The Clone Empire

McGraw traded salutes with Baxter, and we left Broadcast Engineering.

As we waited for the lift, I examined the key, and said, “It’s a lot less impressive than I expected.”

McGraw laughed. “It’s a transmitter. Transmits old-fashioned frequency-modulated radio waves. Warshaw set up the hot zones to disassemble anything that enters them, but the zones don’t disassemble signals from the key.”

“And the Unifieds haven’t figured that out?”

“No, sir. I mean, these are FM signals, it’s old, old technology. The Unifieds aren’t watching for ancient technology, it’s like we’re controlling the stations with smoke signals, it’s that old.”

“And the book?” I asked

“It’s an index of established broadcast coordinates. It’s the same book the Mogats used on their self- broadcasting fleet …same codes and everything. We stole the books along with the broadcast equipment off their wrecks.”

Back in the days when the Unified Authority counted the entire galaxy as its territory, the Republic established 180 colonies. The coordinates for the colonized worlds all fit on the inside flap, the rest of the volume held coordinates for scientific research sites, satellites, and rendezvous spots.

Seeing McGraw tap the lift button several times, I asked, “Are you in a hurry?”

He apologized, and said, “I’m nervous about the negotiations, sir. I don’t trust the Unifieds.”

The elevator arrived, and we rode it to the fleet deck. Still carrying the key and book, I followed McGraw into a small side room in which most of Warshaw’s remoras sat watching the negotiations on a large monitor.

I’m not entirely sure such a partnership would be in our best interest. I did not recognize the man who said that, but he spoke in the same imperious tone as Tobias Andropov. The screen showed a nearly empty conference room in which Warshaw sat flanked by three admirals on one side of the table, the man representing the Unified Authority sat with two male secretaries on the other.

“Who is that?” I whispered to McGraw.

“His name’s Martin Traynor. He’s the U.A. minister of expansion; but I get the feeling he thinks he’s God.”

We have more people than you. We have more planets than you do. We have more ships than you do. What do you mean the partnership isn’t in your interest? We control the broadcast network, Warshaw said. I expected to see him flexing the various muscles in his arms as he spoke, but he did not do that in this negotiation. He sat hunched in his chair, looking like a man kept alive by coffee and prayers.

Unless you do something quick, you will be out of planets and civilians in three more months, Traynor said. He looked like the quintessential bureaucrat, perfectly coiffed, manicured, dressed in wool and silk. Satisfied that he had just laid down an unbeatable hand, he leaned back in his chair and smirked.

Warshaw responded by drawing a line in the sand and daring the U.A. minister to cross it. So you’re going to wait for those people to die?

His bluff was called, and the smirk vanished. Traynor said, Obviously, we want to save as many lives as possible. The only reason we’re holding these negotiations is to save lives.

There was a moment of silence, then Warshaw said, I must have misheard you. A moment ago I thought you said you didn’t mind if they all died.

The players might have kept their cool in the conference room, but the men watching the negotiation wore their emotions on their sleeves. The man next to me said, “Specking Traynor. Specking Unified Authority. Specking …” His rant lasted more than a minute, and he said “specking” every other word.

Seeing Warshaw put Traynor in his place, McGraw slammed his palm on the table, and yelled, “Right! Damn right!”

Watching the negotiation, it was clear that neither side trusted the other. I thought that was a good sign. Having found himself abandoned in the Scutum-Crux Arm, then used for a target in a military game, Warshaw had little reason to trust the Unifieds.

Maybe the smartest course of action would be to evacuate the people from your planets and leave you and your superior military to handle the aliens, Traynor suggested.

Excellent idea, Warshaw said. Do you think you can fit that many people in your hypothetical underwater cities?

McGraw and several other viewers shouted their approval. On the screen, one of the admirals sitting beside Warshaw gave him an approving nod.

Traynor coughed. He poured himself a glass of water, but still seemed to be choking. His right hand in front of his mouth, he excused himself and asked for a five-minute break.

The tension in the viewing room relaxed as soon as Traynor stepped out of the picture. We watched Warshaw conferring with his admirals. Across the table, Traynor’s secretaries silently reviewed their notes.

While I enjoyed watching the fireworks, I needed to get to Terraneau. I thanked McGraw for the broadcast key and signaled Nobles to get the shuttle ready.

As I stepped out of the viewing room, I saw something that struck me as odd. Walking like a man who is late for a meeting, Martin Traynor stomped past me and continued down the hall. Our shoulders brushed, but he did not look back as he hurried away.

“Where do you think you are going?” I asked in a whisper as I watched him rush past the head. He didn’t even give the door a second glance.

Temporarily shelving my concern for Terraneau, I followed the son of a bitch.

Maybe he heard my steps, maybe he only sensed me behind him, but Traynor picked up speed. His legs pumping quickly, he rounded a corner and headed for the elevators. I jogged to gain ground on him.

By the time I reached the corner, I could see him running to the lifts. He stabbed a button with his forefinger, then held the button down in an impatient bid to speed things up. As I came toward him, one of the elevators opened, and he leaped in. I ran to catch up, but the doors shut before I arrived.

I hit the button, calling for another elevator, trying to sort out the scene as I waited. Traynor fleeing the negotiations made no sense to me. Even if the negotiations fell through, Warshaw would not arrest him, he was an ambassador. Had he forgotten something on his shuttle? A bomb, maybe? I thought; but he wasn’t a saboteur. If anything, he struck me as a stiff.

My lift opened. I pressed the button for the bottom deck, the deck with the landing bays. If I ran into Traynor, I would follow him. If I did not see him, I would board my shuttle and ride to Terraneau. I doubted I would see Traynor, though, and I tried to put him out of my mind.

The doors of the elevator slid open, and there he was, walking down the hall. Hearing my lift open, he turned to look back and saw me. Our eyes met for just a moment and I did not like what I saw. In his eyes I saw abject terror, then he looked down and started speed-walking away.

He scampered down the hall, and I followed. I wanted to yell after him, but I had no idea what I should or should not say …what I could or could not say. I could not arrest him. If I made the wrong move, the negotiations might collapse.

Traynor looked back, saw me following him, and ran. The rule book went out the window the moment he picked up his pace. If I’d had a gun on me, I might have shot him in the leg just to stop him; but he was short and domesticated, and if it came to a chase, I would overtake him in a couple of seconds. I was gaining on him, then I passed an observation window, stopped, and forgot all about the minister of expansion. In that moment, he became the furthest thing from my mind.

Staring out that observation wall, I saw white holes in the blackness of space. The anomalies appeared so far away that their brightness only created spots before my eyes. At first, only five or six appeared, then a dozen followed, then still more. As I watched the scene, Klaxons began to sound.

Hatches opened along the hall, and sailors flooded out, rushing this way and that, headed for their battle stations. I forced my way against the current, fighting to get to the landing bay.

Even as I cut through, something struck the Kamehameha, rocking the ship. When a big ship shakes, the people inside it become as insubstantial as snowflakes in a blizzard. The force struck the Kamehameha, throwing all of us against the walls and the deck. Barely noticing that I had fallen to my knees, I gathered my balance and tried to press forward to the landing bay.

I was almost there when we took the first real hit. Something had penetrated our defenses and struck the ship. At the far end of the hall, the outer shell of the ship gave way. Lights flashed off and on, men screamed, the