One display showed wax figures of the twelve generations of clone evolution. In that lineup was a man with my exact face and physique, a Liberator. Another display depicted Liberators invading the Mogat home world. The display included twenty-five figures that looked exactly like me—six feet three inches tall, wiry frame, and the same brown hair and brown eyes found on every other clone.
The plaque read:
LIBERATOR CLONES
The product of a top secret collaboration between the U.A. Navy and the Linear Committee, Liberator clones were designed as a weapon in the war against aliens believed to inhabit the Galactic Eye. When the Liberators advanced on the enemy stronghold, they discovered a planet populated by humans.
I appreciated the whitewash. What the plaque did not mention was that we Liberator clones were the missing link of synthetic evolution. The Pentagon had its scientists strip our genes from the DNA of all future generations.
The problem with the Liberators was their fundamental addiction to violence. The Liberator physique included a gland that secreted a combination of testosterone and adrenaline into our bloodstreams during combat. The hormone made us faster and fiercer. It kept our thoughts clear during combat; but it was also addictive. Once the fighting was over, most Liberators would happily sell their souls to keep the hormone pumping through their veins. The only way to keep it flowing was to continue fighting. That led to battles like New Prague and Albatross Island, where Liberators slaughtered allies and civilians once they ran out of enemies.
After a few massacres, Liberator clones were banned from the Orion Arm, the galactic arm in which Earth was located, and the Pentagon began manufacturing a new generation of clones.
We did leave our mark on future generations, however. Instead of building a gland with testosterone and adrenaline in later models, Congress opted to build a fail-safe into later generations of clones—a gland that caused their brains to shut down if they discovered their origins. They called it the “Death Reflex.” It was a stopgap designed to prevent clones from rebelling against their natural-born creators.
Along with their deadly new gland, the latest clones received some impressive neural programming. They were raised in special all-clone orphanages by mentors who convinced each clone that he was the only natural-born child in the facility. Neural programming filled in the blanks. When they saw themselves in the mirror, the new clones saw themselves as having blond hair and blue eyes even though they saw perfectly well that the clones around them had brown hair and brown eyes. That same programming made them docile in the face of authority, fearless in combat, and unable to call each other out as clones.
As a Liberator, I did not need to worry about the Death Reflex. I was the last of the Liberators, a one-of-a-kind clone. Twenty-six years ago, someone decided to run one last batch of Liberator juice through the old clone factory, and out I came.
The clone wing in the Museum of Military History had displays and holographic movies offering in-depth explanations of the evolution of clones in the same cheery light that the Air and Space Museum showed the evolution of jet fighters and broadcast technology.
Seeing my kind displayed without a warning that we were all mass murderers brought an ironic smile to my face.
The New Year’s Eve party, the monument, and the new wing all happened in the months before the Joint Hearings. Those hearings changed everything.
CHAPTER TWO
“General Smith, according to your records, the Air Force did not lose a single jet during the battle for New Copenhagen. Is that correct?” Senator MacKay asked as he sifted through his notes.
The eleven other politicians sitting behind the judiciary bar had crisp suits, immaculate hair, and polished personas. Senator Evan MacKay wore a rumpled navy blue suit that had gone out of fashion nearly a decade ago. The spoon-shaped lenses of his reading glasses rode low on the bridge of his nose. With his disheveled clothes and smudged glasses, Senator MacKay had an endearing professorial look.
More than a year had passed since the Avatari invasion, but the Senate investigation into the war had just begun. The politicians and populace in general had spent the last twelve months glad to be alive. Now, a year after the threat had passed, the witch hunt began. The politicians wanted to know what went wrong. They wanted somebody to blame.
So Congress launched an investigation into the war, ostensibly to determine our readiness should the aliens return.
Through the first weeks of the hearings, the mood of the investigation remained friendly but tense. As the investigation continued, it became obvious that the Pentagon had no idea what to do if the aliens returned, and tension turned to hostility. The galaxy-conquering Republic that once claimed to have manifest destiny in its corner now floated as helpless as a raft adrift on a stormy sea.
Senator MacKay did not ask about the fighter jets in an accusatory way, but General Alexander Smith became defensive nonetheless. “Our pilots took their chances just like everybody else, Senator,” he said, sounding defensive—a man with something to hide.
“No one is questioning the Air Force’s role in the war,” MacKay said in a calming voice. “I’m just curious about your methods. From what I can tell, the Army lost nearly six hundred thousand soldiers and sustained a ninety-five percent casualty rate. The Marines sent four hundred thousand soldiers and lost ninety-seven percent of the men they sent.
“It would appear that your fighter pilots had a much higher survival rate. How many pilots did you lose?”
Up to this point, Senator MacKay showed nothing more than polite curiosity. Apparently unaware of these statistics, the congressmen around him looked up from their notes.
“We did not lose any pilots,” General Smith growled. He was a chubby old man with white hair and a bushy white mustache, but all of the decoration on his uniform made him something more. He was the ranking member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest-ranking officer in the Unified Authority military.
“No pilots lost?” MacKay asked, clearly impressed. “Your pilots must be very good.” He paused for nearly a minute as he looked through his notes, then turned his attention to General Morris Newcastle, the highest-ranking officer in the Unified Authority Army.
“As I understand it, General Newcastle, your gunship pilots did not fare so well. Didn’t you suffer a much higher casualty rate with your attack helicopters?”
“Yes, sir,” barked Newcastle.
Smith and Newcastle regarded each other as adversaries. As the head of the Joint Chiefs, Smith held the rank, but he waged his portion of the war from an office in Washington, DC. Mo Newcastle, on the other hand, ran the show on New Copenhagen from ground zero. Smith remained the ranking member of the Joint Chiefs, but Newcastle emerged from the war as a hero.
“You had a higher casualty rate?” Senator MacKay asked again, looking for clarification.
“We lost every gunship we sent out,” Newcastle said.