specking science building stood unmolested. We rolled on to dormitory row.
“General Glade left strict orders for you to have a quick shower and report to his office,” Burton said.
“I haven’t eaten in—”
Burton put up a hand. “He said you might say something along that line. He ordered a meal for you from the officers’ mess.
“He also said to warn you not to keep him waiting.”
So I followed orders. I walked straight through the barracks, heads turning as I passed.
“Lieutenant Harris?” Sergeant Thomer came out to meet me. “Where were you?” he asked. “Herrington told me that Lieutenant Moffat threw you in the brig.”
“Is that what he said?” I asked. “I don’t have much time; what did I miss? How’s your platoon?”
“There are only nine of us left in the platoon,” Thomer paused. “They got Philips.”
I stopped walking. “Did you see what happened?” That was an attempt at tact. What I meant was, “Did Moffat shoot him?”
Thomer understood immediately. “No,” he said. “I lost track of him in the battle.”
“Have you gone out after him?” I asked.
“No, sir. We’ve been confined to base.” There it was, the neural programming that Philips had somehow managed to overcome. Given a direct order, this make of clone was supposed to obey without question. Philips was Thomer’s closest friend. He’d been Thomer’s guardian angel on the battlefield, and Thomer protected him everywhere else; but some officer gave orders for the clones to return to base, and the programming hardwired into Thomer’s brain would not ignore a direct order. That was how it was supposed to work.
“Who gave the order?” I asked.
“Lieutenant Moffat,” Thomer said.
“Moffat again?” I whispered. Now I wanted a look at Philips’s body more than ever. He would be dead, no question about that, but I needed to know what killed him.
“The Mudders got Manning and Skittles. Boll and Herrington made it. I never saw anything like it before,” Thomer said in a flat voice. “They just plowed through everything. They knocked down buildings whenever they came to anything more than a couple of stories tall. I hear the Army stationed a regiment in a parking garage. The Mudders knocked down the building, and the Army lost the entire regiment …an entire regiment destroyed with one shot.”
I did not have time to talk, but there would be time later. “Thomer, take five men and find Philips,” I said, specifically framing it as an order. “His virtual tags will still be up unless he was shot in the head. Do you know where he took his platoon?”
“What about Lieutenant Moffat?” Thomer asked.
“You just get your team together and head out,” I said. “If you run into Moffat, tell him he can take it up with me directly.”
Thomer smiled and saluted. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said.
As he started to leave, I added, “If you find anyone with a pulse, you bring them back, but Philips is the one I want to see. Once you find him, head straight back to the barracks.”
Thomer nodded and went out to piece together his hunting party.
I stood and watched as Thomer left, not really following him so much as staring into space. Philips was murdered only after I’d gotten myself thrown in the brig for no reason. What did I accomplish by going after Moffat now that Philips was dead? Maybe if I had controlled my temper, I could have kept him safe.
What would I do if Philips’s armor had been blown apart? Bullets from M27s left small holes where they entered and jagged exit wounds, light bolts from Avatari rifles created distinctive tunnels through the entire body, but particle-beam fire would blow obliterated armor apart. One look at Philips’s body and I would know who killed him.
And what if the armor had bullet holes? If Moffat had enough guts to face Philips, there might be a video record in Philips’s helmet. Even if Moffat shot him from behind, a pompous ass like Moffat might have said something over the interLink before pulling the trigger. I could just see him saying, “Philips, this is for Lilly.” I could also see him standing over Philips body, maybe kicking him a time or two for good measure.
Shaking my head to clear those thoughts, I went to my room, stripped out of my bodysuit, and grabbed a towel. I found the medicine for my shoulder and gave myself a double dose, then headed for the showers. What if I ran into Moffat in there, would I attack him or ignore him? It would be one or the other; talking was out of the question.
The officers’ shower was empty. There might not have been many officers left, and those still alive may well have needed a drink more than a shower. By now every natural-born knew we could no longer win this war. Only the cowards who ran would survive the next battle. I thought about the deserters come judgment day—when the Avatari caused the sun to go supernova. Would the world suddenly melt around them, or would it happen gradually over centuries? Sweetwater had never said how long it would take for the sun to expand. Would it be a year or a hundred years or a thousand? General Haight made that comment about our gooses being cooked whether we won or lost the war, not the scientists. What was a thousand years or a hundred thousand in terms of space? However long it took, I hoped the deserters would realize they had leaped out of the frying pan and into a hot fire indeed. Heroes and cowards, we’d all burn as one on that day.
Semper fi …or should I have said “semper fry”?
I stepped into the shower and turned on the water. Strands of water arced out of the showerhead. I made the water as hot as I could, felt it lightly burning my skin, watched steam rise into the air around me.
So what if we all died, what did it matter? What did death mean to a clone? Heaven and hell were the domain of natural-borns. At least there would be no more talk about “fighting for Earth” or “preserving the Unified Authority” or “making the galaxy safe for mankind.” From here on out, the most anyone could hope for was to take a few Mudders down with them.
This strange enemy had changed the nature of war. My shoulder hurt, but the medicine had already begun its magic, and the hot water felt good.
I finished my shower and dressed. Then I went to Base Command and reported in. As I waited to see General Glade, I noticed other generals milling around the building. Newcastle and Haight argued in a nearby office. I did not see them, but I recognized their voices. Army command must have moved into this building as well; I noticed several aides in Army drab.
I stood and saluted. He returned the salute.
“Has the Army moved in with you, sir?” I asked.
“It would appear so,” Glade said. “They lost their headquarters in the fighting. Let’s talk in my office.” He turned and started back down the hall. I followed.
A small food cart had been placed in a corner of the office. On it sat trays with several kinds of meats, breads, and vegetables. He even had packets of mayonnaise and mustard.
“Help yourself,” Glade said. As I reached for a plate, he added something that took me by surprise. “We fought that whole damn battle for nothing, yesterday; the Science Lab is useless.”
“Useless?” I asked.
“Burton didn’t tell you?” Glade asked.
I lowered my plate back and stepped away from the cart. “Tell me what, sir?” I asked.
“Arthur Breeze is missing.”
“Missing? General, if there’s one man on New Copenhagen who knows there’s no place to run …” I said. Breeze was the one who figured out that the aliens planned to bake the planet.
Glade sat down behind his desk. “Not Breeze, he didn’t run away. Sweetwater’s the one who would have bolted. He’s the coward.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“All we know at this point is that Breeze stole a private plane,” Glade said. “We don’t know where he went with it.”
“Sweetwater doesn’t know?” I asked.
“Apparently not,” Glade said.
