by James, Brett
“Hello,” he said to Linda, his voice wavering. She crossed her arms and glared at him with something deeper than anger. It was hate.
Colonel Chiang San burst into the room in full parade dress. He motioned everyone to attention as General Garvey followed him in.
Seeing himself in the Great General’s uniform wasn’t as shocking the second time around; Peter was more conscious of their differences than their similarities. The General was in his early fifties, both thinner and shorter than Peter. He had a cleft scar cutting his face from brow to cheek, passing right over his left eye. He inspected Peter, then turned to the balding man.
“Good work, technician,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” the man replied. “It’s a similar procedure to what we do here every day. I simply adjusted the—”
“Yes,” the General cut in; then he turned to Peter. “Sixteen months ago I sent thirty-seven teams into the Riel universe, each with the same mission. You are the only man to return. My question is, did you find the Riel homeworld and can you tell me where it is?”
Peter swallowed and, clearing his throat, managed, “Yes.”
The General glared.
“Yes, sir,” Peter corrected, the effort searing his throat. He would have said more, but the General raised a hand.
“The colonel will take your full report,” he said. Then, to the technician: “How long until he’s on his feet?”
“Two hours, sir. Maybe three. First time we’ve ever done this.”
“Bring him to me when he’s ready,” the General said. He turned to Linda’s supervisor. “As of now, this is model 375,” he said. There was a gravity to the words that Peter didn’t understand. Linda choked up, her eyes red and wet.
“I’m sorry,” the General said to her gravely. He turned on his heel and strode out.
“You heard him,” the supervisor barked at Linda. “Reset the—” But Linda fled the room, hands over her face.
— — —
The General grunted noncommittally, closing Peter’s report and laying it on his large oak desk. “How accurate are these coordinates?” he asked.
“Very accurate, sir,” Peter said. “I remember them clearly.”
The General nodded, motioning to the seat opposite. Peter practically collapsed into it. The General had kept him at attention for a half hour as he studied the transcript of Peter’s debriefing. It was an officer’s privilege to keep his men on their feet, but given Peter’s condition, it felt like a message: we might look alike, but only one of us is the General.
Peter was just glad to sit. It had only been two hours since he was revived.
“You’re a colonel now, if you hadn’t noticed.” The General pointed to the silver eagle on Peter’s empty right sleeve, which was folded up and pinned. Peter hadn’t noticed; he had been rushed in here as soon as he could stand.
“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” the General said. “I didn’t promote you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you have no memory of Officer Training?”
“No, sir.”
“No memory of anything you did on base over the last thirteen months?”
“No, sir. Should I?”
“Apparently not,” the General said. “No one can agree on how your memory works, other than that you have to die. You didn’t. Your ship was found and you were resuscitated, thus your missing arm. We don’t actually heal anybody out here; we rebuild them from scratch. Is something amusing?”
“I was just thinking, sir, about all the times I supposedly froze in space. Now I actually have.”
The General scrutinized Peter. “Yes,” he agreed dryly. “Speaking of which, I apologize for having you shot. It’s against regulation for men in the lower ranks to meet their own clones. At the time I had no idea that you would remember anyway.”
“Apology accepted, sir,” Peter said.
“Everything I’m about to tell you is classified way above your rank, but you already know a great deal more than you’re supposed to. You’ve kept your mouth shut so far. Continue.
“The UF charter allows us to clone any resident of the Livable Territories, provided that they volunteer. We sample their DNA and scan their memories, then we create a soldier. One soldier. The charter is specific on that point, and as far as the civilian population is concerned, one is all we make. But as you can plainly see, that’s not the case.
“We were losing the war, badly, and we had far more resources than blueprints to build. So the government signed a secret order to give us more flexibility. There are still limitations, specifically that we can’t duplicate lines once we advance them—the memory of each clone must start as that of the original.
“I don’t see the point, myself, but I’m not woman-born. I trust the homeworlders have their reasons.
“This rule, however, has created a situation. Three months after you left on your mission, your team was declared missing-presumed-dead, then reinstated from their last recorded scan. Since that time, you—Peter 375—have had an impressive record, not the least of which was your promotion to colonel and the receipt of top honors in Officer Training. Your other version has been very successful, and it’s a shame to lose him. But I guess it can’t be helped.”
“Sir?”
“I need the information in your head. It is invaluable. So I’m reinstating you as Peter 375.”
“Thank you, sir,” Peter said.
The General raised his eyebrows. “I’m simply making a strategic decision. Your report here is a good start, but I’ll have more questions. I’m planning the largest offensive in UF history, and every detail is important. Frankly, if it wasn’t for that…” The General trailed off, frowning.
It was a long minute before he spoke again.
“The privileges of a colonel—the rank your counterpart officially earned just last month—include private quarters. Private quarters he may share with a woman.”
