Rogue clone (33 page)

The steps stopped at the edge of my cell. “I have a gift for you, Colonel Harris,” Yamashiro said. “This is a gentleman’s gift. No one else needs to know that I gave it to you.”

For one wild moment I thought he had smuggled a gun into the brig. I spun over on my cot so that I faced him. Yamashiro stood right in front of my cell leaning forward into the bars. He held on to the bars with his right hand, and reached toward me with his left. That hand was cupped around something, my

“gentleman’s gift.”

I sat up and stared through the bars at the man. Our eyes met for a moment, then he nodded down toward the gift he had offered me. I stood and approached.

“You’re not supposed to stand so close to the bars,” I said. “It’s dangerous. A prisoner could grab your arm and pin you against the bars.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Yamashiro said. As I drew closer and looked at his offered hand, I noticed the calloused skin along the edge of it. A short and powerful build, sandpaper hands—these were the signs of training in judo or jujitsu.

Yamashiro turned his hand so that the palm faced up. His fingers still curled over the gift hiding it. As I approached, the fingers spread revealing their secret. I saw nuggets of glass and wadded up wires that looked like they were made of gold. Yamashiro smiled. “It was a fine magic trick.”

Seconds passed as I stared at that hand filled with sparkling gems of broken glass, my heart sinking in my chest. Then I realized that the pulverized mediaLink shades he held had gold frames. The ones I left on the bridge had cheap black plastic frames. “A young ensign found them in a communications station on the bridge.”

“Then you have more than one spy on your hands,” I said. “I’ve never seen those before.”

Yamashiro’s smile spread. “No? The shades you left had black frames. These were the best I could do on short notice.” He closed his fist again and pulled his hand back through the bars.

“Where are the real ones?” I asked.

“Right where you left them,” Yamashiro said. “I thought they might be more valuable just as you left them. Having unseen ears can be a powerful tool.”

I worried about Halverson setting a trap by giving faux orders in range of those shades. I imagined intelligence relaying those orders to Huang and Huang sending the
Doctrinaire
into an ambush. What kind of trap could stop a ship like that? Then I remembered that Yamashiro had called this a

“gentleman’s gift.” Why had he come and why had he not told Crowley about my little trick?

“Who did your ensign tell about the shades?” I asked.

“He told his commanding officer, who told his commanding officer,” Yamashiro said, an infectious, mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“And it went all the way to the top?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Yamashiro.

“But Admiral Halverson did not hear about it?” I asked.

“He is with the Confederate Arms Fleet,” Yamashiro said, as if those few words explained everything.

“The ensign was an officer in the Hinode Fleet. The information came to me.”

“And you don’t share intelligence between fleets?” I asked.

“Sadly, no. Like you, we also suspect that our allies in the Confederate Arms may not be reliable.”

“I see,” I said. “In my opinion, the Mogats aren’t much better. You know how they got these ships in the first place?”

Without waiting for a response, I answered my own question. “They gassed the original crew.”

“So you would not trust them?” Yamashiro asked.

“If I were you, you mean? I would trust the Arms before I would trust the Mogats,” I said. “You know who you should have trusted? You should have trusted Klyber. Klyber did not want to invade your planet. He tried to keep the Senate off your back as much as possible.”

Yamashiro’s smile did not fade, but his eyes seemed to harden and his expression became more serious.

“I admired Admiral Klyber but I did not trust the Senate.”

I stared straight into Yamashiro’s eyes. “The Mogats would not have known how to rig Klyber’s ship like that.”

For a long moment, Yamashiro returned my glare, looking me in the eyes. Then he looked down at the floor and shook his head. “Klyber was an honorable man. I did not want him killed.”

“But you showed them how to do it,” I said.

“Yes,” said Yamashiro, still looking down. He produced a package of cigarettes and lit one. “A Hinode engineer figured out how to sabotage the generators and taught some of their engineers.”

“Did you know what they would do with it?”

“Yes.”

I laughed. It was an angry laugh. “Is it irony or karma? Now that they know how to sabotage broadcast engines, what makes you think that they won’t do it to you?”

