by Kent, Steven
“Maybe we should talk later,” I said.
Drug-dulled as he was, Thomer managed to climb to his feet. “It’s okay, sir. You don’t need to leave, I’m a little sluggish, that’s all.”
A little sluggish my ass; if he turned any more sluglike, he’d leave a mucus trail. Not trusting his ability to grasp what I had to tell him, I suggested we find Herrington—my third in command. Maybe keeping Thomer on his feet would circulate some oxygen to his brain.
Herrington and Thomer had once been very similar. Thomer was more of a Boy Scout and Herrington more of a Marine, but they both lived by the rules and led by example. They had something else in common, too. Both of them lost best friends on New Copenhagen. Herrington, who was twenty years older than Thomer, shrugged off the loss. Thomer fell apart at the seams. I thought I could still trust him in battle, though. When a good Marine goes into battle, the drugs, doubts and, all-purpose demons go on the back shelf.
“Think you can go a full day without a Fallzoud breakfast?” I asked, as we crossed a “yard.” They called the open areas of Clonetown yards even though they were dry and bald with not so much as a tuft of grass. The glare from the open sunlight left me squinting, and heat had already begun to radiate off the corrugated tin buildings. I saw ripples of heat in the air and wondered how Ava was doing.
It took us an hour to find Herrington. When we finally did locate him, he was sitting in one of the first places we had looked—a set of bleachers sitting in the shade of a guard tower and overlooking the parade grounds. Herrington saw us coming and waved, then looked back at the field. As we approached, I noticed his venomous grin.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
Looking down on the field, I saw a ring of recruits standing around a fallen comrade. The man lay flat on his back, legs out straight, two pugil sticks near his feet.
“Looks like they finally found a fighter,” I said.
“He’ll be doing it in the brig. The guy on the ground is an officer. One of the recruits lost his grip on his pugil stick, and it flew off and hit him in the head.”
“You’re joking?”
“Knocked him out cold,” Herrington said. “It was the first clean shot I’ve seen all day.”
As Herrington filled me in on the accident, Thomer stared out across the field with a blank expression. His hair was not regulation length and he needed a shave. I wondered if the reliable Marine I once knew still lived in that head.
“I had a visitor last night,” I began. “Anyone want to guess who?”
“It couldn’t have been Ava Gardner; she was too busy in my rack,” Herrington said, an amused look on his face.
The joke hit too close to a truth that I was not yet ready to share, so I answered my own question. “Al Smith favored me with a visit.”
Herrington whistled, then said, “The Old Man of the Air Force himself?”
“I heard something about a convoy driving through last night,” Thomer said.
Herrington asked, “General Smith. I don’t suppose he came bearing an apology?”
“Not exactly,” I said, “but he did say we’re going back on active duty. They’re transferring the entire camp out to the Scutum-Crux Fleet.”
“Back on active duty?” Thomer asked. “That sounds good.” He was almost out of the stupor phase of his intoxication. Next he would begin a short period of paranoia. In another hour he would become withdrawn and stay in his shell until his next dose. Withdrawn would be an improvement.
“Those bastards are just trying to get rid of us by shipping us across the specking galaxy,” Herrington said, stating the obvious. Giving it more thought, he added, “Oh well, at least we’re going to be babysitting battleships. If it gets me out of this shit hole, I’m all for it.”
“Smith says they’ve made contact with survivors on Terraneau. Our mission is to retake the planet and establish it as a base for the fleet,” I said. “They’re pulling all of the natural-borns out. I guess we get to do whatever we want once they’re gone.”
“The universe’s first all-clone fleet,” Herrington observed. “Rape, pillage, and plunder in an abandoned corner of the galaxy. Hooha!”
Thomer, a clone who suspected he might be a clone, shook his head. “What about the death reflex? Won’t we lose a lot of men when they hear they are sailing with an all-clone fleet?”
“Not clones, ‘enlisted men,’ ” I said. “They even covered that in the orders. From here on out, we only refer to ourselves as an ‘Enlisted Man’s Fleet.’ ”
Everything happened the way General Smith said it would. One week after he left, I received a message letting me know that I had been reinstated, given a transfer to the Scutum-Crux Fleet, and handed a new pay grade. I was promoted to captain in the Unified Authority Marines.
Every man in Clonetown received orders the following day. Like me, they had been transferred to the SC Fleet.
Battalions of officers descended on Clonetown to assign men new Military Occupational Specialties. They arranged us into platoons, companies, battalions, and regiments. It didn’t matter what branch the clones were in before, they were all assigned to the Marines from here on out, and I was officially their commanding officer.
Fort Bliss armory issued us combat armor complete with everything but sidearms. Every man received two government-issue rucksacks, one contained a set of regulation Marine combat armor, and the other contained clothes and toiletries.
I was issued two sets of armor. I carried both sets back to my billet to inspect them.
As she always did, Ava hid under my rack when she heard someone approaching the door. The place looked empty, but I knew where she was. Closing the door, I said, “Come on out, it’s me.”
There was a pause as she searched the quarters from beneath the cot to make sure she was safe, then wiggled out. Her white cotton blouse was mostly brown now, and permanent stains had formed under her arms. She constantly washed her face and arms with a rag and water. Her skin was as white and creamy as ever, but her hair was a snarl.