Peter’s stomach sank. “Linda.”
“Yes. Linda.”
“I—”
“I ordered all records of the other version destroyed,” the General cut in. “You are 375 now. There is no going back.”
“And Linda?” Peter asked.
“Are you questioning me?” the General asked, rising to his feet.
Peter snapped to attention. “No, sir,” he said.
“Entire worlds are at stake here. Billions of lives. I don’t have time for trivialities.”
“No, sir.”
“Good,” the General said, again calm. He sat down and turned to his terminal, ignoring Peter as he spoke.
“You’re demoted back to sergeant—you haven’t got the knowledge to be a colonel—but I’m electing you for Officer Training.
“This promotion has nothing to do with the other 375. He earned his rank through hard experience, by winning unwinnable battles and gaining the respect of his men. Your promotion is political. You are under-qualified, but you have demonstrated unprecedented determination in bringing back valuable information, and in that you’ve succeeded where all others failed. Rewarding you sets a good example for the men.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
“Sir.” Peter walked to the door.
“One more thing, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir?” Peter turned back.
“Per her request, I’ve granted Linda 75 reassignment, but only after the battle. You’re in poor health, and medically speaking she knows you better than anyone. So for now the two of you will have to put your feelings aside. That won’t be a problem, will it, sergeant?”
“No, sir,” Peter said.
“Good. Now get some rest. We’ve got a lot of work ahead.”
Peter walked to his bunk on autopilot—nothing ha
d changed in the year and a half he had been gone—but when he got there, it was already occupied.
“Sir?” a sergeant asked, standing and saluting. Peter didn’t recognize him, but the sergeant obviously knew who he was.
“Nothing,” Peter said, stepping back and letting the door close.
— — —
Peter made his way to the officer’s quarter and was only half-surprised when the door opened for him. Halfway down the hall was a door with his name on it. He hesitated, but the door slid open automatically. He stepped inside.
Linda had left in a hurry. Drawers hung open and hangers were scattered on the floor. His own clothes filled exactly half the closet.
He sat on the wide bed. It had been carelessly made, and there were dents in both pillows.
[14.08.2.79::3948.1938.834.2D]
“We have a rare opportunity in front of us—a chance to turn the tide of the war. It won’t be easy. In fact, it will be the toughest battle in the history of mankind. But also the most important.”
General Garvey was addressing a crowd of some ten thousand men. Peter sat with Chiang San in his office, watching on the monitor. He remembered viewing these briefings in the barracks with his platoon when he was a private. Back then he hung on every word, hunting for clues about the mission. But this time he already knew the plan, so he wondered about the other men in the room. He had never attended a briefing personally, and it occurred to him that he didn’t know anyone who had.
“It’s all canned,” Chiang San said, as if reading Peter’s mind. The colonel was leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk. “If there’s a room like that anywhere on this base, I’ve never seen it. Figure the audience is pre-recorded or computer-generated. I don’t even know whether the General delivers the speech himself or just lets the computer handle that too. I asked him one time, but he just laughed. Told me I’d find out when I got promoted.”
“How many of me are there?” Peter asked. It was an obvious question, but he had never thought to ask.
“Just the one, now.”
“But what about…?” Peter pointed at the monitor.
“Oh, he’s not you. Not exactly. But that’s complicated. Let’s talk about you.
“Each line typically starts with ninety-six copies. Some advance and others are eliminated. Not only because they fail, mind you, but also because others succeed. Sergeants have a lot more access than privates, so there are fewer of them running around. After the first dozen privates get promoted, the rest are retired. That’s why the base is divided into twelve even parts.”
“And I’ve never seen the other parts?” Peter asked.
“Of course not,” Chiang San replied. “That’s the whole point. As a sergeant, you get the run of your section, and everyone in it knows only that one version of you. Not that you could tell the difference: each section is exactly the same. The whole base is divided out from the center, like slices of a giant pie. It’s only us colonels who can move between sections. Of course, that means once a sergeant gets his commission, all of his dupes are iced.
“Most lines don’t produce a colonel, though. We’re a rare breed, you and I.”
“We’re not just fighting over another piece of empty space,” the General continued on the monitor. “Even as I speak, the base is advancing toward the Drift’s far boundary, bringing us within striking distance of a Riel homeworld. This time, we’re taking the battle to the enemy’s doorstep.”
Applause erupted in the room, seemingly spontaneous.
“Towing the battle to the enemy’s doorstep,” Chiang San corrected from his chair. “The base hasn’t got engines. There was even talk of taking it straight through the boundary, but we decided against that. Took months to repair the damage from bringing it in here in the first place, and no matter where we’d cross, it wouldn’t take long for the Riel to find something this big. Better to go in shooting.”
“What will the casualties be like just getting the men across?” Peter asked.
