The Clone Republic

by Steven L. Kent

  I dressed quickly and went to the main cabin. The bureaucrats were all where I’d left them, including one fellow who had camped out on a sofa and snored through half of my watch. Their suits were wrinkled, and a few had messy hair, but they seemed alert. As I moved to the front of the cabin, I looked out a window and saw the first glimpse of dawn—a small swirl of light just beyond dark layers of mountains. And there was Rising Sun, the most glorious city I have ever seen.

  Rising Sun sat wedged between a snow-frosted mountain and a mirror-flat lake. Unlike Hiro’s Fall, a city that seemed to embrace the past, Rising Sun was thoroughly modern. The streets were regular and straight. White-gold light blazed out of the buildings that lined those streets, illuminating the sidewalks. As we flew closer, I realized that the outer walls of the buildings were entirely transparent. The sight reminded me of a night sky filled with stars.

  As our pilot banked the ship and came around for a landing, I stole one last glance out the window and saw the lake. The cruiser touched down softly and coasted toward a landing terminal. We taxied down the runway, the diplomats straightening their clothes and touching up their hair. They were not interested in the spectacular view, only organizing their briefcases and giving their computer files one final read. When we came to a stop, I peered through the window and saw the armored transport landing a few yards away. Shannon would rush the men off the AT and line them up before our pilot opened the hatch. They were the lucky ones. They traveled in armor. Dressed in our greens, we would freeze our asses in that snowy cold air.

  The hatch opened. Carrying my rifle poised across my chest, I led my soldiers down a ramp. We formed a line on each side of the ramp.

  At the door of the terminal, a disorganized crowd of Ezer Kri politicians waited for our diplomats to deplane. There might have been as many as fifty of them. I could not tell if it was fear or cold air that made their jaws so tight and their skin so pale.

  The first man out of the shuttle was Bryce Klyber, looking tall and gaunt, and wearing the same disingenuous smile that Vice Admiral Barry wore when he toured the Mogat district with the mayor of Hiro’s Fall. Dressed in his admiral’s uniform, Klyber looked severe despite the grin. He must have been cold in that uniform, but he gave no sign of it. He paused beside our ranks, pierced a few of the men with his gray eyes, then turned toward the terminal.

  Yoshi Yamashiro, the governor of Ezer Kri, trotted out to meet Klyber. He wore a dark blue trench coat, unbuttoned and untied, over a charcoal-colored suit. Yamashiro was a stocky man with broad shoulders and huge hands. He was thick, not fat. There was no hint of softness in that neck or those shoulders.

  Klyber and Yamashiro shook hands. Klyber said something in a soft voice that I could not hear. Catching himself too late so that it would seem more awkward not to finish, Yamashiro bowed. He made several smaller bows as he and Klyber waited for their limousine. Lee and I followed, taking our places in the front seat of that car.

  “Admiral Klyber, we are honored by your visit.” I heard Yamashiro’s stiff banter as I sat down. Seeing him up close, I realized that Yoshi Yamashiro was older than I had previously guessed. Viewing the video clips, I took him to be in his forties. Now that I saw him in person, I thought he looked closer to sixty.

  “This is a remarkable city,” Klyber said, with a distinctly informal air.

  “You are very kind,” Yamashiro said, visibly willing himself not to bow. As Klyber spoke, his diplomatic corps clambered onto a bus. These were the lackeys, the bean counters, the men who would give Ezer Kri a legalistic pounding. Once the lackeys were loaded, the entourage drove through town.

  Isn’t that just the way, I thought. Klyber is all smiles and handshakes, but he comes with a fighter carrier and a complement of frigates .

  The car drove us to the west side of town, where the capitol building was framed by a backdrop of distant mountains. It looked like a glass pyramid with honey-colored light pouring out of its walls. There, we waited in the car while Shannon and his men lined up outside. Once the reception line was ready, aides opened the car doors, and Yamashiro led us up the walk to the capitol. Lee and I followed, trudging through shallow puddles on the way.

