The Clone Apocalypse (24 page)

FORTY-TWO

Jeff Harmer stood five-foot-two. He was three inches shorter than Yoshi Yamashiro, six inches shorter than Emily Hughes, fifteen inches shorter than Travis Watson, and twenty-two inches shorter than Ray Freeman. He was bald and had a charcoal-colored complexion. A thick bone ridge ran above his eyes. His fingers came to sharp points.

Watson didn’t bother asking why the Japanese referred to him and his fellow clones as “shadow demons.”

Harmer said, “We saw you land. Since we don’t have any form of early-warning system, we didn’t spot you until you reached the city.”

Watson kept his voice and his expression neutral, but his thoughts ran amuck. The SEAL looked like a cross between a human and an animal, maybe an insect.
He’s so damn ugly,
he thought. General-issue clones were programmed not to see themselves when they looked in mirrors; Watson hoped Harmer had the same programming.

Watson asked, “How many of you are there?”

“There are 108 of us.” Harmer answered. He had a high voice. It sounded slightly girly but also like the voice of a sociopath.

“A company,” said Freeman.

Harmer nodded.

“What kind of company?” asked Emily.

“It’s a military term, M,” said Watson in an authoritative tone. “Fire teams, platoons, companies, battalions.” He hoped he had fooled her; it had taken Harris forever to educate Watson about the chain of command.

“Oh. I should have known that,” said Emily.

After a few more moments of pleasantries, Yamashiro said, “Perhaps now would be a good time for you to explain why you have come.”

As Freeman didn’t speak up right away, Watson said, “How long ago did you leave on your mission?”

Yamashiro answered, “Twenty-five fifteen.”

“Four years ago,” said Watson.

“Five,” Yamashiro corrected.

“While you were hunting the aliens, the Unified Authority discontinued the cloning program,” said Watson.

“Why would they do that?” asked Harmer.

“Once the dust settled after the invasion, Congress wanted to know why we lost so many planets. The generals blamed the clones.”

“And that led to a war?” asked Yamashiro.

Watson said, “That and the aliens coming back to burn the planets they missed.”

“Is that what happened to this planet?” asked Harmer.

Yamashiro said something in Japanese. Harmer answered, also in Japanese. To Watson’s untrained ear, the SEAL’s Japanese sounded more fluent.

Yamashiro launched into a long explanation in Japanese. Occasionally, Watson heard words he thought he recognized—“Harris-san,” “Unified-u,” “kuron” for clone.

Harmer listened carefully, then asked, “Why wouldn’t the flu infect me and my men?”

Freeman said, “It was specifically designed to infect standard-issue clones.”

“You might catch it, but it won’t kill you, not unless you have a death gland,” added Watson.

Yamashiro said, “Most unfortunately for Harris, he has similar DNA to the other clones. He is a good man; I am sorry to hear he is in such a situation.”

Harmer said, “I met Harris once. He and Illych and I boarded the same dead ship looking for Mogat traps.

“Mr. Freeman, I am sorry to hear about Harris’s situation as well, but I don’t see how it concerns me. I am not a fan of the Unified Authority, but my mission is to protect the sailors of the Japanese Fleet. We are on New Copenhagen now. Earth politics no longer affect us.”

Yamashiro said something in Japanese. Harmer answered. They argued. Freeman watched in silence.

Watson said, “Do you know how we found you?”

Yamashiro and Harmer went silent and turned to listen.

“The Unified Authority Navy sent ships here while they were fighting the clones. You destroyed those ships.”

Neither Yamashiro nor Harmer responded.

“The Unifieds know their ships were destroyed while patrolling New Copenhagen space. They don’t know you were the ones who attacked their ships, not yet, but they know that someone with a superweapon destroyed their ships here. Once the clones are out of the way, how long do you think Andropov will wait before he sends a fleet here to investigate?”

“Who is Andropov?” asked Yamashiro. Andropov rose to power after the Japanese Fleet had left Earth.

“He was the senior member of the Linear Committee when the Unifieds expelled the clones.”

