"Let them go?" Cutter asked.

"They were enlisted men, sir. Even if they are working for some faction of the Unified Authority, they'll just be worker bees. If we let them go, maybe they will lead us to the brains of their operation," said Cardston. "They may just be a dead end, in which case we can pick them up again and ship them someplace far away; but they could be the tip of a conspiratorial iceberg.

"If we follow them, who knows where they might lead us."

Cardston asked Watson, "What were you researching in the Unified Authority Archives?"

"I sent him. He's trying to find Ray Freeman," said Cutter.

"Freeman?" asked Cardston. He sat up straight and pretended to shiver, then he said, "That specker gives me the creeps."

"Me, too," said Cutter. "Watson says he watched a feed that showed Freeman shooting General Harris."

"That's got to be a fake," said Cardston.

"Unless they recloned him," said Cutter. "The Unifieds kept the feed in their most secure archive."

"Interesting," said Cardston.

"There's something else," said Watson. "The last time we heard from Harris, he sent us a message." He looked at Cutter's holographic image to make sure he had permission to continue.

The admiral said, "Maybe you can help us with it, Major. Harris said, 'Anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed.' He said it was a message from Freeman."

Cardston thought but did not speak. Finally, he asked, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Sounds like gibberish to me," said Cutter.

"What about you?" Cardston asked Watson. "Did you find anything in the archives?"

Watson looked to Cutter for permission a second time.

The admiral nodded.

Both men being clones, Watson worried how they might react. He said, "I think he means clones can be reprogrammed."

"Reprogramming clones?" Cardston asked. He whistled.

"That's neural programming, it's different," said Cutter.

"He did say anything, sir. Anything that was programmed can be reprogrammed," Watson reminded the admiral.

"Why is neural programming different?" asked Cardston.

"Major, clones have brains, not circuits. I grew up in an orphanage, and I can tell you that I never saw anyone with a data port."

"I grew up in an orphanage, too, sir," said Cardston.

"What's your point?"

"They do have data ports, but we don't think of them as data ports."

"What are you talking about?" asked Cutter.

"Sight, smell, touch. Every sense provides data."

"So what, then, hypnosis? Brainwashing? Clones aren't the only ones who can be brainwashed. You can brainwash natural-borns as well."

"Brainwashed people act strangely."

Watson asked, "Do they have temper problems?"

"Brainwashing leaves evidence behind. There are ways of telling when people are brainwashed. They don't act natural. Brainwashing creates internal conflicts, the people are always fighting battles in their heads."

"Reprogramming...Sir, if someone erased a clone's neural programs and rewrote them, there'd be no way of knowing. There wouldn't be any internal conflicts. We can spot brainwashing with psychological profiling. That would not work on reprogrammed clones; they'd be as natural as the day they left the tube. And the things you could do with a reprogrammed clone, sir. The possibilities are endless."

"Like what?" asked Cutter.

"Admiral, we are talking about clones with brown hair and brown eyes who have been so thoroughly programmed that they don't even recognize their own reflection when they see it in a mirror," said Cardston. "If you can program someone not to see himself in a mirror, you can program him to do just about anything."

Only seeing the smaller picture, Cutter did not grasp the ramifications. "What are they going to do, reprogram them one by one to see that they have brown hair? Wouldn't it be easier to shoot them instead?" he asked, hoping his sarcasm would not be wasted on Cardston.

"They're also programmed to accept anything they are told by a superior officer. What if they caught an officer, say...a three-star general in the Marines, and they programmed him to tell all of his subordinates that they were clones?"

Watson answered, "You could demolish the entire Enlisted Man's Marines in a day."

"Watson, I think it's time you quit the Marines," said Cutter.

"Why would I do that?" asked Watson.

"Job security for openers," said Cutter. "It sounds like your boss has been reprogrammed, and there is no job security working for reprogrammed officers."

"I see what you mean," said Watson.

"And then there is the question of your personal safety. If Harris is working for the same people that sent these men after you, you'll be a lot safer working for me. It seems like they have already picked you as a priority target.

"From here on out, you're a Navy man. You work for me. Think of it as a promotion; you just went from working for a man with three stars to working for a man with four." Cutter laughed, and muttered, "If this doesn't piss Harris off, nothing will."

CHAPTER.

TWENTY-SIX.

Location: Washington, D.C.

Date: April 11, 2519

At Admiral Cutter's insistence, Watson moved to Bolling Air Force Base.

