Steven Kent - The Clone Republic

Guttman slid the ace, the king and the six forward. Kline collected each man’s rejected cards and replaced them with cards from the deck. As Guttman fanned out his new cards, I saw that he had added a face card, a ten, and another three. He closed his hand and started bouncing in his seat.

The bids went around the table. When it came to Guttman, he pushed his pistol into the center of the table, and Kline handed him a tray covered with chips. I had no idea what Guttman’s new cards meant, but judging by his happy wheezing, he liked them.

The man with the beard looked pleased as well. “Well, this is a rare pleasure,” he said, and he spilled a stack of gold-colored chips on the table. The other players groaned as Kline circled the table again, gathering cards and replacing them with new ones.

“I’ll raise you,” Guttman said, and he carelessly tossed a stack of chips into the pot.

Some of the other players placed their cards on the table facedown and backed out of the game.

“Very aggressive move,” the bearded man said as he matched Guttman’s bid. “I have three kings.”

Guttman sighed and leaned back in his chair as the man raked in his winnings, including the pistol.

I watched this with growing irritation. Guttman, apparently enthralled by this situation, looked back at me and winked. Fortunately, no one could hear what I was uttering inside my helmet.

“Do all soldiers carry these?” the man with the beard said as he hefted Guttman’s particle-beam pistol. He did not touch the grip or the trigger. Instead, he treated the gun as if it might explode, gingerly pinching the barrel with his thumb and forefinger.

“Mostly we carry M27s,” Guttman said, “like the one Harris was wearing. I prefer the particle beam though, it’s worth a lot more money.” He laughed and squirmed in his seat, apparently anxious to start the next hand and win his weapon back.

“Quite a hefty weapon,” the man said. “It must be very sturdy.”

“You’d think so,” Guttman replied, “but they don’t do so well in the desert. We have piles of broken guns lying around our barracks.”

“Is that so?” the man asked. “Replacements must be easy to come by?”

“You kidding?” Guttman laughed. “Gobi Station used to be an armory. The place is a damned munitions depot. Isn’t that right?” Guttman asked, turning in his chair to look at me.

I did not answer.

“I see,” said the bearded man. He seemed to sense the tension coiling between Guttman and me. “So I shall need to take special precautions to keep this in working order.”

“Can we get on with the game?” a player called from across the table.

Kline dealt another hand of cards. This time Guttman had two queens and a king facing down, with a four and eight facing up. From what I could tell, he was not happy with these cards. As he had done in the last game, Guttman pushed three cards forward, then tossed some chips into the center of the table. Everybody else followed.

Kline pivoted around the table a second time, giving Guttman two fives and an ace. A few of the other players grimaced. Kline tapped his cards against his tiny chin. Guttman ripped a thunderous fart, then feigned embarrassment while giggling under his breath. Throughout the last hand, he had kept one platinum chip hidden under his cards. When his third bid came, he selected that chip and slid it forward. “I call,” he said.

Three of the other players grumbled and threw down their cards. Kline rolled his slow brown eyes. He looked at his cards, looked at the chips on the table, looked at his cards, and dropped his hand as well. “I’m out,” he said.

The bearded man stayed in.

Silently, Kline proceeded to move around the table changing cards for the three players who stayed in the game.

Guttman took two.

So did the man with the beard. Whatever the man got, it made him happy. He grinned and threw a platinum chip and two gold ones onto the table. They jingled and spun as they settled on the pile.

Guttman’s beefy hands hid his cards from my view; but I got the feeling he was strong. He started bouncing so hard in his chair that I expected it to splinter. He looked like a drowning man fighting for air. His chips were low, and I thought he might need to leave the game; but Guttman whispered something to Kline, and the dealer handed him another rack of chips. With a wicked grin, Guttman selected three gold chips and tossed them in the pot. Only then did I realize how Guttman had gotten that second rack of chips: He’d wagered my pistol.

I started to get up, but Guttman raised a hand to stop me.

“It’s okay, Harris,” he said. “I have everything under control.”

I wanted to kill Guttman, but I couldn’t. My pistol was gone, and the only chance I had to get it back would be if Guttman won the hand.

The bearded man’s eyes positively sparkled now. He smiled across the table at Guttman. “You are quite the player,” he said.

“How many?” Kline asked.

“Two,” said Guttman, and he pushed two cards forward.

Kline leaned forward and took the cards, then dealt new ones. I saw what they were as Guttman inspected them— two queens. Guttman spilled two-thirds of his chips onto the table.

“Unexpected,” the man with the beard said. “Wiser men…” With this he slid Guttman’s blaster into the pot. “This sees and raises the stakes, does it not?”

Guttman pressed his fingers on the tops of his cards. “You must be pretty confident,” he said.

I sure as hell did not feel confident.

Perhaps it finally dawned on Guttman that he might have to explain how he had lost both of our pistols. Perhaps, having no more guns to pawn, Guttman finally noticed the jagged edges behind the bearded man’s smile. He gathered up the few chips he had left, and said, “Let’s see what you have.”

The mystery man showed all of his cards—three kings and two aces.

Guttman let out a long breathy whistle. “A crowded house? Nice hand,” he said as he turned over his cards, showing four queens, “but I think the pot is mine.”

He turned to grin at me, but his smile vanished when he saw that I had climbed out of my chair. “I would like my pistol,” I said to Kline.

“Don’t leave now,” Guttman said. He jumped to his feet and walked over to me. Putting his hand by his mouth to block others from hearing, he whispered, “I’m just getting my stride. I’m about to clean these suckers dry.”

Stepping around Four-Cheeks, I grabbed my gun.

“Listen, pal,” Guttman said, grabbing me by my shoulder. Before I realized what I was doing, I spun and slammed my fist into Guttman’s mouth. His legs locked and fell out from under him as he dropped flat on his ass. Rather than attempt to get up, he sat where he fell, wiping blood from his split lip.

“I’m leaving now,” I said. This time, Guttman made no attempt to stop me.

CHAPTER TWO

Old and sparse and dilapidated, Gobi Station did not have air-conditioning or any other form of climate control. It did not matter during the winter, when a cooling draft blew through the open-air corridors and enormous verandas, but winter ended so suddenly that it seemed like somebody switched it off. One day we had a breeze and the next morning the winds were withering. Daytime temperatures reached a dry 120 degrees. When the desert cooled after sunset, the temperature dropped to a tolerable 90 degrees.

Glan Godfrey continued making his cursory announcements every few days as we ate breakfast out of Meals Ready to Eat (MRE) tins. He didn’t care if we listened or if we whispered back and forth as he spoke. A couple of weeks after my first visit to Morrowtown, however, Godfrey showed up for breakfast with a regulation haircut and a shave. He told us to put down our forks and pay attention.