The Clone Republic

by Steven L. Kent

  “Sounds bad, sir.”

  “We’ve kept a lid on the story. As far as I am concerned, if Morgan Atkins wants that planet, we should give it to him. We should pay him to take it. That goddamn planet is of no value, industrially or strategically. Apparently the big boys in the Pentagon have an itch about giving in, so they keep throwing men down that rathole.”

  He walked to his desk and sat down. “Ravenwood is on the inner third of Scutum-Crux, near the area where Scutum-Crux and Sagittarius merge. We never colonized it. It’s too far from a sun. The goddamn rock is half ice, but it has an oxygen atmosphere.

  “Anyway, the Navy set up a refueling depot on Ravenwood. It wasn’t much—a small base, fuel, food, ammunition, emergency supplies. They stationed a hundred men there. It was one of those assignments. Get caught screwing some admiral’s daughter and you might get sent to Ravenwood.”

  Or Gobi, I thought.

  “The base went dark four weeks ago.” Pollard raised his hands, palms up, to show confusion. “They did not send a distress call. For all we knew, they just blew up their communications equipment.

  “So Thurston sent us to investigate. We found the base empty.”

  “It was empty?” I asked.

  “Someone attacked it,” Pollard said. “Someone broke through the outer wall. There was a fight. We found bullet casings and burns on the walls. What we did not find was bodies.

  “Thurston ordered me to leave a unit behind to guard the place while he investigated. That unit disappeared the next day.”

  “How many men, sir?” I asked.

  “A platoon,” Pollard said in a hollow voice. At that moment he looked ancient and cold. “We don’t know if they are dead. We never found bodies. We have recovered equipment and a few dog tags.”

  “This sounds like a ghost story,” I said.

  “It just might be that,” Pollard said. “I’ll tell you what I think happened, and maybe you’ll wish it were ghosts. I think the Mogats are in Central Sagittarius. I think Ravenwood Station has a good view of their base. I can’t prove it, but that is what I think.”

  We sat silently as a few moments ticked by. “How big a squad am I taking on this assignment?” I asked.

  “You have a handpicked platoon. Good men. I’m sorry to lose them.” He slid a thick personnel file across the desk. “Here’s your mission profile. You have a few hours before you leave. I can loan you an office if you want to meet your men.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I think I’d rather place some calls.”

  “Huang sent a memo instructing me to make interLink and mediaLink facilities available for you. Admiral Klyber is your guardian angel, right? I think he wants you to contact Klyber. This is Huang’s way of thumbing his nose at him. Now that you are in Scutum-Crux territory, there’s not much Klyber can do.

  “I’ll give you that office. You’re free to use the communications as you like.”

  The truth was that I was embarrassed to run to Klyber for help. I was supposed to be the head of security, and I’d let myself get abducted. God, I hated Huang. How long had that bastard been waiting for a chance to nab me? Probably since Ronan Minor. Admiral Che Huang, the secretary of the Navy, had spent more than one year looking for some way to cap me, a lowly grunt. I should have been flattered.

  With three hours before my shuttle left for Ravenwood, and Lee waiting outside the office, I picked up the mediaLink shades and toyed with the idea of writing a letter to Kasara. I wasn’t really interested in her, but who else could I write to? So I tried to write to her and found myself struggling with every word. After less than five minutes, I deleted the letter and went out to grab a drink with Vince.

  “How’s the sea-sailor’s bar on this boat?” I asked.

  “Not as good as the one on the Kamehameha, ” Lee said. “But it’s got plenty of booze.”

  It was early afternoon; we had no trouble finding a table to ourselves. We sat in a corner and did not talk for almost a minute. “How is Jennifer?” I finally asked.

  “She’s good,” Lee said. “We’ve traded a couple of letters since Hawaii, but I get the feeling she’s moving on.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “You know Kasara is getting married next week, right?” Lee asked. He read my expression and knew the answer.

