When Duty Calls

5

There is no better fate than a glorious death in the face of insurmountable odds for the sake of one’s clan.

—Grand Marshal Hisep Rula-Ka

The Warrior’s Way

Standard year 2590

ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP STERN-KRIEGER, NEAR PLANET EARTH,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Except for the LEDs on Fleet Admiral Cory Trimble’s workstation, vid screen, and bedside clock, it was pitch-black inside her cabin as the com began to chirp. Trimble swore as she surfaced from a deep sleep, fumbled for the handset, and brought it up to her ear. “Yes?”

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Flag Captain Hol Baraki. The two offi?cers had known each other for more than twenty years, so when Trimble heard the tightness in his voice, she knew something was wrong. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Admiral,” Baraki said formally. “But we need you on the bridge. The fi?rst elements of what we assume to be a Ramanthian fl?eet dropped hyper fi?ve minutes ago.”

Trimble felt an iron fi?st grab hold of her insides and start to squeeze. Here was one of the scenarios that she and her staff had warned the Joint Chiefs about when President Nankool took 10 percent of the already-anemic home fl?eet and sent it off to take part in the attack on Gamma-014. But the knowledge that she and her staff had been correct brought Trimble no pleasure as she said, “I’ll be right there,” and put the handset down.

Klaxons had begun to bleat by that time, but could barely be heard within Trimble’s tightly sealed cabin, as the ship’s crew went to battle stations. The Stern-Krieger (Star Warrior), was a sister ship to the famous Gladiator, which had been lost to a Ramanthian ambush only months before. Her fi?ve-milelong hull was protected by energy shields, thick armor, and an arsenal of weapons that included both energy cannons and missile launchers. And, like any vessel her size, the Krieg was accompanied by more than two dozen escorts, including a couple of heavy cruisers, a medium-sized carrier, six destroyers, and a variety of smaller warships, supply vessels, and a fl?eet tug. All of which sounded impressive, but was only onethird of the force assigned to protect Earth prior to a long series of peacetime budget cuts, increasing apathy on the part of the planet’s citizens, and the steady erosion of assets associated with the war. But there wasn’t a damned thing Trimble could do about that as she took the time necessary to apply some makeup before donning a fresh uniform. Not because she was vain, but because it was important to look the way she usually did, especially during a time of crisis. The face in the mirror had a high forehead, wide-set hazel eyes, and lips that were too thin to be sexy. It was a fl?aw the offi?cer had always intended to fi?x, but never gotten around to, like so many things related to her personal life. Her hair, which was silvery, barely touched her collar.

Once dressed, Trimble took one last look in the mirror, threw her shoulders back, and left the cabin. A pair of marine guards came to attention, offered rifl?e salutes, and followed the admiral up the corridor toward the bridge. It was a short trip, and intended to be, since her sleeping cabin was located just aft of the control room.

The battleship’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer was generally referred to as Gertrude for reasons lost to history—and was currently making use of onebillionth of her considerable capabilities to communicate with the Krieg’s crew. “This is not a drill. . . . Secure all gear, check space armor, and strap in. Primary weapons systems, secondary weapons systems, and tertiary weapons systems have been armed. All fi?ghter aircraft are prepared for immediate launch. . . .”

The two smartly uniformed marines posted just outside the control room crashed to attention as the admiral approached, and remained in that position until the hatch hissed open, and Trimble entered the bridge. The marines assigned to protect her remained outside.

An ensign shouted, “Attention on deck!” but Trimble waved the honor off, and made her way down a gently sloping ramp toward the center of the dimly lit control room. It consisted of a huge windowlike vid screen, that was largely useless at the moment, since there was nothing to look at except a couple of escorts that were half-lit by the sun. So Trimble went straight to the 3-D holo tank located at the center of the bridge, where Baraki and two members of his staff were monitoring the Ramanthian incursion. The entire solar system could be seen fl?oating inside the containment, including a miniature sun, eight realisticlooking planets, their moons, numerous planetoids, asteroids, comets, and even the larger pieces of man-made junk—like the abandoned hab in orbit around Venus. And there, headed toward Jupiter, were the green geometrical shapes that represented the home fl?eet. The other offi?cers looked up as Trimble stepped into the glow that surrounded the holo tank. Their faces were lit from below, and their expressions were grim. “So, how does it look?” the admiral inquired hopefully.

“Not good,” Baraki said darkly. The fl?ag captain had neatly combed dark hair, serious brown eyes, and a long face. “Especially now. . . . Look at what popped out of hyperspace two minutes ago.”

The enemy fl?eet was represented by geometric symbols. Each signifi?ed a particular type of ship, and all of them were red. However, the incoming object that Baraki had referred to didn’t conform to any known classifi?cation of warship. It was too big for one thing, shaped like a sphere, and seemingly under the protection of the bug battle group that was clustered around it. “I see it,” Trimble acknowledged. “But what is it?”

“We’re not absolutely sure yet,” the other offi?cer answered cautiously. “But it looks like the Ramanthians strapped a hyperdrive to a small planetoid, and are using pressor beams to nudge it toward Earth. Kind of like a soccer game.”

“My God!” Trimble exclaimed, as the implication of that became clear. “They plan to push the planetoid in, hit the planet, and lay waste to the surface!”

“Yes,” Baraki agreed bleakly. “That’s the way it looks.”

“Well, they aren’t going to succeed,” Trimble said grimly, as she brought a fi?st down on the rail that circled the holo tank. “We’re going to hit that thing with everything we have, knock it off course, and send those bastards to hell! Notify the escorts, accelerate to fl?ank speed, and prepare to engage.”

Baraki nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” Then, having turned to his XO, the fl?ag captain growled, “You heard the admiral. Let’s grease the bastards.”

ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP REGULUS, NEAR PLANET EARTH,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

In marked contrast to human warships, where the bridge was often located toward the vessel’s bow, Ramanthian architects preferred to bury their control rooms deep inside the hull, where they were that much safer. So that was where the newly promoted Admiral Ru Lorko was, standing in front of a fl?oating holo, with pincers clasped behind his wings. The naval offi?cer had large compound eyes, a pair of antennae that projected from the top of his head, a hooked beak, and an elongated exoskeleton that had been holed in battle and patched with a metal plate. A shiny rectangle that was the genesis of the nickname, “Old Iron Back,” and of which he was secretly proud.

Though once considered too eccentric for promotion to higher rank, Lorko was the offi?cer who had been responsible for the destruction of the Gladiator and her entire battle group. The victory had brought the commodore to the Queen’s attention, catapulted the often-irascible offi?cer to the rank of admiral, and led to his latest mission: Attack, occupy, and govern Earth. A diffi?cult task under the best of circumstances, but made even more so by the presence of the warrior queen, who was forever asking questions, making unsolicited comments, and offering gratuitous advice. And now, as the enemy came out to meet him, she was there at Lorko’s side. “You were correct,” the royal said unnecessarily. “They took the bait.”

The naval offi?cer’s response was little more than the Ramanthian equivalent of a grunt. But the Queen had been briefed regarding Lorko’s personality and took no offense. Because to her way of thinking, the admiral and the rest of her staff were tools, and so long as the tools functioned as they were supposed to, nothing else mattered. Even though the two fl?eets were coming at each other at incredible speed, many hours were to pass before the leading elements of each battle group would make contact. There were plenty of things for Trimble to do at fi?rst. But eventually, after the proper notifi?cations had been made, all the admiral could do was wait as the distance between the two fl?eets continued to diminish. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Ramanthians were within range. The fi?rst missiles were fi?red, and even though Trimble knew most of them would be intercepted, she was looking forward to drawing fi?rst blood. But then, just as the fi?rst weapons neared their targets, the enemy fl?eet disappeared!

Both the Admiral and the other offi?cers who were gathered around the holo tank assumed they were looking at a technical glitch, until Gertrude’s calm, nearly infl?ectionless voice came over the PA system. “With the exception of the spherical object, presently designated as P-1, all other enemy vessels reentered hyperspace. Destination unknown.”

The immediate response was a loud cheer, as the bridge crew celebrated what looked like a rout, as the fl?eet continued to close with P-1. But Trimble felt something cold trickle into the pit of her stomach as the Ramanthian planetoid continued to grow larger. No damage had been infl?icted. No casualties had been suffered. So why abandon the fi?eld of battle? There had to be a reason. A strategy of some sort. But what was it?

That was the moment when the planetoid exploded, a new sun was born, and 72 percent of the home fl?eet was destroyed as successive rings of white-hot plasma radiated out to vaporize everything they touched. One moment the SternKrieger was there, and the next moment she wasn’t, as both the fl?agship and most of her escorts ceased to exist. The roar of static fi?lled the ether, and the debris fi?eld continued to expand outwards, all without the loss of a single Ramanthian life. And there, with practically nothing to protect it, lay planet Earth.

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

Night had fallen hours before, but having nothing to fear from above, the Ramanthian base was lit up like a double helix on Founder’s Day. That made it easy for Colonel Six and his men to see what was going on inside the razor wire and pick targets for their 81mm mortars. The weapons had a range of approximately six thousand yards, which meant they would be able to reach everything within the perimeter. To prevent such an attack, groups of civilian POWs had been placed adjacent to, and in some cases right on top of, key targets, including the command bunker, shuttle pad, and ammo dump. And, based on hours of careful scrutiny, Colonel Six knew that the hostages weren’t free breeders but law-abiding founder folk. Which put the offi?cer in something of a moral quandary. Because as a soldier it was his job to protect civilians rather than kill them. So what should he do? Break off the attack? So the Ramanthians could kill more civilians? Or attack the base, knowing full well that POWs would die along with the enemy, in hopes that other innocent lives would be saved?

It was an extremely diffi?cult decision, but one the founder had anticipated, and provided for in her book, The Great Design. “When forced to choose between genetic lines,”

Hosokawa had written, “the hierarchy must always choose the action that will benefi?t the greatest number of people. Because society is the organism—and the organism must survive.”

The carefully memorized words gave Six some comfort as he low-crawled from position to position, checking to make sure that all of the Seebos were ready. And he had just arrived at tube three, and given the crew a few words of reassurance, when a bright light stabbed down out of the night sky. The mortar crew was fully illuminated as a synthesized voice gave orders in Ramanthian. The words were cut short as the clone fi?red his submachine gun. The bullet-riddled robot fell not four feet from the mortar and burst into fl?ames. “Fire!” Six shouted into his lip mike. “Let the ugly free-breeding bastards have it!”

And fi?re the clones did, with the 81mm mortars, which began to drop bombs into the camp with monotonous regularity, crew-served 5.56 × 45mm light machine guns, and extremely accurate sniper rifl?es. Which, unlike the .50caliber weapons preferred by the Legion, fi?red bolts of energy. They were visible but eerily silent. The result was a hellish symphony in which the staccato rattle made by the light machine guns provided a sharp counterpoint to a series of percussive booms as the 81mm mortar rounds marched across the compound. Those sounds were punctuated by the steady bang, bang, bang of semiautomatic weapons, shrill screams as dozens of hostages were killed, and a chorus of strident whistles as Ramanthian noncoms attempted to rally their troops. There was outgoing fi?re, too, but it was spotty at best, because only a third of the Ramanthians had been awake when the attack began and dozens were cut down as they emerged from their bunkers to join the fi?ght. All of that was clear to see because, for some inexplicable reason, the lights were still on!

Then the executions began. The Ramanthian offi?cer was armed with a sword. And given the volume of incoming fi?re, was either very brave, or very fanatical, as he made his way from one group of POWs to the next, his weapon rising and falling with a terrible regularity as he slaughtered the helpless prisoners.

“Kill that offi?cer!” Six ordered, as his targeting laser wobbled over the Ramanthian’s chest. The alien looked up, as if to see where the red dot was coming from, and it was the last thing he ever did, as a bolt of coherent energy left one of the sniper rifl?es, shot across the intervening space, and blew the bug’s head off. Light rippled along the length of blade as the bloodied sword fl?ew into the air, fl?ipped end over end, and landed point down.

The outgoing fi?re died down shortly after that, but Six knew Ramanthian reinforcements were on the way, and ordered the mortar teams to take their weapons and withdraw before the enemy reaction force could arrive. Then, accompanied by a squad of heavily armed Seebos, Colonel Six entered the camp through one of many holes in the security fence. Once inside the clone was amazed, and to some extent sickened, by the full extent of the slaughter. The 81mm mortar rounds had pretty much leveled everything that stood more than a couple of feet high as they sent shards of sharp metal scything across the compound to dismember Ramanthians and POWs alike. The ground was covered with a gruesome jumble of intermixed body parts that lay like pieces to a macabre jigsaw puzzle.

