Steven Kent - The Clone Republic

“Asshole,” I said, even though I knew the attitude was a sham.

We took a train to the “Hinode Waterfront Station.” Everywhere we went, I saw signs referring to Hinode. Many of the signs were also marked with those strange squiggling designs that I understood to be the Japanese form of writing. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized that “Hinode” was the Japanese word for “Rising Sun.”

The bars we found were posh and elite, with swank names; some had Japanese lettering in their signs. The late-night dinner crowd strolled the waterfront streets. Men in business suits and women in fine dresses stopped in front of restaurant display cases to look at plasticized versions of the foods.

“This looks pretty expensive,” I told Vince as I looked at a menu. “Yakisoba, whatever that is, costs fifty dollars.”

“Maybe that’s the name of the waitress,” Lee said.

“Pork tonkatsu costs forty-five. If pork tonkatsu is the name of a waitress, I don’t want her.”

“How about over there,” Lee said, pointing to a small, brightly lit eatery.

“That place is too bright for drinks,” I said.

Lee ran across the street for a closer look, and I followed. The place was crowded. People used chopsticks to eat colorful finger foods off small dishes.

We entered, and the crowd became quiet. A man came up to us and spoke in Japanese. We, of course, did not understand a word of it. “Think he speaks English?” I asked Lee over the interLink in our helmets.

“Sure he does,” Lee said. “This is why the Senate does not want them to have their own language.”

After a few moments, I looked at Vince and shrugged my shoulders. The diners became loud again as we turned to leave.

I hated admitting defeat, but the Rising Sun waterfront beat me down. After a frustrating hour, Vince and I caught a taxi to the center of town. We found a likely-looking bar and went inside. The place was nearly empty. Three men sat slumped in their seats at the counter.

“This must be where the clerical help goes,” Vince said.

Two Japanese women waited just inside the door. A hostess came and seated them. When Vince started toward the bar, she turned, and said, “Please wait to be seated.”

After twenty minutes of waiting to be seated, we gave up and left to find another bar.

By 2300 Kamehameha time, Vince and I retreated to the west end of town. We were hungry, thirsty, and frustrated. In any other town, the bars would be the only lit buildings by that time of night. Not in Rising Sun. In this town every building’s crystal finish glowed with the same goddamned honey-colored lights. At that point I wanted to stow my armor and walk into the next bar pretending to be a civilian; but if I took off my gear, I was technically AWOL.

As we explored the west end, we started hearing voices and music. We followed the sounds around a corner and found a crowded bar. Staring through the window, I saw several Marines. They had removed their helmets, which sat on the table. When I scanned the helmets, I recognized the names from my platoon.

“This must be the place,” said Lee.

“I hope they have food,” I said. I opened the door, and dozens of Marines turned to greet me. Sitting in the center of this ungodly pack, happily waving a cigar as he spoke, was Master Gunnery Sergeant Tabor Shannon.

One private placed his helmet over his head so he could read our identifiers as we entered. “It’s Lee and Harris,” he said to the others.

“The illustrious honor guard has finally found its way,” Shannon said. “Hello, Lee. Hello, Harris.”

“Sergeant,” I said.

“I’ll get the drinks this time,” Lee said.

“I don’t get it,” I said as I started to sit down. “Are we on duty or off?”

Shannon smiled behind his cigar, then uttered a few curses. “On duty. Klyber is using us as”—he considered for a moment—“as a diplomatic bargaining chip. He wants to show the locals how easy it would be for this visit to turn into a long-term occupation.”

“Drinking sounds like a good occupation to me,” one private said.

“Not occupation as in job, moron!” another private said.

“Oh,” the first one responded.

“That’s the kid that found the bar,” Shannon said, pointing at the private with his cigar. “He’s been soaking up beers for hours.”

“So, are we on our best behavior?” I asked.

Shannon smiled. “In this case, bad is good.” He nodded at the drunk private. “This boy’s going to empty his stomach somewhere, probably right outside that door. Usually that would get him a night in the brig; but tonight, it will go unnoticed. Klyber wants to show the respectable politicos of Rising Sun just how much they don’t want us around. A little puke leaves a lasting impression.”

Shannon leaned forward. “Harris, did you know you have a friend in town.”

“A friend?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Shannon. “It appears that the Japanese are not the only ones keeping their bloodlines pure on this rock.” Shannon turned and gazed toward the far side of the bar. “That guy was asking about you.”

I stood up and looked around the room. At the other end of the building, Ray Freeman sat with an untouched beer. The top of the table was level with the tops of Freeman’s thighs. He looked like an adult sitting on children’s play furniture.

“Know him?” Shannon asked.

“I know him. His name is Ray Freeman. He’s the mercenary I met on Gobi.”

Freeman looked over at me from his table. His eyes had their same dark intensity, but his mouth formed a cheerful smile. The overall effect was unsettling.

“You would not believe how much they charge for a damn beer,” Lee said as he returned with two huge mugs. “For these prices…” He saw me staring at Freeman. “Friend of yours?”

“That’s the mercenary that Admiral Brocius sent to Gobi,” I said.

“Looks dangerous,” Lee said. “Are you planning on talking to him?”

“He doesn’t talk much,” I said. “But I am curious about what he might have to say.”

“I’m coming with you,” Lee said.

“Do you think he wants trouble?” Shannon asked.

“If Ray Freeman came looking for trouble, I doubt I would have made it to the bar alive,” I said. “He’s worse than he looks.”

“I don’t know how that could be, Harris,” Lee said. “He looks pretty bad.”

Freeman stood and smiled down at me as Lee and I walked over. “Well, hello, Wayson. Been a long time. How is life in the Corps?” His voice had an overly friendly quality. First Barry, then Klyber, then Freeman. It was my day for seeing painted smiles.

“Is he always this chatty?” Lee asked over the interLink.

“What brings you to Scutum-Crux?” I asked. Freeman sat down and waved to the empty chairs around his table. Lee and I joined him. We must have looked odd, two men in combat armor sitting beside a bald-headed giant.

“I’m here on business,” Freeman said.

“Anybody we know, Mr….” Lee let his voice trail off.

“Sorry,” Freeman said, still sounding friendly. “Call me Ray.”

“Vince Lee.”

“I guess Wayson has told you what I do.”

“Sounds as if you do it well, too, at least if everything Harris says is true.”

“I suspect Corporal Harris has exaggerated the story,” Freeman said.

“He might have,” Lee said. He removed his helmet. “No use letting my beer get warm. You’re not drinking yours?” The head on Freeman’s beer had gone flat.

“Actually, I only bought the beer to help me blend in,” Freeman said.

“I don’t think it’s working,” I said. “So is your target in the bar?”

“No, I came here looking for you. I heard your platoon was stationed in Rising Sun. This seemed like the best place to watch for you.”