The Clone Republic

by Steven L. Kent

  The sign behind the car said “Scenic Area.” Above the words was the silhouette of a man in a cape wearing a primitive war helmet with a fin along the top. It was the insignia of our ship.

  “What’s that doing here?” Lee asked.

  Once we were alert to it, we spotted Kamehameha everywhere. He was on scenic signs and the sides of buses. There was a caricature of him on our map. Lee drove us to the spot on the way home. There, immortalized in an cast-iron statue with gold leaf, was King Kamehameha: “Conqueror of the Islands.”

  “No wonder all of those officers vacation here,” Lee said. “The ship was named after a Hawaiian king.”

  The statue stood ten feet tall and stood upon a pedestal that added another five feet. I read the plaque at the base of the statue. Kamehameha had been a warrior king who paddled from island to island by canoe and conquered villages with spears and clubs. He was also a statesman. Once he finished conquering his island kingdom, he set up treaties with France, England, and the United States of America that played great nations against each other and ensured his primitive kingdom’s survival. This told me something about Bryce Klyber, too. The aristocratic admiral had selected our antiquated Expansion-class fighter carrier as his flagship because he liked the name. He liked the idea of the statesman warrior. He saw himself as both a statesman and a warrior, and he believed that his statesmanship ultimately differentiated him from the likes of Admiral Huang.

  When we dropped Kasara and Jennifer off at their hotel in the midafternoon, Lee looked at me, and said,

  “Shit, now I’m stuck with you.” He was joking, but the feeling was mutual. We moped around the villa until 1700, then headed down the hill. The sun had not even begun to set. The last of the tourists still lingered on the beach, lying on the sand or wading in the shallows. In another hour the sun would go down, and even they would leave. Younger, trendier tourists would commandeer the streets once night fell.

  We could not find anyplace to park, so Lee drove around the block while I went to find Kasara and Jennifer. As I entered the lobby, I realized that I did not know their floor or room number. I did not even know Kasara’s last name.

  “You’re late,” Kasara called from the second-story balcony. She was not much of an actress. She tried to sound angry, but she did a poor job of it.

  I looked up. Kasara, wearing a sundress with an orange-and-red flower print, leaned over the rail of the balcony. Another Waikiki special, I thought. Her dress matched my shirt. “I’m half an hour early.”

  “Come on up,” she said.

  I skipped up the steps. Kasara’s apartment bore a striking resemblance to my room earlier that morning—her clothes were everywhere. She had two pair of dress shoes, tennis shoes, and slippers scattered around the outside of her closet. Her clothes were on the bed and furniture. A bra hung from the knob on the bathroom door.

  And there was more. I saw two sinks through the open bathroom door. One was littered with cosmetics, brushes, and toothpaste. The other was neat, with a simple toiletry bag leaning against its mirror. That must have been Jennifer’s.

  “You should have come earlier. We’ve been sitting around waiting for you,” Kasara said, brushing some clothes from a chair as she retrieved her purse. She fixed those sparkling blue eyes on me, and I became oblivious to the clutter as well.

  As we started to leave, Kasara loped off to the bathroom and closed the door. Thinking that was very sudden, I turned to Jennifer. “Is she okay?”

  “You don’t expect her to leave without touching up her hair?” Jennifer asked.

  “But it was perfect,” I said.

  Jennifer shook her head. “Wayson, that girl spends two hours every morning doing exercises, touching up her hair, and putting on her makeup. Then she spends another thirty minutes making sure it’s perfect before she leaves the hotel. But try to get her to clean up the room . . .”

  It was Kasara and Jennifer’s last night in Hawaii. Lee and I wanted to make a big deal of it. In many ways, it would turn out to be the last night of my vacation, too.

  Kasara wanted to go shopping for trinkets. Jennifer and Lee wanted to get out of Waikiki. Both ideas sounded good. We drove to the Honolulu Harbor. There we found a mall that would be far less crowded.

  Kasara went on a spending spree. In one store, she found hats with “I LOVE HAWAII” stitched across their bills in rainbow colors. She bought five of them “for the other gals at work.” She also bought a case of locally made chocolates in the next store and canned oysters with cultured pearls in another. As we left, she saw a photo booth. Without even saying a word, she turned to me and rested her head on my shoulder, batting her eyelashes and pretending as if she was pleading for permission.

