Unexpected Witness: Forgotten Fodder, #1

By MJ Blehart

When a highly-placed businessman and two clones are murdered, Marshal Onima Gwok of the Confederation Bureau of Investigation (CBI) gets assigned the case. But nothing quite adds up. Is there something more insidious going on?

There is just one witness – a clone.

When the war ended ten years ago, the clones who had fought it were discarded, forgotten, and became second-class citizens of the new confederation.

Jace Rojas, designated AC J7-2247, is an infantry clone. When he proves to be more helpful than just being a witness to a murder, Onima decides to bring Jace along to join her team as they look for answers across multiple solar systems.

But every question seems to produce no answers - only more questions.

Will this be the start of a new war - or something worse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Argent Hedgehog Press
• Release date: Sep 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223680321

MJ Blehart

MJ BLEHART has been writing stories of high fantasy and sci-fi/space opera throughout his life - the first when he was nine years old. Star Wars and Star Trek were some major influences in his youth. He is a history aficionado. MJ has been a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA - a medieval re-enactment society) for over 30 years. In the SCA, he studies and teaches 16th century rapier combat (fencing) and court heraldry, enjoys archery, social interactions with people from all over the world, and spending time with friends. MJ blogs regularly, exploring mindfulness, conscious reality creation, positivity, the writing process/business, and creating an amazing life. He's a prolific reader as well. MJ currently resides in south New Jersey with his wife and two feline overlords (cats).

Book preview

1

IT HAD BEEN ANOTHER dirty job.

But then, most of the jobs he was able to find were, at best, dirty.

It was only an hour or so past sunset as Jace made his way home. He had another hour or so to go.

The street was not very crowded, which was a combination of the time of day and the neighborhood. The closer to the outskirts of Garden Mesa you got, the fewer people could be found.

The city had been threatened by the war but remained largely untouched. Yet, ten years later, people were loath to occupy the edges of town.

Jace had a very basic understanding of psychology. Still, he couldn’t quite fathom the unspoken anxiety people had about living far from the center of town.

There were a few people on the sidewalk, and cars, buses, hoverbikes, and vans glided above the streets with variable degrees of noise. Jace had read about civilian vehicles using wheels centuries ago. Some of the military craft he was familiar with had employed large wheels to remain impervious to weapons capable of disrupting the antigravity systems.

The people he did come across tended to either ignore Jace or get out of his way. He didn’t let that have any impact on him, though. It was part of his life.

Jace staggered as something slammed into his head. It was a ball of foil with the remains of a warm food item weighing it down.

Jace didn’t turn to look where it had come from. He heard the taunt before it was even shouted his way.

Clone!

It was true. Jace was a clone.

It was not like you could hide being a clone. Between the yellow-gold irises of a clone’s eyes and the embedded barcode-like tattoo on the top of the right cheek just below the eye, clones were obvious.

Nobody respected clones. Particularly clones like Jace. He was an infantry clone built to fight a war that had ended ten years ago. Like most of his kind – from both sides of the war – Jace had no purpose when the war ended.

Some clones still found jobs among non-clones. Those with more specialized skills like pilots, medics, mechanics, and the like. They were still not treated as well as normal people were – but better than the rest of the remaining clones.

After the war, cloning was banned, the labs and facilities destroyed, and the scientists and engineers were dead, imprisoned, or hiding away like they had never been a part of the trillion-dollar war-machine clone industry.

The clones were left to fend for themselves after the war. For the most part, they became an underclass. The dirt beneath the feet of the lowest of the low.

Jace had no illusions about his lot. Finding work was always challenging. Most of the time the work he found was dirty. Climbing through sewers, examining oil lines, and working among radioactive waste and sludge were the jobs most readily available. You were lucky to get paid enough ESCA (Earth Standard Currency Accreditation) to buy a meal.

Fortunately, as a clone, you didn’t need to consume nearly the same volume of food as a regular human did. But clones were still human, and food and drink were still necessities of survival.

Jace turned a corner. All streets at this point in Garden Mesa led out of the city. This close to the outskirts of the city, the buildings were never more than one or two stories tall.

Behind Jace, the center of the city could be seen via its skyscrapers from miles away.

Jace noticed an odd trio walking towards him on the other side of the street. They caught his attention because two of them were clones, while the third was a well-dressed normal man.

Most of the people who in any way dealt with clones were working class. However, the man between the two clones was in an impeccable business suit and looked very out of place in this part of town.

Normally, Jace paid little attention to other people, even clones. He had his roommates, but no real friends. Clones had not been built to have friends, and the man Jace had been cloned from – though a team player – had been a loner.

Jace thought he heard a sound that was familiar from the war but not since. Then, he saw the businessman across the street collapse.

