Steven Kent - The Clone Elite

We borrowed a jeep and drove deep into town. Driving the streets of Valhalla, it was easy to forget we were fighting a war. The entertainment district was alive. Marines, soldiers, and civilians crowded the streets. The dance clubs were closed, but crowds packed the movie theaters and bars. The MPs turned out in force, too. Walking around with their armbands and nightsticks, they scowled at every man they passed.

What downtown Valhalla really needed was a dog catcher. Packs of stray dogs roamed the alleys, looking for food. They posed no threat to humans, especially in a community in which most pedestrians carried M27s, but the dog shit was turning alleyways into minefields.

People’s pets became the first victims of the mass relocation. In the rush to relocate the human population, house pets were left to fend for themselves. The dogs and cats seemed to adapt, but I suspected that the domesticated fish, bird, and hamster populations were on their way to extinction.

There were so many jeeps parked along the sidewalks downtown that the place looked like a motor pool. We ended up parking in a residential area and walking eight blocks back. As we walked, Private Skittles made a snide remark about all of the old, white-haired soldiers we passed. “I don’t know about you guys, but seeing all these old guys around gives me the creeps.”

“Philips calls them the ‘Prune Juice Brigade,’ ” Thomer said. Philips’s quotes were always good for a laugh.

Then Corporal Thorpe asked the question of the day, “What happened out there with Sergeant Philips?”

“I heard you capped one of those things with a rocket,” Skittles said to Corporal Boll. “A rocket …Man, you must have blown that bastard to bits.”

Neither Herrington nor Boll seemed interested in talking about the skirmish. Herrington ignored the comment. Boll gave Skittles a tight smile, and grunted, “Something like that,” in a voice just above a whisper.

“Think there’s anyplace around here that serves Crash?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Crash was a hard liquor made out of potatoes grown in toxic soil. The U.A. Senate had recently banned the stuff due to a rash of fatalities, but Marines loved it because it was cheap and got them drunk fast.

“They don’t serve that anymore,” said Thorpe, taking the bait. “It’s been banned.”

“Banned?” I asked, pretending I had never heard about the ban. As I looked over at Thomer, I could tell he saw through me. He smiled but did not say a word.

“A bunch of college kids died after drinking it in a frathouse initiation,” Skittles said.

“No shit?” I asked. “Curbing the frat-boy population. I never thought of using it for that.”

Wherever we went, we ran into crowds. The restaurants and bars had lines that stretched half a block, so we wandered off the main drag and began searching smaller streets and back alleys. There was dog shit everywhere, but the ion curtain provided enough light for us to avoid stepping in it.

Five blocks off Main Street, we finally found a small pub that only looked mildly overcrowded. When the guy serving the drinks said he would be able to seat us within the hour, we decided we were not going to get a better offer. It actually took two hours, but that was okay.

Herrington pointed out the window, and said, “Hey, look, an Ava movie’s showing in the theater over there.” It was an Ava Gardner double feature— The Sun Also Rises and On the Beach . What red-blooded Marine could resist?

Among the vices that appealed to enlisted men, drinking was the uncontested champion, with sex coming in a strong second. Movies did not figure into the top ten, at least not before Ava and her lovely face.

“I bet Ava does some naughty stuff ‘on the beach,’ ” Skittles said.

“No, man, it’s not like that,” Thomer said. “I saw it. It’s an end-of-the-world flick. She’s stuck on a planet with radiation problems, waiting to die.”

“C’mon, it’s got to have some good visuals; it’s an Ava flick,” said Herrington.

“She does look good,” Thomer agreed.

“Think she really is a clone?” Herrington asked.

Thomer shook his head. “I hope not,” he said.

“Would it make a difference?” I asked.

“Well, I hope she is a clone,” said Skittles. I first met Private Timothy H. Skittles as we rode the helicopter out to the forest, and I already liked him. The kid was nuts.

“You hope she’s a clone?” Thorpe asked.

Before Skittles could answer, one of the two guys running the bar showed us to a table. We carried on the conversation as we headed across the floor. The six of us sat around a small, square table that was meant for two people.

“Sure I hope she’s a clone,” Skittles said as he scooted his chair toward the table. “If she’s a clone, they can make more of her. I’d take one.”

This got a laugh, but Thomer did not join in. The conversation had strayed far too close to a discussion of cloning and identity for an introspective clone like Thomer, who suspected he might be synthetic.

After that, things became quiet as we watched soldiers and Marines come and go. Herrington and Skittles continued to opine about Ava Gardner. Boll and Thorpe argued about the virtues of Earth-brewed beer over the outgrown stuff.

I let my mind wander, until I heard Thorpe ask, “Lieutenant, what happened with Philips?” The weight of that question smothered all other conversation.

“What happened?” I repeated. I sighed. I looked at the waiter, hoping he would come and take our order. I looked out the window, hoping to see some distraction on the street. Thorpe, who was always earnest, waited patiently until I answered. “What did he tell you?”

“He wouldn’t talk about it,” Thorpe said.

“You know what they were doing. I sent them to capture an alien,” I said.

“You went with them,” Thorpe added.

“Yes, I went too. I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun,” I said. “Three of the aliens split off, and Philips followed them. We set up an ambush. We had the drop on them, so what could happen, right?”

“Those sons of bitches are bulletproof,” Herrington said.

“Damn straight they’re bulletproof,” I said.

“One of them was doing some kind of science experiment when I got there. The other two were standing guard, but the one doing the experiment wasn’t even holding a gun.

“It was all perfect. We were on a hill overlooking the bastards, and we opened fire.

“Just like Herrington said, the bastards were bulletproof. I emptied an entire magazine on one of the guards, but the specker didn’t die. And their weapons …they shot right through the embankment.”

I had not realized how much that skirmish had bothered me. Once I opened up and started talking, the words just kept pouring out. “Boll nailed them with his grenades, but they hit White and Huish during the firefight. White died right away. Huish, though …he went into shock. I’m no doctor, but I don’t think it was the wound that killed him; I think it was the pain that did it.”

The waiter finally came to ask for our order, but now he was an unwanted distraction. We asked for a round of beers and sent him away.

“So why is Philips taking this so hard? You’d think he would blame you if he had to blame somebody,” Thorpe said. He did not mean this as a challenge. As I thought about it, he made a good point.

“You’ve never had your own command,” I said. “I sent them out, but he told them where to go and when to shoot. A guy like him, when things go wrong, he’s not looking to cover his ass, he just thinks about the men he lost.”

“That’s the shits,” said Skittles.

After that, we sat without speaking until the waiter brought us two pitchers of beer, and we all drank, glad to keep our thoughts to ourselves. The taste of beer improved my mood. It probably had the same effect on everybody else.