Rogue Clone: The Clone Betrayal Part 6

Most Fallzoud junkies turn into paranoid schizophrenics, but they also became capable of learning they were clones without having a death reflex. The drug was dangerous, but it had its uses.

The attendants manning the Clonetown medical dispensary handed out Fallzoud to anyone who asked. They wanted us on the drug; it made us less of a threat. Hundreds of clones had come to Clonetown with a Fallzoud habit; and thousands would leave here that way.

"h.e.l.lo, Thomer," I said as I sat down beside him.

"Good morning," he said, turning his head and staring at me. His eyes were dull and heavy-lidded. After luding, Thomer sometimes went a half hour at a time without blinking.

"How are you feeling, Master Sergeant?" I asked, wanting to evaluate his condition before starting an important discussion.

"I just sprayed. I feel great," he said.

Deciding I would do better to come back when he had a few less bats in his belfry, I climbed to my feet. Fallzoud worked its magic quickly and with profound effect. In another hour, Thomer would show signs of intelligence. He'd remain unmotivated and lethargic; but at this moment, I would have described him as closer to catatonic.

"Maybe we should talk later," I said.

Drug-dulled as he was, Thomer managed to climb to his feet. "It's okay, sir. You don't need to leave, I'm a little sluggish, that's all."

A little sluggish my a.s.s; if he turned any more sluglike, he'd leave a mucus trail. Not trusting his ability to grasp what I had to tell him, I suggested we find Herrington-my third in command. Maybe keeping Thomer on his feet would circulate some oxygen to his brain.

Herrington and Thomer had once been very similar. Thomer was more of a Boy Scout and Herrington more of a Marine, but they both lived by the rules and led by example. They had something else in common, too. Both of them lost best friends on New Copenhagen. Herrington, who was twenty years older than Thomer, shrugged off the loss. Thomer fell apart at the seams. I thought I could still trust him in battle, though. When a good Marine goes into battle, the drugs, doubts and, all-purpose demons go on the back shelf.

"Think you can go a full day without a Fallzoud breakfast?" I asked, as we crossed a "yard." They called the open areas of Clonetown yards even though they were dry and bald with not so much as a tuft of gra.s.s. The glare from the open sunlight left me squinting, and heat had already begun to radiate off the corrugated tin buildings. I saw ripples of heat in the air and wondered how Ava was doing.

It took us an hour to find Herrington. When we finally did locate him, he was sitting in one of the first places we had looked-a set of bleachers sitting in the shade of a guard tower and overlooking the parade grounds. Herrington saw us coming and waved, then looked back at the field. As we approached, I noticed his venomous grin.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

Looking down on the field, I saw a ring of recruits standing around a fallen comrade. The man lay flat on his back, legs out straight, two pugil sticks near his feet.

"Looks like they finally found a fighter," I said.

"He'll be doing it in the brig. The guy on the ground is an officer. One of the recruits lost his grip on his pugil stick, and it flew off and hit him in the head."

"You're joking?"

"Knocked him out cold," Herrington said. "It was the first clean shot I've seen all day."

As Herrington filled me in on the accident, Thomer stared out across the field with a blank expression. His hair was not regulation length and he needed a shave. I wondered if the reliable Marine I once knew still lived in that head.

"I had a visitor last night," I began. "Anyone want to guess who?"

"It couldn't have been Ava Gardner; she was too busy in my rack," Herrington said, an amused look on his face.

The joke hit too close to a truth that I was not yet ready to share, so I answered my own question. "Al Smith favored me with a visit."

Herrington whistled, then said, "The Old Man of the Air Force himself?"

"I heard something about a convoy driving through last night," Thomer said.

Herrington asked, "General Smith. I don't suppose he came bearing an apology?"

"Not exactly," I said, "but he did say we're going back on active duty. They're transferring the entire camp out to the Scutum-Crux Fleet."

"Back on active duty?" Thomer asked. "That sounds good." He was almost out of the stupor phase of his intoxication. Next he would begin a short period of paranoia. In another hour he would become withdrawn and stay in his sh.e.l.l until his next dose. Withdrawn would be an improvement.

"Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are just trying to get rid of us by shipping us across the specking galaxy," Herrington said, stating the obvious. Giving it more thought, he added, "Oh well, at least we're going to be babysitting battleships. If it gets me out of this s.h.i.t hole, I'm all for it."

