Free The Clone Empire by Steven L. Kent

“Harris’s Tool,” the battleship, would travel nearly three hundred miles gathering speed in a linear acceleration before poking “Chastity Belt,” the wall of destroyed Unified Authority ships that blocked the way to “Virginity,” the hot zone. When the Tool was precisely forty-seven miles from Chastity Belt, the engineers would fire a series of nuclear devices that would both damage and superheat the U.A. ships, but the blast would not destroy them. They labeled this part of the operation “Foreplay.” Just as the negative 450-degree temperature of space would set in, turning the metal brittle, the Tool would ram into the ships. If everything went right, the Tool would hit with sufficient velocity to break through the barrier.
    Lieutenant Mars might have been counting on “God’s good grace,” but he carefully calculated acceleration and timing as well. Without the proper velocity, I would not have the power to smash through the ships.
    My battleship/barge/battering ram would be wedge-shaped and wider from wing to wing than from bow to stern. This meant that I would have a better chance of survival traveling sideways, leading with the starboard wing while I hid in the landing bay on the port side of the ship.
    I explained all of this to Sergeant Nobles, and he said, “It sounds like you’re trying to kill yourself, sir.” Nobles was a trained transport pilot. Officially, I did not have a personal pilot; but when I took rides in transports, he generally flew the bird.
    We sat in the empty mess area of a vacant wing of Fort Sebastian. I wanted privacy as I explained the mission.
    It was raining outside; gusts of wind blew a steady stream of water against the windows. The mess had a wall of windows overlooking Sebastian Commons—a park in the center of the base. The lawns outside those windows were as flat and even as a gymnasium floor. Even though we did not have enough men to fill the base, I had my men mow the grass. When forts become run-down, the men surely follow.
    “Then it may be a double suicide,” I said.
    “Oh shit,” he said. “You’re asking me to come with you.”
    “I’ll need a pilot,” I said.
    He’d been my pilot for nearly a year, making him one of my oldest friends on Terraneau; but until this conversation, I’d only known him as “my pilot.” We’d flown missions in which we both nearly died, and I didn’t even know his name. Was it because he was a clone? Had I become antisynthetic?
    “Please say this is a joke, General,” Nobles said.
    “Once I get through to the other side, I’m going to need someone to fly the transport off the battleship.”
    “You mean the Tool ?” Nobles asked.
    “Yeah, okay, the Tool ,” I conceded.
    “General, do you know where we’ll be when we get to the other side?”
    “I have no idea,” I admitted.
    “And you want me to come along for the ride?” he asked. “Are you ordering me to come?”
    “I was hoping you would volunteer.”
    “Have you asked for other volunteers?”
    I shook my head and told the truth, “There’s no point placing additional lives in harm’s way.”
    “No, sir. Why would you want to put anyone else in danger?”
    I would not order Nobles to go. I could. He was a clone. In theory, his programming would make him comply. In theory, our battleship would break through the barrier, and we would sail into the broadcast zone safe and sound. In theory, military clones were incapable of fighting against the Unified Authority. I’d never placed much faith in theoretical solutions, but that wasn’t stopping me from placing my life on the line.
    “You’ve been my pilot since they transferred me to the Scutum-Crux Fleet. I’d hate to go without you,” I said. It sounded weak, but Nobles liked the distinction of being my pilot. From what I could tell, he did not mind high-risk missions, either.
    He gave me a sly, one-sided smile, and asked, “Since you put it that way, when do we leave?”
    “Oh, our