“What’s that?” she asked as she climbed to her feet.
I hated stupid questions; the words “Combat Armor” were clearly displayed on each rucksack. “Government-issue panties,” I said. “All the men are wearing them.”
She flinched as if I had threatened her. It always happened. She asked some stupid question, I answered sarcastically, and she winced and went silent. I hated it. I specking hated living with Ava.
“It’s combat armor,” I said. “They gave me two sets.”
“Why do you need two sets?” she asked.
“One is for you.”
I opened the first set and saw it was mine. The helmet had a discreet cluster near the collar identifying it as command gear. I pulled out the leg shield and chest. Sure enough, they fit me perfectly. I could fit into arm shields and leggings made for general-issue clones, but they were short for me.
I had no trouble spotting the modifications on the second suit of combat armor. The boots had three-inch-thick soles. The arms were short. The chest plates were designed to compress and conceal a woman’s chest. Ava would find them constricting, but they would make her look like a man.
“Somebody went to a lot of trouble putting this together for you,” I said.
Ava took the armor, and said, “Honey, if they wanted to put themselves out for me, they should have put me up in a guest cottage back in Bel Air.” She looked at the chest plates, turning them over so she could see them inside and out. “This part fastens over my shoulders, right?”
I nodded. “It’ll be a tight fit, and the boots are going to be heavy,” I said. “But once you put this on, you’ll look like every other clone in Clonetown.”
I thought Ava would have a smart answer, but she didn’t. Without saying a word, she placed the armor on the table. She looked around my little one-room shit hole and her eyes started to tear up. “We’re really going to leave,” she said.
“Soon,” I said.
&nbs
p; “They’re going to open the gates, and we’re going to walk right out.”
“That just about sums it up,” I said. “We’ll be on our way to the Scutum-Crux Fleet.”
“Do the ships have showers with hot water?” she asked.
“You’ll still be confined to my quarters,” I said.
“Yes, I know, but will there be showers with hot water?”
“You’ll still be in hiding.” Even as we spoke, I tried to figure out our living arrangements. Until I assumed command of the fleet, I would live in the Marine complex. I’d have private quarters. They wouldn’t be huge, but they would be larger than my Clonetown digs. I might even be able to scrounge up a second rack. “You’ll still need to eat in my quarters.”
“Yes, but will you have a shower in your room?” she asked. “Do officers take warm showers?”
“Yeah, there will be a shower in my billet,” I said.
“I’m not sure what a billet is; but if it has warm water, I think I’ll love it,” she said.
“Quarters, your billet is where you stay,” I said. “And it will have warm water.”
Ava sat down on the bed and put her face in her hands. She started to sob.
“What is it now?” I asked. This was not the first time I had seen a woman get emotional. Normally I walked away from the relationship when their emotions started to show; this time I couldn’t. Having just given her good news, I could not understand why in the hell she was crying.
“I’m happy,” she said, both laughing and crying at the same damn time.
That night, after I’d emptied the waste bucket, Ava and I finally tested the springs on my rack. We were both hot, and our bodies were slick with sweat. It would have been nicer if a storm had broken; but she was willing enough, and it seemed like a good way to end the evening.
PART II
THE BATTLE FOR TERRANEAU
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I looked around the cabin of the transport. We called this area the “kettle” because it was shaped like a teakettle and had thick metal with no windows. The Unified Authority built these sturdy birds for durability, not comfort. We would fly the transport to a self-broadcasting cruiser, and the cruiser would carry us to the farthest arm of the galaxy.
They packed a hundred Marines in this kettle, two platoons’ worth. Since we were not flying into battle this time, most of the men wore Charlie service uniforms. A few of the veterans came in armor, preferring the air-conditioned comfort of the undersuit to the climate in the transport. I had all of my noncommissioned officers wear armor. Ava came wearing her armor as well. Counting Ava and me, there were forty people in armor. That gave her a reasonable chance of fitting in. Even so, I had her sit in a crowded corner so that no one would notice her short arms. I sat beside her.
Thomer dropped down to my right. We were on the bench that lined the wall of the cabin. We kept our helmets on. Thomer sat on one side of me, Ava sat on the other.
“What’s wrong with him?” Thomer asked on a private frequency.
“Who?” I asked.
“Rooney.”
“Rooney?” I asked.
“The guy to your left,” said Thomer.
The gear in our helmets broadcast virtual dog tags, which showed on our visors. Ava’s armor identified her as Corporal Mike Rooney.
She did look nervous, sitting absolutely still with her hands primly folded on her lap, her back ramrod straight. Had he not known we were a load of Marines, Thomer might have guessed there was a woman sitting inside that armor.
“He says he’s never been on a transport before,” I said.
“Want me to talk to him?” Thomer asked.
“No, let him work it out on his own,” I said. Then, hoping to change the subject, I added, “You seem peppy today; did they up your prescription?”
“Speck you, sir,” Thomer said. “We’re out of specking Clonetown, and I’m back in combat armor.
“You sailed with the Scutum-Crux Fleet before, didn’t you, sir?”
