Steven Kent - The Clone Republic

He leaned over me to have a look. “What are you…” Seeing what I meant, Lee stood up and opened the locker above our seats. He pulled out our flight information.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I see the Kamehameha .” The last Expansion-class fighter carrier in operation, the Kamehameha had a distinct profile in space.

As our shuttle glided toward the fleet, I could see four Orion-class star destroyers in the distance and the familiar sight of frigates circling like remora fish. Other ships floated about. I counted at least twenty Athens-class light missile carriers, oblong ships with diamond-shaped bows, hovering along one edge of the fleet. Five Interdictor-class battleships—bat-shaped ships that looked like miniature carriers—led the fleet.

“Looks like Admiral Thurston persuaded Klyber to expand the fleet. It’s about time,” Lee said.

I recognized other kinds of ships, too—ships I had heard about but never actually seen. We passed under a minesweeper—a short, sturdy ship that looked like a flying tunnel. Tiny communications ships buzzed around the fleet. The new ships had no armament at all, only large, retractable antenna arrays that pointed in every direction. Off in the distance, three huge barges sat perfectly still.

“I don’t think Klyber had anything to do with this,” I said.

“You can’t order this kind of hardware without HQ’s permission,” Lee said.

As our transport landed on the Kamehameha, I told Lee about the news story I had seen. When I described seeing Klyber in the Senate, he shook his head. “And leave the fleet to an underaged outworlder?” He smiled. “Klyber wouldn’t do that.”

But we both knew that he had.

Under Bryce Klyber, the fleet ran efficiently. Under Thurston, it ran precisely. Prior to returning from leave of absence, I would have thought running efficiently and operating precisely meant the same thing.

When Lee and I reached the barracks, we saw a training schedule posted on the wall. The schedule had slots for the gunnery range, exercise, obstacle and field training, tactical review, and meals. Nights were generally open. With Admiral Klyber at the helm, sergeants evaluated their own platoons and trained them accordingly. Now that Thurston controlled the fleet, officers attended drills and gave out evaluations.

“Damn,” said Lee. “Somebody is serious about this.”

According to the schedule, the platoon was drilling when we arrived. Looking at that schedule, I felt a cold spot in my stomach. Yes, it addressed important issues like tighter discipline, but I could not ignore the gnawing feeling that officers had wrestled away my authority over my men.

“I wonder what else has changed,” I said, as we went to stow our gear.

“Judging by this schedule, I don’t think you are going to need to worry about marksmanship anymore,” he said.

Maybe it was the emptiness of the barracks or maybe it was the pain in the small of my back. I looked around at the quarters. The beds were made, the lockers were neat. The air in the Kamehameha was dry and cool, and bright lights cast a dull glare in every inch of the room. I thought about the villa we rented in Hawaii. I thought about Kasara, her messy apartment, and the way she looked when I first saw her on the beach. I opened my locker, stowed my clothes, and saw my armor.

As I folded my duffel and placed it in the back of my locker, the clatter of boots cut through the silence. The hatch opened and my men clambered in. I expected to see Sergeant Grayson leading the group, so I was surprised when a man I had never seen before bellowed out orders. The man was a Liberator—First Sergeant Booth Lector.

Liberator clones, like Lector and me, stand just over six feet, three inches tall—four inches taller than later models. Something in Lector’s demeanor made him seem even taller. He seemed to fill the room. He had iron gray hair and a bushy mustache that came down along the corners of his mouth. His face, neck, and hands were covered with small scars, including a bald strip through his right eyebrow. Seeing that particular scar, I became very aware of a similar one I brought home as a souvenir from my fight with Boyd.

Upon seeing me in the office at the back of the barracks, Lector dismissed the men. His mouth curled into a snarl, revealing two missing teeth. The Corps did not waste other prosthetics on enlisted men, but even clones could get their teeth replaced.

“Sergeant Harris,” Lector said in a voice that was surprisingly high and stiff. “May I have a word with you?” He had entered my office, a soundproof cubbyhole of a room with a large window that opened to the rest of the barracks.

Glancing out the window, I saw the men in the platoon gathering around Vince Lee. By the pats on the back and the excited expressions, I could tell they were glad to see him. This new sergeant had clearly worked them hard, and they probably hoped that Lee and I would return things to normal.

Not all of the men came to see Lee, however. Several younger-looking privates quietly stowed their rifles and armor. It was difficult to separate the new faces from the old in an all-clone platoon, but I assumed these were replacements who had arrived while Lee and I were away on leave.

“Sure,” I said, feeling a bit off-balance. As I reached to shut the door, Vince Lee, who had already changed into uniform, stepped into the office. He stood silently in the entrance.

“Perhaps we could find someplace more private to speak,” said Lector. “Why don’t you come with me to the gunnery range.”

Standing behind Lector, where the sergeant would not see him, Lee shook his head. His mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes fixed directly on mine. Vince looked nervous, but he need not have worried. I was not about to go to the range with this man. Lector’s rage was primal and open.

“Look, Sergeant…” I realized that I did not know his name.

“Lector.”

“Sergeant Lector,” I said, “I just got back from two weeks’ leave. Perhaps we can talk later.”

“Excuse me, Harris,” Lee broke in. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I heard that Captain McKay is looking for you.”

“Maybe we can have that conversation when I get back,” I said, glad to excuse myself. Lector gazed at me. There was an angry chill in his expression. He also had an unmistakable air of competence. Talking to Lector, I had the feeling that he was a man who accomplished whatever he set out to do, good or bad. I remembered how angry Shannon was the first time I met him, but Shannon was a cool breeze compared to Lector. Lector’s anger seethed. It felt focused and vicious.

“We’ll speak later,” Lector snarled, turning sharply and leaving the office.

“That was scary,” I said. I thought Lee had made up that story about McKay to help me escape Lector. That was not the case. Captain McKay really was looking for me. Stopping only to put on my cap, I left the barracks.

McKay worked out of a small office in an administrative section, two decks above our barracks. He was a young officer on the fast track. Few majors or colonels had offices so near the top brass.

But a lot had changed in the two weeks that I was away. Stepping off the elevator, I saw a small, wooden plaque on the door. The plaque was new and so was the name— “Lt. Colonel Stephen Kaiser.” Not grasping the concept that McKay could have moved, I stood by the door puzzling the obvious. Kaiser opened the door. “Can I help you, Sergeant?” he asked.

“I was looking for Captain Gaylan McKay, sir,” I said, feeling uncertain of myself.

“McKay?” he asked. “This used to be his office. I think they moved him two decks down.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, with a salute.