Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

“Are you saying you want to stay?” I asked.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Philips agreed.

“Maybe we can take care of some of that excess energy, Private,” I said. “I hate to lose a man with combat experience.

“But about pissing on that other sergeant…If I so much as see your pecker, Marine, I will cut it off. You read me, Marine?”

“I do,” Philips said.

“Now if you will excuse us, Philips, I would like to speak with Corporal Thomer for a moment.”

Philips looked from me to Thomer, then back to me. Neither Thomer nor I spoke as he left.

“I understand you and Philips are buddies,” I said, once Philips was away.

“He’s a good Marine,” Thomer said defensively.

“And you believe he can perform in combat?” I asked.

“I’d stake my life on it,” Thomer said.

“You just did,” I said. “That will be all.”

Over the next two weeks I tested my platoon. I took the men to the firing range and liked what I saw, particularly from Philips. Because of my Liberator genes, I could shoot better than any man I have ever known. I set unchallenged records in the orphanage and boot camp. No one ever outscored me on a firing range, until the first time I took my new platoon to the firing range. Shooting at targets three hundred yards away, I had a hit rate of 96 percent that day. Philips’s rate was 97 percent.

I did not know how well he had shot right away. As we left the firing range, I stopped to look at the board that listed our scores. I had known that Philips did well; but until I saw the score by his name, I had not realized that he outshot me. I stood there puzzled, trying to figure out why the highest number on the board was not next to my name.

“Still want to transfer him out?” Thomer asked as he walked past me.

At the moment, the answer was, “Yes. Absolutely.” No one had ever outscored me.

“He’s a good shot,” I conceded. I told myself that my marksmanship had deteriorated during the time I spent playing farmer. Had I taken the time to warm up, I would have easily outshot Private Philips. I normally scored a perfect 100 percent at three hundred yards.

Philips did well in hand-to-hand. I did not fight him, mostly because I did not want to take a chance of breaking his neck. He partnered up with the three men from his fire team and subdued each of them quickly.

Evans and Sutherland generally asked me if I wanted to go hit the noncom bar with them when we turned in for the night. I always said, “No.” I liked working with them, but I did not like them. They were too damned by-the-book for my taste. Also, I had a mission that I wanted to plan out.

One night, though, Evans and Sutherland brought Thomer along with them. “Hey, Master Sergeant, the whole platoon is headed out to the canteen,” Thomer said. “You want to come along?”

I smiled and closed down my computer. “I’m feeling a little parched,” I said. I got up and followed the men out of the barracks.

When we got to the bar, the place was chaotic. Five hundred, maybe even six hundred, Marines had crammed into a bar meant for no more than three hundred men at a time. The crowd was so loud that you had to shout to be heard, and everybody wanted to be heard. The din smothered the room and gave it life.

“We’re over there,” Evans yelled, pointing toward a corner of the room that was particularly crowded. My entire platoon had crammed in there, and it looked like men from a couple of other platoons had come to join them.

“Can I get you a beer?” Thomer asked.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll pick up the next round.” He nodded but probably did not hear me.

As I approached the table, I heard a harmonica. Somebody was playing an old folk tune. The music was fast and lively, like a square dance only faster. Peering through the crowd, I saw Philips wearing that same mangy tank top he had worn to my office. He had slung fatigues over his shoulders, but he didn’t bother fastening the buttons.

Philips worked that harmonica like a master. His head swayed one way then the other as his harmonica sawed back and forth across his lips. His face was bright red, and a vein ticked across his forehead. He had his right foot up on a bench and tapped his heel with the rhythm. The music whirled and spun. A few of the Marines clapped their hands with the beat.

When he finished his song, Philips tucked the harmonica in his pocket and smiled at me. The crowd thinned once people realized that Philips would not play another song.

“Hello, Master Sarge,” Philips said, mixing Marine slang and derogatory Army lingo.

“Philips,” I said.

Some of the other men greeted me. I shook a couple of hands. Enlisted men do not salute sergeants.

Thomer handed me a beer. He handed Philips a beer, too.

“You play a mean harmonica,” I said.

“Shit, no. I do okay for self-taught, I guess,” Philips said.

“He plays guitar, too,” Thomer said.

“I know a song or two,” Philips corrected. “That ain’t the same thing as playing.”

“How about you, Thomer. What are you good at?” I asked.

Thomer shrugged.

“He’s the one who keeps this platoon running,” Philips said.

Thomer glared at Philips.

“What about them?” I asked, pointing the top of my beer bottle at Evans and Sutherland. They were at the other end of the table, too far away to hear.

“Them?” Philips asked. “They do okay.”

“They run the show,” Thomer said. “At least they used to, before you came.”

“Like I said, they do okay,” Philips said. “Nobody likes them much. I guess they like each other plenty.”

Thomer, who had started to take a swig of beer, laughed and spit beer back in his bottle.

“You were asking me about the time I pissed on a sergeant. Well, I thought it was Sutherland,” Philips confessed. “I wish it had been the son of a bitch.”

“You have a problem with Sutherland?” I asked.

“He’s all right, I suppose,” Philips said. “I like him the way a dog likes a fire hydrant. The good thing about Sutherland is that he can sleep through anything. If that had been Sutherland, I’d still be a corporal right now.”

“He pissed on Sergeant Edmonds instead,” Thomer said. He smiled, took another quick drink of beer, then added, “Edmonds is a light sleeper.”

“Son of a bitch,” Philips muttered. I did not know if he had just called Edmonds a son of a bitch or if he was referring to Thomer. “The bastard woke right up and started screaming. Probably thought he was being attacked by an albino boa constrictor.”

“He told me he thought it was a macaroni noodle,” Thomer mumbled.

“Are we going to see some action soon?” Sergeant Sutherland asked as he came to join us.

“Any day now,” I said. “I just need to clear it with Colonel Grayson.”

“You going to get me some Mogats to shoot?” Philips asked.

“That’s the general idea,” I said.

Given the mission that I had in mind, I would have traded half my platoon for an Adam Boyd clone, but Navy SEALs seldom ran with Marines.

“You want to what?” Colonel Grayson asked. “You must be specking with me, son. You can’t take a Cygnus Central platoon into the Perseus Arm. They have their own damn fleet and their own damn Marines. You do realize that Outer Perseus is halfway across the galaxy? Think about it, son. Think, why don’t you?”

“Colonel, Admiral Brocius has charged me to engage the enemy any way that I can.”

“So engage them in your own damned arm of the galaxy!” Grayson roared. He tried to look angry but a rogue grin played on his lips. I got the feeling that he liked the idea of poaching in another part of the galaxy. “What do you expect to get out of this raid?”