The Clone Apocalypse (3 page)

“Rhodes might be able to get us out of here,” said Watson.

Emily asked Tasman, “You said he worked for an intelligence agency?”

“Yeah, one of them.”

“Does he work for the Marines?” she asked.

“Do you associate Marines with intelligence?” asked Tasman. “I said ‘intelligence’; that means he doesn’t work for the Marines.”

In his right hand, Rhodes carried a small case marked with the emblem of the EME Marines—an eagle perched on a globe with an anchor in the background.

Emily said, “Do you see the emblem on his case?”

“That doesn’t make him a Marine,” said Tasman.

Watson started to take Emily’s side, then he realized the old bastard had a point. They were in Unified Authority territory. Only a suicidal fool would carry a case like that on these streets. Either a fool, or someone with powerful friends.

Emily asked, “So what’s he doing with that case?”

“Maybe we should go ask him,” quipped Tasman.

Sounding even more sarcastic, Watson said, “Now there’s an idea.”

Emily said, “Trav, maybe we should stop him.”

Travis Watson stood six-foot-six, but he was a law-school graduate, not a fighter, and he had no tolerance for pain. On the other hand, he had spent the last month of his life on the lam. Though he didn’t realize it, desperation had toughened him.

Emily added, “He might have an encrypted phone. We’d be able to call Wayson or Freeman for help.”

Tasman said, “Watson, if there’s a problem, you can take him. You’re bigger than he is.”

“You said he was a spy,” said Watson. “He might be dangerous.”

“I said he was an administrator.”

It was the middle of the day in an underclass Washington suburb in August. The day was oppressively bright and humid. The buildings across the street seemed to radiate in the heat.

Watson paused, thought of the possible outcomes, and said, “Tasman, you’re coming with me.”

“What about me?” asked Emily.

“You’re staying here,” said Watson.

Emily said, “Get specked, Watson. What if he kicks your teeth in? You might need me.”

Watson loved Emily. He said, “You’ll be safer up here.”

She laughed, and said, “Listen, Galahad, I’ve seen what happens when you lose a fight. You’re going to need me.”

Embarrassed by his girlfriend’s lack of confidence, Watson asked, “You don’t trust me?”

“In a fight?” asked Emily. “Travis, dear, I bet I can take you.”

Tasman laughed, showing his white gums and gray teeth.

Watson loaded Tasman on his back and trotted down the stairs, Emily at his heels. They reached the street a moment after Rhodes had passed by the building.

Watson ducked back in the building and ran through a hallway, still carrying Tasman on his back. The hall led to a narrow alley with a Dumpster and crates and drunks. Rhodes strolled past as they moved down the alley.

Watson lowered Tasman to the ground and hid behind the Dumpster while the old crippled scientist shouted, “Rhodes! Hey, Rhodes, is that you?”

Rhodes stopped and paused as if he recognized Tasman’s raspy voice. He turned to look in the alley and saw the old scientist sitting against the wall like a vagrant. Tasman wore an old suit that might have been nice one month earlier but had now been worn into oblivion.

Sounding confused, Rhodes said, “I know you.”

“Damn straight you do, genius,” said Tasman.

“You’re Howard Tasman,” said Rhodes.

Tasman said, “Can you give me a ride back to Washington?”

Smiling like a teen in a brothel, Rhodes stepped into the alley, and said, “Howard Tasman . . . Oh, I’ll get you to Washington.”

Watson had choreographed the fight in his head. With a few small variations, it went as he had expected.

Rhodes started to pull his gun from his holster as he stepped past the Dumpster. From where he hid, Watson couldn’t see the gun, only the briefcase. Thinking that the luggage was Rhodes’s most dangerous weapon, Watson sprang from his hiding place and grabbed the case. He caught Rhodes unaware, wrestled the case free, then swung Rhodes face-first into the side of the Dumpster. Seizing on his momentum, Watson slammed a fist into Rhodes’s jaw, nearly knocking him out. As he fell, Watson slammed a knee into his groin, flattening his left testicle.

Kevin Rhodes dropped to one knee, then fell to the concrete.

Emily looked at Rhodes, then at Watson, and said, “Baby, I’m impressed.”

Hoping he hadn’t just mugged an innocent man, Watson carried Rhodes into the building. Emily dragged Tasman in behind him.

*   *   *

If
Magellan
had surfaced a few days earlier, or if Watson had bagged Rhodes the week before, the Enlisted Man’s Empire might have won the war.

