Steven Kent - The Clone Redemption

One of Jolly’s officers, a Captain James Holman, ran the operation with ruthless efficiency. He lifted the people out first, allowing them no more luggage than a change of clothes. That part of the lift took approximately eight hours. Once he had the people out, he sent teams of scavengers to look for food, medical supplies, and other essentials. Holman had thought of something I had overlooked. Before the month was out, we would have millions of refugees to house and to feed. We would need more than food and water. When they became sick, they would look to us for medicine, clothing, soap, shelter, bedding, building supplies, everything.

I did not wear my armor on this excursion. Having spent the first three months of my career on Gobi, I knew I would miss the temperature-controlled bodysuit; but I was more concerned about privacy.

Gobi was wall-to-wall desert, with no oceans, no lakes, and no moisture in its air. Wet spots started forming under my arms and around my collar the moment I stepped out of my transport. By the time I reached my ride, drops of sweat rolled along my spine.

Morrowtown was a two- and three-story burg composed of sandstone-colored buildings. Its streets were dirty and empty; the capital had faded into a ghost town.

Admiral Jolly flew in from the Perseus Arm to accompany me during my inspection. He must have mistaken me for a real officer. He saluted.

“We have three hours until things start heating up,” I told Jolly. My information came from Freeman, who had remained on the Bolivar . He and I had just finished chatting with the late Arthur Breeze. “We need everyone off the planet by 18:00.”

“Where did you get that information?” asked Jolly.

“Anonymous tip,” I said.

“You want to share your source?” asked Jolly.

“No, Admiral, I don’t,” I said.

Before I left Gobi, I would relieve Jolly of command. He was weak and pondering, the kind of commander you indulge during good times but cannot afford during bad. One way or another, he had to go.

“I told Holman not to leave until he packs every iota of food and medical supplies on the planet,” Jolly said.

“He’s got three hours,” I said.

“That sounds suspiciously like an order,” said Jolly.

“Not at all, Admiral. I’m not the one calling the shots. In three hours, the atmosphere will ignite, and everything on the planet will burn. The food will burn. The men looking for the food will burn. The Avatari are the ones controlling the clock.”

Jolly nodded, then eyed me carefully. He still looked angry. I pretended not to notice.

Using an old farm truck commandeered by his men, Admiral Jolly and I began our inspection. The truck’s engine growled so loudly I thought it might give birth. The suspension bounced like it was made of trampoline springs. Jolly and I sat in the back. A master chief petty officer played chauffeur. With the dirty deed I had in mind, I would have preferred a loyal Marine for a driver.

We passed dozens of abandoned vehicles parked along the streets. People had left their hopes and possessions behind. I couldn’t judge their hopes, but their possessions had been pretty meager.

I noticed something interesting. The doors of the houses were closed, and many people left their cars parked and locked as if the occupants expected to return home to them. As we passed one building, a dog watched us from behind a window.

I saw sailors and Marines entering buildings and loading supplies on to trucks. When we drove past grocery stores, restaurants, and offices, we found lines of men carrying out supplies by the crate. Driving by a hospital, we passed pallets loaded with cartons marked MEDICAL SUPPLIES.

We drove around a corner and I saw something so out of place that I shouted “Stop!” When the master chief hit the brakes, I climbed out to take a closer look.

It was a double-long freight truck, a real blue whale compared to the small, antiquated vehicles you normally saw in Morrowtown. The truck had jackknifed, its enormous cargo trailer had slid out of control and crashed into the side of a building. As I walked around the front of the cab, I saw that the hood had crumpled during the collision. A steady stream of smoke rose from the engine.

“What happened here?” Jolly asked as he came up beside me, the master chief petty officer following behind him.

The streets seemed empty around us. Dry wind whistled through the buildings, and the sound of a flag’s flapping echoed on the breeze.

Looking over the scene, I wondered how recently the attack had occurred. A string of bullet holes decorated the driver’s side door.

I had a particle-beam pistol tucked in my belt. It wasn’t much of a weapon at long range, but at least I came armed. Admiral Jolly, who had come empty-handed, saw the bullet holes and turned a ghostly white.

“We need to get MPs out here,” he said. He sounded out of breath, probably from fear. The watery folds of his second and third chins wobbled as he spoke, and sweat poured over his forehead and cheeks.

“Shh,” I said.

“We need help,” he said.

A dead sailor lay sprawled on the hood of the truck. He was covered with blood. He’d been shot in the head, and that had no doubt killed him; but he’d also flown through the windshield. Shards of glass poked through his cheeks and his hair and his eyes.

By the way the driver sat slumped against the steering wheel, I could tell that he had not had time to reach for his gun, assuming he had one. One of his hands was still on the wheel.

“Damn,” I said. We were evacuating one of our own planets, and we still lost men.

Jolly looked over my shoulder, and asked, “Do you think they’re dead?”

They ain’t happy, I thought; but what I said was, “The question is how long they’ve been dead.”

Like Admiral Jolly, our driver had come unarmed. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had brought a gun; the looters shot him before he could have used it. One moment he was standing behind Jolly, staring up into the eyes of the dead sailor hanging through the broken windshield, the next moment his head exploded and blood gushed from his shoulders and chest. The first shot hit him in the head, splattering his skull and brains onto the truck. The next two shots hit him in the back, leaving exit wounds wide enough for me to stick my hand through.

With Jolly crowding me the way he was, I hadn’t noticed a door opening across the street. Five men had emerged. They spotted us, and opened fire. I pushed the admiral out of my way, dived to the ground, and returned fire.

Jolly stood screaming, his hands waving in the air, and the pack instinctively knew he posed no danger. Three of them toted boxes, while two carried guns; but as the shooting began, the three with the boxes tossed the goods aside and produced M27s. Military-issue M27s, the kind that could only be obtained by spilling blood.

Bullets flew wide and high, but nothing came close to hitting me. These boys had big guns and lots of bullets, but they could not shoot for shit when they had to worry about targets shooting back at them. Their bullets hit the back of the truck and the wall of the building behind me. I don’t know if they spotted Admiral Jolly as he crab-walked to a Dumpster.

Not worrying about ammunition, the looters advanced toward me, ripping the cab of the truck apart with their bullets long after I had dropped flat on the ground.

Aiming my pistol between the truck’s two front tires, I hit the first man in the leg. The glittering green beam struck his shin, blowing it apart. The shreds of the man’s dark pants caught on fire as meat, blood, bone, and muscle exploded into a fine mist in the air.

He tried to step on the leg and fell, then he started shrieking as he rolled on the ground. I could have shot the bastard to put him out of his misery, but I didn’t. I was in full combat reflex, and my thoughts followed the cold logic of the battlefield. The man no longer posed a threat, and his suffering meant nothing to me.