Steven Kent - The Clone Elite

Klyber was the officer who developed the Liberator cloning program. He did that as a young officer, more than fifty years ago. Until his untimely death, he watched over my career. He mentored me and protected me from Marines who would have gladly killed me simply for being a Liberator clone. Klyber was murdered by a fellow officer during the Mogat War.

“I did not know that, sir,” I said.

“Just about every senior officer in the Navy or the Marines served under Klyber at some time or another, Harris. If he liked you, you could count on a long and successful career. I was a captain when I reported for duty on the Grant. ”

The Grant was a fighter carrier in the Scutum-Crux Fleet, Klyber’s old fleet.

“By the time they transferred me to Brocius’s command in the Central Cygnus Fleet, I was a colonel. From captain to colonel in fourteen years; you could say that’s a good rate of promotion.”

I had actually made the jump from private to colonel in under five years, but that was another story. Since that time, Admiral Brocius had demoted me to sergeant, then re-promoted me to lieutenant. At least Glade held on to his promotions.

“I hear you spent a lot of time with Klyber,” Glade said. “The way I hear it, you were something of a son to him …as close to a son as he ever got, I suppose. He did create your kind.

“Me, Harris, I have three sons of my own. I’m not looking for a surrogate. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a Marine who gets things done, and that earns you some leeway. You’re efficient, I’ll give you that, but you’re not a real officer. Only natural-borns qualify as officers in my book, Lieutenant. You may be the last of your kind, but you are still a clone …just a clone. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“When I send an officer, a natural-born officer, to call you in, you will show him proper respect. Do you understand me? You will specking well drop what you are doing, whatever you are doing, and report. Do you read me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did it take Everley so specking long to get you this evening?” Glade asked.

“I stopped off for a sandwich,” I said.

“Maybe I’ve been too lenient with you, Lieutenant,” Glade said.

“There’s no question about that, sir,” I said.

“What the speck is that supposed to mean?” Glade asked.

“It means, sir, that I am ready to resign my commission. More than four hundred thousand clones have died out there without even knowing what they were up against. You don’t like clones, sir; and I don’t like the kind of antisynthetic asshole natural-borns they make into officers. If you want my commission, you go right ahead and take it …sir.”

Granted, I pushed General Glade way too far, but I didn’t care. That was what Mark Philips had said when I asked if he wanted to get himself killed. He looked me in the eye, and said, “I don’t care anymore.” Maybe you could communicate suicidal tendencies like a virus.

Glade must have thought I was bluffing. He said, “If you are tired of command, I can have you busted down to private.”

“I wish you would,” I said. “You might want to stand me in front of a firing squad while you’re at it. The way things are going, General, you wouldn’t even be shaving a week from my life.”

“What’s the matter with you, Harris?” Glade asked. “Are you trying to get busted down?”

“General, every time we head into battle, I watch good men die thinking they’re in a fair fight. You might not consider clones human—”

“You’ve got me wrong—”

I interrupted the general’s interruption. “If you don’t mind, sir, I would be happier as an enlisted man. I’m sick of running errands for you and the Science Lab.”

General Glade sat staring at me. He paused for just a moment, just a fraction of a second, then said, “But we need you.”

The next time the Avatari came, we knew they were coming even before the first of their troops emerged from the spheres. Freeman had rigged a rudimentary early-warning system by placing photocell-powered sensors near the spheres. When the spheres dilated, the light they gave off powered up the cells and set off the alarms.

Cameras hidden along the path showed the army of glowing specters as it trudged toward town. As always, they did not march in formation. They showed no semblance of organization other than marching in the same direction. They looked like a parade of giant ghosts all cloned from the same pattern.

By the time they reached the outer limits of Valhalla, the Avatari had begun to take on substance. Their brown-black shells were covered with cracks through which yellow light glowed. They each had two arms, two legs, and a chest and shoulders that were far too broad for any man. The features on their faces were flat and impassive. They did not search the area for traps as they walked through the ruins of the first suburb.

They passed burned-out doorways and toppled walls of what had a few weeks earlier been a fashionable neighborhood. Grenades and rockets had left the streets a patchwork of scrapes and holes. The Avatari walked past the scabby remains of once-manicured lawns. They trudged across homes that now existed only as cinder. Gaining weight as more and more tachyons adhered to their forms, the Avatari crushed glass and wood and fragments of brick under their feet.

Abandoned pets still roamed the streets. A fluffy white dog with mangy fur paused to watch them from a few yards ahead. It growled and ran away.

By the time they reached the DMZ, the Avatari had become as solid as our tanks and bullets and weighed nearly two thousand pounds, these walking statues of alien stone. Their weapons had already formed into chrome cylinders, and the light of the ion curtain reflected off the barrels of those guns like sunlight shining off mirrors.

They entered the minefield.

At this point, every man in Valhalla knew that nothing but massive trauma would stop the aliens. One of the bastards marched straight into the electric fencing and pushed right through it. Sparks popped in the air around it. It looked like a miniature fireworks display, and it went unnoticed. The alien avatar paid no attention to the electrical air show as it trampled the fence and continued.

The Army and Marines deployed every available man. With all of the casualties we’d taken, my company had compacted its three combat platoons into two, and now we sent our support platoon into battle as well. Other companies had fared worse than us. Some were down to a single platoon, and some platoons were down to a single squad.

I watched the video feed of the Avatari entering the demilitarized zone from inside my helmet in a small window on my visor.

“Ten minutes to showtime,” Major Burton told the entire company over the interLink. Every man in the company heard Major Burton’s announcement, but only commissioned officers had access to the video feed. Somebody had decided that ignorance equated to bliss for the enlisted ranks.

“Harris, report,” Moffat demanded.

“The company is ready, sir,” I said.

Thomer ran one of my combat platoons, and Philips ran the other. I no longer worried about how he would react in battle; it was between battles when his self-destructive tendencies showed. Once the fighting commenced, all of his horseshit stopped, and he cared only about achieving objectives and keeping his men alive.

Philips’s virtual dog tag showed above his helmet—Name: Mark Philips, Rank: Sergeant, Serial Number: 59682136029. I didn’t need the virtual tag to recognize him, even when he was hidden in combat armor. The casual but efficient way he handled his firearms, the trademark of a veteran Marine, gave him away. Philips fussed about his men like a mother bear, slapping Marines across their helmets to get their attention, bullying them into safer slots, shaking his head as he walked away from young Marines who made stupid mistakes.