THE CONQUERORS

ONE

Location: Washington, D.C.
Date: August 16, 2519

I was the seniormost officer in the EME military, technically I had four stars on my collar though I preferred not to wear them—General Wayson Harris, commander in chief and president extraordinaire. I may have qualified for the title of “emperor” as well. As I understood it, emperors ran empires, not presidents or generals. It really didn’t matter. Our hold on humanity was temporary at best.

We were a nation of clones. The end of our rule was built into our DNA. Well, sterility was built into our DNA, and since we didn’t have factories for building the next generation of clones, we were a nonrenewable empire.

One title I didn’t mind too much carrying was “commandant of the Marines.” I had agreed to accept that title. I had never agreed to be the president of the Enlisted Man’s Empire. In fact, I had never actually been coronated . . . I suppose the term is “inaugurated.” I had been missing in action when the admiral who was in charge was murdered. I may have been next in line, but I was missing, so the brass selected Travis Watson to run the empire until I was found or declared dead.

Now that I was back, I didn’t want the job.

“I don’t see that Watson matters one way or the other, Harris,” said General John Strait, commander of the Enlisted Man’s Air Force.

I said, “He’s the president of the empire.”

Thomas Hauser, commander of the EME Navy, corrected me. He said, “Watson was a temporary president.”

We were having a summit. I was one of four people invited to participate. I represented the Marines. Our fourth was General Pernell MacAvoy, commanding officer of the EME Army and the only one in the bunch whom I considered a friend.

Strait, who read scientific journals and seldom used military vernacular, was the brightest man at the table and the most useless. MacAvoy was the dumbest. If his IQ had a third digit, he did a fine job hiding it, but he was also the man who was winning the war.

Strait said, “Watson was only the only interim president.”

Hauser said, “Yeah, that’s what I just said.”

“You said he was a
temporary
president. The term is ‘interim,’” said Strait.

MacAvoy said, “I thought he was the
acting
president.”

Strait gave him an openly condescending pat on the arm, and said, “Harris is the acting president, Perry.”

MacAvoy smiled and nodded.

We generally held these meetings in formal conference rooms or fancy dining halls. MacAvoy was in charge this time, and he arranged for us to meet in an indoor shooting range.

At least he’d closed the range during our meeting; the place was empty and mostly dark, silent, too, no gunfire serenade. The rest of us didn’t complain or ask MacAvoy why he elected to hold a high-level summit in a shooting range; we simply accepted it as a
MacAvoy-ism
.

MacAvoy said, “I like Watson.”

Strait smirked, and said, “Liking him doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme. He’s unimportant.”

MacAvoy said, “Yeah? Bullshit. Watson was a natural-born working for the Enlisted Man’s Empire. He was loyal to us; the natural-borns are going to notice if we turn our back on him.”

“Our backs,” said Strait.

“That’s what I said,” said MacAvoy.

“You said, ‘back.’ There are more than one of us. We have more than one back,” said Strait.

“Is that how it works?” asked MacAvoy. “There are four of us here, but I only see one asshole.”

I said, “Perry has a point. The natural-borns are going to notice how the Enlisted Man’s Empire takes care of its civilians.”

When your empire is made up of clones who die the moment they realize they are clones, it’s wise to use euphemisms like “enlisted man” when referring to your citizenry. As part of their physiology, the last model of clones had a death gland built into their brains that released a toxic poison when they realized they were clones. The Unified Authority scientists who created them wanted them convinced they were natural-born people and to keep them loyal and submissive.

The best-laid plans . . .

All of the officers in the summit were clones, including me, though I was a different make of clone. I was the last of the Liberator-class clones. Unlike MacAvoy and Strait, I knew I was synthetic. Instead of a death reflex that would kill me, my architecture included a gland that released an adrenaline and testosterone cocktail into my blood during combat.

“Do you really think anybody cares?” asked Hauser.

“No one on our side,” I admitted. “But the Unifieds will make a real show of it if we throw him to the wolves.”

I had personal reasons for wanting to save Watson; I considered him a friend. So did Hauser. MacAvoy only
fraternized
with other soldiers and women. And Strait . . . I didn’t know anything about him. He ran the Air Force, a branch of the military that Hauser and MacAvoy no longer considered relevant. With six Navy fighter carriers orbiting Earth, who needed an air force?

Strait said, “We don’t know if he’s alive.”

Lunch arrived. Strait or Hauser would have flown in their best chef. MacAvoy served us Army chow—boiled beef on potatoes smothered with gravy, canned green beans, and a baked pastry of unidentifiable origin. We ate at the conference table.

Hauser and Strait ate in silence, obviously seething at MacAvoy’s frontline hospitality. I didn’t mind it. Army chow and Marine chow are generally pretty similar, and I never cared for elegant food.

As we ate, MacAvoy said, “The reason we’re meeting in a range is because I want to show you something. I got a new weapon that’s gonna specking end this conflict.”

