The Clone Sedition (22 page)

One of the bodyguards said, “We need to get moving, sir.”

Watson nodded and followed the bodyguards out of the house.

Some promotion,
Watson thought.
Living quarters and a company car, wouldn’t Mom be proud?
The car had armor plating and bulletproof glass. It came with a chauffeur—standard equipment. The chauffeur was a Marine commando; even the MPs were nervous around him. Watson wasn’t impressed.

He did not feel any safer with these men than he had on the street. Now that he’d seen Ray Freeman in action, the military police no longer impressed him. He knew it was an irrational fear, but Freeman lurked in Watson’s brain like a malignant tumor.

Watson gave the house one last, disapproving glance, and said, “We wouldn’t want to be late.”

Bolling Field was eight miles from the Pentagon. Watson liked the ride because it took him along the Potomac.

It was a cold day, with nickel-plated clouds. The buildings of the capital mall peeked over the skyline, and the buildings of uptown D.C. loomed like a mountain range in the hazy distance. Watson welcomed these urban decorations; they made him feel at home.

The driver pulled into the Pentagon’s underground park-ing lot. The two bodyguards followed Watson into the building while the driver stayed with the car. Watson had a new office on the fifth floor, two doors away from Admiral Cutter’s office.

When he opened his door, Watson found Major Cardston waiting for him. As Watson stepped in, Cardston asked, “How are you at poker?”

“I know that two kings beats an ace,” said Watson.

“A pair of deuces beats an ace,” said Cardston.

“So lone aces don’t count for much in poker,” said Watson.

Cardston asked, “How are you at lying?”

“Above average,” Watson said, thinking about the compliments he gave girls in bars. “Mostly pickup lines.”

Watson’s new office was large and nearly empty. His enormous metal desk faced four hundred square feet of open floor. Chairs and file cabinets lined the walls.

“They usually reserve offices like this for generals and admirals,” said Cardston. “Admiral Cutter is taking good care of you.”

“You should see my housing,” said Watson.

Cardston said, “This time you will be lying to a man.”

“Who am I lying to?”

“Your old boss.”

“Harris? Do you know where he is?”

“He’s on Mars.”

“Was he there all along?” asked Watson.

“Who the speck knows,” said Cardston. “I can’t come up with any reasons for his ordering everyone out of the space lanes unless he planned to use them.”

“Wouldn’t you be able to track that from Earth?” asked Watson.

“Not if the ships had stealth technology.”

They stood in the doorway. The hall outside was empty—wooden doors surrounded by windows, brass nameplates, and light fixtures. The air was musty.

Watson asked, “Do you think Harris left Mars?”

“If he did, I want to know where he went,” said Cardston. “Theories don’t count; the only thing that matters is what actually happened. He wants to talk to you.”

A communications console poked out of the wall beside the big empty desk. Cardston nodded toward it, and said, “Get what you can. I’ll be listening in on you.”

Watson walked to the desk. He looked at the console. Harris stared back at him. He smiled at Watson, and said, “Cutter tells me that you’re a swabbie now.”

Watson sat down in the seat behind the desk, well aware of the way his heart thumped inside his chest. He could feel his pulse quickening. He liked Harris, had enjoyed working for him; but in his mind, Wayson Harris was dead and had been for a couple of years. This was an imposter.

Hoping he looked calm, he said, “Admiral Cutter gave me a raise and a housing bonus.”

“Did he?” asked Harris.

This was the Harris Watson had known. Other than the physical similarities, he bore no resemblance to the rabid dog in the video feed with Cutter. Harris laughed, and said, “If that’s all it takes, I’ll match your pay and throw in your own personal LG with an endless fuel supply.”

“What’s an LG?” asked Watson.

“It’s a low-gravity tank,” said Harris.

“What would I want with a tank?” asked Watson.

“I’m making a counteroffer, Watson. You tell me what you want.”

“What’s the situation on Mars?”

“Copacetic,” said Harris. “We ran into the Martian Legion yesterday; now the New Olympians have two Nights of the Martyrs.”

“A second Night of the Martyrs?”

“They tried to attack us.”

