Steven Kent - The Clone Redemption

Climbing to the next level was like entering a different world. The second floor looked like a shopping mall. It had carpeted hallways, storefronts, restaurants, and seating areas with padded benches and rows of chairs. I didn’t know if there was power in the building or if my men had left the lights off. During combat, you usually want your environs darker than your enemies’. Darkness offers its own brand of camouflage.

Looking around the lobby, I saw sergeants running their squads. If I had listened in on their frequencies, I would have heard platoon leaders and company commanders screaming themselves hoarse. Everything they said would be “specking this” and “specking that,” and they’d call everyone “bastard,” friend and foe alike.

I generally thrived on those sounds …the shouting, the cursing, the intensity; but on this night, I preferred the solitude of my helmet. I felt the weight of the entire galaxy upon me. Today, every death and injury would color my conscience. I had led these men into this disaster. If we lost, I would have their deaths on my head. If we won, I would likely preside over the deaths of everyone on Earth.

How did I get myself in these situations? By recommending the invasion? I did not regret making that recommendation though I wished the Unifieds had not anticipated our every step. Maybe we would all die. Maybe a few of us would survive. It didn’t matter, not really. The only action that mattered would take place on Terraneau.

After all my big talk about antisyntheticism, maybe I was the ultimate bigot. I had brought thousands of clones to Earth, with millions more in reserve. Why was I sacrificing them?

Had I bought into the whole “expendability” argument? I asked myself the question, and I hated the answer.

At least we were killing natural-borns as well as saving them. The thought of taking a few hundred natural-borns down almost made up for my mistakes. We’d give them an evening to remember. We would not go down without a …

“Harris, the missile bases are down.”

“You did it?” I asked.

I walked to the window and saw the red glow in the sky. It wasn’t bright, and it did not appear and disappear like an atomic explosion. Whatever Freeman had set off, it filled the sky with a burned orange glow that lit the bottoms of the clouds.

Beside me, thousands of men lay on their guts or knelt beside window casings, their guns pointing out into the night.

“Have you reached Cutter?” I asked.

“He’s on his way with the second wave,” said Freeman.

I smiled, but the smile was bitter. How far away had he taken the fleet? A million miles? Ten million miles?

No one paid attention to me as I inspected our ranks, and I knew why. On the far end of the runway, an eerie golden glow shone from between the trees.

Even using the telescopic lenses in my visor, I could not get a clear view of the bastards. I only saw the glow of their shields emanating from the edge of the woods. They were testing their armor, getting ready to strike.

A few minutes passed, and the ghost light vanished on the far end of the runway. I watched them through my telescopic lenses, saw how they slowly moved in, keeping a wary eye out for ambushes. Our snipers could not hit them that far away, but our mortars and RPGs sure as hell could. The moment our shells started rumbling, the glow of their shields came back on.

It took us ten minutes to cross the runway. Wearing shield armor, knowing that the clock would run out if the battle lasted forty-five minutes, the Unifieds rushed ahead.

As they surged toward us, a soft ruffle of thunder rolled through the air, and it began to snow. At first the flakes were tiny, like salt crystals falling from the sky. Then the gates of an unseen dam spread wide, and coin-sized flakes tumbled out of the clouds. A strong wind picked up and drove the snow as it fluttered to the ground. Partially blinded by the snowstorm, the U.A. Marines slowed their charge.

The snow and wind played havoc on our mortars. Shells seemed to fly wild. It didn’t matter. They had their shields going, and we needed to conserve ammo.

Hoping to get a better look at the enemy, I found a stairwell and raced up the four flights that led to the roof. The door was hanging open on a quiet scene under low clouds. Wearing armor, I could not feel the wind; but I saw the angle of the falling snow. A powerful wind was blowing.

I could have taken a temperature reading with the gear in my visor, but I did not bother. Whatever it was, it must have been cold. The snow had already started to pile up. A quarterinch layer of it already covered the roof. On the runway, the tarmac looked gray instead of black.

“General,” a major said when he turned and saw me. He snapped to attention and saluted. His men remained as they were; this was a battle situation.

I pointed to one of the snipers and asked to see his rifle. The major retrieved it for me.

How long will it take them? I asked myself, thinking of Cutter and the fleet, not the U.A. Marines. Our ships could cross a million miles in a couple of minutes, but launching transports and fighters would add time.

I lifted the rifle and peered through the scope. Nine-tenths of a mile away, men in armor lit the edge of the runway as they poured out from between trees and ran onto the tarmac. I could hit them from that distance. Most of my snipers could hit a target from a mile away, but we could not afford to waste ammunition. At that point, our high-powered rifles were no more effective than a swarm of mosquitoes.

As I watched through the scope, the flood of men in glowing armor continued to flow out from behind the trees. They came from every direction, completely closing us in. Confident their armor could protect them, they jogged toward us. By that time, only the blizzard conditions stood between us and them.

Looking for a clean shot through all of the snow, I aimed the rifle at one Marine’s head and pulled the trigger. The rifle bucked in my hand. It did not have much of a kick. Three seconds passed. My aim was off, the scope was calibrated for another shooter. My bullet missed the target and struck the man behind him. There was a flash where the bullet hit, just over his right cheek.

I handed the rifle back to its owner. The other snipers waited for me to give the order to fire. The snow would not help their accuracy; but at seven hundred yards and firing at a slow-rushing tide, the bullets would hit enemy Marines.

Using a channel that only the snipers would hear, I said, “Fire.”

Along the roof, the muzzles of the guns flashed and went dark. The boys spent more time aiming than I would have liked, waiting ten and sometimes twenty seconds between shots.

“When the Unifieds get within one hundred yards, bring your boys in,” I told the major.

“Should I take them down to the third floor?” he asked.

“No, just bring them in from the ledges. We’ll leave them up on the roof for now.”

“Aye, sir,” he said.

At one hundred yards, M27s and RPGs are nearly as accurate as sniper rifles. Once the Unifieds reached that point, we’d need to dig in and prepare to fight at close range.

By that time, a thick layer of snow had begun to crunch under my boots. I slid in it as I walked back to the stairs. When I stepped in the open doorway, I kicked the jam to get the snow off my boots.

Cutter’s voice came over the interLink. “Harris, where are you?”

“We’re holding a spaceport just outside Washington, D.C.,” I said. “The bastards have us surrounded.”

“Just hold on,” Cutter said. “We’re almost ready to launch.”

Almost ready to launch. Almost ready to launch. The words made my insides knot like a kick to the crotch.