The Clone Sedition (25 page)

Watson asked, “Did you sleep while you were exploring the Air Force base?”

“Damn well right we slept. We hot bunked—eight hours of duty, eight hours R&R, not that there was much recreation to be had, eight hours sleep.”

“How many rest periods did you have?”

“I don’t remember. They all blur together, don’t they?”

“I suppose,” said Watson, though Jackson’s spotty memory had raised some suspicions. “Do you think we should move the New Olympians to Earth?”

Jackson said, “That’s Harris’s story.”

“But you don’t agree?”

“We took their shotguns. They don’t have guns as far as I can tell. I suppose that makes them peaceful.”

“But…?” Watson prompted.

“We took away their shotguns; that doesn’t mean we took away their fight. That’s not the same thing.”

“So you don’t believe we should relocate the New Olympians to Earth?” Watson asked, genuinely interested in Jackson’s response.

“I don’t get paid to think. I’m a Marine. I get paid to kill people and break things. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Do you have an opinion?”

“About bringing the New Olympians to Earth?”

Watson nodded.

“I don’t trust them.”

“I see,” said Watson. They talked for fifteen minutes longer
with no substantive results. Realizing that he was spinning his wheels, Watson turned off the camera in his tablet. Now that the interview had ended, he asked as an aside, “Did you ever know a Lieutenant Matthew Call?”

“The name sounds familiar. How do I know him?”

“He was one of the men that died during the fighting at the Air Force base.”

“One of the lucky fifty,” said Jackson.

“Not so lucky,” said Watson. “It wasn’t just Mars. The poor guy was attacked on the Night of the Martyrs.”

“Another member of the club,” said Jackson.

“What do you mean?” Watson asked, though he thought he knew. He thought Jackson was referring to Harris.

“I didn’t know Call, but I guess he’s number six,” said Jackson. “I got three majors in this regiment. All three of them were attacked. I contributed a few martyrs myself that night. Then there’s Harris. I guess you already knew the bastards attacked him in Seattle.”

Watson returned to his quarters and the personnel files. Instead of sitting at the desk, he kicked back on his bed, tipped off his shoes, and rested his head on a pillow. He looked at personnel files.

NAME: JACKSON, CURTIS C

RANK: COLONEL (Commander Second Division, Second Regiment)

SERIAL NUMBER: FM721-65-039

AGE: 42 RAISED IN ORPHANAGE #018

CLASSIFICATION: CLONE (Standard Make)

STATUS: ACTIVE DUTY

The man had seen action. Back when the clones were still part of the Unified Authority, Jackson fought against Mogats on Hubble and aliens on New Copenhagen. When the Unified Authority sent clones to recapture lost planets, he’d been one of the Marines who’d gone to liberate Providence Kri. After the rise of the Enlisted Man’s Empire, Jackson saw action on Bangalore and Earth.

Of the Night of the Martyrs his file said:

He looked through Second Regiment’s line of command and found the three majors. As Jackson had said, all three had been attacked on the night of January 9. Picking the names of Second Regiment Marines at random, Watson worked his way down to the privates. Every man had been attacked on the Night of the Martyrs.

Watson tried to call Cutter, but an aide took the call. Watson said, “I need to speak to the admiral.”

“He’s busy,” said the aide. “Can I take a message?”

“It’s urgent,” said Watson.

“Then you’d better leave your message quickly,” said the aide.

Watson hung up on him.

Since boarding the
Churchill
, Watson had sensed discrimination at every turn. The sailors saw the ship as their domain and made no attempt to hide the disrespect they felt for their natural-born passenger.

Not deterred by an officer he considered little more than a receptionist, Watson walked to Cutter’s office. The same aide met him at the door. Watson recognized the name and the attitude.

He said, “I told you, the admiral is busy.”

Watson said, “Fair enough. Please tell the admiral that there is a bomb on the ship.” He turned around and walked out.

The aide, a lieutenant, followed him out the door saying, “Excuse me. Excuse me! Excuse me!”

