by Kent, Steven
We drove up to the guard post at Fort Bliss. Rain began to fall as the guard saluted and opened the gate. It fell in thimble-sized bombs that crashed into the windshield and burst. The thudding of the rain on the roof of the car sounded like suppressed machine-gun fire. With the rain banging against the tin roof of my billet, Ava must have thought she was trapped inside a snare drum.
The rain fell so hard that deep puddles formed by the time we reached the administration building. More lightning flashed, and thunder followed only a second or two behind.
“Nice weather they have here,” Smith said.
“Yeah, it’s a real vacation spot.”
“Like I said, you’ll be out of here before you know it.”
Moments later, the storm had already poured itself dry.
Compared to Clonetown with its tin-and-tent architecture, Fort Bliss looked like a civilization meant to endure. It had brick buildings, tree-lined streets, and grass-covered lawns. Our car pulled up to a two-story building that could have passed for an old-fashioned schoolhouse. Lights blazed in the windows, and guards waited just inside the doors.
“What happened to the rain?” Smith asked as he stepped out of the car.
I ignored him.
The storm might have vanished, but the air felt as humid as a wet towel. Doldrums. At least the temperature had dropped a few degrees.
Four guards held the doors open for General Smith and me to enter. They led us into a small conference room with an eight-man table, audiovisual equipment, and a screen. Smith asked me if I planned to behave myself. When I assured him I did, he told the guards to wait outside.
Now that we were in an air-conditioned office, I missed the heat. My clothes were damp from sweat and rain, and the overchilled air gave me a shiver.
I had long ago dismissed any illusions that General Smith cared for my welfare. Whatever he had up his sleeve, it would only get me far enough out of the frying pan to assure that I landed in the fire. “You served under Admiral Klyber, didn’t you?” he asked. That was all I needed to hear to know that I was headed to the Scutum-Crux Fleet. The late Admiral Bryce Klyber had spent more than a quarter of a century commanding that fleet.
I said that I had.
“Did you ever visit Terraneau?” Terraneau was the capital of the Scutum-Crux Arm.
“No, sir,” I said.
“I see. It’s a beautiful planet. Lakes, oceans; it’s a lot like Earth.” He slid a folder across the table.
“It’s been four years since the Avatari captured Terraneau, Harris. The first two years, we had no idea how to get through the ion layer in which the Avatari sealed the planet. After the experiments you ran on New Copenhagen, of course, we picked up a few new tricks.”
The fat old man with the graying hair and the piglike eyes, watched me closely as he spoke. He was cordial, but I sensed a sharp blade inside his voice. He did not care what happened to me or the clones who had once served under his command.
“We haven’t tried to reclaim any of the planets we lost during the war. As things now stand, the U.A. doesn’t have enough population to restart lost colonies; and quite frankly, I doubt Congress has the stomach for it.” General Smith slid into briefing mode that quickly. The conversation portion of our interview had ended, and he was giving me my next assignment.
“We have fleets orbiting fifteen of our lost colonies.”
The man had a knack for putting a positive spin on a dismal situation. Our fleets were orbiting those planets because they were trapped. Without the Broadcast Network transmitting our ships across space, our fleets could not travel between solar systems.
“We have attempted to make contact with those planets,” Smith continued. “Nothing big, mind you. Following your lead, we fired nuclear-tipped torpedoes into the ion curtains surrounding those planets and tried radioing in, but until last week, we’ve never made contact.
“Last week the Scutum-Crux Fleet picked up a signal from Terraneau. We’re sending you to look for survivors and retake the planet.”
“Am I going in alone?” I was being sarcastic. We’d stationed over a million men on New Copenhagen, and the Avatari damn near annihilated us.
General Smith ignored my comment. “We don’t know how many survivors are on the planet. We won’t know anything until you report back, but we’re guessing that the Avatari have done whatever damage they were planning to do and have gone home.”
The damage the Avatari planned on doing to New Copenhagen included doping the planet with poisonous chemicals, then charbroiling the place. They had bored a mine deep into the planet and saturated it with a toxic gas. I saw a man blister and die from breathing the fumes.
“What happens if I find the place crawling with Avatari?” I asked.
“Liberate it,” Smith said in a matter-of-fact tone. “That’s your specialty, right? If anyone can retake Terraneau, it’s you.”
Early in my career with the Marines, I developed a taste for philosophy. Now, listening to General Smith, I remembered a line from Nietzsche: A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.
“Just like that?” I asked. “Here’s a planet, go capture it?”
Smith laughed. “You’ll have the entire SC Fleet for support. Take whatever you need to get the job done.”
“And once I retake the planet, then what? You said you didn’t have enough people to reestablish lost colonies.”
“If I were you, I’d start by establishing a base. That’s your call, Harris. We’re transferring our officers out of the Scutum-Crux Arm. Once they are gone, you will assume command of the fleet.” He made it sound so specking magnanimous.
“You’re sending me to the farthest corner of the galaxy to assume command of an abandoned fleet which you want me to use to retake an alien-held planet. Is that right? What if I say no?”
“I’ll hang your ass from the nearest guard tower,” Smith said without a moment’s hesitation.
