The Clone Alliance

“They seem to. I’m guessing they lifted the information off the broadcast computer on that ship we took.”

Thomer nodded again.

I had withheld a lot of information. My boys did not know that the Unified Authority and the Confederate Arms had signed a treaty and that we would likely ship out in battleships like the one we had captured. I neglected to mention that the entire Mogat fleet, which was still nearly four hundred ships strong, was moored around the target planet. I said nothing about our unarmed ships needing to slip in, drop us on the hostile planet, and get out before the Mogats shot them down. I also neglected to mention that the Mogats’ ships had some new shield technology that rendered our weaponry useless.

Three hours after breakfast, we all boarded an explorer and flew to Earth.

It took less than an hour for us to arrive at Fort Houston, a small training base in the southwestern portion of the old United States. Fort Houston had once been attached to an orphanage. Young clones ages twelve and up once had run its obstacle course and bivouacked in its fields. The Mogats destroyed the orphanage after defeating the Earth Fleet. Thirty-six thousand clone children fried in their beds as a Mogat battleship hit the orphanage with a laser from above the atmosphere.

Bastards.

Over the next two days, a hundred platoons moved into portable barracks buildings set up around the Fort Houston parade grounds. That gave us four thousand five hundred Marines. If they’d had a hundred more forts with a hundred platoons, we might have had enough Marines to hold a beachhead while we waited for reinforcements to arrive.

Within an hour of landing in Fort Houston, we began training. I found comfort in this. There was something nostalgic about doing calisthenics in the blazing-hot noonday sun, sweat rolling down my face and back, while another platoon ran laps around the field. We finished our calisthenics and headed for the firing range, passing men on the obstacle course crawling across a field while their sergeants fired live rounds over their shoulders.

Hearing the swearing of sergeants and the explosions of grenades, I realized that I had returned home. Semper fi, Marine.

One of the great benefits of being stationed back on Earth was the mediaLink. On the Obama, the only news we received was prerecorded information released by the Department of the Navy. It wasn’t much. Before I logged on to the mediaLink, however, I had important business to take care of. I had a call to place.

At 1600 hours, the base commander announced that we had the rest of the night to ourselves. My men went into a nearby town called Austin. I stayed back.

We had our own barracks building. With the platoon gone, I dug through my gear and found the pair of disposable shades I’d bought in DC. After one last glance to make sure that no one would see me, I logged on to the mediaLink and placed the call.

The picture that appeared on the screen was a pretty little girl with long blond hair and startling blue eyes. She sat on a blanket in a field of daisies holding a dandelion in her hands. Looking at me through the screen, she smiled and in the sweetest of voices said, “We can’t beat the Mogats.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I tried to break into their compound,” Freeman said through his little girl avatar.

“Let me guess, the building has impenetrable shields,” I said. My trip to Mogatopolis was highly classified. I could barely wait to share the details.

“Have a look,” said the little girl.

The picture of the little girl disappeared from the screen. Video of a large building that took up an entire city block replaced it. There was an explosion. I saw a flash of fire followed by a cloud of smoke. Cars parked near the building flipped in the air and tumbled away. There was no sound.

When the smoke cleared, the building looked exactly as it had before the explosion. Then the image on the screen returned to the little girl as she blew on her dandelion, and the air carried its fluff toward the camera.

“Something big is going on in there. I took energy readings from my station. They’re off the scales,” Freeman said. On the screen, the little girl, who could not have been older than five and probably weighed all of fifty pounds, picked a daisy and started playing He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not.

“It’s almost like they have a broadcast engine running in there.”

“They do have a broadcast engine,” I said. “That is exactly what they have.”

“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” Freeman said. He was using a short video loop. The dandelion magically reappeared in the little girl’s hand.

“I went down to Mogatopolis,” I said.

“Mogatopolis?”

“That’s the name they’re using for the Mogat home world,” I said. “The Mogats have some new kind of shield generator on their planet. They’re broadcasting the shield. If you give me a location on that building, Brocius can send out the hounds of war.”

“They still have to deal with those shields.”

“We’re shutting the shields down at the source,” I said. “Now that we have the Mogats’ address, we’re going to pay them a visit. I think you should come with us as a civilian advisor.” I knew that Freeman would never accompany us any other way.

“Why would I do that?” Freeman asked.

“Crowley should be there.” The first time I met Freeman, I was stationed in an armory on a backwater planet called Gobi. Freeman, who made his living as a mercenary, had come to investigate a report that Amos Crowley, a former U.A. Army general who had converted to Mogatism and defected, was on that planet. Crowley attacked the armory and almost took us with it.

“What’s Crowley worth these days?” Freeman asked.

“I’m guessing two or three million.”

On the screen, the little girl blew her dandelion fluff.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Word came around the camp to look smart; Admiral Brocius had come to Fort Houston to review the troops.

It was our second week on the base. A captain and three lieutenants woke my platoon and three others at 0500. We dressed and fell in for an early-morning hike that would last sixteen hours and end with a bivouac. We ate MREs in the field and drank only the water we brought with us as we hiked in the 110-degree weather.

None of this would have mattered had we worn our climate-controlled armor, but we hiked in fatigues. My men were more acclimatized to the chilled air on the U.A.N. Obama than the heat in Texas. They suffered the entire way.

Philips, who had no trouble staying ahead of the rest of the platoon, bellyached more than the rest of my men combined. He must have asked “Where the hell are we going?” five times an hour as we tromped through plains and over foothills. In the midafternoon we entered a marsh. Philips grimaced as his feet sank in the mud, and he asked, “What is the point of running through this shit?”

In the marshland we ran through ankle-deep mud, crushing reeds and scaring ducks as we went. That lasted for three hours. At 1500, the officers steered us to a makeshift firing range they had constructed in the middle of the swamp. They sat in the backs of their Jeeps and ate MREs as we fired M27s and other small weapons.

Of the 168 Marines on the hike, I scored highest on the range with a perfect score—three hundred shots fired, three hundred hits scored on targets three hundred yards away. In Marine jargon, I had just pulled off a “three- by-three.”

I took more than a little pleasure when I noted that Private Philips came in second with a score of 283. No one