Account of a Sildan Clone Soldier

Account of a Sildan Clone Soldier

by Andre Ricardo

“Director-General, the High Ministry has reached a decision. The Ixilite revolt has been declared an emergency of national importance and has elected to give you emergency powers,” announced Delip ur Faren.

“So, it’s really gotten that bad then?” Director-General Tukam ot Shif rubbed his light blue forehead.

He looked out his office’s window and out towards the Sildan capital. In the distance rose sleek, silver towers that housed the well-oiled machine of Sildan bureaucracy. In the foreground were purplish trees and grasses arranged delicately around the Office of the Director-General, the seat of Sildan power, which Tukam ot Shif had the esteemed privilege of occupying. From this building the Sildan people have been led diligently for millennia by their trusted Director-General, who was now called to action. Tukam ot Shif took a deep breath before returning to face his assistant, Delip.

“Let’s get this sorted,” Tukam tapped his glass desk to reawaken its display and typed in a new decree whilst reading it aloud to Delip. “As my first ordinance with my emergency powers as given by the High Ministry to combat this crisis, that being a revolt of Ixilite elements on the worlds Yrothal, Esthalon, and Salos, I, Tukam ot Shif, 435th Director-General of the Sildan Technocratic Republic hereby put forth a request to produce three additional armies of clone soldiers to be grown and prepared for war with the Ixilite insurgents.”

“That seems reasonable, sir. Shall I convene a press conference? Or do you need more time to prepare?” Delip asked.

“No, let’s do it now. That way I can just get to work,” the Director-General rose from his seat and followed Delip outside.

•••

One Sildan year later.

“Excellent work,” Teacher said as he revealed the scores for the last language exam. “You are all within the standard for your development bracket.”

SCAS Unit 273-P12 leaned back confidently in his chair. His fellows surrounded him. 273-P12 recalled Teacher telling him that most children would still be drooling babies at his age that were reliant on their parents for everything. P12 didn’t have parents and was self-reliant and conversational at only one year of age. In three hundred and twenty revolutions around Silda’s home star of Selia he and his brothers had achieved what normal Sildan children accomplish in ten years.

“Not only am I proud of you, but Director-General Tukam ot Shif is also proud of you too. Look here,” Teacher used his clicker to put on a video of the Director-General in front of the class of 50,000 young boys.

“Congratulations, future soldiers. You are all on schedule to graduate and take your spots in the 270th Infantry Division of the 9th Army. I, Director-General Tukam ot Shif of our Sildan Technocratic Republic, would like to extend my sincerest gestures of goodwill to you in your fight for Silda. You are all Silda’s future. Without you and those who came before you and those who will certainly come after you, Silda would be nothing and will be nothing. But with your vigilance against those who would see Silda burn and her people enslaved, we will survive against anything the enemy can try to hurl towards us.” The Director-General finished his speech with a warm smile that froze across the screen as the prerecorded video came to an end.

The classroom erupted into a 50,000-voice-strong chorus of joy as every student celebrated their coming of age. After just a year since extraction from the cloning vats, each one of them had learned how to read, write, and communicate with each other effectively.

“We did it, P11! We did it!” 273-P12 shouted to his friend.

273-P11, 273-P12’s closest compatriot both in order of birth and friendship, clasped tightly onto P12’s shoulders while jumping up and down and smiled.

“We’ll show those bugs!” P11 shouted back. “For Silda!”

“For Silda! For technocracy!” P12 cheered.

“For truth!” P11 held the “u” for as long as his young lungs could allow.

“Settle down, cadets,” Teacher called out over a loudspeaker. “To congratulate you for both your graduation and your first birthdays, you all will be given a mighty gift you can share: Strength.”

•••

Half a Sildan year later.

The first thing SCAS Unit 273-P12 noticed was a few glimmers of light from beyond his closed eyelids that eventually turned into an orange glow. He felt the warm liquid that surrounded his body fall below his forehead. Soon enough, that liquid formed little shorelines along his light blue chest and legs. Something felt wrong about this, but P12 did nothing about it aside from turning his head slightly away from the light. He continued to lay completely still as the liquid receded further and further down. His unease crystallized as he felt the breathing apparatus around his nose and mouth removed and a great number of hands started yanking him up from his vat.