Another quote from Friedrich Nietzsche occurred to me: Distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful.
CHAPTER NINE
The Unified Authority was handing over more than the Scutum-Crux Fleet. Over the next six months, the Pentagon planned to deploy all-clone crews in twelve of its fifteen stranded fleets. This wasn’t the rumored genocide my men talked about, but it would effectively turn Earth into a clone-free zone. You had to hand it to them, the Joint Chiefs had come up with a hell of a solution for their embarrassing clone situation.
General Smith claimed they were assigning us to the outer fleets so that we could “maintain security on the frontier,” but it seemed more like the Joint Chiefs were doing the military equivalent of ditching an unwanted dog. Without the Broadcast Network or ships with broadcast engines, we would never be able to return home. Some frontier security we would offer, we would not even be able to send warnings to Earth. Pangalactic communications were just as dependent on the Broadcast Network as pangalactic travel.
When I returned to my quarters, I found Ava Gardner passed out on my rack. She looked peaceful for someone who had recently cried herself to sleep. I looked at her and thought about the irony of Ted Mooreland sweeping his own dirty secret under the rug as part of the larger Pentagon action. He would fit in well with those other generals.
There was only one rack in my quarters, and I did not feel especially chivalrous; but fortunately for Ava, sleep was the last thing on my mind. I reread General Smith’s orders. That was when the first germ of my plan occurred to me. I thought it was time somebody taught the bastards a lesson. Not just generals like Smith and Newcastle, but Congress and the society that had turned its back on the men who defended it. The Scutum-Crux Fleet did not have self-broadcasting ships, but it had firepower. It was the strongest fleet in the galaxy, bar none. If I could find a way to sail that fleet back into Earth space, I could bring the Unified Authority to its knees.
Two hundred years ago, the Unified Authority began its cloning program as
part of a master plan to colonize the galaxy. For two centuries, natural-born politicians feared us and natural-born generals abused us. They sent us to fight their battles and left us to die in space. And now this.
I reread the orders for the fourth time, then checked my watch. It was 0300. I didn’t feel like sleeping on the floor, nor did I feel like turning the movie starlet out of my bed; so I climbed on the rack beside her. The pretty little kitten turned and snuggled against me without ever opening her eyes.
Ava was a practical woman, I could tell from the start. She was still on the rack when I woke up, though she had managed to put some real estate between us. She looked angry that I moved in on her, but she also knew I had not taken advantage of her during the night. I woke up to find her watching me, the stern set in those green eyes warning me not to cross her.
“Good morning,” I said.
“What are you planning to do with me?” she asked.
“What do you want me to do with you?” I asked.
She sat up. “Well, I’m going to need an apartment of my own.”
“An apartment?” I asked. “This isn’t a specking hotel, it’s a relocation camp.”
“I need to shower,” she said.
“Not as much as you will by the end of your stay,” I said.
She ignored my comment and kept speaking. “I can cook for myself if I have to.”
“Nope, no kitchens,” I said.
She stood and started walking toward the window.
“I wouldn’t get too close to the window,” I said.
“It’s hot in here,” she said. She was sweating, and her skin had turned pink. Her hair was damp at the roots, and her eyes were puffy, but she still looked pretty. Her curves showed well through the sweat-stained blouse, and the shape of her face was addictive.
“It will get a lot hotter if one of those clones out there spots you,” I said. “You’re in a camp full of men who have not seen a woman for months. What do you think will happen if one of them sees you?”
“Well, I understand you’re the commanding officer on this base. That was what Teddy said, that you were in charge here.” She sounded annoyed. This was not the weeping, wilting damsel in distress that I had seen the night before, but neither was she the haughty diva I’d met back at the party. I think she’d cried out her helplessness.
“Teddy?” I asked, then realized she meant the newly minted General Theodore Mooreland. “I’m not in command, I’m just the only officer on the premises. There’s a difference, just ask the guards. You shouldn’t have any trouble spotting them—they’re the ones with the machine guns.”
She glared at me, but she also backed away from the window. That was a good thing, it meant she was thinking. “What about showers? What about food?” she asked.
I did not have running water in my billet, just a rack, a light fixture, and a small table. “I could request a second cot,” I said, “but somebody’s bound to ask why I need it.”
“What happens when I need to use the restroom?” she asked.
“That’s going to be a problem,” I muttered, inwardly wondering what would happen if I suggested she hold it for the next few weeks. “I suppose I can bring you a bucket; I’ll just have to dump it in the latrine every night.”
“A bucket?” She started to raise her voice, then caught herself.
“Unless you have a better idea,” I said.
“Teddy said . . .”
“If Teddy cared so much about keeping you comfortable, you would not be here right now.”
The words hit her like a slap across the face. She backed farther away from the window and sat on the edge of my bed. I saw tears start to flow, but she didn’t crumble this time. She glared up at me, her eyes boring into mine. It was just like General Smith had said, she was a tough little scorpion. “If it gets any hotter in here, I’ll roast,” she said.
“I can bring in water.”
“What about a fan?” she asked.
“We don’t have fans.”
“How do I shower?”
