Steven Kent - The Clone Elite

The scientist looked up at the screen again. He ran the video feed of the three glowing aliens a second time. As the last alien stepped out of the sphere, he froze the feed.

“If our hypothesis is correct, the avatars leave the field as a mass of energy so powerful it is able to attract tachyon particles out of the atmosphere and bond them together.”

“So the particles, these tachyons things, are forming a skin around a creature made of energy? Is that your point?” one of the generals asked.

“Not a creature—a signal,” the scientist said. “Remember, the beings you have encountered are only avatars, representations of creatures in another location.” He smiled nervously, exposing enormous teeth that might have looked more at home in the mouth of a horse.

“But you said these same particles are what make their guns? That doesn’t make sense to me. Their guns are too complex. How can they come together to make the working parts of a light rifle?” This question came from the Air Force section. I heard no sarcasm in the tone.

“These creatures appear to have the ability to manipulate tachyon particles on a fundamental level. From what we have been able to determine, it appears the particulate matter that is attracted to the avatars remains constant while the particles that arrange themselves into the weapon re-form themselves into a wide array of materials.”

“Come again?” one of the generals asked.

The scientist thought for a moment, then said, “The tachyons arrange themselves into wires, prisms, or whatever materials are needed to create those guns.”

“So you know what’s inside those rifles? Can we duplicate them?” the Army general asked.

“No, the rifles had degraded to mostly dust by the time we received them,” said the scientist.

“Just to be sure I understand this, you have no idea how they work?” the general asked.

“No, sir,” said the scientist.

This caused yet another chaotic outburst, generals not so much arguing as agreeing with each other that the information in this briefing had re-formed itself into a colossal waste of time.

The briefing lasted another twenty minutes. When it ended, the officers filed out of the room. “Well, gentlemen, you have just seen your tax dollars at work,” General Glade said in a wry voice as he passed the Army contingent. “An hour wasted and millions of dollars spent just so some egghead scientist could tell us what Lieutenant Harris discovered three days ago—that we have to break these, these, Avatar bastards instead of killing them. There’s a breakthrough for the history books.”

Glade’s reference to the “Avatars bastards” was the first time anyone used the term “Avatar” as if it referred to a race. I liked it; it sounded a hell of a lot better than Mudder. Hearing his comment, the Army brass laughed.

For once the Army and Marines seemed to agree about something.

I didn’t laugh, though. I didn’t mind Glade, he was more respectful than most of the officers I had served under; but he had to be pretty thick if he didn’t understand the implications. If we really were fighting avatars of aliens instead of the aliens themselves, Glade had just lost one-fifth of his command without so much as denting the enemy.

We walked out of the science building and into the blinding glare of the ion curtain, which, according to that scientist, was also composed of tachyon particles. The auditorium had been dark and warm. Out here, the frosty air braced my skin, and I had to shade my eyes to see in the tachyon-charged atmosphere. It looked more like 1300 hours than 2200.

Could all of the brass have been that obtuse, I wondered. None of them seemed to understand. The generals chatted on the university lawn for another ten minutes, then Glade took his entourage and climbed into his car.

“Hey, maybe if the Mudders are like representations of creatures …What if …? What if the real aliens are so wrapped up in their avatars that they die when we kill the avatar off?” Glade’s aide/driver asked as he started up the car.

Glade, who had clearly lapsed into a foul mood, grimaced. “What kind of stupid idea is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” the man said, sounding a bit embarrassed. “I’m just trying to expand the matrix.”

“Did you see the look on General Newcastle’s face when that Freeman came down from the stage?” another staffer asked. The question sounded pandering, as if he wanted to change the subject and maybe flatter Glade by making fun of a rival general. “I thought he was going to piss his pants right on the spot.”

“Freeman, he’s a piece of work,” said the first staffer. “I hear he ran for the hills the moment the shooting started this morning.”

I could feel myself tensing. The asshole had fought the war from behind the guarded walls of Base Command; he had no right to judge men who went to the field. He was my superior, but he was full of shit. I was about to tell him what I thought, but General Glade spoke first, “You know, son, when you don’t know what you’re talking about, you really should keep quiet. That way you won’t make such an ass of yourself.”

The mood around the hotel was somber when we returned. My men had not been told about Avatars or tachyons in their briefing—that was highly classified information for a highly privileged few—but they had heard numbers. Marines judge battles by results. When my men heard that eighty thousand men died killing fifty thousand aliens, it sent a chill through the company.

There were a few wounded—men who broke an arm or a leg in the charge. But every Marine who got shot by the aliens died. It was the shock that killed them—whether they were shot in the head or the foot, the shock killed them as surely as it had killed Huish.

“Where were you?” Moffat asked me, as I left the company’s barracks on my way to my quarters.

“I attended a different briefing,” I said.

“You had orders to attend the briefing with your company,”

Moffat said. He had not raised his voice yet, but I could tell his blood was up.

“No, sir, you had orders to attend the briefing with the company. General Glade gave me different orders,” I said. “Perhaps you should take it up with him.”

“General Glade?” he asked. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

“I have a better question,” I said. “Why was I invited? From what I could tell, the briefing was for generals and their staffs.”

Moffat thought about this for a moment. Though I tried to downplay it, there was an implicit threat in what I said. If I was invited to that meeting, it meant that at least one of those generals wanted me around. Since Moffat was not invited, it meant that none of the generals knew he existed. As he considered this, he took a step back, and the muscles along his jaw relaxed.

“Care to share anything that you learned?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I wish I could, sir,” I said. For what it was worth, I sincerely did wish I could discuss the briefing with Moffat and every man in the company. I did not like it when officers kept potentially important information from the men who needed it most, the ones who put their lives on the line.

“You will tell me what you can, when you can?” Moffat asked. His belligerence had melted away. I think he recognized that I had heard something that genuinely rocked me—something even more disturbing than the casualty figures.

I nodded.

“I need you to rearrange the roster; Command wants volunteers to guard the Hen House,” Moffat said. “The paperwork is in the company office. They want our roster within the hour.” We traded salutes, and Moffat walked off, still a prick, but a prick who knew when to back down.

Most of the company was out for the night. With so many Marines dead, they would keep the celebrations subdued, but as far as they knew, they had not only just won a battle, they might have won the war. Heavy losses or not, they had the right to celebrate. I could have gone into town and joined them, but I knew the truth—we were in worse trouble than ever, and, at the moment, I could not bring myself to drink with guys whom I might shortly betray. When the Avatars regenerated, I would send the men out thinking they were engaged in a fair fight against an enemy who could be killed. I was keeping secrets from men whose lives were on the line, and that made me no different than any natural-born officer.