When Duty Calls

9

The reason we have always advocated a policy of luring the enemy to penetrate deeply is because it is the most effective tactic against a strong opponent.

—Mao Tse-tung

On Protracted War

Standard year 1938

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

It was cold. The temperature had fallen thirty degrees during the last twelve hours, a persistent ten-mile-per-hour wind was blowing down through the long mountain pass, and a curtain of snow limited visibility to half a mile. Which would have been bad enough for troops who had proper gear. But unlike the 1st REC, most of the legionnaires, marines, and Seebos who had been sent up into the mountains were dressed in multiple layers of summer clothing. Because instead of winning the battle for Gamma-014 in a matter of weeks, as General-453 had predicted they would, the allies were bogged down. Rather than leapfrog ahead, and engage the main body of General Akoto’s forces before they could retreat into the At-Sak Mountains, the clone general insisted that isolated pockets of Ramanthians be eradicated fi?rst. An error made worse by the fact that as the weather continued to deteriorate, the allies soon lost one of the few advantages they had, which was air superiority. That was in spite of General Bill Booly’s repeated attempts to offer Four-fi?ftythree counsel. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the knowledge that Earth was under attack ate at everyone’s morale as Santana and Alpha Company followed other allied units up the long, twisting road that led to Tow-Tok Pass. Because even though people like Santana had no family there, all of them had friends on the planet, and still felt a special affection for Earth even if they had been born elsewhere. For his part, Santana knew that Margaret Vanderveen was probably on her own, and he was worried about her. And Christine would be frantic—but unable to help. Santana’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden shriek of an incoming artillery round, followed by an earthshaking carump, as a column of frozen soil was lifted high into the air two hundred yards ahead. And there, suspended within the geyser, the cavalry offi?cer could see darker forms that might have been bodies. Clone civilians, most likely, who until moments before, had been trudging along at the tail end of a CVA labor battalion. Santana yelled, “Incoming!” over the company push, but knew it was unnecessary, as more Ramanthian shells fell up ahead. Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo ordered the fi?rst platoon off the right side of the highway—even as Second Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin led the second platoon to the left. It was better than continuing to march right up the center of the two-lane road, but still far from safe. Because even though the Ramanthian gunners couldn’t actually see that section of road from their positions high in the mountains, they had coordinates for every inch of the highway. That, combined with targeting data fed to them by computercontrolled drones, allowed the aliens to lay down effective fi?re along both margins of the crowded road—the only place to go since cliffs, steep slopes, and carefully laid minefi?elds kept the allies hemmed in. That’s why Route 1

was frequently referred to as “blood alley.” It was a long ribbon of wreck-strewn duracrete, every mile of which had to be paid for with lives, as the allies were sucked into Akoto’s trap.

The chits weren’t free to fi?re on their pursuers with total impunity, however. Because even though the weather was keeping most of the allied air force on the ground, there were other ways for the allies to strike back. This was where the company’s quads came in. Both of the fi?fty-ton monsters opened fi?re at once. Blue energy bolts stuttered up into the snow-laced sky as onboard computers tracked the incoming shells and soon started to intercept them. The sound of explosions echoed back and forth between the surrounding mountain peaks as the incoming weapons were detonated high in the air. Which was good—but not good enough. Because some shells managed to get through, and the quads couldn’t fi?re indefi?nitely.

“This is Alpha Six to Alpha One-Four, and Bravo OneFour,” Santana said, as Sergeant Omi Decker carried the offi?cer off the ice-encrusted pavement and into an area of wellchurned snow. The theory being that any piece of ground that had already been stepped on was probably free of mines. “How

’bout it?” Santana demanded. “Have you got a fi?x on the bastards? Over.”

“Yes, sir,” Private Simy Xiong replied confi?dently. “Stand by for outgoing. Over.”

Having tracked the incoming rounds back to their source—the quads were ready to strike at the Ramanthian artillery battery responsible for the bombardment. Missiles roared off rails, vanished into the swirling snow, and sought the enemy. “Got ’em!” Private Ivan Lupo exclaimed triumphantly, as a series of overlapping explosions was heard, and thunder rolled down the valley. “You can scratch one bug battery. Over.”

“Well done,” Santana said. “That’ll teach the bastards a lesson!”

That was true, but as Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC continued to follow the CVA unit up the wreckagestrewn road, the impact of the barrage was clear to see as Santana and his T-2 rounded a curve. A half-track loaded with civilians had taken a direct hit, killing most of those on board, and reducing the armored vehicle to little more than a pile of burning scrap. A survivor, the only one from all appearances, was kneeling next to a dead body. His hat was gone, and one arm was bloodied, but he didn’t even look up as a medic arrived to treat him.

A hundred yards farther on, Santana saw eight marines laid out in a row along the left side of the road where two androids had paused to inspect them. Both robots had the initials “GR,” painted on their alloy bodies, which meant they were members of a graves registration team. Each machine had a scanner that could be used to read the bar codes inked onto each clone’s forehead and the back of each marine’s neck. Data regarding the casualties would be uploaded to a satellite in orbit above and stored on the android’s CPU. Later, assuming that everything worked the way it was supposed to, trucks would travel the length of the highway and collect the dead. In the meantime bodies from both sides were routinely stripped of clothing, weapons, and food so that piles of partially clothed corpses were a common sight. It was growing dark by then, and it was dangerous to travel at night, which meant the company was going to need a place to bivouac, just like all the rest of the allied units strung out along two hundred miles of bloody road. So when scout Suresee Fareye spotted the turnout, and the jumble of burned-out vehicles that had been pushed into it, he was quick to alert Santana. “Alpha Six-Four to Alpha Six. Over.”

Santana looked up the road, toward where the Naa and his T-2 should be, but couldn’t see either one of them through the swirling snow. The front portion of his body was toasty warm, thanks to the heat produced by his cyborg, but his ass was ice-cold. A strange phenomenon—but one the bio bods were already getting used to. “This is Alpha Six. Go. Over.”

“I have what might make a good bivouac,” Fareye said, as a track loaded with miserable looking CVAs ground past him. “It’s on the left side of the highway. Over.”

“Good,” Santana replied, as he eyed the display on his HUD. “We’ll be there in ten minutes or so. Don’t let anyone take it. Over.”

“Roger,” the Naa confi?rmed. “Alpha Six-Four, out.”

