Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

Brocius went after his eggs Benedict in a methodical fashion, cutting the open-faced sandwich into six bites, then downing three of those bites in a minute-long feast. He chewed each piece mechanically, washed it down with a sip of orange juice, and then speared the next bite with his fork.

“I’ll ask it again, Harris, what do we need? How do we stack the deck? What do we need to do to give ourselves house odds?”

“They’re hard to read,” I said. “I always knew that the Mogats were not military-minded, but allowing a fleet to escape is strange, even by their standards.”

I thought about what I’d said and changed my mind. “They almost act surprised when they win. I mean, when they beat the Earth Fleet and shut down the Network, the planet was theirs. They should have landed troops and taken DC.

“Now you tell me that they had a fleet at their mercy and let it escape. It’s almost like they want to convert us, not beat us.”

“Did you hear that they tried to land a messiah in Israel?” Brocius asked.

“Yes, I heard about the Space Bibles, too.”

“I agree with you, it does sound like they’re out to convert us,” Brocius said.

“We need one of their ships with its navigational computer in one piece. That is how we can find them,” I said.

“We can send a salvage team to the battleship Porter sank,” Brocius suggested.

“No, we need a boat in working condition.”

Brocius began his eggs Benedict–eating ritual again. He cut a sandwich into six pieces and speared the first piece. “Capture a battleship? That would be a trick.”

“We have people who could do it,” I said. “Can you get me to the outer Scutum-Crux Fleet?” I asked.

“Why Scuttum-Crux?” Brocius asked.

“Because the Kamehameha is in that fleet,” I answered.

In the entire Unified Authority Navy, there was only one Expansion-class fighter carrier active in any of its fleets—the Kamehameha . All of the other carriers were of the more modern Perseus-class variety. They were five thousand one hundred feet wide and carried eleven thousand troops—fourteen battalions of Marines just spoiling for a fight. The Kamehameha measured half that size and carried a mere one thousand combat men, but they were special. They were Navy SEALs; and more than that, they were Adam Boyd clones. The Kamehameha might have been undersized and obsolete, but with that complement of Boyd clones, it could win a war.

Larger than any battleship and smaller than other fighter carriers, the Kamehameha traveled with the rest of the Scutum-Crux Fleet as well hidden as a shark among dolphins. From the cabin of the self-broadcasting explorer ship, I watched the whole fleet and remembered my days as a Marine. I spent almost two years on the Kamehameha , back when it carried Marines. I reported in as a corporal and transferred out as a lieutenant.

On the charts and simulations, you always see ships laid out in a flat formation—even when the charts are three-dimensional. Coming in this time, I was struck by the way the fleet had grouped. The fighter carriers were in the center of a three-dimensional diamond with layers of destroyers and battleships surrounding them from above, from below, and from every side. A trio of battleships led the formation.

All of the ships had the same beige hull and light gray underbelly. Lights on the outsides of these ships illuminated their numbers and bows. The Unified Authority Navy placed little stock on stealth when it came to its fleets. The Scutum-Crux Fleet thundered across its corner of the galaxy with all the subtlety of a herd of elephants crossing the plains.

As we circled around the back of the fleet, I watched the blue-white flames that flared from the ships’ engines. “We’ve been cleared for approach, Colonel,” my pilot told me. My pilot was a natural-born lieutenant who seemed to resent playing chauffeur for a clone.

Brocius cut me orders, too, but they were purposely vague. They identified me as being on Central Cygnus Fleet business and told people to cooperate with me and nothing more. Brocius’s orders gave me enough leeway to land myself in the brig for life. They gave Brocius enough wiggle room to say I had acted on my own.

Rereading these orders I realized how easily I allowed myself to be swept by the tides. I did not need to carry Yamashiro’s olive branch to Earth just because he found me in space. I did not need to partner up with Brocius or rejoin the Marines just because I returned to Earth. I just seemed to let the tide of events sweep me along. I had not officially rejoined the Marines, but here I was, with the Scutum-Crux Fleet, preparing to leave on an unofficial mission. I was wearing a Marine’s uniform, talking like a Marine, and acting like a Marine. Even worse, much as I tried to fool myself otherwise, I knew I was exactly where I wanted to be.

I was built for war, and was pretty sure that I was programmed to be incapable of fighting for anyone other than the Unified Authority. When I really tried, I was capable of passive resistance—living with farmers instead of fighting with the Marines, trying to adapt a transport for broadcast instead of putting a pistol to my head, but in the end, I was in the warrior class, and this was my republic.

My mind wandered as I sat alone. I was the only passenger in a cabin designed to hold two hundred scientists. The explorer was the size of an atmosphere-bound commercial jetliner—too big to fit in the Kamehameha ’s launch bay. We had to fly within a mile of the fighter carrier and match her speed. From where I sat, it looked like both ships had come to a stop.

The Kamehameha sent out a ten-man skiff to meet us. The skiff “mated” with the explorer, sealing its temporary air lock over our hatch like a tick attaching itself to a dog. The intricate process took several minutes. Once the air lock was ready, and the gangway was set, I crossed over and rode the skiff to the Kamehameha .

The welcoming crew that met me in the launch bay included the ship’s captain and several high-ranking officers. They did not know why I had come. They only knew that I had orders from Earth.

As the hatch opened, and I stepped out to the deck, I saw recognition on a few of their faces. Some of these men had served on this ship four years ago when I returned with six other survivors from the battle on Little Man.

I saluted the captain, and he returned my salute. I was still dressed in the colonel’s uniform I had worn to breakfast at Brocius’s house. Technically I was impersonating an officer, but the uniform was the only clothing I had at the moment.

“Requesting permission to come aboard,” I said as I stood at attention.

“Welcome aboard,” the captain said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “May I present my orders to the captain?” I remained at attention, chest out, shoulders back. High-ranking officers noticed when you did or did not show them the proper respect.

“At ease, Colonel,” the captain said.

I spread my feet fifteen inches apart. I clasped my hands behind my back. I released the air in my chest.

“Let’s see your orders, Colonel,” the captain said.

I handed him the sheet. He read it. “You wish to meet with my SEALs…” he said. “I don’t suppose you are able to tell me what you might discuss with them?”

I said nothing and looked straight ahead.

“I didn’t think so,” the captain said.

“Ensign, conduct Colonel Harris down to the barracks. See that he meets Illych.”

I saluted. The captain saluted. His salute seemed more formal than it had a few moments earlier.

The ensign led me out of the launch bay and down the corridor. I studied the walls, the ceiling, the lights. Everything looked familiar. With the exception of the orphanage, I had spent more time on this ship than anyplace else in the universe.