Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

“When you invade his planet, gentlemen, you will be underground. Be aware, Marines, that everything around you will be made of distilled shit gas.

“Do you hear me, Marines?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Manipulative or not, I had to admire the way this briefing officer personalized the war. He never referred to the Mogats. Everything focused on Morgan Atkins himself, as if he personally had attacked Earth, killed Marines, and declared war.

The screen reverted to an orbital shot of Hubble. “The good news is that we no longer need to invade Hubble. There are no Mogats on this planet, we already killed them,” the briefing officer continued.

Across the cafeteria I heard sighs and nervous laughter.

“The bad news is that you will be invading a planet that is exactly like Hubble, right down to having distilled shit gas in the dirt.

“The distilled shit gas will be the least of your worries. You Marines will invade a planet that is home to an estimated 200 million Morgan Atkins Believers. Those men and women will not welcome you into their home, Marines.

“Leading their forces is one General Amos Crowley. You may have heard of this man. You may be ignorant of him. Amos Crowley was once a general in the Unified Authority Army. His having deserted the Unified Authority makes this dickweed our enemy, Marines. His having swapped sides to join the Mogats makes him a treacherous dickweed.

“Do not underestimate this dickweed. When he was our dickweed, he led the Unified Authority Army through many great battles. He may be a dickweed, but he is a dickweed who knows how to fight.”

On the screen, the white-bearded face of General Amos Crowley smiled down at us. Crowley had a smooth, kind face with a generous smile. He had shown that same smile to me as I lay on a table waiting to be tortured. He was the reason I’d invited Freeman to join the invasion. Whether we won or lost, Freeman would make sure that General Crowley did not survive the battle.

“I have more good news for you, gentlemen. Morgan Atkins has developed shields that protect his ships and his buildings from any weapon we possess. We have not seen his tanks in action, but we have reason to believe that his tanks and battle vehicles may have those shields as well.

“Their shields are the real specking deal, Marines. Do not bother shooting Morgan Atkins tanks with laser weapons. Do not bother shooting his buildings with particle beams. You will not hurt them with grenades or mortars.

“If this invasion goes as planned, we hope to shut those shields down before you have to deal with them. If it does not go as planned, gentlemen, you may find yourselves in a battle against an invulnerable enemy. If that becomes the case, Marines, you will be expected to employ hit-and-run tactics until those shields are brought down. You are not to engage the enemy in a head-on war. Do you understand me, Marines?”

“Sir, yes, sir.” The chant was not especially enthusiastic.

Clearly hearing the lack of enthusiasm, the major said, “Gentlemen, this is the Unified Authority Marine Corps. We do not send our own off unprepared.”

That was not the case in my experience, but I did not quibble. In my experience, officers did not think twice about wasting clones.

“The Navy is sending SEALs to visit Morgan Atkins and disable his shields. We are not sending you to invade Morgan Atkins’s planet. We are not sending you to kill Morgan Atkins or his followers. We are sending you Leatherneck Marines to distract Mr. Atkins’s army while the SEALs persuade him to shut down his shields.

“Once the SEALs have turned off his shields, the Navy plans to send his fleet a message. Once that message is received, you will be joined by three million soldiers from the Unified Authority Army. Gentlemen, as you know, the Marines capture the fort, then the Army holds down the fort.

“Do you read me, Marines?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Let’s try that again. Do you read me, Marines?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Marines. You and your men ship out at 0930.”

What they did not tell us at the briefing:

After we landed on Mogatopolis, the Navy would send three teams of SEALs. One of those teams would go after the Mogats’ shield generator, likely the most closely guarded spot on the planet. The second team would go after the broadcast engine that the Mogats used to transmit their shield signal. The third team would attack the Mogat power grid on the off chance that having failed to shut down the shields or engine, they might still be able to shut down the power.

I would have judged this a suicide mission if they weren’t sending one thousand Adam Boyd clones. This was their element. If anyone could slip in under the radar and find those targets, it was the Adam Boyd clones.

Never once did the major mention modes of transportation. Except for me, none of the Marines knew of the alliance with the Confederate Arms. As far as everyone in the camp knew, we would fly our transports from Earth to the Mogat planet. What more did they need to know, I suppose.

“Holy Moses on a rope. What the speck is that?” Private Philips asked as we waited to board the transport.

I followed his gaze. There, nearly eighteen inches taller than the armor-plated clones around him, stood Ray Freeman. He wore full battle armor that he must have bought custom-made. Because I knew Freeman, I also knew that the armor was the right size to fit over his enormous shoulders and torso. Had I never seen him before, as the Marines around him had not, I would have thought he had a jetpack or maybe a luggage compartment inside that huge armor. There was no jetpack and no hidden compartment, just a giant of a man.

So here came Freeman, tall, dark-skinned, bald, and muscled to extrahuman proportions. He carried a rifle case in his left hand.

“That is Ray Freeman,” I said.

“Okay,” Philips said, “as long as he’s on our team.”

“Ray only plays on his own team. This time he happens to be on our side.”

“Does he ever change sides?” Philips asked. “If he does, I don’t want to be nearby when that happens.”

We were issued special gear for this battle. Everything worked the same, but instead of the dark green camouflage we generally wore, this time we had desert beige.

Since Freeman brought his own armor, his was more gray than beige. It was a light silvery gray that stood out against his dark skin. As he silently moved through the ranks, Marines quickly stepped out of his way.

“Ray, I didn’t recognize you without the dandelion,” I said.

Freeman did not say anything. He might have caught the reference to the little girl he used for cover on the mediaLink, but I doubt it. Humor did not register with him.

“You don’t need to bring us the corpse,” I said, trying to move on from my failed joke.

“I don’t plan to. Brocius says the video record from my scope will do.”

“How much is he paying?” I asked. I felt envious even before he answered. The only money I would see from this action was a sergeant’s combat pay.

“Five million,” Freeman said.

“That’s a lot of money,” I said. “How did you work him up to that?”

Freeman shrugged. “That’s what he offered.”

Around the deck, the grunts in my platoon eyed Freeman nervously. He was huge and different. He radiated danger. He had cold, dark eyes, and his face betrayed nothing but indifference to everyone around him.

Ahead of us, the doors of the transport slid apart. “Fall in,” I called to my men. We jogged forward as a platoon, our armored boots clanging against the steel ramp that led into the kettle. Freeman stayed beside me at the front of the group. Standing beside him, I flashed back to our four-billion-mile trek from Little Man. Back then we’d wanted to reenter the war. Now we might possibly play a role in ending it.