There was no such thing as a sunset in the wintry At-Sak Mountains. Just a quick fade into darkness. And the light had already started to dim by the time Santana arrived at what had probably been a scenic lookout back during better times but had since been transformed into a nightmarish salvage yard piled high with scrap, much of which had been mangled by explosions and blackened by fi?re. As Deker carried the offi?cer over to where Fareye and his T-2 stood waiting, Santana saw that a frozen Ramanthian, his face obscured by a mask of ice, still sat at the controls of an alien crawler.

“There isn’t much room,” Santana observed cautiously, as he eyed the area around him.

“That’s true,” Fareye agreed. “But what if the T-2s were to rearrange this junk? They could use it to build defensive walls and windbreaks.”

Santana directed Deker around the pile and over to the edge of the road. But rather than the steep drop-off that Santana had been hoping for, he saw a long, gentle slope, that led to the valley below. It was diffi?cult to see, given the blowing snow, but it seemed logical to suppose that a river lay somewhere below. The incline looked innocent enough, but as Akoto and his troops had been forced to withdraw across Tow-Tok Pass, groups of fanatical warriors had been left behind. And, having gone to ground for days or even weeks, they could attack at any time. Often from above, which gave the bugs a tactical advantage, but sometimes from below. Which was the scenario that Santana feared as he looked down across the pristine snow. Fareye and Nhan had come around to join Santana by then and stood two feet away. “I think you’re right,” Santana confi?rmed. “We can make it work. But this slope bothers me. Take a couple of bio bods down and check it out. See if you can fi?nd a good spot for an OP. Something with a clear line of retreat.”

Like all Naa, Fareye had been born and raised on wintry Algeron, and was covered with fur to boot. So the prospect of taking a downhill stroll through the snow didn’t bother the legionnaire in the least. But when the noncom ordered two members of the fi?rst squad, fi?rst platoon to join him, there was plenty of good-natured bitching as the threesome disappeared over the edge.

With that process under way, Santana directed the rest of the fi?rst squad to set up a security screen around the company, while the rest of the legionnaires went to work carving out a place to camp. And, thanks to how strong the T-2s were, it wasn’t long before an oval-shaped enclosure had been created, with a quad anchoring each end of it. Special attention was paid to securing the outside slope, which, given the sheer cliff wall on the opposite side of the highway, was the point of greatest vulnerability. Then, as darkness settled over the mountains, and traffi?c dwindled to almost nothing, the fi?rst squad of the second platoon took over responsibility for security as the rest of the company began to settle in.

And that was the moment when the legionnaires were grateful to be cavalry. Because even though the quads carried tons of ammo and supplies inside their cargo bays, there was still enough room for two squads of bio bods to get in out of the cold, and grab some sleep. For a few hours at a time, anyway, because people were constantly rotating on and off guard duty, which meant that cold air fl?ooded into both cargo bays on a regular basis. But all of them knew that the occasional wintry blast was nothing compared to the subzero temperatures the infantry had to cope with. Still, if the legionnaires were privileged in some respects, those benefi?ts were offset to a great extent by the maintenance the cyborgs required. Because fl?uids that fl?owed freely at thirty-six degrees, became viscous at sixteen degrees, and started to clot at ten below. And metal parts that would normally last for years would sometimes weaken and break as they were heated during the day and allowed to cool by as much as thirty or forty degrees at night. So once a variety of carefully shielded fi?res had been started, and the bio bods had been given a chance to wolf down some half-warmed MREs, it was time to pull out the tools and get to work. Because, having been served by a T-2

all day, it was time for each bio bod to return the favor. Some of the legionnaires were certifi?ed techs, but all of them had at least nominal skills, and were expected to inspect their cybernetic mounts looking for worn actuators, leaky hydraulics, and loose fi?ttings. Then, assuming that everything was in good working order, it was time to rearm their T-2s. That activity included replenishing each cyborg’s magazines, cleaning the Trooper II’s .50-caliber machine gun, and running diagnostics on any other hardware their particular unit was packing, including energy cannons, fl?amethrowers, and missile launchers if such were authorized. All of this sucked up at least an hour and a half each evening, and was carried out with very little light, and half-frozen fi?ngers. Meanwhile, the med techs were expected to keep an eye on all of the cybernetic life-support systems, tweak them if necessary, and give medical care to their fellow bio bods on top of that! This was why the techs were rarely if ever assigned to guard duty. Nor were the NCOs and offi?cers exempt from such duties. So Santana was kneeling in the snow, fi?tting a new coupler to Deker’s left foot pod, when Private Volin emerged from the surrounding gloom. “The colonel wants to speak with you, sir. He’s on channel two.”

“Roger that,” Santana said, as he came to his feet and stuck both hands under his armpits. He had gloves, but it was diffi?cult to perform fi?ne motor tasks while wearing them. Santana knew that the persistent needles-and-pins sensation in his fi?ngers was a warning of impending frostbite.

“I’ll fi?nish up,” Volin offered, and went to one knee in order to work on the coupler. Captain Antonio Santana might be tough, but he was fair, and everyone in the company felt the same way. “If we take care of him—he’ll take care of us.”

“Thank God,” Deker rumbled. “Some competent help for a change!”

Santana gave the T-2 a one-fi?ngered salute, and left both legionnaires laughing, as he crossed the narrow compound to the point where Xiong had settled in over his legs. The quad was off-line at the moment, grabbing some sleep, but that didn’t prevent the bio bods from using the cyborg’s cargo bay.

Santana slapped a pressure plate, which caused a side hatch to cycle open, and produced the usual chorus of groans as a blast of cold air invaded the otherwise-warm interior. The forward section of the cargo bay was taken up by cargo modules, but there were various nooks and crannies, all of which had been colonized by off-duty bio bods. Lines had been rigged so that hand-washed socks and underwear could dry, and the air was thick with the pungent odors of sweat, wet clothing, and gun oil. “Sorry, sir,” Staff Sergeant Pool said, as she looked up from peeling pieces of dead skin off her toes. “We didn’t know it was you.”

“Can’t say as I blame you,” the cavalry offi?cer said mildly, as he stepped over Private Gomyo’s supine body. “Although it would be a good idea to air this place out once in a while. I wish there was some way to capture the smell so we could use it on the bugs.”

That generated some laughter as Santana made his way back to the tiny cubicle that was supposed to function as a command desk but was far too cramped to be of much use. He pulled a swing-out seat into position, sat down, and put a pair of large can-style headphones over his head, not so much for enhanced audio quality as for privacy. There was no way to know what subject Quinlan wanted to talk about. Quinlan’s face fi?lled most of the screen, but judging from what Santana could see in the background, the other man was in an offi?ce environment somewhere. “There you are,”

Quinlan said waspishly. “It’s about time.”