“With what? There aren’t supposed to be any guns in Mars Spaceport.”

“They had shotguns. I lost fifty-two men.”

“But you took care of it?”

“Like I said, it’s the second Night of the Martyrs,” said Harris. “They thought they were God’s Army; we sent them to meet their commander in chief,” Harris joked. “That was where all that Legion shit came from, they found shotguns in the Air Force base and thought God wanted to liberate them. They attacked us, we wiped them out, and the Legion banners disappeared from the spaceport the very next day.

“Now, about your joining the Navy, Watson, I could really use your help up here.”

Watson stared into the face on the screen. He listened for fluctuations in Harris’s voice and watched his eyes. He checked other details, too—the narrow scar across his left eyebrow, the nicks on his face. Watson said, “I think I’m stuck here on Earth. Admiral Cutter has me running errands for him.”

“I see,” said Harris.

“What did you want me for?” asked Watson.

“I need a liaison,” said Harris. “My normal staff can work out the logistics, but I’m going to need a natural-born for the public-relations side of this.”

“Side of what?”

“The big transfer. Now that we have taken care of that Martian Legion business, it’s high time we transferred the New Olympians down to Earth, don’t you think?”

When Harris finally signed off, Watson slumped in his chair and stared across his enormous, empty office.
Ah God,
he thought, knowing that Cutter was going to want him to depart for the
Churchill
within the hour.

Location: The
Churchill
Date: April 12, 2519

In preparation for Harris’s return, Cutter placed the crew of the
Churchill
on alert and informed the naval office that the ship was under quarantine. He ordered them to treat her as a threat if she tried to return to Earth without his personal clearance.

He watched the fleet of transports approach on the tactical display and felt the stirrings of mistrust.
Could they have caught you, Harris?
he asked a phantom Harris in his head.

Harris was a clone, just a clone, nothing more than a clone. In the old days, the term “clone” was a euphemism for a disposable man. Major Alan Cardston, the head of Pentagon Security, was a clone as well; though, of course, he did not know it. He instructed Cutter not to trust Harris. His exact words were, “If he has been reprogrammed, he won’t know it. He’ll think the people who reprogrammed him are the good guys and we are the bad guys, and he’ll be just as nasty with us as he was with the Unifieds.”

Believing that Harris had been compromised, Cardston wanted to leave him on Mars. “You could call him into your office and shoot him,” Cardston suggested. “That is what Harris would do if he thought you’d been reprogrammed.”

Cardston was right, but he was also full of shit in Admiral Cutter’s opinion. Harris was a hero. He had saved the
Churchill
and earned Cutter’s loyalty. While other generals hid behind the lines, Harris led his men into battle after battle. The rest of the clones were loyal to the Enlisted Man’s Empire, but the Marines were loyal to Harris.

Reevaluating his own loyalties, Cutter lighted upon an irony—the first time he had spoken to Wayson Harris was
during the evacuation of Olympus Kri. Now Harris was talking about relocating the New Olympians a second time. The first relocation had ended in an ambush. How would the second relocation end?

On the display, the transports did not fly so much in a formation as in a swarm. One of the transports flew at the front. Cutter knew from experience that Harris would be on that ship.

His eyes still on the display, he spoke into the communications panel. He said, “Watson, Harris’s ETA is fifteen minutes. I want you to come with me to the landing bay.”

“On my way,” said Watson.

Cutter winced. Unlike Harris, the admiral cared about military protocol. Civilian or not, Watson’s familiarity bothered him. He said, “On my way…
sir
,” even though Watson had already signed off.

Cutter had flown Watson out to the
Churchill
to observe Harris. Having worked with him for a year, Watson might bring extra insight into the man. Cutter sincerely hoped that Harris and his Marines had not been compromised, but he wasn’t hopeful.

Cutter contacted Lieutenant Nelson, head of ship security. “Do you have everything in order?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sensing hesitation in the voice, he asked, “Are you certain everything is in order, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

Again, hesitation. “Is there something you are not telling me?”

“No, sir. My men are on silent alert. I have armed men stationed in every landing bay, just as you directed.”