Shots rang out as Colonel Six and his men executed wounded Ramanthians, and there was an explosion as an alien holdout tried to throw a grenade, but was killed before he could bring his arm forward. Then Six was standing on the landing pad at the very center of the base. The can of spray paint hissed as the clone made his mark, a Seebo yelled,

“The charges are set, sir!” and it was time to run. Seven adults and two children had somehow survived the slaughter, and were herded through the wire, and into the darkness beyond as a thrumming sound was heard. The key was to gain the relative safety of a cave located more than a mile away before the enemy shuttles could sweep the area for heat-emitting targets. So the clones ran, and ran some more, as the ominous thrumming noise grew steadily louder. Then the fugitives were there, being passed from hand to hand into the back recesses of a natural cave, as the alien reaction force circled the now-devastated camp, and began to land. The fi?rst pilot to reach the scene had the good sense to land outside the wire, but the second put down right on top of the numerals “666,” and the noise generated by his engine triggered two carefully positioned satchel charges. The resulting explosion blew the aircraft apart, killed seventeen Ramanthians, and confi?rmed what General Akoto already knew: The clones were down—but not necessarily out. PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

It was nearly noon, but thanks to a decision made by bureaucrats in the Department of Harmonious Weather, rain had been allowed to fall during the daylight hours, thereby reducing the view beyond the water-streaked window to layerings of gray. Which was the way Vanderveen felt as another sad-faced offi?cial left President Nankool’s temporary offi?ce, and thereby cleared the way for her. Something was clearly wrong—but what? Rumors were running rampant, but none of those who knew were willing to say, so that the chief executive could notify each staff member personally. So it was with an understandable sense of foreboding that Vanderveen entered the dimly lit offi?ce, crossed the wooden fl?oor to stand in front of the utilitarian desk, and waited to be noticed. Nankool, who was staring out through a large picture window, heard the footsteps and turned. The smile was forced and the words had a rehearsed quality. “Christine . . . I’m sorry to pull you away from your work, but I have some bad news to impart, and I felt I should do so personally. Especially given the fact that you have family on Earth.”

The words caused the bottom to fall out of Vanderveen’s stomach. Her diplomat father, Charles Winther Vanderveen, was stationed on Algeron, but her mother was living on the family estate in North America. It took an act of will to control her voice. “Earth, sir? What happened?”

So the president told her, and because he’d been practicing, the story of how the home fl?eet had been destroyed unfolded rather smoothly. Which led to the inevitable question.

“What will the Ramanthians do now?” Vanderveen wanted to know. Her lower lip had begun to quiver, but that was the only sign of how the young woman felt, as Nankool rounded the desk. She was strong, very strong, as the chief executive had learned fi?rsthand on Jericho. But the possibility that her mother might be in danger had shaken her.

“We don’t know for sure,” Nankool said kindly, as he placed an arm around Vanderveen’s shoulders. “But based on what General Booly told me, not to mention common sense, it seems likely that the Ramanthians will invade Earth and attempt to occupy it. . . . Because if it was their intention to glass the planet, they would have done so by now.”

“What about the ships we sent to Gamma-014?” the diplomat inquired. “Could we divert them to Earth?”

“It was a trap,” the chief executive said regretfully. “And they sucked us in. . . . It’s too late to abort the attack on Gamma-014 now. And, given the attack on Earth, we need the alliance with the Hegemony all the more. I’m sorry,”

Nankool added lamely. “I promise to do everything I can.”

Vanderveen left the offi?ce with those words still ringing in her ears, made her way down to the fi?rst fl?oor of the building, and from there to the street. It was still raining as she turned to the left and began to walk. Offi?ce buildings rose around her, their windows eyeing the street, while their walls channeled what little foot traffi?c there was. But unlike Los Angeles, where multitudes crowded the streets day and night, there were only a few pedestrians to be seen. That was how it would remain until the end of the workday. A strategy intended to keep productivity high—and limit the amount of time available for “counterproductive” activities. But none of that applied to Fisk-Three, Four, or Five, all of whom were born revolutionaries. They were average-looking men, with uniformly light brown skin, even features, and nondescript clothes. And, as Christine Vanderveen turned a corner, they followed. Because here, after two weeks of patient surveillance, was the opportunity the Fisks had been hoping for. “She’s northbound on ninth, headed for Q Street,” the lead operative said into his sleeve mike. “Let’s take her.”

Vanderveen, whose mind was focused on Earth and what was about to unfold there, was completely unaware of the white box truck until it swerved over to the curb. That was the moment when a side door whirred open and two Fisks grabbed her from behind. They took control of the diplomat’s arms, lifted Vanderveen off her feet, and carried her toward the truck. She tried to call for help, but there wasn’t enough time, as the men threw her inside. The whole evolution consumed no more than twenty seconds. Three more seconds than the Fisks would have preferred, but well within the margins of safety, as the young woman struggled to free herself. Number four pressed a pistol-shaped injector against Christine’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. Vanderveen felt a sharp pain as powerful sedatives were injected through both the weave of her jacket and into her bloodstream. There was a moment of dizziness, followed by a long fall into an ocean of blackness, and a complete cessation of thought. When Vanderveen came to, she found herself fl?at on her back, looking up at a blur. It gradually resolved into the face of a man who had a bar code on his forehead, intensely green eyes, and a three-day growth of beard. Judging from his expression, he was clearly concerned. “Ms. Vanderveen? How do you feel?”

The diplomat blinked her eyes experimentally, tried to sit, and felt a sharp pain lance through her head. “I feel terrible,” the diplomat answered honestly. “Where am I? And why am I here?”

“You’re in a safe place,” the man said evasively. “As to why, well, that’s simple. . . . We want to talk to you.”

The diplomat should have been frightened. But somehow, for reasons she couldn’t put a fi?nger on, she wasn’t. “Next time just call and make an appointment,” Vanderveen said thickly. “I promise to clear my calendar.”

The man laughed as a young woman appeared at his side. She had black hair, bangs that functioned to conceal the bar code on her forehead, and was very pretty. She offered a white pill with one hand—and a cup of water with the other. “It’s a pain pill,” the woman explained. “For your headache.”

Vanderveen looked from the pill over to the man. “It’s safe,” he assured her. “Had we meant to do you harm, we would have done so by now.”

That made sense, so the diplomat took the pill, and chased it with two gulps of water. “Thank you,” she said. “Sort of. Who are you people anyway?”

“My birth name is Trotski-Four—but my free name is Alan,” the man answered.

“And my birth name is Yee-Seven, but you can call me Mary,” the woman added.

Vanderveen nodded, forced herself to sit up, and was pleased to discover that the pain was starting to abate. Now, being able to see more, she realized she was in some sort of utility room. Shelving occupied most of one wall, a utility sink stood against another, a robo janitor sat in a corner. The machine’s green ready-light eyed them unblinkingly. “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” the diplomat said sourly. “I’m being held in the world headquarters of the Freedom Now party.”

Mary frowned, but Alan laughed. “Very good! That isn’t what we call ourselves, but that’s our goal, and we need your help.”

“Sorry,” Vanderveen replied, “but you put the snatch on the wrong person. I’m a lowly FSO-2, and what you want is a 1, or an assistant secretary of state.”

“We tried to establish contact with Secretary Yatsu, but either the secret police were able to block our communication, or she chose to ignore our message.”

“Not to mention the fact that she has bodyguards,” Mary put in. “That’s why we settled on you.”

“That’s right,” Alan said enthusiastically. “You can carry a message for us!”

“Gee, thanks,” Vanderveen responded dryly. “I’m honored. What sort of message?”

There was something about the intensity of Alan’s expression, and his obvious sincerity, that Vanderveen found appealing as the clone paced back and forth. “Our people live under what amounts to a hereditary dictatorship,” the clone said disparagingly. “And they want a say in government.”

“Including the right to have free-breeder sex and babies,”

Mary said fi?rmly.

“That’s already taking place,” Alan added matter-offactly. “There was a time when ninety-eight percent of all babies were sterilized, but that number continues to fall, as people bribe med techs to skip the procedure, in hopes that future generations can reproduce normally. In the meantime many of those who can are having babies. In spite of the fact that the death squads track some of them down.”

Vanderveen’s eyebrows rose. “Death squads?”

“Yes,” Mary said emphatically. “Most of the police are members of the Romo line, and primarily interested in keeping the peace, but about ten percent of them are Nerovs. And they are completely ruthless. Some say they take their orders from the Alphas—others claim they kill on their own. It makes very little difference,” she fi?nished soberly. “Dead is dead.”

Vanderveen looked from the woman, who stood with arms folded, back to Alan. The revolutionary had stopped pacing by then and was staring at her with his electric green eyes. “I’m no expert on your culture,” the diplomat said carefully. “But why would the founder and her advisors authorize a line like the Nerovs?”

The male clone answered so quickly it was as if he’d been waiting for the question. “Because Dr. Hosokowa was interested in creating the perfect society,” he explained. “Not perfect people, because that would be impossible. So countervailing forces were put into play. That’s why she commissioned my line, to make sure someone would stir things up, and thereby keep the Alpha Clones on their toes. And Mary’s line, to provide the two percent of the male population that hadn’t been sterilized with a sexual outlet, but one that wouldn’t produce children.”

“Couldn’t produce children,” the woman said sadly, as a tear trickled down her cheek. “Even though the fi?rst Yee was chosen because she was sexually attractive.”

“All so the great society could survive,” Alan concluded.

“Which, when you think about it, was Hosokowa’s child.”

“So you’re doing what you were created to do,” Vanderveen mused out loud. “Doesn’t that mean your efforts are doomed to failure? Because other lines are dedicated to canceling you out?”

“Not this time,” Alan said grimly. “There’s too much unhappiness. The people are ready to rise up and take control of what is rightfully theirs!”

Vanderveen had been skeptical at fi?rst. But the more the diplomat listened, the more she began to believe that a revolution was possible. And with that belief came certain questions. Important questions that could have a bearing on the war with the Ramanthians. If the clones were to rise up, and overthrow the existing government, how would that affect the new alliance? Because if that came apart, Nankool’s strategy would crumble, and the Confederacy would teeter on the edge of defeat. “You mentioned a message,” the diplomat said cautiously. “What did you have in mind?”

“Go to President Nankool,” Alan instructed. “Tell him that the revolution is about to begin, and when it takes place, there will be an opportunity. By recognizing the new government quickly, and allowing it to join the Confederacy without delay, he will be in a position to replace the existing alliance with something far more valuable: a member state.”

It was a stunning opportunity, or would be if the population actually rose up, but before Vanderveen could respond to the offer the door slammed open and Fisk-Three appeared. He was dressed in homemade body armor—and armed with a machine pistol. “The Nerovs are here,” the clone said matterof-factly. “Take her out through the sewers. . . . We’ll hold them off for as long as we can.”

Suddenly, Alan had one of Vanderveen’s arms, and Mary had the other, as they hustled the diplomat out of the storeroom and down a hall. Off in the distance the muted rattle of automatic fi?re could be heard, as the secret police attempted to search the building, and the Fisks sought to delay them. Then Vanderveen was propelled through a doorway, down a fl?ight of metal stairs, and into a room fi?lled with what appeared to be the building’s heating and cooling equipment. Machines rumbled, whined, and purred as the threesome jogged between them. The fl?oor-mounted access hatch was made out of steel, and protected by a three-sided tubular railing and a length of bright yellow chain. The sign that dangled from it read, “Danger! Authorized personnel only!” But that didn’t stop Alan from unhooking the chain—and motioning for the women to enter the restricted area. Mary turned the wheel mounted on top of the hatch, pulled the dome-shaped closure upwards, and motioned with her free hand. “Down the ladder! Quick before the Nerovs come!”

Part of Vanderveen wanted to stay, and thereby free herself from captivity, but another more professional persona said no. The alliance with the Hegemony was clearly important, and if the revolution that Alan spoke of actually took place, a preexisting relationship could be extremely advantageous. So the diplomat nodded, turned, and grabbed hold of the protective railing. Once Vanderveen’s right foot found the top rung of the ladder, the descent began.

The shaft went down about twenty feet or so, and it wasn’t long before Mary’s body blocked much of the light from above, and the smell of raw sewage rose to envelop the diplomat. She had been dressed for work when snatched off the streets, but something told her that the pantsuit was destined for a recycling chute, as her pumps came into contact with the duracrete below. Mary was only a few feet above her, so Vanderveen hurried to get out of the way, and found herself on a raised walkway that ran parallel to a river of sewage. The odor was so strong it made the diplomat gag as she wondered where she was relative to her hotel. The ceiling was curved, oppressively low, and equipped with recessed lights. There weren’t all that many though, not more than one every fi?fty feet, and some were burned out. That contributed to the dark, claustrophobic feel of the tunnel, and caused Vanderveen to question the decision made minutes before.

“The place stinks!” Alan acknowledged cheerfully, as he appeared at her elbow. “But it’s reasonably safe. The Nerovs don’t come down here unless they absolutely have to—because they know at least half of them will get killed if they try. That doesn’t prevent them from sending robots, though—some of which are quite nasty. So keep your eyes peeled.”

On that cheerful note, the three of them set off. Alan was in the lead, with the two women following. The stench was nauseating, so Vanderveen tried to breathe through her mouth, and memorize the route. But there were too many twists and turns, so it wasn’t long before the diplomat was forced to give up.

Then they passed under a low arch, and arrived in front of a gate guarded by two seemingly identical men. Both had stocky bodies, appeared to be quite strong, and stood no more than four feet tall. The sentries were armed with pistols appropriated from Nerovs who had been brave enough, or stupid enough, to enter the maze of tunnels under Alpha Prime.

“They’re Lothos,” Mary explained. “The founder chose their progenitor, Lars Lotho for both his engineering expertise, and small stature. It’s easier to work down here if you’re small.”

The history of the Lotho line was especially interesting, since unlike Alan and Mary, the Lothos hadn’t been born into the role of outsiders. But were there more mainstream rebels? Or were the Lothos the exception? Time would tell. A mesh barrier barred the way, and metal clanged as one of the guards opened a door that allowed the fugitives to enter the holding area. “That’s one of our habs,” Alan explained, as he pointed to the brightly lit area that lay beyond a second mesh wall. Vanderveen saw that sections of solid fl?ooring had been laid over the open sewer, and the duracrete walls were covered with idealized murals, plus a variety of slogans. “Before we show you around,” the clone continued, “we’ll need to visit the clean rooms.”

“It’s annoying,” Mary added apologetically, “but necessary. Please follow me.”