“Sorry, sir,” Santana said neutrally. “I came as quickly as I could.”

Quinlan sniffed, as if to say that he had doubts about that, but left them unsaid as he made use of his leather-covered swagger stick to scratch his left temple. “General Kobbi put in a request for your services,” Quinlan said disapprovingly.

“I can’t say that I appreciate losing an entire company to a wild-goose chase, but there isn’t much I can do about it, so be ready at 0800 tomorrow morning. That’s when the weather wizards predict that we’ll see a break in the cloud cover. A fl?y-form will pick you up. Tell Amoyo to proceed to Waypoint 27 and wait for you there. And don’t be late.”

Santana was about to say, “Yes, sir,” when the transmission came to an abrupt end, and electronic snow fi?lled the screen. So Santana removed the headset, made his way over to the door, and pulled his gloves back on. Then, having warned those in the immediate area, he slipped out through the hatch as quickly as he could. Quinlan clearly had reservations about whatever mission Kobbi had up his sleeve, and Santana did, too. Even though Amoyo was a good offi?cer, the legionnaire didn’t like being separated from his company for more than a few hours at a time. But there wasn’t anything Santana could do about the situation except load his XO down with well-intended advice and reinspect the perimeter before grabbing some shut-eye.

Some company commanders made it a habit to sleep in one of their quads, seeing that as a privilege of rank, but Santana preferred to spend every other night out in the open the way his troops had to. That was one of many reasons why the legionnaires respected him and looked out for him. As evidenced by the fact that anonymous individuals had already prepared a place for their captain between a crackling fi?re, and a sheet of scorched metal that was angled to refl?ect some of the heat back at him.

Having spotted his gear, Santana made a face. “What?

No turn-down service?” This served to let his benefactors know that the company commander appreciated what had been done and generated a chorus of chuckles as well. The legionnaires who were gathered around that particular fi?re were already in their bags as Santana entered his. Each legionnaire had his or her own theory about the best way to set up a Legion issue “sleep system.” The innermost layer of Santana’s “sack” consisted of a slick liner, commonly referred to as a “trash bag,” that allowed a soldier to slide into the bag with his or her boots on. And, if necessary, could serve as a body bag, too.

The liners also served to keep the inside of the actual bag relatively clean. That was nice after it had been used for a couple of months. But, rather than insert a blanket or some other type of liner into his sack to provide extra warmth, the way some people did, Santana had chosen to shove his sack into a Hudathan-sized bivvy bag “borrowed” for that purpose. All of which provided enough warmth so the offi?cer could sleep—which was what he was doing when the Ramanthians attacked. Having made his way downslope earlier, and located a pile of boulders that could serve as a forward observation post, Fareye had volunteered to stay while a steady succession of other legionnaires came and went. That was why the Naa and a bio bod named Purdo were huddled behind the rocks, sipping lukewarm caf from a thermos, when the fi?rst sounds were heard. The disturbance began with a series of crunching noises as feet broke through crusty snow, soon followed by the occasional clink of unsecured gear, and muted bursts of click-speech.

That was more than enough to bring Fareye out of hiding. And one look through his night-vision goggles was suffi?cient to confi?rm the Naa’s worst fears. Dozens of heat blobs were visible downslope and there was no question about who they belonged to. Fareye ducked, felt for the fl?are pistol, and pulled the device out. Purdo, who had complete faith in the noncom’s judgment, waited for orders. “Get ready to throw your grenades,” the Naa said. “Then, once those are gone, run like hell. And don’t stop.”

Purdo had questions, lots of them, but never got to ask any as Fareye pulled the trigger. The fl?are soared high into the sky, went off with a distinct pop, and began to drift downward. The device fl?ooded the slope with eye-aching bright light and shrill command whistles were heard as Ramanthian noncoms urged their troops forward.

When Purdo stood, he saw that at least a hundred whiteclad alien soldiers were fi?ghting their way upslope. Fortunately, the jungle-evolved bugs weren’t designed for traveling uphill through deep snow. “What the hell are you waiting for?” Fareye demanded, as he brought his assault rifl?e to bear.

“Throw your grenades!”

So Purdo threw his grenades in quick succession, and was proud of the fact that he had remembered to pull the pins, as a series of four loud explosions was heard. Enemy bodies were ripped apart as gouts of snow, blood, and broken chitin were hurled high into the air. The rest of the Ramanthians were forced to march through a grisly rain as the remains of their comrades fell around them. More alien soldiers went down as Fareye began to fi?re three-round bursts from his CA-10. Then, having emptied a magazine, the noncom turned to Purdo. “Okay! Now’s the time! Run like hell!”

The explosions woke Santana from a deep sleep. All three of the sleeping bags were equipped with rip-open closures. They came apart one after another as bursts of automatic fi?re were heard. Within seconds, both the offi?cer and his legionnaires were out of their sleep sacks, on their feet, and ready to fi?ght. “The hill!” someone shouted. “They’re coming up the hill!”

So Santana made his way over to the edge of the turnout, where Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich and others had taken cover behind the improvised barricade and were fi?ring downhill. “Keep it high!” the noncom roared. “Or you’ll answer to me!”

Santana saw why. Purdo and Fareye were only halfway up the incline. Ramanthian bullets kicked up spurts of snow all around the legionnaires, as they fought for purchase on the slippery slope, and lost their footing time after time. Darkness fell as the pistol fl?are burned out, but two even brighter lights appeared, as the quads sent 110,000-candlepower illumination rounds arcing over the valley below. The fl?ares glowed like miniature suns and swayed under small parachutes as they spiraled toward the ground.

“Run, goddamn it, run!” Staff Sergeant Briggs shouted from above, as Purdo managed to arrest the latest slide and start upwards again. But the bio bod hadn’t gone more than fi?ve feet before a slug hit him between the shoulder blades. The legionnaire’s body armor was suffi?cient to stop the projectile, but the force of the impact threw him forward. And that was when a burst of sustained machine-gun fi?re ate Purdo from below.

Santana swore as the heavy-caliber bullets followed the cavalryman’s legs up his waist and literally cut the bio bod in two. The good news was that Fareye had made it to the top of the slope by then, where Dietrich reached out to grab the Naa, and pulled him over the top of the barricade as bullets rattled on metal.