  “I heard from her the day you went to the House,” he said. Your speech was big news. She actually called me to ask if you were all right. I think she still has a thing for you; but you’re off being a Marine, and her old guy is right there on her planet.”

  “And her fiancé was okay with her calling you to ask about me?” I asked.

  “I doubt he knew. I get the feeling there are a lot of things he doesn’t know, like the fact that his soon-to-be bride did more than get a suntan in Hawaii. Jennifer wrote me about it. She came home talking about breaking things off. That lasted about one month. Then she never heard from you. Next thing you know, Kasara is announcing she is about to get married.”

  “So we’ve both been dumped,” I observed.

  “Well, I never thought of Jennifer as marriage material . . . but damn fine scrub.” He laughed.

  “To damn fine scrub,” I said, and we clinked our beers. And then we both became quiet again. This time the silence lasted longer.

  “Harris, I don’t know if anybody can survive in a trap like Ravenwood; but if anybody can, it’s you. I wanted you to know that. I know you thought Shannon was the perfect Marine, but you’re even better.”

  I did not know what to say. I looked at him and smiled, but inside I felt incredibly alone. “What about you, Vince? You made it. You were the first orphan to make lieutenant. Wasn’t that the first step toward a life in politics?”

  He shook his head. “Now that I’m here, I think I like it. I like life among the natural-born. I think I’m a career Marine from here on out.”

  Still the same guy, I thought. If any clone ever suspected his synthetic origins, it was Lee. And if ever a clone spent every waking minute trying to deny that suspicion, it was him again. And now he had landed himself in a position that truly did mark him as a natural-born . . . even if he was synthetic.

  “A career man, eh?” I said. “You’ll do one hell of a job.”

  I felt a sinking feeling as the doors of the kettle crept closed, blocking any hope of escaping back onto the Grant . The men in my all-clone platoon did not speak much as our transport took off. Two diligent Marines field stripped and cleaned their M27s. Most sat quietly staring into space. One fellow even managed to fall asleep. We had a five-hour ride ahead of us. I envied him. A few minutes into the flight, I went to visit the cockpit. There were two officers flying the ship—a pilot and a navigator. “Could you turn down the lights in the kettle?” I asked. “I want these boys rested.”

  It was very dim in the cockpit. The only light was the low glow from the instrumentation. A soft blue-green halo glowed over the small navigational chart near the pilot. Many of the energy and communications displays glowed white and red. “Want them all the way off?” the pilot asked.

  “Can you give me ten percent luminance?” I asked.

  “No problem, Lieutenant,” said the pilot.

  “Thank you. Oh, one other thing,” I said as I turned to leave. “Could you call me before we land? I was hoping to get a look at the planet as we approach.”

  “No problem,” the captain replied as he turned back to his control panel. I closed the door behind me and returned to my seat. The pilot had dimmed the cabin lights so much that I could barely see in front of me. Dressed in green armor that appeared black in the dim light, my men looked like they were carved out of stone. A few conversations still smoldered around the cabin. Men spoke in whispers, hoping not to disturb comrades sleeping around them. I dropped into my seat and thought about Hawaii and swimming in clear tropical waters. My eyelids fluttered, and my thoughts lazily floated into dreams, becoming more vivid and colorful. I felt myself floating in balmy currents, slowly rising an
d sinking in gently changing tides. I could see shapes moving just beyond my reach. As I concentrated on those shapes, I realized that I saw the bodies of men tied to the floor of the sea.

  “Lieutenant.”

  A hand gently nudged my shoulder. I blinked as the dimly lit cabin came into focus. The navigator stood over me, speaking in a soft voice. “We’re just coming up on Ravenwood now.”

  “Okay,” I said as I stretched. My mouth was dry and filled with a bad taste. The stale air in the transport cabin had left my nose congested. I also had the dozen or so assorted aches and stiffnesses that come with sitting up while sleeping.