So Vanderveen followed the prostitute through a doorway and into a room equipped with two standard gynecological tables. That was enough to stop the diplomat in her tracks—

but Mary had already begun to strip. “It’s almost impossible to visit the surface without picking up half a dozen robots,”

the clone explained. “Most can’t harm you directly, but the Nerovs can track them, and that’s a problem. It’s diffi?cult for low-power signals to reach the surface from down here, and we have scramblers, but it pays to be careful.”

Mary was nearly naked by then—and Vanderveen could see why the fi?rst Yee had been chosen for her job. The prostitute had large breasts, a fl?at stomach, and a nicely rounded bottom. A female nurse entered the room, and Mary was quick to climb up on the examining table and spread her long slim legs. Then, as the diplomat began to remove her pantsuit, the cleaning process began. It consisted of examining the clone’s body through a pair of high-tech goggles, removing the tiny machines with a pair of tweezers, and dropping each of them into an acid bath.

Ten minutes later it was Vanderveen’s turn. But at least the naked diplomat knew what to expect, even if the process was embarrassing, and seemed to last forever. Finally, having been declared “clean,” Vanderveen was free to get down off the table and put on a new set of clothes. They were at least one size too large and anything but fashionable. Alan and Mary were waiting outside. After the threesome were cleared through the second barrier, the diplomat was taken on a tour. Strangers were a rarity, so people had a tendency to stare. Vanderveen tried to ignore that, as she was led through a brightly painted cafeteria, family-style living quarters, and into a school full of free-breeder children. “This is what we’re fi?ghting for,”

Mary said tightly, as the visitors looked in on a room full of preteen children. “It’s too late for people like Alan and me—

but they will be able to lead normal lives.”

“But only if we win,” Alan said harshly. “Otherwise, the death squads will fi?nd the children and kill them.”

“So, you’ll do it?” Mary wanted to know. “You’ll take our message to your government?”

Vanderveen eyed the room and the children before turning back to Alan and Mary. “Yes,” the diplomat assured them. “I will carry your message to my government. But, will they listen? That’s anybody’s guess.”

6

There is many a boy here today who looks on war as all glory, but, boys, it is all hell.

—Union General William Tecumseh ShermanSpeech at Columbus, Ohio

Standard year 1880

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

The assault boat shuddered as it bucked its way down through the atmosphere, and the men, women, and cyborgs of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC waited to fi?nd out if they were going to live or die. Because in spite of the fact that the invasion of Gamma-014 was less than six hours old, the attack had already been described as a “fucking disaster” by General Kobbi, who was certainly in a position to know. The opinion had not been shared with the troops, lest it erode their morale, but Captain Antonio Santana was cognizant of it. All because Commanding General-453 was an idiot.

The campaign to defeat the Ramanthian navy, or chase it away, had gone smoothly. Perhaps too smoothly in the opinion of some, who were aware of General Oro Akoto’s reputation, and wondered if the wily Ramanthian wanted the allies to land. But General-453 had been quick to categorize all such theories as “defeatist nonsense,” as he and his mostly clone staff hurried to harvest what they felt certain would be a quick and painless victory. The only problem was that most of the people in the fi?rst wave, which was almost entirely comprised of Jonathan Alan Seebos, were slaughtered as they landed—in large part because they put down in all of the most predictable places.

And so, rather than the victorious battle footage that General-453 had been counting on for consumption back home, he was forced to watch video of his clone brothers being shot down as they stumbled out of burning assault boats, were blown to smithereens by Ramanthian artillery, and crushed by Ramanthian tanks.

But rather than question his strategy, which would have been to admit that he’d been wrong, General-453 chose to throw more troops at the same objectives. Which meant that as the 1st Regiment Etranger de Cavalerie (1st REC), the 2nd Regiment Etranger d’Infanterie (2nd REI), and the 4th Regiment Etranger (4th RE) dropped into Gamma-014’s turbulent atmosphere, they were slated to land right in the middle of the same free-fi?re zones that the dead Seebos had. And Santana knew that Lieutenant Colonel Quinlan’s battalion, which was to say both Alpha and Bravo Companies, had been given a generous slice of a very ugly pie. Specifi?cally, a long, U-shaped valley that had a Class III hydroelectric plant sitting at its south end. Where, thanks to the ingenuity of General Akoto’s forces, the electricity intended for the city of Prosperity, which was located some thirty miles to the east, had been redirected to a battery of three surface-to-orbit (STO) energy cannons. These world-class weapons had already been responsible for the loss of a destroyer escort and numerous smaller ships. The assault boat rocked as an antiaircraft round exploded nearby and the pilot spoke over the intercom. “Sorry about the rough ride, folks. . . . But we’re fi?ve from dirt, so I’d like to be the fi?rst, and probably the only person to welcome you to Gamma-014! Don’t forget to take personal items with you, duck on the way out, and give my regards to the bugs.”

That produced a chorus of chuckles, as the platoon leaders ordered their people to, “lock and load.” The ship lurched as the wash from an exploding rocket hit the hull, sideslipped toward the ground, and seemed to fall the last few feet. There was a solid jolt as the skids hit hard and bullets began to rattle against the armored hull as the stern ramp made contact with the ground.

Privates Ivan Lupo and Simy Xiong were slated to exit the ship fi?rst and knew how important the next ten minutes would be. Because it was their job to suppress the incoming fi?re and provide the other legionnaires with an opportunity to exit the ship unharmed. So the hulking cyborgs lumbered down onto the ground, turned in opposite directions, and took up positions to either side of the slab-sided ship. Targeting data was acquired, prioritized, and acted on as both war forms opened fi?re. And, because each fi?fty-ton behemoth mounted dual autoloading missile launchers, four gang-mounted energy cannons, and an electronically driven Gatling gun, that was a sight to see! Especially as the cyborgs settled in over their vulnerable legs and transformed themselves into low-profi?le pillboxes.

As Santana rode Deker out of the ship’s cargo bay, he saw that the assault boat had put down next to a burned-out hulk. Judging from the still-steaming bodies that lay scattered about, all of the Seebos on that fi?rst ill-fated boat had clearly been killed. However, based on the fact that a platoon of clones had taken cover in a fi?re-blackened crater and were fi?ring on targets to the east, it appeared that a subsequent landing had been more successful. The entire area was littered with half-empty ammo boxes, packaging for battle dressings, and cast-off equipment.

As the Seebos continued to huddle in their shell crater, the quads targeted Ramanthian mortars, artillery pieces, and the deadly multiple-launch rocket systems located on both sides of the valley. Outgoing missiles roared off their rails, bolts of coherent energy stuttered across the battlefi?eld, and dark columns of soil were thrown high into the air as secondary explosions echoed between the valley walls. Shortly after that, Santana saw the volume of incoming fi?re begin to dwindle and knew that Alpha Company was making progress. Meanwhile the Seebos came boiling up out of the crater, or tried to, but were driven back when Santana ordered Deker to open fi?re. Three bursts from the T-2’s armmounted fi?fty were suffi?cient to push the clones back. “Take me down into that hole,” Santana said over the intercom, and switched to the company push. “This is Alpha Six. . . . Let’s get the wounded out of that crater and onto the ship. Watch for fakers though. . . . It looks like some of those guys would like to take the rest of the day off. Alpha OneFour and Bravo One-Four will prepare to board troops. Both platoons will orient on target Alpha and prepare to advance. The fi?rst platoon will protect the company’s left fl?ank and the second will cover the right. Out.”

The entire battalion had been assigned to attack the STO

battery, but having seen no sign of either Colonel Quinlan or Bravo Company, Santana knew his unit might have to tackle the objective alone. A scary thought indeed. The wounded clones had been carried aboard the assault boat by that time and engines screamed as the ship began to lift. “Hey, you!” one of the Seebos said angrily, as Deker carried him down into the body-strewn crater. “How dare you fi?re on us! Bring the assault boat back. . . . The navy is supposed to extract us!”

There was a resounding boom as a shoulder-launched missile hit the ship’s port engine, blew a hole in it, and caused the boat to roll. It landed upside down, skidded for about fi?fty feet, and burst into fl?ames. Santana was pleased to see two fi?gures crawl out of the inverted cockpit and scurry away. But the wounded weren’t so lucky. The company commander’s voice boomed through speakers built into the war form’s body as he turned back toward the clone. “And you are?”

“Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo-179,620,” the clone offi?cer answered haughtily, as a spent round hit Deker’s chest. It made a pinging sound as it bounced off.

“My name is Santana,” the legionnaire replied evenly.

“And I command Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC.

You and your men can help us take that power plant or die in this crater. Which would you prefer?”

The clone heard a bullet zing over his head and scowled resentfully. “We’ll come with you.”

“Good choice,” Santana replied. “Your call sign will be Alpha Two-Zero. Split your men between the quads—and let’s get the hell out of here.”

The Ramanthian in command of the powerful STO battery at the south end of the valley chose that moment to fi?re a salvo. The energy cannons were so powerful that the energy bolts they fi?red broke the sound barrier before they disappeared into space. The recoil caused the ground to shake. The better part of fi?fteen minutes would pass before the gun emplacement’s huge accumulators could store enough power to fi?re again. “Damn!” Deker exclaimed, as he carried the company commander up out of the crater. “Why don’t the swabbies bomb those things?”

“The Intel people say the bugs have more than a thousand civilians locked up under that gun emplacement,” Santana replied grimly. “So it’s up to us.”

Deker chose to accept the explanation, but both legionnaires knew that the bugs might very well execute the POWs, especially if it looked like the STO weapons were about to be captured. As the Seebos scurried aboard the quads, and Deker found level ground, Sergeant Suresee Fareye made his report. Like Dietrich, the Naa had served with Santana before, and had an almost supernatural ability to fi?nd his way through any terrain. He was mounted on Private Ka Nhan, and the two legionnaires were concealed in a farm building approximately one mile south of the burnedout crater. “Alpha Six-Four to Alpha Six. Over.”

“This is Six,” Santana replied, as he glanced at the data projected onto his HUD. “Go.”

“Four, repeat four, Gantha II tanks are coming out to play,” Fareye said, as he peered out through a hole in the south wall of a barn. Six genetically perfect cattle had been left in the building, and they bawled miserably as the Naa continued his report. “The Ganthas are supported by a couple dozen armored personnel carriers all loaded with troops. Estimated time to fi?rst contact fi?ve minutes. Over.”

Santana swore silently. Even though he’d been aware that the Ramanthians would probably throw some tanks at him the legionnaire had been hoping for more time. A quick look at the HUD confi?rmed that the wind was blowing up the valley toward the dam. “Roger that,” he replied. “Pull back, Six-Four. . . . Alpha Six to Alpha One-Six. Send the fi?rst squad forward to lay smoke east to west. . . . But I don’t want them sucked into a fi?refi?ght. Out.”

“This is Alpha One-Six,” Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo replied.

“Smoke but don’t engage. We’re going in. Out.”

The last sentence seemed to indicate that Amoyo was planning to lead the evolution personally in spite of Santana’s instructions to “. . . send the fi?rst squad up.” And a quick check of the ITC confi?rmed that impression. A fraction of a second passed while the company commander considered the pros and cons of pulling the platoon leader back. Then, having decided that no great harm was likely to come of Amoyo’s decision, Santana let the matter go. Alpha Company was up to full speed by that time, closing with the enemy at a combined speed of thirty miles per hour as chits on both sides of the valley continued to fi?re on them. Having called for air support, Dietrich gave a grunt of approval as a pair of navy Daggers roared overhead, and banked over the dam. Triple A burst all around the fi?ghters. One of them lost a wing and tumbled into a cliff, where it exploded. Consistent with their instructions, the second fi?ghter made a run at the tanks. A stick of bombs fell, explosions blossomed, and one of the beetle-shaped monsters took a direct hit. “This is Rover Four-Zero,” the pilot said laconically, as she passed over the company. “I’m running on fumes—sorry we couldn’t do more. Over.”

Dietrich thought about the pilot who had just lost his or her life. “You did good, Four-Zero, real good. Thanks. Over.”

Meanwhile, having arrived at a point halfway between the Ramanthians and Alpha Company, Amoyo took a sharp right-hand turn and led the fi?rst squad toward the west side of the valley. That was more diffi?cult than it sounded because there were irrigation ditches, dry-fi?tted stone walls, and other obstacles to leap over. Not to mention the Cyon River, which was a good six feet deep at that point, and moving at a steady fi?ve miles per hour.

But the T-2s were more than up to the challenge and were moving so fast that, when the enemy tanks opened fi?re on them, the chits inside the big, beetle-shaped machines weren’t able to traverse their secondary weapons fast enough to catch up with the agile cyborgs.

So as geysers of soil and rock followed the legionnaires across the valley, Amoyo and her bio bods were free to sow smoke grenades like seeds. Each bomb produced a cloud of dense black smoke that would not only prevent the bugs from seeing Alpha Company but block targeting lasers and enemy range fi?nders as well. And, thanks to the tiny bits of burning plastic that were ejected by the grenades, the screen was at least partially effective against thermal-imaging devices, too. Amoyo swore as her T-2 jumped into the ice-cold river. The water had risen all the way up to her waist before the cyborg made it to the other side, where he splashed up onto the bank. The good news was that her mission had been accomplished, but now she was on the west side of the valley, and cut off from the rest of her platoon. Suddenly she understood why Captain Santana wanted Staff Sergeant Briggs to take the fi?rst squad out. And, as if to reinforce the lesson just learned, the company commander put Dietrich in charge of the rest of her platoon. His voice fl?ooded the company push.

“Alpha Six-Two will take command of the second squad, fi?rst platoon. Out.”

Amoyo heard Master Sergeant Dietrich say, “This is SixTwo. Roger, that. Out.” That left her with no option but to wheel toward the enemy and thereby reinforce the company’s right fl?ank.