“Yeah, this will be my second tour,” I said.
“Did you ever land on Terraneau?” Thomer asked.
“I never did, but I hear it’s a nice place,” I said, recalling my conversation with General Smith. “At least it used to be nice. There’s no telling what condition the Avatari have left it in.”
The first major battle of the Avatari invasion took place on Terraneau. Four years ago, the aliens spread one of their ion curtains around the planet, and no one had seen or heard anything since then. Presumably, the atmosphere could still sustain life. It occurred to me that the Pentagon could have lied about the message from Terraneau. That would be one way to solve the clone problem—a quick lie, a hearty salute, and a ride to some distant corner of the galaxy. The pieces fit, but I believed Smith.
The bastard didn’t even tell us what the message was. It might have been a call for help or a planetwide obituary. Hell, for all I knew, they might have been calling out for a pizza.
We were expected to establish a beachhead on the planet. If we found aliens there, we were supposed to attack; and once we liberated the planet, we would declare martial law. Smith made it sound simple.
“What do you think we’ll find when we get there?” Thomer asked.
“It’s not going to be like New Copenhagen,” I said. “We know how to unsleeve the planet. Once the ion curtain is out of the way, we should be able to hunt the aliens down with fighters and battleships. They won’t be able to fight back if we hit them from space.”
Borrowing a trick from Smith’s playbook, I made it sound simple.
“Hit the Avatari from space, that sounds good,” Thomer said.
Thomer was part of a select group who knew the term “Avatari.” Only a handful of politicians, the top brass at the Pentagon, and a few survivors from New Copenhagen knew the name.
The transport had a top speed of one hundred thousand miles per hour. It lumbered along at about three thousand miles per hour until it left the atmosphere, then picked up speed as it flew out to dock with the self-broadcasting cruiser. The cruiser would take us to Scutum-Crux space, where we would rendezvous with the U.A.N. Kamehameha, an old fighter carrier that served as the flagship of the Scutum-Crux Fleet.
We’d been in the air for less than thirty minutes when the pilot of the transport gave the signal to prepare for docking with the cruiser. For Ava, those thirty minutes must have been a long and lonely time. Not taking a chance on one of my Marines striking up a conversation with her, I had crippled the interLink interface in her armor. She could listen in on open-channel communications, but she could only speak to me. The last thing I needed was for my men to hear a woman’s voice over the interLink.
“Are we there? Have we reached Terraneau?” Ava asked.
“Not even close. We’ve reached the ship that will take us to the ship that will take us to Terraneau.”
“Harris, I need to use the restroom,” she said.
“There’s a tube in your . . .” I started.
“Um, my plumbing doesn’t exactly match up with the equipment,” she said, sounding irritated.
“Speck, I didn’t think about that.”
“Honey, you seemed pretty interested in my plumbing last night,” she said, sounding more brassy than ever.
“I wasn’t thinking about how you matched up with the armor,” I said. “You’re going to have to hold it.”
“Don’t they put bathrooms on these planes?”
“There’s a head, but everyone’s going to notice if you go in wearing combat armor.” The booth-styled bathrooms they built into these transports were too tight for use in combat armor. I explained this to Ava. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t argue the point.
A few minutes later, I heard the hiss of booster engines and the muffled creak of the landing gear as we touched down. There was a loud clank, and the rear doors of the transport slowly ground apart, revealing the ramp that led out of the ship. I removed my helmet and headed down the ra
mp.
A team of officers greeted me at the bottom. We traded salutes and formalities—in military circles discipline must always be maintained—and a nameless, faceless, prick of a natural-born asked me to follow him to the bridge.
I told him that some of my men were sick and asked if they could go to the head aboard the cruiser. When he asked why they didn’t just use the facilities on the transport, I explained that they were in combat armor and that settled it. I ordered all of my noncoms to go. Ava was a bright girl; she’d find a way to get herself in and out of the stall without being noticed.
Having arranged for my men to use the head, the officer escorted me off the transport. Before we left the landing dock, I turned back and watched Corporal Rooney bringing up the rear as my noncoms left for the head. I could only imagine what they were saying over the interLink. Most of them would be indignant about being sent to the head.
Across the bay, I saw our four transports lined up in a tight row and neatly stowed for this journey. This was a cruiser, the smallest of capital ships. Our four transports filled the landing area to capacity.
“Captain Pershing wanted me to bring you up to the bridge,” the ensign said, as we left. He was a short, slight man with thinning blond hair. He walked fast, pumping his skinny legs in overdrive but taking short, mincing strides.
“Is this call business or social?” I asked.
“He didn’t say,” the ensign answered without looking at me.
I had never spent any time on a cruiser. The ship had narrow halls and low ceilings. Equipment filled every nook and niche. Squeezing past sailors on my way to the lift, I felt more than a little claustrophobic.
This scow had both a broadcast engine and a nuclear reactor; it only made sense that it would fly hot. The cooling system succeeded only in keeping the temperature to a low bake around the engines, but then they built this ship more than fifty years ago, in an era when Congress feared an imminent attack. The engineers back then sent ships into space the moment they knew they could fly.