A second later, a charred hole appeared in the center of the forehead of one of his clone companions. Then, the second clone was shot in the chest and dropped with the other two.

Someone nearby screamed.

Jace knew laser rifles. He’d been adept at using them during the war. The shot had been fired from a sniper rifle, firing a bolt of pure plasma into the target.

Jace’s training was embedded in his mind in more ways than one. He calculated the angle at which he had seen the blasts impact the clones. He turned to look up at the rooftops just behind him.

Jace saw a figure in an armored shell. Unlike the full, mechanized armored suit some infantry had worn, the shell offered minimal protection against laser bolts, environmental extremes, and special reinforcement of joints.

At this distance, Jace couldn’t identify the height of the shooter, and armored shells hid any anatomical identifiers.  All Jace could tell was that the suit was a medium shade of blue with a black helmet.

The probable shooter had only been there for a moment before turning away and moving towards the middle of the building they stood atop. If not for the eidetic memory inherent in a clone – coupled with the natural powers of observation the man Jace was cloned from – he would not have caught sight of the shooter before they’d vanished.

Jace saw that nobody was approaching the businessman and clones on the sidewalk across the street. Checking traffic, he jogged towards them.

There was no mistaking that the businessman was dead. The shooter had taken their time and lined up a perfect shot through the left temple. The gore of what remained of his head was no worse than anything Jace had seen during the war.

The first clone, also shot in the head, was alive and breathing shallowly. Jace was no medic, and his knowledge of field dressings would do no good in this situation. However, Jace had seen others in this state during the war. The shot had gone through the clone’s head, and Jace suspected the brain was already dead but the body didn’t know it.

The second clone, shot in the chest, was also alive. The shooter had still hit the mark, and the blast had impacted the clone’s heart. He was barely conscious, but his eyes slowly focused on Jace as he knelt beside him.

Neither clone was from the same template person as Jace. Nor were they the same as one another. Of course, Jace knew that both sides in the war had used about a dozen people each as their clone templates.

Jace didn’t lack empathy for the dying clone, but there was nothing he could say to him. Assuring him that help was on the way would be a lie. Nobody was going to make an effort to save a dying clone.

Still, Jace took the clone’s hand. His eyes seemed to be dimming as he looked at Jace.

It’s alright, Jace said reassuringly. How many times had he done that during the war?

Uh, the dying clone tried to speak. Gray and Chuang. His voice was fading, and blood was starting to gather in the corner of his mouth. Deng. He coughed and shuddered. Naz.... Naz...

The clone gasped, strained, and went limp. He was dead.

A second later, the air was pierced by a siren. Jace didn’t move because he knew if he did, he’d be as dead as those before him.

He heard the constable’s cars come to a halt on the street. A second later, they were followed by someone shouting at Jace, Don’t move!

Hands on the back of your head! Don’t move.

Stay still!

Roughly, someone pulled Jace to his feet. He was pushed until he hit the nearby wall, his hands already being cuffed.

Designation! the constable barked at him.

Jace Rojas, he answered.

The constable pushed him harder against the wall. Designation, clone, he almost spat.

Jace complied. Rojas AC J7-2247.

What have you done? the constable demanded.

I saw these men get shot. The shooter was on a roof on the other side of the street. I wanted to check on them.

Right, the constable said, his voice dripping in sarcasm. I bet you were looking for datacards and ESCA, right, clone?

Jace just sighed. There was no right answer.

The constable frisked Jace thoroughly. He was rough, but that was nothing new to Jace.

He got a weapon? asked another constable.

No, the one holding Jace against the wall said.

Bring him, a constable ordered.

The constable grabbed the back of Jace’s shirt and turned him so quickly and harshly that he nearly lost his balance and went down. But Jace was sturdier than that.

Three more constables were standing around the bodies of the businessman and the two dead clones. Two were running datapad scanners over them, while the third – Jace noticed he had sergeant’s bars on his should epaulets – observed.

They’re untouched, one of the pair on their knees examining the dead reported.

Single plasma bolt, the other stated. Headshot, chest-shot, headshot.

The sergeant looked at Jace. Designation?

Rojas AC J7-2247, Jace said.

The sergeant was checking a datacard. Jace realized that this far on the outskirts, the local station would have standard constables and none with implants or other fancy gadgets. Jace knew his record was being checked.

Rojas AC J7-2247, the sergeant muttered. Jace presumed he was now looking at his record. NEEA (Near-Earth Exoplanet Alliance) Infantry. Not quite two years before the end of the war.

The sergeant looked up. You worked mercenary for a year?

Not really, Jace replied. One of my former colonels fancied himself a warlord. Contract was for a year, but he got himself killed seven months after the war was over.