  “What?” I asked.

  She nodded toward the booth and grinned.

  “Isn’t that a bit dangerous? What will your boyfriend say?”

  “I didn’t tell you?” Kasara said. “We broke up.”

  “When did that happen?” I asked.

  Kasara shrugged and smiled. She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the booth.

  “They broke up?” Vince asked Jennifer while we were still in earshot.

  “They will when she gets home.”

  The thought of Kasara breaking up with her boyfriend left me both excited and scared. I ran my hands over my hair, trying to push it in place for the picture. Kasara slid onto the bench inside the booth and pulled me next to her. The people who designed the booth had kids or singles in mind. Even when I pushed in and squeezed against Kasara as best I could, my right shoulder still hung out of the door. We looked into a small mirror as lights around the booth flashed on and off. Kasara let her hand slide up my thigh. I tried to ignore the jolt running through my body and look relaxed.

  “I didn’t think nice girls did things like that,” I teased as I stepped out of the booth.

  “Nice girls don’t,” Kasara agreed. “Working girls on their last night of vacation do all kinds of things.”

  “What kinds of things?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.” She stepped closer to me and stared deep into my eyes.

  “I have to ask . . .” I said. “Your boyfriend . . . That wasn’t because of me, was it?”

  “You’re so self-centered,” she said, laughing. “You had nothing to do with it.” I felt relieved. I also felt disappointed.

  Something happened between Vince and Jennifer during the short time that Kasara and I spent in the photo booth. Perhaps Jennifer told Vince that she wanted to stay in touch with him, and he said he had other plans. Perhaps it was the other way around. They held hands for the rest of the evening, but I heard lags in their conversation and moments passed when they seemed reluctant to look at each other. When we passed a stand selling the Crash and fruit drink, Kasara pointed. Jennifer, Lee, and I groaned. Pretending to ignore us, Kasara looked at the people waiting, and chirped, “Oh well, the line is too long, anyway.”

  “We haven’t had dinner yet,” said Jennifer.

  Jennifer was the more sensible of the two. She did not flirt the way Kasara did, and she spoke less frivolously. Fun and flirtatious as Kasara was, I wondered what would have happened had Lee first met Kasara on the beach and I dated Jennifer.

  We strayed into a courtyard in which people sold various kinds of foods from large, wooden carts. One cart had skewers of fruits, fish, chicken, and beef cooked over a charcoal grill. Kasara and I bought meat sticks and munched them while sitting on a bench overlooking the docks as Vince and Jennifer walked off to look for more options. We looked at ships and watched the sunlight vanish in the horizon.

  “What’s it like on Olympus Kri?” I asked.

  “It’s not like this,” Kasara said. “The night sky is kind of like the day sky, only darker. We’re pretty far from our sun, so it’s cold and gray. I mean, it’s not like we never see the sun. It’s like a shiny patch in the clouds.” She sighed. “We don’t have a moon.”

  After our meal, we continued along the waterf
ront. I noticed that the sidewalks became more crowded. Men and boys were bustling up the street in droves. Then I saw the distant lights. “Sad Sam’s Palace,” I said.

  “Sad Sam’s,” Kasara said. “I’ve heard about that place.”

  “We were here two nights ago,” Lee said. “Didn’t you say the fights were all fake?”

  “You were there, too, weren’t you?” Jennifer asked.

  “He went,” I said. “He just doesn’t remember anything.”

  “I was drunk,” Lee said. “That was the night I had the fruit drink.”

  Faked wrestling matches did not seem like something Kasara or Jennifer would enjoy, but they surprised me. “Can we go?” Kasara asked.

  “You want to see the fights?” I asked.

  I meant to ask Jennifer, but Kasara intercepted the question. “I’ve always wondered about this place.”

  “Are you up for this, too?” Lee asked Jennifer.

  “Sure.”

  Lee and I shot each other amused smiles.

