The Clone Sedition

by Steven L. Kent

  Hughes ignored Jackson and aimed his answers at me. He said, “I assure you, General, war with the Enlisted Man’s Empire is the last thing these people want. What happened in the grand arcade was an accident, a serious and unfortunate accident.”

  “The Night of the Martyrs was not an accident,” I said.

  “Those banners aren’t an accident,” said Jackson.

  “Nor are they a call to arms,” said Hughes.

  “Tell me about Legion,” I said.

  “There is a religious revival going on,” said Hughes. “These people have nothing. They live in squalor. Some of them are turning to religion.

  “Look, General, they are refugees with nothing but the blankets on which they sleep. They are impoverished, they are uncomfortable, and they are unhappy. What would you expect?

  “It’s a common thing. People who have nothing often turn to God. Frankly, I consider the revival a positive turn of events. People in need look for a deliverer. They could have turned to a military figure, but they chose to go with God.”

  “What does that have to do with Legion?” asked Jackson.

  “In order to have a god, you need to have a devil,” Hughes explained. “They call their devil Legion.”

  “What about the Night of the Martyrs?” I asked. “What was that, hybrid military/faith-based salvation?”

  “General Harris,” Hughes said, drawing my name out, giving it a patronizing tone, “you can’t possibly believe those attacks were connected with a spontaneous demonstration in the grand arcade.”

  He finally stepped behind his desk and sat down.

  Even though two chairs had been set out for us, Jackson and I remained on our feet. Jackson said, “I sure as speck see a connection. Those people consider us their enemy. I don’t know shit about Legions and devils, but I know war flags when I see them, and those banners qualify as war flags. Those people out there, they’re looking for a fight.”

  Hughes sighed, and said, “They don’t want war, Colonel. They know their situation. They know that you feed them and that you rescued them from the Avatari…rescued them twice.” He turned to me, and added, “General, they are loyal to the Enlisted Man’s Empire. They know what would have happened if you left them on Olympus Kri. They haven’t forgotten.

  “There are women and children out there…wives and sons and daughters. You cannot possibly believe these men would sacrifice their wives and children.”

  “Bullshit,” said Jackson. He wasn’t showing proper respect, but I had decided to give him a long leash this visit. I wanted him to make noise, and I wanted Hughes to see we meant business.

  Gordon Hughes may have been a war hero in his youth, but now he was a dried-up old man with white hair and wrinkles. His bloodshot eyes peered out from puffy red rims, and his lips were flesh-colored and dry.

  The corners of his mouth drew back in an ironic smile as he said, “What did you expect when you arrived, Colonel, a hero’s welcome? Perhaps you were hoping for the red-carpet treatment, Colonel. I’m sorry if we disappointed you.”

  As a sign of respect for Hughes’s office, Jackson and I had left our M27s back with our troops. Good thing. If he’d had his gun, I suspect Jackson might have used it. I saw murder in his eyes.

  He said, “No, Governor, when I save people’s lives I expect them to throw trash at me. Wasn’t that why we pulled your people off Olympus Kri, so they could crush my Marines with their garbage?”

  Hughes glanced at me for help. When I said nothing, he turned back to Jackson and asked, “Did you happen to notice the way those people are living out there?”

  Jackson said, “Maybe they would have been happier if we’d left them on Olympus Kri. They could have died in the comfort of their homes.”

  I decided to take control of the conversation. “How did six thousand New Olympians get to Earth?” I asked.

  Hughes turned to glare at me, the anger he felt toward Jackson still showing in his eyes. He asked, “Do you think I had something to do with it? Do you think I sent them?”

  He calmed down quickly. Jackson had riled him, but Hughes knew how to play the game. He said, “If I had to guess, I would say that they stowed away on a freighter.”

  “Six thousand men…that’s a lot of men to go unnoticed,” said Jackson.

  “Six thousand out of seventeen million,” Hughes reminded Jackson.

  I had already done the math in my head. “Small fraction,” I said. I believed Hughes when he said he knew nothing about the men who came to Earth.

  “Would you have stopped them if you knew about it?” Jackson asked.

  “They broke the law,” said Hughes. “Aside from questions of right and wrong, Colonel, I am against anything that prolongs our encampment on Mars. Just from a pragmatic standpoint, it seems obvious that their actions would be interpreted as provocation, yes? You see those men as seditious, a threat to the stable government you are trying to create, and your suspicions extend to the entire population of Olympus Kri.”

  Jackson started to say something, but Hughes put up a hand to stop him. He said, “I understand why you have reacted to the attacks as you have. You asked me a question, and that is my answer. I am against anything that keeps us trapped on Mars.”

  “But you don’t care that they tried to kill two thousand Marines?” asked Jackson, his anger again on the rise.

  “Colonel, which answer are you more likely to accept, that I object to the killing of Marines because it is evil or that I object to the killing of Marines because it’s politically inconvenient?”

  Jackson laughed.

  “You still haven’t answered the question,” I said. “Would you have stopped them?”

  “Leaving Mars was a criminal act. I consider them criminals.”

  “Another dodge,” I said.

  “What do you want me to say?” asked Hughes.

