“I like it,” I said. “I always felt embarrassed when people saluted me.”
Changing the subject, I said, “You know, you nearly got me arrested. They’re going crazy looking for terrorists around here. Some old man spotted me for a Liberator and sent an MP after me.”
“You lost him?” Illych asked.
“Killed him,” I said. “I left him on the train tracks. He’s probably been atomized by now.”
“These people are obsessed with Liberators,” Illych said with a wry smile. “They think there’s a Liberator terrorist running wild on the planet. Whenever anything bad happens, they always think there’s a Liberator behind it.”
I wonder what they would think if they knew about Adam Boyd clones, I thought to myself. I did not share that thought. Instead, I asked, “You got any chow?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it’s all Mogat chow,” Illych said. Anyone else would have called it “shit,” but Illych talked like a Boy Scout, a homicidal Boy Scout. “Do you want carbonized soup, carbonized casserole, or carbonized stew?”
“Does one taste better than the others?” I asked, remembering the meal I had on their battleship.
“Not really. They all taste the same.”
“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” I said.
Illych handed me an MRE and a knife. The label said “BEEF CASSEROLE.” I peeled back the tin with the knife and tried a bite. It tasted disgusting.
Illych drank a tin labeled “CHICKEN SOUP.” It looked more like split pea soup.
“So how are we going to get out of here?” Illych asked.
“Funny you should ask,” I said as I opened my box and pulled out the helmet. “I think our best bet is to arrange for a ride home.”
I never understood the finer mechanics of broadcast technology. Something about broadcast engines allowed them to generate a superaccelerated electrical field. They could not only translate and send matter, they could also translate certain wavelengths. Sending engines attracted frequencies from millions of miles away. Receiving engines broadcast those frequencies over millions of miles with next to no latency.
Radio and even laser communications would have had clunky delays just communicating from the earth to the moon. Without broadcast accelerations, conversations between Earth and Mars moved at the pace of a world championship chess game. One person said something or asked a question, then waited. The other person finally heard the statement or question, answered, then waited. Through the miracle of broadcast engines, I could speak with Marines on the other side of the galaxy as if we were standing side by side.
I put on my helmet, knowing I would reach Marines from my platoon using the interLink connection. “Evans, you there?”
“Hey, Master Sarge.” It was Private Philips. I recognized his slow, languid tones even before I saw the identification.
“Evans left you to monitor the Link?” I asked.
“Nah. Thomer was supposed to be watching for you, but he had to run to the shitter. I volunteered to watch for him.”
I liked Philips. Strangely enough, I respected him, but I could not send him on the errand I had in mind. Philips rubbed authority the wrong way, and the errand I wanted would involve a lot of authority.
“Can you get Evans for me?” I asked.
“Not a problem,” Philips said. “Master Sarge, are you really in the Mogat Motherland?”
“I’m on a Mogat-held planet,” I said.
Philips laughed but said nothing. A moment later, I heard him say, “Hey, Evans, Harris wants to talk to you.”
“You better not be playing with me, Philips, or you’ll be cleaning latrines for the rest of your…”
“I’m not playing with you.”
“Better not be,” Evans muttered.
I heard a noise that sounded like Philips taking off his helmet.
“What are you doing?”
“Harris wants to talk to you, Evans,” Philips repeated.
“I’ll use my own helmet.”
Smart, I thought. Knowing Philips’s disregard for authority, he might spit in the helmet before handing it over.
“Master Sergeant?”
“Evans,” I said.
“Did you find the SEAL?”
“Standing right next to me. Thank you for putting in the call to the Kamehameha.”
“I can’t believe you found the bastard,” Evans said. “I mean, I can’t believe it worked.”
“Evans, I need to make some arrangements before we can get back to the Obama.”
“How can I help?” Evans asked.
“Glad you asked,” I said. “I’m going to need to talk to somebody a bit higher in the chain of command.”
“You want me to contact Faggert?” He meant Captain James Taggert. I had a cold moment in which I wondered what Evans called me behind my back.
“This might be a bit big for him,” I said.
“Colonel Grayson?” Evans asked.
“Over his head, too,” I said.
“Who did you have in mind?” Evans asked.
“We can start with Admiral Brocius, but we’re going to need to talk to Admiral Brallier and Admiral Porter by the time we’re done.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Admiral Samuel S. Brallier, commander of the Outer Scutum-Crux Fleet, insisted that his SEALs take charge of the operation once I explained what I had in mind. I had no problem with that. Surprisingly enough, neither did Admiral Brocius. Brallier had more experience with this type of mission than we did.
It would take time to plan out all of the logistics for the operation, so I got to spend the next several days hidden away in the back of Illych’s private armory with the corpses of the people who used to run the joint. Illych played the front man, receiving shipments, signing out equipment, and keeping the books. I had the feeling he enjoyed himself.
When no one was around, I went “shopping.” That meant that I walked around the warehouse opening crates and looking for useful information. I quickly learned that the Mogats had not developed any new weapons. The only gear I found was fifty-year-old U.A. equipment and inventory that the Confederate Arms provided during their brief alliance with the Mogats.
In the back of the warehouse I found crates of bric-a-brac that the Mogats had all but discarded. On one shelf I found a crate of old military Bibles. This surprised me. The Mogats must not have known what the crate contained. Their culture had no room for Earth religions. They believed in self-determination and independence from Earth. They also had their own holy writ—Man’s True Place in the Universe: The Doctrines of Morgan Atkins. As we called it back home, the “Space Bible.”
The Bibles I found were small enough to fit in your pocket, with green leather covers and tissue-paper pages. This particular Bible included the entire New Testament and selected readings from the Old Testament.
I did not like the New Testament; it confused me. My theory that God was a metaphor for government worked well with the Old Testament. When God directed the Israelites to massacre enemies, pay taxes, and build temples, their civilization worked. No matter how hard I tried to wrestle with the god of the New Testament, I could never understand him. In my experience, no self-respecting government would forgive those who trespassed against it.
When Illych saw me reading a Bible, he asked about it. “What book is that?” he asked. He might have thought I was reading a Space Bible. We were enlisted men, and only officers were allowed to read that book.
“The Bible,” I said.
“You’re not supposed to read the Space Bible,” Illych said.
“Not the Space Bible, the Christian Bible,” I said.
“You read the Bible? You can’t possibly believe that stuff.”
“Sure I do,” I said, and I told him my theory about how God was really just the government. He listened quietly then said, “If God is the government, would that make clones his chosen people?”