Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

Not even the most sophisticated tracking equipment could pick up a ship from beyond thirty million miles. Tracking “anomalies” was a different story. An anomaly was the electrical field that ships generated when they broadcasted into space. Even the most basic equipment could detect an electronic disturbance such as an anomaly from a few million miles away.

On the off chance that the Mogats did have a fleet somewhere in the vicinity, the Sakura would broadcast well out of range. Traveling at a top speed of just under thirty million miles per hour, it would take us an hour to reach Earth, but that also meant that the broadcast engine could recharge. The Sakura would be able to broadcast to safety the moment our transport left the ship.

“Prepare for broadcast. Prepare for broadcast,” a voice warned over loudspeakers. The message echoed across the launch bay.

Tint shields formed over portholes and windows. All of the atmospheric locks in the launch bay sealed. If you happened to glance at the “lightning” that coated ships during a broadcast, you would be blinded for life. With the tint shields up and the landing doors closed, you could not see the electricity. The broadcast itself happened in a split instant. We disappeared from the outer region of the Scutum-Crux Arm in a flash of lightning and appeared thirty million miles from Earth in that same instant.

A moment later the broadcast warning ended and the atmospheric locks opened. I knew we were back in the Sol System of the Orion Arm.

“Earth won’t be like New Columbia,” Freeman said as he headed up the ladder toward the cockpit. “They evacuated Safe Harbor before the Mogats attacked. The only people left on the planet were the criminals.”

“They left the Army and Marines,” I said, following him up the ladder.

“Yeah,” Freeman grunted. This was not the transport in which Yamashiro had found us. The crew of the Sakura jettisoned that ill-fated ship. Yamashiro’s engineers said that our broadcast engine experiment had damaged it beyond repair.

The transports on the Sakura were fifty years older and even less sleek than our old one. This transport had the same basic floor plan and controls. Not much had changed over the last fifty years. Military transports were still shitty little tin cans designed to take maximum abuse on short trips at slow speeds.

“Earth is different,” Freeman said. “The government is still down there, not just a bunch of shell-shocked Marines.” He sat in the pilot’s chair and went over the controls.

We still had an hour to kill before we launched. I sat in the copilot’s seat and fastened the safety harness across my chest. My thoughts wandered back to New Columbia and the gang-riddled city of Safe Harbor.

Technicians walked around the launch bay. One came and inspected the outside of our transport.

On our way out of Little Man, I’d read a Bible story in which Syria laid siege to the capital city of Israel. As the siege continued, the people starved.

One day a woman approached the king of Israel to ask for help. When the king asked what she wanted, the woman told him about an agreement she had made with another woman. They would “sodden” her son one night and then the next night they would “sodden” the other woman’s boy. They did indeed sodden the first woman’s son; but the next night, the other woman reneged on the deal.

When I asked Ray what “sodden” meant, he said, “stewed.”

“You mean like boiled?” I asked.

He did not bother to answer.

In my mind, I imagined Washington, DC, under Syrian siege. I envisioned ruined buildings, herds of homeless people, and a city carved up by gangs.

In that Bible story, the king blamed the destruction of his city on God. “Why should I wait for God to save us?” he asked Elisha, who happened to be God’s press secretary at the time. I agreed. I saw God as a metaphor for government. In my mind, the king was not really a king but just a middleman placed between God and the people. In this case, God got scared and ran away long before the Syrians arrived.

Would we find the same thing on Earth? Had the government that created me run scared when the Mogats overpowered its fleet?

“Prepare to launch.” Takahashi’s voice came over the radio. Yamashiro had not bothered to see us off himself. Did his absence betray a certain lack of confidence? Realistically, our chances of landing near Washington, DC, and slipping into the city undetected seemed slim.

“Ready,” Freeman answered.

Red lights flashed around the launch bay. The heavy doors of the atmospheric locks slid open, revealing the curtain of space. The deck officer cut the gravity in the launch bay so that we lifted off the deck the moment Freeman touched the boosters. Freeman took us five feet up, then floated us through the doors and into space.

Had the Sakura maintained full speed, it would have disappeared into space before we could have seen it. Instead, it had dropped to a mere five thousand miles per hour for our launch—virtually a dead stop by space-travel standards.

We only caught a glimpse of the ship as it vanished. The ships in the Galactic Central Fleet had charcoal-colored hulls. The combination of speed and dark coloration acted as camouflage against the backdrop of space.

“Once we enter the atmosphere, they’re bound to spot us,” Freeman said.

Earth loomed ahead, a glowing green-and-blue sphere with polar white caps, tan-colored deserts, and swirls of cloud. We came in toward the coast of Europe, adjusted our angle parallel to the ocean below us, and flew west. A blue sky with clouds the size of city blocks stretched out before us.

“We’re about two thousand miles from Washington airspace,” Freeman said.

“Do you think they saw us coming?” I asked.

Freeman nodded.

“Do you think they will try to intercept us?” I asked.

“It depends on just how bad the city was hit,” Freeman said.

“Yamashiro said that the Mogats only took out the clone farms and the bases,” I said.

“Maybe,” said Freeman. “I don’t think he has spent much time around here. His officers seem nervous about running into the Mogat fleet.”

We entered the atmosphere at Mach 2, though we could have flown at well over Mach 3. Before the Unified Authority fell, all atmospheric travel was limited to a maximum speed of three thousand miles per hour.

Soon Ray cut our speed to one thousand miles per hour. At that speed it took us two hours to reach Washington, DC. The Atlantic Ocean stretched out beneath us like a gray-blue carpet, but it did not seem long before we reached the end. Up ahead of us, I could see the coast. Green forests and rocky cliffs marked the edge of the sea. Clouds so effervescent they should have been steam melted into the horizon.

“Here comes our escort,” I said. Up ahead, three fighters scrambled out to meet us. They left billowing contrails across the sky.

“We’ve got three more behind us,” Freeman said. I looked at the radar screen. It showed three blips behind us and three more ahead.

“How long have they been there?” I asked.

“Within radar range?” Freeman asked. “A few seconds. They picked us up back at Iceland. They’ve been giving us room to maneuver.”

“But they haven’t tried to contact us?” I asked. That did not make sense.

Freeman shook his head.

“Maybe they’re scared,” I said.

Freeman responded with one of his glacial “you don’t know what you are talking about” glares.

Three of the fighters formed an ellipse behind us, and the other three formed an arc just below the nose of the transport. Their contrails formed a carpet of cloud. They were clearly sent as an escort, not a guard.