Santana saw the change on the ITC and grinned as the wall of black smoke gradually blew toward the south. “This is Alpha Six. Let’s hook the bastards! Out.” Everyone in the company knew what Santana meant, because the “buffalo horns”

formation dated back to the Zulu War of 1879, and involved the use of fl?anking elements or “horns” to at least partially encircle the enemy, while the “chest” or main force came up the middle. In this case, the main force consisted of two badly outgunned quads. Had Bravo Company been present there would have been four quads and something like parity. Still, it wasn’t as if Santana had a choice, given the fact that the bugs weren’t likely to surrender. As the Ramanthians rolled into the smoke, the fi?rst and second platoons circled around them, turned inwards, and immediately came into contact with the enemy’s APCs. The troops weren’t all that dangerous, not so long as they remained sealed inside their durasteel boxes, but the vehicles they were riding in carried grenade launchers and machine guns. The automatic weapons chattered madly as the T-2s entered a hellish world of drifting smoke, blazing guns, and fi?ery explosions. A place where Santana, like the bio bods all around him, was reduced to little more than baggage as Deker went to work. The key to survival inside the war fog was speed and agility. Deker cut between two dimly seen APCs, fi?ring both his fi?fty and energy cannon as he ran. The bullets failed to penetrate Ramanthian armor, but one of his energy bolts scored a direct hit on a track, which brought one machine to a halt.

In the meantime, even though Santana was being thrown back and forth like a sack of potatoes, it was his job to monitor the ITC and make sure that the melee didn’t get out of hand. “Watch for friendlies,” the company commander cautioned. “We have enough opposition without shooting at each other. Out.”

But the cautionary advice came too late for Private Steelgrip Cutright, who was decapitated by an energy bolt fi?red by Corporal Bin Han. So that, as Cutright’s T-2 continued to fi?ght, his headless body fl?opped back and forth, spewing blood in every direction. Nor was Cutright the company’s only casualty. Because some of the enemy APCs had discharged their troops by then, and bio bod Kai Hayasaki and cyborg Bin Batain both lost their lives when a shoulderlaunched missile struck them. Fortunately such incidents were rare thanks to all the smoke and the speed with which the T-2s could move.

But speedy or not, the smaller war forms had been unable to so much as scratch the Gantha tanks as the Ramanthians opened fi?re. The fi?rst rounds fell short of the quads but threw columns of dirt high into the air, which meant that the Seebos riding inside the quadrupeds could hear what sounded like a hailstorm as rocks and soil rained down on the metal above their heads. It didn’t take a genius to know that the big war form was being targeted, and that wasn’t fair. Not to Lieutenant-620’s way of thinking. Because having survived the horrors of the crater—the offi?cer felt that he and his men deserved something better than death in a metal box.

Of course, both Lupo and Xiong had been killed before, and had no intention of dying again, at least not so soon. So they answered the Ramanthian attack with a salvo of four heat-seeking missiles, followed by a blinding fusillade of energy bolts as all eight of their combined cannons began to fi?re. One of the enemy tanks exploded as two missiles hit it. A second lost a track, and began to turn circles, but there was no stopping the third. And that was scary, because as highexplosive rounds continued to go off around the quads, they both knew it was just a matter of time before one or both of them took a direct hit.

But only if they were stupid enough to attack the enemy head-on. Much had been written about the advantages and disadvantages inherent in the quad design, but there was one thing that no one could dispute, and that was the fact that the huge cyborgs could step sideways. Something tracked vehicles couldn’t do.

So the quads began to move away from each other—

thereby forcing the Ramanthian tank commander to choose between two targets. And, with each step they took, the quads could see more and more of the Gantha’s sloped fl?anks, where the machine’s reactive armor was slightly thinner. Then, when a suffi?cient amount of black metal was visible, the legionnaires loosed another salvo of missiles. The weapons hit, punched their way through the Ramanthian armor, and sent jets of hot plasma into the crew compartments. A powerful secondary explosion sent the Gantha’s turret soaring high into the air. It seemed to hang there for a moment, as if held aloft by an invisible hand, before falling on a burning APC. It was an important accomplishment. Because now, with the tanks out of the way, there was nothing to prevent the legionnaires from attacking the STO emplacement. But before Santana could give the necessary orders an all-too-familiar voice fl?ooded his helmet. “This is Zulu Six. Hold where you are. I’m three minutes north of you and I’ll be there shortly. Out.”

Santana turned toward the north and saw that a shuttle was coming in low and fast. Where had Quinlan been anyway? “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said. “Platoon leaders will reintegrate their forces, check for casualties, and rearm their T-2s. Lieutenant Seebo-620. I would be obliged if you and your men would establish a temporary perimeter around the company and provide security. Out.”

There was a series of acknowledgments as the clones exited the quads, and the T-2s were ordered to close with the quadrupeds, so they could take on ammo from the larger war forms. Meanwhile, the shuttle had put down. Quinlan and his T-2 were the fi?rst to disembark. Bravo Company’s quads followed, along with two platoons of T-2s, and a technical support unit. “Sorry we’re late,” Quinlan said, as the two men came together. “Our shuttle developed engine trouble after we hit the atmosphere, and we were forced to put down so the swabbies could clear it. But we’re here now—and the mission remains the same.”

Even though the T-2s were only three feet apart from each other, they weren’t privy to the conversation that was taking place on the command channel. “Roger that, sir,” Santana replied. “We can use the help. And we need to get under way quickly—before the enemy can reinforce their defenses.”

“There’s no need to belabor the obvious,” Quinlan responded irritably. “Tell your people that the attack will commence in fi?ve minutes.”

Santana nodded. “Sir, yes sir.”

There was an awkward pause at that point, as if the battalion offi?cer wanted to say something more, but wasn’t sure how to do so. Finally, having swiveled his body toward the bloody LZ where Alpha Company had put down, Quinlan spoke without looking back. “And Santana. . . .”

“Sir?”

“Well done.”

Santana was surprised, but managed a nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ll pass that along.”

“See that you do,” Quinlan said curtly as he turned back, and his normal persona reasserted itself. “Thirty seconds of that fi?ve minutes have elapsed. You’d better get cracking.”

Meanwhile, ten miles to the south and high atop the dam where the Ramanthian STOs were sited, Force Commander Rundee Homar stood atop a huge gun mount as he peered through a pair of Y-shaped binoculars. Having twice failed to put a signifi?cant number of troops on ground, the animals had fi?nally been able to land a company of grotesque cyborgs. And now, having been reinforced by air, the abominations were preparing to attack the STO emplacement. Which, given the way they had defeated the tanks, was doomed. Or that’s how it seemed until a truly revolutionary idea blossomed in Homar’s brain. What if, rather than destroy the energy cannons and withdraw the way he was supposed to, the Ramanthian were to turn one of the weapons at his disposal on the troops in the valley? And thereby destroy all of the animals with a single bolt of energy? That would leave him and his troops with plenty of time to slaughter the prisoners and blow the dam prior to an orderly retreat!

But there wasn’t much time, so he and his troops would have to work fast if they were to bring a cannon to bear on the valley. Homar lowered the binoculars, turned toward the battery behind him, and began to issue orders. With twice the number of T-2s and quads lumbering up the valley, Santana felt a renewed sense of optimism, as Quinlan led roughly half the battalion toward the heavily fortifi?ed dam. And, truth be told, it had been a relief to surrender overall command. Because even though he wasn’t especially proud of it, there was comfort in the knowledge that mistakes, if any, wouldn’t be his. In marked contrast to his behavior on Oron IV, Quinlan was leading from the front. Was that the result of his longdelayed promotion? Or a change of behavior that was somehow linked to his daughter’s death? There was no way to know as the portly colonel led his troops into battle. Bravo Company, which had been ordered to lead the way, was within range of the enemy guns by then and opened fi?re with a vengeance. The legionnaires could lay down another smoke screen, and zigzag back and forth, but there wasn’t much more they could do other than pray as shells exploded all about them. Bravo Company took the brunt of the fi?re, and it wasn’t long before what had been an orderly formation was reduced to a ragged group of survivors. One of the quads lost a leg, T-2s were tossed into the air like toys, and bio bods were ripped apart by fl?ying shrapnel. It was a horrible sight and made all the worse by the fact that there was very little the legionnaires could do as the Ramanthians fi?red down on them.

Meanwhile, Force Commander Homar was having problems of his own. The concept of using one of the STO cannons to destroy the animals with a single shot had been brilliant. But, having turned one of the thirty-foot-long monsters to- ward the north, his gunners were having trouble depressing the barrel far enough to target the oncoming aliens. The problem stemmed from safeties built into the software used to aim and fi?re the big weapons, and mechanical stops that were intended to prevent the very thing the Ramanthian offi?cer was trying to do. The fi?rst issue had been resolved by switching the control mode from automatic to manual. And now, as Homar looked on, a technician was cutting his way through the last of three six-inch-thick metal tabs that kept the cannons from fi?ring on the planet’s surface. But the humans were coming on fast, and Homar knew that if he and his gunners failed to fi?re the weapon soon, the animals would be too close to hit. So as the last piece of glowing metal hit the fl?oor, the Ramanthian gun crew hurried to crank the long black tube down as far as it would go, and locked the barrel in place. The accumulators were fully charged, so all Homar had to do was shout, “Fire!” and a blue comet was born.

For the duration of its short life the enormous energy bolt had mass. It was only a foot in diameter as it left the cannon’s barrel, but quickly expanded to twelve times that size, so that Santana could feel the heat as the fl?aming comet passed over his head. Then he heard a loud shriek, quickly followed by an enormous explosion, and a fl?ash of light so intense the legionnaire might have been blinded had he been looking north.

That was when an earthquake shook the ground under Deker’s feet. A shock wave hit the war form from behind and threw him facedown. Santana fell with him. The cyborg struggled to stand as echoes of the thunderous explosion bounced back and forth between the valley’s walls. It took a moment for Santana to process what had occurred, but once he had, the offi?cer realized how lucky the battalion had been. Because rather than strike the legionnaires as intended, the enormous ball of energy had passed over them, and blown a huge divot out of the valley’s fl?oor. But that wasn’t all . . . Either because they were as shocked as the legionnaires were, or the Ramanthian gunners had been blinded by the initial explosion, their guns had fallen silent! “This is Alpha Six,” Santana proclaimed. “Let’s go up and kill those bastards!”

Though not the most precise order the legionnaire had ever given, it was among the most heartfelt, and other offi?cers were quick to echo it—including Lieutenant Colonel Quinlan, who was among the fi?rst members of the battalion to close with the dam and start up the access road that led to the top. It was too narrow for the quads to follow and was interrupted by a number of switchbacks, each of which constituted a natural defensive point. Colonel Quinlan was followed by elements of Bravo Company and Alpha Company, with Santana in the lead. The battalion’s ranks were thinner now and the Seebos were hard-pressed to keep up with the fast-moving cyborgs. Santana took advantage of the situation by instructing the clones to seek out and protect the civilian POWs. It was an order he half expected Quinlan to countermand. But if the colonel heard the interchange, he gave no sign of it, as lead elements of the battalion arrived at the fi?rst switchback, where they were confronted by hundreds of Ramanthian regulars. At that point, what had been a largely long-distance duel carried out with high-tech weapons was transformed into a bloody hand-to-pincer brawl that would have been familiar to the legionnaires of the distant past. Neither side could use hand grenades, lest they kill their own soldiers, but assault rifl?es used at close quarters could punch through body armor. And some legionnaires, like Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich, carried backup weapons for such occasions. His weapon of choice was a shotgun that made distinctive boom, clack, boom sounds as it was fi?red into the crowd. Often accounting for two or three enemy soldiers with a single shot.

But the battle was far from one-sided. All of Force Commander Homar’s offi?cers and noncoms were equipped with power-assisted body armor that could literally rip a human apart. And it was one such trooper who managed to punch a fi?st through Private Ren Rosato’s chest plate, grab hold of some electronics, and jerk them out.

Rosato’s brain was still alive, but his body was out of action, which made his bio bod very angry. His name was Private Horu Bora-Sa. And while the three-hundred-pound Hudathan had long carried his father’s battle-ax into action, he had never been given an opportunity to use it before. So, having freed himself from his harness as the T-2 fell, BoraSa drew the clan’s “Ka-killer,” and went to work. Light glinted off the two-hundred-year-old ax, and gore fl?ew left and right, as the angry Hudathan shouted the ancient battle cry: “BLOOD!”

The shout was echoed by Hudathans and Humans alike, along with cries of “CAMERONE!” which was the name of the famous battle in which Captain Jean Danjou and a force of sixty-two legionnaires had taken on thousands of Mexican regulars in 1863. Those cries, plus a renewed effort by the towering T-2s, was enough to push the bugs back as the cyborgs fought for a purchase on the steep blood-slicked road. “After them!” Quinlan was heard to shout, as the Ramanthians began to retreat. “Cut the bastards down!”

“Hold!” Force Commander Homar ordered, having raised his sword over his head, and deployed his wings. Noncoms blew their whistles, and their troopers took to the air as well. It was a desperate move, because as a result of the long, slow evolutionary process, all but the young and very fi?t were limited to only short bursts of fl?ight. But the effort was successful in that it momentarily neutralized the height advantage that the cyborgs had.

Unfortunately for the Ramanthians, however, every fourth T-2 was equipped with a fl?amethrower in place of the standard energy cannon. Weapons that soon proved to be very effective against the airborne bugs. Wings burst into fl?ames as they beat against the air, and insectoid troopers screamed as they cartwheeled to their deaths.

