Steven Kent - The Clone Empire

Petersborough was no resort town. It had probably been an industrial center before the Avatari invaded. Though I saw an occasional empty lot heaped high with debris, most of the buildings had survived the war in one piece. The aliens hadn’t set out to destroy this city, but they sure as shit did nothing to improve it.

I walked along streets decorated by an odd combination of iron doors and glittering storefronts. One block gave way to the next. As I neared an open-air casino, I saw scores of sailors with women on their arms. In the alley behind the casino, I passed couples groping and kissing and thought of Ava.

Another block, and I had entered an abandoned industrial district with dilapidated warehouses made of cinder block and steel. Even though they were only a few streets back, the storefronts and casinos seemed like a memory from another town.

Wandering off by myself was asking for trouble, and I knew it. I stopped, searched the street. Seeing that I was completely alone, I returned to the bright lights and amorous crowds of the hospitality district.

A parade of couples marched by me—clones with natural-born dates, their loud laughter carrying on the breeze. I saw unattached women on the prowl outside several bars. The Marine term for these women was “scrub.” I sometimes wondered what names they had for us.

It was nearing 20:00, and I had not eaten since lunch, so I found a promising-looking restaurant/bar and headed in. Ironically enough, the place was called Scrubb’s, spelled with two Bs. The name could have been an accident, but I doubted it.

Two hours after the dinner hour, the place was still half-full, with a few couples leaving as I came in. The clones who remained eyed me nervously as I came through the door.

The tall, well-curved hostess approached me and introduced herself as Debbie. I stood six-three, and she came up to my eyes. She studied my blouse for a moment, smiled, and said, “You must be an important man.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“You have a lot of ribbons,” she said, pointing to my chest.

She had olive skin and silky brown hair that hung straight down past her shoulders, then formed curls at the end. She had blue eyes that were narrow and small. Her eyes had an angry set, but her smile was friendly. She wore a dark blue dress with a cut that showed the tops of her breasts.

“You see action, and they give you ribbons,” I said.

“You must have seen a lot of action.”

I could have taken that comment several ways. I chose to take it as innocent, and said, “More than I like to admit.”

“Is that how you got those stars?” she asked, pointing to my collar. “I’ve seen men with bars and leaves pinned on their collars, but I’ve never seen stars.”

“Lieutenants wear bars, majors wear clusters.”

I expected her to say something stupid such as asking if that made me a sergeant. Instead, she said, “Let me find you a table, General.”

When I asked, “How do you know I’m a general?” she just laughed and led me across the floor.

The eatery was not all candles and violins, but it wasn’t burgers and fries, either. The lighting was low, and the waitresses wore dresses instead of uniforms. Some customers spoke in hushed tones, and others told stories and laughed in voices that boomed like kettledrums.

Debbie sat me at a table near the back of the restaurant, about ten feet from a hearth with foot-tall flames dancing on a stack of logs. Cool air poured out of the ceiling, causing the temperature to remain comfortable. It reminded me of a hot shower on a cold night, leaving me relaxed.

I half hoped she would give me a card, a phone number, or a slip of paper stating what time she got off work. At the moment, Ava seemed far, far away. Debbie touched me on the shoulder, and said, “Your waitress will be right with you.”

I wondered what would happen if I pursued her? Ava was more beautiful than this girl, but not as young …smooth-skinned youth had its own kind of beauty. Not that gravity had caught up with Ava; it probably wouldn’t for another few years. I watched the girl walk away and knew that I might well fantasize about her for the next night or two.

Compared to the hostess, my waitress seemed positively plain. She was short and slender, with shoulder-length blond hair. Before taking my order, she asked, “Are you really a general?”

“I am,” I said.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You mean besides what I want to eat?” She didn’t laugh. “Sure. What is it?”

“Are we safe now? Are the aliens gone for good?”

I studied the girl closely. The restaurant was dim, so I could not see every detail. She might have been twenty or maybe twenty-five years old.

I saw no scars on her skin, but I heard them in her voice and decided to lie. “Gone for good,” I said, unwilling to say anything further. I so wanted to believe my own words that it almost made them true. Modern alchemy—turning lies into gold.

She said nothing, and I wondered if she believed me. Maybe she realized the same thing I did, that sometimes it is better not to know what lurks around the corner.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Lyra.”

“Lyra, those aliens weren’t soldiers, they were businessmen,” I said. “They didn’t come looking for a war, and when we gave them one, they went to bother someone else.”

Lyra saw things as they were. I spoke to her the way I would speak to a scared child, but she knew war and death as intimately as I did, and she took no comfort from my reassurance. She let me say my piece, thanked me, then recited the specials of the day. I ordered baked fish and wild rice, hoping it would be as good as the meal I’d eaten with Warshaw.

Looking around the restaurant, I saw only couples. A meal in this place would cost more than most sailors or Marines wanted to pay; but men on leave will sometimes pony up the credits if they think it will change the outcome of their date.

Scrubb’s had a bar near the front, the kind of place that would attract conscripts and officers alike. The bar sat on a slightly raised floor that overlooked the rest of the restaurant. Debbie, the hostess, must have worked the bar as well as the restaurant floor. I saw her walk in, heads turning to follow her, and disappear into the darkness of the bar.

That was when I spotted the phantom. He sat alone at a small table, quietly looking around the floor. He might have been either a Marine or a sailor, a clone to be sure; but dressed in a bright tropical shirt and slacks …the typical serviceman on leave.

Like any other single man drinking alone in a room filled with couples, he looked out of place as he scanned the floor around him. Something did not seem right about him. I could not put my finger on it, but he just came across wrong. Like a tree in a desert or maybe a wolf among sheep, I thought to myself.

The man was not trolling for girls, that much was clear. Time passed as he slowly nursed his beer. A waitress ran her rounds in his part of the bar. When she saw his untouched glass, she approached the table and said something to him. He answered, and she rolled her eyes and walked away.

The man leaned back and rested his arm on the rail that separated the bar from the rest of the restaurant. He casually surveyed the bar, then the eatery. The move looked so relaxed, so subtle. Too relaxed, it felt calculated to put people at ease.

Why would he come here alone? I asked myself; but even as I thought this, I realized that I had come here alone, and just like the phantom, I was looking around the floor and studying the wildlife. Did I make him suspicious? But this guy wasn’t drinking. His beer was a prop.

As he scanned the restaurant, his gaze eventually drifted to my table. I saw him looking in my direction, and he saw me staring back. I expected him to turn away, but he didn’t. His eyes stayed on me as he took in my insignia or possibly counted the stars on my collar. He met my gaze with a look that showed neither fear nor nervousness, then calmly pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table. Without looking back, he abandoned his money and his half-finished beer.