The Clone Republic

by Steven L. Kent

  “Back in my day, you came out of the tube as a twenty-year-old. I got my first gray hairs as a ten-year-old or a thirty-year-old, depending on how you look at it. Nothing else has changed. I’ve seen my physical charts—nothing’s changed.”

  “Are you the last Liberator?” I asked.

  “I’d say you are,” Shannon said. “I’ve heard rumors about Liberators in the Inner SC Fleet, but you’re the first one I’ve seen. Klyber is partial to us. If there were other Liberators around, I think he’d be the one to have them.

  “What I don’t understand is where you came from. Why make another Liberator after forty years? They didn’t make you by accident.”

  “An experiment?” I suggested.

  “Maybe Klyber ordered you up special,” Shannon said. “If it was him, he did it without telling the politicos. They hate Liberators on Capitol Hill. Whoever started you on Gobi was trying to protect you. Somebody wanted to keep you a secret as long as possible, but that went down the shitter the moment you were at a card game with Amos Crowley.”

  Shannon held up his drink and stared through the glass. He swished it around. “Watch this.”

  Shannon took a deep breath, then drained his glass. He shivered, and for a moment he slumped in his chair. Then he looked at the bartender, gave him an evil smile, and turned his glass upside down.

  “Goddamn!” the bartender said.

  “Another one,” Shannon said.

  “Another one will kill you,” the bartender said.

  “You try it,” Shannon said to me. “One good thing about Liberators, we don’t get shit-faced.”

  I looked at my glass. In the dim light, Crash looked like murky seawater. “Drink it in one shot?” I asked.

  “Kid, he’s trying to kill you,” the bartender warned.

  Closing my fingers around the glass, I brought it up to my lips and paused.

  “Don’t do it, kid,” the bartender warned. “You’ll pickle your brain.”

  Sergeant Shannon watched me, his eyes never leaving mine. Heaving a sigh, I put the glass in front of my mouth and tipped it. The syrupy drink spilled over my bottom lip and onto my tongue, leaving a numbing tingle everywhere it touched. I swallowed quickly.

  “Whoa!” I said. First my throat felt painfully frozen, then my lungs burned, and finally I felt a flash of nausea; but all of those sensations went away quickly. I looked at the bartender, smiled, and turned my glass over.

  “You want another one, too?” the barkeep asked.

  “No,” I said. “I really don’t.”

  “Give him another,” Shannon said. Sergeant Shannon fixed the bartender with a most chilling smile. He did not glare, did not snarl, did not do anything overtly menacing, but the bartender understood the unspoken message. He looked at both of us, shook his head, then took our glasses. When he returned, he handed us our drinks. “I’ll tell the infirmary to send a doctor.”

  I took my drink. “To the great test tube in the sky?”

  “You kidding? They’ll melt us down and reuse us just like any other equipment.” Shannon picked up his glass. “You think you can handle it?”

  I laughed. “I’m drinking it, aren’t I?” I said, and I emptied the glass in one slug. Fighting the chill and nausea, I tried to sit straight on my seat and lost my balance. I almost fell but somehow managed to catch myself.

  Shannon, watching me with some amusement, said, “Rookie,” and drank his shot.

  “You going for thirds?” the bartender asked.

  “No!” Shannon and I answered in unison.

  That night, before going to sleep, I slipped on my mediaLink shades and found an eight-thousand-word philosophical essay about the Platonic justifications for building the death reflex into clones. I barely finished the first page before I realized that the booby-trapping of clone brains meant nothing to me. Klyber’s engineers had placed different glands in my head, and I no longer cared about what might or might not have been placed in other clones’ brains. Closing the article, I noticed that there was a two-hundred-word synopsis.