Homar had accepted defeat by then, but was determined to take a human with him, and fl?ew straight at Colonel Quinlan. The Ramanthian was a good ten feet off the ground by that time—and so full of naturally produced stimulants that fl?ying was easy.

Quinlan’s cyborg could have blown the Ramanthian out of the air, but was engaged in pincer-to-pincer combat with an armored noncom, and couldn’t respond. There was a strange moment as the two adversaries locked eyes, the battalion commander raised his sidearm, and Homar swung his blade. Three bullets struck the Ramanthian’s face, blew the back of his head out, and sprayed the troopers behind him with gore. The sword fell, but the offi?cer’s body continued to hang there for a moment, as his wings fanned the air. So Quinlan fi?red again. “That’s for Nancy, you butt-ugly bastard!”

Homar’s body fell, a shout went up as the legionnaires surged forward, and the Trooper IIs began to run. The Ramanthians, none of whom could manage more than a fast shuffl?e, didn’t stand a chance. Even though Santana ordered his men to take prisoners, the legionnaires weren’t in the mood. Not after the slaughter in the LZ, the long march up the valley, and the attempt to eradicate them with the STO

cannon. They fi?red until their weapons ran dry, reloaded on the run, and fi?red again. So that by the time the battalion gained the top of the dam and the gun emplacement was located there, a long trail of dead bodies lay behind them. Demolition charges had been set, and were about to be detonated, when Dietrich and Fareye arrived. Both of their T-2s were out of ammo by then, but the master sergeant had four shotgun shells left, and the Naa had his knife. Three Ramanthians went down in as many seconds and the dam, not to mention the valley below, was spared. And, thanks to the efforts of Lieutenant-620 and his Seebos, all of the 1,142 civilian POWs who had been held prisoner next to the huge generators, were secured before the Ramanthians could execute them. A sharply fought action that would probably earn the young offi?cer a medal, assuming he survived long enough to pin the bauble on.

Santana jumped to the ground and walked over to stand next to the STO cannon. It was still aimed at a huge crater in the valley below. The Cyon River had begun to fl?ow into the depression by that time, and it looked as if the resulting lake would be three miles long and one mile wide. Santana knew that the next few hours would be fi?lled with casualty lists, the after-action reports that Quinlan loved so much, and a thousand other things. And once that process began, the assault on the dam would begin the slow fade into history. But right then, at that precise moment in time, a battle had been won. And that felt good. As the legionnaire looked out over the bloodied valley, and the slowly thickening clouds beyond, a single snowfl?ake came twirling down out of the lead gray sky to land on his navy parka. It was gone a few seconds later. But there would be more to come during the days, weeks, and months ahead. Because the Ramanthians had an ally—and its name was winter.

7

Tora! Tora! Tora! (Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!)

—Coded radio transmission from Commander Mitsuo Fuchida to theJapanese Fleet just prior to the attack on Pearl HarborStandard year 1941

PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

With no fl?eet left to protect it, Earth was nearly defenseless, as the Ramanthian battleship Regulus and her consorts left hyperspace, and arrowed in toward the blue planet. There were thousands of them. By far the largest fl?eet ever assembled, even during the fi?rst and second Hudathan wars. About 25 percent of the warships were Sheen vessels that had been stolen from the Confederacy, which made the occasion that much more enjoyable from a Ramanthian perspective. Still, even though the once-mighty Stern-Krieger and most of her escorts had been destroyed, elements of the human armada remained. And rather than fl?ee, as Admiral Ru Lorko fully expected them to, the “animals” came out to fi?ght. The counterattack wasn’t a smart thing to do, since the Confederacy’s ships were doomed from the start, but it was incredibly brave. And that was something Old Iron Back wasn’t expecting to see from the humans. Not after the way the animals on the Gladiator surrendered months before. But it seemed that these aliens were more honorable, and rather than live as cowards, had chosen to die like warriors.

It was an honor that Lorko, like any member of the fanatical Nira cult, was duty-bound to grant them. So as destroyers, gunboats, and even tugs threw themselves at the Ramanthian fl?eet they were snuffed out with methodical precision. Not even lifeboats were spared. A magnifi?cent slaughter that Lorko would never forget.

But as thousands of humans died, and the admiral took pleasure in his victory, the Queen felt the fi?rst stirrings of worry. Because rather than surrender, as she had been assured that they would, the surviving elements of the home fl?eet had chosen to fi?ght. In order to buy time? So that those down on the planet’s surface could better prepare their defenses? Or for some other reason? The monarch feared the latter. What if the animals were less indolent than they appeared to be? What if somewhere, buried deep within their self-indulgent culture, there was a core of steel? That could be very dangerous indeed!

The monarch couldn’t afford to let such doubts show, however, as the leading elements of her fl?eet swept the last remnants of resistance aside and began to trade salvos with the planet’s orbital-defense platforms. The human habitats were massive affairs, each housing more than six thousand animals, and possessing a vast array of weaponry. According to intelligence reports each of the four battle stations was armed with a massive Class I energy cannon, plus two dozen lesser gun emplacements, and an equal number of missile launchers. This meant that, so long as all the platforms were operational, it would be diffi?cult if not impossible to put a signifi?cant number of troops on the surface of the planet. Impressive though the orbital fortifi?cations were, however, they had a major weakness. And that was the fact that while the ring of battle stations could lose one platform and still bar access to the planet below, the destruction of a neighboring habitat would open a hole large enough that invading ships would be able to pour through. And because the battle stations couldn’t direct their weapons downwards without running the risk of hitting Earth’s surface, once enemy ships managed to penetrate the human defenses, there was nothing to fear from above.

The remaining battle platforms could launch fi?ghters, however—a threat that the Ramanthians would have to counter. For that reason Admiral Lorko planned to put most of his capital ships against Battle Stations III and IV, while sending a swarm of smaller craft to suppress the aerospace fi?ghters from I and II. If all went well, both platforms would be effectively sidelined.

Meanwhile, aware that there were fortifi?cations on the moon, Old Iron Back planned to neutralize the batteries in the fastest and most expedient manner possible—nuke them. And that was the way the human colonies on Mars and Jupiter’s moons would be dealt with as well. While Earth had value as a bargaining chip, the rest of the solar system’s settlements weren’t worth occupying, and could be dispensed with. Yes, the Queen knew that the humans would make use of the new hypercom technology to call for help, which was why a signifi?cant portion of the fl?eet was being held in reserve. But given the alliance with the Clone Hegemony, plus confl?icts elsewhere, it wasn’t clear if the Confederacy would be able to respond in time. The coming hours and days would tell. In spite of whatever minor doubts she had, the Queen believed the strategy would work as she looked down upon the jewel-like planet that hung below her. Animals lived on it now. But someday, perhaps thirty years in the future, all of them would be dead.

BATTLE STATION III, IN ORBIT AROUND PLANET EARTH,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

“All civilian and supernumerary personnel will report to the mess deck, where they will receive combat support assignments. . . .” Battle Station III’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer’s soft, dispassionate voice was supposed to communicate a sense of calm, even if that didn’t match what was going on. A fl?ight of three enemy missiles struck the station within yards of each other. And the nearly simultaneous explosions caused a shield generator to overload. That created a momentary hole in the space station’s defenses, which one of the Ramanthian fi?ghters managed to exploit by fi?ring a torpedo through it. The entire habitat shuddered as the missile penetrated the hull and killed people. Within seconds the surrounding airtight compartments sealed themselves off and prevented what could have been an even larger catastrophe as the C&C computer delivered the latest piece of bad news. “The battle station’s primary weapon system is off-line,” the computer intoned emotionlessly. “Secondary and tertiary weapons have been delegated to local control. All damage-control parties will report to . . .”

Lieutenant JG Leo Foley didn’t care where the damagecontrol parties were going to report. All he wanted to do was to escape the battle station’s brig, round up some sort of transportation, and get the hell off the platform before the bugs began to board it. Because there wasn’t a man or woman in the navy who hadn’t heard about the slaughter that took place aboard the Gladiator once the crew put down their arms and surrendered. Some of the POWs had been taken off the battlewagon to serve as slave labor, but many had been murdered, or left to die when the ship blew. And, assuming the stories were true, the chits were especially hard on offi?cers. Which Foley still was, for the moment at least. Foley’s thoughts were interrupted as a hatch opened and a fi?rst-class petty offi?cer appeared. His arms were full of printouts, and it looked as though the rating had been ordered to feed the pile of documents into a shredder bolted to the opposite bulkhead. All things considered, that was not a good sign. “Jonesy!” Foley said imploringly. “You’ve got to let me out of here! You know what the bugs will do if they board. Give me a fi?ghting chance!”

“Yeah!” a neighboring prisoner agreed loudly. “You heard the loot—give us a fi?ghting chance!”

The shredder made a grinding noise as the jailer fed sheaves of paper into it. “How stupid do you think I am?”

Jones inquired rhetorically. “Rather than fi?ght, you eight balls would run for the nearest escape pod!”

Foley had something more comfortable than an escape pod in mind, but knew better than to say so, and continued to plead his case. “No way, Jonesy. . . . Let us out of here, give us weapons, and we’ll make the bugs pay!”

There was a chorus of agreement from the other holding cells as the petty offi?cer fed the last sheets of paper into the shredder. The battle station shuddered as something blew, and the deck started to tilt as 12 percent of the habitat’s steering jets went off-line. Perhaps it was that, as much as anything else, that caused the noncom to pause and reconsider. Foley was a thief by all accounts, although the charges against the offi?cer had yet to be proven, which meant he was theoretically innocent. The rest of the prisoners were enlisted personnel who had been charged with offenses ranging from sleeping on duty to running a distillery down in the battle station’s engineering spaces. All of which were serious offenses, but they didn’t justify the death penalty. And none of them deserved to be killed like rats in a trap. Because, based on what Jonesy had heard, Foley was right. The Ramanthians were merciless. “I’ll probably regret this,” the PO said, as he rounded the duty desk. “But what the hell? I never expected to make chief anyway.”

A meaty fi?nger stabbed at the touch-sensitive screen, six indicator lights went from red to green, and there was a metallic clang as all the doors slid open. The prisoners were free!

Or so it seemed. But moments after rushing out of their cells, and milling around inside the detention facility, a new announcement came over the PA system. And, rather than the well-modulated tones typical of the C&C computer, this voice was human. Thereby raising the possibility that the Command & Control computer was belly-up, too. “This is Lieutenant Commander Nidifer,” the female voice said. “All hands will stand by to repel boarders. I repeat, all hands will stand by to repel boarders.”

Foley swore. It didn’t take a fl?eet admiral to fi?gure out that if the main battery was off-line, and most of the secondary armament was down, then the bugs were going to come aboard and clean house. And, worse yet from his perspective, the fi?ve pounds of stardust that he’d been willing to sacrifi?ce his navy career to steal was locked up where he couldn’t get at it!

But there wasn’t anything Foley could do about it, so the larcenous offi?cer made his way out into the main passageway. It was a madhouse. Horns, Klaxons, and smoke detectors continued to honk, bleat, and buzz. The sick bay was full, and had been for some time, which explained why a long line of wounded sailors and marines lay on stretchers next to the outboard bulkhead. Medics were trying to help them, but there weren’t enough hospital corpsmen to go around, so it was already too late for some of the patients. Most of the people who were jogging, limping, or being carried past Foley were dressed in pressure suits, a reminder that, because Foley didn’t have one, and wasn’t likely to get his hands on one, he could wind up sucking vacuum. Especially if the chits blew a really big hole in the hull. Foley felt someone touch his arm and turned to fi?nd that a dozen brig rats were standing behind him. A second-class petty offi?cer stepped forward. The name on his jumper was Tappas. He was thirty or so, had boyish features, and intelligent eyes.

“Okay, sir,” Tappas said calmly. “What do we do now?”

Foley’s plans, such as they were, didn’t include anyone other than himself. But the sailors looked so forlorn that he couldn’t bring himself to refuse them. “It sounds like the chits are about to board,” Foley said. “So we’re going to need some weapons.”

Tappas nodded. “Yes, sir. Then what?”

Foley, who had been planning to steal a six-person lifeboat, was forced to change his thinking. “Once we have the weapons we’ll make a run for the fl?ight deck, grab a shuttle, and head dirtside for some well deserved R&R.”

It was exactly the kind of plan that Tappas and the rest of the brig rats wanted to hear. So they were quick to follow as Foley led them up corridor toward access way P-8. The corridor would carry the group in toward the lift tubes that were clustered around the battle station’s hollow core, a twelvedeck-tall structure that was home to the habitat’s fusion reactor, the power accumulators that fed the main battery, and the argrav generators.

Thanks to the confusion, no one thought to ask Foley where he was going. With an offi?cer in the lead, the brig rats looked like a work detail as they jogged single fi?le along the main corridor, accumulating weapons along the way. Which wasn’t all that hard to do given that the wall-mounted arms lockers were open and rows of neatly racked weapons were there for the taking. Energy rifl?es for the most part, since they were less likely to punch a hole in the battle station’s hull, and let the habitat’s atmosphere out. But, having made good progress for a while, Foley and his men ran into a roadblock as they approached Lock 8. There was a fl?ash of light as an energy grenade went off, followed by a concussive bang, and the staccato whine of energy weapons as blue energy bolts stuttered back and forth. “It’s the bugs!” a wild-eyed marine captain announced, as he lurched out of the drifting smoke. Foley saw the bandage that had been tied around the other offi?cer’s head was red with blood, and one of his arms hung uselessly by his side. “Come on!” the leatherneck urged. “Follow me!”

