Rogue Clone: The Clone Betrayal Part 9

Ava may not have risked a shower just yet, but she had clearly preened. She had hand-tousled her hair and washed her face and arms.

Confined to my shed, she had not gotten any sun in weeks and her skin had gone milky white. A permanent film of sweat and dust had formed on her body. Having had some time to clean herself, she now looked clean and pale.

"These are not my permanent quarters," I said. "Once I a.s.sume command of the fleet, I get a deck to myself."

"A deck to ourselves? That sounds absolutely marvelous," Ava said as she continued inspecting herself in the mirror. This was the first chance she'd had to fix herself since General Smith had dumped her off at Fort Bliss, and she could not tear herself away from the mirror. "When do we move in?"

"It's not going to be that easy. Before we can move in, Admiral Thorne needs to move out."

"Who is Admiral Thorne?"

"He's the fleet commander."

"I thought you were the fleet commander?"

"He's the outgoing fleet commander."

"So when does he check out?" Ava asked.

Ava stood there in the bathroom, the cleanest I had seen her since I met her at the New Year's Eve party. She had to know what I wanted, but she gave no sign of reading me. I took a step toward the bathroom, and she finally looked away from the mirror. Her green eyes locked in on mine, and I saw something both playful and stern in her expression.

"Don't you think it might be a little tight in here for two?" she asked.

"Not if we get real close," I said.

"That doesn't sound very comfortable," she said.

"Then come on out, there's plenty of s.p.a.ce out here," I said.

She shook her head, and said, "I think I like it better in here."

"Any way you want it." I started toward her.

"By myself," she added.

"So why did you get all cleaned up like that?" I asked.

Ava smiled an indulgent, amused smile. "Honey, that's the difference between girls and Marines. I cleaned up because I wanted to be clean, not because I wanted to have s.e.x."

"Oh," I said. After that, I went to my rack and reviewed the orders Admiral Thorne had given me. I spent two hours reading and rereading them; and then, ready or not, it was time to start briefing my men.

Our first staff meeting did not go as I had expected.

We held the meeting in a staff room near the bridge. In the future, once Admiral Thorne and his corps of natural-born officers returned to Earth, I would conduct staff meetings on the fleet deck.

For this first meeting, I only brought two of my men, Thomer and Herrington. Thomer, who must have luded up a few hours earlier, paid little attention to the surroundings as he entered the room. He walked straight to the conference table and sat down without even scanning his surroundings.

Not Herrington. An enlisted man who had limited contact with the upper ranks, he'd never seen how the commissioned tenth lived. He stepped through the door, stopped, took in the size of the room, then spun one of the leather chairs. He whistled. "Some digs," he said. "Do we get to play in here whenever we want?"

Hearing this, Thomer glanced around the room. He squinted his eyes, and his forehead wrinkled, giving him a confused expression; but he still made no comment.

Taking the chair at the head of the table, the captain's chair, I brought out the orders Admiral Thorne had given me, along with a small audio chip I had found inside the folder. I set the folder down on the table, then placed the chip in the media reader near my seat.

"Who's coming to this meeting?" Thomer asked, the glazed expression fading from his eyes.

"s.h.i.+ps' captains and fleet officers," I said.

"Officers?" Thomer asked. "I thought all of the natural-borns were going home."

"They aren't officers yet, but they will be once the Thorne administration leaves. There's a new round of promotions coming up. How does Brigadier General Kelly Thomer sound to you?" I said as I fished the promotions list from my folder and handed it to Thomer.

"You're joking, right?" Herrington asked, both looking and sounding as if he was fighting the urge to laugh. "Thomer, a general? I have enough trouble getting used to you as a captain."

Thomer took the list and slowly read it. Thomer had become a study in clinical depression. Over the last two years, he had lost enough weight to go from skinny to skeletal. He had the haunted look of a man who has seen too many friends die on the battlefield. Before New Copenhagen, Thomer's biggest problem was excessive worrying over small details. Now I wondered if he cared about anything.

"I'm a brigadier general?" Thomer asked. He looked me in the eye and could tell I was not joking. "How is that possible?"

Having been raised in an orphanage, Thomer had already reached the highest rank he could have hoped to attain-master gunnery sergeant. Now, out of the blue, the Marines had advanced him twelve pay grades.

Herrington moved behind Thomer so he could read over his shoulder. After thirty-two years serving in the Marine Corps as an enlisted man, Sergeant Lewis Herrington would shortly find himself holding the rank of full-bird colonel. He took the news of the promotion with his usual stoic good humor. He said what he always said when he heard good news, "You have got to be s.h.i.+tting me!" After a second glance, Herrington added, "A field rank promotion from sergeant to colonel, there's one for the books."

"You can't run a fleet with master sergeants and petty officers at the helm," I said.

According to these new orders, I was both fleet commander and "Scutum-Crux Arm administrator," a position that sounded more political than military. I held the field rank of lieutenant general in the Marines. In my experience, only naval officers commanded fleets; but my rank made me the highest-ranking officer in the Scutum-Crux Arm.