Watson stopped but did not say anything.

“Did you say a bomb?”

Bureaucratic prick,
Watson thought as he kept walking past the man.

The lieutenant ran ahead and stepped in Watson’s path. He repeated, “You said there is a bomb?”

“Yes. You might inform the admiral when his schedule is clear?”

“Where is it?” demanded the aide. “I’ll send security.”

Watson did not break stride, and the aide, a much shorter man, had to run to keep pace with him.
Funny little man,
thought Watson.
Like a yelping lapdog.
He wondered if other naval officers were cut from the same cloth.

“Wait.”

Watson walked to the elevator and stopped.

“Is it armed?” asked the aide.

Watson said, “Armed, primed, and ready to explode.”

“Come with me,” said the lieutenant.

“Admiral Cutter can contact me when he has time to speak…assuming it’s not too late.”

The aide spoke into his communicator. He said, “Admiral, that civilian wants to see you. He said something about…”

Cutter said, “Lieutenant, I hope you haven’t kept Watson waiting.”

A look of desperation spreading across his face, the aide looked at Watson, and said, “Sir, you…You said you did not want to be disturbed.”

“Lieutenant, please show Mr. Watson in.” That was all he said, but the chill in his voice presented other implications.

The lieutenant led Watson to Admiral Cutter’s door and left without a word. Watson knocked on the door.

“That you, Watson? Come on in.”

Admiral Cutter sat at his desk holding a heavily creamed cup of coffee. He said, “You find something good?” and drank half the cup.

Watson asked, “Do you know how they selected the men in the Second Regiment?” He sat in one of the chairs beside the admiral’s desk.

Cutter laughed, and said, “How the hell would I know that? That’s Marine business. Ask Harris.”

“Do you know anything about the regiment?”

“I work with fleets, not regiments.” He sat back in his seat, laced his fingers, sat deep in thought. After a few seconds, he leaned forward and typed something on the keyboard built into his desk. He looked at the screen, and said, “It’s a newly formed regiment.”

“How new?” asked Watson.

“Formed last month.”

“Was Harris the one who formed it? Did he select the men?”

“Not that regiment. All of the men in that regiment asked for the transfer,” said Cutter. He finished his coffee and crumpled the paper cup. “What is this about?”

“Every man in the Second Regiment was attacked on the Night of the Martyrs,” Watson said.

“Might be a coincidence,” said Cutter.

“Admiral, of the one thousand six hundred men who were attacked, fifteen hundred joined the same regiment. That’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“It’s Tarawa,” said Cutter. “The Second Regiment of the Second Division is a prestigious unit. It’s got history. It’s got tradition. Marines respect tradition,” said Cutter. He thought a little longer, and asked, “What do you think it means?”

Watson said, “Something must have happened on the Night of the Martyrs.”

“Yes, something did happen; sixteen hundred Marines were attacked by a suicidal army of imbeciles. You don’t see that every day.”

“More than that,” said Watson. “I think they were brainwashed during the attacks.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Cutter. “It’s not possible. Have you seen the profiles of the New Olympians who died that night? They weren’t scientists. They were religious fanatics. The ones who survived went home and killed themselves.”

“Maybe they were the bait,” said Watson. “It’s like a magician’s trick. You get the audience to watch your right hand closely, then you pull the sleight of hand with your left. Harris and the other victims were so busy beating off the meaningless dopes that they didn’t notice something bigger.”

“Can’t be,” said Cutter. He left his desk and poured himself another cup of coffee. As he poured, he mumbled, “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.”

“The Night of the Martyrs was probably just the down payment,” said Watson, “something quick, not a complete reprogramming, just a seed to get things rolling. Then they get to Mars, and it happens all over again. There’s a meaningless attack. Two men are killed in a riot. A few fanatics try to shower them with chlorine gas. Jackson remembered every detail about the attack, but he went vague when I asked him what happened next.”

“Just like Harris,” said Cutter. Then he repeated himself. He said, “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.”