When 273-P12’s eyes flicked open on instinct, the harsh lights above him temporarily blinded him. The hands were relentless in their mission to drag P12 from his resting spot. He fell onto his hands and knees on the cold metal floor and coughed up bits of viscous, syrupy fluid that had gotten into his mouth through the whole struggle. The fluid was sickeningly sweet with a chemical aftertaste. When his vision returned to him, he stood up to identify his assailers. Three men covered head to toe in protective suits stood over him as P12 tried to remember how to stand up.

“Where… who…?” 273-P12 murmured.

“Good morning, soldier! Time to wake up,” one administrator said. “Report down to processing that way and get cleaned up and dressed.”

P12 wiped his mouth before a wave of shock descended over him as he looked closer at his arm. It had grown to more than twice the size he remembered when he was placed in the vat. From his arm, his vision darted across his entire body. Lean, strong muscle had formed across his bones, which had also grown. 273-P12 followed other muscular men through the dark chamber of growth vats. His feet felt cold against the see-through metal grating he walked on. A sudden shock at how far up he was nearly froze him in place. The entire room ascended and descended for at least a hundred stories from where P12 stood. Rows of growth vats lined every direction he looked while his eyes became used to being used again. When he reached processing, which he identified by a glowing blue sign that read “Processing,” and by following who he realized were his fellows all grown up, another man in a protective white suit hosed all the fluid off his unfamiliar body. An administrator tossed a rough towel at him.

“SCAS Unit, identify yourself,” the administrator said while looking down at a sleek tablet.

“SCAS Unit 273-P12, sir.”

“Noted. Dry yourself off while proceeding down the hallway in an orderly fashion. Next!”

273-P12 did as he was ordered. The concrete hallway was highly utilitarian in its construction, only having enough room for the soldiers to march down in a single file and with barely enough light for 273-P12 to see. After shuffling along for a while, P12 reached the end, which opened into a wide room filled with mirrors. An administrator handed P12 a plastic package.

“Soldier, this is your training uniform. Wear it with pride,” the administrator said to 273-P12, and then again to the man behind him and so on.

P12 unzipped the package and faced a mirror. The only part of him he could still partially recognize was his face, yet even it could be confused with any of the other men standing near him. His purplish hair hung down to his shoulders. He didn’t have long to observe his long locks, as after an administrator finished shaving the head of the clone next to 273-P12, he did the same to him. P12 put on his uniform, a sleek, white jumpsuit with the texture of a bedsheet.

“Proceed towards the next hallway for assignment,” rang out the voice of an administrator over a speaker.

Before 273-P12 even had a chance to come to terms with his transformation, he was walking down yet another concrete hallway that spit out into a network of elevators. Once he reached the bottom floor, the light of the outside world blinded him. Selia lit up Silda’s blue sky and P12’s retinas. He had only a moment to breathe in the slightly fresher outside air before he was directed into an army convoy and shipped to a barracks for training.

“Hey,” P12 asked the clone next to him.

“What?” was his response.

“What’s your designation?”

“273-P11,” P11 said.

“P11? I’m P12. Remember me?” P12 asked his friend.

P11’s eyes widened. “Of course! How are you P12?”

P12 considered the question earnestly. “I’m not sure, honestly. I feel… bigger.”

“Stronger, maybe?” P11 asked. “Teacher did say he would gift us strength.”

“I didn’t know that meant ‘getting submerged in foul-tasting slime,’” P12 remarked. “I just can’t believe this body is mine.”

“’All beliefs must be subjugated by the truth,’” P11 said matter-of-factly. “Teacher said that.”

P12 silently accepted Teacher’s wisdom and spent the remaining ride in the army convoy flexing his fingers and watching the muscles of his forearm work.

•••

Half a Sildan year later.

SCAS Unit 273-P12 marched in file onto a starship with 273-P13 and 273-P11 in front and behind of him, respectively. They were now proper soldiers of the 270th Infantry Division ready to face the Ixilite threat on the Sildan colony world of Salos. After settling into his seat beside his two fellows, he buckled his seatbelt and looked up to listen to his commanding officer, a clone like himself, but slightly older called SCAS Unit 25-CO98 who stood in the center of the rounded starship on a holodeck.

