The Clone Sedition by Steven L. Kent Page B

popped and separated, and he screamed in pain as I pulled him off mybody, using his broken hand like a lever. A few feet away, his friend lay on the floor, suffocating slowly, his face turning blue, his hands clenched around the crushed larynx. In another minute, he would die.
    With his leg and wrist broken and his friend dying, the Marine forgot he was a Marine. He backed away on his ass and tried to climb to his feet. I grabbed one of his ankles and pulled his feet out from under him. As he fell, he tried to break his fall with his broken hand. He howled in pain when he hit the ground.
    I grabbed his arm and wrenched the broken hand out from under his body. I was in full combat reflex now; seductive warmth filled my head. As I climbed to my feet, I placed a foot on his broken wrist and pressed my weight on it.
    I might not have wanted to kill them before the reflex; but now, with the hormone running through my veins, murder appealed. I looked at the clone with the crushed throat. His eyes bulged, his mouth formed an O, and his lips had turned blue. He’d die in a few more seconds; only a field-trained surgeon could save him.
    For just a moment, I wondered if slicing the man’s neck and forcing a tube in his throat would continue my combat reflex. I asked myself if I could possibly keep the hormone flowing with an act of mercy? The notion intrigued me, but I let the bastard die.
    The survivor lay on the floor cradling his hand, which had swollen to the size of a catcher’s mitt and turned purple. I said, “I need to make a quick call. Don’t run off.”
    Battlefield humor. The bastard was not about to leave; he had gone into shock.
    I pulled out the remote. “Jackson, you there?”
    No one responded.
    I tried again. “Jackson, report.”
    Nothing.
    Thinking I might have broken the remote during my wrestle, I switched to an open channel and listened for chatter. My men had gone silent.
    The train had crossed the spaceport by this time. Looking out the window, I saw the automated air locks. Once we passed the air locks, we would enter the Martian badlands. The trainslowed as the first door of the air lock slid shut behind it, preserving the breathable atmosphere inside Mars Spaceport. The outer door opened, and we slid into the wastelands.
    “
Churchill
command, come in.” I contacted the ship to see if the remote still worked.
    One of Cutter’s lieutenants answered. He asked, “General, do you need to be sent through to Admiral Cutter?”
    I said yes.
    When Cutter came on, I said, “I have a hot mess down here. Somebody tried to gas my men.”
    “Do you know who?” asked Cutter.
    I said, “I’m still investigating, but I think it was Riley?”
    “Did you say Riley?” asked Cutter.
    “I caught the men with the gas. They’re clones. The question is, who sent them? They were on their way to the Air Force base.”
    “I see a train leaving the spaceport on my monitor,” said Cutter. “Want me to stop it?”
    “Hell no. I’m on that train.”
    “What about your men?” asked Cutter.
    “I can’t find them,” I said. “I told Jackson to circle the wagons, now he’s not answering.”
    “You went out on your own,” said Cutter, demonstrating a knack for stating the obvious.
    I looked down at my two victims. One was dead. The other had pulled himself together. He sat on the floor holding the arm, his face pale. I said, “There is a lot going on here. More than we know. There are a couple of Spaceport Security men on the train with me; one’s a bit stiff but the other looks like he might be helpful.”
    Cutter asked, “General, will you be able to control yourself long enough to have a productive conversation?”
    I told Cutter, “I’m sure we will get along fine,” and signed off.
    I sat down beside the man with the broken wrist. He looked like a scared child as he regarded me. I asked, “Ever wondered about life after death?”
    He did not answer.
    “You will know the answers very soon,