"Smith says they've made contact with survivors on Terraneau. Our mission is to retake the planet and establish it as a base for the fleet," I said. "They're pulling all of the natural-borns out. I guess we get to do whatever we want once they're gone."

"The universe's first all-clone fleet," Herrington observed. "Rape, pillage, and plunder in an abandoned corner of the galaxy. Hooha!"

Thomer, a clone who suspected he might be a clone, shook his head. "What about the death reflex? Won't we lose a lot of men when they hear they are sailing with an all-clone fleet?"

"Not clones, 'enlisted men,' " I said. "They even covered that in the orders. From here on out, we only refer to ourselves as an 'Enlisted Man's Fleet.' "

Everything happened the way General Smith said it would. One week after he left, I received a message letting me know that I had been reinstated, given a transfer to the Scutum-Crux Fleet, and handed a new pay grade. I was promoted to captain in the Unified Authority Marines.

Every man in Clonetown received orders the following day. Like me, they had been transferred to the SC Fleet.

Battalions of officers descended on Clonetown to a.s.sign men new Military Occupational Specialties. They arranged us into platoons, companies, battalions, and regiments. It didn't matter what branch the clones were in before, they were all a.s.signed to the Marines from here on out, and I was officially their commanding officer.

Fort Bliss armory issued us combat armor complete with everything but sidearms. Every man received two government-issue rucksacks, one contained a set of regulation Marine combat armor, and the other contained clothes and toiletries.

I was issued two sets of armor. I carried both sets back to my billet to inspect them.

As she always did, Ava hid under my rack when she heard someone approaching the door. The place looked empty, but I knew where she was. Closing the door, I said, "Come on out, it's me."

There was a pause as she searched the quarters from beneath the cot to make sure she was safe, then wiggled out. Her white cotton blouse was mostly brown now, and permanent stains had formed under her arms. She constantly washed her face and arms with a rag and water. Her skin was as white and creamy as ever, but her hair was a snarl.

"What's that?" she asked as she climbed to her feet.

I hated stupid questions; the words "Combat Armor" were clearly displayed on each rucksack. "Government-issue panties," I said. "All the men are wearing them."

She flinched as if I had threatened her. It always happened. She asked some stupid question, I answered sarcastically, and she winced and went silent. I hated it. I specking hated living with Ava.

"It's combat armor," I said. "They gave me two sets."

"Why do you need two sets?" she asked.

"One is for you."

I opened the first set and saw it was mine. The helmet had a discreet cl.u.s.ter near the collar identifying it as command gear. I pulled out the leg shield and chest. Sure enough, they fit me perfectly. I could fit into arm shields and leggings made for general-issue clones, but they were short for me.

I had no trouble spotting the modifications on the second suit of combat armor. The boots had three-inch-thick soles. The arms were short. The chest plates were designed to compress and conceal a woman's chest. Ava would find them constricting, but they would make her look like a man.

"Somebody went to a lot of trouble putting this together for you," I said.

Ava took the armor, and said, "Honey, if they wanted to put themselves out for me, they should have put me up in a guest cottage back in Bel Air." She looked at the chest plates, turning them over so she could see them inside and out. "This part fastens over my shoulders, right?"

I nodded. "It'll be a tight fit, and the boots are going to be heavy," I said. "But once you put this on, you'll look like every other clone in Clonetown."

I thought Ava would have a smart answer, but she didn't. Without saying a word, she placed the armor on the table. She looked around my little one-room s.h.i.t hole and her eyes started to tear up. "We're really going to leave," she said.

"Soon," I said.

"They're going to open the gates, and we're going to walk right out."

"That just about sums it up," I said. "We'll be on our way to the Scutum-Crux Fleet."

"Do the ships have showers with hot water?" she asked.

"You'll still be confined to my quarters," I said.

"Yes, I know, but will there be showers with hot water?"

"You'll still be in hiding." Even as we spoke, I tried to figure out our living arrangements. Until I a.s.sumed command of the fleet, I would live in the Marine complex. I'd have private quarters. They wouldn't be huge, but they would be larger than my Clonetown digs. I might even be able to scrounge up a second rack. "You'll still need to eat in my quarters."

"Yes, but will you have a shower in your room?" she asked. "Do officers take warm showers?"

"Yeah, there will be a shower in my billet," I said.

"I'm not sure what a billet is; but if it has warm water, I think I'll love it," she said.

"Quarters, your billet is where you stay," I said. "And it will have warm water."

Ava sat down on the bed and put her face in her hands. She started to sob.