  Plato understood that the warrior class would envy the ruling class and that the ruling class would fear the warrior class. He sought to keep the classes in place with the most childish of lies:

  Well then, I will speak, although I really know not how to look you in the face, or in what words to utter the audacious fiction, which I propose to communicate gradually, first to the rulers, then to the soldiers, and lastly to the people. They are to be told that their youth was a dream, and the education and training which they received from us, an appearance only; in reality, during all that time they were being formed and fed in the womb of the earth, where they themselves and their arms and appurtenances were manufactured; when they were completed, the earth, their mother, sent them up; and so, their country being their mother and also their nurse, they are bound to advise for her good, and to defend her against attacks, and her citizens they are to regard as children of the earth and their own brothers.

  — The Republic

  Book 3, Page 16

  According to this article, Plato’s deceit is made true in that the modern-day warrior class is of synthetic origin. Further, the death reflex is shown as analogous to erasing an individual’s belief in his personal history and therefore his identity.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Captain McKay appointed me to a seven-member color guard, and I spent the next few days holding a Marine Corps flag as Bryce Klyber and Absalom Barry welcomed an endless stream of diplomats and politicians. The Senate sent a legal team to overhaul the Ezer Kri court system, and we lined up to meet them. The Federal Bureau of Investigation sent a team of detectives to hunt down any remaining Mogat sympathizers, and we lined up to meet them. Two members of the Linear Committee flew out with an army of reporters, and we lined up to meet them, too.

  Every few hours, a group of VIPs arrived, and McKay sent us to hold up our colors. After five days of round-the-clock flag holding, I began to sleepwalk through the arrivals. I no longer cared who stepped down the ramp. At least, I thought I stopped caring.

  The night we left Ezer Kri, McKay summoned the color guard to his office. I got the message late and was the last to arrive. When I pressed the intercom button by his door, he squawked, “Harris?”

  “Sir?”

  The door opened. “As I was saying, this is the big one. You have a problem, sailor?”

  One of the sailors in the guard looked nervously to the other men for support. “We just received two members from the Linear Committee.”

  “Speck me with a hose!” McKay yowled. “Committee members aren’t brass. They can’t send your ass to the brig, boy. They don’t even notice you. Hell, I could show up with my pants off and a flag dangling from my dick, and the only thing those committee members would notice was that the goddamned flagpole looks awfully long. If you so much as fart on this one, you’re specked for life.”

  With that he dismissed the others and kept me behind. “Do you have any idea who our guest is this time?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Admiral Che Huang from the Joint Chiefs. Are you familiar with him?”

  I nodded, feeling a new knot in the pit of my gut.

  “I’m going to be straight with you, Harris. I tried to get you pulled from this duty, but Admiral Klyber wants you on it. You had a conversation with Admiral Klyber a few nights ago?” McKay’s nearly clean-shaven scalp gleamed in the bright lights, but his brow formed a shadow over his eyes giving his face a skull-like appearance.

  “Huang does not like clones, any clones.”

  I had heard that Huang was antisynthetic. “Especially Liberators?” I guessed.

  “As far as he knows, you’re extinct.” McKay stood up and put on his hat.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it, Harris,” McKay said as he started for the door. He turned back. “Klyber likes you. He’s a powerful man, and he knows what he’s doing; but just the
same, don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

  Klyber, Barry, and Olivera waited by the landing bay for Admiral Huang’s arrival. I noticed nothing unusual about Admiral Klyber or Captain Olivera, but Admiral Barry looked like a man headed for a firing squad. His face was pale, and beads of sweat shone on his forehead and scalp. He mopped that sweat with darting dabs, then crammed his handkerchief back in his blouse. Klyber looked at him and said something that I could not hear.

  A red carpet ran the length of the floor, ending at the hatch through which Admiral Huang would arrive. My color guard stood at the other end of the carpet, holding flags representing the Army, the Marines, the Navy, the Air Force, the Unified Authority, the Scutum-Crux Arm, and the Central SC Fleet. We stood as still and intent as our human legs would allow us. The officer of the deck did not need to signal us to attention, we were already there.

  A light over the hatch turned green, and the door slid open. Nearly one full minute passed before Admiral Che Huang of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stepped into sight.

