The Clone Sedition (39 page)

I said, “No, Colonel, this isn’t about saving one man. This is about saving the Enlisted Man’s Empire.”

He answered by saying, “Aye, sir. Yes, sir. Once more into the breach. Hoorah.”

Orange light shone on some of the clouds in the distance, but the true harvest night was still several hours away.

The scientific explorers were too small to be practical from a military standpoint. Designed to ferry scientists and soil samples, the hatches on these birds weren’t wide enough for jeeps, let alone tanks, not that it mattered. Their jump-jets were not powerful enough to lift heavy artillery in Earth’s gravity.

We could fit one hundred men and a modicum of artillery in a transport. These little birds had room for fifteen men so long as they did not carry anything larger than M27s or grenades. With 207 explorers, we could shuttle approximately thirty-one hundred men.

We were in for a fight.

We loaded up quickly and launched, a measly fifteen men per ship, and my sergeants had to wedge them in like a foot in a boot.

Explorers had very delicate-looking retractable wings—the thrusters were in the base of the ship. The thrusters fired, and we lifted into the air smoothly enough. Apparently, the weight of the men did not impact our liftoff.

One nice thing about explorers, they had portals and viewports along the walls and the ceiling. I caught a brief glimpse of trees and clouds as we flew.

It took a few minutes for the old birds to leave the atmosphere.
Broadcasting, a process involving ridiculous amounts of electrical energy, was restricted to the vacuum of space.

When a ship broadcasted, it was coated with enough joules of electricity to disintegrate everyone on board. The electrical field was so intense that seeing its glare through closed eyes could leave a man blind. Metal shutters closed over the insides of the windows to protect our eyes.

“General, do you have any idea how old these ships might be?” Ritz asked me, as the windows vanished.

“No idea,” I admitted. “They’re old.”

“Are they sixty years old?” Ritz asked.

“Older,” I said. “You sound nervous.”

“Nervous?” Ritz asked. “Me, nervous? I had a look at Corps regulations. Did you know we swap out toasters after seven years of service. Doesn’t matter if they’ve shorted out or not; after seven years, we melt them into scrap metal.”

“I did not know that, Colonel,” I said. That was the difference between me and Ritz, he wanted to live. Me, I’d seen enough. Death did not bother me, phobias did.

“Corps regulations say we retire portable latrines after twelve years. It doesn’t matter how well scrubbed they are, after twelve years, the Corps no longer considers them sanitary.”

“Fascinating,” I said.

“We retire fighter jets after five years of service,” he said. “Tanks after twenty.”

It was all bullshit. Those regulations were written by Unified Authority hacks who didn’t give a flying speck about cloned Marines squatting in unsanitary shitters.

As Ritz continued to complain, the ships broadcasted. Colonel Hunter Ritz, who could indeed be a genially insubordinate asshole, took his coffee straight and entered battles head-on. I let him rant until he took his first breath; and then I told him, “We’ve already broadcasted, Colonel. Congratulations, you survived the safest part of this mission.”

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

“There are incoming ships,” one of the bodyguards called from the nerve center. A moment later, he added, “Holy hell! There’s a shitload of them.”

Freeman stood behind him and watched the screen. Watson, his body still stiff, stumbled and came for a look.

Modeled after the manner of a spaceport control tower, the nerve center was entirely dark except for the glow from the screens and displays. Liston and Dempsey stood beside a flat table over which shimmered a holographic map.

“They just broadcasted outside the atmosphere.” Watson wasn’t sure, but he thought the bodyguard who’d spoken might have been Liston. It was Dempsey. He added, “There are 207 of ’em.”

Watson looked from the whited-out area above the virtual atmosphere on the holographic display to a two-dimensional readout that showed data instead of images.

Self-broadcasting ships?
He thought,
There cannot possibly be that many self-broadcasting ships in the entire galaxy. Two hundred seven ships.
Then he remembered. Those had to be the explorers from Smithsonian Field, and only Wayson Harris would have thought to send them.

“It’s Harris,” Watson said. His jaws had been set with a device that kept the bones aligned, but he was able to growl the words. “We have to warn him.”