“Attention! Attention all SCAS Units!” the commanding officer shouted. “You are all en route to the Weriss, a Solothan-Class Battlecruiser.”

25-CO98’s statement proved correct when 273-P12 felt a lurch in his already delicate stomach from the ship’s engines kicking off. It was undeniable that he was perhaps in the last days of his life. He might die tomorrow. He might even die today, depending on how quickly he was sent to the front and where. He no longer wore his crisp, white training uniform. He carried a PS-240 Plasma Repeater Rifle and wore a thick plasma-resistant jumpsuit with heat-resistant plating on his chest. He was out of time.

“Via the Weriss, you, the soldiers of the 270th, are headed to Solas,” the commanding officer manipulated a giant holographic model of a barren, brownish planet with a thin band of ocean running along its length and curling along the sides. “Solas’s terrain is primarily arid grassland and tall mountains due to extensive volcanic and tectonic activity. There are only a handful of settlements as Solas was only colonized a few years back. Its primary exports are food, as the highly volcanic soil is perfect for food, thus, Solas is a critical world to our republic that cannot be lost to the enemy. The Ixilites, who the Sildan Technocratic Republic graciously took in and provided agricultural jobs to after the tumultuous beginning of the Findalian Civil War have spat on our generosity and declared Salos to be their own.”

The holographic display changed to show a revolting insectoid alien with bulging compound eyes, long brown legs and wriggling antennae, then shifted again back to the planet Salos showing red areas depicting Ixilite control.

“The 270th has been assigned to assist in the counteroffensive in the Grand Farlonath Prairie on the northwest corner of the Farlonath supercontinent, which has only two large cities, Nos-Kaladoth, which is currently occupied by the bugs and Nos-Terrell, which was recaptured by the 2nd army a year ago. You will receive further instruction when you land on Salos in five hours. Dismissed,” 25-CO98 barked before stepping down from the holodeck.

“So, five hours left?” P12 said to his neighbor.

“What? Oh, yeah, I guess,” P11 replied.

“Anything you would have wanted to do before it all ends?” P12 asked.

“No use thinking about it or talking like that, P12.”

“I just mean, we’ve all only been alive for around a year and a half,”

“Two years,” P11 corrected.

“Well, I wasn’t counting the half a year we spent asleep in orange slime.”

“Fine. Two years alive, year and a half-conscious for it,” P11 accepted.

“Either way, that isn’t that long. I feel like it was just a few months ago that I was a child learning about words and numbers, you know? And now I’m about to die,” P12 rattled off the various things clouding his mind.

“Yeah, and that’s likely for the best. We’re made to die. If we don’t die fighting a bunch of bugs or lizards or robots or whatever other alien monstrosities that decide to come our way, we’ll die in another eight years or so when our accelerated lifespans kill us,” P11 said flatly and without emotion.

“Yeah, but that’s just what we’re told.”

“All we know and all we can know is what we’ve been told. There’s no changing it, so best to just accept it and live to die for something greater. All Silda is counting on us. That means a whole lot more than either you or me.”

273-P12 was quiet. He had hoped he could have gotten some reassurance from his comrade, instead, 273-P11 has just reinforced the idea that his situation was futile, except he dressed that futility up to look honorable. He felt the ship dock into the Weriss but heard nothing as the ship was already in space. His stomach lurched as the battlecruiser activated its leap drive.

•••

Seventy-five Salosian days later.

“Soldiers! Up! We are moving!” barked 25-CO98.

The 50,000 strong 270th Division had been whittled down to only a handful of regiments numbering around 15,000 during its short deployment after several devastating engagements by the Ixilites in the expansive grassy wilderness of Salos. 273-P12 and 273-P11 stood up from their less-than-comfortable spots in the ruined concrete structure their regiment had been sheltering in and went to join with the remnants of their division.

“We have orders to join the southern offensive with the 191st and 302nd divisions to break the encirclement. Move out!” the officer shouted; his voice hoarse from days of yelling.

