The Clone Apocalypse Read Online Free Page B

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