the elevator. Once on, they stood in silence. Cardston watched the floor numbers flash above the door.
Pressed against the side of the elevator, towering over all the other passengers, both clone and natural-born alike, Watson watched the people around him. He had long ago noted the way clones fastidiously watched the floors flash by and wondered if it was part of their programming.
Cardston led them off the elevator on the third floor. He pointed down an empty hall. “We found the burner in a closet down that hall.”
“Were they after the lab?” asked Watson.
“I thought about that,” said Cardston. “Could be, but if that’s the case, we have a bigger problem than terrorists with burners. The lab’s supposed to be a secret. I’d hate to think that the Unifieds know what floor our high-level security lab is on.” He sighed, and added, “We have a leak. That much is certain.
“You know why we stuck Tasman on this floor, Watson? We stuck him here because nobody in his right mind sticks an operation like this on a middle floor. Your secrets become more secure when nobody knows about them, right? You come off the elevator on this floor, what do you see? You don’t see guards and checkpoints, you see an open hall. We got plenty of security protecting the lab, but it’s discreet. You put up a set of posts and a big security station, and you tell your enemies that this is the spot to hit.”
Antiseptic,
Watson thought.
Fluorescent lights, white floors, empty halls, we might as well be in a damn hospital.
As he thought this, he remembered the weeks Harris had been in the hospital after all the trouble on Mars.
Mars. Specking Mars,
he thought. Watson had arrived on Mars just as the trouble began. He’d started working for Don Cutter when Harris and his entire regiment had been abducted on Mars; they’d simply vanished. When they resurfaced a week later, they acted as if nothing had happened. Believing Harris had been reprogrammed, Cutter relieved him of command. A short time later, everything started going to hell. Cutter, who sent Watson, a civilian advisor and untested in battle, to the Mars Spaceport. Watson arrived, and two days later . . .
two specking days later
, a U.A. thug nearly beat him to death. On the third day, he hiked ten miles across the Martian desert with a broken jaw, busted ribs, and not nearly enough pain medication. Freeman had been there. Watson would never have made it to safety without Freeman; no one would have.
Freeman had forced him to shoot an unarmed man that day. Whenever Watson thought about Mars—he avoided thinking about the red planet as much as possible—he always concluded that he had left most of his soul on the plains between the spaceport and the Air Force base.
Watson had returned with a poorly set jaw, a broken nose, four broken ribs, and a body so bruised that his doctor put him in a body cast. He’d looked better than Harris, though. The man who attacked Watson had gunned down Harris from behind, shooting him at nearly point-blank range with a shotgun. After pulling shot from his lungs, liver, and muscles, his doctors had had to restore his tissue and skin.
Tasman was on Mars,
Watson thought. Since returning to Earth, Watson had purposely avoided the old man’s lab. It wasn’t the lab or the unpleasant old man that kept him away. He didn’t want to deal with memories of Mars.
Cardston led him through the maze of nondescript doors and halls. Entering a suite of offices that looked like any other from the outside, they came to a bulletproof barricade behind which sat four Marines in combat armor. The glass that screened them was nearly two inches thick. Since taking up with Cutter, Watson had entered dozens of checkpoints with quarter-inch armored windows. This barricade wasn’t just bulletproof; it was meant to stop bombs.
Even though he was with Major Cardston, the head of Pentagon Security, the guards asked Watson for his ID. Both Cardston and Watson
Pressed against the side of the elevator, towering over all the other passengers, both clone and natural-born alike, Watson watched the people around him. He had long ago noted the way clones fastidiously watched the floors flash by and wondered if it was part of their programming.
Cardston led them off the elevator on the third floor. He pointed down an empty hall. “We found the burner in a closet down that hall.”
“Were they after the lab?” asked Watson.
“I thought about that,” said Cardston. “Could be, but if that’s the case, we have a bigger problem than terrorists with burners. The lab’s supposed to be a secret. I’d hate to think that the Unifieds know what floor our high-level security lab is on.” He sighed, and added, “We have a leak. That much is certain.
“You know why we stuck Tasman on this floor, Watson? We stuck him here because nobody in his right mind sticks an operation like this on a middle floor. Your secrets become more secure when nobody knows about them, right? You come off the elevator on this floor, what do you see? You don’t see guards and checkpoints, you see an open hall. We got plenty of security protecting the lab, but it’s discreet. You put up a set of posts and a big security station, and you tell your enemies that this is the spot to hit.”
Antiseptic,
Watson thought.
Fluorescent lights, white floors, empty halls, we might as well be in a damn hospital.
As he thought this, he remembered the weeks Harris had been in the hospital after all the trouble on Mars.
Mars. Specking Mars,
he thought. Watson had arrived on Mars just as the trouble began. He’d started working for Don Cutter when Harris and his entire regiment had been abducted on Mars; they’d simply vanished. When they resurfaced a week later, they acted as if nothing had happened. Believing Harris had been reprogrammed, Cutter relieved him of command. A short time later, everything started going to hell. Cutter, who sent Watson, a civilian advisor and untested in battle, to the Mars Spaceport. Watson arrived, and two days later . . .
two specking days later
, a U.A. thug nearly beat him to death. On the third day, he hiked ten miles across the Martian desert with a broken jaw, busted ribs, and not nearly enough pain medication. Freeman had been there. Watson would never have made it to safety without Freeman; no one would have.
Freeman had forced him to shoot an unarmed man that day. Whenever Watson thought about Mars—he avoided thinking about the red planet as much as possible—he always concluded that he had left most of his soul on the plains between the spaceport and the Air Force base.
Watson had returned with a poorly set jaw, a broken nose, four broken ribs, and a body so bruised that his doctor put him in a body cast. He’d looked better than Harris, though. The man who attacked Watson had gunned down Harris from behind, shooting him at nearly point-blank range with a shotgun. After pulling shot from his lungs, liver, and muscles, his doctors had had to restore his tissue and skin.
Tasman was on Mars,
Watson thought. Since returning to Earth, Watson had purposely avoided the old man’s lab. It wasn’t the lab or the unpleasant old man that kept him away. He didn’t want to deal with memories of Mars.
Cardston led him through the maze of nondescript doors and halls. Entering a suite of offices that looked like any other from the outside, they came to a bulletproof barricade behind which sat four Marines in combat armor. The glass that screened them was nearly two inches thick. Since taking up with Cutter, Watson had entered dozens of checkpoints with quarter-inch armored windows. This barricade wasn’t just bulletproof; it was meant to stop bombs.
Even though he was with Major Cardston, the head of Pentagon Security, the guards asked Watson for his ID. Both Cardston and Watson
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