The Clone Sedition (37 page)

“Yes, sir. I remember, sir.”

“And I gave you orders to destroy the explorer fleet. Have you carried out my orders?”

Bracing himself for the explosion that would surely follow, he took a deep breath, and said, “No, sir.”

“No?” I asked.

He must have misinterpreted my excitement as anger. He said, “No, sir. It is my understanding, sir, that you have been relieved of command. I cannot carry out those orders until they are confirmed by an officer on active duty.”

I said, “Major, I have been reinstated.”

Silence.

I said, “Listen to me, and listen to me carefully. I want those birds gassed up and ready to fly. I want their broadcast generators charged and their broadcast engines humming. They’re going wheels up as soon as I get my men together.”

At first he did not respond. Then he said, “Sir, I will need authorization from Admiral…”

“Believe me, Dunkirk, Naval HQ will be on the horn with you rapid, quick, and pronto. In the meantime, I want those birds juiced.”

“Sir, even if I receive the authorization…Sir, those ships are over one hundred years old. They might not fly.”

“They better fly,” I said. “The future of the Enlisted Man’s Empire will be riding on those wings.”

Location: The
Churchill
Date: May 2, 2519

Don Cutter thought he had worked out the conspiracy. In his mind, the same people who organized the Martian Legion had hired Arthur Hooper to kidnap and brainwash high-ranking clones. He had thought maybe they had started with Harris.

The disappearance of Second Division threw a wrench in the works. It was too big to fit the matrix he’d created.

After getting off the horn with Harris, Cutter sent a team of Intelligence officers to investigate. They found Camp Lejeune evacuated. They reported finding no signs of a struggle. The Marines had simply walked off, but not all twenty thousand of them.

Some had died. Cutter’s investigators found 132 newly turned graves behind a parade ground.

Could someone have reprogrammed an entire division?
he asked himself. He didn’t believe it was possible. But if Tasman really was part of this, maybe “reprogramming” a division wasn’t out of the question.

And then there was Harris. He’d acted strangely on Mars; but now that he had returned to Earth, he seemed to have reverted to his old reliably homicidal self.
Harris wouldn’t be Harris if he didn’t leave a trail of corpses,
Cutter mused, though he did still wonder about the video feed Watson had seen in which Freeman shot Harris.

He sat in his billet trying to make sense of the situation, considering each piece of the puzzle as he named it softly out loud. “Harris.” “Reprogramming clones.” “Tasman.” “Lejeune…abandoned.” “Mars.” “Freeman.” “Legion.” “Night of the Martyrs.” “Olympus Kri.”

He said the words, and they appeared on virtual cards displayed on the audio-and tactile-sensitive screen of his computer. Dragging the cards with his pointer finger, he arranged them into various combinations, trying to imagine an order in which they might fit together. Harris fit with Mars. Harris fit with the Night of the Martyrs. Harris fit with Reprogramming. He did not fit with Camp Lejeune.

Freeman fit with Reprogramming and Harris, but he did not fit with anything else. Tasman fit with Reprogramming and Mars but nothing else.

A message appeared on his communications console: Captain Thomas Hauser requested permission to speak with him.

“Cutter.”

“Admiral, a train left Mars Spaceport several minutes ago, sir.”

“A train? I thought we destroyed the tracks?”

Hauser, a nervous clone under normal circumstances, said, “Oh! Speck! Sir, there’s been an explosion in the spaceport.”

“Send me the feed,” said Cutter.

Hauser transferred the video feed and stood by. Mentally shelving his virtual note cards, Cutter started the feed. The first twenty seconds showed nothing but Mars Spaceport, sitting silent and still. Then a train snaked out of the building and down the track.

Cutter thought the train leaving the spaceport looked like a worm squirming out of an apple. He zoomed in and followed the train, all the while whispering the question, “Are you on that train?” as if trying to reach Watson telepathically.

There was an explosion in the spaceport. It was not a large explosion. Neither the roof nor the walls caved in. Fire belched from vents along the roof. Sensors reported vibrations in the outer walls of the spaceport.

