Free The Clone Sedition by Steven L. Kent

find anyone who saw what happened.”
    “Somebody saw,” said Jackson.
    “Sure they did, but they won’t admit it.”
    One of the suits approached Jackson as he stood over the bodies. Speaking over the interLink, Jackson said, “The head assholes are here.”
    I said, “Keep your men on alert,” then I pulled off my helmet and got my first whiff of Spaceport air. It didn’t just smell of sweat; this particular potpourri included feces, garbage, and rot.
    The men in the suits spotted my dead Marines and stopped walking.
    Politicians. I had the feeling that none of these men had ever seen a violent death up close. They stared down at the bodies. By this time, a couple of sergeants were loading the bodies into “ash bags.” We would not leave our dead behind, though the locals could deal with the blood. We would shipthe bodies back to the
Churchill
in the bags, fish out any salvageable equipment, then toss whatever remained into an incinerator.
    As a Liberator clone, I had the same basic architecture as the newer model that replaced my kind. I had the same face, the same brown hair, and the same brown eyes. I stood six-three, five inches taller than any of the clones around me; but, as the politicians didn’t bring a sizing laser for taking measurements, they did not recognize me.
    “Are you in charge of this invasion?” asked the man in the suit.
    “Invasion?” I asked. “Why would we invade Mars?”
    “You have landed on our planet with a large body of armed men.”
    “I have one regiment; that hardly qualifies as a large body.”
    “Why are you here?” the man demanded.
    I said, “Look, I don’t mean to be disrespectful…”
    “Yes, you do.”
    “What?”
    “You have come here to threaten us. If you wanted to talk, you would have contacted Governor Hughes through diplomatic channels. Instead, you came with your
regiment
of heavily armed men.”
    After that comment, I almost gave in to my combat reflex. I said, “I came to see Gordon Hughes, not you.”
    “Governor Hughes sent me. If you have something to say…”
    “I’ll say it to Hughes.”
    The man was tall and handsome, in his fifties and distinguished-looking. I could tell he’d enjoyed a successful life in politics, and he did not appreciate my attitude toward him. He said, “The Governor is a busy man.”
    I said, “Yeah? Well, I’d hate to inconvenience him. Let him know that General Wayson Harris stopped by.”
    “General Wayson Harris?” he asked. He still wasn’t sure it was me. To him, we all looked the same. “Did you say you were General Harris?”
    “In the synthetic flesh,” I said.
    “Would you like to see the governor now?”
    “That’s why I came.”
    “Yes, sir. We’ll go straight away.”
    “And my men? I don’t think it would be wise to leave them here.”
    “No, sir,” he said, suddenly the cooperative fellow.
    He was not in charge. He was just a lackey for Gordon Hughes, who might not have been in charge as well. Hughes was officially the governor of Mars Spaceport, but the people seemed to have ideas of their own.

CHAPTER
SEVEN
    The suits led the entire regiment to the administrative building, then escorted Jackson and me inside while the rest of the men waited in the hall, which was so wide that it looked like a cul-de-sac. There were areas within the spaceport that looked like buildings inside of buildings.
    Gordon Hughes could have lived a life of luxury if he returned to Earth; instead, he chose to live like his people on Mars. He lived in this three-story building with his extended family and the extended families of his staff and advisors. Apparently, he allowed himself one luxury—he slept on a bed instead of a blanket; but he did not have a personal shower, bathroom, or kitchen.
    The executive offices looked like they must have looked before all the trouble began—bright light shining from the ceiling, a clean beige carpet underneath our feet, and a pretty personal assistant to greet us as we