Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

“It’s almost like they have a broadcast engine running in there.”

“They do have a broadcast engine,” I said. “That is exactly what they have.”

“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” Freeman said. He was using a short video loop. The dandelion magically reappeared in the little girl’s hand.

“I went down to Mogatopolis,” I said.

“Mogatopolis?”

“That’s the name they’re using for the Mogat home world,” I said. “The Mogats have some new kind of shield generator on their planet. They’re broadcasting the shield. If you give me a location on that building, Brocius can send out the hounds of war.”

“They still have to deal with those shields.”

“We’re shutting the shields down at the source,” I said. “Now that we have the Mogats’ address, we’re going to pay them a visit. I think you should come with us as a civilian advisor.” I knew that Freeman would never accompany us any other way.

“Why would I do that?” Freeman asked.

“Crowley should be there.” The first time I met Freeman, I was stationed in an armory on a backwater planet called Gobi. Freeman, who made his living as a mercenary, had come to investigate a report that Amos Crowley, a former U.A. Army general who had converted to Mogatism and defected, was on that planet. Crowley attacked the armory and almost took us with it.

“What’s Crowley worth these days?” Freeman asked.

“I’m guessing two or three million.”

On the screen, the little girl blew her dandelion fluff.

Word came around the camp to look smart; Admiral Brocius had come to Fort Houston to review the troops.

It was our second week on the base. A captain and three lieutenants woke my platoon and three others at 0500. We dressed and fell in for an early-morning hike that would last sixteen hours and end with a bivouac. We ate MREs in the field and drank only the water we brought with us as we hiked in the 110-degree weather.

None of this would have mattered had we worn our climate-controlled armor, but we hiked in fatigues. My men were more acclimatized to the chilled air on the U.A.N. Obama than the heat in Texas. They suffered the entire way.

Philips, who had no trouble staying ahead of the rest of the platoon, bellyached more than the rest of my men combined. He must have asked “Where the hell are we going?” five times an hour as we tromped through plains and over foothills. In the midafternoon we entered a marsh. Philips grimaced as his feet sank in the mud, and he asked, “What is the point of running through this shit?”

In the marshland we ran through ankle-deep mud, crushing reeds and scaring ducks as we went. That lasted for three hours. At 1500, the officers steered us to a makeshift firing range they had constructed in the middle of the swamp. They sat in the backs of their Jeeps and ate MREs as we fired M27s and other small weapons.

Of the 168 Marines on the hike, I scored highest on the range with a perfect score—three hundred shots fired, three hundred hits scored on targets three hundred yards away. In Marine jargon, I had just pulled off a “three-by-three.”

I took more than a little pleasure when I noted that Private Philips came in second with a score of 283. No one else scored over 250.

We spent two hours on the firing range, then continued our hike. Mud sucked at our boots. The air smelled of sulfur and decay. Clouds of mosquitoes formed around us. The hot sun glistened on the water and shone in our eyes. The air was hot and wet and thick as perspiration. The crickets and cicadas buzzed so loud it nearly drove some men insane.

When we finally reached the far side of the swamp, we were met by two trucks. The captain over the exercise climbed into the back of a truck and dumped out our gear. “We’re here for the night,” he said. “You might as well set up your bivouac.” As he grabbed a pack, Philips mentioned something about using their Jeep as a latrine once the officers settled down for the evening. I seriously toyed with the idea of joining him.

We had tents, but whoever’d planned the hike wanted us to rough it. Instead of a plasticized tent with an elevated floor and inflatable cots, we slept in an old-fashioned canvas tent. Groundwater soaked through the floor of our tent and our blankets.

Had we been planning to invade a swamp, I would have called this bivouac an ideal proving ground; but I had never seen so much as a drop of groundwater on the Mogat home world. Unless the brass wanted to invade their planet through its plumbing, the hike made no sense.

That night, as we doused our lanterns and went to sleep, one of the lieutenants called in through the tent door. “Harris, Captain Moultry wants to see you in his tent.”

A bright full moon hung over the campgrounds. We had set up our bivouac on the edge of the swamp lands. As likely to inhale mosquitoes as oxygen with every breath, I trudged to the captain’s tent.

I knocked on the door.

“Enter,” the voice growled back.

There sat Admiral Alden Brocius, looking tired and grim in the bleaching white light of a lantern. “This hike was not my idea,” he said as I stepped in.

“It certainly wasn’t my idea,” I said.

“Your base commander didn’t want me fraternizing with enlisted men,” Brocius said. “His replacement is arriving tomorrow.

“You’re welcome to come back with me and spend the night in the commandant’s quarters. They’re vacant and a lot more comfortable.”

Compared to my canvas tent in the swamp, this plasticized tent with its dry interior and hardened floor was a five-star hotel. It had climate control and folding chairs.

“Sounds nice, sir, but I would prefer to stay with my platoon,” I said.

“I had a feeling you would say that,” Brocius said. “This hike was a very bad idea. We need you rested.”

“Big plans for us?” I asked. I already knew the answer. If we didn’t launch an invasion soon, we’d be defending, not attacking.

“Briefing the day after tomorrow.” Brocius pulled a book with a black leather cover from a table by his seat. He tossed it to me. The book was unread and its cover stiff. Its pages did not flutter as it flew through the air. I caught it and looked at the cover. The title was printed in gold leaf: Man’s True Place in the Universe: The Doctrines of Morgan Atkins .

“Have you read this book?” Brocius asked.

I shook my head. “No, sir.”

“Have you ever wondered why you haven’t read this particular book?”

“It’s against regulations,” I said.

“Yeah, they don’t want to take a chance on any of you enlisted men becoming converted. I always wondered who came up with that rule,” Brocius said. He took a bottle of Scotch from the table and poured himself a glass. Then he tossed me the bottle. “You can share it with your platoon. Tell them it came compliments of Fleet Command.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, turning the bottle in my hand so I could read the label. I did not recognize the name.

“They made us read the Space Bible in Annapolis. It always seemed like a fairy tale to me. Atkins claims he found an underground alien city in the center of the galaxy.” Brocius waved his hand. He made a sour face as if he had just smelled garbage. “Strictly Jules Verne stuff. You know what I mean? It’s like Journey to the Center of the Earth .

“I’ve read your report a dozen times, Harris. Every time I read it, I think about Atkins. That city you described, it sounds just like the one in his book. Right down to the transparent ceilings, Atkins described it all just the way you did.

“There’s something else, too. We tracked down the location of that planet using the broadcast computer on the battleship you boys stole. You know where that planet is located? It’s in the inner curve of the Norma Arm. It’s the very rock the Liberators invaded fifty years ago. The difference is that back then no one ever thought about looking under the covers. This time we know better.”