  Lee and I were to remain with Admiral Klyber and maintain line-of-sight contact until relieved. As he led the admiral into the capitol, Governor Yamashiro glanced nervously over his shoulder at Lee and me, but his comfort was no concern of mine.

  “This building is stunning,” Klyber proclaimed, in a loud voice.

  “Good thing it wasn’t in Hiro’s Fall; he would have bombed it,” an aide whispered behind me. I looked back over my shoulder, and the three aides quickly turned down another hall.

  “We are quite proud of our architecture,” Yamashiro said.

  “I have never seen anything like it,” Klyber said.

  “Then this is your first visit to Ezer Kri?”

  “Yes,” Klyber admitted. “I thought I had been all over this Arm. I’ve been assigned here for several years now.”

  Low-level bureaucrats peered out of office doorways as we walked down the hall. I worried about security even though the Rising Sun police had searched the building earlier that morning and there were guards and X-ray machines at every entrance.

  For his part, Klyber focused his attention on Governor Yamashiro, pausing only once as we passed an indoor courtyard with a large pond and some sort of shrine. I saw several works of art around the capitol, but the best piece sat behind the desk just outside the governor’s door. She stood as we approached, and I had a hard time staring straight ahead.

  “Admiral Klyber, this is my assistant, Ms. Lyons,” Yamashiro said.

  I would have expected the governor to have a Japanese assistant, but this statuesque woman was cosmopolitan with brown hair that poured over her shoulders and flawless white skin. She had green eyes, and her dark red lipstick stood out against her white skin.

  Admiral Klyber paid no attention to her. He walked past Ms. Lyons as if she weren’t there and into the office.

  She followed him, shuffling her feet quickly to keep up. She wore a short blue dress that ran halfway down her thighs. “Can I get anything for you, Admiral Klyber?” Ms. Lyons asked. Klyber might not have noticed her, but Lee homed right in. He stole an obvious gander as he snapped to attention and pretended to take in the entire room.

  “I am quite fine,” Klyber said, without turning to look at the woman.

  “We’re fine for now, Nada,” Yamashiro said.

  “Very well,” the woman said.

  My first thought when I saw the woman was something along the line of, Yamashiro, you sly dog . But there was intelligence in her voice. I had misjudged.

  Yamashiro’s assistant turned to leave the room and stopped in front of me. She looked at me, and said,

  “Can I bring you gentlemen anything?”

  With some effort, I looked past her and said nothing. When she turned to leave, I felt relieved. Admiral Klyber might not have paid attention to Ms. Nada Lyons on her own, but our little exchange had not escaped him. He stared into my eyes until he was sure that I saw him, then he made the smallest of nods and turned his attention back to Governor Yamashiro.

  Yamashiro did not retreat behind his wide wooden desk. Klyber sat in one of the two seats placed in front of the gubernatorial desk, and Yamashiro sat beside him.

  “Okay, Admiral Klyber, the gloves are off. What can I do to prove my planet’s loyalty to the Republic?”

  Governor Yamashiro asked, sounding stymied. “We have the entire Ezer Kri police force searching for leads. I have authorized the wholesale questioning of anybody affiliated with the Atkins movement . . . a sizable percentage of our population, I might add, and you still have no proof that the Atkins believers were behind the attack.”

  “I appreciate your efforts,” Klyber said, still sounding relaxed. “All the same, I think the manhunt will go more smoothly if some of my forces help conduct it.”

  “I see,” Yamashiro said, his posture
stiffening.

  “From what I have observed, Hiro’s Fall was overrun by Mogat sympathizers. I understand that several Mogats held posts in the city government. I am sure you were aware of those problems, Governor Yamashiro.” Klyber folded his hands on his lap.

  “I see,” Yamashiro said, looking nervous. “And you hold my office responsible for the attack?”

  “Not at all,” said Klyber, still sounding conversational. “But I will hold you personally responsible for any future hostilities, just as the Joint Chiefs will hold me accountable for anything that happens to my men.

  “I will insist, Governor, that you remain in the capitol for the next few days. I have assigned one of my platoons to see to your protection.”

  “Am I under house arrest, then?” asked Yamashiro.

  “Not at all. We are simply going to help you run your planet more efficiently.”