Chiang San winced. “Not so bad. We’ve ironed out a lot of the kinks since your trip. Hardened the equipment and the men.”
“I’ll clear up the rumors right now,” the General said. “We have discovered the third race. Our objective is their homeworld. They may look like us, but make no mistake: they are our enemy just like the rest.
“This is an unprecedented opportunity—a chance to win the war in a single stroke. To ensure, once and for all, the safety of our loved ones.”
“Another homeworlds-approved message,” Chiang San grumbled.
Peter smiled, taking it as a joke.
“You don’t believe me?”
“How could it be?” Peter asked. “The Livable Territories are light-years away. They couldn’t even know about the attack yet.”
“You study physics?” the colonel asked. Peter shrugged. “Then don’t make like you’re smart. They got it figured, trust me. They keep a hand in every little thing we do out here and don’t you ever forget it.”
Applause erupted as the General left the stage. A projection appeared where he was—a combat suit, but not a marine’s. It was white and shiny, and while its proportions looked normal from the front, they were elongated when seen from the side. The suit looked familiar, but Peter couldn’t place it.
“Meet the new enemy,” a colonel said, walking up from the audience. He was a stout man, with dark hair and olive skin. “It may not look as fierce as the others,” he continued, “but it’s just as deadly. Probably more so.” The colonel reached the stage and turned around—it was Chiang San.
“Just like an onion, ain’t it, kid?” said the Chiang San who sat across the desk from Peter. “You peel back a layer and there’s always another.”
— — —
Peter divided his attention between the colonel on the screen and the colonel in the room. He tried to gauge the nearby Chiang San’s reaction, to see if he already knew what his on-screen self was going to say. But Peter’s companion watched without expression, offering no comment about his performance onstage.
On-screen, the colonel gave a summary of the new race, which he called the Threes. He talked about where they lived, what they breathed, and what it took to kill them. He knew a lot more than Peter’s expedition had dug up, and he wondered how much of it was embellished.
The colonel said moving the base into position would take two weeks, during which the marines would train on new weapons—ones that fired both impulsor and projectile ammo.
Peter tuned him out; he wasn’t going to be fighting. He would spend the next two weeks with Chiang San, getting a crash course on the Battle Map, the complicated system the generals used to control the entire battle. General Garvey wanted Peter on the commandship in case he thought of anything relevant, and so he needed to be able to follow the action.
During Peter’s first session, Chiang San had told him: “The Battle Map may look like a more complex version of the Sim Test, but it’s far more than that. The Sim Test is meant only to identify men capable of strategic thinking, not to simulate actual battle. There are no false positives, no enemy decoys, and the outcome of every engagement is predictable. In the Sim Test, three platoons of marines will always defeat a squad of four Gyrines. That’s not how it works in real life.
“There’s a lot more guesswork and chance in a real battle. The Battle Map collates information from all over the board—information that is changing constantly, not just for the Riel but also for our own side. A general’s job is to weigh what he sees and make decisions—up to hundreds of them a minute, depending on the size of the conflict. It takes training—two years of it—but it also takes talent, which is something you have to be born with.
“So to speak,” Chiang San added, giving Peter a wink.
— — —
“Not bad,” Chiang Sa
n said as his on-screen self finished his lecture, “if I do say so myself.”
“Was that—?” Peter asked.
“Wait for your promotion,” the colonel cut in, “like the rest of us did. Right now, there are more important things to worry about. As in, you’ve got a meeting with the General.”
“We do?”
“You do. Right now. He wants you to review his initial battle plan.”
Chiang San was already on his feet. Peter followed him out.
Command was a long hallway lined with colonels’ offices. It bulged at the end to accommodate five doors, one for each general. Chiang San knocked on the one in the center.
“Don’t let him rile you,” Chiang San whispered with sudden urgency. “He doesn’t like you much.”
“Why not?” Peter asked. He had only had two brief conversations with the General.
“Nothing you did,” the colonel said. “Just who you are.”
Before Peter could respond, the door swung open. A man in a black uniform motioned him in—the very man who had shot him.
— — —
A short passage connected the General’s office to an interior replica of a commandship. The Battle Map dominated the dimly lit room, a three-dimensional projection of the Riel universe rising from its massive steel table. Five generals stood beside it. Peter had met two of them before. There were no introductions.
“Ah, 375,” General Garvey said, motioning him to the projection. “I wanted your input on this.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said.
“We drop the formalities in this room, sergeant.” The General’s tone was uncharacteristically warm. “Look here.”
The General scrolled the Battle Map past the three Riel bases, zooming in on the homeworld’s solar system. “This is how the system will look when we attack. And this”—the General twisted his hand above the table, revolving the planets backward around the sun—“is how it was when you surveyed it. You reported heavy radio use on this planet here, and this one as well. Both planets are uninhabitable, so they are either outposts or mines. Did your team investigate?”