At least I would be the highest-ranking officer in the Scutum-Crux Arm once the natural-born officers went home. Until Admiral Thorne and his crew left, I would remain a captain. If and when Was.h.i.+ngton sent natural-born officers to inspect the fleet, my rank would automatically revert to captain.

Thomer finished reading the orders over and handed them to me. "I can't be commandant of the Marines," he said in that quiet voice. "I think that I might be a clone."

"Something's wrong with my hearing. I could have sworn he just said he thinks he's a clone," Herrington gasped. "Aren't you supposed to have one of those death reflexes now? Aren't you going to keel over?"

"Thomer, we have to get you off that Fallzoud s.h.i.+t," Herrington added, staring at Thomer as if he had horns sprouting from his a.s.s.

"You might want to hold off on that, Sergeant," I said. "Fallzoud may be the only thing keeping this Marine alive."

Just then a chime rang, warning us that the other members of our conclave were outside the door. "Keep a lid on the promotions for now," I said as I placed the orders back in the folder and went to let them in. Herrington nodded, but his eyes remained on Thomer, who sat as placid as ever.

I took one last look at Thomer to make sure he was ready for the meeting. He sat bolt upright, his hands lying flat on the table before him. I might have mistaken him for a mannequin except that he was breathing. Hoping for the best, I pressed a b.u.t.ton, and the conference room door slid open.

Master Chief Petty Officer Gary Warshaw was the first man to step through the doorway. My impressions of Warshaw did not change now that I got a closer look at him. You could not miss the effects of his bodybuilding; he had taken it so far that he looked slightly misshapen. The network of veins along his tree trunk of a neck looked like ivy vines growing in under the skin. His neck was so thick with muscle that I had trouble telling where his neck ended and his skull began. Those veins ran right up the sides of his clean-shaven skull. He stepped into the room, snapped a smart salute, and said, "Captain Harris, you are a legend around these parts, sir."

The words sounded sincere; but most a.s.s-kissing subordinates had a talent for sounding sincere. I returned flattery for flattery, "Good to meet you, Master Chief. Admiral Thorne says good things about you."

There was an acute alertness about Warshaw. Like a predator on the prowl, he took in every movement around the room. He had such a commanding presence that I barely noticed the next few sailors who entered.

I needed to stay on good terms with the master chief. Despite my rank and a.s.signment, he would end up as the power behind the chair. Running the Scutum-Crux Fleet was a naval operation, and I was a Marine.

A few more sailors entered. I recognized their names from the file Admiral Thorne had given me. He had referred to these men as "the backbone of the fleet."

Then came Senior Chief Petty Officer Perry Fahey, chief NCO of the U.A.N. Was.h.i.+ngton, and I lost my train of thought. The man had eye shadow over his eyes. There was no mistaking it. His eyelids were light blue patches. He did not wear rouge, lipstick, or eyeliner; but there was no denying cosmetic coloring above his eyes.

Fahey saluted me and identified himself.

I saluted back, but I could not stop myself from staring at the makeup. I was about to make the mistake of asking about it, but Herrington saw what was happening and stepped in. "Senior Chief, you look like a man who knows his way around a s.h.i.+p . . ." And he led Fahey to a seat, asking him about how he could go about expanding the Marine compound on the Kamehameha.

Even after Herrington pulled him away, I could not take my eyes off the blue shadowing the man had painted around his eyes. I wondered if it was a tattoo. It was a pretty shade, and I wondered where I could get some of that for Ava.

The meeting started out well enough. Thomer, mostly recovered from his morning dose of Fallzoud, woke from his stupor and chatted with Warshaw. Herrington and Fahey swapped a few stories as if they were old friends.

When I said, "We might as well get started," the sailors standing in the back of the room found seats around the table. A good beginning.

We did a round of introductions first. None of us clones had ever commanded so much as a transport, let alone a fleet. Warshaw and his friends might have sat in on a few high-level meetings, but they would have attended as spectators, not partic.i.p.ants.

"Our first objective is to recapture Terraneau," I said, trying to put a leash around any stray conversations. "As most of you know, Admiral Thorne recorded a transmission from Norristown. We may as well start there."

I tapped a b.u.t.ton on the AV-console, and an old man's voice came from the speakers. The recording lasted less than two seconds. It began with a moment of static followed by the sound of someone taking a deep breath. Then a voice said, "Go away." The words were hushed, almost whispered, but emphatic. It sounded like a command. After that, the file went silent.

"That's it?" Herrington asked.

"That's it," I said.

"They sent us all the way across the galaxy because of that?" Herrington continued. "He wasn't even asking for help."

"Maybe he thought he was talking to the aliens. Maybe that's why he told us to go away," Fahey guessed.

"That can't be real." Herrington shook his head.

"It's legitimate," I said. "Military intelligence ran the feed through a voiceprint computer and came up with a match. According to the Pentagon, that's the voice of Colonel Ellery Doctorow."

"Never heard of him," Warshaw said.