Yamashiro said something in Japanese. Harmer listened but did not respond.

“Once they have Earth, how long do you think it will be before the Unifieds come calling?” asked Watson. “If it’s your job to protect the Japanese, you damn well do care what happens on Earth.”

Yamashiro said something. When Harmer responded, he spoke in English. He asked, “How many men can you fit on your ship?”

FORTY-THREE

Location: En route to Earth
Date: August 22, 2519

Convinced that the Unified Authority Fleet had already moved into Earth space, Freeman weighed his options. Tracking stations could detect the electrical anomaly ships created when they “broadcasted in” from millions of miles away. If he broadcasted in behind Saturn or Neptune, he might escape detection, but it would take several days for them to reach Earth.

After considering the odds, Freeman opted to broadcast in just outside Earth’s atmosphere and attempt to land before the U.A. Navy could respond.

Working alone in the cockpit, Freeman made sure the broadcast generator was fully charged. He calculated the broadcast coordinates and inputted them into the broadcast computer.

While Freeman prepared to go wheels up, Harmer and twelve more SEALs loaded supplies and equipment into the back of the Explorer. Watson and Emily watched, wondering how so many people could fit into such a small ship. The SEALs were small, and their equipment was compact; they made it all fit.

As Freeman prepared to launch, Harmer stepped into the cockpit. He waited at the door, a mere five feet behind Freeman, and used an old Navy term. He asked, “Permission to come aboard?”

Freeman said, “Have a seat,” then he waited for Harmer to snap the harnesses around the copilot’s seat before lifting off.

Harmer asked, “What’s the flight plan?”

“We’re taking the direct route,” said Freeman. “We’ll come in close and dive into the atmosphere.”

“They’re going to spot us,” Harmer warned.

“Sure they will,” said Freeman. “We stand a better chance hiding once we land than we would in space.”

Harmer looked around the ancient cockpit. The walls were mostly glass and metal brackets. There was nothing bulletproof or flakproof about the construction.
A grenade would stop this ship,
he thought.
A hit from a particle gun would blow this thing apart.

Harmer stared out the window as the Explorer lifted off from New Copenhagen. He took in every detail, committing the shape of the lake and the lay of the hills to memory. He and his fellow SEALs had spent the last fifteen months of their lives in the cavelike ruins of an old hotel, fishing for food and failing miserably as farmers. They’d avoided contact with the Japanese, choosing to hide themselves when well-wishers approached their domain. It had been the happiest chapter of their lives.

The SEALs knew that the Japanese called them “shadow demons.” In their hearts, they agreed. They looked like demons, and they were ashamed of it.

*   *   *

The trip was quick. The Explorer rose out of the New Copenhagen atmosphere in a steep ascent, and Freeman initiated the broadcast after they entered open space. Joules of electricity danced on the outer hull of the ship. The lightning that formed around the ship was bright enough to blind anyone who looked at it. Wearing protective goggles, Emily, Watson, and the SEALs watched as New Copenhagen vanished and Earth appeared.

Freeman didn’t wait for his eyes to adjust before plunging the Explorer into the atmosphere, fighting friction so fierce that the tiles along the hull glowed orange as embers. Flames formed a skirt around the Explorer’s nose. Looking through the windshield, Harmer and Freeman stared into the heart of the flames.

Harmer saw the heat burning at the outside of the Explorer and felt no emotion. Death didn’t scare him, not as much as failure. Speaking in a relaxed voice, he asked, “Is this ship rated for this sort of stress?”

Freeman said, “It handles stress better than it handles U.A. torpedoes.”

“Fair enough,” said Harmer. “Where exactly on Earth are we going?”

They cleared the clouds, and Freeman decelerated. The patch below them was a tapestry of greens and browns and blues. There were mountains and deserts, but mostly there was coastline.

Freeman said, “Harris is weak and in trouble, and he’s just about out of friends. He’s going to look for someplace to hide until he regains his strength. The only place that fits that description is the New Olympian Territories.”