  As we started toward the door, an old, white-haired man in a tank top called to us. He might have been a long-retired soldier. He had tattoos on his back and shoulders that looked ridiculous against his wrinkled skin. “Hey, you, you don’t want to go in there.” He had the gravelly voice of an old drill sergeant.

  “We’ve been here before,” said Lee, though he certainly had no memory of that last visit. I went to pay for the tickets, or I would have heard what the man said next. Unfortunately, I did not hear it until several days later. The man said, “You want to stay clear of the Palace on Friday.”

  Had I heard that, I might have thought twice about going inside. I might have noticed that as far as I could see, Lee and I were the only clones in the crowd. By the time I returned with our tickets, Lee had already told the man to mind his own business.

  An usher led us to our seats. Coming late as we had, I expected to sit on the first or second balcony. Instead, the usher led us to the first floor. Threading his way around tables filled with screaming fight fans, he found an empty table just one row from the ring.

  The venue had changed. Instead of ropes, ten-foot walls made of chain-link fencing now surrounded the ring. The fighters had changed, too. Instead of flabby men in colorful tights, the ring now held two large and muscular men.

  “Are you sure they’re faking this?” Lee asked. “It looks real.”

  One man grabbed the other by the hair and rammed his fist into the man’s face several times. Blood sprayed. The fight ended a moment later when two medics carried the loser out on a stretcher.

  “It wasn’t like this last time,” I said. “It was all headlocks and bouncing off the ropes.”

  A waitress came by our table between bouts and we asked her about it. “You came on Wednesday,”

  she guessed. “That was Big-Time Wrestling night. Tonight is an Iron Man competition.”

  “What’s that?” Jennifer asked.

  The waitress smiled. “Open challenge, honey. Anything goes.”

  “Ladies and gentleman, we have your winner by knockout, Kimo Turner.” The announcer raised Turner’s arm and polite applause rose from the crowd. Considering Turner’s impressive size and the vicious way he fought, I found the lack of enthusiasm surprising.

  “Which branch are you boys in?” the waitress asked when she returned with our drinks. All of us ordered beer except Kasara, who ordered something fruity with layers of blue liquor and white smoothie.

  “Marines,” Lee answered.

  “Where you in from?” the waitress asked.

  “Scrotum . . .” Lee corrected himself. “The Scutum-Crux Fleet.”

  “You’re a long way from home,” she commented as she took the money for the drinks.

  “Keep the change,” Lee said. He was feeling generous. I was, too. It was a magical evening. We could feel the electricity in the air. In another twenty-four hours we would send the girls home, but not until we had made a complete night of it.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the next preliminary match, please welcome once again, Kimo Turner.” The audience applauded more readily that time. People shouted encouragement to the big man as he returned to the ring. Turner had a strong, rounded physique with bulging chest muscles, mountainous shoulders, and thick arms. I looked from him to Lee, a dedicated bodybuilder. Lee’s arms and shoulders were more defined, but Turner looked far more powerful.

  “And now . . . your returning champion, with a record of two hundred and zero in Sad Sam’s Iron Man competition, Adam Boyd.” The crowd went insane. Three stories of spectators began screaming at the tops of their lungs. Someone in the balconies began clanking a gong. Men stood on tables and whistled. The clamor was deafening.

  Boyd entered the arena, walking a path that led him right past our table. A spotlight shone from the ceiling, and the people around us rose to their feet. Though he passed within five feet of our table, I had to stand to get a good look at him. The man I saw was nothing like I expected. I had thought this undefeatable Adam Boyd must be seven feet tall and built out of bricks. Instead, an undersized and thin fellow with a receding hairline strode past. I would have had trouble believing that he was even five feet tall without seeing him measured.

  “Key-riste! That’s the champion?” Lee gasped.

  “They’re putting that little man in with that monster?” Jennifer gasped.

  “The midget is the champion,” Lee said.

  The announcer left the ring, and the fight began. Boyd, whose head barely reached his opponent’s shoulders, moved in warily. He crouched low, held his hands high in front of his head, and circled the floor rather than charging straight ahead.

  Kimo Turner lunged straight in, throwing a massive punch that might have decapitated Boyd had it landed. The punch was slow. Boyd easily dodged it, but Kimo was a cagey fighter. The punch was a ruse. His body pivoted with the massive momentum of the missed punch, and he threw a back kick that should have hit Boyd in the chest or throat.