“When did we become encircled again?” P12 asked his comrade.

“Fifteen days ago,” P11 replied stiffly.

“We’re all going to die. The rest of the third army had been pushed back even further,” P12 said.

“I can tell command wants to end this war as quickly as possible, otherwise they wouldn’t have been so reckless to fall for the trap the Ixilites set,” P11 said. “It’s a shame they didn’t provide supplies from space. We might have had more of a fighting chance.”

“They’re just abandoning us. Why?” P12 asked as he slung his plasma repeater over his shoulder.

“I have two theories. First, remember when we attacked that fortified position three weeks back? There were hidden anti-air cannons. Maybe there are more of those elsewhere, and the navy can’t reinforce us without risking the transports getting shot down. Second, leaving three divisions behind enemy lines forces the enemy to tend to us first, thus allowing the main front to the south to be less defended and more fluid for the rest of the 9th army to push.”

“You seem real comfortable talking about that as if you aren’t a part of command’s gamble to keep the front fluid. They’ve killed us all,” P12 said as he looked up from his dusty boots and out at the rolling brown hills and monumental mountains beyond. A light breeze blew through the gaps in his armor.

“I might have a bit of the strategist gene template in me. Who knows, maybe I’m of the CO template and not the P template,” P11 joked.

“Maybe I’m not of any template at all. I can’t stand all this like you can,” P12 remarked.

“Nah, there’s just some genetic fluke with you. The geneticists will iron it out next batch.”

“Thanks,” P12 didn’t appreciate being called a “genetic fluke.”

“No problem, comrade,” P11 said, not detecting P12’s annoyance.

A plasma bolt whizzed into P11’s skull and shattered his helmet. The clone fell limply to the ground. Around a dozen others in front of P12 fell with him.

“Snipers!” CO98 called out from up ahead.

P12 ducked behind a rock and swiveled his head from side to side to locate the snipers. A swarm of Ixilites crawled out of hidden trenches in the ground and started firing at the 270th division. P12 heard chunks of the rock he was huddling against blast off as stray plasma bolts struck it.

“Ambush! Hold formation!” CO98 screamed at his soldiers. “Find cov–”

An Ixilite sniper silenced P12’s commander with a well-placed shot. The remnants of the division scattered for the hills, with P12 and a handful of others stranded in cover. P12’s time was up. He rose from cover, but before he had a chance to aim at the horrifying horde before him, a bolt hit him square in the chest.

•••

Four Salosian hours later.

273-P12 could still feel the touch of the wind between his armor. He thought it odd he was feeling anything at all, as Teacher had told him the afterlife was a foolish concept invented by weak men incapable of coming to terms with their insignificance in the face of the infinity of the universe. Though this couldn’t be true as P12 was positive he wasn’t imagining wind. Perhaps, it was just that he wasn’t dead. His eyes flicked open to a dark sky dotted with alien constellations. He turned his head to the right and saw scattered dirt, plasma-singed grass, and, in the distance the same impossibly tall mountains he had been looking at while marching. He turned his head left and saw the boot of a dead clone soldier. P12 gingerly sat up, feeling what might be a fractured rib.

The landscape was desolate. Bodies of both Sildans and Ixilites alike littered the ground, and returned to nature. From what P12 could tell, he was the only survivor, but he didn’t want to wait around to soak in the carnage, or worse risk catching the eye of an Ixilite thirsty to finish the job. He spotted a derelict concrete structure in the distance and decided it was best to shelter there for the night. He unbuckled his armor to move quicker and dropped it with a thump.

Once inside the structure, he drew his sidearm, having abandoned his rifle amongst the other heavy infantry equipment. This structure was once a home, as evidenced by the minimalist couch and children’s toys in what was once a family room. P12 dug through the broken wardrobe in a bedroom for a change of clothes. After finding a greenish jumpsuit that must have belonged to the father, P12 changed out of his military uniform. He couldn’t look like a soldier.