Amazingly, given the amount of fi?re they faced, approximately fi?fty Ramanthians were still on their feet and battling their way upwards. No longer constrained by the need to worry about their fellow legionnaires, the company opened fi?re with a vengeance. And with half a dozen T-2s standing almost shoulder to shoulder the sheer volume of outgoing fi?re was something to see. A lethal mixture of red tracer and bright blue energy bolts stuttered downslope, cut the advancing soldiers down, and washed the slope with their blood.

That was suffi?cient to produce a certain amount of satis- faction where the legionnaires were concerned. But Santana felt differently. Not only had one of his troopers been lost but the seemingly mindless ferocity of the attack worried him. What did it bode for the future? His people were good, very good, but would they march uphill into certain death? Would he? Maybe, but maybe not, which meant the chits would always have an advantage. At least some of the bugs wanted to die. And he, like those around him, wanted to live.

The regimental weather wizards were correct. The snow tapered off around 0400, the skies began to clear, and by 0730

the sun was out. But with no clouds to hold some heat down, the air grew even colder as the legionnaires struggled to boil water and ready themselves for the coming march. Santana battled the desire to reiterate all of the orders already given to Amoyo, took one last tour of the company, and was ready to depart when the fl?y-form appeared. Like both the T-2s and the quads, the streamlined aircraft was piloted by a living brain in a metal box. The cyborg was connected to both its fl?yable body and the outside world by a complicated system of computer-assisted electronics. Flyforms came in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. This one, which was clearly intended for the sort of mission to which it had been assigned, was equipped with helicopter-style rotors and a two-person in-line cockpit. “Watch your six, sir,”

Amoyo said, as the aircraft landed on the road. “And have a hot shower for me!”

Santana waved as he ran for the fl?y-form, put his right boot into a recess intended for that purpose, and pushed himself up so that his shoulders were level with the cockpit. The backseat was empty, so Santana threw his AWOL bag in there, before taking a second step that allowed him to enter the front passenger seat. A few seconds later he was strapping himself in as the canopy slid closed and a female voice came over the intercom. “Welcome aboard, sir,” the cyborg said respectfully. “My name is Lieutenant Pauley. The estimated fl?ight time to Division HQ is one hour and twenty minutes. The surrounding peaks are too high for me to fl?y over—so we’re going to follow Route 1 out of the mountains. The bugs took a few potshots at me on the way in—so they’ll probably do the same thing on the way out. But don’t worry because I’m feeling lucky today! Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your fl?ight more comfortable.”

And with that the fl?y-form took off.

Santana spent the fi?rst fi?ve minutes of the fl?ight looking for signs of ground fi?re and marveling over how beautiful the surrounding mountains were, but having logged only a few hours of sleep the night before, and having been freed from any sense of responsibility for what took place around him, it wasn’t long before Santana’s eyelids grew heavy and the drone of the engine lulled him to sleep. When the skids touched ground, the resulting jolt came as a surprise and served to wake the offi?cer up. “Welcome to Division HQ,” Pauley said over the intercom. “And watch that fi?rst step. It’s a lulu.”

The canopy slid back, and the rotors went whop, whop, whop as they began to slow. By the time Santana retrieved his AWOL bag, and lowered himself to the ground, a couple of techs had arrived. “It looks like you took three rounds,” one of the legionnaires observed cheerfully, as he stuck his forefi?nger into one of the .50-caliber-sized holes located just aft of the passenger compartment. “I’ll bet that got your attention!”

Santana smiled politely, and thought about how long his nap might have been, as a six-wheeled utility vehicle (UV) pulled up next to the chopper. A rather plain clone was at the wheel and barely acknowledged his passenger as Santana tossed his bag into the back and climbed in next to her. The UV jerked into motion, whirred loudly, and pursued a serpentine course out across a vast expanse of duracrete. Assault boats, shuttles, and fl?y-forms were lined up all around them. But way off in the distance, half-obscured by the yellow-gray ground-hugging smog, a row of spaceships could be seen. There was a muted roar as a navy transport rose on its repellers, swiveled into the wind, and began to gather speed. It was gone moments later, as the ship began to climb, and was soon lost in the blue-gray haze. Judging from what he could see, Santana got the feeling that the Ramanthian navy wasn’t considered to be much of a threat. Because while there were plenty of antiaircraft batteries, lots of aircraft were parked close together and would normally constitute a class-A target. The UV left the vast expanse of heat-fused tarmac a few minutes later and entered a complex maze of tents, infl?atable shelters, and makeshift shacks built out of anything that was handy. Unlike the orderly manner in which the Legion’s base on Adobe was laid out, it appeared as though Division HQ’s twisting-turning streets had been allowed to evolve naturally, which meant that a lot of time would be wasted as newcomers got lost. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to the way the various military units were grouped either. Rather than put a company of tanks next to a maintenance facility, which would make sense, Santana noticed that some bozo had assigned a battalion of Seebos to camp there instead! Which raised another question. Given that most of the fi?ghting was taking place hundreds of miles to the east— why were so many resources sitting around Division HQ?

There was no way to know, as the UV was forced to stop for a security check, before being allowed to approach what had once been the spaceport’s terminal building. It was one of the few structures General Akoto had spared so his forces could use it. But having driven the bugs out, the clones had taken over, and it soon became clear that a bunch of REMFs (rear-echelon motherfuckers) were in charge. Was that General-453’s fault? Or was the Confederacy to blame?

There was no way to know.

As Santana exited the UV with AWOL bag in hand, a brace of smartly uniformed Seebos crashed to attention. Once inside the building, Santana was required to check in at the duty desk, where a spit-and-polish NCO located the visitor’s name on his screen, and summoned a young Seebo who might have been better employed at the front. Having received his orders, the soldier preceded Santana up a stairwell. The Ramanthians had nailed sheets of plywood over the stairs to make ramps, but most of it had been torn off by then, allowing both men to proceed unimpeded. The door to conference room 302 was open, and when Santana looked in, he saw that Colonel Quinlan, General Kobbi, and a Jonathan Alan Seebo were waiting for him. General Kobbi was the fi?rst to come over and shake hands. “You look like hell,” Kobbi said cheerfully. “And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

“Thank you, sir,” Santana replied. “Fortunately, I feel better than I look.”

“And smell,” Quinlan said disapprovingly, as he came over to shake hands. “I believe you know Major Seebo-1,324?”

