Steven Kent - The Clone Republic

I stared at the display hardly believing my eyes. “Son of a bitch,” I mumbled.

“Do you know him?” Vince asked.

“I think I took that photograph,” I said.

“You don’t know if you took it?” Lee asked, suddenly interested in me again.

“I was at that card game, but I didn’t have a camera. Neither did anybody else.”

“Somebody had one,” Lee said dismissively. “Do you play cards with traitors on a regular basis?”

I stared at the image for a moment, then continued down the hall. And then it struck me. All those gadgets packed into our visors…polarizing lenses, telescopic lenses, communications systems. Add a little data storage, and you could record everything.

“Do our visors record data?” I asked.

“Sure,” Lee said, sounding as if I should have known that without asking. “How long have you been…” He paused to stare at me and laughed. “You wore your helmet to a card game? Harris”—he seemed to warm up as he sensed my embarrassment—“you’re all right.”

“Glad I’ve got your seal of approval,” I said. I was again tempted to ask what was bothering him, but held back.

He looked back at the picture. “That’s not your sidearm, is it?” he said, struggling not to laugh.

“No, it’s not,” I snapped.

“Just asking,” Lee said, still sounding more than amused. The corners of his mouth still twitched. “Whose is it?”

“It belonged to a guy named Taj Guttman,” I said, as we entered the mess hall.

“He wagered his firearm? I bet he wasn’t wearing his helmet.”

“No, he wasn’t,” I said.

“His goose is fried,” Lee said.

We grabbed trays and moved to the chow line. Vince clearly wanted to ask more questions but had the good sense to wait until we had our chow and had moved to a quieter corner of the room. I felt a wave of panic. How many people knew what I had done—that I had lost my pistol to an enemy agent in a card game? I seriously doubted that McKay would keep the information to himself.

“Can’t say I think much of a Marine who bets his pistol in a card game, Harris,” Sergeant Shannon sneered as he sat down at the table next to ours. “I don’t think much of that at all.”

Not many of my memories are associated with a particular day of the week, but I have no trouble recalling what day my helmet was returned to me. It was on a Sunday. I know that because later that day, hoping to get away from all of the questions about Crowley and the card game, I went to the rec room to watch a movie. Sincerely wanting to be alone, I chose the emptiest route through the Marine compound— and that took me by the chapel. Nobody went anywhere near that area on Sunday.

The military was always trying to push religion; but in my experience, fear of God was one of the things that science never managed to build into its neural programming. Many of the officers attended church services, but none of the clones I knew believed in God.

As I passed by the open door of the chapel on this day, however, I happened to catch a glance of somebody sitting alone at the rear of the chapel. His back was to me, but the tall wiry frame and fine, white old man’s hair were unmistakable. There, wearing his dress uniform, was Sergeant Shannon…swearing, bullying, belligerent Sergeant Shannon.

Some people say that the most glorious sight they ever saw was a beautiful moon or a perfect sunrise. For me, it was the three fleets of the Scutum-Crux Arm converging in orbit over Terraneau. Each fleet was set in array with its twelve Perseus-class fighter carriers set in a row like the jagged teeth of an enormous saw. Frigates and transports, awesome ships in their own right, seemed insignificant beside the mighty bulk of these dreadnoughts. The massive shadow of the fleets cast a discernible outline on the watery surface of the planet below.

Seeing so many ships huddled together fascinated me. I spent hours watching them from one of the Kamehameha ’s observation stations. I watched attack wings of Tomcats and Harriers escorting transports between the capital ships and the planet below. With their black-and-gray finish and sliver-shaped hulls, the Tomcats vanished like ghosts in open space only to reappear as fast-moving specks when they sped across the bows of carriers.

“The U.A. Navy is awesome,” I said to myself with pride. I wondered how anyone could hope to stand against it.

“I spent some time stationed on Nebraska Minor,” Vince Lee said as he leaned against a guardrail. “Ever heard of

Nebraska Minor?”

“I cannot say that I have,” I said.

“They do a lot of farming there. The whole planet is like one big farm,” Lee said.

“Exciting assignment,” I joked.

Lee thought about my quip for a moment, then chose to ignore it. “People on Nebraska Minor used to say, ‘You should always kill the pig before you eat it.’ You ever heard that before?”

“I feel deprived,” I said. “On Gobi we had sayings like, ‘You should never eat your children after they are six years old.’”

Lee pretended to ignore that comment, too. “It’s a big fleet; a lot of firepower …” Lee’s voice trailed off for a moment. “Greece and Rome weren’t able to hold on to Europe, how can we possibly hope to control a whole galaxy? If there are planets that want out of the Republic, Wayson, I am not sure we should force them to stay in.”

“I don’t see how they can stand up to a fleet like this,” I said.

“What happened on Gobi?” Lee asked as he followed my gaze out the window. “Crowley attacked a Marine base?”

A shuttle with a three-fighter escort silently approached our ship, drifting past the window. The ships passing by reminded me of fish in an aquarium. Lee’s question did not surprise me; people had been asking about the Gobi story quite a bit lately. A team of security officers had given me an official debriefing, and Captain McKay had questioned me about it.

“You after the blow-by-blow?” I asked in a sardonic voice. He nodded, and I told him the whole story, including the part about becoming a corporal in three months. I think the promotion was the part that embarrassed me the most.

“The Unified Authority has long provided safety and prosperity for its member states. Now it has come to our attention that certain factions wish to divide our Republic. These terrorists would destroy the fabric of our society to satisfy their own selfish needs. Though their insurrection poses no significant threat to our great Republic, it must be dealt with.”

I noticed two things about Fleet Admiral Bryce Klyber as I watched his high-definition image on the three-dimensional screen: his nearly starved physique and his overwhelming intensity. Klyber’s cheekbones stuck out like ridges across his chiseled face and his skull looked dented at the temples. He had long arms that reminded me of twigs. The overall impression was that you could snap the man over your knee like a stick.

First fascinated by Klyber’s skeletal appearance, I soon found myself mesmerized by the intensity in his icy blue eyes. He stared into the camera, seldom blinking as he plowed through his speech. When he paused to look at his notes, Klyber pursed his mouth so tightly that his lips formed a single line, and wrinkles formed on his chin.

“In future years, historians will look back upon the Unified Authority as one of man’s crowning achievements. As a nation, we have conquered space. We have conquered the galaxy. Our progress will not be slowed by a band of hooligans.”

The impact of Klyber’s words was immediate and universal. Applause echoed through the Kamehameha . Klyber was speaking in an auditorium on Terraneau, but his speech was shown on every monitor on every deck of every ship in all three Scutum-Crux fleets. As he said those words, I have no doubt that all 2 million men under Klyber’s command shouted with excitement.