273-P12 considered what his plan would be, after realizing he had none. He didn’t want to, and likely couldn’t without risking his life, return to the army. He was already out of his camouflaged jumpsuit, anyway. He could try to live here in this ruined house. He’d only have to do it for a few years when unnatural old age takes him, but this house was devoid of any food, except for a few scraps of hard telmus bread he scrounged out of a cupboard. He had no idea how to farm, or even if the land was farmable. He didn’t know what any of that would look like as he had only been taught enough to be a foot soldier and nothing else. P12 needed to get to a city, even an Ixilite-occupied city. Perhaps there he could work out a way to escape the planet.

Grief surged through him as he realized the last moment he would have with his friend, 273-P11, was one of annoyance. P11 was loyal to an army that ultimately had no care for him and sacrificed his life and 150,000 other lives from the three encircled divisions just to further a tactical goal. P12 wanted nothing to do with such a force. He wondered what P11 would have done if he had survived and P12 was the one in the scope of the Ixilite’s rifle. Knowing him, he would have stuck to his orders even if they caused him death, which in effect, they had already. P11 was right, P12 really was a genetic fluke to even be thinking of disobeying.

P12 laid down to rest on the couch in the family room, the last piece of cushioned furniture in the house, careful not to agitate his tender rib. He pulled up a makeshift blanket he’d made from his old uniform and other clothing he’d scavenged from the house to shield himself from the cool nighttime air of Salos’s arid climate. He’d slept in far worse conditions.

When the first glimmers of morning sun shone through the broken windows and shattered doorframe, 273-P12 stood up to ready himself for the journey onward. He knew his division’s last position was a few miles south of the Ixilite controlled city of Nos-Kaladoth. He swallowed the last bite of telmus bread in the house and left the home for the city.

•••

Five Salosian hours later.

The outskirts of Nos-Kaladoth looked mostly untouched from the conflict, but smoke rose from the industrial center, no doubt victim to a Sildan bombing campaign to deny the Ixilites resources. The same flag hung from every utilitarian concrete home and building, but rather than the blue and green flag with a Sildan Bloom that P12 was used to, he saw the orange and black banner of the Ixilite revolutionaries. P12 had never been to a city, or at least had never walked around unattended by his regiment. He had seen pictures when he was learning language, but never actually set foot until now. He remembered seeing people in cities in the pictures, Nos-Kaladoth’s streets were devoid of sound. Perhaps it was because he was still on the outskirts of the city and not the city itself.

A door opened on one of the homes and a stricken-looking Sildan motioned for him to come towards the house. P12 saluted her and clicked his boots together, which was met by the Sildan’s head shaking rapidly. The Sildan gestured with even greater emphasis for him to approach. Not quite understanding what was happening and why, P12 decided to do as the strange-looking Sildan said and walked inside the house.

“What are you doing out there? A patrol is going to come by any moment,” the Sildan asked with a high-pitched voice P12 had never heard before.

“Uh, walking,” P12 said, not having thought far enough ahead to come up with a persona. “Why is your voice so high? And why are you so thin?”

“My voice isn’t that high for a woman. And you shouldn’t talk about someone’s body like that. What’s wrong with you? I just tried to help you,” the Sildan’s face twisted in disgust.

“A woman? You’re a woman?” P12 asked.

“Uhm, yes? Can’t you tell?”

“No, I’ve never seen a woman before,” P12 replied. “At least, not in person.”

The woman paused for a moment to consider what this strange man had just said. She looked him up and down and noted his ill-fitting jumpsuit and thick, dusty boots.

“Are you a soldier?” she asked.

273-P12 thought on her question earnestly for a time, before quickly spitting out “Not anymore.”

“How did you get here? Have you got a name?” she said while closing the blinds of her home as two armed Ixilites scuttled down their street. “My name is Relis na Favv.”

P12 took a moment to take in the woman’s home. It was minimalist and clean, like a proper Sildan home should be, or at least what P12 was told they should look like when he learned about houses and furniture.

“I walked. I’ve been fighting in the wilds for seventy-five, now six, days. My division was ambushed, and I am the only survivor. My designation is Sildan Clone Army Soldier Unit 273-P12.”

“They don’t let you have names?”

“No,” P12 said, holding back as much emotion as he could.

