Steven Kent - The Clone Republic

“They didn’t build the death reflex into Liberators,” I said.

“Harris,” Lee said, “we need to talk.”

“It’s going to have to wait,” Shannon said. “We’re expected at Fleet Command.” He paused and considered things. “I can’t see anything good coming out of a visit with Admiral Huang,” he said in a hushed voice, almost a whisper.

“I get the feeling that Klyber is looking out for us,” I said.

“That’s how I read it,” Shannon agreed.

“Can Klyber protect you from the Joint Chiefs?” Lee sounded concerned. “I mean, Huang is as high as they go in the military.”

“If the intel I hear about Klyber is true, his strings go a lot higher than military connections,” Shannon said. He turned to me. “Pack up. We’re supposed to report to the Command deck within the hour.”

“This lift doesn’t seem secure, does it?” Sergeant Shannon asked, as we entered the elevator to the SC Command deck. “I used to wonder why there were no guards.” He pointed to narrow rows of vents lining the ceiling and floor. “You know what those are for?”

“Oxygen?” I guessed.

“Noxium gas,” Shannon corrected me. “Last time I was assigned to the Kamehameha a disgruntled swabbie tried to make an unscheduled visit to Command, and I got to clean up afterward. He’d only been dead for a couple of minutes when we got here, but that was long enough. His arms and legs turned to jelly and squished through our fingers when we tried to lift him. We ended up washing him out with a steam hose.”

The door to the lift opened, and I was glad to step out. We entered the large, unfinished lobby, and one of Klyber’s aides led us to the conference room. The curved panels of the entryway slid open, and the aide motioned us in.

Admiral Huang, Vice Admiral Barry, and Admiral Klyber sat equidistant from each other around the round conference table. Huang turned to glance at us as we entered the conference room. He paused, and his quick glance lengthened into an angry stare. “The Senate has outlawed your bastard clones, Admiral Klyber.”

“The Senate outlawed the creation of new Liberators,” Klyber corrected. “Nothing was said about Liberators that already existed. Sergeant Shannon has served with distinction under my command since the Galactic Central War.”

“The other one looks new,” Huang snapped.

“He has distinguished himself in combat,” Klyber said. “He has been a model Marine.”

Huang’s eyes hardened as he focused on me. I could feel the weight of his stare and sensed the heat of his anger. “These are the men you have selected?”

“Sergeant Shannon, perhaps you and Corporal Harris can give us a moment?” Admiral Klyber said.

Shannon led me out of the conference room. We stood just outside the door, waiting for Klyber to summon our return. “That Huang is a prick,” I said after a moment.

“Whatever he is here for, Klyber wants us involved, and Huang wants us out,” Shannon said.

The panels slid open, and the aide who had originally brought us to the room led us back in. “Sergeant, a squad of military police will arrive on deck momentarily. Please see that they escort Vice Admiral Barry to his quarters and detain him there,” Huang said. As he spoke, I saw Absalom Barry gasping for air. His jaw hung slack, his eyes stared vacantly ahead, and he looked as if he might have a heart attack on the spot.

Huang sneered. “I think I may have finally found a good use for your clones, Klyber; they’ll make good jailers.” The room remained utterly silent until four MPs arrived. “Rabid clones and a half ton fleet commander …it’s quite a fleet you’ve got here.”

The MPs—Navy, not Marines—had their orders when they arrived. They surrounded Barry, who slowly rose to his feet and followed them out of the conference room, his egg-shaped head bobbing as he walked.

“That was wasteful,” Klyber said. “Barry may not have …”

“We needlessly lost a frigate and an entire platoon,” Huang interrupted. “The Joint Chiefs have ordered a board of inquiry. Until Barry’s court-martial is complete, I suggest that you steer clear of him, Admiral Klyber.”

“Barry acted properly,” Klyber answered, his voice cold, his emotions still under control.

“The secretaries of the Army and Air Force disagree,” Huang shot back.

Shannon and I followed Barry and the MPs out of the conference room. The panels closed behind us, sealing off the conversation.

“Do you think Huang came all the way from Earth for this?” I asked Shannon, as we waited outside the conference room for the third time that day. “He didn’t come all this way just to arrest Barry?”

“No.” Shannon smiled. “He didn’t come out to Scrotum-Crotch just to arrest Barry. That was just a bonus.”

The aide led us in to the conference room for the third time. This time Captain McKay sat with Klyber, and Hurricane Huang was not to be found.

“Sergeant Shannon, this is not your first tour aboard the Kamehameha ?” Klyber asked.

“No, sir,” Shannon answered. “I spent four years on this ship.”

“I see.” With Huang gone, Klyber took on an informal tone. He pointed to two chairs and had us sit down. “My first command was on this ship, more than twenty years ago, and she was already looking old. I thought it was a demotion at the time. I later found out that every secretary of the Navy for the last fifty years served on this ship. All but one—and that one wants to mothball the ship and retire the name.”

With his icy gray eyes and his all-consuming intensity, Admiral Klyber could not hide his disapproval. He smiled, but his eyes still looked tired and angry. “Barring the further arrest of key commanding officers, I think we should discuss your mission.” Klyber looked back to where Gaylan McKay sat. “Are you ready, Captain?”

There was an unmistakable familiarity between McKay and Klyber. They did not act like friends, but I heard the patient tone of a mentor in Klyber’s voice. Captain McKay walked toward the wall with the conference monitors. The room darkened, and the image of a dark green planet appeared on one of the screens. “This is Ronan Minor,” McKay began. “It is a stage three planet.”

“Stage three planets” were seeded planets that were nearly ready for habitation. By the time they reached stage three, they had a detoxified atmosphere, stabilized gravity, and oxygen-producing rain forests. After twenty years at stage three, planets were, according to U.A. scientists, usually considered ready for colonization. Smugglers were not as patient. They often used stage three planets as bases for their operations.

“You may have been wondering why we have been favored by a visit from Admiral Huang,” Klyber interrupted. “Here is your answer.”

The planet disappeared from the screen and was replaced by the image of a man with a neatly trimmed, white beard. “Recognize him, Harris?” McKay asked.

“Crowley,” I said.

“General Amos Crowley,” McKay said. “How about these men?”

The picture switched, and we saw a video of three men holding a friendly conversation in what looked like a private living room. One of the men sat on a plush chair—Crowley. The other two, whom I did not recognize, sat on a sofa. The camera closed in on Crowley, then panned the others. When the camera reached the third man, the image froze, showing a slender man with dark skin and dark eyes.

“This is Warren Atkins.”

“You’ve heard of his famous father,” Klyber said. “Considering recent events on Ezer Kri, we were more than curious when Fleet Intelligence intercepted this video feed. Until now, we had no proof of a link between Atkins and Crowley.”