“The Believers could barely fly these ships when they helped us escape Ezer Kri,” Yamashiro said. “They had no idea how to maintain or repair them. We renovated the fleet. Our engineers did all of it.”

“The Mogats learn quickly,” I said, “so watch your back. Once they know enough, they won’t need you or your fleet officers. As I recall, you’re a student of history. Right now, your officers are playing the role of Poland to the Confederate Arms’s Soviet Union and the Mogats’ Nazi Germany.”

Yamashiro took a drag on his cigarette, stared at me for a moment, then shook his head. Clearly his history was civil, not military.

“The Nazis and the Soviets had a shaky alliance. It ended the moment they both invaded Poland to try and get a better shot at each other. Once your war with the Unified Authority is done, you’d better have an exit plan.”

Yamashiro thought to himself as he listened. He took one last long drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils in dual streams. His smile had vanished and he wore a serious and thoughtful expression. “One way or another, the war ends tomorrow. We’re attacking Earth,” he said.

Time never moved so slowly for me as it did after Yoshi Yamashiro’s visit. I was locked in the brig of a ship that was about to go to battle against the most powerful navy in history. This was the command ship. If the
Doctrinaire
located this ship, it would undoubtedly destroy it. With those big cannons, one shot could finish the job.

If the Secessionists won, the Confederate Arms and Mogats would agree that it was time for me to die. If the Unified Authority carried the day, Huang might execute me. For somebody who had supposedly given up on life and survived purely by instinct, I cared more than I should have. I tried to sleep but found that I could not lie still on my cot. Sam came in to check on me every hour. He stood outside my cell and stared in at me.

“You want something?” I asked once.

He gave me a cocky smile. “Comfortable?” he asked.

“You want to come in and fluff my pillow?” I asked.

“You know, Harris, I used to want to shoot you. After seeing what they did to you in the interrogation room, I’d rather keep you alive. I might enjoy giving you the wand a time or two myself.”

“Why don’t you come in here and we can discuss it,” I said.

“You might show me some respect after what happened last time. Maybe I went too easy on you.” Sam actually seemed to believe what he was saying.

“I’d love to go another round. Maybe this time you can hit me when I’m looking.” I knew I was baiting him, and I knew it would have the desired effect. Sam considered himself a pretty tough guy. He turned red then fought back his rage. “Watch yourself,” he said. “Things could go worse for you next time. I wonder how that wand would feel if you went in with a broken jaw.”

“Lets find out. Why don’t you come in here and break it?” I asked. Sam heard this and stormed down the hall.

The next person to call on me was Admiral Halverson. As he had before, Halverson came bearing gifts. This time, he carried a small red visor on a two-legged stand. The unit was no more than eighteen inches tall, wobbly support frame and all. Sam accompanied him. In the admiral’s wake, the jailor acted more civil. “You’ve got a visitor, Harris,” he said.

The last time he said that, of course, he caught me unaware and pummeled me. This time he stayed outside my cell, as did Halverson.

“Hello, Colonel,” Halverson said.

“What is that?” I asked.

“This?” Halverson held the visor up so that I could get a better look at it. “This is how sailors used to view their battles forty years ago, back when this ship was made. This is a remote strategic display.”

Halverson walked to the door of my cell and placed the display on the floor.

“Be careful with it, Harris. It’s an antique.”

I sat on the edge of my cot, my legs dangling over the side. “So you really plan to attack Earth today?” I asked. “Doesn’t that seem a bit . . . suicidal? The
Doctrinaire
will be waiting.”

“I’m counting on it,” Halverson said with a bright air. “I should hope that the Unified Authority’s most powerful ship will come to protect its capital world. Believe it or not, Harris, we sped up our plans because of you.

“Ever since you arrived, we seem to have lost the element of surprise. So now, thanks to you, we have very little choice but to finish the war.”

“May I?” I asked, looking first at the remote display, then at Sam.

Halverson nodded. I stepped off the cot and walked over to the door of the cell. Kneeling rather than bending over, so that I could keep an eye on Sam, I reached through the bars and picked up the display. The thing weighed no more than a pound. The visor itself was made of cheap, hollow plastic. The outside of the display was convex. The inside had two eyepieces surrounded by spongy padding. A black cable hung between the back of the visor and a U-shaped control pad.