The two stood silently for a while, both trying to decide how to continue. P12 was the first to break the silence.

“I should go. I need to find a way to leave the planet.”

“You’d be caught instantly. A patrol just walked by. I don’t know how you even made it this far,” the woman said.

“Do you have a better plan?” P12 asked.

“Maybe. My husband, Nivad az Urod, works for a Jerusak company called Harfun Electronics. Well, actually Harfun Commerce Solutions, a subsidiary of Harfun Electronics. He could take you on as a laborer for the company,” she said.

“And that would get me off Salos?” P12 asked.

“I can’t guarantee anything, and I’d need to speak with him about it. It’s a better idea than walking out in the open. You can stay here until then.”

•••

One Salosian day later.

Nivad az Urod’s office was small and had a peculiar smell that hung in the air, nothing like the pristinely scrubbed and orderly offices of his commanding officers. Nivad himself smiled at P12 from the other side of a thin metal desk. A small nametag hung from his jumpsuit. He pushed a button on a recorder before he started his interview with P12.

“So, my wife tells me you are in need of work?” Nivad asked warmly. “I am positive Harfun can find a position for you that fits just right.”

“I just need to get off the planet,” P12 started to explain.

“No need to continue there, sir. My wife and I already discussed the specifics. Remember, sir, this meeting may be recorded for company security,” Nivad said and winked.

“Yes, I just know that Harfun has operations around the galaxy, and I am interested in seeing it firsthand,” P12 caught himself.

“Indeed, Harfun can offer a wide array of careers in solutions to consumer needs,” Nivad said.

“I am interested. May I sign up for this?” P12 said, hoping he was staying to script well enough.

“Of course,” Nivad said as he drew a tablet from a drawer. “This contract here will sign you up as a Class 4 Unaccredited Residentially Deficient Worker. We’ll start you up right away working on a cargo hauler to get you off-world and off to your new career as soon as our Employment Assignment Associates can review your file, which doesn’t take more than a few days.”

“Thank you,” P12 said.

“Of course, this isn’t a complimentary service. Harfun requires a payment of 50,000 Artifine Hydros or equivalent currency to pay for this service, and an additional 100,000 Artifine Hydros or equivalent currency will be tacked on due to the tenuous position Salos is in right now, which pays for an escort of Harfun Security Solutions Asset Protection Starships.”
“I understand,” P12 lied.

“Good, then just type in your name at the bottom of the contract,” Nivad pointed out the spot on the contract for P12 to sign.

“My name?”

“Your name,” Nivad said insistently.

273-P12 wrote his designation on the screen and passed it back to Nivad az Urod, who furrowed his brow at the sight of numbers and letters. He pressed his thumb down on the recorder to stop it.

“Does this say, SCAS Unit 273-P12?” Nivad asked.

“Yes, sir. That’s my name,” P12 said sheepishly.

“That isn’t a name. That’s a number. Write a name,” Nivad deleted the signature and passed it back to P12.

“I haven’t got one,” P12 said.

“I said ‘write a name.’ Didn’t say it had to be yours,” Nivad said.

“Should I write yours?”

“No, no, no, silly, not my name,” Nivad chuckled to himself. “Write some other name.”

273-P12 racked his mind for names. He’d only heard numbers his entire life. His best friend was SCAS Unit 273-P11, and the commanding officer of his division was SCAS Unit 25-CO98, even Teacher was actually SCAS Unit 13-IO19, Teacher was just his title. The only two actual names he knew was Nivad az Urod and his wife, Relis na Favv.

That, and one other. The frozen smile of Director-General Tukam ot Shif from P12’s graduation flashed into his mind. The man responsible for P12 even existing.

P12 passed the tablet back and watched as Nivad’s eyebrows rose.

“Tukam ot Shif? Like the Director-General? Why not. It’s a common enough name. I’ve known over ten different Tukam’s in my life, and I’m not even that old,” Nivad shrugged his shoulders and stood up from his desk to pat P12 on the back. “Welcome to Harfun, Tukam.”

“Thank you, Nivad,” Tukam replied.

 

___________________________________________

Photo: Jill Burrow