Steven Kent - The Clone Republic

Freeman’s shaved head was so massive that it looked like he was wearing a helmet. A small knot of scars formed a paisley pattern on the back of his skull. He had a wide nose, which looked as if it had been broken several times, and thick lips. His neck was as wide around as either of my thighs. It completely filled the collar of his jumper, a garment that looked lost between Army fatigues and a pilot’s uniform. Dents and scratches dotted every inch of the massive armored plate that covered his chest and shoulders. Judging by the scars and battered armor, I knew this man had enemies.

“Who commands this outpost?” Freeman asked.

“That would be Sergeant Godfrey,” Rickman said, looking more than a little intimidated.

“Take me to him,” Freeman said, in a soft and low voice that reminded me of gunfire echoing in a valley.

Without saying a word, Rickman turned and walked straight to Godfrey’s office. Relieved to get away from the giant, I stayed back to examine this strange, old ship. When Rickman returned a few moments later, he mumbled something like, “tear off his friggin’ head and spit in the holes.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” Rickman said.

“I think I’ll stay out of his way,” I said.

“Don’t count on it,” Rickman said. “He sent me out here to get you.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. You get to go meet with Chuckles down in Godfrey’s office.”

I took a deep breath and headed for the barracks to grab my helmet. By that time, it occurred to me that Admiral Brocius might have sent the visitor, and I did not want to be caught out of uniform twice in one night. When I reported to Godfrey, I saw Freeman sitting cramped behind the sergeant’s desk as if it were his own. Godfrey met me as I closed the door.

“Harris, this is Ray Freeman. He is here on orders from Admiral Brocius,” Godfrey said, using the interLink system built into our helmets so that Freeman would not hear us.

“Here to catch…?” I asked.

“He’s a mercenary,” Godfrey said, “and a real charmer.”

“Two men saw Crowley,” Freeman said in that same implacable voice.

“The other man was Private Guttman,” Godfrey answered on his open microphone.

“Get him,” Freeman said.

“Go get him, Harris,” Godfrey said.

As I started to leave, Freeman said, “You go get him, Sergeant. I want to speak with the private.” Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to go look for Guttman.

Sergeant Godfrey left without looking back.

“Remove your helmet,” Freeman said as he placed a folder with the Central Cygnus Fleet seal on the desk. “This is the man you saw?” he asked, pulling a photograph from the top of the folder.

“Yes,” I said. “I saw him enter a poker game in Morrow-town.”

“You’re sure this was the man?”

I nodded.

“Tell me about the game,” Freeman said, with that low, rumbling voice. He listened carefully as I told the story, his face betraying no emotion. He did not say anything when I finished. Looking through me, he reached over and pressed the intercom button on Godfrey’s desk, and said, “Send in the other one.”

Godfrey and Guttman stepped into the room. Sergeant Godfrey retreated to a far corner and sat quietly.

Guttman, sweat rolling down his pale and puffy face, stood trembling before the desk. He had tried to dress properly for the meeting, but his armor would not cooperate. He wore his helmet, which no longer fit over his globe-shaped head, like a crown around his forehead. Guttman’s chest-plate dangled from his neck. He’d used belts to lash his forearm guards and thigh plates in place. If I had not known that Taj Guttman was a Marine, I would have guessed that he was a comedian doing a parody of military life.

Freeman seemed not to notice. No glint of humor showed in his face as he directed Guttman to a chair by the desk with a nod. Once Guttman lowered himself into his chair, Freeman showed him the picture of Crowley. “This the man?”

“I’m not sure. It may have been him. It could be him. I really did not get a good look at that man,” Guttman twittered nervously. “I suppose Harris told you where we saw him?”

“He mentioned a card game,” Freeman said.

“I see,” said Guttman. “Whoever he was, he wasn’t very good at cards. He won the first hand, then I cleaned him out on the second. He quit after the third hand.”

“What were the stakes?” Freeman asked.

“Morrowtown isn’t exactly a gambler’s paradise,” Guttman said, as sweat dribbled down his forehead. “You might take home $50 if the locals are feeling dangerous.”

“I understand you can also win government-issue sidearms?” Freeman said.

Guttman turned completely white. He must have hoped that I would hide that part of the story. He glared at me for a moment, then turned back to Freeman. “Yes, I suppose. I don’t think he had ever seen one before. He held it like he was afraid it would bite him.”

“Is that the pistol?” Freeman asked, pointing down at Guttman’s holster.

Guttman fished it out of its sleeve and placed it on the desk. Freeman picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, exactly as Crowley had done. Dangling from the mercenary’s thick fingers, Guttman’s gun looked like a child’s toy. “Is this how he held it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just like that.”

“Idiot,” Freeman said, placing the pistol back on the desk. “He shut off the charge guard outtake valve. This pistol will explode the next time you fire it.”

Guttman looked at the weapon as if it had suddenly grown fangs. Spinning it in place rather than picking it up, he checked the energy meter, gasped, then moved his hands away quickly. “What do I do with it? Will it blow up?”

Freeman did not bother answering. Turning toward the communications console, he quietly said, “Take your weapon and wait in the hall.” Guttman picked up his pistol and held it out in front of him as far as his arms could reach. Keeping both eyes fixed on the gun, he shuffled out of the office. I did not know which scared him more, carrying a sabotaged pistol or talking to Freeman.

“You wait outside, too,” Freeman said to me.

I started to leave, then stopped. “Excuse me, sir,” I said. “I remembered something else.”

Freeman, who was now standing behind the desk, stared down at me. He did not say anything as he waited for me to speak.

“When Guttman lost that first game, he said something about sand ruining these guns. He told Crowley that we had

thousands of them around the base.”

Freeman looked at me and nodded.

“That will be all, Harris,” Godfrey said over the interLink.

“Don’t go far,” Freeman said.

As I left the room, I found Guttman pacing in the hallway. He stormed over to me and stared into my visor. His pudgy face turned red, and his lips were blue as he snarled at me. “Great job, pal! Now I’m in deep.”

“Guttman, that gun would have blown up in your face if you ever got around to shooting it,” I said.

Guttman stopped for a moment and thought. His breathing slowed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He pointed down the hall where his pistol lay on a table. “Do you know how to fix it?”

If there is one thing you learn in basic training, it’s how to maintain a sidearm. All he had to do was open the buffer valve and discharge some gas. But Guttman had forgotten basic training. It must have been years since he had last stripped and cleaned a pistol.

“Drain the chamber,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “Can you help me?”

The door opened behind us, and Godfrey peered out. “Harris. Mr. Charming would like another word with you.”