As it happened the legionnaire did know three-twentyfour. Both men had been stationed on LaNor during the Claw Rebellion, although Santana had been a lieutenant, and the clone a captain. “Of course!” Santana said enthusiastically. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“And you,” the major replied sincerely. “Although I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

“I think we can promise you a hot shower and a drink at the O club later on,” Kobbi said, “but lunch is on the way. In the meantime I want you to meet someone else.”

So saying, Kobbi pointed a remote at a big wall screen, and touched a button. Video swirled, then locked up. The picture that appeared was that of a Jonathan Alan Seebo. Who, based on the name printed at the bottom of the frame, had been given the number: 62,666. “He’s a handsome devil,” Three-twenty-four put in. “You have to give him that!”

Kobbi laughed along with the others, but the general’s eyes were serious as he turned toward Santana. “Good looks aside, the man you’re looking at led a company of Seebos up to an allied fi?rebase, where he and his men not only murdered twentythree marines, but took hostages, and stole two tons’ worth of supplies. Prior to that, eyewitnesses claim that Colonel Six, as his subordinates refer to him, knowingly slaughtered civilians during guerilla-style attacks on enemy forces.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” Three-twenty-four added soberly. “Based on your combat record General Kobbi and I believe you’re the right man to track Six down and bring him in.”

“Or kill him,” Quinlan said offhandedly. “Which, all things considered, might be the better course of action. It looks like the food arrived. Let’s have lunch.”

11

Be careful what you wish for—you might just get it.

—A human saying of uncertain origins

Standard year circa 2000

PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The humans called it Death Valley. Which the Ramanthians found amusing since they thought the long, low, mostly barren depression was rather pleasant—not to mention the fact that it was safe from ground attack. Because there was nowhere for humans to hide. Which was why the invaders had chosen to establish a temporary base in the area called Stovepipe Wells, a mostly fl?at area that was home to the Third Infantry Division. The division consisted of more than ten thousand combat troops, two thousand support personnel, and more than one thousand aircraft. It was one of twenty such bases that the Royal Expeditionary Force had been able to establish on the planet. All of which made the Queen feel good as her shuttle swept in over a makeshift parade ground and hundreds of perfectly aligned habs to land a few hundred feet north of the infl?atable headquarters structure erected the day before.

The landings generated a miniature sandstorm that was still swirling when a hatch whirred open, and the Queen shuffl?ed down a ramp and onto the surface of the planet where the human race had evolved. It was pleasantly warm, which was to say 110 degrees in the shade, and the Queen’s ceremo- nial body armor glittered as she paused to look around. Members of the prestigious Imperial Guard lined both sides of the carpeted walkway that led to the headquarters structure. Behind them, still other soldiers supported T-shaped poles from which rectangular fl?ags hung. One for each of the swarms that had been combined to form a single society hundreds of years earlier.

It was a historic moment, which having been captured by the usual bevy of fl?ying cameras, would be beamed to planets throughout the empire so bedazzled citizens could see their warrior queen symbolically taking possession of Earth. The air was thick with the smell of wing wax, chitin polish, and mood-altering pheromones as the Queen nodded to a group of offi?cials, who had been waiting for the better part of an hour, and preceded them into the headquarters structure.

All of which was quite impressive but not enough to quell the misgivings that Chancellor Ubatha felt. Especially when he was well outside the infl?uence of the psychoactive chemicals that perpetually surrounded the royal and impelled even her most ardent critics to do her bidding. Because even though the human fl?eet had been destroyed, and the planet’s orbital defenses had been breached, the battle for Earth was far from over. The civilian population had proven to be a good deal more combative than anticipated, and that made it diffi?cult to settle in.

In fact, rather than simply allow themselves to be slaughtered, as many high-ranking offi?cials originally believed they would, the animals continued to fi?ght back! And rather effectively, too. . . . Which was one of the reasons why the invaders were camped in such a remote location. Because every time they attempted to occupy a city, the soldiers came under fi?re from the surviving elements of various military organizations, newly formed guerrilla groups, and heavily armed criminals. All of which meant that the Queen’s plan to occupy Earth without destroying it was still in question.

It wasn’t too late, however. Victory of a sort was still within reach if only the Queen and her advisors would listen to Ubatha’s ideas. So as the royal disappeared from sight, and her staff passed between the rows of Imperial Guards, the Chancellor knew a different but no less important sort of battle was about to begin.

The Queen was waiting by the time her staff entered the room prepared for her use. It was square. There was a platform to one side where the monarch was seated on a saddle chair and backed by two bodyguards, a security precaution she objected to but her generals insisted on so long as portions of the planet’s surface remained unsecured. The area directly in front of the royal remained open to accommodate holo projections should any be required. A semicircular table, at which seven of her advisors were invited to sit, had been set up facing her. And, since Chancellor Ubatha was senior to all the rest, he was at the center. The Queen made a brief opening statement thanking those present for a job well done, and lauding, “. . . the brave warriors upon whom all of us rely.” Most of the troops would see the statement within the next day or so. What followed was a long, and to Ubatha’s thinking, overly detailed series of reports about every theater of the war except Earth. Based on reports put forth by various military offi?cers, it seemed that rather than lose the battle for Gamma-014, as everyone expected him to, General Akoto might actually win it. Especially if the navy could intervene at exactly the right moment. All thanks to the massive incompetence of General-453, who in the words of one admiral, was “the best offi?cer the Ramanthian Empire had!” Even the Queen found that concept amusing and signaled her merriment with a fl?urry of clicks.

There had been some reverses of course. . . . Because even though the Confederacy’s forces were stretched thin, they remained potent, as evidenced by a chance encounter off Imiro VI. Having run into a task force consisting of a Ramanthian cruiser, two destroyers, and three heavily loaded transports, a human destroyer and two destroyer escorts not only engaged the larger force, but won the ensuing battle! A sad day indeed. But such narratives were few and far between as Ubatha’s peers continued to brag about a long list of unalloyed victories.

Finally, once the glowing reports were over, it was time to discuss Earth. This prompted a long series of reluctantly negative reports. Because even though the empire had a large number of troops on the ground, only 10 percent of the planet’s surface could be classifi?ed as pacifi?ed, and the Queen wanted answers. Half a dozen possible solutions were put forward. All of them called for more ships, more troops, and more supplies. Eventually, having heard from the military, the Queen called upon Ubatha. “You’ve been uncharacteristically silent, Chancellor. Yet you’re rarely short of opinions! What would you have me do?”

It was the moment Ubatha had been counting on. “You will recall my original advice, Majesty,” the offi?cial intoned carefully. “I felt it would be best to glass Earth and thereby deny the humans their ancestral home.”