Watson did not want to move onto a military base, even if it meant living in nicer accommodations; but Cutter paid no attention to Watson's objections. The military could not ensure Watson's safety while he slept on civilian soil, so Cutter gave him a choice of billets on the base. He could either move into officer's housing or the brig.

The house was built for visiting dignitaries. Watson saw the brick facade, the elm-tree-lined driveway, and the cut-pile carpets, and he absolutely despised the place. It was like moving back into the quiet home he had fled when he entered college.

Watson dropped his suitcase on the jade-colored leather couch and examined the kitchen. It was big and spacious with a full pantry and sparkling appliances. Watson did not cook. He bought sandwiches from delicatessens and sometimes lived on candy bars.

He went to the bedroom, stabbed his fingers into the queen-size bed, and sneered at the wooden headboard. Next came the bathroom, with its booth-sized shower, a token effort, and its hundred-gallon tub. Watson was too tall for the shower. He loathed taking baths.

A team of military policemen came with the house. They were his bodyguards. You can leave the gardens, the kitchen, and the tub behind every morning, Watson told himself. But the bodyguards stayed with him wherever he went.

When two bodyguards followed him into the bedroom, he spun, and yelled, "Out."

The two MPs ignored him. They searched the room, then settled by the door, standing as attentively as guard dogs. Watson sneered at them and hung his clothes.

One of the bodyguards said, "We need to get moving, sir."

Watson nodded and followed the bodyguards out of the house.

Some promotion, Watson thought. Living quarters and a company car, wouldn't Mom be proud? The car had armor plating and bulletproof glass. It came with a chauffeur-standard equipment. The chauffeur was a Marine commando; even the MPs were nervous around him. Watson wasn't impressed.

He did not feel any safer with these men than he had on the street. Now that he'd seen Ray Freeman in action, the military police no longer impressed him. He knew it was an irrational fear, but Freeman lurked in Watson's brain like a malignant tumor.

Watson gave the house one last, disapproving glance, and said, "We wouldn't want to be late."

Bolling Field was eight miles from the Pentagon. Watson liked the ride because it took him along the Potomac.

It was a cold day, with nickel-plated clouds. The buildings of the capital mall peeked over the skyline, and the buildings of uptown D.C. loomed like a mountain range in the hazy distance. Watson welcomed these urban decorations; they made him feel at home.

The driver pulled into the Pentagon's underground park-ing lot. The two bodyguards followed Watson into the building while the driver stayed with the car. Watson had a new office on the fifth floor, two doors away from Admiral Cutter's office.

When he opened his door, Watson found Major Cardston waiting for him. As Watson stepped in, Cardston asked, "How are you at poker?"

"I know that two kings beats an ace," said Watson.

"A pair of deuces beats an ace," said Cardston.

"So lone aces don't count for much in poker," said Watson.

Cardston asked, "How are you at lying?"

"Above average," Watson said, thinking about the compliments he gave girls in bars. "Mostly pickup lines."

Watson's new office was large and nearly empty. His enormous metal desk faced four hundred square feet of open floor. Chairs and file cabinets lined the walls.

"They usually reserve offices like this for generals and admirals," said Cardston. "Admiral Cutter is taking good care of you."

"You should see my housing," said Watson.

Cardston said, "This time you will be lying to a man."

"Who am I lying to?"

"Your old boss."

"Harris? Do you know where he is?"

"He's on Mars."

"Was he there all along?" asked Watson.

"Who the speck knows," said Cardston. "I can't come up with any reasons for his ordering everyone out of the space lanes unless he planned to use them."

"Wouldn't you be able to track that from Earth?" asked Watson.

"Not if the ships had stealth technology."

They stood in the doorway. The hall outside was empty-wooden doors surrounded by windows, brass nameplates, and light fixtures. The air was musty.

Watson asked, "Do you think Harris left Mars?"

"If he did, I want to know where he went," said Cardston. "Theories don't count; the only thing that matters is what actually happened. He wants to talk to you."

A communications console poked out of the wall beside the big empty desk. Cardston nodded toward it, and said, "Get what you can. I'll be listening in on you."

Watson walked to the desk. He looked at the console. Harris stared back at him. He smiled at Watson, and said, "Cutter tells me that you're a swabbie now."

Watson sat down in the seat behind the desk, well aware of the way his heart thumped inside his chest. He could feel his pulse quickening. He liked Harris, had enjoyed working for him; but in his mind, Wayson Harris was dead and had been for a couple of years. This was an imposter.

Hoping he looked calm, he said, "Admiral Cutter gave me a raise and a housing bonus."

"Did he?" asked Harris.