  “Then this is undeclared mart—”

  “Martial law?” Klyber asked, his smile looking very stiff. “Friends in the Senate warned me about your gift for historical references.”

  Klyber leaned forward in his chair, and his voice hardened. His back was to me, but I imagined that his expression had turned stony as well. “This is not martial law, Governor Yamashiro. I’m trying to protect you.”

  Admiral Klyber retained five men from our platoon to guard his quarters, then set the rest of us loose on Rising Sun. He gave us full liberty so long as we remained dressed in battle armor. Apparently Klyber wanted to make sure that the locals knew we were there.

  We, of course, used the occasion to acquaint ourselves with the bars. Most of the men went out in a herd, but Lee and I got a late start. Lee was fanatic about his sleep. We had liberty, but we did not leave to try the local drinking holes until well past eight, and he insisted on trying the upscale institutions along the waterfront. When I told him that the rest of the platoon was checking out the bars on the west side of town, Lee responded, “Those clones may be satisfied with mere watering holes; we shall look at finer establishments.”

  “Asshole,” I said, even though I knew the attitude was a sham.

  We took a train to the “Hinode Waterfront Station.” Everywhere we went, I saw signs referring to Hinode. Many of the signs were also marked with those strange squiggling designs that I understood to be the Japanese form of writing. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized that “Hinode” was the Japanese word for “Rising Sun.”

  The bars we found were posh and elite, with swank names; some had Japanese lettering in their signs. The late-night dinner crowd strolled the waterfront streets. Men in business suits and women in fine dresses stopped in front of restaurant display cases to look at plasticized versions of the foods.

  “This looks pretty expensive,” I told Vince as I looked at a menu. “Yakisoba, whatever that is, costs fifty dollars.”

  “Maybe that’s the name of the waitress,” Lee said.

  “Pork tonkatsu costs forty-five. If pork tonkatsu is the name of a waitress, I don’t want her.”

  “How about over there,” Lee said, pointing to a small, brightly lit eatery.

  “That place is too bright for drinks,” I said.

  Lee ran across the street for a closer look, and I followed. The place was crowded. People used chopsticks to eat colorful finger foods off small dishes.

  We entered, and the crowd became quiet. A man came up to us and spoke in Japanese. We, of course, did not understand a word of it. “Think he speaks English?” I asked Lee over the interLink in our helmets.

  “Sure he does,” Lee said. “This is why the Senate does not want them to have their own language.”

  After a few moments, I looked at Vince and shrugged my shoulders. The diners became loud again as we turned to leave.

  I hated admitting defeat, but the Rising Sun waterfront beat me down. After a frustrating hour, Vince and I caught a taxi to the center of town. We found a likely-looking bar and went inside. The place was nearly empty. Three men sat slumped in their seats at the counter.

  “This must be where the clerical help goes,” Vince said.

  Two Japanese women waited just inside the door. A hostess came and seated them. When Vince started toward the bar, she turned, and said, “Please wait to be seated.”

  After twenty minutes of waiting to be seated, we gave up and left to find another bar. By 2300 Kamehameha time, Vince and I retreated to the west end of town. We were hungry, thirsty, and frustrated. In any other town, the bars would be the only lit buildings by that time of night. Not in Rising Sun. In this town every building’s crystal finish glowed with the same goddamned honey-colored lights. At that point I wanted to stow my armor and walk into the next bar pretending to be a civilian; but if I took off my gear, I was technically AWOL.

  As we explored the west end, we started hearing voices and music. We followed the sounds around a corner and found a crowded bar. Staring through the window, I saw several Marines. They had removed their helmets, which sat on the table. When I scanned the helmets, I recognized the names from my platoon.

  “This must be the place,” said Lee.

  “I hope they have food,” I said. I opened the door, and dozens of Marines turned to greet me. Sitting in the center of this ungodly pack, happily waving a cigar as he spoke, was Master Gunnery Sergeant Tabor Shannon.

  One private placed his helmet over his head so he could read our identifiers as we entered. “It’s Lee and Harris,” he said to the others.