At that point some of the individuals seated to either side of the Chancellor began to squirm uneasily. If Ubatha was preparing to chastise the Queen for failing to follow his advice—then they wanted no part of what would almost certainly be a career-ending moment of self-justifi?cation!

But Ubatha had risen to high rank for a reason, and while he sincerely believed that a mistake had been made, the bureaucrat wasn’t so foolish as to say that publicly. “But I was mistaken,” the offi?cial admitted humbly. “Because as you pointed out at the time of our discussion, the destruction of Earth could precipitate an attack on Hive, and Earth constitutes a valuable bargaining chip as well.”

By that time the offi?cers and offi?cials seated to either side of Ubatha were wondering where the Chancellor’s comments were headed. But if the Queen was concerned, there was no sign of it in the position of her antennae or the set of her wings. “But there’s a danger,” Ubatha continued. “If we continue to throw more and more resources at Earth in what may be a futile attempt to pacify the planet, Earth could become our Gamma-014. That is to say, an expensive diversion that saps our strength even as the enemy continues to grow stronger.”

That was too much for General Ra Ool—who felt honorbound to protest. “Excuse me, Chancellor,” the old warrior said. “But that’s absurd! You heard the reports. With few exceptions, our forces are winning every battle they fi?ght!”

“Yes,” Ubatha agreed soberly, “that’s true. But what lies ahead? Even if we win the battle for Gamma-014, who’s to say whether such a mutual defeat will weaken the relationship between the Confederacy and Hegemony, or strengthen it?”

“This is ridiculous,” Ra Ool objected contemptuously. “I really must object—”

“And you have,” the Queen put in sternly. “But, if Chancellor Ubatha plans to make a fool of himself, why not give him every opportunity to do so?”

In spite of the royal’s words, Ubatha knew he had almost total control of the room. “But let’s say I’m wrong about Gamma-014,” the bureaucrat continued, with a nod toward the disgruntled General Ra Ool. “Here’s something I know for sure . . . Thraki intelligence agents tell us that an effort is presently under way to recruit and train Confederacy militia units out along the rim. Specifi?cally, three brigades of mostly human troops. And all of them are likely to be twice as tough as the animals encountered here.

“And if that doesn’t concern you,” Ubatha continued urgently, “then consider this. . . . Having joined the Confederacy, the Hudathans are no longer prohibited from raising an army. And, based on reports from our agents, that’s exactly what the barbarians are doing!”

The words produced a veritable click-storm of concern, because a number of Ramanthian planets had been badly mauled during the Hudathan wars, making it necessary for the race to briefl?y ally itself with the Confederacy in order to survive. Because the Hudathans had been cut off from all trade for many years, it was widely assumed that years would pass before the aliens would represent a threat again. A period during which the empire could defeat the Confederacy without being forced to deal with the Hudathans at the same time.

It was important information, intentionally withheld to produce maximum effect, and the Queen couldn’t help but admire the skill with which the strategy had been executed—

even if Ubatha was guilty of hoarding intelligence that should have been shared the moment it became available. She would chide him for the omission later. But privately—because it was in her interest to keep him strong. “That’s interesting,”

the royal allowed calmly. “So tell us, Chancellor, how many Hudathans should we expect to face?”

“There are roughly two billion of them,” Ubatha replied soberly. “And every male under the age of sixty qualifi?es as a potential warrior. Which means that within a year we will face another 750 million soldiers. And not just any soldiers, but Hudathan soldiers, of the sort who have laid waste to our planets before.”

“So what would you suggest? the Queen demanded. She was beginning to tire of the way in which Ubatha had manipulated the meeting, and he could literally smell her dissatisfaction in the air. “We should try to hold what we have,”

Ubatha answered succinctly. “For the reasons already given. But under no circumstances should we expend additional resources on Earth—knowing what will face us soon.”

There was a long period of silence, followed by a sequence of approving clicks from the Queen, and a discharge of pleasurable pheromones. A decision had been made. Like thousands of other small towns in North America, Mill Valley, just north of San Francisco, had come under attack by the Ramanthians. But without any military bases to threaten the aliens, or heavy industries to attract their attention, the community had escaped relatively unscathed until a wave of urban refugees poured across the latest in a succession of four Golden Gate Bridges, and laid waste to everything in their path. And that included Mill Valley’s shopping mall. What had been a beautiful state-of-the-art fi?ve-story building complete with huge skylights, plant-fi?lled atria, and hundreds of retail sales outlets had been destroyed. Each and every shop had been broken into and looted, tons of shattered glass covered the fl?oors, and bits of worthless merchandise lay everywhere. There were even uglier things, too, including dead bodies, or what was left of them. Because thousands of previously privileged pets had been abandoned in the mad rush to escape the Bay Area and were quickly turning feral, with a tendency to spread bones far and wide. In spite of all the damage that had been done to the mall, and all the theft that had taken place since, one monument to capitalism remained untouched. And that was the low, squatty structure called the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building. Though part of the mall complex, it stood like an island in the middle of a vast wreck-strewn parking lot. The depository wasn’t a bank in the regular sense of the word, because there hadn’t been much need for brick-and-mortar fi?nancial institutions for a long time, but it was a descendant of such buildings. Because the one thing rich people couldn’t do via their personal computers was to store their gold bullion, expensive jewelry, and other valuables anywhere other than within their vulnerable homes. So chains of fortresslike buildings existed to meet that need, most of which contained at least a thousand safety-deposit boxes, which could normally be accessed twenty-four hours a day by anyone having the correct code, retinal pattern, and voiceprint. When the Ramanthians attacked, and looters swept through the community, the computer in charge of the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building had gone to the deep defensive mode. This resulted in a shutdown so complete that not even bona fi?de customers could get in. And that explained why either a looter or a frustrated customer had attempted to drive a beer truck through the front door. That attack, like dozens of others, had been unsuccessful. Even the Ramanthians had taken a crack at the depository without any success. None of that troubled Lieutenant JG Leo Foley, because he and his brig rats were armed with something no other looters had access to. And that was the Mark IV Cutting Torch, which the group had “liberated” from the wreckage of a Confederacy shuttle shortly after being dumped onto the planet’s surface. A truly awesome tool that they, as navy personnel, were very familiar with. Which was how they knew the torch could cut a hole through the depository’s front door and give them access to the riches within!