Harmer, who had spent the last six years of his life in an alien galaxy, then marooned on New Copenhagen, had never heard the term, “New Olympian.” He decided the territory must be a recently redistricted zone, something that had happened since he had embarked for Bode’s Galaxy.

Freeman leveled their descent less than one hundred feet above a stretch of bright blue ocean. Harmer didn’t mind flying low, hopefully below the range of ground-based radar systems. It was an old tactic, one that had been around for centuries.

The water beneath the Explorer was royal blue. Not far ahead, the water faded to azure, then turquoise as it reached a white sand beach. Harmer said, “My compliments to Harris; he picked a nice place to hide.”

“He came for the gangsters, not the scenery,” said Freeman. “The man who runs this place is a criminal named Brandon Pugh. He’ll want to help Harris, and he’ll cooperate with us.”

“Sounds like a helpful fellow,” said Harmer. “What makes him so nice?”

They were already over the beach, about one hundred feet above the ground, and flying no more than fifty miles per hour.

Freeman said, “He’ll cooperate because he knows that I’ll kill him if he doesn’t.”

They flew over a city, a mixture of ancient stucco and modern architecture. Harmer noted that none of the buildings looked new. The streets were mostly empty of cars, but he saw people. Everything he saw confirmed his hunch, the New Olympians had only recently arrived on Earth.

The civilian airfield was on the other side of town, a modest facility that was too small to accommodate military fighters—a quarter-mile runway with a few small hangars on one end. A lone commuter plane, something small and old, sat at one end of the field.

“Any chance that’s Harris’s plane?” asked Harmer.

Freeman said nothing.

Harmer commented, “It doesn’t look very presidential.”

As they hovered near the plane, Harmer said, “It might be abandoned; one of the doors is open.” He continued to watch as they passed, and said, “Check that last comment; there’s someone sitting in the plane.”

Freeman landed the Explorer beside one of the hangars. While he and the SEALs searched the building, Watson and Emily went to speak to the man in the plane.

Finding the building empty, Freeman taxied the Explorer into the hangar. The SEALs waited for the ship to power down, then closed one of the heavy metal doors.

Watson ran back to the hangar, and said, “You’re not going to believe this; Harris is sitting in that plane out there. He’s unconscious.”

Freeman ran to the plane. Harmer went to the Explorer and found a medical kit, then he and his SEALs went to Harris.

They had landed in the middle of the afternoon. The sun was high and hot, and the air was dry. Harmer hoped that Harris had water.
A man could die of thirst out here,
he thought,
especially if he had influenza.

Emily was next to Harris when Freeman arrived. She said, “He’s in bad shape.”

Freeman knew nothing about medicine. He looked at Harris, saw the pale skin and chapped lips, and wondered if they had arrived too late.

A SEAL named Warsol approached Harris. Each of the SEALs had specialized in some sort of battlefield training. Warsol was their medic.

“Is he alive?” asked Watson.

“Sure he’s alive. He’s breathing,” said Warsol. At that point, that was everything he knew about Harris’s condition. He placed a finger against Harris’s throat to check his pulse.

Harris squirmed and tried to raise his head. He asked, “Where’s Ava?”

One of the SEALs asked, “Ava who?”

Watson said, “He means Ava Gardner.”

The SEAL laughed, and said, “If you find her, let me know.”

Harris’s head dropped back onto the seat. He seemed to fall asleep.

“What do you think, Warsol?” asked Harmer.

“I think he’s real sick.”

“I can see that,” said Harmer. “Can you pull him through?”

Warsol turned Harris’s head to the right, then to the left. He opened Harris’s mouth and ran a finger over his tongue. He shrugged his shoulders, and said, “The man’s dehydrated.”

“I can see that,” said Harmer.

Warsol pulled an intravenous hydration kit from his emergency pack. He shoved a needle into Harris’s arm, and said, “He’ll be a lot happier after I give him a drink.”

FORTY-FOUR

The last time Ray Freeman set foot in Mazatlan, the New Olympians still lived in tents. Over the last few months, they had moved out of those tents into the city.

