Rogue Clone: The Clone Betrayal Part 33

"What are you going to do, Gary, take away my command? Is that what you want? Are you out of your specking mind?" Fahey's mouth worked into a sneer that showed most of his teeth.

Warshaw did not look crazy. He looked tired and focused, like a man finishing a twelve-hour work shift, as he said, "Senior Chief, you are relieved of command."

Fahey fell back into his seat. "Gary," he said. "What are you doing? You're taking his side?" At that moment it struck me that there was nothing feminine about Perry Fahey other than his makeup. He did not speak in a falsetto or behave like a woman.

"I am relieving you of command and stripping you of your field rank," Warshaw said. He turned to me, and said, "General Harris, would you have one of your Marines escort this man to the brig?"

"Aye," I said. I turned to Hollingsworth and issued the order.

Hollingsworth rose from his seat and walked over to Fahey. "Senior Chief, I have orders to deliver you to the brig. Please come with me," he said, in a flat voice.

The two men had once been friends, it showed in both their expressions. Fahey stared at Hollingsworth, anger and amazement showing in his eyes. Hollingsworth looked stiff, like a man gearing up for an unpleasant task.

"Idiots. You're all idiots," Fahey muttered, as he rose to his feet. He allowed Hollingsworth to lead him out of the room without speaking another word. Watching them leave, I wondered if I should have had Thomer escort Fahey instead. Hollingsworth and Fahey had served together, and I still had questions about his loyalties.

"It's about time somebody put him away," Thomer said, shattering the tense silence in the room.

"I apologize, General Harris. I do not know how Fahey came up with that s.h.i.t. When I told him about what had happened, it never occurred to me that he would twist it like that," Warshaw said.

"I never liked that a.s.shole," said Franks.

Listening to them, I knew we needed to change our chain of command. Warshaw was right, I could not run this fleet. Ships and the strategies of open-s.p.a.ce combat were not my forte. Unfortunately, Warshaw, the veteran engineer, was not much more qualified than I was. He knew how to fix ships, not how to run them.

I took a deep breath, flashed a weary smile, and said, "Let's move on."

The other officers nodded. Thomer, who seemed to have woken from his funk, shuffled in his chair and sat upright.

"I'll start," Warshaw said. He stood and stretched, his ma.s.sive shoulders and neck bulging. "We have several teams working round the clock on the G.C. Fleet. We have identified 328 ships that look like they might have salvageable broadcast equipment. The other ships are so banged up, we've written them off."

"Is that wise? I mean, we're going to need all the gear we can get," Franks interrupted.

"First, we go for the low-hanging fruit," Warshaw said. "We don't know how much time we have before the U.A. sends more ships to guard the area."

"How is the work going?" I asked.

"We've landed teams on 125 ships."

Finding himself in his natural element, reporting on an engineering operation, Warshaw cut an impressive figure. I wondered how he would react when I suggested placing someone else in charge. The hit to his ego might blind him to the realities.

"We tested the shield systems on one of the ships, but it was a complete wash," Warshaw said. "Harris, you said the signal for the shields came from the planet. Is there any chance we could reestablish it?"

"The planet is filled with s.h.i.t gas," Thomer said.

"Excuse me, did you say 's.h.i.t gas'?" Franks asked, sounding more than amused.

"Bad stuff," I said. "Take my word for it, there's no point sending anyone down there. Even if the shield equipment didn't break, we'd never be able to get to it."

"Okay, but what is s.h.i.t gas?" Warshaw asked.

"Is that a scientific term or something you Marines came up with?" Franks asked.

"I didn't name the stuff," Thomer said. He had become defensive.

Of the two field admirals, Warshaw conducted himself more like an officer. He moved to regain control of the meeting. "Okay, it was just a thought. Without those shields, everyone we send out to the G.C. Fleet will be vulnerable if the Unifieds return." Now the U.A. were the "Unifieds." In the military, enemies must have a derogatory nickname to be taken seriously.

"Can you retrofit the G.C. Fleet broadcast equipment onto our ships?" Franks asked.

"That's the big question, isn't it?" Warshaw sighed. "I don't see why not."

"Have you landed crews on the U.A. battleships we shot down?" Franks asked. "We need to have a look at their technology."

"That's probably a Marine operation," Warshaw said.

"A Marine operation?" I asked.

"We've surveyed those ships from the outside," Warshaw said. "The systems are out, but that doesn't mean everyone aboard them is dead."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO.

Once our official business ended, Thomer returned to his quarters to rest, and our conclave dwindled to three: Warshaw, Franks, and me. As soon as the door closed behind Thomer, the dynamics of the meeting changed. Instead of two admirals and a general, our psychology seemed to revert to enlisted-man status. Differences in branch and pay grade no longer mattered, we were Gary, Lil, and Wayson-three guys serving on the s.c.r.o.t.u.m-Crotch Fleet.

Warshaw had an aide bring in some bottles, and the booze poured freely.

"What is going on with Thomer?" Franks asked. "I can't figure the guy out. One moment he's s.p.a.ced out, the next moment he's the only guy in the room with a clue what to do." He poured himself a tall gla.s.s of vodka.

We each had our personal poison of choice. Franks, who apparently preferred flame to flavor, had his bottle of vodka. Warshaw drank whiskey in small shots. I drank beer. They might get drunk, but I wouldn't. I could have set up a drip line and taken an entire keg intravenously without getting inebriated.

I did not want Warshaw or Franks to get smashed, but a little lubrication would take the edge off our conversation. Removing the sharp edges would be good.

"He's on Fallzoud," I said.

Warshaw made a low, whistling noise that sounded like a bomb falling out of the sky. "Fallzoud? That's some serious s.h.i.t. Why do you keep him around?"

"After New Copenhagen, he needed it," I said, as if it answered the question.

