Rogue Clone

by Steven L. Kent

  I drove through the gate at eighty miles per hour—not a safe speed for driving wet roads on a dark night without lights. It might have taken the transport one minute to drop to the planet. It could have taken another minute or two for the commandos to drive to Wingate’s house. In another four minutes the shooting match would end whether I was on hand to catch Wingate or not.

  The sky outside of the fence was velvet and peaceful, a typically calm evening on a nonindustrial planet. When I saw a break in the clouds, I thought the sky looked like a lake of oil and stars. In the distance, another silver-red barrage cascaded down on Fort Washington.

  There would be similar fireworks over the Air Force base. There the attack would be more intense, if anything. The base would send up its squadrons of F-19s to attack the invaders. If the enemy ships could destroy the runways in time, a few of those fighters might be stranded on the ground. The majority would streak through the sky faster than bullets. They would leave the atmosphere, find the invading ships and the real battle would begin.

  The Air Force’s F-19 Falcons would attack from the ground. The U.A. fighter carrier and destroyers guarding the discs would close in from above. How many GCF ships had the enemy sent? How would they perform in battle? Were their weapons updated?

  How long had the attack lasted so far? I looked at my watch. Only twenty seconds had passed since the first beam rolled down from the sky.

  I saw no trace of Wingate’s jeep in front of me and had no time left for discretion. Turning my headlights on, I raced down tree-lined lanes and into the forested countryside. The sounds of sirens and explosions carried in the air, but they were distant and I ignored them. The attack was far away now and seemed no more significant than a day-old dream as I concentrated on finding the transport.

  I looked at my wristwatch and saw the timer hand sweep past the twelve. One full minute had passed since that first laser attack. Why had I not started timing when I spotted the commandos? Why had I gone to the base instead of simply hiding out here?

  I doused my headlights. Up ahead, the white light of arc lamps shined through a grove. The trees blocking the glare created a strobe effect, as if I were watching an ancient silent movie. I pulled off the road and skidded to a halt in the mud.

  There would be no time to call for help or pack my weapons, not even my M27. I jumped out of my jeep. A good hundred feet into the woods, men in green uniforms loaded small stacks of crates into an antique-looking military transport.

  Other men with guns circled the area looking for folks like me. Here I had a stroke of luck. These men were dressed in Army fatigues that looked precisely like mine. They were camouflaged to look like the soldiers at Fort Clinton. Had one of Wingate’s soldiers unknowingly stumbled into their operation, these spies might have pointed to their own transport and claimed that they had located an enemy ship.

  “We’re out of time,” somebody said in a soft voice that carried through the silence. “Anything and anyone who does not get on now gets left behind.” Somewhere back near town, still as distant as a dream, sirens and explosions continued to break the silence. I had to make my move. Fortunately for me, one guard had strayed far enough into the trees for me to take him.

  “Last call. Return to the transport.” The voice was soft but it echoed over a hundred comLinks and carried through the woods.

  I drew closer to my target, a lone man with an M27. He had blond hair. We looked nothing alike, but I did not think it would matter. Looking around these woods, between the men loading the ship and the guards, there were too many faces for anyone to keep them all straight.

  I doubt my victim heard me. He took one last sweep of the area before turning to go back to the transport. I hid behind a tree, no more than fifteen feet from where he stood. He had his back to me. I could see the barrel of his M27 pointing straight up above the top of his shoulder. Nice of him to bring me a replacement for the one I left in my jeep.

  I took a deep breath and held it in my lungs. Barely lifting my feet, I rushed forward, staying in a slight crouch, my arms out and my fingers stretched as if preparing to strangle the boy. Had the floor of the forest been dry, I could have taken him easily, but the ground was muddy from the rain. I moved more quickly than he did, but I had to shuffle my feet to squelch the sound of my boots tromping through the mud. He hiked, I glided.

