white hair around his ears. He was also fat as a whale.

I took a deep breath and launched into the bad news. “The Unifieds attacked our ships after we evacuated Olympus Kri. As far as I know, the
Churchill
is the only ship that escaped.”

“What about the
Kamehameha
? Do you think she survived?” asked Rear Admiral Steven Jolly. The
Kamehameha
was the flagship of the Enlisted Man's Fleet, Warshaw's ship.

I'd never met Jolly in person, but I'd heard stories about him. By reputation, he was a man of unlimited ambition who suffered from depression and self-doubt. Nobody respected Admiral Jolly, not even Jolly himself.

I shook my head, and said, “I was on the
Kamehameha
when the attack started.”

“Did you see her go down?” asked Jolly.

Cutter leaned forward, cleared his throat, and said in a loud whisper, “The
Kamehameha
was the first ship they destroyed.”

“What about Admiral Cloward? He was on the
Clinton
?”

“I didn't see the
Clinton
go down,” said Cutter. “Admiral Warshaw ordered every ship to the broadcast zone. The
Churchill
was the closest ship to the zone, and we barely made it through. The last ship I saw was the
Salah ad-Din
. She was right behind us, but the Unifieds were closing in on her.”