Rogue clone by Steven L. Kent Page B

sixties he was the picture of dignity walking proud and erect. His starched white uniform hung slack around his skin-and-bones frame, but Bryce Klyber was the quintessential officer.
    A sense of relief washed through me as I saw an attendant seal the transport hatch. There had been an assassination attempt, but it was on me. Were they after Klyber and just trying to get me out of the way?
    Maybe so. Maybe I scared them away when I chased them out of my room. Golan was on high alert after that.
    Unlike my little Johnston, Klyber’s eighty-foot long C-64 Mercury-class transport ship was not designed to fly in an atmosphere with oxygen or gravity. The big ship rolled to the first door of the locks under its own power. This particular ship was big and boxy with a bulging hull that looked unworthy of flight. Even rolling toward the runway, it had a clumsy, overstuffed feel about it. An electroshield door sealed behind the C-64. I could still see the craft through that first door, but it now had an unsteady appearance, as if I was watching it through heat waves. The ship lumbered on through two more electroshield doors, entering the low gravity area.
    The tower gave Klyber’s ship immediate clearance—fleet admiral’s privilege, who could out rank him?—and it levitated from the deck on a cloud of steaming air. The ship hung above the deck for a few seconds as it rotated to face the aperture. I watched the ship and thought about receiving an honorable release from the Marines. I had to smile.
    As I turned to leave, I saw something that did not make sense. At first I did not even realize what I was seeing. Five or six civilians stood on the far side of the security gate watching ships take off. Aware that something felt wrong, I headed toward them for a better look.
    Then I realized what I saw. I knew one of the men, only he was not a civilian. Rear Admiral Tom Halverson, dressed in a suit and tie like an ordinary businessman, stood at the front of the group. I smiled thinking he must have missed the transport. “Miss your ride?” I called out as I walked toward the gate. Halverson turned to look at me. He paused, stared at me for just a moment, then turned and bolted into the service halls behind the security station. “Grab that man!” I yelled at the men guarding the exit. They looked over at me so slowly they reminded me of cows grazing in a field.
    “Stop him!” I screamed as I pulled my M27.
    All five guards pulled their guns. Two ran off after Halverson, but the other three kept their M27s trained on me. Red warning lights flashed from the ceiling for the second time since I had landed on Golan. Soldiers with drawn weapons rushed out of the security booth and surrounded me. I placed my gun on the ground then laced my hands behind my head without being asked.
    As the MPs closed in around me, I looked back at the launch area expecting to see Klyber’s ship explode. The C-64 had dragged itself to the airspace just in front of the aperture, and the transport seemed to dangle precariously as it approached that opening. But instead of exploding, it rose steadily higher.
    “What is going on, Harris?”
    I turned to see the colonel who had sprung me from the brig pushing his way toward me. He looked angry.
    “Colonel, there’s a bomb on Klyber’s ship!”
    The colonel did not hesitate. “Out of the way,” he yelled. He pulled a discrete communications stem from his collar. “Traffic control, hold Klyber’s ship! I repeat, this is urgent, hold Klyber’s transport!”
    The MPs lowered their guns and cleared out of my way. I could not hear what was said, but traffic control apparently got the colonel’s message. “Yeah, that’s right . . . Yes, I’ve got a man out here who says that there is a bomb on board the admiral’s ship. Shit . . . no. . . . don’t bring it down. If we have a bomber around here, he might set it off. Yes. Yes! Look, we’re on our way over. Just have the pilot hang tight.”
    And that was