  I entered the cockpit and got a quick glimpse of a gray-and-blue planet. I saw no hint of green on the planet’s surface, just the black and gray of stone surrounded by the iron blue of frozen seas.

  “Welcome to paradise,” the pilot said.

  “So that’s what paradise looks like,” I said.

  “What did you expect?” the navigator asked.

  “I’ve got a lock on the landing site beacon,” the navigator said. “You’d better get back to your seat. We’ve got to prepare to land.”

  “There’s an empty seat,” I said, pointing to the copilot’s chair. “Mind if I stay for the landing?”

  “Suit yourself,” the pilot said.

  I peered out the cockpit door and noted that the lights had come back on in the cabin. Almost everyone would have woken up.

  We were flying over a wide expanse of prairie. There were scabs of yellow-brown grass on the ground, but most of what I saw was a rock floor with patches of ice. Above the dismal prairie was a sky choked with clouds. In the distance, enormous mountains jutted out of the plains like great daggers that pierced the swollen sky. We did not travel as far as those distant cliffs. Our little fort sat by itself on a flat plateau. Its gleaming white walls looked insignificant, surrounded by thousands of miles of rock and ice. As the transport approached, I was very pleased to see that Ravenwood Station was made of sturdy concrete and steel, and not just a prefabricated Quonset hut. Small, with thick ramparts and bulky architecture, Ravenwood Station was built to withstand a war. To my great relief, I noticed shield projector rods on its outer walls. If we could get the generators running, we would be able to seal the base off from all but the most violent of attacks. Considering the story Captain Pollard had told me, I doubted that the generators would work.

  The AT touched down on a small pad just outside the walls of the station. Looking out the cockpit, I watched as our landing jets vaporized the thin sheet of ice that covered the cement. The ice turned into steam that rose along the hull of the ship. Moments later, two small streams of condensation raced down the windshield and froze in place.

  “I’ve transmitted your security clearance code,” the navigator said. “Your men can enter the base.” I nodded, then turned back to the window in time to see the two doors made of seven-inch-thick metal slide apart.

  The fortress was completely dark inside, but that was of little concern with our night-for-day vision. I worried more about the condition of the outer walls than generators and power supplies. I went to the bulkhead and called, “Marsten and Gubler.” Two corporals came to the front of the kettle.

  “Leave your rucks. I need you to have a look around the base to see what works and what is broken.”

  They saluted and left.

  According to their profiles, Arlind Marsten and Max Gubler were skilled field engineers. With any luck, their journeyman’s knowledge would be enough to get the security, communications, and life-support systems online. Pausing only to pull their tool cases, they scrambled out of the transport.

  “You boys,” I said, pointing to the three privates. “Scout the outer walls, inside and out. I want a damage report.”

  As they started for the hatch, I called after them over the interLink. “Keep an eye open for weapons, armor, debris, anything that might give us a clue about recent battles. Got it?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” They saluted and left.

  “The rest of you unload this transport. Be quick about it. I want to seal the base by 1500.”

  Moving at a quick jog, the remaining Marines left the transport and crossed the landing pad. In Ravenwood’s dark atmosphere, I noticed that their green armor blended beautifully against the ice and rock. If we were unable to get the energy systems running, if the security system was damaged beyond repair, we might still be able to take the enemy in an open-field ambush. I watched my men hustling to unload the supplies. The boys knew the gravity of their situation. They would remain alert and disciplined. We had, I thought, a fighting chance. A crackling sound reverberated along the station wall as a flood of bright light ignited around the grounds. In the brightness, I saw the dull sheen of frost on the walls.

  “Lieutenant,” a voice said over the interLink, “energy systems are up and running, sir.”

  “Nicely done, Marsten,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

  “The power generators were in perfect order, sir,” Marsten responded. “Gubler says the security and heating systems were damaged, but not badly. The energy rods are still intact. It’s as if the last platoon powered the station down to prepare for us.”

