Steven Kent - The Clone Elite

“Yes, sir,” Moffat said. “I don’t trust Freeman.”

Not trusting Ray Freeman was another story. He and I had been partners for two years, and he still made me nervous. He was smart, dangerous, and silent, a man who radiated intensity and seldom spoke. I had seen him kill enemies for money and revenge …and maybe for the fun of it. I once saw him glue a live grenade to a man’s hand and pull the pin. When I first met Freeman, I thought he had no allegiance to anyone but himself; but I was wrong. He never fought against the Unified Authority.

“What do you think of Freeman?” Glade asked me. He cleared his throat again.

“I’d trust him with my life,” I said.

“Just you keep that bastard out of my line of sight,” Lieutenant Moffat warned.

“You know, Moffat, I’ve been trying to play nice with you,” Glade said. “I came out and caught you browbeating your XO for no apparent reason, and I tried to warn you that Lieutenant Harris is not an officer to be pushed around—but here you are, doing it again.

“I tried to be diplomatic with you, but now I think I’ll just be frank. I would put you on permanent KP duty till this war is over, but I don’t want to risk you poisoning my men. That leaves me very few other options.

“Against my better judgment, I am going to trust you to conduct yourself in a manner befitting an officer in the Marines. If you do not live up to my expectations, I will be forced to either bust you down to private, put you in the brig, or have you shot. Any one of those options would be fine by me.” He cleared his throat again; this time I was almost sure it was for emphasis. “Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant Moffat?”

“Yes, sir,” Moffat said.

“Harris, Brocius says to let you and your platoon prosecute this war any way you see fit. You want tanks or air support, I’m supposed to provide it, no questions asked. I can’t make many promises, but I do promise to protect you from hotheaded officers; and I will give you whatever support that I can.

“Don’t expect me to dig you out if you speck up. You do what you think is best, but if you get yourself captured, don’t expect me to risk men pulling your ass out of the fire.”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Last I heard, the boys in Intelligence think we still have a few hours before this shooting match begins. Do you have any plans?” Glade asked.

“I want to run some recon, sir,” I said.

Glade nodded. “Recon? We have every inch of this planet mapped, scaled, and under electronic surveillance. We have this planet so wired that the rabbits in the woods can’t so much as fart without us listening in. What can you possibly hope to accomplish?”

“Sir, if I can locate the enemy’s launch point, I may be able to determine numbers, logistical clusters, maybe vulnerabilities …” I said. “I want to see if I can come in behind the enemy.”

“I believe the general just warned you not to get caught,” Moffat scowled, a grin on his lips.

“Excuse me, sir, but I believe he said he would not pull my ass out of the fire if I did get caught. I don’t intend to get caught.”

“No one intends to get caught,” said Moffat.

“We could get some good intel if this works. And if I do get caught, at least we’ll know we’re dealing with an alert and dangerous enemy,” I said.

“Not bad, Harris. Not bad,” Moffat said with transparent respect.

“Tell you what, Harris. The Navy set up a full-scale Science Lab just a few miles from here at the University of Valhalla. You go out there and do what you need to do, and you bring in one of those bastards. You bring one in alive.” Glade cleared his throat. “You bring us a live one, so the boys in the lab have something to play with.

“You do that, Harris, and I’ll put every man in your platoon down for a chestful of medals when this is over. I’ll tell you what, you bring me one of those bastards, and my wife and I will have your whole platoon out to the house for a barbecue.” Glade sounded excited. I got the feeling that he liked the idea of the Marine Corps bringing in the first prisoner.

“Your house? Are you from Valhalla originally?” I asked. With few exceptions, officers—the black-sheep children of politicians and bureaucrats who either could not cut it in school or in the political arena—came from Earth families.

“They set up housing for officers’ families. They’re calling it the ‘Hen House.’ ” Glade sounded somber. “Moffat, you’re a married man.”

“Yes, sir,” Moffat said.

“You brought your wife?”

“Yes, sir,” Moffat said.

I saw a chilling implication. Why shouldn’t the officers bring their families? If we lost here, their families would be as good as dead on Earth.

Glade cleared his throat once more, softly this time, the sound mostly muffled. “I guess that’s all I have to say.” He saluted, and said, “Good luck, Harris.”

Moffat and I left the admin area without speaking a word. Originally I had hated this man, now I found some form of sympathy for him. He was fighting to save his wife, not just to advance his career.

As the glass doors closed behind us, Moffat said, “Just keep out of my way, Harris. I’ve dealt with assholes like you before.”

“No, you haven’t,” I said. “Not like me.”

Since the early days of the Unified Authority, the colonies had always been a great melting pot. In an effort to prevent boundaries being drawn along racial lines, the U.A. government forcibly mixed peoples of all nationalities in the various colonies. As the government got to decide who went to which planet, racial division was virtually eliminated by fiat.

The government, however, allowed a few churches to establish colonies as well. These colonies were not as closely regulated as the ones founded by the government. If the rumors were true, the Catholic Church still had priests of purely Italian descent. Unless they were clones, those priests had to have come from Italian parents. The government did not need to worry about the priests extending their race, however, since they had all taken an oath of celibacy.

Ray Freeman descended from a long line of Neo-Baptist colonists, men and women of African-American descent. Freeman’s dark skin and huge size intimidated people. He stood a hulking seven feet tall with a heavy and powerful physique, the build of a blacksmith, not an athlete. He had so many scars along the back of his head that hair could no longer grow there even if he did not shave his head bald.

Freeman’s eyes were clear and white and set far apart. His irises were as black as a starless sky; they were the only truly black part of his body. His skin was the dark brown of ebony.

Freeman was brilliant, deadly in battle, and utterly ruthless. Despite his Neo-Baptist upbringing, he never showed remorse.

“It’s about time you got here,” Freeman said, as I climbed from the back of the truck.

“You knew I was coming?” I asked.

“Philips told me.”

I was the last man off the truck. Freeman and I watched as Philips and Thomer led the rest of the platoon across the landing strip, where three helicopters waited—two personnel carriers and a gunship escort. The men formed a line and waited for my orders.

“I didn’t know you and Sergeant Philips were friends,” I said.

Freeman ignored this comment. He probably did not like the connotation of the word “friend.” His life had room for allies, partners, and people who employed him, but no one came any closer than that.

Before leaving base, we were issued white-coated combat armor instead of the dark green we normally wore. In the snowy forests, the white armor would provide better camouflage. Around the plowed streets of Valhalla, however, the armor could not have been more visible if it had been painted red and dotted with a bull’s-eye.