  “Would you have stopped those men if you could have?” I asked.

  “I could not have stopped them, General. I would not have tried.

  “There are people in this spaceport who wish they had died on Olympus Kri. After a year of waiting, people who would rather have been incinerated than live in this squalor,” said Hughes, his politician’s veneer wearing thin, the touch of anger in his voice.

  Transporting the New Olympians was going to be a long, slow process. Back when we evacuated Olympus Kri, we had a fleet of barges that could carry a quarter of a million passengers at a time. We no longer had those barges. Now we would need to ferry the New Olympians to Earth in warships and freighters, a few thousand at a time. The process could take over a year.

  When I mentioned that to Hughes, he said, “That’s no excuse.” His eyes turned cold and his voice more hostile. “You should have started the evacuation eleven months ago.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  The regiment bivouacked in a food court, a tight fit for fifteen hundred Marines but probably worse for the twenty-five hundred people we evicted.

  I chose the food court because it was in a secluded cul-de-sac. A narrow service hall looped behind the ring of empty restaurants, but that made the area all the more attractive—it might lure the enemy into an attack.

  “Do you want me to post guards in the service hall?” asked Colonel Jackson.

  “Not a chance,” I said. “I don’t want to scare visitors away, I want to invite them.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jackson. “My men can rig a warning system. That shouldn’t scare them away.”

  “Good thinking, Colonel,” I said.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And, Colonel, why don’t you place some equipment in the air ducts while you’re at it. Set up a wide perimeter. I want to be ready for visitors.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jackson was hardheaded, but a good Marine with all the commendations and decorations of a vet with ten years of combat experience. I’d never met the man before this mission, but I’d seen his record. The Second Regiment of the Second Division was a
newly formed first-response unit. When Jackson requested to join the unit, I placed him in command.

  I watched my men set up their bivouac. They set up a manned, chest-high, bulletproof barrier by the entrance into the food court. One hundred men tended that checkpoint.

  Technicians filtered out the back doors of the various restaurants. Once they placed their filament-sized cameras and sensors in the hall, not even a Martian louse would be able to slip through unobserved.

  Self-guiding robotic sentries now roved the air ducts, patrolling for movement, heat, sound, electrical current, and chemicals. They were our electronic canaries. The size of house cats, the sentries were far from discreet. They were loud and large, but that was their charm. They saw and heard everything; and if the enemy destroyed them, that provided us with an early warning as well.

  The mood around the regiment relaxed. Most of us removed our helmets. Some men even stripped off their armor and walked around in their bodysuits. I removed my helmet but kept my armor on.

  I’d grown numb to the heavy, sweaty scent of the air and mostly forgotten about the head lice. After a while, I started scratching my scalp and noticed other Marines doing the same. Only then did I realize we might bring some of Mars’s only indigenous population home with us.

  This particular food court was far from the hub of Mars Spaceport. It was a place for spaceport employees to eat, not travelers. There were no windows overlooking a vast Martian vista, and the unfinished ceiling was crisscrossed with ducts, pipes, and wires.

  If it came to a shoot-out, there was no chance we would breach the spaceport’s outer walls. Not in here.

  Using the commandLink, I contacted Cutter on the Churchill. When he answered, I said, “What I wouldn’t give for a private room with a rack and head right about now.”

  “I can send a shuttle,” he offered.

  “I’m just bitching,” I said. “By the way, you might want to set up some sterilizing lamps for my men.”

  “Head lice?” he asked.

  “Mars’s only indigenous life-form,” I said. “A lot of my men are scratching their heads.”

  “But not you,” said Cutter.

  I said, “No comment.”

  I told Cutter about my visit with Gordon Hughes, and that led to a brief discussion about the ancient Roman practice of decimation. Cutter asked, “You know what the Romans used to do when their soldiers were attacked in conquered territories?”

  I did know. Roman history had always fascinated me. In fact, I had sparked Cutter’s interest in Rome when I told him about the Praetorian Guard.

  He did not wait for me to answer before saying, “They used to line up the town and kill every tenth person.”

  I knew Cutter wasn’t seriously suggesting I kill New Olympians, he just liked to demonstrate his knowledge.

  “There are seventeen million people in this facility; I’d end up killing 1.7 million people plus change.”

  “Plus change?”

  “Plus change. You may not have heard this, but the New Olympians have not stopped copulating since moving to Mars. Does a mother and a newborn count as a single unit?”

  “I don’t think the Romans killed mothers or newborns, just men,” said Cutter.

  “Oh. In that case…” I said.

  We were down for the night, and we had a secure perimeter at that point, and I had no idea how much trouble I was in.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  The sons of bitches tried to gas us. They must have known we would take off our helmets once we set up camp, and they tried to get us by pumping poisonous gas through the air vents.

  The killer mist rolled along the bottom of the air ducts like fog on a lake. One of our robot sentries sniffed it from forty feet away, analyzed the chemicals, and reported that the lethal cloud was on its way. The robot then switched into stealth mode and drove straight into the gas, cameras rolling, using telemetry to send back everything it saw as it tried to trace the source of the attack.

  The men monitoring the robot called for Colonel Jackson, and he invited me to watch.

