Cutter laughed, and said, "How the hell would I know that? That's Marine business. Ask Harris."

"Do you know anything about the regiment?"

"I work with fleets, not regiments." He sat back in his seat, laced his fingers, sat deep in thought. After a few seconds, he leaned forward and typed something on the keyboard built into his desk. He looked at the screen, and said, "It's a newly formed regiment."

"How new?" asked Watson.

"Formed last month."

"Was Harris the one who formed it? Did he select the men?"

"Not that regiment. All of the men in that regiment asked for the transfer," said Cutter. He finished his coffee and crumpled the paper cup. "What is this about?"

"Every man in the Second Regiment was attacked on the Night of the Martyrs," Watson said.

"Might be a coincidence," said Cutter.

"Admiral, of the one thousand six hundred men who were attacked, fifteen hundred joined the same regiment. That's one hell of a coincidence."

"It's Tarawa," said Cutter. "The Second Regiment of the Second Division is a prestigious unit. It's got history. It's got tradition. Marines respect tradition," said Cutter. He thought a little longer, and asked, "What do you think it means?"

Watson said, "Something must have happened on the Night of the Martyrs."

"Yes, something did happen; sixteen hundred Marines were attacked by a suicidal army of imbeciles. You don't see that every day."

"More than that," said Watson. "I think they were brainwashed during the attacks."

"That's ridiculous," said Cutter. "It's not possible. Have you seen the profiles of the New Olympians who died that night? They weren't scientists. They were religious fanatics. The ones who survived went home and killed themselves."

"Maybe they were the bait," said Watson. "It's like a magician's trick. You get the audience to watch your right hand closely, then you pull the sleight of hand with your left. Harris and the other victims were so busy beating off the meaningless dopes that they didn't notice something bigger."

"Can't be," said Cutter. He left his desk and poured himself another cup of coffee. As he poured, he mumbled, "Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch."

"The Night of the Martyrs was probably just the down payment," said Watson, "something quick, not a complete reprogramming, just a seed to get things rolling. Then they get to Mars, and it happens all over again. There's a meaningless attack. Two men are killed in a riot. A few fanatics try to shower them with chlorine gas. Jackson remembered every detail about the attack, but he went vague when I asked him what happened next."

"Just like Harris," said Cutter. Then he repeated himself. He said, "Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch."

CHAPTER.

THIRTY-THREE.

Cutter tightened security on the ship. There were so many MPs guarding the landing bays, the lifts, and the engine room that I expected to find a skeleton crew on the bridge. Wrong again. He had a full crew on deck and another fifty MPs patrolling the area.

That meant he was raiding his rotation. Instead of giving his men eight hours to eat and recreate between shifts and lights-out, he had them playing policeman.

I asked him, "You expecting an invasion?"

Cutter said, "You can never be too careful."

I said, "Yes you can."

He said, "Maybe so."

So I came right out with it. I said, "Unless the EME declared a new war while I was on Mars, those MPs must be for me and my men."

Cutter looked me in the eyes when he responded, and he did not make excuses. The man was honest, I'll give him that. He said, "Harris, I'm confiscating your weapons."

"Just mine?" I asked.

"Your regiment's. We're going to stow them in a secure hold for safekeeping."

"Safekeeping from whom?" I asked.

He did not answer the question, so I asked, "What the speck is going on here?"

Cutter said, "Let's go to my office."

It seemed like a good idea.

We entered his office, and he left the MPs outside the door. They weren't far away; but if I'd wanted to kill him, those men outside the door would not have been able to stop me. Cutter was older than me, and his form of combat involved fighters, torpedoes, and ships as big as shopping malls.

I said, "Okay, we make you nervous. I can see that. What's going on?"

For this showdown, Cutter did not hide behind his desk. He stood in front of it. We stood and faced each other. He crossed his arms, and said, "You and your men may have been compromised on Mars."

"What do you mean by compromised?"

In the last days of the Unified Authority, the U.A. military came up with infiltrator clones-specialized clones that murdered EME clones and assumed their identities. They were assassins and saboteurs, and they broke through our security by the thousands. I said, "I'm not a Double Y."