Strait and Hauser managed to look dubious yet politely surprised. We were fighting an “end war,” the final hostilities with an enemy that had officially surrendered a year ago.

“What do you have?” I asked.

“I’ve got the answer to shielded armor,” said MacAvoy.

Unified Authority armor was based on the same design as ours, but it included electrical shielding that stopped bullets, knives, and shrapnel.

“I have bullets that destroy their shields,” MacAvoy said.

Hauser and Strait seemed unimpressed. They fought wars from far away; battlefield tactics didn’t matter to them.

I said, “No shit? Are you going to show us?”

“That’s why we’re in a shooting range,” said MacAvoy. “I wanted to show you all together.”

MacAvoy placed his napkin on the table, and said, “Let’s go.”

Until that point, Admiral Hauser had only picked at his food, and Strait hadn’t touched his fork. They showed no interest in Army chow, but apparently MacAvoy’s bullets interested them even less. They started eating.

Our conference table was near the door of the range. MacAvoy had left the shooting lane dark. When he stood, he pulled a remote from his pocket and lit the lanes. He hit a second button, and a trio of mannequins dressed in U.A. armor began glowing at the far end of the range.

I hadn’t noticed it before, but an M27 sat on the counter at the front of one of the shooting lanes. MacAvoy picked up the gun, and said, “Harris, you gave me the idea for these bullets. You were the one who figured out how to burn out their batteries.”

His posture demonstrating just how relaxed he felt around firearms, MacAvoy pivoted to face the mannequins, aimed the M27, and fired a burst of three shots. Three-star general or not, Perry MacAvoy was no stockade soldier; all three shots hit the mannequin in the middle.

I had seen bullets and shrapnel disintegrate when they hit the shielding that protected that armor, having no more impact than a raindrop striking a bridge. MacAvoy’s bullets didn’t seem to do anything to the shields, either. His three fast shots hit the mannequin in the head, chest, and gut, and the shields glowed on.

I said, “Well, at least we know you’re a good shot.”

“What’s the rush, Harris?” MacAvoy asked. “Give it a moment.” He placed the M27 back on the counter, then stepped into the firing lanes. He said, “Let’s inspect the damage.” I followed. Hauser and Strait came as well.

As we approached, I saw something strange. The bullets might not have knocked the mannequin over, but they left spots on the ethereal electrical shields. Having never seen that happen before, I jogged over for a closer look.

The armor-clad mannequin stood at attention—arms at its sides, legs straight and shoulder width apart, its armor still glowing golden orange. Except for the stains, which seemed to have soaked into the electrical field, I saw no signs of damage.

“Are those holes?” asked General Strait. He and Hauser had come to inspect the mannequin.

Sounding as if he actually knew what he was talking about, MacAvoy answered, “General, that is a dynamic electrical field; you can’t shoot holes into energy fields.”

I said, “You can’t stain them, either.” But there they were, proving me wrong, three dark, splatter-shaped stains in the electrical energy. “What’s in those bullets?”

“They’re not bullets; they’re simmies,” said MacAvoy.

“Simmies,” short for “simunition,” were rounds used for faking assassination—gelatin cartridges filled with fake blood. Only, the simmies MacAvoy used hadn’t been filled with blood.

MacAvoy said, “I stole your idea, you know, draining the batteries. These simmies are packed with liquidized carbon and iridium filings. That carbon shit sticks to anything, and the iridium doesn’t melt.”

The batteries were the chink in the Unified Authority shielded armor . . . literally. Since Marines don’t march into battle wearing nuclear reactors on their backs and mobility matters as much as protection, the shielding on U.A. combat armor worked off tiny batteries with a limited amount of juice. The batteries could power the shields for an hour if they went unchallenged, but the power spiked whenever anything came in contact with the shields.

By staining the shields, MacAvoy was creating a permanent energy spike. Those batteries would burn out fast.

“You’re staining the armor with a compound that has a high flash point,” said Strait, admiration in his voice.

Even as we stood there, the batteries powering the armor died, leaving dull, old, dark green armor in its place.

“Hit them with this, and their shields last about a hundred seconds,” said MacAvoy.

“What if they just charged their batteries?” I asked.

“You saw it,” said MacAvoy. “We charged the battery in that suit this morning.”

“And your goop drained it in two minutes?” I asked.

“One minute and forty seconds,” said MacAvoy. “The results are always the same.”

“When can we start manufacturing these?” I asked.

“Already in motion,” said MacAvoy. “We’ll have five million of these babies by the end of the month.”

*   *   *

If we had received them by the end of July instead of August, things might have been different.