you know what that means, Watson? It means that the people protecting me place more import on my work than my life. God help you, Watson, I hope you never live to see every world and person in your life turn to dust. My work, my home, my family. The only reason people bother with me is because of the things I got wrong.”
The old man’s complaining bored Watson. He said, “You’ve made more than your share of monumental mistakes.”
Tasman glared at him. At first, anger and hate blazed in his clear green eyes. He laughed, an ugly sight that revealed teeth as gray as storm clouds. He said, “‘Monumental’? Is that what my mistakes have been, ‘monumental’? Why not ‘cataclysmic’? You want to remember that, Travis. You’re an important man, and important men make monumental mistakes.”
“I couldn’t make mistakes on your level if I tried,” said Watson. “Your mistakes brought down the Unified Authority. They may bring down the Enlisted Man’s Empire as well.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
For the last seventy years, Howard Tasman had been the galaxy’s leading authority on neural programming. When the Linear Committee, the executive branch of the U.A. government, began developing the Liberator cloning project, a very young Howard Tasman participated on the project.
He’d become a hero on his home world after the Liberators had made the galaxy safe. For a planet that had never produced an important politician, or a noted actor, or historic athlete, having a famous scientist had to do. Then things went wrong with the Liberators. They killed civilians and prisoners alike on a penal colony named Alcatraz Island. They massacred civilians on a planet named New Prague. In a chilling irony that ruined Tasman’s life forever, the Liberators murdered most of the civilian population on his home planet of Volga as well.
Tasman told Watson, “The Enlisted Man’s Empire never had a chance of survival. Clones are impotent. They can’t reproduce without labs, and the Mogats destroyed the labs back in 2512.” He smiled, a gracious, self-satisfied grin, “The clone empire didn’t need my help to go bust.”
Repulsed that Tasman’s skin was whiter than his teeth, Watson averted his gaze from the old man’s face.
“A one-generation empire isn’t an empire at all,” said Tasman. “It’s a placeholder.”
Watson looked up, and said, “Maybe, but you’ve brought down two empires. Your clones brought down the Unified Authority.”
Tasman’s smile vanished. He said, “They shouldn’t have been able to do that. They shouldn’t have been able to unite. Their programming . . .”
“The programming you created.”
“Maybe their neural programming wasn’t perfect,” said Tasman, no longer exhibiting signs of his former humor. “It was the best we could do under the circumstances. I couldn’t have anticipated the Unified Authority’s dismantling of its own military. No one could have foreseen that. The military deciding to junk its own clones wasn’t one of the contingencies the generals asked me to consider.”
Watson wondered just how much information he should give up. Living on a military base and never going out in public, Tasman didn’t pose much of a security threat. He didn’t socialize with anyone outside the Pentagon, had no living relatives, and received no visitors.
He’s a bitter old fool,
Watson reminded himself. But who wouldn’t be bitter. His attitude softening, he thought,
So late in life to be so alone
, and took pity on the old man. Tasman was unpleasant, but he was reaching the end of his existence. Even on Mars, when it looked like they would die, he’d irritated anyone who’d come near him.
Speaking softly, slowly, just loud enough to be sure that Tasman heard him clearly, Watson said, “Don Cutter is dead.”
“Dead?” asked Tasman, leaning forward in his bulky wheelchair.
“Assassinated.”
Tasman fell back on his chair, let his arms drop to his sides, sat slack
The old man’s complaining bored Watson. He said, “You’ve made more than your share of monumental mistakes.”
Tasman glared at him. At first, anger and hate blazed in his clear green eyes. He laughed, an ugly sight that revealed teeth as gray as storm clouds. He said, “‘Monumental’? Is that what my mistakes have been, ‘monumental’? Why not ‘cataclysmic’? You want to remember that, Travis. You’re an important man, and important men make monumental mistakes.”
“I couldn’t make mistakes on your level if I tried,” said Watson. “Your mistakes brought down the Unified Authority. They may bring down the Enlisted Man’s Empire as well.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
For the last seventy years, Howard Tasman had been the galaxy’s leading authority on neural programming. When the Linear Committee, the executive branch of the U.A. government, began developing the Liberator cloning project, a very young Howard Tasman participated on the project.
He’d become a hero on his home world after the Liberators had made the galaxy safe. For a planet that had never produced an important politician, or a noted actor, or historic athlete, having a famous scientist had to do. Then things went wrong with the Liberators. They killed civilians and prisoners alike on a penal colony named Alcatraz Island. They massacred civilians on a planet named New Prague. In a chilling irony that ruined Tasman’s life forever, the Liberators murdered most of the civilian population on his home planet of Volga as well.
Tasman told Watson, “The Enlisted Man’s Empire never had a chance of survival. Clones are impotent. They can’t reproduce without labs, and the Mogats destroyed the labs back in 2512.” He smiled, a gracious, self-satisfied grin, “The clone empire didn’t need my help to go bust.”
Repulsed that Tasman’s skin was whiter than his teeth, Watson averted his gaze from the old man’s face.
“A one-generation empire isn’t an empire at all,” said Tasman. “It’s a placeholder.”
Watson looked up, and said, “Maybe, but you’ve brought down two empires. Your clones brought down the Unified Authority.”
Tasman’s smile vanished. He said, “They shouldn’t have been able to do that. They shouldn’t have been able to unite. Their programming . . .”
“The programming you created.”
“Maybe their neural programming wasn’t perfect,” said Tasman, no longer exhibiting signs of his former humor. “It was the best we could do under the circumstances. I couldn’t have anticipated the Unified Authority’s dismantling of its own military. No one could have foreseen that. The military deciding to junk its own clones wasn’t one of the contingencies the generals asked me to consider.”
Watson wondered just how much information he should give up. Living on a military base and never going out in public, Tasman didn’t pose much of a security threat. He didn’t socialize with anyone outside the Pentagon, had no living relatives, and received no visitors.
He’s a bitter old fool,
Watson reminded himself. But who wouldn’t be bitter. His attitude softening, he thought,
So late in life to be so alone
, and took pity on the old man. Tasman was unpleasant, but he was reaching the end of his existence. Even on Mars, when it looked like they would die, he’d irritated anyone who’d come near him.
Speaking softly, slowly, just loud enough to be sure that Tasman heard him clearly, Watson said, “Don Cutter is dead.”
“Dead?” asked Tasman, leaning forward in his bulky wheelchair.
“Assassinated.”
Tasman fell back on his chair, let his arms drop to his sides, sat slack
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