The infiltrators differed from regular clones in that they had two Y chromosomes. It made them stronger. It also made the bastards mentally unstable, which made them all the more dangerous.

"No. I don't suppose you are," said Cutter.

"Do you think they infiltrated my men?"

"No."

"So what do you think happened?"

Cutter responded with a question. "What did you mean when you said that anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed?"

"You're not still on about that. I told you, I was sorry. I don't know what was wrong with me."

"Neither do I," said Cutter.

"Let me get this straight, you're lining your decks with military police because I was rude?" I had a sardonic smile on my face. In truth, I was pissed, and I wanted to share my irritation with Cutter.

It didn't work. A few seconds of silence passed during which he watched me with the impassive expression of a chess master. This was a man who had always given me the benefit of the doubt in the past. Those days were gone.

He watched me with eyes that never blinked, at least not in that five-second block. Finally, he asked, "Anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed. What do you think that means?"

The words sounded familiar, but I did not remember speaking them. I said as much. "Did I actually say that?"

Good old Cutter, the son of a bitch was ready for that question. He tapped a few keys on his desk, and there I was, staring out of the screen looking frenzied and angry.

"Do you want me to leave Watson?" Cutter's voice asked off camera.

"Why the speck would I want him here?" I asked. "Give him a message for me, would you. Tell that bastard that anything that can be programmed can be reprogrammed. You tell him that. You tell him that for me."

Something was happening to me on the screen. I winced...well, the me in the video feed winced. It was a slight action. I was in pain and trying to hide it.

The Cutter in the video feed clearly had no idea what that gibberish meant. He asked, "What was that? What was your message?"

Sounding like a paranoid lunatic, I said, "Not my message, asshole. Tell him Ray Freeman said that."

Cutter switched off the screen and stared at me.

I said, "I don't think you have enough MPs." It was a joke. I hoped to ease the tension, a wasted effort.

Cutter asked, "So what did you mean?"

"I have no idea. You saw how I looked in the feed. I hadn't slept in days. I don't think I was clinically sane."

Cutters eyes betrayed no emotion, not anger, not pity. He kept his unblinking gaze as steady as a rifle on a firing line. I wanted to shrink away from his gaze.

I said, "There's no meaning in those words. What if I said, 'Tuna fish eat isotopes'? Meaningless. I was a raving lunatic." Until that moment, I hadn't realized how much of a lunatic I'd become. "There is no meaning to what I said, it's the product of fatigue."

"What does Ray Freeman have to do with it?"

That shut me up. "I haven't seen Freeman in over a year," I said.

"Watson says you went looking for him on the Night of the Martyrs."

"I didn't find him."

"Do you know how to find him?"

I shook my head, and said, "He finds me when he wants to chat."

Cutter said, "You were in Seattle on the Night of the Martyrs?" Watson must have told him; either that, or he looked it up in my files. "What made you think he'd be in Seattle?"

"The last time I heard from him, he was in Seattle," I said.

"You went looking for him, but you didn't find him?"

"I was preoccupied," I said.

I did not know how to interpret Cutter's expression. It wasn't anger. His eyes hardened, and his mouth froze in an unconvincing smile. Behind the mask, I thought I saw disappointment. He said, "General, you are relieved of command."

His words stunned me. At first I wanted to laugh. I was the one who had promoted him to admiral in the first place. Okay, yes, I gave him an extra star; but in my mind, I had as much of a right to relieve him as he did to relieve me.

I wanted to threaten him. I wanted to laugh at him. I wanted to take away his command. Instead, I said, "I am relieved."

CHAPTER.

THIRTY-FOUR.

"What the hell do you mean you were relieved of command!" Jackson demanded. "Cutter is a damned cargo hauler. Who the speck placed him in charge?"

"I did."

"General, we could take this ship."

"That's why Cutter has so many MPs guarding the decks."

Jackson laughed. "We could take care of them rapid, quick, and pronto, couldn't we? Swabbies with pistols...Hell, we might not lose a single Marine."

"He wants us to hand over our guns."

"Speck that!"

"I said we would."

We walked around the compound as we spoke.