“Communications are still down,” said Liston.

“If it’s Harris, he’ll figure it out,” said Freeman.

Watson did not answer.

Location: The
Churchill
Date: May 2, 2519

“One of the battleships is changing course,” said Lieutenant Nolan. “It looks like she’s headed toward the spaceport.”

“Is she shooting the explorers?” asked Hauser.

“Not yet, sir.”

Cutter smiled. They had just made the tactical error he had hoped they would make. He told Captain Hauser, “Good news, Captain. We take this play one-on-one.” In his mind, he added,
until the
de Gaulle
arrives.

Hauser asked. “Should we attack her now or wait for
de Gaulle
?”

Cutter gave him the bad news. He said, “The
de Gaulle
is on their side.”

Cutter turned to his communications console. He dialed in a code, and said, “Harris, do you read me? Did those antiques come with working radios?”

Harris said, “Fully equipped…everything but shields and guns.”

Cutter said, “We don’t have much time, General. Riley is sludging the airwaves down there. We’re going to lose contact when you enter the atmosphere.”

“Understood.”

“It’s getting crowded around here; there are two U.A. ships patrolling the area, and the
de Gaulle
is closing in.”

“I see the Nikes,” said Harris. “Do you have any idea where they came from?”

Harris recognized them by their shields. Nike-class ships had glowing orange shields that wrapped around their hulls
like skin. They were the only ships that had those advanced shields.

“They’re Nike class; they broadcasted in. How the hell would I know where they came from…? Probably Terraneau. You better get to safe harbor before they arrive,” said Cutter.

Harris did not respond.

Cutter watched the holographic display. He studied the U.A. battleships.
Rookie mistake,
he thought to himself.

He said, “I’m pretty sure Watson is in the air base. Now listen up. Their reinforcements are going to arrive before ours do. We’ll do what we can to help, but you’re on your own until the cavalry arrives.”

Cutter tried to imagine what course the battle might follow. Several seconds passed in silence. Harris signed off, but Cutter didn’t notice.

Drawing with his finger on a touch tablet, he sketched a plan, which he sent to navigation along with a single-word notation, “Possible?”

A moment later, a two-word response appeared on his tablet. The words were, “Aye, sir.”

Cutter showed Captain Hauser his plan. The
Churchill
was Hauser’s ship. He gave the orders.

Hauser looked at the tablet and smiled. He told his navigators, “Come around hard. Let’s poke that bitch in the ass and see how she squeals.”

Both of the Unified Authority ships appeared to be damaged, with inadequate repairs, especially the second ship. As the ships chased the
Churchill
out of Mars orbit, Cutter analyzed their energy signatures.

Just as Captain Hauser had said, “They’d been through the blender.” They might have survived the battle at Terraneau, but they’d limped away.

The
Churchill
veered starboard, then spun hard to port, amassing intense acceleration as she followed a path that led above and around the enemy ships. Traveling in a vacuum, devoid of gravity, fighter carriers turned wide along imprecise arcs that spanned thousands of miles. The U.A. battleship did not respond quickly.

The Unified Authority ships continued to travel in a straight line as the EMN carrier dashed around them. Dragged by their
inertia, the battleships flew straight ahead as the
Churchill
completed a thirty-thousand-mile loop in less than two seconds. Cutter watched the whole thing in holographic miniature.

He’d seen Nike-class ships in battle. Broken or not, they posed a threat. The glowing orange shields did not buckle. In a fair fight, those shields presented a nearly impervious barrier to torpedoes, particle beams, and EMN lasers.

But these battleships were different. They’d been injured. Cutter hoped their shields would fail.

“We’re coming up behind the lead ship,” said Hauser.

Cutter didn’t need the update. He’d watched every instant of the maneuver on the holographic display, taken in every nuance of it. “Violate her,” he whispered. “Particle beams, torpedoes, missiles, everything but our fighters.”

“Aye, sir,” said Hauser. He relayed the order.