So Foley followed, knowing that if he and his men were going to reach their objective, they would have to pass the lock. And, having very little choice, Tappas and the rest of the brig rats followed. Bodies lay in heaps where an earlier attempt to board the battle station had been repulsed. But just barely, as was obvious from the fact that most of the casualties were human, and only a handful of marines remained to defend the lock as another assault began. A hail of energy bolts sleeted back and forth as a fi?le of heavily armored Ramanthians surged out, fi?ring as they came. And, had the jarheads been forced to battle the aliens alone, the bugs would have been able to break through. But that was when Foley and the brig rats arrived, crouched behind the makeshift barrier that had been established earlier, and opened fi?re. A Ramanthian trooper went down as energy bolts from a half dozen weapons punched holes in his armor. The contest was far from one-sided, as the enemy troopers turned toward their tormentors and fi?red. They were using projectile weapons, and one of the brig rats was snatched off his feet, as a slug hit him in the chest. That made Tappas angry, and the petty offi?cer rolled an energy grenade into the enemy formation, as his companions continued to spray the aliens with energy bolts. There was a bright fl?ash of light, three Ramanthians were blown apart, and pieces of shattered chitin whirled through the air. The bugs appeared to waver, started to fall, and were subsequently cut down as the sheer volume of defensive fi?re punched holes through their armor. The battle ended three minutes later. Having never fought an infantry action before, the brig rats were impressed by their achievement, and were busy high-fi?ving each other when Tappas noticed that Foley was twenty yards up the corridor and gaining speed. “Come on!”

the petty offi?cer shouted. “Follow the loot!”

The sailors were quick to respond, as were the jarheads, who had their company commander sandwiched between them as they carried the offi?cer along. “Follow me!” the wildeyed marine exclaimed. “Let’s kill the bastards!”

Foley saw markers for access corridor P-8, took a glance over his shoulder, and was amazed to discover that the group behind him had grown even larger! Not a good thing from the fugitive’s perspective since it didn’t make sense to go AWOL with the equivalent of a brass band and a couple dozen witnesses along for the ride. But it was too late to worry about such matters as Foley rounded the corner and pounded down the corridor toward the lift tubes beyond. The battle platform shook as if palsied, and Foley heard the sound of muted thunder, as a new voice came over the PA system. It was male this time. “This is Lieutenant Simmons . . . All hands prepare to abandon ship. I repeat, all hands . . .”

Foley swore as he skidded to a halt in front of the tubes. It had been his intention to leave the ship before the rest of the crew were ordered to do so. Because there were only so many escape pods, lifeboats, and other small craft for people to use. That meant the competition for fl?yable vessels was about to become a lot more intense. Something that could already be seen in the crowd gathered in front of the large personnel lifts.

By that time Tappas knew that unlike the marine captain, Lieutenant JG Foley was never going to shout something like, “Follow me!” That made it necessary to keep a close eye on the slippery offi?cer or risk losing track of him. And sure enough, without so much as a “by-your-leave,” Tappas saw Foley break away from the steadily swelling mob and start to run. “This way!” Tappas shouted, as he waved the brig rats and the marines forward.

But others heard the order as well, and being desperate for leadership, were quick to follow. So that by the time Foley arrived in front of the lift tubes normally reserved for freight, more than a hundred people were trailing along behind him. The offi?cer swore as they fl?ooded onto the enormous platform, and repeatedly stabbed the down button, as valuable seconds ticked away. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the platform began to descend. Three long minutes passed before the gates opened, and the mob fl?ooded out onto the walkway that circled the vast hangar deck. Plastisteel windows kept the vacuum out but permitted the crowd to look out at the vessels parked on the blast-scarred deck. Even as they watched, a navy launch rose on its repellers, turned toward one of two huge openings, and accelerated away.

“We’re going to need something big,” Tappas said, as he shouted into Foley’s ear. And the offi?cer realized that the sailor was correct. And, while there weren’t many vessels that qualifi?ed as “big,” the offi?cer saw one that did. A freighter, which judging from the activity around it, would soon depart. The problem was that the ship was of Hudathan rather than human design. And while the big aliens were allies, they were more than a little insular, and somewhat unpredictable. Would the alien crew allow humans to board their ship? Especially a mob of humans? There was only one way to fi?nd out. Foley took off, with Tappas hot on his trail. The rest followed. Their feet made a thundering sound as the group followed the curving walkway past a number of locks to the one where two armed Hudathans stood guard as a train of heavily laden carts passed between them. Were the aliens loading something that already belonged to them? Or stealing what they could? There was no way to know, and Foley didn’t care as he came to a stop in front of a hulking guard. Both Hudathans raised their weapons and aimed them at the mob. At least half the humans responded in kind. A fact that provided Foley with some welcome leverage.

“Hi there,” Foley began. “We need transportation to the surface. . . . You can invite us aboard, or we’ll shoot you and commandeer the ship. Which would you prefer?”

There was a pause while one of the aliens spoke into a lip mike. And another pause as he listened to a response. Then, having been ordered to do so, he lowered his weapon. His voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “You can board—but do so quickly.”

Foley was the fi?rst one through the hatch, and the mob surged in behind him. A short fl?exible tunnel led between a pair of pressure doors and into a well-lit hold. A series of loud clangs was heard as muscular Hudathans wrestled the cargo modules off the carts and secured them to D-rings set into the deck. A Klaxon began to bleat as the last humans managed to squeeze themselves into the hold, and massive pressure doors slammed closed behind them. With no warning whatsoever, the alien ship lifted free of the deck, turned on its axis, and began to accelerate. Foley, who was being crushed from all sides, closed his eyes. The naval offi?cer had a good imagination, which meant he could visualize the scene outside the battle station, where the Ramanthians would be lying in wait. And sure enough, as the boxy freighter shot out through one of two enormous hatches and entered space, the bugs opened fi?re on her. The Hudathan vessel’s screens fl?ared, and the ship shook like a thing possessed, as the captain took evasive action. But rather than be thrown around as they could have been, the refugees were so tightly packed, that they held each other in place.

What happened next was wonderful and horrible at the same time. Wonderful, in that the fugitives were spared, but horrible because thousands of people were killed when Battle Station III exploded. Later, after there was time to refl?ect, some would maintain that the devastating explosion had been triggered by members of the space station’s crew, who, having defeated all of the reactor’s safeties, had intentionally pushed the device into overload. The action destroyed both the platform and the Ramanthian troopships that were alongside it.

Others took the position that such theories amounted to wishful thinking and amounted to jingoistic nonsense. The truth, they claimed, was that Battle Station III, like IV, had been destroyed by the enemy. This meant the loss of their troopships was the result of poor judgment rather than a suicidal act of heroism. One thing was clear, however, and that was the fact that the fl?eeing freighter had been able to escape during the aftermath of the blast, saving more than a hundred lives. That meant Foley could open his eyes, give thanks for the fact that he was still alive, and ask himself a very important question. Given the fact that the Ramanthians seemed in- tent on occupying Earth—how could an entrepreneur like him profi?t from such a horrible calamity?

NAPA VALLEY, PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

It was dark in the western hemisphere, so when Battle Station III exploded, it was like the birth of a small sun. Light strobed the surface of the planet below, which caused people such as Margaret Vanderveen to look upwards and gasp in surprise. Because even the most pessimistic of news commentators had been telling the citizens of Earth to expect a battle that would last weeks, if not months, ending in a draw if not an outright victory for the Confederacy’s navy. That was why many people were still in a state of denial even as the Ramanthians destroyed the last ships sent up to oppose them.

But not everyone. As the newly formed sun was snuffed out of existence, Margaret not only knew that thousands if not hundreds of thousands of people had died, but what would happen next. Because her husband, Charles Winther Vanderveen, was a senior government offi?cial presently stationed on Algeron. And her daughter, Christine, was a diplomat, and more than that, a survivor of many months spent in a Ramanthian POW camp. That meant the society matron not only knew what was coming, but what to do about it, starting with the very thing that most of her wealthy Napa Valley neighbors would be most reluctant to do. She must leave the lovely three-story Tudor-style house, not to mention all of the treasures within, and run like hell. Because if safety lay anywhere, it was to the northeast, along the border with what had once been the state of Nevada. A place where the Vanderveen family had a rustic vacation home. The problem was that the potential refuge lay hundreds of miles away. And while the vast majority of the population were still in a state of shock, that wouldn’t last for long. Once they went into motion, all the freeways and roads would be transformed into hellish parking lots. So even though Margaret’s heart was heavy with grief for those who had given their lives attempting to defend Earth, she knew it was important to get moving. And do so quickly. The family had six full-time servants. And having polled them, Margaret discovered that while four wanted to join their families, two preferred to remain with her. They included Thomas Benson, who served as the estate’s maintenance man, and Lisa Qwan, a young woman who was married to a naval rating currently serving aboard the Epsilon Indi. Wherever that ship might be . . . And, since John, the family’s domestic robot wasn’t sentient, he had no choice but to come as well.

So in keeping with the needs of her party, as well as the likelihood that they would be on their own for a sustained period of time, Margaret chose the estate’s sturdy four-wheeldrive pickup truck as being the best vehicle for the trip. Her employees were instructed to load the truck with food, tools, and her husband’s gun collection.

Then, having already selected a pistol for herself, Margaret went upstairs to the master bedroom. The safe was located at the back of the closet. She and her husband typically kept a few thousand credits on hand, which should be spent fi?rst, since they could be rendered worthless later on. That was when Margaret’s jewelry, and her husband’s coin collection, might very well come into play. Then, having slipped a computer loaded with all of the family’s records and photos into her pocket, the society matron took one last tour of the house in which her only child had been raised. There were dozens of beautiful vases, boxes, figurines, hangings, mementos, and paintings to choose from. But in the end it was the carved likeness of Christine that Margaret chose to take with her. Not only because it was beautiful but because Captain Antonio Santana had given it to her. And, if the legionnaire managed to live long enough, he might become her son-in-law one day.

With the box clutched under one arm, and towing a suitcase loaded with toiletries with the other, Margaret left through the front door. The air in the entryway was thick with the odor of spilled fuel. The heavily loaded truck was waiting in the driveway. A big horse trailer was hooked up behind it. “Are you sure about this?” Benson wanted to know, as Lisa took charge of the suitcase. “What if we’re wrong? What if the bugs never come?”

“Oh, they’ll come,” Margaret predicted darkly. “And looters, too . . . So let’s get this over with. We need to cover a lot of ground before dawn. The Ramanthians will be hunting by then. . . . And a lot of people are going to die.”

So Benson lit the old-fashioned lantern that had been sitting in the barn for generations. The buttery light served to illuminated his craggy, weather-beaten face from below—

and made his normally benign features look stern. Having walked up to the front door he threw the lantern inside. There was an audible whump as glass shattered and the open fl?ame made contact with the fuel-soaked carpet. The smoke alarm began to bleat as fi?ngers of fi?re explored the interior of the house. Soon the entire house was engulfed in fl?ames as a lifetime of memories went up in smoke.

But the truck was on the road by then, and Margaret refused to look back, as the headlights bored twin holes into the night. “Look!” Lisa exclaimed, as she peered through a window. “Shooting stars!”

Margaret knew that the bright streaks weren’t shooting stars. They were pieces of wreckage that, having hit the upper atmosphere, were starting to burn. The battle for Earth had been lost.

ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP REGULUS, NEAR PLANET EARTH,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Everyone aboard the battleship Regulus had something to do. Everyone except the Queen, that is, who stood with her back to the ship’s wardroom, looking out over the planet below. Based on reports received by hypercom, the Mars colony had been destroyed, efforts were under way to hunt the Jovian prospectors down, and not a single Confederacy ship had been sent to help Earth. And, as far as Earth orbit was concerned, the former moon base was little more than a radioactive crater, two of the battle stations had been bypassed, and two had been destroyed, thereby opening a path along which her aerospace fi?ghters and troop transports could safely reach the surface. Thousands of these ships were already entering the atmosphere. During the next few hours, they would begin a systemized attack on the planet’s surface installations. Military bases fi?rst, followed by civilian power plants, and targets of opportunity. Because without electricity, the humans would quickly turn on each other, thereby saving her troops a lot of casualties, and hastening victory. Which, based on preliminary reports, would come within a matter of days.

There had been grievous losses, of course, well in excess of the more optimistic estimates. Not the least of these were the troopships that had been destroyed along with the human battle station, the loss of two destroyers during ship-toship combat, and the almost incomprehensible destruction of the carrier Swarm. It had been rammed by a Class III container ship nearly twice her size. Not a military ship, but a civilian vessel, named the Maylo Chien-Chu. The freighter had been destroyed, but more than a thousand Ramanthians had also been killed.

Even with those losses in mind, the attack was still a success given that Earth was not only exposed for the taking, but the Queen’s larger goal had been realized. Which, when complete, would eventually turn human beings into an endangered species. With little more than a few million of the disgusting creatures eking out a marginal existence along the rim, and constantly on the run from the Ramanthian navy, as they were pushed farther into the unknown. The thought brought the monarch a moment of pleasure as a bright light blinked down on the surface and half the city of Chicago disappeared.

8

My business is stanching blood and feeding fainting men; my post the open fi?eld between the bullet and the hospital.

—Clara Barton

Nurse and founder of the American Red CrossStandard year 1863

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

Marine Firebase 356 (MF-356) was situated on top of a softly rounded hill that had been denuded of all vegetation and crowned with a multiplicity of improvised bunkers. MF-356’s purpose was to keep an eye on the highway that twisted snakelike through the valley below and, if necessary, bring it under fi?re from a pair of 105mm howitzers and a surface-to-surface missile launcher. There were mortars, too—which would raise hell with anyone stupid enough to attack the hill. But MF-356 was more than a tube farm. It was also home to the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Regiment, of the Marine Expeditionary Group. Which meant the base had its own landing pad, a supply dump, and a small fi?eld hospital. All of which made 356 interesting to Colonel Six and his Seebos. Because as far as Six was concerned Confederacy free breeders were only one rung above the Ramanthian free breeders, and the Alpha Clones had been wrong to enter into an alliance with them. Which meant if it became necessary to kill some marines to obtain supplies for his men, then so be it.