"What is it now?" I asked. This was not the first time I had seen a woman get emotional. Normally I walked away from the relationship when their emotions started to show; this time I couldn't. Having just given her good news, I could not understand why in the h.e.l.l she was crying.

"I'm happy," she said, both laughing and crying at the same d.a.m.n time.

That night, after I'd emptied the waste bucket, Ava and I finally tested the springs on my rack. We were both hot, and our bodies were slick with sweat. It would have been nicer if a storm had broken; but she was willing enough, and it seemed like a good way to end the evening.

PART II.

THE BATTLE FOR TERRANEAU.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

I looked around the cabin of the transport. We called this area the "kettle" because it was shaped like a teakettle and had thick metal with no windows. The Unified Authority built these st.u.r.dy birds for durability, not comfort. We would fly the transport to a self-broadcasting cruiser, and the cruiser would carry us to the farthest arm of the galaxy.

They packed a hundred Marines in this kettle, two platoons' worth. Since we were not flying into battle this time, most of the men wore Charlie service uniforms. A few of the veterans came in armor, preferring the air-conditioned comfort of the undersuit to the climate in the transport. I had all of my noncommissioned officers wear armor. Ava came wearing her armor as well. Counting Ava and me, there were forty people in armor. That gave her a reasonable chance of fitting in. Even so, I had her sit in a crowded corner so that no one would notice her short arms. I sat beside her.

Thomer dropped down to my right. We were on the bench that lined the wall of the cabin. We kept our helmets on. Thomer sat on one side of me, Ava sat on the other.

"What's wrong with him?" Thomer asked on a private frequency.

"Who?" I asked.

"Rooney."

"Rooney?" I asked.

"The guy to your left," said Thomer.

The gear in our helmets broadcast virtual dog tags, which showed on our visors. Ava's armor identified her as Corporal Mike Rooney.

She did look nervous, sitting absolutely still with her hands primly folded on her lap, her back ramrod straight. Had he not known we were a load of Marines, Thomer might have guessed there was a woman sitting inside that armor.

"He says he's never been on a transport before," I said.

"Want me to talk to him?" Thomer asked.

"No, let him work it out on his own," I said. Then, hoping to change the subject, I added, "You seem peppy today; did they up your prescription?"

"Speck you, sir," Thomer said. "We're out of specking Clonetown, and I'm back in combat armor.

"You sailed with the Scutum-Crux Fleet before, didn't you, sir?"

"Yeah, this will be my second tour," I said.

"Did you ever land on Terraneau?" Thomer asked.

"I never did, but I hear it's a nice place," I said, recalling my conversation with General Smith. "At least it used to be nice. There's no telling what condition the Avatari have left it in."

The first major battle of the Avatari invasion took place on Terraneau. Four years ago, the aliens spread one of their ion curtains around the planet, and no one had seen or heard anything since then. Presumably, the atmosphere could still sustain life. It occurred to me that the Pentagon could have lied about the message from Terraneau. That would be one way to solve the clone problem-a quick lie, a hearty salute, and a ride to some distant corner of the galaxy. The pieces fit, but I believed Smith.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't even tell us what the message was. It might have been a call for help or a planetwide obituary. h.e.l.l, for all I knew, they might have been calling out for a pizza.

We were expected to establish a beachhead on the planet. If we found aliens there, we were supposed to attack; and once we liberated the planet, we would declare martial law. Smith made it sound simple.

"What do you think we'll find when we get there?" Thomer asked.

"It's not going to be like New Copenhagen," I said. "We know how to unsleeve the planet. Once the ion curtain is out of the way, we should be able to hunt the aliens down with fighters and battleships. They won't be able to fight back if we hit them from s.p.a.ce."

Borrowing a trick from Smith's playbook, I made it sound simple.

"Hit the Avatari from s.p.a.ce, that sounds good," Thomer said.

Thomer was part of a select group who knew the term "Avatari." Only a handful of politicians, the top bra.s.s at the Pentagon, and a few survivors from New Copenhagen knew the name.

The transport had a top speed of one hundred thousand miles per hour. It lumbered along at about three thousand miles per hour until it left the atmosphere, then picked up speed as it flew out to dock with the self-broadcasting cruiser. The cruiser would take us to Scutum-Crux s.p.a.ce, where we would rendezvous with the U.A.N. Kamehameha, an old fighter carrier that served as the flagship of the Scutum-Crux Fleet.