Rogue clone by Steven L. Kent Page A

20,000 light years from the nearest discs.
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “Whoever leaked the information traveled.”
    Klyber sat silent behind his desk and rubbed the thinning hairline around his temple. He seemed deep in thought, then brightened. “I have something for you,” he said as he stood and opened a closet hidden in the wall beside his desk. “A friend sent this to me. He did not know anything about you, of course; but I think you will appreciate this.”
    When Klyber turned back toward me, he held a small book with tan leather binding that looked parched and old. The leather had gone stiff with age and drying. The words, Personal Journal of Father David Sanjines , were emblazoned in dark brown letters that stood out against the dust-colored leather.
    “A friend in the Vatican sent this to me. Most of it is of no interest. It’s the journal of an archbishop. But there is a small section concerning a mutual acquaintance of ours.”
    I looked down at the journal as Admiral Klyber held it out to me.
    Klyber said. “I want you to have it.”
    I took the old book and it seemed to fall open of its own accord. The pages had a faint red tinge to them that I knew was from clay dust, though it looked more like rust.
    The book had a five-inch strip of blue velvet ribbon sewed into its binding for a bookmark. Parts of that ribbon had turned nearly black with age. I noted the date—April 10, 2494—on the open page. Klyber watched me. “That is the only entry of interest. It goes on for a few pages.” He thought about the book for a few more moments, then shifted his attention. “I would like to revisit your impression of Captain Johansson.”
    “You think Johansson is a spy?” I asked, closing the book.
    Klyber did not answer. He smirked as he watched me from behind his desk. “Oh, I know he’s a spy, the question is for whom.”
    “A spy?” I asked. “Do you think he’s a Mogat?”
    “I’m guessing he’s worse,” Klyber said. “I think he works for Admiral Huang.”
    Admiral Klyber had a long-standing feud with Che Huang, the secretary of the Navy and a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Admiral Huang wanted to see himself as the most powerful man in the Navy, but Klyber, with his political connections, was generally recognized as having more clout.
    “Huang?” I asked. “That would be bad.” Klyber could legally execute an enemy spy. A spy working for Huang, however, could only be transferred.
    Possibly because Klyber headed the Liberator cloning project, Huang had a thing about Liberators. Huang was the officer who had assigned me to Ravenwood. To the best of his knowledge, I had died on that planet, and I wanted him to continue believing me dead.
    “We’re a thousand light years from the nearest planet,” I said. “Dump him in space and say he had an accident.”
    “It’s too late for that,” Klyber said, putting up a hand to stop me. “Whatever he’s looking for, I assume he has already found it.”
    “That doesn’t mean he’s been able to report everything he’s found,” I said.
    “Whatever information he was after, he transmitted it the first time we sent him out. The safest thing to do with Johansson right now is to keep him onboard the Doctrinaire . That way we can observe him.”
    “Assuming he doesn’t have any friends on board,” I said.
    “I hope he does,” Klyber agreed. “We’re keeping an eye on him.
    “If he’s Huang’s boy, you’re in for a fight in the Senate. If Huang hears about the Doctrinaire , he’s going to ask for control of the project. He’ll probably put Wonder Boy in command of the ship.”
    “Wonder Boy,” a.k.a. Rear Admiral Robert Thurston, was Che Huang’s protégé, the brilliant young officer who replaced Klyber as the admiral of the Scutum-Crux Fleet. Bryce Klyber was no slouch when it came to strategy, but Thurston crushed him in a battle simulation. I did not like Thurston. He had a mile-wide anti-synthetic streak. Thurston saw