Having watched the fi?rebase for the better part of three days, Six knew that the time to strike was at hand. Two of battalion’s rifl?e companies, along with roughly half the weapons company, had been airlifted off the hill that morning. Judging from the full load-outs that the off-world troops were packing as they boarded the assault boats, the marines were going to be gone for a good two or three days. That left one rifl?e company, half a weapons company, and a variety of rear-echelon types to hold what the jarheads sometimes referred to as “Motherfucker-356,” which, if subjected to a conventional infantry assault, they would probably be able to do. Especially if air support was available. But Six and his company of seventy-six men had no intention of launching a conventional attack. Having seen everything he needed to see and confi?dent that his plan would work, Six lowered his glasses and pushed himself back into thick brush. The Seebos were waiting. A raw, two-lane dirt road led down from the top of the hill that the fi?rebase sat on to the paved highway below. But, with the exception of the foot patrols that the marines sent out to keep an eye on the surrounding neighborhood, the path was rarely used because just about everything came and went by air. That was a quicker, and for the most part safer, way to move equipment and personnel around, now that the allies owned the sky. All those conspired to make sentry duty especially boring for Lance Corporal Danny Tovo and his best buddy, Private Harley Haskins, as they stood guard at the main gate. Both were dressed in summerweight camos, even though it was almost freezing, and the weather wizards were predicting snow fl?urries for later in the day. The long johns that the CO had purchased for them helped some, but what the leathernecks really needed was the parkas General-453 had promised, but never delivered. Still, the CO had authorized a makeshift heater, which consisted of a fi?fty-gallon drum fi?lled with fuel-soaked dirt and whatever wood scraps happened to be available. It was positioned next to the largely symbolic pole gate, about a hundred yards outside the ring of razor wire and the constantly shifting crab mines that were supposed to keep the bugs out.

Primitive though the device was, the additional heat was welcome, and both marines were standing right next to the barrel when Haskins frowned. “Hey, Tovo,” the private said.

“What the hell is that?”

Tovo followed the other jarhead’s pointing fi?nger, looked downhill, and spotted a column of troops marching up the dirt road. Clones from the look of them—all dressed in coldweather gear. That impression was confi?rmed when Tovo raised his glasses to take a second look. “Call the captain,”

Tovo instructed. “And tell him that we’ve got company.”

Fifteen minutes later Marine Captain Arvo Smith was standing next to the burn barrel, warming his hands, when the fi?rst of the clones arrived. Jets of lung-warmed air drifted away from nearly identical faces, and their gear made gentle creaking sounds, as the Seebos came to a halt. Colonel Six was at the head of the column and waited as the marine offi?cer came out to meet him. “Good afternoon, sir,” Smith said politely, as he delivered a crisp salute. “I’m Captain Smith. . . . And this is Marine Firebase 356.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Six lied. “I’m Colonel-420, and this is A Company, 102nd Airborne. That’s what we’re calling it anyway. . . . The truth is that my men were originally part of fi?ve different units. All of which got chewed up and spit out when the bugs landed.”

“I’m glad that you and your men made it through,”

Smith said sympathetically. “Here’s hoping things improve soon.”

“Not for us,” Six replied inclusively. “Not unless we join the navy.”

That got the expected laugh. “So, how can I help?” Smith wanted to know. “We weren’t expecting you—so I don’t have any orders.”

“We’re on our way east,” Six said truthfully. “To harass the enemy. We know this country, and they don’t. So once we close with the bastards, we’ll have an advantage.”

The plan sounded iffy to Smith. Especially given the number of troops the clone had at his disposal. But who was he to argue with a full bird? “Sir, yes sir,” Smith said respectfully.

“So what we need is some MREs, a few thousand rounds of ammo, and medical treatment for a couple of men who have infected wounds. Then, if you’ll let us stay the night, we’ll be out of here in the morning.”

Everything the other offi?cer said made sense, and the clones were allies, so Smith was tempted to approve the request himself. But the battalion commander could be an asshole at times, especially where command prerogatives were concerned, so why take a chance? Having put the clones on hold, Smith walked a few yards away and activated his radio. It took the better part of fi?ve minutes to get an okay from the CO along with a lot of unsolicited advice—most of which Smith planned to ignore as he went back to speak with the man he knew as Colonel-420. “Sorry about the delay, sir. . . . Lieutenant Colonel Suki told me to welcome you to Firebase 356 on his behalf, and invited you to use his quarters. So, if you and your men will follow me, we’ll get you settled.”

Six nodded politely, let out an inaudible sigh of relief, and waved his men forward. The computer-controlled crab mines, which were located to either side of the zigzagging road, made scrabbling sounds as they crawled back and forth. Six knew that the potentially lethal devices would fl?ood the path during the hours of darkness, thereby preventing enemy forces from fi?nding their way into the fi?rebase. Hopefully, assuming that everything went according to plan, there would be no need to deal with the self-propelled explosives on the way out.

Having gone through a second defensive perimeter, Six felt a sense of satisfaction as he and his Seebos passed the stiltmounted observation tower and stopped just short of the cir- cular landing pad beyond. It consisted of rock-hard heatfused soil that resembled volcanic glass. A variety of sandbagged enclosures marked weapons emplacements and the bunkers that lay below. To the clone’s eyes the fi?rebase looked like a well-stocked supermarket that could supply his troops for weeks to come. Not with some MREs, and a few thousand rounds of ammunition, but with all of the things that the free breeders would refuse him were he to ask. Like the shoulder-launched missiles he and his men were going to need in order to fulfi?ll the next part of his plan. A rich harvest indeed! But fi?rst it would be necessary to play a part. All of the marines knew about the Seebos, but very few had seen any of the clones close-up, so there was a tendency to stare as the Hegemony’s soldiers topped the hill. One of the onlookers was Lieutenant Kira Kelly. She was a doctor, and like all of the medical staff assigned to the Marine Corps, she belonged to the navy. And with most of the battalion in the fi?eld, and having held sick call earlier that morning, she was sitting outside her surgery, enjoying a cup of hot caf when the clones arrived.

It was strange to see so many virtually identical men—

the only difference being variations in age. Having read up on the subject, Kelly knew that appearances were deceiving, because each soldier had a different personality, which was obvious from the wide variety of expressions that could be seen on their faces, the manner in which they held their bodies, and the way some of them stared at her. Kelly noticed that one man had a pronounced limp and went out to meet him. But, before she could speak to the soldier, a colonel stepped in between them. “Don’t you have some work to do, Lieutenant?” Six demanded. “Because if you don’t, I’ll speak with Captain Smith, and I’m sure we can fi?nd some.”

Kelly had short, fl?aming red hair, piercing blue eyes, and what most people agreed was a two-second fuse. So when she turned to confront Six, the physician gave him what her subordinates generally referred to as “the look.” It consisted of a narrow-eyed stare that was normally reserved for incompetents, slackers, and other assorted miscreants. That, plus the way her hands rested on her hips, was a sure sign that the shit was about to hit the fan. Two marines close enough to be privy to the exchange looked at each other and grinned.

“First, Colonel whatever your number is, I don’t report to you. Second, I don’t report to Smith either. And, third, I am doing my goddamned job! And if you try to interfere with me, Chief Kibaki will blow your motherfucking head off!”

“Sorry,” a deep basso voice said from somewhere behind the clone. “But Dr. Kelly is correct. If you try to interfere with her, I will blow your motherfucking head off. . . . Except you don’t have a mother. . . . Do you, sir?”

That caused every marine within earshot to laugh. And Six turned to discover that a huge black man was pointing a pistol at his head while grinning from ear to ear. The Seebos didn’t like that, and were reaching for their weapons, when Lieutenant-44 snapped, “As you were!” Because he knew that one wrong move could start an all-out shooting war. One the clones would lose.

Six was thunderstruck. Partly because the free-breeding female was the fi?rst person to question his authority in a long time, but also because Kelly was so pretty it took his breath away. That made the offi?cer ashamed, because such reactions were wrong, and he of all people was supposed to control himself. But when the clone turned back, ready to deliver a stern rebuke, it was to fi?nd that the doctor was helping 81 over to an ammo crate so he could take his right boot off. There was an audible click as Kibaki let the hammer down and returned the pistol to its shoulder holster. “Don’t let the doc get to you, sir. . . . Dr. Kelly has a lot of edges, but there ain’t none better! Especially when the casualties start to roll on in.”

Smith came to the clone’s rescue at that point by offering Six a lukewarm shower, and a hot meal. But Lieutenant-44 had witnessed the whole thing, and knowing his commanding offi?cer the way he did, wondered if that would be the end of it. Everyone knew Colonel Six was a horny old bastard. Everybody except him that is. . . . Which was what made the whole thing interesting. Four-four grinned and went in search of something to eat.

The night was cold, and a light snow was falling, as the clone noncoms made their rounds. There was a chorus of groans as the soldiers extricated themselves from their sleeping bags, pulled their boots on, and checked their weapons. Once the Seebos were ready, they left the relative comfort of the bunkers to which they had been assigned for the freezing cold air outside. Each squad had a separate objective—but the same basic orders: Take control of the base, prevent communications with the outside world, and keep casualties to a minimum. And the effort went well at fi?rst. Four-Four led a squad into the Bat HQ bunker, where they took Captain Smith, the duty sergeant, and the RT (radio tech) prisoner. Meanwhile, other teams took control of the weapons pits, the observation tower, and the supply dump.

In fact, the entire operation might have gone off without a hitch had it not been for the fact that Private Harley Haskins had a bad case of the runs. The problem forced the jarhead to exit his sleeping bag in a hurry, grab his weapon, and dash out into the night. The partially screened fourholer was located about twenty-fi?ve feet away, and it seemed like a mile. Having dropped trou, Haskins was forced to plant his formerly warm ass on slushy plywood as a regiment of snowfl?akes parachuted out of the sky. And that’s where he was, shitting his guts out, when a group of clones paused just beyond the privacy screen. Then, as one of the Seebo sergeants paused to remind his brothers “To use knives rather than guns,” Haskins hurried to wipe himself. Having hoisted his pants, and grabbed his weapon, the marine did what any good leatherneck would do: He followed the clones to the front gate, saw them take a sentry down, and opened fi?re. And, because Haskins was a good shot, all six of the clone bastards fell.

But the sound of gunfi?re set off what could only be described as fi?ve minutes of hell, as Haskins tried to warn his buddies over the companywide push, and those marines who hadn’t already been taken prisoner opened fi?re on anything that moved. That resulted in two deaths from friendly fi?re—

and triggered the predictable response from the Seebos. Having lost six brothers to the free breeders, the clones went on a killing rampage, even going so far as to kill a marine who was already bound hand and foot. Lieutenant-44 ran from position to position ordering his men to stop, but that took time and a number of people were killed in the interim. In the meantime the sound of gunfi?re caused Kelly to sit up and start to push the sleeping bag down off her legs when a fi?gure loomed over her. A single light had been left on inside the surgery, and because the man was backlit, it was impossible to see who the visitor was. “Chief?” Kelly inquired. “Is that you?”

“No,” Colonel Six replied fl?atly. “The chief never made it out of his sleeping bag. My men roped him to his cot.”

As Kelly continued to work herself free, she heard a half dozen shots followed by a profound silence. “What’s going on?” the doctor demanded angrily. “We’re supposed to be allies!”

“Not in my book,” Six responded darkly, as the woman’s feet hit the rubber mat. “Once we push the Ramanthians back into space, it will be your turn. In the meantime, we need supplies, and that’s why we’re here. Gather your things. You’re coming with us.”

Kelly had her boots on by then and she stood. Her eyes fl?ashed and Six felt her presence so strongly he wanted to push the free breeder down on the cot and rape her. But that would be wrong, very wrong, so the offi?cer held himself in check. “I’m staying here,” Kelly said tightly. “Now get the hell out of the way. People could be dying out there.”

“People have died out there,” Six replied grimly. “And how many more of them die will depend on you. Choose one medic. Anyone other than the chief. Pack enough supplies to support an infantry company for a month. Don’t worry about weight. You won’t have to carry it.”

Kelly folded her arms and looked up into his heavily shadowed face. “No,” she said defi?antly. “I won’t do it.”

The clone stared down into her eyes. “Sergeant . . .”

“Sir!” a noncom said, as he stepped out into the half-light.

“Go get one of the marines. Any marine. Bring him here.”

“Sir, yes sir,” the Seebo said obediently, and disappeared.

“Will one be enough?” Six inquired. “Or will it be necessary to shoot more?”

Kelly stared into the clone’s hard, implacable eyes.

“You’re crazy.”

“No,” Six replied calmly. “I’m a soldier engaged in a war against a ruthless enemy that will do anything to win. In order to beat them, we will have to be equally ruthless. Our survival depends on it.”

As luck would have it the person the clones dragged into the surgery was Hospital Corpsman Third Class Sumi. A small man, with black hair, who was clearly pissed off.

“What’s going on, ma’am?” the medic wanted to know. “The clone bastards shot a whole lot of our guys—and they won’t let me help them!”

“Here’s the deal,” Kelly said grimly, as she stood with hands on hips. “You let Sumi and I treat all of the wounded, yours included, and we’ll go with you. Otherwise, you can go ahead and start shooting. And you’d better start with me!”