Freeman knew that Pugh lived in Mazatlan, but he had no idea how to find him. Mazatlan wasn’t a big city, but searching it could take days. Unsure if the Unified Authority had monitored his broadcast or tracked his landing, Freeman didn’t have time to waste hunting for gangsters.

“Do you know where Pugh lives?” asked Harmer.

Freeman shook his head.

They stood in the hangar, a few feet from the Explorer. It was a small, bare-essentials sheet-metal structure, large enough to hold three civilian commuter craft but too small to hold a second Explorer.

At Warsol’s direction, the SEALs carried Harris into the hangar to get him out of the sun. They laid him across the floor of the Explorer, a drip line feeding hydration into his arm.

“I’ll send two of my guys to find him,” said Harmer. “Naens, Baker, go find Pugh.”

“How much time do we have?” asked Petty Officer Samuel Naens.

“You got an hour,” said Harmer.

“An hour,” Naens repeated. “How are we going to do that? We’re ten miles out of town, and we don’t even know what the guy looks like or where he lives.”

Harmer asked Freeman, “Do you think the Unifieds spotted us when we came in?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay, you get three hours,” Harmer told Naens.

Naens and Baker slung small packs over their shoulders and trotted out of the hangar. As they reached the door, Naens told Baker, “See, I told you he was reasonable.”

Listening to the conversation, Watson realized that he was scared of all of them. Pugh scared him; he was a gangster. Freeman made him nervous. Small or not, friendly or not, the SEALs terrified him.

“What is Pugh going to do for us once we find him?” Harmer asked.

“He’ll hand Harris over to the Unifieds,” said Freeman.

*   *   *

The SEALs only saw three cars as they headed into town. They ran along the side of the road, never allowing themselves to dip under four-minute miles, inhaling the dry August air through their noses, exhaling through their lightly pressed lips. The sun beat down on their bald heads. Living on New Copenhagen, they’d become acclimated to cooler temperatures. Valhalla was on a more northern latitude, and the planet was slightly farther from the sun.

Baker, who specialized in demolitions, asked, “How are we going to find him?”

Naens, an information-systems specialist, said, “If we find a police station or a library, I can hack into the computers.”

“Don’t you think they’ll notice a little gray man sitting at their computer?” asked Baker. The SEALs looked more humanoid than human. They couldn’t just walk into a store and ask for directions.

“Good point,” Naens agreed. “Plan B—we start by looking at neighborhoods. If this guy is a gangster, he’s going to live where the rich people live.”

A half mile from the outskirts of town, they started seeing cars and trucks and hid by the side of the road. Baker said, “We’d be a lot less noticeable if we stole a car.”

“What if the owner reports his car is missing?” asked Naens.

“We can make sure he doesn’t.”

“What if it’s a woman?” asked Naens.

“We can make sure she doesn’t.”

“These people aren’t the enemy,” said Naens.

“That’s a technicality,” said Baker. “From what I hear, they’re about to become citizens of the Unified Authority.”

“They’re civilians,” said Naens.

“Well, yeah, I’ll give you that,” Baker admitted. “We’d still be harder to spot in a car, faster, too.”

Naens thought about it, and said, “Okay, we can steal a car, but we can’t waste time shopping for a nice one.”

Heat waves rose from the asphalt and from the barrens along the road. Sparrows and crows flew overhead.

Both SEALs wore discreet communicators clipped to their ears. Naens received a message from Harmer. He asked, “Are you in town yet?”

“Just outside,” whispered Naens.

“What are you doing?” asked Harmer.

“Car shopping.”

“Look, while you’re in town, keep an eye out for soldiers. I want to borrow a uniform if you see one,” said Harmer.

“Does it matter if it’s clean?” asked Naens.

“Clean is better,” said Harmer. “Extra short if you can find it.”

Naens said, “I’ll let you know.”

Most of the buildings on the outskirts of town were empty, but they found a tertiary plant with cars parked around it, almost all of them government-issue. When Baker said he wanted a car with darkened windows, Naens reminded him that they didn’t have time for shopping. With no better options to choose from, they settled for the anonymity of a government car.