  Huang appeared to be in his midfifties. He stood around six feet tall, with square shoulders and a narrow waist. He had his cap tucked under his left arm. I could see white streaks through Huang’s thinning, brown hair. There was something about his neatly tailored uniform, or the tilt of his head, or the way he narrowed his eyes as he looked around the landing area, that suggested both breeding and contempt.

  “Admiral Huang,” Admiral Klyber said as he led Barry and Olivera to the hatch. “I trust you had a pleasant trip.”

  Huang stopped and stared down at the group of officers who had come to greet him. A thin smile played across his lips. “Admiral Klyber,” he said in a stiff voice. The two men shook hands. “Have you read my messages?”

  “Admiral Barry and I have discussed them at length,” Klyber said. “I think you will be pleased with the plans we have made.”

  “Splendid. I wish to get under way as soon as possible,” Huang said as he stepped away from the hatch. He looked around the hangar and his gaze seemed to lock on the color guard.

  “We can start straightaway,” Klyber said with an easy air. Beside him, Vice Admiral Barry managed a tight smile, but the stiffness in his shoulders was unmistakable. All of the blood left his face. As the officers turned to leave the bay, Absalom Barry drifted back and walked several paces behind everybody else.

  “At ease,” Captain McKay said, after the brass disappeared.

  I was surprised to find Sergeant Shannon and Vince Lee talking when I returned to the barracks. They got on together professionally; but on a social basis, they did not have much use for each other. I had come to realize that Vince, possibly the first real friend I had ever had, was an antisynthetic clone. I never stopped to think about why he befriended me so quickly after we transferred to the Kamehameha

  . Now that I did think about it, I decided he liked me because I did not look like every other enlisted man, no matter how subtle the difference. Later, however, I suspected that he had a special dislike for Liberators. That was why he had turned quiet around me when Shannon first landed. First he had thought I was natural-born, then, when he saw Shannon, he realized that I was not just a clone, I was a Liberator. The reason Vince and I were friends was because of a grandfather clause. He and I had already struck up a friendship when Shannon arrived. I suppose that having already struck up a friendship with me and not having any natural-borns to turn to, Lee decided I was okay. For his part, Shannon simply considered Lee an “asshole of the highest order.” Shannon called him a

  “synth-hating clone” and said that his quirks were bad for morale . . . pretty idealistic talk from the platoon sergeant who swept into the Kamehameha with all of the tact of a typhoon. In this I think he was wrong about Lee. I think it was the reverse. For all of his bluster about bootstrapping his way into a commission and going into politics, I think Vince suspected the truth. I think he wanted to convince himself that he was not a clone and adopted an antisynthetic attitude as a shield because he believed it would protect him. As he well knew, confirmation about his clone origins would trigger the death reflex.

  “I hear Admiral Huang is on board,” Sergeant Shannon called out to me as I entered his office. “Was that who arrived on your last color detail?”

  “In the flesh,” I said.

  “Goddamn,” Shannon said. “Did anybody bother to mention what he is doing here?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  “Lee, you’re going to be in charge of the platoon for the next few days,” Shannon said. “Scrotum-Crotch Command has transferred Corporal Harris and me to a special detail for an unspecified period. Harris, why in God’s name is high command asking for us?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure.”

  “Which is it?” Shannon asked. “You don’t know, or you’re not sure?”

  “Do you know why Admiral Huang is here?” Lee asked.

  “Unless SC Command is pulling one sergeant and one corporal from every platoon, I’m guessing that this has something to do with our being Liberators,” Shannon said.

  “You know you’re a Liberator?” Lee asked me in a loud voice that echoed across the office.

  “I should have figured it out on my own when he arrived,” I said, nodding toward Shannon. “He’s the first Marine I’ve seen who was my height and shape. Admiral Klyber must have thought I was an idiot for not finding it out on my own.”

  “Klyber?” Lee asked.

  “He told me I was a Liberator.”

  “And you didn’t die when you found out?” Lee asked.

