Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

“Harris, you need to get your men topside,” Illych said.

“Harris, what the speck are you doing?” Philips asked.

So we are still the bullet. We are still a commodity. Even if I can lead my men out, why should I? This will just happen again. Even as I considered this, I knew that I had to try to escape. They programmed survival instinct into my being. They also gave me aggression, and I found reason enough to live in the idea of revenge.

“How long do we have?” I asked Illych. I had picked up my gun and begun running to the next corner. Philips remained a pace behind me, gun ready.

“Till the Navy leaves or the whole city reverts back into elemental gas?” Illych asked. “You have two hours until everything down here melts. The Navy will be long gone by then.”

“Harris, can you get to a transport?” the low resonant voice of Ray Freeman asked. I had forgotten about Freeman.

While we were back on the transport, I’d suggested that he listen in on my communications. Back then I said that he should listen in so he could keep an eye on our troop movements. “Freeman?” I asked.

“Are you pinned down?” Freeman asked.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, more for Freeman than Illych, though they both heard me. I was so angry and ashamed that I could barely think. The combat reflex protected me against fear, not humiliation. I had to get my men out. I had to get them to a transport. I knew this, but my actions were as mechanical as my breathing and heartbeat. All that ran through my head was anger and embarrassment.

“Semper fi, my ass,” I whispered. I was a faithful servant to an unfaithful master. I was a fool. If I made it off this planet, I would turn my back on the Unified Authority once and for all. My programming might prevent me from fighting against bastards like Brocius, but I did not have to die as one of their pawns.

“Get moving,” Illych shouted, before signing off. Freeman said nothing. He had offered to help; now he was already on his way to the transport.

I changed frequencies to call to the colonel commanding the operation. This asshole must have had more enemies than friends. He was the highest-ranking sacrifice sent out here to die. Some general back in Washington, DC, had probably asked, whom should we screw on this one, and everyone agreed on this jerk. I should have known something was wrong when they sent an asshole colonel to command a sixty-thousand-man landing. Where was the boatload of generals trying to claim the victory for themselves?

Now that I thought about it, I should have spotted the whole plan from the start. The combined Navy only had sixty-two self-broadcasting ships. Sixty-two ships would not have enough space for all of the men and machines. Then I thought about the elevator shafts. It would take days to funnel one million men through those shafts.

“What is it, Harris?” the colonel asked.

“Call the men back to the transports, sir,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” the colonel asked. “Hold your position.”

“We’ve accomplished our mission,” I said.

“We’re supposed to hold our position until reinforcements arrive,” the colonel said.

“There won’t be any reinforcements,” I said. “The Army’s not coming.”

“You’re full of…” The colonel paused. “Harris, give me a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute,” I said, but the colonel was already gone.

I switched frequencies so that my entire platoon could hear me. “Boys, we’re in trouble.” I did not have time to explain everything. I would not have explained it all, even if I had. They would need whatever fight they had in them.

“We need to make a run for the transports,” I said. “When I give you the signal, fire everything you have at the Mogats in front of your building; then when I clear you, run out the back door and keep running. Do you read me, Marines?”

“What about the ones in the back?” Evans asked.

“I’ve got them,” I said. “You just start shooting when you get my signal.”

“Where are you?” Greer asked.

“I’m two blocks out the ass of your building. You hit them from your side, and I’ll hit them from back here.”

“There are too many,” Greer said.

“We don’t need to kill them, they’re already blind,” I said. “Just run on my command and keep running until you are topside and harnessed into your transport. You got that, speck-sucker? That is an order.”

It was in their programming. These boys could not disobey a direct order.

Peering out from behind a wall, I saw that the street was filled with enemy soldiers and tanks. Most of the tanks had searchlights. The trucks had headlights, and the soldiers held flashlights. Soldiers sat on the turrets of the Rumsfelds shining spotlights down into the street. Foot soldiers milled around the beams of the lights, talking and drinking. They looked confused, not blind. These men could not have realized the extent of what had happened to their world. They had the enemy trapped, but no one had given them their next orders. Without their power grid, they could not communicate with their commanders.

Philips and I crouched behind a wall and watched the Mogats for a moment. “Hold this,” I whispered, handing the case with the gas cartridges to Philips. I was wearing my helmet. I could have screamed the words at the top of my lungs and the Mogats would not have heard me, but I whispered. It was a natural reflex. There might have been ten thousand Mogats around us.

Philips took the case without saying a word. He was not afraid, but the smart-ass style had run out of him. He was serious now. He wanted to walk away from this battle with his skin intact, and he wanted to make sure the other members of the platoon went with him.

I leaned my M27 against the wall, then pulled the canister shooter off my shoulder. I broke it open at the hinge and loaded a canister of noxium gas in its chamber.

Once I fired the shooter, it would take three minutes for the gas to dissipate. I aimed the shooter so that it would spit the canister deep into the Mogats’ ranks and fired. The muzzle of the shooter did not flash like a gun, it simply emitted a quiet belch. The darkness remained total as the canister spiraled through the air and struck a tank no more than twenty feet from the back door of the building.

There was a crash and a moment of silence, followed by screaming and yelling. They wanted to run, but they could not. Panic and death came too quickly.

I had my second cartridge loaded before the first even hit the ground. This time I aimed at the Mogats in the rear, the ones closest to Philips and me. I fired again.

The Mogats had already begun to panic when the second canister dropped. By now they were screaming in pain as well as panic. The men near spotlights might have seen the gas seeping in around them, but most only heard the shouting caused by an undefined death. I fired the third canister right in the middle of the crowd. Each canister unleashed enough gas to cover hundreds of square feet.

Someone else might have described the scene as pandemonium, but to me it spoke of entropy. The Mogat troops fell into disarray from which they would never again organize. They ran, they panicked, they dissolved into the street.

On the other side of the building, the other Mogats must have heard the noise. They must have wondered what had happened. I waited a few more moments before radioing up to Evans. I wanted to make sure the noxium gas evaporated before he came running out.

“Light ’em up!” I shouted at Evans over the interLink.

In the street before us, all was still and quiet now. Any Mogat who was going to escape had escaped. The rest had died. I could see the bodies by using my night-for-day vision. The dead men still looked human, more or less. The bodies, strewn along the ground like toys thrown in a pile, had limbs and hair. Their faces had no more distinct features than a giant blister; and they would squash like overripe melons if you stepped on them. Given another hour, the bodies would burst under their own weight.