Car locks and ignition systems posed no problem for Naens or Baker. Under different circumstances, the two SEALs might have stolen two cars, racing to see which one of them could boost his ride first. Fifty-two minutes after leaving the airfield, they entered Mazatlan.

“Where should we look?” asked Baker.

“If he’s rich, he’ll have a house on the beach,” said Naens.

“I’d rather live on a mountain,” said Baker.

“That’s just plain dumb,” said Naens. “When you live on the beach, you can go for a swim anytime you like.”

Baker said, “You get a better view from a mountain, and you don’t need to worry about flooding or big waves.”

Naens drove. He headed west, cut through the city, and followed the shoreline. They drove until they found a row of high-class hotels, most of them closed, then they headed south. They passed stores, businesses, schools, and a police station. They ran out of beach before they found a residential area.

“Okay, your turn,” said Naens. “Where do we go?”

Baker pointed to a hilly peninsula that curled into the water. He asked, “How about over there? Those houses are on the beach and on a mountain.”

Naens said, “You missed your calling, Baker. You should have been a Realtor.”

Baker said, “Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that when I retire.”

Naens said, “Who are you going to sell to, SEAL clones?”

“I could sell vacation homes to the Japanese,” said Baker.

“You think they’d buy a house from the
kage no yasha
?” asked Naens.

“Good point,” said Baker. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, didn’t like what he saw, and wondered if perhaps he’d find more success building homes than selling them.

The road followed the curve of the peninsula, rising up a slope and around a park with rows of large houses on either side. Here, for the first time, the SEALs saw private cars.

Naens asked, “Do you think we look out of place in this government-issue sedan?”

Baker shook his head. He said, “We should have spent more time shopping.” He looked at his watch, and added, “It’s been ninety minutes since we left the hangar.”

By this time, the sun hung west over the ocean. Night wouldn’t settle in for hours, but the air was cooling. Kids played in the streets. Pedestrians walked the sidewalks. The closer they came to the ocean, the bigger the houses became. They passed a house on a hill with several cars parked around it. Men milled among the cars trying to look casual but clearly guarding the area.

“Are those men carrying guns?” asked Naens. “Jeff, my friend, I believe we’ve found our gangster.”

Baker agreed, but he said, “We should drive around some more.”

“What, you enjoying the view?” asked Naens.

“They may own the entire block,” said Baker. “We should make sure this is the right house.”

Naens turned up a street that led up toward the top of the hill. They parked beside an empty lot and reconnoitered. None of the other houses had a fleet of cars or guards.

Naens contacted Harmer. He said, “We found our man.”

“Have you seen him?” asked Harmer.

“I’m looking at his house. He’s got guards all around his yard.”

“So does the pope,” said Harmer.

“Good point. If he comes to the door in mitre and cassock, I promise not to touch him,” said Naens.

“I don’t think these boys are the Swiss Guard,” said Baker.

“Are you sure that’s not the mayor’s house?” asked Harmer.

“These guards don’t look like policemen,” said Baker.

“From what Freeman told me, it sounds like they just established this town; maybe they don’t have regular police yet.”

“Your call, Master Chief, do we hit him or wait?” asked Naens.

“You sure you got the right guy?” asked Harmer.

“I am,” said Naens.

“Hit him,” said Harmer, who had a policy about trusting his men’s judgment.

Naens looked at his watch. Two hours and seven minutes had passed since they had left the airfield. He told Baker, “Keep your eye on the clock. I want to be home before curfew.”

Harmer said, “What’s the big deal? You’re grabbing a gangster; you better beat the clock.”

*   *   *

Watson and Emily had waited in the Explorer while Freeman spoke with the SEALs. When Freeman entered the ship to check on Harris, Emily asked, “Are you sure these men know what they’re doing?”

Watson added, “I know why you’re scary. I know why Harris is scary. These guys, I think they may be crazy.”

Freeman knelt beside Harris, checked his pulse, and felt his forehead without speaking. Then, still looking at Harris, he said, “Watch yourself around them. These clones are scarier than Harris, and a lot more scary than me.”