The Clone Alliance

fleets. The Scutum-Crux Fleet thundered across its corner of the galaxy with all the subtlety of a herd of elephants crossing the plains.

As we circled around the back of the fleet, I watched the blue-white flames that flared from the ships’ engines. “We’ve been cleared for approach, Colonel,” my pilot told me. My pilot was a natural-born lieutenant who seemed to resent playing chauffeur for a clone.

Brocius cut me orders, too, but they were purposely vague. They identified me as being on Central Cygnus Fleet business and told people to cooperate with me and nothing more. Brocius’s orders gave me enough leeway to land myself in the brig for life. They gave Brocius enough wiggle room to say I had acted on my own.

Rereading these orders I realized how easily I allowed myself to be swept by the tides. I did not need to carry Yamashiro’s olive branch to Earth just because he found me in space. I did not need to partner up with Brocius or rejoin the Marines just because I returned to Earth. I just seemed to let the tide of events sweep me along. I had not officially rejoined the Marines, but here I was, with the Scutum-Crux Fleet, preparing to leave on an unofficial mission. I was wearing a Marine’s uniform, talking like a Marine, and acting like a Marine. Even worse, much as I tried to fool myself otherwise, I knew I was exactly where I wanted to be.

I was built for war, and was pretty sure that I was programmed to be incapable of fighting for anyone other than the Unified Authority. When I really tried, I was capable of passive resistance—living with farmers instead of fighting with the Marines, trying to adapt a transport for broadcast instead of putting a pistol to my head, but in the end, I was in the warrior class, and this was my republic.

My mind wandered as I sat alone. I was the only passenger in a cabin designed to hold two hundred scientists. The explorer was the size of an atmosphere-bound commercial jetliner—too big to fit in the Kamehameha’s launch bay. We had to fly within a mile of the fighter carrier and match her speed. From where I sat, it looked like both ships had come to a stop.

The Kamehameha sent out a ten-man skiff to meet us. The skiff “mated” with the explorer, sealing its temporary air lock over our hatch like a tick attaching itself to a dog. The intricate process took several minutes. Once the air lock was ready, and the gangway was set, I crossed over and rode the skiff to the Kamehameha.

The welcoming crew that met me in the launch bay included the ship’s captain and several high-ranking officers. They did not know why I had come. They only knew that I had orders from Earth.

As the hatch opened, and I stepped out to the deck, I saw recognition on a few of their faces. Some of these men had served on this ship four years ago when I returned with six other survivors from the battle on Little Man.

I saluted the captain, and he returned my salute. I was still dressed in the colonel’s uniform I had worn to breakfast at Brocius’s house. Technically I was impersonating an officer, but the uniform was the only clothing I had at the moment.

“Requesting permission to come aboard,” I said as I stood at attention.

“Welcome aboard,” the captain said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “May I present my orders to the captain?” I remained at attention, chest out, shoulders back. High-ranking officers noticed when you did or did not show them the proper respect.

“At ease, Colonel,” the captain said.

I spread my feet fifteen inches apart. I clasped my hands behind my back. I released the air in my chest.

“Let’s see your orders, Colonel,” the captain said.

I handed him the sheet. He read it. “You wish to meet with my SEALs…” he said. “I don’t suppose you are able to tell me what you might discuss with them?”

I said nothing and looked straight ahead.

“I didn’t think so,” the captain said.

“Ensign, conduct Colonel Harris down to the barracks. See that he meets Illych.”

I saluted. The captain saluted. His salute seemed more formal than it had a few moments earlier.

The ensign led me out of the launch bay and down the corridor. I studied the walls, the ceiling, the lights. Everything looked familiar. With the exception of the orphanage, I had spent more time on this ship than anyplace else in the universe.

Back when I served on the Kamehameha, they’d called the lowest deck “Marine Camp.” On that level we had our own barracks, gymnasiums, and training grounds. Marine clones caught on other decks of the ship were apt to receive rude treatment by sailors, officers and clones alike, who considered them nothing more than cargo.

During my day, Marine Camp was home to two thousand sea soldiers. Walking these halls during business hours, you would see men in fatigues drilling or jogging, or rushing to the firing range. Eighty percent of them were general-issue clones—five-foot-ten and stocky, with a full head of brown hair, brown eyes, and a light complexion.

Now the deck belonged to Navy SEALs. Some men wore fatigues, and some wore jumpsuits. They were short, maybe five-five. The few that did not shave their heads had stubbly light hair. They all had dark skin, and fingers that came to sharp points.

They trained differently, too. In battle, Marines marched up the street and shot everything that got in their way. SEALs specialized in stealth and infiltration. I’d seen their work. They could sneak up behind you, slit your throat, and slip away into the night before you gurgled your last breath.

From what I could see, there were no officers among them. Men sauntered up and down halls in small groups. They talked quietly. Everyone had the same face, the same tan, the same brantoo on his forearm—a map of the six arms of the galaxy with banners above and below. The banner above said “NAVY SEALS.” The banner below said “THE FINAL SOLUTION.” The banners and each of the arms of the Milky Way were branded into their forearms, then dye was injected into the wound to add color. Brand the pattern and color the skin, and you end up with an embossed tattoo. I have never felt the need to get a brantoo, though having one is considered a mark of machismo.

I could not get over the feeling of deja vu as we walked the halls. Oh, the layout had been changed a bit, and the clones did not look like the clones with whom I served, but I still recognized the rec room and mess hall. When we passed by the door to my former barracks, I wanted to stop and peer in. Finally, the ensign delivered me to a small briefing room.

The SEAL who came to the door and saluted us wore a star and three red stripes on his arms. That made him a master chief petty officer. He had gone as far as he could go in the noncommissioned ranks. In the world of cloned SEALs, this man was the ultimate authority.

“Colonel Harris, this is Illych. He pretty much runs things down here,” the ensign said.

This was the first time I had seen a Boyd clone so close without fighting him. I had not realized exactly how ugly they would be. He had a small mouth and almost no lips. A thick ridge of bone ran along the tops of his eye sockets. That ridge would offer protection in hand-to-hand combat. I knew from experience that it made them hell with a head butt.

I stood ten inches taller than Illych. Looking down and trying to hide my nervousness, I returned his salute. I had seen Boyd clones in action. They killed without hesitation.

“Illych,” I said, using the bored voice that officers use when addressing enlisted men.

“Colonel,” Illych said.

“Ensign, perhaps Mr. Illych and I could have a word,” I said.

The ensign saluted, turned, and left us. During my tour as an active Marine, I had two actions in which I fought clones of Illych’s make. Luck played a large part in my survival. No one and nothing I have ever seen scared me quite so much as Boyd clones.

Illych seemed to recognize me. I thought I saw tension in his face. The intense look in his eyes reminded me of a pit bull guarding its den, but a slight grin played on his lips. He had a mysterious Cheshire Cat smile that was too big to disregard and too small to label as insubordination.

I tried to ignore that smirk as we sat to discuss my orders, but I kept coming back to it. “Is there something on your mind, Chief?” I asked.

“You’re a Liberator clone,” Illych said.

Feeling a little nervous, I said, “Nothing gets past you Boyd clones,” hoping to put Illych in his place. To the contrary, however, his grin only broadened.