  It was a smart move that did not work. Boyd had the reflexes of a demon. He dodged, shot in under the kick, and swept Kimo’s other leg. Kimo fell. The crowd cheered.

  Adam Boyd moved in for the kill without a moment’s hesitation. He pounced on Kimo, drilling punches straight down around his eyes and jaw. The entire fight lasted less than one minute.

  “Shit!” howled Vince. “Shit, shit, shit! I’ve never seen anything like that. That guy is a friggin’ killer!”

  I cannot accurately describe how the fight made me feel. It was like a challenge, as though Adam Boyd’s abilities shook my self-confidence. “I think I like Big-Time Wrestling better,” I said. The announcer stepped back into the ring. “Ladies and gentleman, your winner, by early knockout, Adam Boyd.” As Boyd and the announcer left the ring, the crowd roared. When they returned five minutes later, the applause became all the noisier.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” the announcer went on, “it appears we have been graced with a visit from the Republic’s finest.” Suddenly a blinding spotlight pointed at our table. I had to squint to see my own hands.

  “Gentlemen, which one of you will represent the Scutum-Crux Fleet against our champion?” the announcer asked.

  I looked over at Lee. In the glaring light, his skin looked white, flat white. He looked as nervous as I felt. We stared at each other for a moment, then Lee started to stand.

  “Vince,” Jennifer said as she reached for his arm.

  “Sit down, Corporal,” I said, pulling rank.

  “Oh, come on, Wayson. Don’t be like that,” Lee said, sitting back in his chair.

  “He said something about our Republic’s finest, and that sure as hell isn’t you, Corporal.” I did not believe that, of course. But that Boyd character was fast and brutal. I’d sparred with Vince on several occasions. He was powerful but slow, and very predictable. He would have made an easy meal for this Adam Boyd fellow.

  “You shouldn’t do this, Wayson,” Jennifer said. “You don’t ne
ed to go up there.”

  “Kick his ass, Wayson,” Kasara said. She clapped excitedly, and her face beamed. She loved the attention. I’d never seen her so excited.

  “I think I do need to go,” I said to Jennifer. Looking at her, I felt a pang of jealousy. Lee did not know it, but he had been the luckier one all along.

  The spotlight followed me as I walked toward the ring, blinding me to everything outside its bright circle. I heard people applauding, but they sounded miles away. So did the announcer’s voice. The bright lights above the ring made everything look black and white. The announcer, with his pale skin and black tuxedo, completed the effect.

  Standing on the far side of the platform, Adam Boyd watched me calmly. The closer I came, the more things I noticed about him. From the steps along the side of the ring, I saw that his fingers ended in sharp points, almost like claws. That’s going to be a problem, I thought. I also spotted the thick ridge of bone that ran under his eyebrows and into his hair. He was human, no doubt about that, but it was as if someone had engineered him for battle.

  Once I stepped onto the platform, I found myself cut off from the rest of the world. I heard spectators shouting, but it blurred into a dull, indistinct roar. It sounded like waves on the beach. The announcer had already finished speaking and started out of the ring.

  The flimsy shirt and shorts I had on would not slow me down in a fight, but they would offer no protection from Boyd’s clawlike fingers. I looked at his claws, then expanded my glance to include the tightly muscled arms. There was a circular brantoo on his forearm. I only saw it for a moment, but I recognized the sweep of colors. “You’re a SEAL?” I whispered to myself. Then the bell rang and thought turned into instinct.

  Boyd immediately dropped into that cautious stance, his knees flexed and his clawlike fingers pointed right at me. His wide-set dark eyes fixed on my face and shoulders. He circled toward my left, moving so smoothly that he seemed to glide across the canvas.

  My first instinct was to grapple. Growing up, I had studied judo and jujitsu. I’d won the orphanage wrestling title three years in a row. Boyd slipped around the arena so gracefully, however, that I doubted I would ever get close enough to knock him off his feet. Against that speed, my only chance was to keep him at long range, where he could not reach me. I jabbed with my left, keeping my right hand high to protect my eyes and chin.