The Clone Alliance

The city lights did not stutter. They did not blink on and off. They went out. In the pitch-darkness, my visor automatically switched to night-for-day vision. I stared out the big glass window down at a cityscape painted in blue-white and black.

I looked over at Philips as he put on his helmet. “The power is out,” I said.

“I can see that,” he growled.

“You don’t get it,” I said, and I fired my M27 into the window, which shattered into tire-sized pieces of jagged glass and dropped to the street.

“Evans, Thomer, Greer,” I called. “The shields are down.”

“Harris,” a familiar voice interrupted my conversation with my squad leaders. “You out there?”

“Nice to hear from you,” I said.

“I’m the only SEAL with any time on this planet,” Illych said. “They had to send me.

“I’m in their capital sector. You should have seen this place. It’s wild. It’s half government, half religious shrine. Too bad it’s all going away.”

By this time Philips and I had already started down the stairs. The rows of washing machines did not glisten or reflect light. There was no light for them to reflect. This world had become that dark, as black as any hole.

“You guys pulled off a coup turning out the lights,” I said, full of admiration for the SEALs.

“Not just the lights,” Illych said. “We sent two teams into the military sector. Alpha Team took out their broadcast engine. Tango just knocked out their shield generator. Considering all the trouble these guys have caused, we wanted to shut them down for good.”

Philips and I ran into the street. Seen through the night-for-day lens, the scene had no more depth than an old black-and-white photograph. I saw it in the ghostly blue-white. I could see details clearly enough. I could see clearly enough to know I was staring into an empty street. I looked both ways, then switched to heat vision to make sure that no one was hiding. The walls gave off no heat, but tanks, men, and weapons all had heat signatures. The block ahead of us was clean.

“When are you pulling out?” Illych asked.

“We’re not,” I said. “We’re going to hang around until the Green Machine arrives.” The “Green Machine” was a Corps name for the Army.

I didn’t really need my visor to know that the coast was clear. Mogat soldiers typically did not wear armor. They would have needed torches to see anything. With the power out, Mogatopolis was nothing more than a big specking cave. I felt the excitement of a battle won. We had the advantage now. We had better armor. Once the Army arrived, we would have comparable numbers and better equipment.

“Harris, what are you talking about?” Illych asked.

I ran through an alley using a building for cover, not that anyone would be able to see me without some kind of vision enhancement. The tanks and trucks had spotlights—big specking deal. I’d see the spotlights a mile away.

“The second wave,” I said. I stopped and parked myself against a wall. “They’re sending the Army in to occupy…”

“What are you doing?” Philips broke in.

“Quiet,” I snapped.

“Harris, the Army isn’t coming. The Confederate Arms Navy is engaging the Mogat Fleet right now. Once we chew through their Fleet, the Mogats will be landlocked. All we need to do is pin them down on this rock for another two hours and…”

“No Army?” I asked.

“Why would they send in the Army? Now that the power is out, everything down here is going to revert back to elemental gas.”

“Distilled shit gas,” I whispered. The briefing officer had told us that everything down here was made of the stuff.

“They’ll all be dead,” Illych said.

“We’ll all be dead,” I repeated. I felt stunned. I felt like I had received a knee in the groin. This was pain and confusion that even the combat reflex could not mask. I thought of Samson, blinded and captured by the Philistines. In a final show of faith, he killed himself and the Philistines by toppling their temple down upon his head.

Only Samson volunteered to pull the temple on his own head. And then it struck me: the Unified Authority might have been God; but the clones were the sacrifices, not the high priests. Those speckers were offering me up to die.

“Harris, you have to get out of there,” Illych said.

“And go where?” I asked. “Where the speck are we supposed to go?” Even if we made it topside and boarded the transports, who would pick us up? If it were not for my programming, I would have shoved the muzzle of my M27 in my mouth and pulled the trigger. I felt numb. I felt dizzy. The Unified Authority had betrayed us. I should have known they would. And by leading my men into the trap, I had betrayed them.

“Master Sarge, what is going on?” Philips said.

“The battleships are still up there,” Illych said. “If you make it up before they leave, they’ll take you.”

“No, they won’t,” I said. “They came to kill Mogats, not rescue Marines.”

“Harris, you need to hurry,” Illych said. “Without their shields, those Mogat ships won’t last long against the fleet.”

We were a distraction, I thought. They sent us here to clear the way for the SEALs. That was all they wanted us for, and now we’ve outlived our purpose. “Those specking assholes. Ah, shit,” I said as I rested my gun on a the ground. “Bloody hell.”

“Harris, you need to get your men topside,” Illych said.

“Harris, what the speck are you doing?” Philips asked.

So we are still the bullet. We are still a commodity. Even if I can lead my men out, why should I? This will just happen again. Even as I considered this, I knew that I had to try to escape. They programmed survival instinct into my being. They also gave me aggression, and I found reason enough to live in the idea of revenge.

“How long do we have?” I asked Illych. I had picked up my gun and begun running to the next corner. Philips remained a pace behind me, gun ready.

“Till the Navy leaves or the whole city reverts back into elemental gas?” Illych asked. “You have two hours until everything down here melts. The Navy will be long gone by then.”

“Harris, can you get to a transport?” the low resonant voice of Ray Freeman asked. I had forgotten about Freeman.

While we were back on the transport, I’d suggested that he listen in on my communications. Back then I said that he should listen in so he could keep an eye on our troop movements. “Freeman?” I asked.

“Are you pinned down?” Freeman asked.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, more for Freeman than Illych, though they both heard me. I was so angry and ashamed that I could barely think. The combat reflex protected me against fear, not humiliation. I had to get my men out. I had to get them to a transport. I knew this, but my actions were as mechanical as my breathing and heartbeat. All that ran through my head was anger and embarrassment.

“Semper fi, my ass,” I whispered. I was a faithful servant to an unfaithful master. I was a fool. If I made it off this planet, I would turn my back on the Unified Authority once and for all. My programming might prevent me from fighting against bastards like Brocius, but I did not have to die as one of their pawns.

“Get moving,” Illych shouted, before signing off. Freeman said nothing. He had offered to help; now he was already on his way to the transport.

I changed frequencies to call to the colonel commanding the operation. This asshole must have had more enemies than friends. He was the highest-ranking sacrifice sent out here to die. Some general back in Washington, DC, had probably asked, whom should we screw on this one, and everyone agreed on this jerk. I should have known something was wrong when they sent an asshole colonel to command a sixty-thousand-man landing. Where was the boatload of generals trying to claim the victory for themselves?