The U.A. ship was long and narrow, shaped like a knife, like a badly dented dagger. Looking at the holographic display, Cutter saw two of her main engines sputter. The readouts suggested problems with her guidance systems. She handled like a barge, almost like a bullet. Her turns would be wide, slow, and shallow, if she could turn at all. Her engines showed no ability for sudden acceleration.

In pristine condition, the U.A. ship would have had faster acceleration and more maneuverability than the
Churchill
; but this ship was far from pristine. In an act of desperation, her captain launched his fighters. They showed on the display as tiny white dots, like sparks rising from a burning log.

The
Churchill
opened fire.

The particle-beam cannon fired first, thick webs of sparkling green light. The torpedoes and missiles launched from tubes above and below the cannon, flying along a line that would not intersect with the disruptive beams until the moment of impact.

The
Churchill
launched torpedoes, then missiles. The missiles homed in on the disrupted area of the quickly recycling shields. The particle beams stopped, and in that same moment, the missiles struck. A split second later, the torpedoes slammed home, lighting the stern of the U.A. ship.

“She’s hitting back!” Nolan shouted. “Lasers and torpedoes!”

“Get us out of here!” Hauser shouted. “Fire decoys! Defensive bursts! Defensive bursts!”

Cutter felt the yaw and pull from the rapid changes in acceleration and direction. He watched the holographic display, saw the icon representing the
Churchill
turn and speed in one direction as the model of the U.A. battleship became blurred by particle beams. A moment later, the torpedoes struck. The ship was undamaged, her shields remained.

“Damn,” Cutter muttered to himself.

Hauser yelled, “I need a report!”

“We’re out of danger, sir,” said Nolan. Some of the officers on the bridge applauded, some merely sighed. Cutter, who had paid no attention to the counterattack, said, “We didn’t even nick her.” During the entire time, he had never taken his eyes off the 3-D tactical display.

Lieutenant Nolan pressed a forefinger to his earpiece, then said, “Yes, sir. You’re right, sir, but I bet her crew is puking.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hauser.

“Look at her course. She’s flying sideways.”

“Gawddamn,” said Hauser. “No wonder she’s so damned slow. She’s doesn’t have any thrusters. They might as well be flying a specking zeppelin.”

“A zeppelin with shield-busters,” Cutter reminded him.

Hauser did not need a second reminder. He said, “Good point, Admiral.” Then he told navigation to put some distance between them and the battleships.

Location: Mars
Date: May 2, 2519

“Cutter, are you there?” I asked. He did not answer. We’d entered the atmosphere and lost communications with the
Churchill
.

“Pilots, call out,” I said over a communications panel.

One pilot answered, my pilot. Since we were in the same ship, our panels were wired together. He said, “Here, sir.” Cutter had called it right—someone had sludged the airwaves; but that blade cut both ways. I could not contact my men, and he could not reach his.

A window on my comms panel identified my pilot as Major Anthony Hines, EMAF. I said, “Major, the enemy is sludging our communications.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

I looked out one of the windows, hoping to count other ships, but was distracted by what I saw on the ground. The planet looked like a museum display in miniatures. I saw little models of the Air Force base and Mars Spaceport, tiny toy train tracks spanning the gap between them, and an army of figurines about three-quarters of the way to the base.

I generally entered battles riding in the kettle of a transport, the windowless, comfortless cast-iron belly of the most spartan bird that ever flew. Riding in a kettle, I never saw the field until the ramp opened at the rear of the ship. The explorer had observation ports and portholes everywhere. She was designed for scientific exploration, viewing nebulas and counting stars.

As I studied the scene, I decided to play a hunch. Instead
of landing by the air base to defend allies, we would set down by the spaceport to draw the enemy away.

I told the pilot, “Put us down on the spaceport runway.”

“What about our other explorers?” he asked.

“They’ll follow your lead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Once we’re clear, fly to the Mars base and start charging your broadcast engines. I want you to broadcast out as soon as your engines are charged.”

“How do we tell the other ships?” asked Hines.

“I don’t think that is going to be a problem,” I said. “Unless I miss my guess, they will clear the airwaves the moment we touch down.”