A few miles down the track, the train stopped halfway between the spaceport and the Air Force base. Three minutes passed, and then two men in engineer armor pulled a man in a wheelchair from the front car of the train. They were deep in the middle of nowhere. As far as Cutter was concerned, Mars was a shit hole to begin with; but out in the middle of nowhere, it was worse.

As he watched the feed, a convoy of people in soft-shell
armor climbed off the train and started walking toward Mars Air Force Base. They could have been clones, they could have been natural-borns; Cutter had no way of knowing. One man wore combat armor. Zooming in for a closer look, Cutter saw how the man towered over everyone else.
Freeman.

“Hauser, can we contact them?” he asked.

“No, sir. Somebody must be sludging the airwaves. We’ve tried reaching Colonel Martin and Governor Hughes.”

The people from the train moved at an impossibly slow pace as they followed the track toward the base. In the meantime, a small army of clones in combat armor poured out of the spaceport. Most of them marched, but a few scouts rolled ahead on civilian carts of some kind.

“Are you sure we cannot get through?” asked Cutter.

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep trying, Captain.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The carts scooted over the barren surface. In another fifteen minutes, the carts would overtake the people on foot.

That has got to be Freeman in the combat armor,
thought Cutter.
The one in the wheelchair is probably Tasman.
He decided that Watson was likely with Freeman as well…if he was still alive.

The clones on the carts would have been Martin Riley’s men. As he considered the scenario, he decided Harris had been right: Martin Riley and his men were reprogrammed clones. There were thirty carts. The men in the carts wore white combat armor and held M27s. The men from the train had a few M27s…and Freeman’s sniper rifle. Harris had told Cutter stories about Freeman’s sniper skills.

If that was Freeman and Watson was with him, the boy still had a chance.

The clones on the carts reached the stalled train. Most of them stopped to investigate, but a dozen darted on. Their tactics seemed so uncoordinated.
If Riley is sludging, they’re as cut off from each other as we are,
Cutter reminded himself.

Cutter knew what would happen, but he still jumped when the train exploded. It was that kind of explosion, powerful, resonant, a brilliant flash, a wide brim of fire, so much shrapnel and debris that the carts and clones around the train were
obliterated. Harris had also told Cutter about Freeman’s skill with explosives.

The admiral watched debris fly in every direction. He watched Freeman send the other people on while he and another man stayed back to greet the remaining clones. Freeman did all the shooting while his useless partner watched.

That has got to be Watson,
Cutter thought, then he changed his mind. When the shooting ended, one of the security clones had survived. He threw down his M27 and tried to surrender, but the man with Freeman killed him. He murdered an unarmed clone.

Freeman would kill an unarmed man. So would Harris. Not Watson.

When he saw that Freeman and the rest of the refugees would reach Mars Air Force Base before the security clones caught them, he said, “Hauser, scramble a transport down to the air base. We need to get Watson out of there.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Send a fighter escort. Better safe than sorry.”

Hauser started to answer, but the Klaxons drowned him out. The scream of the Klaxons erupted through the
Churchill
.

“Admiral, two battleships just broadcasted into Mars space,” Hauser said. “We’re taking evasive action.”

Broadcasted? Unified Authority ships?
The Enlisted Man’s Navy did not have self-broadcasting ships or a broadcast station. If ships had just broadcasted in, they had to belong to the Unified Authority. Cutter sprang from his desk. As he ran to the door, he called, “Launch that transport, Captain. Launch those fighters.”

Location: Mars Air Force Base
Date: May 2, 2519

The three bodyguards, Dempsey, Liston, and Sharkey, stood beside the outermost door of the air lock. This twenty-foot-high steel door was the portal through which the train would have entered the base. Though they could not communicate, all three bodyguards had roughly the same thought:
That damn door probably weighs a hundred tons.
In truth, it weighed three in Martian gravity. On Earth, it would have weighed closer to ten.

The entire convoy slowly clustered in front of the massive door. Unable to speak to one another, people pointed and gestured. They could not enter the building, and panic slowly set in.

