Steven Kent - The Clone Elite

“Harris, I gave you an order. Acknowledge.”

Some of the dust had settled on the surface of the pond. It floated on the oil film.

I listened to my men chatter over the interLink. Skittles, too young of a Marine to be in such a desperate battle, sounded terrified as he asked his platoon leader, “Thomer, can you see them?”

“It’s okay,” Thomer said. “We’re ready for them.”

“I never thought it would be like this,” Skittles said.

“Harris, I have given you a direct order. I order you to attack.”

“Why don’t you get your natural-born ass down here and lead the attack yourself?” I asked. He could send me to the brig for saying that, and I knew it. I had been through battles before, but this one seemed different. I was in a rage. Was this the beginning of a full-fledged Liberator meltdown? I wondered if that old asshole soldier on the trip to Mars had been right about me. I wondered if I could really go out of control, and I realized that I didn’t much care.

“Watch yourself, Harris.”

“You want to send us in alone?” I asked. “You’re sending a single company against fifty thousand Mudders?”

Moffat didn’t care about killing the Avatari; this was about Philips. He wanted Philips dead, and he planned on using the Avatari as his instrument of choice. He probably didn’t give a shit if any of us clones made it out …if I died, so much the better. All of a sudden, the Avatari were no longer the enemy in my mind, Moffat was.

Then something happened. There was a flash so bright that I could see it through the dust and smoke. I turned back in time to see another building folding in on itself. The explosion made no detectable sound, but the crash of the building shook the ground.

“What the hell was that?” Philips asked.

“Shit, they’re knocking down buildings!” one of my men yelled.

“Harris, this is your last warning. Get in there!” Moffat shouted.

Without saying a word, I left the hill. I started back toward the hotels …toward the officers’ sanctuary from which Moffat was issuing orders.

“Lieutenant, where are you going?” Thomer asked as he saw me leave. I did not answer him. I was beyond speaking.

“Lieutenant, where are you going?” Thomer asked again.

“Harris, my console shows that you are moving away from the line. What the speck do you think you are specking doing?” Moffat yelled. “You and your men get your asses in there! That is an order!”

“Lieutenant Harris …?” Thomer asked. He fell in behind me, so did the rest of the company.

I stashed my particle-beam pistol—a good weapon for killing Avatari—in my armor and pulled out my M27.

“Lieutenant, what are you doing?” Thomer asked, sounding confused.

“I’m going to help Lieutenant Moffat earn his combat pay,” I said.

A second building fell off in the background as I cut across the park. The big building fell so smoothly it seemed to sink into the ground. I looked down at my M27, wrapped my fingers around the grip, and ran my thumb along the barrel as I visualized committing murder. Thomer, Philips, and Herrington brought their platoons in behind me, but I paid them no attention. Nor did I pay any attention to Lieutenant Moffat’s nonstop ranting over the interLink.

The system had broken down, exposing a new weakness. Moffat, a prick even by natural-born-officer standards, wanted to sacrifice an entire company because he had a grudge against a single clone. Like the Liberators before me, I had given in to bloodlust. I cared more about killing Moffat than killing the enemy.

“Sergeant Philips, take your men and return to the park,” Moffat yelled. He said it over an open frequency, and every man in the company heard him. Philips ignored the order. He stayed behind me.

Officers sacrificing clones and Liberators going on a killing spree were nothing new, but a general-issue clone like Mark Philips ignoring a direct order …the fabric of military discipline had come undone. Clones of Philips’s make had autonomic obedience hardwired into their brains. For them, obeying orders was as deeply seated as their need to breathe.

“Harris, you are relieved of command,” Moffat shouted. “Philips, you and your specking platoon get your specking asses out there. Do you specking hear me, Sergeant, I specking order you to specking engage the specking enemy. I order—”

“Philips, what are you doing?” I asked.

“We go where you go, Kap-y-tan,” Philips said.

“Philips! Philips! Philips, you specking waste of DNA—” Moffat ranted like a maniac.

“I don’t need a damn posse,” I said.

“We’re not your damn posse, sir,” Philips said.

Seeing that the entire company had attached itself to me, Moffat ordered Thomer’s platoon to fall back. Thomer did as he was told. Moffat issued the same command to Herrington, who also fell back. That was good. I did not want them in the middle of this.

“Lieutenant Harris,” Thomer called.

“Shut up, Thomer,” I responded without looking back. I holstered my M27. Whatever I did once I caught up to Moffat, I would do with my bare hands.

Another building fell, but I paid no attention to it. Somewhere behind me, a fourth building fell as the Avatari began demolishing everything around them. Why should they care what they destroyed or how much damage they caused? For them, a scorched earth was as good as any.

“Harris, what the speck do you think you are doing?” Moffat asked. He was a big man, a strong man …not one to be easily intimidated.

“Harris, are we going to kill an officer?” Philips asked. “Is that what we are going to do?”

“Get out of here,” I growled at Philips. “This is between me and Moffat.”

“Bullshit,” Philips said. “I’m the one who slept with his ugly-ass wife. This is my specking court-martial.”

“Go kill a Mudder,” I said. He did not listen. He and his platoon trailed after me, my unwanted entourage.

Behind us, another building fell. It may have been the fifth or the fiftieth—I had lost count.

I accelerated to a jog, skirted around a park bench, then kicked a trash can out of my way. Trash sprayed through the air. A wine bottle hit the ground and spun in a circle. I was almost to the street, Philips and his platoon just a few feet behind me. Across the street, I saw dozens of officers huddling around a makeshift bunker. They were the second echelon. They would watch how the enemy attacked the men on point, then send reinforcements. Technically speaking, Moffat was on the front line; but for those of us on point, he looked to be a million miles away.

I was too enraged to hate the man. Hate takes thought, and my brain was strictly on survival mode—breathe, walk, kill: things I could do without thinking. Nothing mattered to me except killing Moffat and the testosterone-laced adrenaline running through my veins.

Moffat stood at the front of the pack. I saw his virtual tag—Name: Warren Moffat, Rank: Second Lieutenant, Serial Number: 61752248013. He stood in the open, staring straight at me, his arms crossed before his chest.

“Arrest that man,” Moffat said over an open frequency that every Marine in Valhalla would hear.

The first Marine to reach me was Major Brad Warren, a good man from the command staff. He came slowly, his pistol held low but drawn. He clearly did not want to arrest me.

“Lieutenant,” he said, starting to raise his weapon toward my chest. I grabbed his hand, twisted the gun back against the top of his wrist, and flipped him out of my way. Another Marine reached for me. I slapped my palm into his right shoulder while kicking the inseam of his knee. He spun and fell.