Steven Kent - The Clone Empire

“We were partners,” he said.

“You didn’t come here for old time’s sake,” I said. “How did you know about the clone in the first place?”

Then, recognizing the flaw in the story, I said, “You wouldn’t have known about him unless you were already in the war. What’s your stake?”

Freeman said nothing, and I would not push it. When the time came, he would tell me his reasons. He was ruthless and violent, but he also lived by a personal code of conduct. I trusted him.

“You can’t fly that into the broadcast zone,” I said. “You know that, right?”

Again, he did not answer. It was a stupid question.

“It’s a one-way zone,” I said, another inane comment. “It goes straight to Providence Kri.”

I wanted to make sure he knew how to find me. “Any chance that I will see you there?” I asked.

Freeman opened the door of his plane and folded himself into the cockpit. He slid his right leg all the way across the cabin and into the well for the passenger’s feet, then exhaled all the air from his lungs before wedging his chest behind the yoke. He pressed his chin to his collarbone as he crammed his shoulders and head into the tiny space under the ceiling.

Once he was in, he snaked a hand out to close the door, then paused. “How do I find you?” he asked.

I told him about Scrubb’s, the restaurant on St. Augustine, and promised to check the restaurant the following Thursday night.

“Doesn’t sound very private,” Freeman said.

“So we meet and go for a walk,” I said.

He nodded and closed the door of his plane. The Bandit was small and he was a giant. He filled the cockpit as snug as a bullet in the chamber of a gun.

There were many lessons they never taught us in the Marine Corps, foremost among them was instruction on how to be magnanimous in defeat. Trash a Marine, and you have an enemy for life.

At the moment, I did not feel especially charitable toward Ellery Doctorow; but what I had in mind for this visit might just save lives, Ava’s life in particular. He’d kicked me off his rock and made an end run on my engineers; his last-minute concern about my well-being struck me as gloating. I considered him a pompous, arrogant, self-important windbag, and that was why I hated what I had to do next.

Before returning to Fort Sebastian, I would visit Doctorow one last time. If he was no longer in his office, I would go to his home. I would find him, and, despite my desire to break his neck, I would do him a favor.

I told my driver to take me to the new capitol building.

Freeman had found his Bandit on a civilian airfield on the south side of town. The south and west sides of Norristown had taken the brunt of the war against the aliens. The Corps of Engineers, formerly my Corps of Engineers, began restoring the west side as soon as we liberated the planet. The south side, however, remained in tatters. If I were trying to hide a plane near Norristown, I would hide it in the wreckage of a southern suburb.

I stared out at broken buildings and empty space as we headed north, then I saw a massive work project—the Norris Lake Tunnels. The southern edge of Norristown fronted on a large lake that sparkled like a giant mirror across the landscape. The sun shone across its endless blue surface and shimmered. At one corner of the lake, a pair of tunnels grew out of the water like a set of sleeping leviathans, their four-lane mouths stitched shut by a latticeworks of scaffolding and heavy equipment.

So they’re working on the tunnels, I thought to myself. That was why Doctorow wanted my Corps of Engineers. It would have taken the locals a decade to finish the project; Mars and his engineers would polish it off in a few weeks. The tunnels ran three miles along the bottom of the lake. Once they finished, Norristown would be reconnected to Ephraim, its long-abandoned sister city.

Driving from the south side of town to the governmental seat took fifteen minutes. We started in a place of ruins and ended in a canyon of marble and glass. I had my driver wait in the car while I went to speak with Doctorow. As I reached the door of the capitol, two guards blocked my way.

I told them whom I had come to see, and one of them escorted me to the receptionist. The receptionist, in turn, contacted Doctorow’s office and told me that an aide would come out and speak with me.

I was not impressed, but at least the charades were over. Doctorow had my assurance I was leaving. He had everything he wanted from me, the bastard, so I was no longer worth his time.

A few moments later, out came this snooty kid in a nice suit and silk tie. His wrist went limp as he shook my hand, then he suggested that we sit and talk in the lobby. As far as he was concerned, he was as close to Doctorow as I was going to get.

When the kid asked, “What can I do for you?” I wanted to tell him to douse his hair with gasoline and light up a cigar; but I behaved. I looked him in the eye, and said, “You can tell Colonel Doctorow—”

“President Doctorow.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“His title is president.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s different. I had no idea,” I said, trying to sound contrite. “You can tell Colonel Doctorow that I am here and wish to see him.”

“The president is a busy man,” the kid said.

“Yes, so am I,” I said.

“Perhaps if you have a message—”

“I just told you my message. I am here, and I wish to see him.”

“Perhaps you would like to tell me what this is about,” the kid said, his patience wearing thin.

“If I wanted to tell you why I was here, I would have already done so,” I said.

The kid controlled his temper better than I would have. He sat unmoved by my sarcasm. “If you would prefer to write—”

“If I wanted to send the president a letter, I would have written one.”

The kid just sat there. He started to say something, but only said, “Hmmmm.”

I stood up.

The kid thought I was leaving, and said, “What should I tell President Doctorow?” He started to get up and reached out to shake hands.

“I’ll tell him myself,” I said, and started for the door to the offices.

The kid threw himself in front of me as the guards from the entrance came trotting across the lobby. The receptionist started speaking frantically into a panel on his desk. I had not come to make a scene, but I was about to make one just the same; then the door to Doctorow’s office flew open, and out came “the president.”

“Are you quite finished, General Harris?” Doctorow asked in a loud but calm voice.

“Do you see anybody bleeding?” I asked.

“That is precisely why we want you off our planet.” Doctorow pronounced this judgment with finality.

“You know what, I can’t wait to leave,” I said.

Doctorow took a deep breath, and asked, “What do you need, Harris?”

“I came here to do you a favor, but you probably don’t want anything from someone like me.”

“No, I probably do not,” he agreed.

I took a deep breath, and said, “I came to give you an escape hatch …in case the aliens ever return.”

Now I had Doctorow’s attention. He surveyed the scene one last time, then said, “Perhaps we should speak in my office.” He turned to leave without speaking, and I followed, like an obedient dog.

Doctorow returned to his seat behind his desk. “How are your preparations going?”

“I hope to be out of here tonight,” I said.

“Well, that is good news.”

“Look …” I paused to take a deep breath because if I didn’t, I might have killed the bastard. I didn’t even know what to call Doctorow anymore. I did not want to call him president, the title was bullshit. I would not call him by his first name, we were not friends.