  Ahead of him, I could see the landing area. Guards, cargo handlers, and commandos hustled into the transport. They did not look back as I leaped forward, fastening my right hand around the boy’s chin and anchoring my grip by placing my left hand just on the back of his neck. I pulled with my right hand and pushed with my left. The sound of his neck snapping was no louder than the tick of a clock as we both toppled forward. He was dead before our momentum sent us to the ground.

  Straightening my fatigues, I climbed to my feet. There was a smear of mud on my knee. I brushed off the dirt and leaves as best I could as I approached the transport.

  “Hurry up, asshole,” someone yelled as I started up the ramp. I nodded and ran forward as the doors closed behind me. My boots clanked against the metal floor. I heard excited chatter all around me. The cabin was mostly dark except for soft red emergency lights. The engines rumbled and the transport lifted straight up in the air.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Every ship in the Galactic Central Fleet was more than forty years old. That did not mean that they were in bad condition or that they had seen a lot of action. In fact, few of the ships had traveled over the last few decades. New and clean as this transport was, it had antiquated technology. To prevent glare in the cockpit, the only light in the kettle—that was what we called the cattle car in which the soldiers traveled—came from red emergency lights. That was to my liking. I was, after all, a stowaway. I sat in the back of the kettle not far from the cargo area where nobody noticed me.

  The men around me did not like the dark atmosphere. “Like traveling in an armpit,” one man complained. “Sending us back and forth in a damned drain pipe,” another man said in a different conversation. The best line came from the man sitting beside me: “Not even fit for clones.”

  The inside of the kettle was anything but luxurious. The walls, ceiling, and floor were bare, unadorned metal. A line of benches ran along the wall of the cabin offering enough seating for maybe one-quarter of the men on this flight. Safety harnesses hung from the ceiling. In the case of an emergency, men would strap themselves in with these harnesses and hang from the ceiling like butchered cattle in a slaughterhouse freezer. The harnesses became rigid when in use, preventing the men from swinging into each other.

  In a transport like this, passengers were nothing more than cargo. There were no windows and no way of knowing what was happening outside of the ship. The launch from New Columbia was smooth enough, but moments after we took off, the pilot signaled us to harness ourselves in.

  Batt Wingate and his commando-escort sat somewhere in the front of the kettle. I could not see them. It did not matter. I knew they were inside and besides, there was only one way off this bird. Once we landed, I would slink toward the door so that Wingate would pass me before he left. The mood in the kettle changed as the men fastened themselves in. Now, nobody spoke. Most of the men hung absolutely silent. A few smoked cigarettes and spat their smoldering butts to the floor.

  Outside the ship, the gears of war were turning. Swarms of fighters might spot us and attack as we left the atmosphere and entered the blanket of space. A lone fighter could destroy a transport, but it would take multiple missiles. These ships looked and flew like pregnant seagulls, but they had powerful shields and thick armor. This ship could survive a direct hit from a particle beam cannon. If one or two fighters homed in on us, we would likely survive the attack long enough for the Confederates to send help.

  I looked at my watch. Just under four minutes had passed since the bombardment began. By my best guess, the GCF ships had been in the area for six minutes and would broadcast out in another two.

&
nbsp; A missile slammed into our shields and the transport shuddered. The red lights blinked out for several seconds. In the darkness, men gasped but no one screamed. The atmosphere was tense but not panicked.

  Another missile slammed into the shields sending the transport skidding sideways. It was a blow, a force that struck quickly and vanished. A few moments passed and we were struck by a particle beam. The walls of the kettle began vibrating. At first they shook, and then they convulsed in short fast shakes that seemed to tear the metal plates around us.

  The lights went out again. This time they stayed out. I heard heavy breathing. The shuddering continued for no more than three seconds, but it seemed like minutes. I heard an occasional whimper, then somebody yelled, “Shake ’em and bake ’em!” It was a dumb joke but it broke the tension. Relieved laughter filled the cabin. A moment later the red lights came back on.

