Most Fallzoud junkies turn into paranoid schizophrenics, but they also became capable of learning they were clones without having a death reflex. The drug was dangerous, but it had its uses.
The attendants manning the Clonetown medical dispensary handed out Fallzoud to anyone who asked. They wanted us on the drug; it made us less of a threat. Hundreds of clones had come to Clonetown with a Fallzoud habit; and thousands would leave here that way.
“Hello, Thomer,” I said as I sat down beside him.
“Good morning,” he said, turning his head and staring at me. His eyes were dull and heavy-lidded. After luding, Thomer sometimes went a half hour at a time without blinking.
“How are you feeling, Master Sergeant?” I asked, wanting to evaluate his condition before starting an important discussion.
“I just sprayed. I feel great,” he said.
Deciding I would do better to come back when he had a few less bats in his belfry, I climbed to my feet. Fallzoud worked its magic quickly and with profound effect. In another hour, Thomer would show signs of intelligence. He’d remain unmotivated and lethargic; but at this moment, I would have described him as closer to catatonic.
“Maybe we should talk later,” I said.
Drug-dulled as he was, Thomer managed to climb to his feet. “It’s okay, sir. You don’t need to leave, I’m a little sluggish, that’s all.”
A little sluggish my ass; if he turned any more sluglike, he’d leave a mucus trail. Not trusting his ability to grasp what I had to tell him, I suggested we find Herrington—my third in command. Maybe keeping Thomer on his feet would circulate some oxygen to his brain.
Herrington and Thomer had once been very similar. Thomer was more of a Boy Scout and Herrington more of a Marine, but they both lived by the rules and led by example. They had something else in common, too. Both of them lost best friends on New Copenhagen. Herrington, who was twenty years older than Thomer, shrugged off the loss. Thomer fell apart at the seams. I thought I could still trust him in battle, though. When a good Marine goes into battle, the drugs, doubts and, all-purpose demons go on the back shelf.
“Think you can go a full day without a Fallzoud breakfast?” I asked, as we crossed a “yard.” They called the open areas of Clonetown yards even though they were dry and bald with not so much as a tuft of grass. The glare from the open sunlight left me squinting, and heat had already begun to radiate off the corrugated tin buildings. I saw ripples of heat in the air and wondered how Ava was doing.
It took us an hour to find Herrington. When we finally did locate him, he was sitting in one of the first places we had looked—a set of bleachers sitting in the shade of a guard tower and overlooking the parade grounds. Herrington saw us coming and waved, then looked back at the field. As we approached, I noticed his venomous grin.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
Looking down on the field, I saw a ring of recruits standing around a fallen comrade. The man lay flat on his back, legs out straight, two pugil sticks near his feet.
“Looks like they finally found a fighter,” I said.
“He’ll be doing it in the brig. The guy on the ground is an officer. One of the recruits lost his grip on his pugil stick, and it flew off and hit him in the head.”
“You’re joking?”
“Knocked him out cold,” Herrington said. “It was the first clean shot I’ve seen all day.”
As Herrington filled me in on the accident, Thomer stared out across the field with a blank expression. His hair was not regulation length and he needed a shave. I wondered if the reliable Marine I once knew still lived in that head.
“I had a visitor last night,” I began. “Anyone want to guess who?”
“It couldn’t have been Ava Gardner; she was too busy in my rack,” Herrington said, an amused look on his face.
The joke hit too close to a truth that I was not yet ready to share, so I answered my own question. “Al Smith favored me with a visit.”
Herrington whistled, then said, “The Old Man of the Air Force himself?”
“I heard something about a convoy driving through last night,” Thomer said.
Herrington asked, “General Smith. I don’t suppose he came bearing an apology?”
“Not exactly,” I said, “but he did say we’re going back on active duty. They’re transferring the entire camp out to the Scutum-Crux Fleet.”
“Back on active duty?” Thomer asked. “That sounds good.” He was almost out of the stupor phase of his intoxication. Next he would begin a short period of paranoia. In another hour he would become withdrawn and stay in his shell until his next dose. Withdrawn would be an improvement.
“Those bastards are just trying to get rid of us by shipping us across the specking galaxy,” Herrington said, stating the obvious. Giving it more thought, he added, “Oh well, at least we’re going to be babysitting battleships. If it gets me out of this shit hole, I’m all for it.”
“Smith says they’ve made contact with survivors on Terraneau. Our mission is to retake the planet and establish it as a base for the fleet,” I said. “They’re pulling all of the natural-borns out. I guess we get to do whatever we want once they’re gone.”
“The universe’s first all-clone fleet,” Herrington observed. “Rape, pillage, and plunder in an abandoned corner of the galaxy. Hooha!”
Thomer, a clone who suspected he might be a clone, shook his head. “What about the death reflex? Won’t we lose a lot of men when they hear they are sailing with an all-clone fleet?”
“Not clones, ‘enlisted men,’ ” I said. “They even covered that in the orders. From here on out, we only refer to ourselves as an ‘Enlisted Man’s Fleet.’ ”
Everything happened the way General Smith said it would. One week after he left, I received a message letting me know that I had been reinstated, given a transfer to the Scutum-Crux Fleet, and handed a new pay grade. I was promoted to captain in the Unified Authority Marines.
Every man in Clonetown received orders the following day. Like me, they had been transferred to the SC Fleet.
Battalions of officers descended on Clonetown to assign men new Military Occupational Specialties. They arranged us into platoons, companies, battalions, and regiments. It didn’t matter what branch the clones were in before, they were all assigned to the Marines from here on out, and I was officially their commanding officer.
Fort Bliss armory issued us combat armor complete with everything but sidearms. Every man received two government-issue rucksacks, one contained a set of regulation Marine combat armor, and the other contained clothes and toiletries.
I was issued two sets of armor. I carried both sets back to my billet to inspect them.
As she always did, Ava hid under my rack when she heard someone approaching the door. The place looked empty, but I knew where she was. Closing the door, I said, “Come on out, it’s me.”
There was a pause as she searched the quarters from beneath the cot to make sure she was safe, then wiggled out. Her white cotton blouse was mostly brown now, and permanent stains had formed under her arms. She constantly washed her face and arms with a rag and water. Her skin was as white and creamy as ever, but her hair was a snarl.
“What’s that?” she asked as she climbed to her feet.
I hated stupid questions; the words “Combat Armor” were clearly displayed on each rucksack. “Government-issue panties,” I said. “All the men are wearing them.”
She flinched as if I had threatened her. It always happened. She asked some stupid question, I answered sarcastically, and she winced and went silent. I hated it. I specking hated living with Ava.
“It’s combat armor,” I said. “They gave me two sets.”
“Why do you need two sets?” she asked.
“One is for you.”