“The display is monochrome, I’m afraid. It’s red against black. Old technology, but it’s the best I could find.”

“I can’t watch from the bridge?” I asked.

“Harris, I don’t know how you tipped Huang off, but resourceful as you’ve proven yourself to be, I wouldn’t trust you anywhere near the bridge.”

“So you think you can win?” I asked. “You have what . . . roughly six hundred ships? Didn’t the Galactic Central Fleet have about six hundred ships? That was before Thurston blasted four of them at Little Man.”

“Some of the fleet is too old or too badly maintained to fight.” Halverson continued to smile. “And they’ve shot down seventeen more of our ships since you came aboard, Harris. We’re down to five hundred and forty. Well, five hundred and thirty-nine.”

“Did you hear what Huang said about a fleet with no fighters?” I asked.

“That it’s like a boxer without a jab? He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. The man is a politician, not a sailor. He puts on a good show.”

“Not as good a show as Thurston, though,” I said. “You were crazy to kill Klyber. Did you really think you could stop the
Doctrinaire
by killing Klyber? Didn’t it ever occur to you that Huang would replace him with Robert Thurston?”

“Harris, Bryce Klyber was a personal friend, but this is war. I hated killing Bryce, but I need Thurston in his place.”

“Thurston is a better strategist than Klyber ever was,” I said. “You were there when Klyber tried to match him in a simulation.” Days after Thurston replaced Admiral Absalom Barry as the commander of the Inner Scutum-Crux Fleet, Admiral Klyber challenged him to a simulated battle. Thurston read Klyber’s opening move and predicted his every step, forcing him into submission.

“Klyber was more dangerous for our purposes,” Halverson said. “I’ve served under both officers. Thurston’s style is tailor-made for us.”

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Robert Thurston is the best commander in the U.A. Navy.”

“Under most circumstances,” Halverson said, his smile as unfailing as ever.

“But you didn’t need to kill Klyber,” I said. “Huang took the ship away from him at the summit. He gave Thurston the
Doctrinaire
and moved Klyber to the support fleet.”

Halverson’s smile faltered. “They moved Klyber to the support fleet,” Halverson echoed, and the pride and bravado vanished from his voice. “I learned about the transfer after the cable was set, but by the time I heard about it, it was already too late . . . too late.” He stood silently staring at me, then turned to leave.

“Enjoy the show, Harris,” he called over his shoulder.

He and Sam left the brig; and once again, I was alone.

I had heard about strategic displays like the one Tom Halverson gave me. Sailors used to call them “red worlds.” This was not the obsolete strategic views replaced by the 3-D holographic displays used in modern ships. This was a portable display that officers could take into engineering or battle stations. The visor was about three inches thick. Inside its housing was a laser that could draw objects in brilliant detail. The only problem was that it could only draw them in one color—red. My eyes never did adjust to that red-and-black display.

I switched on the power and pressed my face into a soft foam ring that ran along the inside of the visor. A little sign appeared instructing me to adjust the eyepieces to the shape of my face. Using two knobs built into the top of the visor, I adjusted the display until the words in that sign seemed to float out in space.

The display showed a satellite view of Earth. I could see the side of the planet facing the sun. In the display, the lasers drew clouds and land in red. The ocean was black and hollow. The edge of the moon was barely visible in the right corner of the display. In the lower corner, a digital clock counted backward. The clock read 00:05:37.

When the clock reached 00:01:00, I heard a muffled commotion outside my cell as the ship was called to general quarters. The call to battle stations lasted the full minute. The sound must have been thunderous throughout the ship. In the brig, where thick iron walls muted most of the sound, I soon forgot about the call to general quarters and did not notice when it ended.

The visor blanked out. It went dead for just a moment then winked back to life, and I knew that we had just broadcasted into Earth space. In the red-and-black panorama, the fabric of space around the moon seemed to shatter as 540 self-broadcasting ships appeared just behind the moon. Seen in red and black, the charcoal gray Hinode ships were not visible on this display but a label along the bottom of the screen said 540 ships.