“But?” asked Cutter.

Nelson waited several seconds, then said, “Sir, the general has a regiment of armed Marines. If it comes to a fight between my MPs and fifteen hundred Marines…”

“I’m not expecting trouble,” said Cutter.

“Aye, sir,” said the lieutenant, who still sounded nervous. “My men are in place. I have armed guards posted in the bridge and the engine room.”

“That will be all,” said Cutter. Cutter took a deep breath and headed for the landing bay.

The Marine compound was on the bottom deck of the
Churchill
, well away from Engineering and the sailors’ living quarters. The Navy separated us “Sea Soldiers” from its sailors.

The compound was a typical Marine base in miniature, with a barracks, a firing range, an obstacle course, a mess, an officers’ club, and a canteen for enlisted men. The Navy provided the food, space, and transportation, everything but hospitality.

Marines who did not remain in the compound faced a nasty reception on the upper decks. The animosity between Marines and sailors was as old as war. We considered sailors to be glorified cargo handlers because they delivered us to battles and sped away. Sailors considered us live cargo.

Having just come from battle, my men would be emboldened. They had endured the spaceport with its overcrowded conditions and angry mobs. Any sailors getting in my men’s way were in for a surprise.

My boys were coiled and ready to strike. I needed to keep them in the compound, where I could work them hard. I would burn down their nervous energy and their bravado before easing them back into society.

We touched down, and the transport’s rear door slowly opened. I contacted Curtis Jackson, and said, “It’s like we drilled. I want the men, gear, and K.I.A.s off-loaded. I want the men shaved, showered, and deloused. I want the gear sanitized. I want the bodies in the creamer. You have two hours.”

The creamer, by the way, was the crematorium. Men killed in action were taken to the crematorium, where they were incinerated, bag and all.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Nobody leaves the compound,” I said.

“Just like we discussed, sir,” said Jackson.

When the officer of the deck came up the ramp looking for the Marine in charge, I sent Jackson to meet him. They traded salutes, then Jackson asked for permission to come aboard the
Churchill
. The OOD granted his request.

This was all standard, and I had no reason to feel nervous, but I felt this awkward sensation as I walked down the ramp, as if I had been away for months or years instead of a week. As I stepped around the back of the transport, I spotted Cutter and Watson waiting for me. I spotted something else, too. Cutter had stationed armed MPs all around the landing bay, not just men with sidearms, but guards with M27s. Some stood by the doors, others watched us from second-floor railings.

“You expecting us to put up a fight?” I asked Cutter as I approached.

“I run a secure ship,” said Cutter. “You know that.”

Something had changed, and I knew why. I’d bounced him hard the last time we spoke. I owed the man an apology.

Over the last few days, I had run that conversation through my head several times. I remembered swearing at Cutter and threatening him. I remembered the conversation clearly; but thinking back, I felt like I was watching the conversation rather than participating in it. I was out of control, and I regretted everything I said.

Friendly, but distant, Cutter said, “We need to debrief.”

I said, “Do us both a favor, let me shower and delouse.”

“Delouse?” asked Watson.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve become acquainted with Mars’s only indigenous species.” He looked confused, but he did not respond. He must not have known about Martian head lice.

I said, “So, Mister Navy Liaison, do you think you can talk your natural-born friends into making room for a few million guests?”

Cutter spoke first. He said, “You’re serious about moving the New Olympians to Earth.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And you think they are loyal to the empire?” asked Cutter.

“I do.”

“What about the Martian Legion? What about the Night of the Martyrs?” asked Cutter, starting to sound belligerent.

“They canceled each other out,” I said. They had a Martian Legion, then they had a second Night of the Martyrs, now they don’t have a Martian Legion anymore. Personally, I was happy with the way things turned out.

I said, “I’ll tell you all about it after I’ve had a shower,” and I followed my men out of the landing bay. I got to the compound and went to the delousing station, an all-purpose sanitation facility. I stripped out of my armor and passed through the red line—a booth in which a laser light was used to kill vermin and germs alike. Any lice on my body were neutralized and fried, as were the eggs they might have laid.