Steven Kent - The Clone Republic

“If the news of this massacre gets out, we may find our citizenship officially revoked,” I said. “The Liberators who fought in the Galactic Central War were never allowed back into the Orion Arm for massacring prisoners on Albatross Island.”

“I heard that they killed the guards,” Lee said. “And how would that news get out, anyway? We’re on the extreme frontier.”

I knew about neural programming. Dammit, I knew that the new clones were programmed to take orders, but still I could not believe my ears. “You’re not bothered by any of this?”

“Hold that thought,” Lee said. He got up from the table and went to the bar. By that time, a pretty big crowd of noncoms and conscripts had drifted in. It took Lee nearly fifteen minutes to order four beers and return with the bottles.

“Okay,” he said as he sat down. “I think you were just telling me your latest conspiracy theory.”

“Get specked,” I said. “Look, Lee, we’re not going to do this drop in boats. If the plan is to trap and massacre the enemy, why not drop down on the land side of the foothills and chase the enemy into the sea.”

“They’re Japanese,” Lee said. “Maybe they are good swimmers.” He shrugged and downed his next beer.

“You think that’s funny?” I asked.

“Calm down. Robert Thurston planned this invasion. The guy is a friggin’ genius. He kicked Klyber’s ass.”

I put up my hand to quiet Lee. So many noisy Marines had come to the bar to celebrate by then that I could barely hear him anyway. But not all of the patrons were enlisted men. Captain McKay sat at a nearby table flanked by Lector, Saul, and Marshall.

“What is it?” Lee asked. He started to turn for a look, but stopped when I told him to sit still.

“It’s McKay,” I said. “He’s sitting three tables from us with Lector and his boys.” I had never spoken with Saul or Marshall, but they were cut from the same helix as Lector. The three ghouls spent their free time clustered together, speaking in quiet tones and bullying enlisted men. Just then, they were huddled around McKay.

“The Kamehameha was a better place before they transferred in,” one of the privates from our platoon said as he joined us. “Got room at your table?”

“Have a seat,” Lee said, smiling. His expression turned serious again quickly. “Those bastards are evil. I thought Shannon was bad. No offense, Harris, but you and Shannon are defective. Lector is the real Liberator. He almost killed a guy in Doherty’s platoon today…sent him to sick bay with a dislocated shoulder and a broken collarbone.”

“I don’t think Captain McKay likes them,” the private said. “I saw them come in together. McKay looked nervous.”

Risking a quick glance, I peered around Lee and noticed the stiff way McKay sat in his chair. He stared angrily at Lector. Though all three of the new sergeants had the exact same face, I had no trouble telling them apart by their scars. Lector had that wide gash through his left eyebrow and a long, spiraling scar on his left cheek. Marshall had bald spots, probably the result of shrapnel, in his thinning white hair. Of the three, Saul might have had it the worst. The skin on his face was lumpy and blotched. He must have been burned in some kind of chemical fire. The scarring most likely covered his entire body.

McKay said something quietly. I could not hear him above the chatter in the bar. He placed his hand on the table and started to stand, but Lector placed a hand over McKay’s and held him down. They traded more inaudible talk. Lector said something, and Captain McKay nodded. Lector removed his hand from McKay’s, and the captain stormed away from the table.

Lee had turned to watch the exchange. “Look at them, Wayson,” Lee whispered. “I’d kill myself if I were a clone.”

“How you going to do it?” I asked distractedly.

Lee laughed. “I would not joke about that if I were you.”

Apparently, Admiral Thurston believed one ship could handle our mission. The Kamehameha was almost alone in the quadrant. We had no accompanying frigates or cruisers; only one lone communications ship hovered nearby.

The logistics were simple enough. The Kamehameha carried fifteen armored transports, each of which could carry two platoons and supplies. Two trips per transport, and all twenty-three hundred Marines would be in position. My platoon, of course, got to land in the first wave.

As we prepared to take our place in the kettle, I found out what Lector and McKay were discussing in the bar. Captain McKay’s command included the Twelfth and Thirteenth Platoons—Sergeant Grayson’s. But it wasn’t Grayson I saw at the head of the Thirteenth when I led my squad into the kettle. Lector paced the floor goading his men. Marshall and Saul sat at the stern of the ship.

“Harris.” I turned and was surprised to see Captain McKay, wearing full armor with his helmet off, boarding the AT.

I saluted. “You’re coming down in the kettle, sir?” This was the first time I had seen an officer ride with the ground fodder. Usually they stayed a safe distance away.

“Orders,” McKay said, returning my salute. “Harris, you saw that they switched Grayson out of the thirteenth Platoon. Somebody placed all four Liberators in one company. I get the feeling they want to make a clean sweep.”

“I get that feeling too, sir.”

McKay signaled toward Lector with the slightest of eye motions. “Watch my back, Harris. I want to survive this mission. I don’t want to die on Little Man.”

“I will do what I can for you, sir.” In my gut, I had the sinking feeling that it wouldn’t be much.

We were both sergeants, but Booth Lector outranked me. I was just a sergeant. He was a first sergeant. In the noncommissioned ranks, Lector was just one step from the top.

“Okay, so now I am nervous,” Lee said over a private interLink frequency. “What are Lector and Saul doing on our AT? What is McKay doing here? God, I hate Liberators.”

“They shuffled the sergeants,” I said. “And you are speaking to a Liberator.”

“You’re only a Liberator in theory,” Lee said. “Lector’s the real thing.”

Several of my men removed their helmets and placed them on the floor. Judging by their expressions, I got the feeling that the grim mood had spread across the kettle. No one spoke. No one, that is, except Sergeants Lector, Marshall, and Saul. After liftoff, while the rest of the men quietly attached rifle stocks to their M27s or inspected the inventory in their belts, Lector and his friends continued to chat.

I sat with Lee in the back of the ship, whispering back and forth with him over the interLink.

“Why would McKay trade Grayson for those three?” Lee asked.

“I don’t think McKay calls the shots anymore,” I said. “He looked pretty nervous at the bar last night. He must have gotten a memo about the change in platoons right after the briefing. He probably took Lector to the bar to discuss the transfer.

“Remember when McKay tried to leave and Lector stopped him? McKay must have told them how he wanted to run things and found out that Lector and his pals had ideas of

their own.”

“You think they threatened him?” Lee asked.

“He’s staying as far from them as he can. Lector probably said something about friendly fire or battlefield accidents.”

“That cuts two ways,” Lee said.

“It should,” I agreed. Looking around the kettle, I knew that it did not. Standard clones were incapable of that kind of initiative; it was not in their programming.

A yellow light flashed over the cabin, warning us that we were broaching the atmosphere. The kettle shuttered. Men who were standing jolted forward but did not lose their balance.