Getting inside was only half the battle. Because human society had been reduced to predators and prey, and even though they were armed, plenty of other people were carrying weapons as well. The last thing they wanted to do was attract attention and be forced to fi?ght for what they already regarded as theirs. And that was why the would-be thieves were hiding inside a stolen delivery van, waiting for darkness to fall, when one of the sentries called in. He was crouched on top of the depository’s fl?at roof and his voice had a nasal quality. “Uh-oh. A Ramanthian transport is coming in from the south. . . . It’s traveling low and slow. You’ll see it in a minute or so.”

Foley swore. There was no telling what the bugs were up to, but one thing was for sure: It would be stupid to leave the protection of the van and tackle the depository just as the chits arrived. “Get down off that roof,” Foley ordered.

“And take cover. Chances are they’ll keep on going so long as we don’t give them a reason to stop.”

But the bugs had other plans, which quickly became obvious. “There it is!” Tappas exclaimed, as the sailor peered up through the van’s windshield. “I think the bastards are going to land!” The comment proved prophetic as a loud thrumming noise was heard and a black shadow slid across the parking lot. Jets of bright blue energy stabbed the ground, and metal creaked as the transport settled onto huge skids. Foley was worried by that time. He and his companions couldn’t drive away, not without drawing attention to themselves, but it would be crazy to stay. “The main hatch is opening,” Tappas observed gloomily. “That can’t be good.”

Foley agreed, as two fi?les of Ramanthian troops shuffl?ed their way down a ramp and onto the debris-strewn asphalt. Rather than heading straight for the van, as Foley feared they would, the aliens came to an abrupt halt. Then, just as Foley was starting to feel hopeful, an offi?cer brandished his sword and ordered the soldiers to form two ranks. The fi?rst of which dropped to one knee. “What the hell are they doing?” Tappas inquired, as he continued to peer out through the windshield.

Foley was just about to say, “I don’t know,” when a fl?ood of humans poured out of the ship. Some glanced back over their shoulders as if fl?eeing someone. The crowd included men, women, and children. That was when the navy offi?cer felt something cold trickle into the pit of his stomach. Because judging from the way the troops were positioned, they were about to open fi?re!

“Check your weapons,” Foley said grimly, “and start the engine. Kill the offi?cer with the van. We’ll shoot the rest.”

“But what about the depository?” one of the men inquired plaintively. “Aren’t we going rob it?”

“Not today,” Foley said, as he turned to Tappas. “Hit it!”

There was a loud roar as the engine came to life, followed by a screech as the tires fought for traction, and the vehicle shot forward. The Ramanthian offi?cer was just turning toward the van when the vehicle struck him and threw his body high into the air. It was still falling when Tappas plowed into the troopers beyond and skidded to a stop. Foley hit the door release, and it slid out of the way. “Kill them!”

the navy offi?cer yelled as his boots hit the ground. “Kill all of them!”

There were six brig rats in the van, plus two slightly mystifi?ed sentries, all of whom opened fi?re on the Ramanthians. And, having been taken by surprise, a dozen aliens went down before their comrades could return fi?re. But there were at least thirty aliens, so it might have been over then, except that the seemingly helpless civilians weren’t all that helpless. A woman yelled an order, and the civilians charged. Five or six staggered and fell, but the Ramanthians were forced to divide their fi?re, and that made the crucial difference. Two brig rats had been killed by the time all the combatants collided. Sheets of blood fl?ew as one of the alien noncoms made use of his power-assisted armor to rip a man’s arm off. But the same Ramanthian was brought down a few moments later and dispatched with a captured rifl?e. That was when Tappas pointed at the transport. “Look! They’re getting ready to lift!”

Foley saw that the sailor was correct. Vapor outgassed as the transport’s engines began to spool up. Having seen the Ramanthian troops cut down by a group of animals, the ship’s pilot was pulling out. That was fi?ne with Foley, but one of the civilians took offense. “Oh, no you don’t,” the man said, and ran toward the van.

Tappas had left the engine running, so all the civilian had to do was put the vehicle in drive and take off. The van bucked wildly as it rolled over three or four dead bodies, swerved to avoid a derelict car, and began to pick up speed. Then it was on course, headed straight for the transport’s ramp, which was in the process of being withdrawn. The vehicle bounced as it hit, but still found enough traction to run up the ramp, and bury itself in the open hatch. It was too big to pass through the rectangular opening. And the driver was trapped inside. But the additional weight caused the ship to wobble, and while the pilot struggled to compensate, one of the civilians tossed a grenade in under the van. It was an act of bravery that cost the woman dearly as the resulting explosion triggered two more, the transport rolled over, and crashed on top of her. There was a loud whump as fl?ames enveloped the ship, and the battle was over. “Damn . . .” Foley said respectfully. “That woman had balls.”

“Not exactly,” a man with a beard said. “But Marcy is with her husband now. . . . My name’s Utley. Marvin Utley. And you are?”

A huge paw enveloped Foley’s hand as the civilians began to execute wounded Ramanthians. One of them had taken possession of the offi?cer’s sword. Blood fl?ew as the blade rose and fell. “Lieutenant Foley,” the offi?cer replied automatically. Utley nodded approvingly. “The Legion or the Marine Corps?”

“Navy.”

“Well, you and your boys did one helluva job, Lieutenant. Most of us are members of the resistance,” Utley explained. “The bastards captured the whole bunch of us night before last, sentenced us to death, and brought us here for execution. It’s all part of a calculated effort to intimidate the population. They like to fl?y prisoners to remote locations, kill them, and leave the bodies. It makes for a pretty effective warning. What were you doing here anyway?”

“I’m glad we were able to help,” Foley replied evasively. And was surprised to discover that he meant it. “We’d better get the hell out of here, though. Because a quick-reaction force may be on the way.”

“You’re right about that,” Utley said fervently, before turning to yell at the rest of his group. “Take their weapons and follow Lieutenant Foley!” And that was the moment when a new and rather unlikely guerrilla leader was born. Even though all of the traffi?c on the two-lane road was headed east, and vehicles that ran out of gas were routinely pushed off the highway by the motorists behind them, the densely packed mass of vehicles was traveling at no more than one or two miles per hour when the Ramanthian fi?ghters attacked. They came out of the sun, just as they had been trained to do, and swerved back and forth as they followed the serpentine highway west toward the cities from which the people below were trying to escape.