Cutter tightened security on the ship. There were so many MPs guarding the landing bays, the lifts, and the engine room that I expected to find a skeleton crew on the bridge. Wrong again. He had a full crew on deck and another fifty MPs patrolling the area.

That meant he was raiding his rotation. Instead of giving his men eight hours to eat and recreate between shifts and lights-out, he had them playing policeman.

I asked him, “You expecting an invasion?”

Cutter said, “You can never be too careful.”

I said, “Yes you can.”

He said, “Maybe so.”

So I came right out with it. I said, “Unless the EME declared a new war while I was on Mars, those MPs must be for me and my men.”

Cutter looked me in the eyes when he responded, and he did not make excuses. The man was honest, I’ll give him that. He said, “Harris, I’m confiscating your weapons.”

“Just mine?” I asked.

“Your regiment’s. We’re going to stow them in a secure hold for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping from whom?” I asked.

He did not answer the question, so I asked, “What the speck is going on here?”

Cutter said, “Let’s go to my office.”

It seemed like a good idea.

We entered his office, and he left the MPs outside the door. They weren’t far away; but if I’d wanted to kill him, those men outside the door would not have been able to stop me. Cutter was older than me, and his form of combat involved fighters, torpedoes, and ships as big as shopping malls.

I said, “Okay, we make you nervous. I can see that. What’s going on?”

For this showdown, Cutter did not hide behind his desk. He stood in front of it. We stood and faced each other. He crossed his arms, and said, “You and your men may have been compromised on Mars.”

“What do you mean by compromised?”

In the last days of the Unified Authority, the U.A. military came up with infiltrator clones—specialized clones that murdered EME clones and assumed their identities. They were assassins and saboteurs, and they broke through our security by the thousands. I said, “I’m not a Double Y.”

The infiltrators differed from regular clones in that they had two Y chromosomes. It made them stronger. It also made the bastards mentally unstable, which made them all the more dangerous.

“No. I don’t suppose you are,” said Cutter.

“Do you think they infiltrated my men?”

“No.”

“So what do you think happened?”

Cutter responded with a question. “What did you mean when you said that anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed?”

“You’re not still on about that. I told you, I was sorry. I don’t know what was wrong with me.”

“Neither do I,” said Cutter.

“Let me get this straight, you’re lining your decks with military police because I was rude?” I had a sardonic smile on my face. In truth, I was pissed, and I wanted to share my irritation with Cutter.

It didn’t work. A few seconds of silence passed during which he watched me with the impassive expression of a chess master. This was a man who had always given me the benefit of the doubt in the past. Those days were gone.

He watched me with eyes that never blinked, at least not in that five-second block. Finally, he asked, “Anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed. What do you think that means?”

The words sounded familiar, but I did not remember speaking them. I said as much. “Did I actually say that?”

Good old Cutter, the son of a bitch was ready for that question. He tapped a few keys on his desk, and there I was, staring out of the screen looking frenzied and angry.

“Do you want me to leave Watson?” Cutter’s voice asked off camera.

“Why the speck would I want him here?” I asked. “Give him a message for me, would you. Tell that bastard that anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed. You tell him that. You tell him that for me.”

Something was happening to me on the screen. I winced…well, the me in the video feed winced. It was a slight action. I was in pain and trying to hide it.

The Cutter in the video feed clearly had no idea what that gibberish meant. He asked, “What was that? What was your message?”

Sounding like a paranoid lunatic, I said, “Not my message, asshole. Tell him Ray Freeman said that.”

Cutter switched off the screen and stared at me.

I said, “I don’t think you have enough MPs.” It was a joke. I hoped to ease the tension, a wasted effort.

Cutter asked, “So what did you mean?”

“I have no idea. You saw how I looked in the feed. I hadn’t slept in days. I don’t think I was clinically sane.”

Cutters eyes betrayed no emotion, not anger, not pity. He kept his unblinking gaze as steady as a rifle on a firing line. I wanted to shrink away from his gaze.