It was a good suggestion. Six knew that. But even though it made sense, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot the doctor and thereby deny her services to his men. That’s what he told himself anyway as the offi?cer took a full step backwards.

“Okay, Doctor, have it your way. But hurry. I’ll give you one hour to treat the wounded and pack. Then we’re leaving. And we’ll be watching you. Step out of line, and the chief dies.”

The next hour was a living nightmare as Kelly and one of her medics sought to save as many lives as they could while Sumi packed their gear. Which, thanks to the fact that all their equipment was designed to be portable, was fairly easy to do.

The total number of casualties was shocking, and as a badly wounded marine died in Kelly’s arms, more than fi?fty sturdy civilians plodded up the hill. All of them wore homemade pack boards. One by one the Ortovs stepped up to the mountain of supplies that had been assembled for them, accepted their eighty-to one-hundred-pound loads, and made their way back down the hill. Even children could be seen through the drifting snow, bent nearly double under twenty-fi?ve-pound packs, as they followed the adults into the darkness.

Finally, at exactly 0300, Kelly was forced to break her efforts off as the last loads of medical supplies were carried away. “It’s okay,” Lance Corporal Danny Tovo said, as the doctor stood. “My leg feels pretty good all things considered. Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll come looking, and once we fi?nd these bastards, all of them are going to die.”

Kelly wanted to say that there had already been enough dying, but knew Tovo wouldn’t understand, and nodded.

“Tell the chief I said to change that dressing every eight hours. Do you read me?”

The marine grinned. His teeth looked unnaturally white in the glare produced by one of the pole-mounted lamps. “I read you fi?ve-by-fi?ve, ma’am.”

Kelly wanted to cry but didn’t as Sumi helped her into her jacket, and the two of them marched downhill. The battle for Firebase 356 was over.

PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

Christine Vanderveen was standing. She couldn’t see anything through the blindfold, but she felt the truck start to slow, and knew it was about to stop. Fisk-3 and Fisk-5 held the diplomat upright as the truck jerked to a halt. “Remember,” the clone called Alan said, as a side door slammed open. “Tell Nankool that the revolution is coming. Tell him that if the Senate will recognize the new government quickly, we’ll join the Confederacy.”

Vanderveen had heard the argument at least a dozen times by then, and wasn’t likely to forget, but she nodded.

“And,” Alan added softly, “please take care of yourself.”

Before the diplomat could make any sort of response, she was literally lifted out of the truck, and placed on the sidewalk. The blindfold came off as the truck roared away. The bright sunlight caused her to blink. It was well into the workday by that time, so very few clones were out on the street, but those who were eyed the female as she hurried away. The orderly grid-style streets made it easy to navigate. So it was only a matter of minutes before Vanderveen located the hotel to which Nankool and his delegation had been assigned. As Vanderveen entered the lobby, she was planning to contact Nankool’s secretary and request an appointment. But that wasn’t to be as someone recognized the FSO-2, shouted her name, and triggered all sorts of attention. Within moments Vanderveen was hustled away and sequestered in a conference room, where she was questioned by a succession of security teams. Starting with the beings assigned to protect Nankool, who were followed by three sternlooking clones, including two Romos and a hard-eyed Nerov. The latter were the genetic line which, if Alan and Mary had told her the truth, hunted free breeders as if they were animals. So Vanderveen was careful to be as vague as possible regarding her abductors, what their motives were, and where she had been held. All of which frustrated the policemen, who were used to browbeating the citizenry into submission but couldn’t use such tactics on a foreign diplomat. That was when a second team of Confederacy security people arrived. They escorted the recently freed diplomat to one of the “clean rooms” that had been established a few fl?oors above, where they intended to interrogate her all over again. Partially to clarify what had occurred, but mostly in an attempt to protect senior offi?cials from a similar fate, especially the president himself. So they were far from happy when a mere FSO-2 refused to answer their questions until she could sit down with Nankool and give the chief executive a fi?rsthand report on what she had learned. An assistant secretary of state tried to talk Vanderveen out of her plan, but she was insistent, and due to the nature of her relationship with Nankool the offi?cial thought it best to back off rather than risk the president’s ire. That was why three hours after her unexpected return, Vanderveen fi?nally found herself standing outside the conference room that the president was using as his offi?ce, waiting for the undersecretary of defense to leave. And eventually she did. Vanderveen noticed that the retired colonel, whom some people referred to as “the Iron Lady,” closed the door gently, as if letting herself out of a hospital room. The two of them made eye contact, and Undersecretary Zimmer forced a smile. “Hello, Christine. . . . It’s good to have you back safe and sound. You should have seen the president’s face light up when the news came in. He actually smiled!”

Vanderveen searched the older woman’s face. It was common knowledge that Nankool had been depressed ever since the attack on Earth. But the last comment seemed to hint at something more profound. “It’s that bad?”

Zimmer was silent for a moment. Then, having come to some sort of conclusion, she gave a single nod. “Yes, I’m afraid it is. . . . Take it easy on him.” And with that she left. Nankool had always been a tower of strength, but never more than during the months the two of them had been held in the Ramanthian POW camp, and to see someone like Zimmer so obviously concerned about Nankool’s emotional wellbeing came as a shock. Vanderveen knocked on the door, heard a nearly inaudible “Come in,” and palmed the access plate. The barrier whispered softly as it slid out of the way.

As Vanderveen entered Nankool sat with his back to the semidarkened room. He was staring out the only window at the angular cityscape beyond. “The bugs destroyed most of Chicago,” Nankool said fl?atly. “And all of Paris, Rio, and Sydney. All because of my stupidity. Gamma-014 was the bait, Christine. And I took it. Hook, line, and sinker. Now we’re bogged down in the Clone Hegemony, fi?ghting on some slush ball, while the bugs rape Earth. People are fi?ghting back though, killing as many chits as they can, waiting for a fl?eet that doesn’t exist. That can’t exist, unless I break my word, and pull our forces out of clone-held space. And that’s what Zimmer thinks I should do. Hell, that’s what most of my staff thinks I should do. What about you Christine? What do you think?”

Vanderveen thought about her mother, and wanted to ask about San Francisco, but held the question back as Nankool turned to face her. Vanderveen was shocked by what she saw. Though once overweight, Nankool had shed at least thirty pounds during the months spent in captivity. But the slimmed-down version was nothing compared with the way he looked now. The president’s eyes stared out at Vanderveen from blue-black caverns. His nose was like a blade that divided his gaunt face into halves as a clawlike hand came up to rub a furrowed brow. “I think you made the right decision,” Vanderveen said, desperately hoping that she was right. “And based on what I learned over the last few days, there’s a very real chance that you could cement something better than an alliance with the Hegemony. Because if certain things play out the way I expect them to, and if we take appropriate steps, it might be possible to incorporate the Hegemony into the Confederacy. Which would result in full rather than qualifi?ed military cooperation. And that could turn things around! Or at least level the playing fi?eld.”

Nankool’s cadaverous face seemed to brighten slightly.

“Really?” he inquired hopefully. “I could use some good news. . . . Tell me more.”

So Vanderveen told Nankool about Alan, Mary, and the free breeders who lived under the city. Then she told him about the revolution, what it could mean, and how the Confederacy could take advantage of it. But as she spoke, the diplomat saw the hope disappear from Nankool’s eyes and a frown appear. So as her presentation came to its conclusion, Vanderveen already knew what the president’s decision would be, even if she didn’t know why.

“Thank you,” Nankool said, “for keeping your head, and continuing to do your job under what were clearly trying circumstances. But no, I don’t think we should pursue the course you recommend, and for a variety of reasons. First, because the chances of a successful revolution are slim, but the chances that the Alpha Clones would fi?nd out about our meddling are high . . . Which means we could lose whatever benefi?ts may derive from the existing relationship. And believe me—the situation is tenuous already. General Booly wants to shoot most of his clone counterparts.

“Second, even if such a revolution were successful, a period of internal instability would almost certainly follow. And instability runs counter to our interests.

“Third, the whole idea represents a distraction at a time when it’s very important to keep our focus. I’m sorry, Christine, I really am, but I want you to forget this particular idea.”

The diplomat felt her spirits sink. Was Nankool correct?

Or was he so depressed regarding the war with the Ramanthians that his judgment was impaired? And if that was the case, what if anything, should she do about it? Having never been invited to sit down, Vanderveen was still on her feet.

“Thank you for seeing me, sir. . . . I know how busy you are.”

Nankool nodded and watched Vanderveen leave the room. Something was missing from the transaction, something important, but he couldn’t quite put his fi?nger on it. Not until the door closed behind her and the truth dawned on him. Rather than agree to his request as Christine normally would have, she had chosen to leave. Did that mean something? Or was it her way of expressing disappointment?

There was no way to know. Nankool allowed himself a protracted sigh, turned his back to the room, and looked out through the window. It wasn’t supposed to rain, not during the day, but hundreds of water droplets had appeared on the glass. That made it diffi?cult to see.

The security people were waiting for Vanderveen when she left Nankool’s makeshift offi?ce. They took her to a clean room, where she was debriefed all over again. The people who were responsible for the president’s safety were primarily interested in the abduction, the people Vanderveen had interactions with, and their ostensible motives. But the intelligence types, both of whom were listed as “support personnel” on documents submitted to the Hegemony, chose to focus their questions on the underground society, the possibility of a popular revolution, and which individuals might come into power should such an event take place. Vanderveen couldn’t answer questions like that, but told the debriefers everything that she could, in hopes that Madam Xanith, who was in charge of the Confederacy’s intelligence organization, would fi?nd the information to be credible and pass it along to Nankool. Thereby putting the possibility of a revolution in front of the president again. Finally, having been squeezed dry, Vanderveen was allowed to go to her room. It was dark by then. Vanderveen took a hot shower, ordered dinner from room service, and ate it while watching a government-produced news show. Earth lay in ruins, but thanks to thousands of brave Seebos, the battle for Gamma-014 was going well. Or so the nearly identical smooth-faced coanchors claimed. Once again Vanderveen was reminded of her mother—and wondered what had become of her. Was she lying dead in the ruins of the family estate? Had she been thrown into some sort of POW camp?

Or been attacked by looters? There were so many horrible possibilities.

Having eaten half her dinner, and being totally exhausted, she went to bed. The streetlights made patterns on the ceiling, but rather than fall asleep, Vanderveen found it impossible to turn her brain off. No matter how hard she tried, Vanderveen couldn’t get Alan, Mary, and the rest of them off her mind. Especially Alan—and that troubled her. Both because of promises made to Santana and the possibility that her interest in the clone had clouded her judgment. Did she really believe that a revolution was possible? Or was she trying to please Alan? And how did he feel about her? Did his parting words carry a special meaning? Or were they just a nice way to say good-bye?

Dozens of possibilities, problems, and questions swirled through her mind, all seemingly part of a giant puzzle that she couldn’t quite make out or fully understand. Eventually, at some point, sleep took over and carried Vanderveen into a land of troubled dreams. A place where every hand was turned against her.

But six hours later, when Vanderveen’s alarm began to chirp, and her eyes popped open, Vanderveen awoke to a sense of clarity. It was as if her subconscious had sorted through the problems and come to some conclusions. If not about her relationship with Alan, then about the political situation and the action she should take. Which, if things went wrong, would not only end her diplomatic career, but result in charges of treason. The possibility of that caused a knot to form in her stomach, but in no way sapped her resolve, as Vanderveen went to the table where the comset was waiting.

The nine-digit number had been memorized at Alan’s urging, and for reasons she hadn’t been entirely sure of at the time, withheld from the debriefers. But it was safe, or so the Fisks claimed, so long as Vanderveen followed their instructions: Dial the number, provide a time, and hang up. That was the procedure. So Vanderveen entered the correct sequence of numbers into the keypad and waited for someone or something to answer. The device at the other end rang three times before a synthesized voice came on the line. The little video screen was blank. “Leave your message at the tone,” the voice said, and a beep followed. Vanderveen said, “Ten this morning,” and broke the connection. It was 8:37—and there was a lot to do. Not the least of which was to write a carefully worded memo to the assistant secretary of state in which Vanderveen put forth her arguments in favor of a relationship with the free-breeder underground and made clear her intention to act as an unoffi?cial liaison between the revolutionaries and the Confederacy. Then, with that chore out of the way, it was time to tend to other more routine matters. Like cramming as many necessities as possible into her briefcase, which she should be able to carry out of the hotel without generating any suspicion. Then, having sealed the memo in an envelope that she intended to slip under the secretary’s door, Vanderveen left her room.

The park, located four blocks from Vanderveen’s hotel, was a popular place for retirees to congregate during the day. Especially given the fact that the dormitories that the clones lived in were rather bleak. That was why the Fisks had gone to considerable lengths to disguise themselves as harmless Hornbys, and were seated around a concrete table playing chess, when the free-breeder female entered the park, took a long look around, and sat on a bench. There were cameras in the park, lots of them, and the clock was running. But, unlike the old days when the Fisks had been forced to work alone, they had help now. Based on a signal from a Fisk, one of the Hornbys began to argue with an Ortov, and it wasn’t long before fi?sts fl?ew. That caused all of the security cameras to swivel toward the disturbance. And they were still focused on the fi?ght when the police arrived. The confl?ict came to an end at that point, but when the Romos went looking for the free breeder who had been spotted just prior to the fi?ght, the woman was gone. And none of the retirees remembered seeing her. FSO-2 Christine Vanderveen, daughter of Charles and Margaret Vanderveen, confi?dante to President Nankool, and the recipient of numerous awards for distinguished service to the Confederacy, had gone AWOL.