  In times of danger, I had the Liberator combat reflex that flooded my blood with a hormone made of adrenaline and endorphins. Everyone else on this ship turned to desperate humor to distract themselves. I did not need it. A warm, comfortable feeling spread through my body, a sense of power and mental clarity. I was not in control of the situation, yet the hormone made me feel as if I were.

  Another missile struck the ship and the kettle rattled.

  “Knock, knock,” some man yelled. I could not see who.

  “Who’s there?” responded nearly every man in the cabin, and the men burst out in hysterics.

  Inside joke, I guessed, and not a very good one.

  And then the ride was over. There was the loud clank of metal dropping on metal as we lowered into a landing pad inside some GCF ship. The whining growl of straining motors echoed through the kettle as the heavy iron doors slid open and the hangar bay came in view.

  I, of course, was still hanging from my harness. When my harness released me, I pushed through the crowd and hid near the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Granted, I did not see the space battle as it took place, but I had time to study it at length over the next few days. What I saw was the work of genius.

  The first GCF ship to arrive in New Columbian space broadcasted in alone. It was a cruiser, the smallest class of ship in the GCF Fleet. It carried a crew of 130 men and, among other things, a fleet of three transports.

  The captain of this ship played an interesting gambit. Instead of broadcasting his ship a few million miles out and risking remote radar detection, he used the Broadcast Network as camouflage. His ship materialized so close to the reception disc that the U.A. radar system recorded the anomaly caused by his ship’s appearance as a hiccup in Broadcast Network radiation. His ship was as black as space, making visual detection unlikely. To use an antiquated phrase, the cruiser flew in under the radar.

  If the ship’s arrival near the Broadcast Network had disrupted the Network, the cruiser would have been quickly detected. Some kind of modification in the cruiser’s engine prevented the disruption, and the ship was never spotted.

  This cruiser parked itself five hundred miles above Safe Harbor. It launched a single transport and waited.

  So, was this lone cruiser picked up by radar? Nobody knows and the equipment that would have recorded the readings was destroyed during the ensuing battle. Somebody knew the space around New Columbia very well. The cruiser stopped in a blind spot—a seam between two different radar systems. There it stayed until the battle was over.

  About the time that Colonel Wingate left Fort Clinton, the cruiser radioed the rest of the fleet, and that initiated the attack. Fifteen GCF ships broadcasted into New Columbian space—a slightly larger attack force than the one that sacked Gateway. There would be no missing the anomalies caused by fifteen GCF ships broadcasting in at the same time.

  The Air Force responded by sending up all of its F-19 Falcons. The fighter carrier and destroyers guarding the discs also moved into position. Had the GCF ships been of recent design, this might have been an even fight—a fifteen-ship armada comprised of destroyers, cruisers, and battleships against nearly 400 fighters, two destroyers, one fighter carrier, and ground cannon. But the Joint Chiefs were not looking for a fair fight.

  Hoping to rout the enemy, the Navy had an additional fleet of ships waiting near a set of broadcast discs. The moment the battle began, the plan was to feed these ships into the Network, and in less than sixty seconds, the U.A. Navy would have twenty more ships in New Columbian space.

  But the Navy had to deal with the bottleneck of using a single reception disc. The GCF Fleet had no such restrictions. As the first of the Tomcats bore down from space and the Falcons flared up from the atmosphere, fifty additional GCF ships broadcasted into the battlefield.

  The video feed from the battle looked like a misprint. So many anomalies tore into the open blackness that it looked like the fabric of space had begun to boil. Feathery white lines flashed and crisscrossed. Circles of light appeared from which shadowy black forms seemed to glide.

  A dozen GCF battleships coasted into place in front of the broadcast disc and formed a line. Other ships parked behind the first waiting for a turn. When the first U.A. carrier emerged from the disc, the GCF ships opened fire as it materialized into space.