“Same as going to the bathroom, do it out of a bucket. I’ll find a towel; you can sponge yourself.” She started to say something, so I added, “Or you can take your chances out there.”
She fell quiet. The expression I saw on her face most closely resembled defeat. She must have realized there was nothing more I could do for her. Had Mooreland not sent her to the camp, she might have been able to get some movie producer or Hollywood friend to take care of her; but out here, I was her only option.
A forlorn smile formed on her lips as she whispered, “Thank you.”
I started the day looking for buckets—one for water, one for excrement. I found a couple of rusty buckets around the latrine and took them to the showers to wash them out. It only took a minute of scrubbing to see that they were as clean as they were going to get, so I filled them with water, grabbed a few rolls of toilet paper, and went back to my shed.
“What are those?” Ava asked, when I lugged the buckets inside.
“One is your toilet, the other’s your sink,” I said.
“I hope you don’t expect . . .”
“I don’t expect anything,” I said. “Tell you what, why don’t you go tell the guards that the facilities aren’t up to your standards, and this whole thing is all one big mistake?”
She looked up at me, and I saw emotions colliding in her moist olivine eyes. Her surprise boiled itself into anger which in turn distilled into desperation. The haughtiness of her expression went stiff, then relaxed, then toppled. She stood silent and distant. Her shoulders slumped as she realized that she could no longer control the world around her.
I felt sorry for the bitch, but, “I’ll go get us some breakfast,” was all I could say.
I went to the mess hall for breakfast, slopping a double portion of oatmeal on my plate, then grabbing four pieces of toast. These I carried back to my billet. When I offered her food, she said she was not hungry; so I started eating. A minute later, she asked if I had anything to spare. I handed her the tray. She considered the food, then barely touched it.
“You really plan to keep me hidden in this tin box?” she asked.
“Some people have skeletons in their closets; I have a movie star,” I said.
She didn’t laugh. Instead, she touched me on the cheek, and said, “I’m not sure if you are my white knight or my tormentor.”
It sounded like a line from a movie. I started to tell her I was both but instead said nothing.
Our eyes met, and I read her. She needed protection, and she would give me anything I wanted if I’d just keep her safe. She was every bit as much a businesswoman as she was an actress.
Ava was beautiful, but I knew her allure would evaporate once I began hauling her shit to the latrine. She needed a shower. Smudges of dirt powdered her forehead. Her makeup had worn off, leaving her with blemishes on her cheeks and flesh-colored lips. Her hair had tangles and knots, and she needed new clothes, but in spite of all that, she still looked good.
Some mornings I woke up and looked into those green eyes and realized I could lose myself in them. There was something calming about them. If I let her, Ava could intoxicate me with her eyes.
I’d spent time with a variety of girls. In the Marines we called them scrub—girls you played with and left behind. I might even have fallen in love once; I couldn’t be sure. I knew more about fear than love.
CHAPTER TEN
There was no question, Master Gunnery Sergeant Kelly Thomer had recently luded up, the only question was, “When?” He sat on the warm ground in the shade of his barracks building, his eyes staring straight ahead. Twenty guys were playing a half-court game no more than ten yards from Thomer, but I doubt he noticed. One team wore tank tops, the other went skins. They swore, they fouled, two guys got in a fistfight; but Thomer sat oblivious to it all. In another couple of hours, the day would heat up, and the players would go rest. Clonetown might close down in the midday heat; but Thomer woul
d stay seated. He was on Fallzoud, nothing mattered to him.
Thomer had once been as perfect a Marine as any man in the Corps. He thought too much, and he had too much compassion for his men; but he obeyed orders with precision, remained clearheaded in battle, and never placed his needs over the good of the Corps. Now thirty-one years old, he was still in his prime physically. He could run ten fast miles or hike fifty with a heavy pack. His subordinates respected him, and his superiors valued him, but the shadow of drug abuse now darkened his career.
New Copenhagen had left Thomer unstable. In the first days after the war, the doctors diagnosed him as clinically depressed and ordered him to take a serotonin inhibitor called Fallzoud. The drug wasn’t supposed to be addictive, but that didn’t stop him from getting hooked. Most clones who took Fallzoud had the same problem.
Most Fallzoud junkies turn into paranoid schizophrenics, but they also became capable of learning they were clones without having a death reflex. The drug was dangerous, but it had its uses.
The attendants manning the Clonetown medical dispensary handed out Fallzoud to anyone who asked. They wanted us on the drug; it made us less of a threat. Hundreds of clones had come to Clonetown with a Fallzoud habit; and thousands would leave here that way.
“Hello, Thomer,” I said as I sat down beside him.
“Good morning,” he said, turning his head and staring at me. His eyes were dull and heavy-lidded. After luding, Thomer sometimes went a half hour at a time without blinking.
“How are you feeling, Master Sergeant?” I asked, wanting to evaluate his condition before starting an important discussion.
“I just sprayed. I feel great,” he said.
Deciding I would do better to come back when he had a few less bats in his belfry, I climbed to my feet. Fallzoud worked its magic quickly and with profound effect. In another hour, Thomer would show signs of intelligence. He’d remain unmotivated and lethargic; but at this moment, I would have described him as closer to catatonic.
