The Clone Redemption

I was about to say something, but the dwarf scientist put up a hand and shushed me. Someone had entered the laboratory. Before I could see who, our connection went dead.

CHAPTER TEN

Unless some four-star survived the ambush at Olympus Kri without telling me, I was the highest-ranking officer in the Enlisted Man’s Empire, and I did not consider myself fit for command. I was a combat Marine, not an admiral. I understood the movements of troops and companies, not fleets. I was made for the battlefield.

I wanted to find my successor. All of the two-star and three-star candidates died at Olympus Kri, leaving me with three one-star admirals to choose from. One look at the field, and I already knew that the pickings were slim.

Along with being the ranking officer in the meeting, I was the lone Marine in attendance. I brought Don Cutter with me as an advisor. As the captain of a fighter carrier, he would know the officers by reputation if not from experience.

Cutter and I were the only people actually sitting in the room, the other officers attended as holographic images sent in via the broadcast network. We sat at one end of a long table, watching the other attendees through a transparent screen that looked for all intents and purposes like a pane of glass. Naval officers called this device a “conferencer.” We Marines called it a “confabulator.” Around Washington, D.C., it was known as a “social mirage.” It facilitated the feeling of having all participants in the same room by placing holographic images of remote attendees around the table as if they were actually there. Looking through the confabulator, I saw each officer in his assigned chair with a virtual plaque that identified his name, rank, and fleet. If I allowed myself to stare at the virtual attendees, though, I could see a slight translucence in their faces.

The three admirals in attendance chatted among themselves, occasionally pausing to glance back at me through the window. They were scattered across the galaxy as well. One of them was in the Perseus Arm, one was in the Sagittarius Arm, and the last was in the Norma Arm.

I came to the meeting thinking I would hand over the reins of the military to one of these men; but as I watched them, I had second thoughts. Looking through the confabulator, I saw an enclave of assholes.

I called the room to order by asking, “Have any of you heard from Warshaw?”

“Warshaw” was Admiral Gary Warshaw, the commander, chief, and architect of the Enlisted Man’s Empire. He was the officer who rebuilt the broadcast network, a man with a knack for finding options in hopeless situations.

Somewhere inside me, I still hoped that Warshaw had survived the ambush at Olympus Kri. The arrogant prick strutted like a peacock, and he wasn’t worth shit in combat situations, but Warshaw was a great organizer. He’d created an empire out of chaos.

All three of the admirals shook their heads.

“No one?”

I asked, “Have any of you heard back from your commanding officers?” They gave the same response. That didn’t surprise me. All of our top brass had been at Olympus Kri when the Unifieds caught us flat-footed.

Looking around the table, I noted how the three admirals looked similar but with unique features. They were all clones, all five-foot-ten, with brown hair and brown eyes. Two of them looked to be in their early thirties, the other in his fifties. He had rims of white hair around his ears. He was also fat as a whale.

I took a deep breath and launched into the bad news. “The Unifieds attacked our ships after we evacuated Olympus Kri. As far as I know, the Churchill is the only ship that escaped.”

“What about the Kamehameha? Do you think she survived?” asked Rear Admiral Steven Jolly. The Kamehameha was the flagship of the Enlisted Man’s Fleet, Warshaw’s ship.

I’d never met Jolly in person, but I’d heard stories about him. By reputation, he was a man of unlimited ambition who suffered from depression and self-doubt. Nobody respected Admiral Jolly, not even Jolly himself.

I shook my head, and said, “I was on the Kamehameha when the attack started.”

“Did you see her go down?” asked Jolly.

Cutter leaned forward, cleared his throat, and said in a loud whisper, “The Kamehameha was the first ship they destroyed.”

“What about Admiral Cloward? He was on the Clinton?”

“I didn’t see the Clinton go down,” said Cutter. “Admiral Warshaw ordered every ship to the broadcast zone. The Churchill was the closest ship to the zone, and we barely made it through. The last ship I saw was the Salah ad-Din. She was right behind us, but the Unifieds were closing in on her.”

I said, “If the Kamehameha went down, all of your commanding officers went with her. They were with Warshaw on the Kamehameha when the attack began.”

“What were they doing on the Kamehameha?” asked Rear Admiral Curtis Liotta.

“They were negotiating reunification with the Unifieds. The U.A. sent an ambassador.”

“Did Andropov attend?” asked Jolly.

“Martin Traynor came in his place,” I said.

“Traynor? Who the hell is he?” asked Liotta. I knew Liotta by reputation, too. He was a weasel. According to Cutter, people called Liotta “Curtis the Snake” behind his back.

Liotta was an outspoken critic of everyone and everything that did not suit him. He openly criticized other officers’ tactics and battle strategies despite having risen to the rank of rear admiral (lower half) without ever seeing combat.

“The only thing I know about Traynor is that the Linear Committee sent him,” said Cutter. “I think he’s secretary of galactic expansion or some odd thing.”

“And they sacrificed him?” asked Jolly.

Looking around the room, I watched the admirals to see how they would react to the news. Admiral Liotta looked shocked and scornful. Admiral Peter “Pete” Wallace of the Sagittarius Central Fleet looked angry enough to gouge somebody’s eyes out. Only Steven Jolly, the old man, hid his emotions. He sat still and slumped in his chair, staring down at the table, his face unreadable.

“He left the ship a few moments before the attack,” I said.

“The hell you say,” said Cutter. “No one made it off the Kamehameha.”

“I did,” I said. “I saw Traynor leaving the summit and followed him to a landing bay. That’s the only reason I made it off the ship, I was already near my shuttle when the attack began.”

If I ever saw Traynor again, I’d have to thank him for saving my life. I’d thank him, then I would shove a grenade so far up his ass his doctor would mistake it for a hemorrhoid.

The silence in the room was so heavy it felt like it was made of bricks. Wallace, the youngest of the one-stars, broke that silence when he said, “It’s time we annihilated those speckers once and for all.”

Wallace looked fit, but he had a disfigured face. Long, striping scars covered his forehead and cheeks and neck, making his head look like a misshapen map. He might have seen action or he might have been in a fire. I would not have trusted the surgeon who performed Wallace’s skin grafts to wrap a Christmas present.

“We can’t attack Earth,” Jolly said, dismissing the comment as if it had been made by a child.

“Why the hell not?” demanded Wallace.

“Because it’s Earth,” said Jolly.

Hearing Jolly speak, I was struck by how much these men did not know. They might have known that the aliens had returned to New Copenhagen and Olympus Kri, but they did not know about Terraneau. From what I could tell, their superiors had not informed them that the aliens would attack every one of our planets or that they would eventually attack Earth.