Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

“The scientific fleet,” Grace agreed. “We have nearly two thousand self-broadcasting ships on Earth and in the field. They may not be combat-ready, but they are able to travel.

“You are not the only one who forgot about our civilian fleet. From what we can tell, the Mogats seem to have entirely forgotten about our civil ships as well.”

“We certainly overlooked them,” Gordon Hughes added.

“Using our exploration ships, we have been able to locate all eighteen of our Navy fleets. Sending supplies out is not as convenient as it used to be, but we have managed to reestablish supply lines.”

I felt like an adult man learning addition for the first time in front of people who had mastered quantum notations. I should have remembered the scientific fleet. Here I had thought that the Mogats left Earth isolated and helpless when in reality galactic communications could still be achieved.

“Gordon, here, was the one who told us what you did to help fight the Mogats,” Grace added. “Once we discovered your identity, the chairman told us all about your exploits on that Mogat ship.”

“Yoshi isn’t the only one who realizes that we need an alliance,” Hughes said. “The Mogats launched an attack on us within hours of the invasion.” He meant the invasion of Earth.

Judging by the way Gordon Hughes and William Grace spoke, Confederate Arms’ participation in the attack on the Earth Fleet was still a sensitive topic. Grace referred to the enemy fleet as the “Mogat Fleet,” avoiding any mention of Confederate Arms involvement. For his part, Hughes seemed just as anxious to pretend the Mogats had launched the attacks on their own. Hughes and Grace acted like old friends, just a couple of businessmen planning their next big merger.

“We sent an ambassador to Earth to ask if we could sign an accord with the Unified Authority ending our hostilities,” Hughes said. He smiled. “That’s not quite as dramatic as sending back a war hero bearing an olive branch and a flag of truce, but Yoshi and I had the same goal in mind.”

Yamashiro and his four-boat Shin Nippon Navy gave Freeman and me one week to enter Washington, DC, locate whoever was in charge—if anyone was in charge, and propose an alliance. At the end of one week, he would fly past Earth and scan for our signal. If he received the wrong signal, or there was no signal at all, he would fly past and never return. He did not offer to search for us. We were not from his clan.

As it turned out, we didn’t need a week to pass on Yamashiro’s invitation. Had he returned within twenty-four hours of dropping us off, we would have had more than enough time. By lunch that next day, both William Grace, chief member of the Linear Committee, and Gordon Hughes, chairman of C.A.T.O., had already agreed to meet with Yamashiro.

“Next week?” Grace asked, when I explained that I would not be able to signal the Sakura right away.

Hughes politely expressed his disappointment. “That’s Yoshi,” he said. “He’s always so darn cautious.”

I did not mind waiting. I had a good idea how I wanted to use those few free days.

At one point during their conversation, William Grace asked me if I had any questions about the alliance between the Confederate Arms and the Unified Authority. I could not pass on the opportunity. “What about war criminals?” I asked.

“Criminals?” Grace asked. “What do you mean by ‘war criminals’?”

Gordon Hughes sat silent, curious to hear what Grace might say.

“The Confederate Arms sent terrorists into Unified Authority territory to attack civilian targets,” I said. “What about William ‘The Butcher’ Patel? What about…”

“Ah, William Patel,” Grace said, a smile coming to his face. “If I am not mistaken, you were in Safe Harbor when he set off a bomb.”

“It wasn’t just a bomb. He destroyed an entire city block,” I said.

“Those were desperate times,” Grace said. “We were at war, Harris. I don’t suppose we shall ever invite Patel to the Capitol for tea; but in light of our new arrangement with the Confederate Arms, I think that a pardon is in order.”

“I see,” I said. “What about Tom Halverson? Are you going to pardon him for sinking the entire Earth Fleet?” Halverson was a U.A. admiral who had defected to the Confederate Arms. He’d led and commanded the fleet that attacked Earth.

Grace and Hughes huddled together and spoke in whispers. “I suppose we will extend full amnesty to Tom,” Grace said. “We can’t very well arrest the man commanding our combined fleet.”

“Commanding the fleet?” I felt staggered.

“Certainly,” Grace said. “Halverson is the commander of the Confederate Arms Navy. Chairman Hughes has made it very clear that he will not trust anyone but Halverson to command his self-broadcasting fleet.”

Freeman distanced himself more and more as the meeting continued. He let me do all of the speaking. When the politicians asked us questions, he sat mute. He did not ask questions himself. Freeman’s face remained as implacable as ever, but something in his posture showed a certain restlessness on his part.

We broke for lunch. Freeman and I ate downstairs in a cafeteria with our driver and some guards, while the politicians and officers ate upstairs. Freeman only said one thing during the entire meal. He mumbled, “I’m going to walk,” as he ate his sandwich. He said the words so quietly that no one else in the room could possibly have heard him.

Freeman did not want to leave his life in Grace’s hands, and maybe he had the right idea. Now that we had delivered Yamashiro’s message, neither William Grace nor Gordon Hughes showed interest in Freeman or me. We returned to the same conference room and sat ignored as all of the big shots discussed the benefits of adding Shin Nippon’s four battleships to their navy.

As the conversation shot back and forth, I noticed Freeman sneak a furtive glance at the door. He climbed out of his chair. The conversation froze, and everyone turned to look at him. Having delivered our message, we might not have mattered to anyone, but when a seven-foot giant stands, people instinctively stop to watch him. It was an instinct of self-preservation, I suppose.

Looking profoundly nervous, a guard approached Freeman, his hand on the grip of his pistol. Freeman spoke quietly, his rumbling voice so hard to hear from a distance. He said, “I need to go to the restroom.”

Grace nodded to the guards, and said, “Perhaps you could show Mr. Freeman the way.”

Freeman left with the guard. As they left, I already knew that I would not see Ray Freeman again for some time to come.

The meeting broke up a few minutes after that. “Wild Bill” Grace shook my hand and left with his entourage. Gordon Hughes repeated that it was a pleasure to meet me and left with his entourage. My driver came to the room and suggested that we wait for Freeman. I told him, “That might take a while.”

“Is he sick or something?” the driver asked.

“No,” I said.

I had a pretty good idea about what was next on the agenda for me. In the next day or two, the Marines would recall me to active duty. As far as “Wild Bill” and his U.A. generals were concerned, they owned me. I was a clone, created by the state. They had just as much right to recall me as they would to recommission a tank or an old battleship.

A few minutes passed, and the driver looked at me, and said, “Should we go check on your friend?”

“Sure,” I said. “Where shall we look?”

“He went to the can,” the driver said.

I laughed. “You think so?”

“No?” the driver asked.

“He isn’t there,” I said.