Steven Kent - The Clone Redemption

“Military value? Master Chief, did you look at the recon photos? Those sites are of no strategic value except as target practice.”

He thought, Maybe Master Chief Illych’s death was not so meaningless. He taught us that your injector pods make excellent torpedoes.

Freeman nodded as I entered the room, and continued fiddling with his communications computer. The time was 07:00 according to the Space Travel Clock. The virtual versions of William Sweetwater and Arthur Breeze should have arrived at their virtual lab.

“How much can we tell them?” I asked Freeman as I took the seat beside him. The last time we had spoken with Sweetwater and Breeze, Freeman and I were cooperating with the Unified Authority, and the aliens had just burned Olympus Kri. Even then, the ghosts were behind the times. They did not know that the clones had formed their own empire, and Freeman had warned me not to tell them.

Freeman said, “We can tell them about Terraneau.”

“Won’t they already know about it?” I asked.

“The only things we can tell them are things they already know.”

“How much trouble will we cause if we leave the script?” I asked.

Freeman did not respond.

“Are we going to ask them where the aliens are going next?” I asked.

Freeman nodded.

“You do realize that the Unifieds have probably told them that we died on Olympus Kri. They may be surprised to see us,” I said.

Freeman said, “Only Andropov would have that kind of clearance.” Tobias Andropov was the chairman of the Linear Committee, the executive branch of the Unified Authority government.

“Andropov is handling this himself?” I asked.

Freeman responded to my question with a glare. As far as he was concerned, he’d already answered the question. “Unless they ask, the only thing we will tell them about ourselves is that we are alive.”

I wondered if he would have been more honest with the real William Sweetwater and Arthur Breeze. Generally aloof, Freeman had adopted the scientists back on New Copenhagen as if they were his pets.

When we fought the Avatari on New Copenhagen, I was a lieutenant. Now, thanks to the ambush at Olympus Kri, I was the leader of a great empire. I was the head of state, but Freeman was the high priest, bringing down sacred revelation from ethereal beings only he could contact—William Sweetwater and Arthur Breeze. He would tell me what to say, and I would obey. He passed me the little communications computer, and I typed an access code into it, then gave it back to him.

The screen flashed to life, showing a large laboratory. Sweetwater, who was working near the camera, looked up, and said, “Now here’s a surprise.”

Freeman put up a hand to stop him, and whispered, “Are you alone?”

“ At the moment,” Sweetwater said in his friendly, gravelly voice. “Raymond, aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Not that I know of,” Freeman said.

“How did he die?” I asked.

Sweetwater gave the lab a visual sweep, then stepped closer to the camera. “They said you both died on Olympus Kri.”

“We went to Terraneau after Olympus Kri,” I said.

“We heard about Terraneau, what a tragedy. We heard no one survived.” Sweetwater always referred to himself in plural; it was one of his quirks.

“We got a thousand people off Terraneau,” I said.

Sweetwater shook his head. Anger and depression showing in his eyes, he said, “Arthur tracked the Avatari signal to Bode’s Galaxy. The Navy should have sent a fleet to destroy their home world by now.”

“They sent the Japanese Fleet,” I said. Then I had to grit my teeth to stop from swearing because, below the table, Freeman had dug the heel of his oversized boot into my shin to get my attention. He was right, of course. The launch of the Japanese Fleet would have taken place between Sweetwater’s death and digital resurrection. I had wandered into dangerous grounds.

For his part, the dwarf did not seem to notice. He asked, “Are we correct in assuming that you are no longer working with the Unified Authority?”

Not wanting to risk another sub-table attack, I looked at Freeman for cues on how to proceed. He met my gaze and gave me a single nod.

“Yes, sir, that would be a correct assumption,” I said.

“Are you fugitives?”

After glancing back at Freeman one last time to make sure that I still had permission to speak, I said, “Enemies might be a better description.”

“I see,” said Sweetwater. “We’re out of the loop up here on the Wheel.” The virtual versions of Sweetwater and Breeze lived on a computer simulation of the Arthur Clarke Space Station—better known as “the Wheel.”

I was about to say something, but the dwarf scientist put up a hand and shushed me. Someone had entered the laboratory. Before I could see who, our connection went dead.

Unless some four-star survived the ambush at Olympus Kri without telling me, I was the highest-ranking officer in the Enlisted Man’s Empire, and I did not consider myself fit for command. I was a combat Marine, not an admiral. I understood the movements of troops and companies, not fleets. I was made for the battlefield.

I wanted to find my successor. All of the two-star and three-star candidates died at Olympus Kri, leaving me with three one-star admirals to choose from. One look at the field, and I already knew that the pickings were slim.

Along with being the ranking officer in the meeting, I was the lone Marine in attendance. I brought Don Cutter with me as an advisor. As the captain of a fighter carrier, he would know the officers by reputation if not from experience.

Cutter and I were the only people actually sitting in the room, the other officers attended as holographic images sent in via the broadcast network. We sat at one end of a long table, watching the other attendees through a transparent screen that looked for all intents and purposes like a pane of glass. Naval officers called this device a “conferencer.” We Marines called it a “confabulator.” Around Washington, D.C., it was known as a “social mirage.” It facilitated the feeling of having all participants in the same room by placing holographic images of remote attendees around the table as if they were actually there. Looking through the confabulator, I saw each officer in his assigned chair with a virtual plaque that identified his name, rank, and fleet. If I allowed myself to stare at the virtual attendees, though, I could see a slight translucence in their faces.

The three admirals in attendance chatted among themselves, occasionally pausing to glance back at me through the window. They were scattered across the galaxy as well. One of them was in the Perseus Arm, one was in the Sagittarius Arm, and the last was in the Norma Arm.

I came to the meeting thinking I would hand over the reins of the military to one of these men; but as I watched them, I had second thoughts. Looking through the confabulator, I saw an enclave of assholes.

I called the room to order by asking, “Have any of you heard from Warshaw?”

“Warshaw” was Admiral Gary Warshaw, the commander, chief, and architect of the Enlisted Man’s Empire. He was the officer who rebuilt the broadcast network, a man with a knack for finding options in hopeless situations.

Somewhere inside me, I still hoped that Warshaw had survived the ambush at Olympus Kri. The arrogant prick strutted like a peacock, and he wasn’t worth shit in combat situations, but Warshaw was a great organizer. He’d created an empire out of chaos.