  “The illustrious honor guard has finally found its way,” Shannon said. “Hello, Lee. Hello, Harris.”

  “Sergeant,” I said.

  “I’ll get the drinks this time,” Lee said.

  “I don’t get it,” I said as I started to sit down. “Are we on duty or off?”

  Shannon smiled behind his cigar, then uttered a few curses. “On duty. Klyber is using us as”—he considered for a moment—“as a diplomatic bargaining chip. He wants to show the locals how easy it would be for this visit to turn into a long-term occupation.”

  “Drinking sounds like a good occupation to me,” one private said.

  “Not occupation as in job, moron!” another private said.

  “Oh,” the first one responded.

  “That’s the kid that found the bar,” Shannon said, pointing at the private with his cigar. “He’s been soaking up beers for hours.”

  “So, are we on our best behavior?” I asked.

  Shannon smiled. “In this case, bad is good.” He nodded at the drunk private. “This boy’s going to empty his stomach somewhere, probably right outside that door. Usually that would get him a night in the brig; but tonight, it will go unnoticed. Klyber wants to show the respectable politicos of Rising Sun just how much they don’t want us around. A little puke leaves a lasting impression.”

  Shannon leaned forward. “Harris, did you know you have a friend in town.”

  “A friend?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Shannon. “It appears that the Japanese are not the only ones keeping their bloodlines pure on this rock.” Shannon turned and gazed toward the far side of the bar. “That guy was asking about you.”

  I stood up and looked around the room. At the other end of the building, Ray Freeman sat with an untouched beer. The top of the table was level with the tops of Freeman’s thighs. He looked like an adult sitting on children’s play furniture.

  “Know him?” Shannon asked.

  “I know him. His name is Ray Freeman. He’s the mercenary I met on Gobi.”

  Freeman looked over at me from his table. His eyes had their same dark intensity, but his mouth formed a cheerful smile. The overall effect was unsettling.

  “You would not believe how much they charge for a damn beer,” Lee said as he returned with two huge mugs. “For these prices . . .” He saw me staring at Freeman. “Friend of yours?”

  “That’s the mercenary that Admiral Brocius sent to Gobi,” I said.

  “Looks dangerous,” Lee said. “Are you plannin
g on talking to him?”

  “He doesn’t talk much,” I said. “But I am curious about what he might have to say.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Lee said.

  “Do you think he wants trouble?” Shannon asked.

  “If Ray Freeman came looking for trouble, I doubt I would have made it to the bar alive,” I said. “He’s worse than he looks.”

  “I don’t know how that could be, Harris,” Lee said. “He looks pretty bad.”

  Freeman stood and smiled down at me as Lee and I walked over. “Well, hello, Wayson. Been a long time. How is life in the Corps?” His voice had an overly friendly quality. First Barry, then Klyber, then Freeman. It was my day for seeing painted smiles.

  “Is he always this chatty?” Lee asked over the interLink.

  “What brings you to Scutum-Crux?” I asked. Freeman sat down and waved to the empty chairs around his table. Lee and I joined him. We must have looked odd, two men in combat armor sitting beside a bald-headed giant.

  “I’m here on business,” Freeman said.

  “Anybody we know, Mr. . . .” Lee let his voice trail off.

  “Sorry,” Freeman said, still sounding friendly. “Call me Ray.”

  “Vince Lee.”

  “I guess Wayson has told you what I do.”

  “Sounds as if you do it well, too, at least if everything Harris says is true.”

  “I suspect Corporal Harris has exaggerated the story,” Freeman said.

  “He might have,” Lee said. He removed his helmet. “No use letting my beer get warm. You’re not drinking yours?” The head on Freeman’s beer had gone flat.

  “Actually, I only bought the beer to help me blend in,” Freeman said.

  “I don’t think it’s working,” I said. “So is your target in the bar?”

  “No, I came here looking for you. I heard your platoon was stationed in Rising Sun. This seemed like the best place to watch for you.”

  “What a coincidence,” I said, not believing a word of it. “Both me and your target came to the same planet.”

  I took off my helmet and took a long drag of beer. “Are you still looking for Crowley?”