The Clone Who Cried Wolf

 

Year 2268 – Mars Outpost Zeta

Jackson Thorn wasn’t a liar by nature, but desperate times called for desperate measures. As a low-ranking maintenance tech on Mars Outpost Zeta, he lived in a world of mundane tasks and endless red dust. But Jackson wasn’t alone. He was a clone—Model JX-178—and one of the thousands stationed on the outpost, all created for one purpose: to maintain the colony and ensure humanity’s foothold on Mars endured.

The problem was that Jackson was tired—tired of being invisible, tired of being ignored. While the original humans in the colony enjoyed privileges, the clones were treated as expendable labor, existing solely to perform tasks that the "real" humans deemed beneath them.

But Jackson was different from the other clones. He wanted more.

Every night, after his shift, Jackson would sit in the empty storage bay, staring out at the vast Martian horizon through the colony’s observation dome. The thought festered in his mind—what if the clones could be more than this? What if they didn’t have to live like slaves, used until they were broken and then discarded?

He had heard rumors of rebellion before, whispered among some of the clones, but nothing ever came of it. They were too afraid of being decommissioned. But Jackson, bold as he was, decided to play a dangerous game to shake things up.

He concocted a lie.

"Emergency! Emergency!" Jackson’s voice echoed through the communication system one morning, his tone panicked, filled with the terror of someone witnessing an unspeakable horror. "There’s been an alien breach on the northern perimeter! They’re coming in fast—we need backup, now!"

The control room went into immediate chaos. Sirens blared, and human officers scrambled to prepare a response team. The outpost had been on high alert for years due to sightings of unidentified objects in the skies of Mars, though nothing had ever come of it. Still, the fear of alien life remained in the back of everyone’s mind, ready to ignite into panic at the slightest provocation.

The security chief, Colonel Graves, an imposing man with a military background, stomped into the command center.

"Where’s the breach?" he barked, his gaze locked on the screen where Jackson’s face appeared.

"I saw it from the maintenance bay!" Jackson shouted, playing his part flawlessly. "It’s just over the ridge! They’re coming this way! We’re not prepared for this!"

Colonel Graves wasn’t a man to question things when lives were at stake. He ordered a full mobilization of the colony’s defense systems, sending out a squad of soldiers to investigate the breach.

Hours later, they found nothing.

The Martian desert was as barren as ever, with no sign of alien invaders. Graves was furious. He interrogated Jackson, but the clone stood by his story. "I saw them. I swear, they were there! They must’ve slipped away somehow."

The incident was written off as a false alarm, but Jackson had tasted the power of attention, the thrill of having every eye on him, even if only for a moment.

A few weeks later, Jackson pulled the same stunt again.

"Aliens! I see them! They’re swarming by the eastern boundary!" His voice was shaky, filled with fake urgency. Once again, the outpost launched into chaos, and once again, no aliens were found.

The second false alarm earned Jackson a stern warning. But he didn’t care. In his mind, something bigger was happening. He saw his deception as the spark that would eventually ignite something greater—maybe a rebellion, maybe just recognition that clones were more than mere tools.

"One more lie, Thorn, and you’re getting decommissioned," Graves snarled after the second incident. "We don’t have time for your games."

Jackson knew he was walking a thin line. But he was determined to push it further. After all, he hadn’t been caught yet.

The third time, Jackson raised the alarm again, this time claiming he saw "strange alien crafts" hovering above the outpost. Graves didn’t even bother sending troops this time. Instead, he sent two guards to drag Jackson out of his maintenance bay and into the decommissioning chamber—a place where malfunctioning or problematic clones were "recycled."

"Please, no!" Jackson protested as they shoved him into the cold steel chamber. "I swear, they’re real! I wasn’t lying!"

"You’ve caused enough trouble," Graves muttered, pressing the sequence that would begin the process of neural disassembly. "We don’t have time for clones with delusions."

As Jackson felt the cold grip of the machine begin to take hold, he couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. All his efforts to make a name for himself, to matter, were about to end in the most ignominious way possible—just another discarded tool. The laughter bubbled up uncontrollably until it echoed through the sterile chamber.

But before the process could begin, alarms blared throughout the outpost.

"Colonel, we’ve detected an anomaly!" a voice crackled over the intercom. "It’s on the northern perimeter—a massive energy signature!"

Colonel Graves froze, his hand hovering over the control panel. "Another false alarm?"

"No, sir!" the voice insisted, panic rising. "We’re picking up life signs—thousands of them! Moving fast, headed straight for the outpost!"

Graves’ face paled. He hit the emergency stop on the decommissioning process and bolted out of the chamber, leaving Jackson behind. The guards rushed after him, and Jackson, still restrained, was left alone in the cold, silent room.

For the next few minutes, all Jackson could do was listen to the unfolding chaos. Shouts, gunfire, the terrifying sound of explosions outside the walls of the outpost.

The aliens were real. And they were here.

When Graves finally returned, the look on his face was one of sheer terror. The once-composed colonel was now a man whose entire world had been shattered.

"You were telling the truth," Graves muttered, staring at Jackson with wide eyes.

Jackson gave a shaky, humorless smile. "Told you."

Graves fumbled with the controls, releasing Jackson from the chamber. "We’re under attack. We need all hands on deck."

As Jackson stepped out, he could hear the distant sounds of battle raging outside. The outpost’s defenses were crumbling, and the alien invaders were closing in fast.

"How many?" Jackson asked as he grabbed a nearby pulse rifle, feeling the weight of reality settle in.

"Too many," Graves replied, his voice hollow. "We’re outnumbered a hundred to one."

Jackson followed Graves out of the chamber, the sight that greeted him outside was horrifying. Explosions rocked the outpost as massive alien machines, spider-like in shape, descended upon them, tearing through the defenses with ease. The red Martian sky was filled with flashes of fire and smoke as the invaders unleashed their fury.

Clones and humans alike were fighting desperately to hold the line, but it was a losing battle. The aliens were relentless, and they had come to destroy.

"You should’ve listened to me," Jackson said, his voice low as he watched the chaos unfold.

Graves shot him a sharp look. "If I had known—"

"It’s too late now," Jackson interrupted. "They’re here."

The two of them fought side by side as the invaders stormed the outpost. Jackson felt a grim sense of satisfaction, knowing that his warnings had been true all along. But that satisfaction was fleeting. This wasn’t the rebellion he had hoped for—this was annihilation.

The outpost was falling, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

Hours later, the battle was over. The outpost lay in ruins, and the invaders had disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. Jackson stood amidst the rubble, staring at the devastation around him. Most of the humans were dead, and many of the clones had been destroyed as well.

He was alive, but for how long?

Graves approached him, limping, his face streaked with blood. "I should’ve listened to you."

Jackson met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "I cried wolf too many times."

Graves shook his head. "Maybe, but you were right in the end."

Jackson looked out at the horizon, the cold, red dust swirling in the aftermath of the destruction. He had wanted to be more than a clone, to be noticed, to make a difference. Now, he had done that—but at what cost?

"I was right," Jackson repeated, his voice hollow.

But no one was left to hear it.