Steven Kent - The Clone Republic

I told Oberland about Bill Hawkins producing my helmet. He listened intently, especially when I brought up the video feed.

“Hawkins should be more careful. Klyber is a powerful enemy,” Oberland said. “I imagine he is also a powerful ally. I don’t suppose his appearance in the House was a lucky accident?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I just got transferred to his new ship.”

“That makes sense. Klyber’s involvement with Liberators was never much of a secret. We used to call them ‘Klyber’s brew.’ Of course, we didn’t say that in front of him…or them.”

“Admiral Klyber told me that creating Liberators was the only black mark on his career,” I said. “I get the feeling that he sees me as a way to wipe the slate clean.”

“Pulling six men off Little Man was impressive,” Oberland said as he started up his salad again. “Too bad you weren’t able to pull an officer with them.”

“You mean a natural-born,” I said.

“Yes. Saving those clones was quite a feat, but it will take a lot more than saving clones to give Liberators a good name.”

“I suppose,” I said.

“I haven’t heard anything about Klyber taking command of a new ship,” Oberland said.

“My transfer didn’t list a fleet, just a ship called the Doctrinaire .”

“Klyber does not get involved with a project unless it is important,” Oberland said. He looked at his wristwatch then stared out the window. I could tell he felt rushed. He drummed his fingers on table for a moment. “I want to ask you something. I’ve wanted to ask you this since the first time you walked into my simulation lab. Wayson, you always seemed like a good kid.”

“Are you asking if I am like Lector?” I interrupted.

Considering my question, Oberland checked his watch and looked out the window again. Crowds of people had filed into the station. I had not noticed it before, but Oberland had a small overnight bag beside his seat. “I would never have allowed you in my simulations lab if I’d thought you were like Lector. But you have the same programming and the same genes.”

“See these scars?” I pointed to my eyebrow and down my cheek. “These aren’t from Little Man. I never got so much as a nick on Little Man. These came from Hawaii.”

“Hawaii?” Oberland said, clearly strolling down some old memory lane. I was afraid he would ask if I had gone to Sad Sam’s Palace, but all he said was “I used to go there on leave.”

“I got in a fight with a Navy SEAL. He was short, almost a midget. He came up to here on me,” I said, running my pointer finger along my collarbone. “I’ve never seen anybody move so fast in a fight. And his fingers were like talons. He could have killed me right from the start, but he gave me a chance.” I laughed a short, hollow laugh and paused to relive the fight in my mind. “The little bastard made a mistake, and I got the upper hand. I damn near killed him.

“You want to hear something strange? I think he was a clone.”

Oberland shook his head. “SEALs are natural-born.”

“That’s the way of things, isn’t it? Replace the valuable with the expendable. Get rid of the natural-borns with their relatives and their political pratfalls and exchange them for clones. You can tailor clones to fit your needs.”

“I suppose that was what Klyber did when he made Liberators,” Oberland said, in a tired voice.

“The best Marine I ever met was a Liberator, a sergeant named Tabor Shannon. He and I got drunk together the night that I found out I was a clone. You know what he told me? He said that being a clone meant that you never wondered about right and wrong. He said that we were man-made, and our commanding officer was our god and creator. That sounds bad when I think about massacres like New Prague, but this guy was nothing like Lector. I think Liberators make their own choices, just like everybody else.”

“Wayson, I’m already late for my transport,” Oberland said as he stepped out of the booth.

“I’m glad you came,” I said. “It’s nice seeing a friendly face.”

I stood up and shook Oberland’s hand. He grabbed his overnight bag and trotted out the door, pausing for only a moment to look back at me. Oberland, a small, trim man with messy white hair, blended into the transport station crowd and vanished. I wished that I could go with him and return to the orphanage. “Good-bye, old friend,” I whispered to myself.

It turned out to be my day for meeting old friends.

I did not feel like returning to base and sitting around, ignored by Baxter and the other sailors, so I went to a nearby bar and found a small table in a dark corner where I thought no one would notice me. It was a nice place, more lavish than the sea-soldiers’ drinking hole on the Kamehameha . The place had dim red lights that gave the beige walls a dark, cozy feel. During the quiet hours of the late afternoon, the bartender struck up conversations with the customers seated around the bar as he poured drinks.

I felt at home. The Earth-grown brew flowed freely enough there, and nobody looked like a politician. Everything seemed right in the universe except that I could not seem to get even remotely drunk. Then off-duty sailors started rolling into the bar. The first stray dogs showed around 1700 hours. By 1900, gabbing, happy swabbies filled the place. A few stragglers hovered around the counter swilling down drinks as fast as they could order them while dozens more crowded around tables swapping jokes and smacking each other on the arms. Sitting morosely in my quiet little corner, drinking my tenth or possibly fifteenth beer, I thought how much I hated this city.

Ray Freeman entered the bar.

I don’t think anybody knew who he was; they just knew he was dangerous. Dressed in his jumpsuit with its armored breastplate, Freeman looked like he had come in from a war. He stood more than a foot taller than most of the men he passed.

Silence spread across the bar like an infection. Sailors stepped out of his way as he crossed the floor. Freeman walked through the crowd without stopping for a drink. He came to my table. “Hello, Harris,” he said.

“How’d you recognize me without my helmet?” I quipped.

“Liberators aren’t hard to spot,” Freeman said. “At least that’s what they’re saying on the mediaLink.”

“Neither are seven-foot mercenaries,” I said.

Freeman sat down across the table from me.

“The chair isn’t taken,” I said. “Why don’t you join me?”

“You were lucky to get off Little Man alive,” Freeman said.

So much for small talk, I thought. “Thank you for that insight. Next time I get chased by ten thousand angry Mogats, I won’t mistakenly think that I have everything under control.”

With his dark skin and clothes, Freeman looked like a shadow in the dim ambiance of the bar. He smiled and looked around. “You should quit the Marines,” he said. “Why don’t you quit?”

“It’s in my genes,” I responded, pleased with my little joke. Freeman did not laugh, not even a chuckle. “You didn’t come to Washington, DC, just to tell me to quit the Corps?”

By that time the sailors around the bar had forgotten about us. They joked, laughed, and told stories at the tops of their lungs. Freeman, however, made no adjustment to compensate for their rising decibels. He spoke in the same quiet, rumbling voice that he always used. “We could be partners,” he said.

“What did you say?” I asked. “I didn’t understand you. It sounded like you said I should become your partner.”

“We’d do good together.”

I paused to stare at him. Ray Freeman, the perfect killing machine and the coldest man alive, had just asked me to be his partner.