Steven Kent - The Clone Elite

I sized the captain up in an instant and did not like what I saw. Let the world collapse around him, this guy’s peach-fuzz blond hair would never grow beyond regulation length. I quickly dismissed all his ribbons as having been earned by typing above and beyond the call of duty.

“Captain …” I paused because I did not know the man’s name.

The captain took a moment to figure out that I was waiting for his name. “Everley,” he said.

“Captain Everley,” I said.

“Charge is up!” Skittles yelled.

I called, “Hold!” and Skittles pulled the trigger. The recoil of the hose reverberated through my body. “Captain Everley, do you realize that you are standing in the middle of a minefield?”

The officer’s smug smile evaporated from his face. He was an administrator who had stumbled into an area for fighting men.

“Excuse me, sir,” Sergeant Herrington said, gently escorting Everley out of his way so he could inspect the mine. He climbed on all fours and ran a hand over our work. “It’s good,” he said.

“You see those Xs?” I asked, holding on to the hose with one hand and moving closer to Captain Everley.

“Are those mines?” he asked.

“No, Captain, those are the only places you can be sure do not have mines. We’re laying mines under the Xs.” Everley looked back. The path he had come on was still marked with Xs.

“I’m guessing between the Marines and the Army, we’ve laid at least ten thousand mines out here today. Each mine is calibrated to blow the legs off a Mudder,” I said.

Everley swallowed and looked around the street.

“Charge is up!”

“Hold!” We shot another mine into the pavement.

“You tell General Glade that I’ll head straight for Base Command when we finish up here. It should be another hour or two.”

“But the—”

“And, Captain, watch your step on the way back. I figure that any mine that could blow the legs off a Mudder would send your balls at least a mile away.”

“I always thought it would vaporize them,” said Herrington.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, also, sir,” Skittles piped in.

Everley nodded and left, hopping from X to X as if they were stepping-stones leading across a pond.

“A bit on the harsh side, wasn’t that?” Boll asked me.

“You think so?” I asked. It was harsh, but I had a pretty good feeling why General Glade wanted to speak with me, and I didn’t feel like playing along. We were coming down to the wire now. When things came down to the wire, the men at the top often turned to the men they sent out to die for absolution. They wanted us to know they were not making these decisions lightly, and they wanted to know that we understood. It was all bullshit.

Having bright daylight twenty-four hours per day wreaked havoc on my internal clock, but it had some advantages. We worked well past 2100 hours on a winter night, and the sky was always as bright as midday.

By the time we finished, my right shoulder hurt just about the same way it did after the doctor reset it. The small of my back ached from all of my leaning over the mine-placer. I stood on the truck as we rode out to our new barracks working my back and neck. No one spoke on that ride. They may not have known the particulars, but most military clones can sense the calm before the storm.

I found my billet and stripped out of my armor. I took a muscle relaxant and headed for the shower. I wanted to eat a large meal and crawl into bed, but that was not on the agenda. Instead, I called Base Command, and General Glade’s staff sent Captain Everley to retrieve me.

“Do we have time for me to stop by the mess for a sandwich?” I asked.

“I’d get to General Glade’s office as quickly as I could if I were you,” Everley said. “He’s still in a rage about this afternoon.”

“What happened this afternoon?” I asked.

“You didn’t specking report that’s what happened,” he said. “When a general invites you in for a chat, you drop everything and report.”

“I see. You know what, I really need that sandwich,” I said, remembering just how much I despised admirals and generals.

We were nearing the dormitory cafeteria. The food wouldn’t be as good as the restaurants in the Valhalla Hotel, but this was our mess hall. I turned in and headed for the food line.

“Lieutenant, I must—” Captain Everley whined. I had sized him up as an officious weakling the first time I saw him. He was a captain, and I was a lieutenant, but I was the one controlling the situation.

“Just a moment,” I said.

“But General Glade—”

“Unless he has chow laid out, he’s going to have to wait. I’ll eat on the way, Captain. I have just come from ten hours of laying mines and I’m hungry.” I selected two slices of bread and slathered them with mayo and mustard. I used tongs to take slices of ham, roast beef, and turkey. After laying lettuce, onions, and tomatoes across the pile, I closed the sandwich, stuffed half of it into my mouth, and said, “There. That didn’t take so long,” around the sandwich as I bit.

“Can we go now?” Everley asked. He was mad, and he showed it by pouting. Real officer material, I told myself.

I grabbed two cartons of milk. “Sure, I’m ready.”

Everley did not speak to me again as we drove around the outside of the campus. Except for the abundance of armor and fatigues, it looked like business as usual around the University of Valhalla. It had the right number of warm bodies walking its yards, they just happened to be soldiers instead of students.

The Corps of Engineers was out in force erecting rocket launchers. It would take days to get them ready for combat. If we managed to keep the Avatari out of the campus during the first attack, the batteries would be ready in time for the second. I just hoped some of us would be around to arm them.

Newcastle had teams of soldiers placing machine-gun nests and barricades all over the school. Checking the skyline, I saw blinds for snipers on rooftops. I thought about the exploding bullets Freeman made for himself and wished we could all arm ourselves with bullets like that.

Using sandbags to redirect the water, the Army converted storm drains into pillboxes along the main drag. The muzzles of high-caliber machine guns peered from beneath culverts and behind drains.

We came to the administration building, a three-story brick-and-plaster affair with useless pillars and an ornamental balustrade along its flat roof. Squirrels jumped on the bare branches of the elm trees on either side of the entrance.

We parked the car, and Everley spoke for the first time since we had left the barracks. He said, “Shit,” because he locked his keys and cap in the car. He tried the handle several times, then gave up. “Shit,” he repeated.

“Lost your keys?” I asked as I came around the car.

“Forget it, Lieutenant,” he said. He walked past me and headed into the building. I followed. We headed up the stairs to the third floor. General Glade had set up shop in the dean’s office. Through the open door, I could see him sitting behind the desk, staring into space.

Everley knocked on the doorjamb, then peered in. “I’ve got him, sir.”

Glade swiveled around and said something softly that I could not hear.

“Go on in,” Everley said, stepping out of my way.

I walked in, stopped two feet from the desk, and saluted. The salute hurt; my right shoulder felt like it might never heal.

“Everley says you were too busy to talk this afternoon,” Glade said. He sounded angry.

“I was laying mines,” I explained. Now that I said it, the excuse sounded weak.

“I served under Bryce Klyber for fourteen years. Did you know that?”