  “I see. What is the condition of the shield generator?”

  “Shorted out, sir. It’s an easy repair. I think we can have it going in an hour.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “The communications system is a bust, though,” Marsten said. “Whoever attacked the base made sure the occupants could not call for help.” We all had mediaLink shades, but those were not made for battle. Using them left you blind to your surroundings, and a sophisticated enemy could easily jam their signal.

  “Maybe they were making certain that future occupants would not call for help either,” I said. “One last thing. I want you to check for radar. This used to be a fuel depot. It may have radar-tracking capabilities.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marsten replied.

  The area around the base looked clean when we landed. I would send a small patrol out to make certain of it. If the area was clean, and we could get a tracking system running, we might be able to track the enemy’s landing. That was, of course, assuming they flew in. If they broadcast themselves in stolen Galactic Central ships, our radar would give us very little warning.

  “Lieutenant,” a voice came over my interLink.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “We found out how they entered the base. You might want to see this.”

  I looked in the AT’s cargo hold. My men had mostly emptied the compartment, but a few crates of supplies stood piled on a pallet in a far corner. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. How bad is the damage?”

  “There are a lot of holes, but the wall’s still pretty strong. I think we can patch it.”

  As we spoke, a few men carried off the last of the supplies.

  “Lieutenant Harris,” the pilot’s voice spoke over the interLink. “I understand that the cargo hold is empty.”

  “You in a hurry to leave?” I asked.

  “This is my third drop on Ravenwood over the last two months, Lieutenant. As far as I know, the other teams are still here because no one came to pick them up. Yes, goddamn it, I am in a hurry to leave.”

  “Understood,” I said. “Thank you for your help.” I climbed down from the cargo hold and watched as the hatch slid shut.

  “Cleared to leave,” I said as I stepped away from the AT.

  “Godspeed, Lieutenant. With any luck I will pick you and your men up shortly.” There was no mistaking the lack of conviction in the pilot’s voice.

  I did not respond. Its jets melting a newly formed layer of ice, the boxy transport ship lifted slowly off the landing pad. It hovered for a few moments, then rose into the sky. Watching it leave, I felt an odd combination of jealousy and fear.

  “Do you want us to get to work on the wall, sir?” one of the privates asked.

  “Wait up, Private,” I said, as I started around the b
ase for a look at the damage. A thin layer of long-frozen snow covered the ground. My boot broke through its icy crust. I found my scout party examining the back wall—the wall farthest from the launchpad.

  The wall was made of foot-thick concrete blocks coated with a thick plastic and metal polymer for added protection. Using a ramming device, or possibly just a well-placed charge, somebody had made seven holes through a thirty-foot section of wall.

  “Can you fix this?” I asked.

  “It shouldn’t be much of a problem, sir. We have the materials, but, ah . . .”

  “Private?”

  “If the wall didn’t keep the enemy out the first time, I don’t see how patching it will make much of a difference.”

  “Point taken,” I said. “Do what you can here and look for anything that tells us who made these holes and how they made them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We did find these,” the private said, pointing to an unexploded fractal-field grenade—a messy device that overloaded shields by flooding them with radioactive isotopes. A couple of those bangers could certainly have shorted out the generators on this base.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said. The U.A. military stopped using those grenades decades ago, possibly even forty years ago. I picked the grenade up and rolled it in my palm, being careful not to touch the pin.

  “You might want to be careful with that, sir,” the private said.

  “Private, this banger is forty years old. If it wasn’t stable, it would have blown years ago.” Just the same, I carefully replaced the grenade on the ground.

  “While you’re patching the walls, I want you to check the grounds for radiation. Let me know if the soil is hot, would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” the private said.

  “I’ll send some men out to guard you,” I said. I did that for his comfort, not his safety. Whoever had attacked Ravenwood didn’t care if we fixed the walls and started the shield generators. That much was obvious.