"Doctorow was the head chaplain of the Unified Authority Army," I said. "The Army transferred him to Terraneau right before the a.s.sault." I pulled out a photograph of Doctorow and slipped it across the table to Warshaw. The picture showed a tall man wearing a ca.s.sock and stole over a set of Army fatigues. The stole had both religious symbols and military insignia, and the pressed eagle of colonel could be seen on his collar. Colonel Doctorow kept his hair in a coal-colored flattop.

"Okay, so if he's Army, why the speck does he want us to leave?" Herrington asked. "That doesn't make sense."

"Beats me," I said.

"Admiral Thorne's been punching holes through the curtain for two years now. From what I heard, they'd spotted movement on the planet; this was just the first time we were able to make contact," Warshaw said. The other sailors seemed content to have Warshaw speak for them.

"Movement? Are you talking cars . . . airplanes . . . bodies?" Thomer asked.

Warshaw shrugged. "I don't know. I just overheard a few conversations."

"The report did not cover anything other than the message," I said. This led to some unorganized chatter. I made a note to ask Admiral Thorne about it.

After that, we spent the next few minutes discussing the upcoming mission. News of the mission had trickled down through the ranks. Thorne had briefed his officers, who related the information to their key NCOs. I had gone over the details with Thomer and Herrington as well.

If there were aliens on Terraneau, we would need to slip around them. We couldn't afford a fight. Our goal was to locate the spot where the aliens were digging their mine and set off our nuclear device there. We had a serious package to deliver-fifty megatons' worth, enough to destroy the ion curtain if everything went well. Once the curtain was down, we would land more Marines and set up a base on the planet.

"Who are you sending to lead that mission?" asked Fahey, the sailor. He was young to have made the rank of senior chief, maybe not even in his thirties.

"I'm going," I said.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but is that a good call?" Warshaw asked. "It could get dangerous down there."

"I'll take my chances," I said.

"That's what they said about you. I have a couple of engineers who say they were on the Kamehameha when you went down to Little Man," Warshaw said. "They said you liked it hot."

"I didn't volunteer for that duty," I said. "They sent every enlisted man on the s.h.i.+p."

This must have synced with the gossip Warshaw heard about me. He smiled, nodded, and whispered something to the sailor sitting next to him.

"I heard you served on New Copenhagen," another said. I looked at my notes and saw that he was Senior Chief Petty Officer Hank Bishop. Once the transfers were complete, this man would take command of the Kamehameha.

"Sergeant Thomer and Sergeant Herrington were also on New Copenhagen," I said. No one knew how to respond, and we sat in silence.

"How's the training going?" I asked Warshaw, trying to get the meeting back on track. "Do your men know everything they need to know to run the fleet?"

He did not answer. Instead, he looked at the various men who had accompanied him and let them answer individually. To a man, the NCOs all reported they had been sailing with clone crews for months.

"I can't remember the last time I saw an officer in our weapons area," one of the men responded. "The last year has been a paid vacation as far as those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are concerned."

I almost laughed when I heard this; there was something ironic about a synth-bred clone calling natural-borns "b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"I don't suppose Admiral Thorne has informed you about your new field ranks," I said.

"Field ranks, sir?" Warshaw asked.

I held up the orders and repeated the lecture I'd given Thomer and Herrington a few minutes earlier. Field promotions had been written up for every man in the room.

"May I have a look at that roster?" Warshaw asked. As he studied the new command structure, a change came over him. He had begun the meeting all handshakes and smiles; but as he read the changes, his jaw tightened and his eyes turned to flint. He read the orders a second time, then a third, all the while silently mouthing the words to himself. Finally, he looked up, an angry st.i.tch showing across his forehead. "It says you're taking command of the fleet. There must be some kind of speck-up, how can they leave a Marine clone in charge?" He did not sound confused or curious, more than anything he sounded insulted.

Warshaw's behavior violated his neural programming. He should not have been able to call me a clone or question orders. Under other circ.u.mstances, I would have knocked his teeth in, then busted him for insubordination; but I needed him on my side.

A smoldering silence filled the staff room. Thomer, sounding more like an angry Marine than a Fallzoud jockey waking from a haze, asked, "What did you just say? What the speck did you just say?"

"Do you have a hearing problem, a.s.shole?" Warshaw snapped. "I said that I cannot believe they are leaving a fleet in the hands of a Marine." Despite the bravado, Warshaw had just blinked in this game of chicken by not repeating the term, "clone."

"You're not the one handing out the orders, Master Chief," I said.

He glared at me, his face so red he might have been choking, but he did not speak a word.

I got the feeling that whether or not I won this battle, I might well have lost the war. Warshaw had come with twenty other sailors, all men who had served with him for years. They did not care who the Office of the Navy named top dog, their loyalty would remain with him.

If there was any way to win Warshaw over as a friend, I needed to find it. Trying to defuse the situation, I said, "You'll be the one running the fleet; I'm more of a figurehead. As I understand it, they've put me in as a regional administrator."

Warshaw grunted but showed no satisfaction.