"I heard New Copenhagen was brutal," Franks said.

"You have about thirty thousand New Copenhagen survivors in your fleet," I said. "Almost all of the clones who transferred in with me fought there."

"Are they all on Fallzoud?" Warshaw asked. It was a fair question-a lot of them were.

"Not all of them, but a bunch. They handed it out like candy in Clonetown. It made us easier to control," I said.

"Clonetown? What the h.e.l.l is Clonetown?" asked Franks.

Warshaw knew. He said, "That's what they called the relocation camp."

"You had thousands of clones living in a relocation camp called 'Clonetown'? Why didn't they all have a death reflex and die? I mean, s.h.i.t, what does it take to make those sp.e.c.k.e.rs realize they're clones?" Franks, of course, was one of "those sp.e.c.k.e.rs"; but he seemed not even to suspect it. Now on his third gla.s.s of vodka, he was in no shape to suspect much of anything.

Warshaw had not touched his drink yet. I needed him to drink before Franks became too drunk to think. Hoping to encourage Warshaw to drink, I uncapped two beers and downed them in quick order.

Warshaw answered, "It's just like the orphanages, Franks. Think about it. All those clones packed together, each of them believing they are the only natural-born. It's the same G.o.dd.a.m.n thing."

I finished another beer. "Thomer knows," I said.

Warshaw flicked his thumb across the top of the bottle with so much force that the seal broke, and the cap spun off. I would have brought Warshaw a stein for his whiskey if I thought he'd use it, but he used a specking shot gla.s.s, not even a tumbler. He filled the gla.s.s and tossed it down, refilled, but waited to drink. The veins and muscles in his neck flexed when he downed his drink.

"Thomer knows what?" Franks asked. If he lost any more of his edge, we'd have to tuck him in for the night.

"He knows he's a clone, a.s.shole," Warshaw said. He downed another shot.

I downed another beer.

"He can't know that, or he'd be dead," Franks said.

"I heard that could happen," Warshaw said. "I heard there were drugs that would block the reflex. Fallzoud must be one of 'em."

"He had a pretty good idea where he came from before he got hooked," I said. "I've known Thomer a long time. He always had his suspicions."

"Speck! That's hard s.h.i.t. I mean, G.o.d, who'd want to be a clone?" Franks said.

Warshaw stared at him. Even if he'd wanted to inform Franks that he, too, was a clone, Warshaw's neural programming would not permit him to do it.

"I'm trying to get him off the Fallzoud," I said.

"What happens to him if he quits?" Warshaw asked. "Can he still have the reflex?"

"Probably not," I said. "If he were going to have a reflex, he'd probably have had it when he dried out between ludings."

"Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Franks said. He drained his gla.s.s but made no move to pour a refill.

"Harris, are you nervous about sweeping those battleships tomorrow?" Warshaw asked. He drained another shot, reloaded, and drained it again.

"Not really. There aren't going to be any survivors. You guys blew the h.e.l.l out of those ships, no one could have survived that." I thought about the frozen dead I'd seen on other wrecks and tipped my beer in salute.

Seeing me drink seemed to relax Warshaw. He tossed another shot.

"If they sealed off some parts of the ship, those areas might have air and pressure," Warshaw pointed out.

"What are they going to do about the specking cold?" I asked.

"What about reinforcements?" Warshaw asked. "What if they sent for help?"

"How would they call for reinforcements, they'd need a broadcast network."

"The Mogats sent messages," Franks said. "I heard they set up spy stations in every arm."

"They did, but they had to build them around their own private broadcast network. They had mini broadcast engines that sent and received messages."

"Maybe these ships have mini broadcast engines, too," Franks said. He slurred his words as he spoke. "You don't specking know if they have mini broadcast engines on their ships."

"Maybe," I admitted. "But why would they have come in alone if they could have called for help?" I asked. "They would have called for backup."

Franks started to reach for his bottle, and paused. "They had newer, better ships," he said. "Those c.o.c.ky p.r.i.c.ks probably thought they could take us easy."

"They probably did," I agreed.

Franks nodded. Warshaw tossed back yet another shot of whiskey. If he wasn't properly lubricated by now, he never would be.

Deciding to make my move, I said, "You know, you and I are both in the s.h.i.ts," to Warshaw. "My second-in-command is a Fallzoud sinker, and yours is in the brig."

"Fahey? Don't you worry about his a.s.s. I'll take care of him," Warshaw said.

I heard sharpness in his voice. My bringing up Fahey burned through the whiskey haze. "You told me that no Marine was fit to command a fleet," I said. "Do you remember that?"

"Something like that, yeah," Warshaw agreed.

"Engineering officers don't cut it either," I said. "When was the last time you heard about an engineer making admiral?"

"You son of a . . ." He jumped to his feet, his fists tight and his arms flexed.

I put up a hand. "I'm not trying to take over. I don't believe either one of us is fit for command."

Warshaw calmed slightly. His fists opened, and his shoulders relaxed, but he did not sit down. "What are you saying, Harris?"

"I'm saying we both need to step down," I said.

"And get pa.s.sed over for command?"

"You think Marines aren't fit for command because they don't understand naval operations."

"d.a.m.n specking right they don't," Warshaw said. He dropped back into his seat.

"You're right. We don't. The problem is, engineers don't know s.h.i.t about operations, either. What this fleet needs is a bridge officer, not a wrench jockey."

"You mean him?" Warshaw asked, his mouth working into a sardonic smile. He nodded toward Franks, who sat pa.s.sed out in his chair, his back slumped, his face flush against the conference table, saliva forming a pool in front of his opened mouth. He snored softly.

"You're joking, right?" Warshaw asked.

Feeling embarra.s.sed, I said, "He's next in line."

Warshaw laughed.