Steven L. Kent - The Clone Republic

I want to thank my editors John Morgan (who moved on before this project could be finished) and Anne Sowards (who took over) for everything they have done to help me. Mark Adams, of Texas Instruments fame, helped out a lot with this project, as did my parents. My parents always help a lot. Special thanks to Evan Nakachi, who gave me just the right encouragement at exactly the right moment to keep me going.

On the technical side, I need to thank Lewis Herrington, a former Marine colonel and a good friend. He spent a long time trying to help me understand the lifestyle, history, and tactics of the Marinesthough his knowledge of cloning certainly left something to be desired.

Finally, I wish to thank my agent, Richard Curtis, because I am very lucky to have an agent like Richard Curtis.

CONCLUSION

It was only a matter of time, really. The Kamehameha would wait for a signal from its SEALs. When the signal did not arrive, a second team of SEALs would come down to investigate. That team would find me bleeding and weak and finish the execution. The job was three-quarters done already. Feeling around on the floor, I found my helmet and tried to switch to night-for-day, but my eyes twitched so erratically that I could not access the optical menus. I would spend my remaining hours of life lying blind on this floor, praying that the Noxium gas did not reach me.

When I awoke, I found myself on a narrow cot with a blanket pulled over my knees. I was in some kind of prison or cage, but the door was left open. I tried to sit up and bumped my head. My whole body ached.

Still want to be a Marine? a familiar, rumbling voice asked.

Freeman? Is that you? I asked. How did you...

Klyber sent me to get you. Freeman called back. He contacted me before they even escorted you off Mars.

He left you a message. Check the shades by your bed.

There was a pair of mediaLink shades on the floor. It hurt to lean over the edge of the cage to grab the shades, but I forced myself to do it. My hands trembled too much to slip the shades in place. After a moment, Ray Freemans giant hands pulled the shades from mine, and he slipped them over my eyes.

Freeman let me know that he found you. When I heard that Admiral Huang arrested you on Mars,I didnt know what to expect.

A lot has happened over the last few days. You may not know it, but the Cygnus, Perseus, andScutum-Crux Arms have all declared independence. They call themselves the Confederate States.In response, the Linear Committee has shut down the House of Representatives.We have a lot to discuss, Wayson. But for now, you must stay hidden. Huang thinks you died onRavenwood, and you should do nothing to make him think otherwise.Stay with Freeman. I have paid him to take care of you until I return.

I finished reading this and had an epiphany. I no longer cared. I did not care if Klyber wanted to protect me, and I did not care if his supership battered the Mogats into oblivion. Whether the Republic marched on to victory or burst into flames really did not matter.

I lay perfectly still for several minutes considering the message. Was I reported missing? I asked Freeman.

Dead, he answered. Corporal Arlind Marsten is missing. I switched your helmets.

Marsten, I said to myself. He was a good kid. Good with computers. I was sad to hear that he had died. All of them had died, I supposed.

That means my military days are over, I said. Im dead, and Marsten is AWOL.

I figure so, Freeman said.

Are you still looking for a partner? I asked.

A.D. 2508

Gobi Station

Name? The sergeant barked the question without bothering to look up from his desk. I heard the indifference in his voice and could not fault him for his callous attitude. Nothing important ever happened in dried-up stink holes like Gobi. Once you got assigned to a planet like this, your only option was to sit and wait for a transfer. It could take years. Id heard rumors about Marines spending their entire careers on backwater planets praying for any excuse to leave, even a war.

Private First-class Wayson Harris reporting as ordered, sir. I saluted, then handed him the sealed file that contained my orders.

I had shown up for this transfer wearing my Charlie Service uniform, not my armor. The uniform left me exposed to the desert air, and sweat had soaked through the material under my arms, not that this guy would notice. With his faded armor and stubble beard, this sergeant looked like he hadnt bathed in years. All the same, I could barely wait to change into my armor. It wasnt the protective chestplate and helmet I wanted. It was the climate-controlled bodysuit, which had kept me cool in temperatures even less livable than this desert.

PFC Harris, he echoed under his breath, not even bothering to look up. I shouldnt have saluted. Once you leave basic training, you only salute officers or Marines acting under command authority. You dont salute sergeants, and you certainly dont call them sir, but its a hard habit to break. Having just spent three months living the spit-and-polish discipline of boot camp, I had come to fear drill sergeants for the gods they were. This sergeant, however, struck me as a heretic. His camouflage-coated armor had dulled, and there was sand and oil caked in the joints. His helmet sat on the ground beside his seat. I had never seen a Marine remove his helmet while on duty. If the job required combat armor, you wore the whole thing, or you were technically out of uniform.

The sergeant sat slumped in his chair with his armor loosened to fit his wilting posture. My drill sergeant would have given me a week in a detention cell if he saw me sitting like that; but I didnt think this guy worried about the brig. The brass doesnt punish you unless it catches you, and I doubted that any officers had set foot in this outpost in years. Why visit a place like Gobi Station and risk having a superior order you to stay. It could end your career.

PFC Harris... PFC Harris... Lets see what we have here, he mumbled as he broke the red strip sealing my files. He flipped through the pages, occasionally stopping to scan a line. Apparently having found what he wanted, he spread the file on his desk and absentmindedly wrapped his fingers around his bristle-covered chin, as he browsed my records. Fresh out of recruit training, he muttered. Something caught his eye, and he paused and mulled over the information before looking up at me. A 1 in combat readiness? He sounded like he wanted to laugh. Ive never seen anyone score under four hundred.

Its a performance ranking, sir, I said.

He sneered when he heard the word, sir. You say something, private?

That number was my school rank. I drew top marks in hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship.

Godfrey cocked an eyebrow in my direction, then returned to my paperwork. Son of a bitch, perfect scores, he whispered. Why waste a perfectly good Marine on a shit-hole planet like this?

He looked up at me. You have a problem following orders, Harris?

No, sir, I said. I was, in fact, quite obedient by human standards. The military, however, had considerably higher standards. Most conscripts came out of clone farms that the government euphemistically referred to as orphanages. Designed specifically for military life, the clones raised in these orphanages reacted to orders by reflex, even before their conscious minds could grasp what they had been asked to do. If an officer told them to dig a hole in the middle of a sidewalk, concrete chips and sparks would fly before the conscripts stopped to analyze the command. The clones werent stupid, just programmed to obey first and think later. As a natural-born human, I could not compete with their autonomic obedience. My brain took a moment to sort out orders.