Rogue clone by Steven L. Kent Page A

Admiral Huang said that he knew all about it. He sounded so familiar with the ship you would think I had invited him aboard for tea. Arrogant bastard stared me right in the eye and all but admitted that he had spies on board . . . didn’t flinch . . . didn’t even bat an eye.”
    “Johansson?” I asked.
    “Undoubtedly,” Klyber said. “I have a score to settle with our Captain Johansson.” Klyber stood beside his wet bar holding his glass of gin and staring at me with not so much as a glint of a smile.
    “What do we do about Huang?” I asked.
    “The million-dollar question. I don’t have to do anything about Huang. The man will destroy himself. There is no place in the Unified Authority for an officer with his lack of judgment. I seriously doubt he and his career will survive the war.” Klyber saluted me with his gin and took another sip.
    “Perhaps we should leave,” he said as he placed his drink on the bar. The cup was still mostly full. A caravan of security carts waited to drive us to the docking bay. The front and rear carts were loaded with MPs. Klyber and I climbed into the backseat of the middle car. We drove through brightly-lit service halls that were so wide three cars could travel through them side by side. The hollow growl of our motors echoed in the halls and our tires squealed on the polished floor. Klyber sat silent through the ride. He stared straight ahead, a small frown forming on his lips, as he let his mind wander. It took ten minutes to drive to the security gate.
    Leaving the Golan Dry Docks was easier than entering. You did not pass through the posts. No one checked your DNA. Guards checked luggage and passengers for stolen technology, but the officers who attended this summit were allowed to forego that formality. The six soldiers guarding the security gate snapped to attention and saluted Admiral Klyber as he approached. They stayed at attention as he walked past.
    “Huang’s got nerve. I’ll give him that much,” Klyber said as we left the security gate. “The other Joint Chiefs don’t know what they are up against with him. They’re simple soldiers. He’s Machiavellian. You get a Machiavelli in the ranks when you’ve been at peace for too long. Without war, officers advance by politics instead of merit.”
    We reached the staging area where VIP passengers boarded their ships. Ahead of us, the landing pad stretched out for miles. It was so immense that its floor and ceiling seemed to form their own peculiar horizon.
    Klyber’s transport sat on the tarmac just one hundred feet ahead of us. One of Klyber’s pilots milled at the foot of the ramp smoking a cigarette. He tossed the butt on the ground and crushed it out with his shoe as Klyber approached.
    Klyber turned to look at me. “You are not interested in a life as a Marine,” he said. “I understand. When you get to the Doctrinaire , I’ll make arrangements for an honorable discharge. What you do beyond that is up to you.”
    “Thank you, sir,” I said. “What about you?”
    Klyber gave me a terrible, withered smile. “The Doctrinaire is going to end this war, Harris, then we can rebuild the Republic. Once we shake the deadwood out, there will be a need for rebuilding. I suppose it will be time for me to enter politics.”
    The triumphant words did not match the defeated posture. He looked so old. The only explanation I could imagine was that having finally revealed his plans, Admiral Klyber had become more acutely aware of the challenges ahead.
    We had reached the door of the transport. I snapped to attention and saluted Klyber. He returned my salute. I wanted to talk more, but I was not boarding the ship.
    “Admiral,” I said with a final nod as I ended my salute.
    Klyber smiled. “Good day, Lieutenant Harris.” He turned and walked up the ramp into his transport. I watched him—a tall, emaciated man with a long face and a narrow head. He had twig-like arms and legs like broomsticks; but even in his late