The Clone Apocalypse Read Free Page B

LaFleur would remove his helmet. He knew better; so did his men.
    LaFleur noticed something that the remote tests had missed. The air inside
Magellan
was humid, almost steamy. He ran a test on the mist in the air and found no chemicals other than hydrogen and oxygen.
    He spoke to one of his engineers, tasking him with finding the source of the moisture. Moments later, the man radioed back from
Magellan
’s tiny galley. It had taken him less than a minute to locate the source of the moisture. In the galley, four mugs sat empty beside a spigot designed for dispensing boiling water. A thin but steady stream of vapor leaked out of the improperly sealed valve.
    LaFleur thanked the engineer and sent him to examine the cockpit.
    The medical corpsmen examined each of the bodies one by one. Like the
Fillmore
crew and the staff at Hamsho-Kwok, the men manning
Magellan
were all clones, all five feet ten inches tall, all brown-haired and brown-eyed.
    Six bodies lay side by side in the cargo hold. They lay on their backs, their heads facing up.
    Corpsman Rich Jackson turned the first body on its side, saw dried blood on the man’s left earlobe, and knew what had killed him. He found dried blood in the hair around the man’s ear as well.
    Leaning over the body for a better look, Jackson said, “Brandt, look at this.”
    Corpsman Timothy Brandt came for a closer look.
    The corpsmen wore the “soft-shelled armor” of engineers, rubberized suits that covered them head to toe and provided air and heat. The suits were airtight and protected them from chemicals and radiation.
    Having seen the blood around the ear, Brandt searched the next corpse. He said, “Same.” He surveyed each of the corpses. “They all died the same way.”
    “They didn’t die here; there’s not enough blood,” said Jackson. The cause of death was obvious, but there should have been a small puddle of blood under each of the dead men’s heads.
    Jackson reported the information to LaFleur, who relayed it to Matthews on
Fillmore
. He said, “Captain, we know what killed them. You’re not going to like it.”
    “I don’t like it already,” Matthews snapped. “Let’s have it.”
    “These men had a mass death reflex,” said LaFleur.
    “A mass death reflex,” Matthews repeated. “That can’t be good.”
    Location: Coral Hills, Maryland
Date: August 16, 2519
    Howard Tasman sat in his wheelchair near the window, staring through the break between the curtains, looking down at the street. Most of the people had deserted this part of Coral Hills; those who remained mostly stayed indoors during daylight hours. That was why the man caught Tasman’s attention; he was walking alone on the street.
    The man was tall and gangly-looking, with long arms and long legs. As he came closer, Tasman recognized the man’s soulful, sympathetic eyes. Tasman said, “Hey, I know that guy . . .”
    Travis Watson, who also lived in the apartment, went to the window to have a look. “Who is he?”
    Tasman said, “His name is Rhodes. He works for one of the intelligence agencies.”
    Emily Hughes, Watson’s girlfriend, joined Tasman and Watson at the window. Like them, she hid behind the curtain. She said, “He doesn’t look like a spy.”
    “He’s not a spy; he’s an administrator,” said Tasman, a man who had spent his life working with both spies and administrators. Now an old man in his nineties, Tasman had lived to see his family die, leaving him bitter and alone.
    Watson asked, “Can we trust him?”
    “I wouldn’t trust him to wipe my ass.”
    Emily sneered at the awful old man, and muttered, “That would be cruel and unusual punishment.” She didn’t like Tasman. She didn’t like him in small doses, and now she’d been stuck in the same apartment as him for weeks.
    “What’s wrong with him?” asked Watson.
    “He works for EME Intelligence,” said Tasman.
    “That mean he’s on our side,” said Emily.
    “He worked for U.A. Intelligence before