  “What kind of gas is it?” I asked.

  “Poisonous gas,” said Jackson, the bastard.

  “Chlorine gas, sir,” one of the techs answered.

  Chlorine gas was an ancient weapon, primitive and reliable. It would not penetrate the breathing gear in our armor. Wearing our helmets, we could nap, exercise, and write poetry in a room filled with chlorine gas.

  “After they run out of chlorine, maybe they’ll come after us with bows and arrows,” Jackson quipped.

  “It’s easy to make,” said a tech. “You can find the chemicals anywhere.”

  “Improvised munitions,” I muttered, knowing that chlorine was one of the few chemicals in good supply on Mars. Any cleaning done on Mars probably involved chlorine-based disinfectants.

  The little robot pushed through layers and coils of greenish yellow gas relying on magnetic and sonar signals to navigate through the vents. It detected every turn, every rise, and every weld; and it transmitted its findings back to us in the form of a three-dimensional map.

  The robot traveled through sixty-three feet of chlorine gas before it located the open vent and the glass hose that were the source of the trouble.

  “Can you transmit the source location to my commandLink?” I asked.

  The tech tapped a couple of keys, and said, “Aye, sir. Try frequency 99998.”

  I came prepared. I brought a small handheld communicator that I patched into the commandLink. The little remote included a four-inch screen and a camera and a microphone. When I powered the screen, I saw the glass hose and the map that the robot had transmitted. The opening of the hose looked to be about four inches in diameter, with gas spewing out of it as thick as sludge.

  “Do we know where the gas is coming from?” I asked.

  “They must have a geny, sir,” said the tech.

  “I suspect so,” I said, a little irritated by his telling me the obvious. Of course they were using a generator to mix and blow the gas; they weren’t mixing it in paint cans. “Can you tell if there are people around it?”

  The robot cruised right up to the mouth of the hose, peered inside it, then the world began spinning out of control.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “It pitched an eye,” said the tech, tech-speak for dropping a remote camera.

  On my display, I saw yellow gas and glimpses of glass. The camera must have been tiny, no bigger than the point of a pin, but dense enough that the gas did not flush it out of the hose. It rolled down the hose, all the while transmitting back images of a small space, maybe a closet, in which three men stood.

  I handed Jackson my M27, and said, “Keep it warm for me, Colonel.”

  “What are you doing, sir?” asked Jackson.

  “I’m going to introduce myself to our new friends,” I said.

  He laughed, and said, “Admiral Cutter said you would go rogue at the first sign of action.”

  “Did he? I bet he told you to send a team with me if I did.”

  “No, sir. He said not to bother asking.”

  “He knows me,” I said.

  “He also said that I should warn you that you will be relieved of command if you continue playing commando,” said Jackson.

  “Another good insight,” I said.

  “Do you want me to send some men with you, sir?” asked Jackson.

  If I had a team of men with me, we might end up with another grand arcade situation, surrounded by screaming hostiles while the enemy ran away. Alone, I stood a chance of slipping through unnoticed.

  I stripped off my armor and the bodysuit underneath. Hoping for a chance to get out on my own, I had come with civilian clothing under my bodysuit. That was also my reason for bringing the handheld remote. The brick-sized device felt clumsy in my hand; but I thought I could use it in the spaceport without drawing too much attention.

  I asked Jackson, “Are any of your troops packing civi
lian gear under their armor?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  I said, “Then I guess I am forced to go alone.” Turning to leave, I heard the colonel whisper, “Bullshit.” I could have busted the bastard for insubordination. Instead, I quietly laughed.

  As I walked to the barrier, a soft voice came from the remote. Jackson said, “General, there’s movement in one of the service halls.”

  “I want prisoners, not corpses,” I said. “If someone knocks on the door, you let them in, and you take them alive. Am I clear, Colonel?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And speaking of being taken alive, I will signal you if I run into trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I will signal you before I return. I don’t want your boys shooting me when I come back.”

  “No, sir.”

  I looked both ways as I left the court. There were people around, but the hall was dark and crowded, and I was pretty certain that I had sneaked out unseen.

  The spaceport had an artificial daylight cycle. During the artificial day, lights shone from every corner. During the night, the lights dimmed down so people could sleep. That was as far as privacy went on Mars, dimmed halls and mass campouts. Moving through the shadows, I saw a man in his fifties groping his equally aged wife. The people around the couple simply looked the other way.

  There was nothing erotic about the moment. The man was fat, and both participants were sweaty and grimy. The woman moaned softly, but the people around them pretended not to hear. They carried on conversations as if nothing was happening on the blanket next door.

  I was cleaner than everyone around me, and so were my clothes. I wondered if cleanliness gave off a stench that dirty people would notice as I crept through the hall, sticking to the shadows, looking for walls and passages that led away from the crowds.

  “Hey…hey you?” a teen yelled as I walked past.

  I ignored him and moved on.

  As I traveled through the spaceport, I came to see reason in its chaos. The New Olympians had divided the facility into neighborhoods and districts. I, of course, did not know one district from the next; but there were subtle clearings between the wards. Each neighborhood had its own food service and bathrooms.