Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

“It’s like kicking an anthill,” Philips said. “My oh my, do those little buggies come after you.” A moment later, “Oh, they got my stiffy in the leg. Guess I better hide.”

Once inside the transport, I opened a cargo hatch and hid. The compartment was dark, small, and empty. I pulled my pistol and kept my finger on the trigger. In my mind, I imagined myself as a scorpion hiding under a leaf, waiting to sting anything that disturbed it.

I could not see what was happening around me. If somebody happened to open this compartment, they would spot me one moment and die the next.

“Okay, I’m in,” I called over the interLink.

“I hope this works,” Evans said.

“Watch your back, Master Sergeant,” Sutherland said.

“I miss my stiffies,” said Philips.

My time in the compartment was not quite as bad as being buried alive. Everything around me was dark and still, but I could move my arms around my sides. The compartment was so shallow that moving my arms across my chest took serious squirming.

Even after they boarded the transport and the kettle doors closed, the Mogats continued communicating over their obsolete interLink band. I listened in to some of their chatter—one hundred soldiers babbling on in two dozen different conversations. One guy bragged endlessly about the three “bargers” he bagged. “Bargers” must have been Mogat slang for U.A. sailors.

I did not hear a shred of valuable information eavesdropping on these lowlifes. When the pilot restored the atmosphere inside the kettle, the men took off their helmets and the interLink went silent.

The shell of the transport vibrated as the thrusters lifted it off the launch bay deck. I did not hear the engines so much as feel them. The metal beneath my back trembled so hard that its spasms shook me inside my armor.

“Evans, can you hear me?” I called over the interLink.

“Did you make it out?” Sergeant Evans asked.

“I’m on the transport,” I said.

“Are you hidden?” he asked.

“I’m in a crawl space under the floor,” I said. “What’s the situation over there?”

“Three of their transports are out. The Mogats on that last one must not be in any rush to get home. They’re taking a stroll around the ship.”

“And our guys?” I asked.

The shell of the transport began to spasm again. I heard the thrusters working. They whispered through the hull. The transport made an eerie creaking sound.

“We’re all in the vents.”

“Stay hidden,” I said.

“Aye, aye,” Evans responded.

He was a good and reliable Marine. He was a bore.

The landing gear clanked as it struck the deck and its struts whined under the weight of the transport. We had landed on a Mogat battleship. The men in the kettle would file off the ship as fast as they could. Pilots usually took their time shutting down systems. I was deaf and blind down in the crawl space, so I would allot him plenty of time to leave the ship before opening the hatch above me. I remained motionless, lying on my back, alone in the dark.

I went over the layout of the derelict battleship in my mind. The layout of this ship would be identical. I remembered the path I took to get to the launch bay. I could not hide in an emergency elevator or pass through the vents this time. I would have to blend in.

“You there, Master Sergeant?” It was Evans on the interLink.

“What is it?”

“The last transport just flew out.”

“Did they leave sentries?” I asked.

“The ship is clear,” he said.

“How long till the explorer comes back?” I asked. I should have known that, but I had lost track of time.

“Should be another hour,” Evans said.

“Okay, Evans, keep an eye out for my signal.” That was the point of the entire exercise. If Yamashiro was right, and the Mogats had built themselves a communications superhighway, I would be able to send messages back to Evans no matter where the ship went.

Hiding in that small compartment went more smoothly than getting myself out, thanks to the zero-gravity conditions inside the derelict battleship. When I entered, I’d floated into place. Now, in gravity, I had to drag my own weight. The process would have been easier and quieter in soft-shell armor. I could barely move my limbs in the tight space, and that formerly weightless door now weighed over a hundred pounds.

If I ran into a guard or a maintenance worker, I could easily kill him; but I had learned from experience that the Mogats kept count of their crewmen. They were a religious people and they kept careful tabs on all of the sheep in the herd.

The kettle was dark and the rear doors were closed when I emerged from the compartment. I knew I was alone. At that moment I realized the stupid mistake I had made. My only access to the interLink was built into my helmet, but I could not walk around this Mogat ship wearing the combat armor of a Unified Authority Marine. I would need the Link, though; so even if I left my armor hidden on the transport, I had no choice about taking my helmet. I considered hiding in the transport until I was sure we had broadcasted into Mogat space, then trying to slip out; but down here in this compartment, I would not know when we broadcasted into Mogat space.

“Master Sergeant?” It was Evans.

“What is it?”

“You’re reading me?”

Dumb question, I thought. “Sure, I’m reading you.”

“Then your plan worked,” Evans said, sounding excited.

“We’ve already broadcasted?” I asked.

“The last Mogat ships just broadcasted out.”

“Thanks for the update,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“Nice going,” Evans said.

In the early days of the war, I received promotions for doing a lot less than this. Locating the Mogat home world could be the key to the war. With any luck, I would find their galactic coordinates and take an informal inventory of their military strength. Wars were won and lost on that kind of information.

But I did not have time to celebrate just yet. I still had to get out of the transport and on to the Mogat home world unnoticed. I had to gather information. I had to transmit the information back to Earth. I had to survive.

The kettle was dark and the hatch was sealed when I emerged from my lair. No one remained on board, not even the pilot. Sitting on the floor with my legs dangling into the crawl space, I removed my armor and stripped down to my tank top and skivvies. I’d brought a change of clothes for the occasion—a pair of unmarked fatigues that I borrowed from a mechanic on board the Obama . My costume might fool people around the battleship, but I needed a Mogat uniform. I also needed a box for my helmet. I left most of my armor buried at the very back of the crawl space under the floor.

Taking one last look through the night-for-day lens in my helmet, I located the controls for the rear hatch and opened the kettle. As the thick metal doors slowly rolled apart, revealing a bustling launch bay, I stowed my helmet in the latrine. Armor that had helped me slip past a dozen guards deserved better than a stay in a Mogat shitting booth, but I had no choice.

Teams of mechanics stood around the opened engine compartment of a nearby transport. A pack of commandos entertained several onlookers telling stories about how they had routed “those U.A. bargers,” using their guns as props as they spoke.

None of this could have happened without Philips. If I survived this, I planned to petition for him to be restored to the rank of corporal. I thought I could talk Brocius into approving the request, but I had no idea how to keep Philips from getting himself busted back down to private without retiring him or throwing him in the brig.