  “Holy Jeeeezus, Lee! He’s standing in front of you, isn’t he! What I want to know is why the hell an admiral is wasting time telling a corporal anything.”

  “They didn’t build the death reflex into Liberators,” I said.

  “Harris,” Lee said, “we need to talk.”

  “It’s going to have to wait,” Shannon said. “We’re expected at Fleet Command.” He paused and considered things. “I can’t see anything good coming out of a visit with Admiral Huang,” he said in a hushed voice, almost a whisper.

  “I get the feeling that Klyber is looking out for us,” I said.

  “That’s how I read it,” Shannon agreed.

  “Can Klyber protect you from the Joint Chiefs?” Lee sounded concerned. “I mean, Huang is as high as they go in the military.”

  “If the intel I hear about Klyber is true, his strings go a lot higher than military connections,” Shannon said. He turned to me. “Pack up. We’re supposed to report to the Command deck within the hour.”

  “This lift doesn’t seem secure, does it?” Sergeant Shannon asked, as we entered the elevator to the SC

  Command deck. “I used to wonder why there were no guards.” He pointed to narrow rows of vents lining the ceiling and floor. “You know what those are for?”

  “Oxygen?” I guessed.

  “Noxium gas,” Shannon corrected me. “Last time I was assigned to the Kamehameha a disgruntled swabbie tried to make an unscheduled visit to Command, and I got to clean up afterward. He’d only been dead for a couple of minutes when we got here, but that was long enough. His arms and legs turned to jelly and squished through our fingers when we tried to lift him. We ended up washing him out with a steam hose.”

  The door to the lift opened, and I was glad to step out. We entered the large, unfinished lobby, and one of Klyber’s aides led us to the conference room. The curved panels of the entryway slid open, and the aide motioned us in.

  Admiral Huang, Vice Admiral Barry, and Admiral Klyber sat equidistant from each other around the round conference table. Huang turned to glance at us as we entered the conference room. He paused, and his quick glance lengthened into an angry stare. “The Senate has outlawed your bastard clones, Admiral Klyber.”

  “The Senate outlawed the creation of new Liberators,” Klyber corrected. “Nothing was said about Liberators that already existed. Sergeant Shannon has served with d
istinction under my command since the Galactic Central War.”

  “The other one looks new,” Huang snapped.

  “He has distinguished himself in combat,” Klyber said. “He has been a model Marine.”

  Huang’s eyes hardened as he focused on me. I could feel the weight of his stare and sensed the heat of his anger. “These are the men you have selected?”

  “Sergeant Shannon, perhaps you and Corporal Harris can give us a moment?” Admiral Klyber said. Shannon led me out of the conference room. We stood just outside the door, waiting for Klyber to summon our return. “That Huang is a prick,” I said after a moment.

  “Whatever he is here for, Klyber wants us involved, and Huang wants us out,” Shannon said. The panels slid open, and the aide who had originally brought us to the room led us back in. “Sergeant, a squad of military police will arrive on deck momentarily. Please see that they escort Vice Admiral Barry to his quarters and detain him there,” Huang said. As he spoke, I saw Absalom Barry gasping for air. His jaw hung slack, his eyes stared vacantly ahead, and he looked as if he might have a heart attack on the spot.

  Huang sneered. “I think I may have finally found a good use for your clones, Klyber; they’ll make good jailers.” The room remained utterly silent until four MPs arrived. “Rabid clones and a half ton fleet commander . . . it’s quite a fleet you’ve got here.”

  The MPs—Navy, not Marines—had their orders when they arrived. They surrounded Barry, who slowly rose to his feet and followed them out of the conference room, his egg-shaped head bobbing as he walked.

  “That was wasteful,” Klyber said. “Barry may not have . . .”

  “We needlessly lost a frigate and an entire platoon,” Huang interrupted. “The Joint Chiefs have ordered a board of inquiry. Until Barry’s court-martial is complete, I suggest that you steer clear of him, Admiral Klyber.”