Not so good at your job, eh, clone? chided the sergeant.

Hard to guard someone who leaves you behind when they go out, Jace stated.

The sergeant grunted. He looked down at the pair examining the bodies. Any weapons?

No, one said. She glanced up. This was a high-powered shot over a distance, Sarge.

You see the shooter, clone? the constable behind Jace questioned with a shove.

Yeah, Jace said. Since his hands were cuffed behind him, he gestured towards the roof with a jerk of his head. Up there, other side of the street. Shooter was in a blue armored shell with a black helmet.

A likely story, said the constable behind Jace.

Ahmed, leave it, the sergeant said. Uncuff the clone.

Sir? the constable named Ahmed behind Jace questioned.

The dead weren’t being picked over, and this guy isn’t the shooter, the sergeant stated. Release him.

Roughly, Ahmed grabbed Jace’s arms. The strain at his shoulders was just becoming annoying when he felt his hands freed.

Thank you, Jace said.

The female constable stood up, looking towards the rooftop Jace had indicated. Shot definitely came from up there. She looked to Jace. You sure about that armored shell?

As sure as I can be from the street looking up, Jace replied.

Lah shee, the constable still kneeling with the bodies swore. Jace saw him look to the sergeant. This guy is really out of place, Sarge.

You got an ident? the sergeant questioned.

The kneeling constable nodded once and gestured over the datapad to send that info to the sergeant.

The sergeant looked at his own datacard. Tah mah duh, he swore under his breath. The sergeant looked to the other constables. This is some muhl right here.

We need an officer from the precinct, Sarge? questioned Ahmed from behind Jace.

We need to reach out to the lieutenant, the sergeant agreed. But I can tell you right now she’s going to bring the CBI to take on this one.

Ahmed cleared his throat, putting a hand on Jace’s shoulder.

The sergeant looked at Jace. Clone, go home. But you better not disappear. I’m pretty sure as the only witness, whoever they send will want to talk to you.

Jace glanced around, taking in the scene. Unsurprisingly, anyone who had been around during the shooting – including whoever had screamed – vanished before the constables had arrived.

I know the drill, Jace replied.

He carefully stepped away. Shooting a clone didn’t tend to require probable cause or an investigation. But the constables had holstered their weapons and were holding a conference over the dead.

Jace wondered who the businessman was and why he caused the ire he did for the constables.

2

RAVEN WAS A PERFECTLY unexceptional planet.

The star Raven orbited, Ross 128, was a red dwarf. Producing an orange-red glow, daytime felt quite different to someone who had grown up on Earth.

Apart from occasional visits, she had not been to Earth for very long in quite some time. Her job hopped her across the galaxy, and she visited lots of different planets along the way.

Two days ago, she had received her current assignment. Go to Garden Mesa on Raven and investigate a murder. The local constables had made this request because apparently, the victim was an off-worlder and someone of note.

She was in the passenger seat of the van as it glided two feet above the pavement. After her shuttle had landed at the spaceport, they had climbed into the van and were proceeding to the local precinct. She was going over information about local government, the constabulary, and any other relevant information about this city and the planet.

The van came to halt in front of a concrete and glass structure. This is it, her driver said.

Let’s go, she replied, tapping the control to open the door.

They were four, total. She was in her typical business suit while the trio with her was in uniform. They stepped onto the sidewalk and were soon at the door.

She stepped inside and approached the glassed-in reception desk.

Yeah? the constable sitting there said.

She produced her digital warrant card. Marshal Onima Gwok, CBI.

The constable at the desk nodded. Right. I’ll let the lieutenant know that you are here.

Thank you, Onima said.

The CBI was the long-established law-enforcement agency that served all human planets across space. Now called the Confederation Bureau of Investigation, prior to the creation of the Alliance of Earth Colonies Confederation (referred to as AECC – or the confederation) it had been the Interplanetary Bureau of Investigation.

Headquartered on Earth, all three of the prior colonial governments had utilized them for interplanetary investigations.

As a marshal, Onima headed up an extensive team. There were various special agents, agents, and other staff at her immediate disposal.

The trio with her were two agents and Special Agent Yael Amber, who also was typically Onima’s shuttle pilot. While Onima was in civilian clothing, the trio and their uniforms helped to create the sometimes-necessary authority to cut through red tape.

It was only a moment before a tall, thin woman in uniform flanked by an obvious pair of subordinates arrived. She stepped up to Onima and offered her hand.

Lieutenant-Constable Gatha Thomas, she introduced herself.

Marshal Onima Gwok.

Please, follow me, Thomas said, gesturing.

Onima fell in beside Thomas, her three companions joining the lieutenant’s pair.

I’m glad you made good time getting here, Thomas said as they began to