  The hull of the carrier flashed and ignited. The tip of its wing sheered off and webs of flame danced along its shell. That was the worst of the spectacle, I think. Flames cannot exist in the vacuum of space. Those flames were feeding on oxygen pouring out of the ship.

  Only two or maybe three fighters made it out of the launch tube as the carrier staggered forward. An enormous fireball burst out of the tube and dissipated. Two battleships left their place in the firing squad and followed the dying fighter carrier, bombarding her with bright red laser fire. In another minute, the hull cracked and spokes of flames shot through. It looked, for a brief moment, as if the ship had a yellow and orange aura that vanished as quickly as it appeared. Then streams of debris gushed out of those ruptures in place of the flames, and the lifeless ship floated sideways and drifted into space.

  By this time, the next U.A. fighter carrier emerged from the Network and the massacre repeated itself. The firing squad bombarded the ships until they could not defend themselves. Then two ships finished the execution, and two more GCF battleships took their place in the firing line.

  Once the U.A. ships entered the Broadcast Network, it was too late to stop them or save them. A few ships were rerouted, but more than twenty Unified Authority ships were destroyed.

  Closer to the atmosphere, GCF ships prowled above Safe Harbor like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They traveled in groups of three and four, circling small territories and firing powerful lasers at planetary targets. A satellite captured video of this directly from above, and you could see the ships clearly against the blue and white glow of the New Columbian atmosphere.

  New Columbia’s planetary defenses crumbled quickly. In the beginning, plenty of green and red beams fired up from the planet, but they seldom hit targets. The gunnery men on the ships homed in on those rays and returned fire. It took them less than two minutes to silence the cannons below.

  The fighters fared no better. Rows of battleships bore down on the Falcons as they tore out of the atmosphere. Several more GCF battleships swarmed the fighter carrier and the destroyers that had been guarding the broadcast discs.

  The battle took ten minutes, not eight. During that entire time, the line of civilian ships fleeing New Columbia continued to stream into the Broadcast Network. The GCF ships never attacked them. When the last of the U.A. ships exploded, the GCF ships broadcasted away.

  You may or may not win an even fight, but you will certainly take casualties. By stacking the deck with sixty-five ships, the commander of the Galactic Central Fleet guaranteed more than victory, he guaranteed himself a rout. The Unified Authority lost three forts, twenty-three capital ships, and hundreds of fighters on March 24, 2512. The GCF lost one soldier, the guy I killed to get aboard their transport. I was about to even the
score.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The landing bay was disorganized. Of course, the battle was still going on when the transport landed on a Confederate ship, but that did not explain all of the chaos. This was supposed to be a military operation. During my time as a Marine, the ships I served on either ran like clockwork or key officers lost their jobs. That did not seem to be the case in the Confederate Navy.

  As the rear door of the kettle split open revealing the deck, I saw cargo movers driving large crates through a confused crowd. Men sprinted to get to their stations. The movers, rudimentary robots that looked like a cross between a forklift and a battle tank, used radar to keep from colliding with people and objects. The mob of crewmen running back and forth around the movers must have overloaded the radar.

  On the Kamehameha, every wall was polished and every light fixture dusted. On this ship, bunches of black and red cables hung from the walls like bunting. Branches from these cables snaked along the ceiling.

  “Okay, let’s get this ship unloaded,” somebody yelled. There was a distinctly informal sound to the way the man gave orders, and I realized just how devoid of military leadership the Confederates must be. With very few notable exceptions, every officer that graduated from the military academies was Earth-born and Earth-loyal. It had always been so.

  The only officers the Confederate Arms and Mogats would have were likely book-trained with no battle experience. They had a few notable defectors like Crowley and Halverson, but those officers would be too busy running the battles to work with the rank and file. The men I saw giving orders had not gone to basic training. They had not experienced the way seasoned drill sergeants stalk among enlisted men like a Tyrannosaurus rex in a herd of grass-eaters. The only experience these poseurs might have came from watching movies. Small wonder the Unified Authority won every land battle.