Liston, one of the bodyguards, knelt and used his finger to write a question in the dry soil. He tapped Dempsey, the lead bodyguard, and pointed to the words he had written: “Do you know any other way in?”

During his term in the Air Force, Dempsey had been stationed on the base. He shook his head and stamped the words with his boot.

Tasman rode back and forth along the door in his wheelchair. Everyone else in the convoy ignored him.

Three hours had passed since the train left the spaceport. The day had ended, but the night had not yet begun, and the sky had turned to a shade of gray that most closely resembled pewter.

Their armor, which was designed for the absolute cold of space, kept them warm. The lights etched along their faceplates provided light. They were not blind or cold, but they were still desperate.

Watson, the pain patches on his neck now expended, studied the convoy as he searched for Emily. Every little movement hurt. Anything that shook his body shook his jaw, sending electric spasms through his skull. His labored breathing hurt his ribs. Every movement hurt his ribs.

While the Hugheses stared out into the desert and the bodyguards examined the doors, Ray Freeman found a small panel built into one of the train rails. He pulled a laser welder from his bag. This he used to slice the panel, revealing the inner workings of the train track. He used other tools to test and probe at the wires and relays inside the rail.

In another minute, he located the relay he wanted. A moment later, the outer door of the air lock slid open. Tasman immediately steered his wheelchair through the opening. His bodyguards followed. The beleaguered Hugheses, who seemed to have overlooked their patriarch’s absence, were slow to file in.

The convoy traipsed onto the base, marching along the train track, with Freeman and Watson bringing up the rear. Once they were in, Freeman tripped a lever on the inside of the air lock, and the outer door slid closed. A vent drew out the native environment while an oxygen generator pumped in breathable air. Once that process finished, the inner door opened automatically and the convoy entered the train station.

The station was entirely dark. In the light from his headlamps, Watson saw the rust-colored stains that covered the platforms. Harris and company had disposed of the bodies, but they had not bothered steam hosing the blood.

Inside the base, the train tracks were five feet above the ground. When trains rode those rails, their floors would be exactly even with the platforms.

Freeman walked to a metal ladder fastened against the wall to the platform. He stood by the ladder, his rifle strapped over his shoulder, his M27 in his right hand.

The rest of the herd watched him, the light from their lamps shining on his back like searchlights, bathing him and the area around him in circles of bleaching white light. If a sniper waited in the Air Force base, the convoy had just illuminated his prime target.

Freeman waved at the people and tapped on his helmet, indicating to the others to power down the lights on their helmets.
Watson understood and cut off his lights immediately. The bodyguards had learned military signals and went dark as well. The others watched him curiously, the beams from their visors lighting Freeman like stage lights shining on an actor.

Dempsey, Liston, and Sharkey stepped into the crowd. They grabbed helmets and tapped on visors. People responded by dowsing their visor lights, leaving the train station as dark as a cave.

The soles of Freeman’s hardened boots made a metallic
clank
as he climbed the ladder. He sprang up the final rungs and rolled over the top, landing in a crouch, with his M27 pointing into the darkness. His movements were quick and fluid, designed to provide enemies a minimal target, but there was nothing he could do about the clatter his armor made as he moved across the platform.

Freeman used the night-for-day lenses to disarm the darkness. He searched the platform and the escalator that led into the base, then he switched to heat vision so he could search the stairs and the entry to the base for any phantoms hiding behind walls.

The platform was clear, but that did not mean the place was empty.

The escalator rose at a forty-five-degree angle from the train station to the base. With a high-ground advantage like that, a lone gunman at the top of the escalator could stop a small army. If anyone in the party questioned the value of the high-ground position, the bloodstained platform offered proof.

Looking up the escalator through heat-vision lenses, Freeman saw a trace of orange glow off to the side. He aimed his rifle and waited. As it moved away from the walls, the orange specter resolved from a smudge into a man-shaped form.

With the patience of an alligator waiting to snap, Freeman knelt on the platform, his rifle trained on the top of the escalator. The standoff lasted two minutes, but Freeman was a patient man. He would outwait the assassin.