Vehicles exploded, rear-ended each other, and ran off the road as energy bolts tore them apart. Margaret Vanderveen was driving, and managed to stop the truck without hitting the car in front of her, but could do little more than close her eyes and pray as the alien fi?ghters passed overhead. Then the Ramanthians were gone. It wasn’t the fi?rst time that the slow-moving column had been savaged. Margaret couldn’t remember how many attacks there had been as she opened her eyes to discover that she and her three companions were still alive. Others weren’t so fortunate, however, as could be seen from the fl?ames that enveloped three vehicles farther up the road. Horns were honking, and people were shouting orders at each other, as the cars just ahead of or behind burning wrecks struggled to put a few feet of space between the confl?agration and whatever they were driving. Margaret turned to the maintenance man seated next to her.

“Okay, Thomas,” Margaret said. “You win. We’ll take the next turnoff.”

Lisa Qwan, and the robot named John, were in the backseat. Both were familiar with the ongoing debate, and neither chose to intervene. All of the humans agreed it would be necessary to abandon the truck and trailer at some point, but the question had always been “when?” Margaret favored staying on the road as long as possible, because she felt they could make better progress on the road, even at a slow crawl. Benson understood that point of view but felt highway travel was too dangerous. Especially given attacks from the air. That perspective was reinforced by the sight of the stillsmoldering vehicles that a group of volunteers was pushing off the road. There would be no burial for the blackened bodies that remained inside of them. Just the slow-motion decay Mother Nature provided to all of her creations. It took the better part of an hour for the mob of cars and trucks to get under way again, but once they did, Margaret and her party were on the lookout for a turnoff. Any turnoff, so they could get off by themselves and unload their supplies without attracting the wrong sort of attention. Because while only a minority of the refugees were thieves, they were a dangerous minority, and would happily prey on anyone they could. The opportunity to part company with the metal river came an hour later, as a dirt road appeared on the right, and Margaret put the wheel over. “Here we go,” she said. “For better or for worse.”

“Let’s stop after half a mile or so,” Benson suggested.

“And put on a show of force. The truck, trailer, and contents are so valuable that there’s a high probability someone will try to follow us.”

Margaret knew it was true and felt a knot form in her stomach as the truck continued to rattle along. There were evergreens on both sides of the road, which judging from their height, had been planted fi?fteen years earlier. “Okay,”

Benson said, as the truck-trailer combination came to a halt.

“Everybody grab a gun, and make sure it’s loaded. You know the kind of people we’re dealing with. So if it comes to that, show no mercy. They won’t. Agreed?”

Unlike some military androids, John’s programming included specifi?c prohibitions against the taking of human lives, so that left only three of them to face down whoever chose to pursue them, and that was downright scary. There was reason to worry, because even as the cloud of dust generated by the truck-trailer combination began to blow away, another one appeared behind them.

“Here they come,” Benson said grimly, as he pumped a shell into the shotgun’s chamber. “Remember, if I fi?re, you fi?re, and don’t stop until they’re dead.”

What the burly maintenance man didn’t say was what the rest of the party should do if he were killed? But maybe that was obvious. They could fi?ght, or they could die. Because Benson had no intention of making his way down the middle of the road so the oncoming thieves could simply run him over, he walked next to it instead. So when the dusty yellow cab came to a stop, and two men got out of it, Benson addressed them from behind a thin screen of trees.

“Get back in the car,” Benson ordered in a loud, clear voice.

“And do it now.”

Both men carried hunting rifl?es and turned toward the sound. One of them had a narrow face, hollow cheeks, and a two-day growth of black stubble. He was dressed in an olive drab T-shirt and fi?lthy jeans. He smiled engagingly. “Hey, take it easy, pops. . . . It ain’t like that. Larry and I saw you turn off and fi?gured you could use some help. Especially with two women and all.”

“Thanks,” Benson said, grimly. “But no thanks. Now get in the car and turn it around.”

“Or what?” Larry demanded belligerently. He was wearing a blue bandana on his head, had a sheath knife dangling from the lanyard he wore around his neck, and sported knee-length shorts worn over a pair of scuffed combat boots. Larry was holding a rifl?e with his left hand, but as his right hand began to drift toward the pistol located at the small of his back, a shot rang out. The .300 Magnum bullet struck Larry between the shoulder blades, blew a hole through his bony chest, and hit a tree to Benson’s right. As the dead body continued to fall forward, the fi?rst man attempted to bring his weapon up and took half a load of double-ought buck from Benson. He dropped to his knees and appeared to be praying when the maintenance man shot him again. Blood sprayed the dirt and immediately began to dry.

Margaret stepped out onto the other side of the road at that point, still carrying a scope-mounted rifl?e. She looked pale, and Benson understood why. “You did a good job, ma’am,” the maintenance man said gruffl?y, as he stepped over one of the bodies. “The only problem being that you were fi?ring in my direction. But all’s well that ends well.”

Margaret didn’t answer. She threw up instead. Qwan led her employer off to get cleaned up, while John stripped both dead men of potentially useful items, and Benson fi?red up a chain saw. It made quick work of two trees and it wasn’t long before both were lying across the road. Not an impossible barrier by any means, but one calculated to slow pursuers down, and buy the group some additional time. Strangely enough, it was Margaret’s idea to drag the bodies over and prop them up against the fallen trees. A clear message if there ever was one!

Then, encouraged by the fact that there hadn’t been further signs of pursuit, Margaret and her companions reentered the truck and continued on their way. Having pored over all of their maps, the socialite had identifi?ed a hiking trail that cut across the road roughly two miles ahead. If they followed it toward the northeast, they would eventually connect with a second trail, which would take them to a point only a few miles from their ultimate destination. And sure enough, it wasn’t long before they saw the trail sign they were looking for, and Benson braked to a stop.

“Okay,” Benson said, as they prepared to get out. “The horses won’t be able to carry all the stuff we have—so let’s sort everything into two piles. The ‘gotta have it to stay alive pile’—and the ‘it would be nice to have pile.’ We’ll load the most important stuff fi?rst and add more if we have room. Any objections?”

There weren’t any objections, so they piled out, and work began. By unspoken agreement, it was Margaret’s job to coax the horses out of the twenty-eight-foot trailer, check the animals over, and prepare them for the trail, an activity that was likely to come as a shock to the pampered beasts since they were intended for riding and had never been used as pack animals.

The most spirited, and skittish, horse was the Arabian that belonged to Margaret’s daughter Christine. As the society matron worked to put one of Benson’s makeshift pack saddles on the mare, she took comfort from the fact that her daughter was with President Nankool and therefore safe from harm.

Meanwhile the other three sorted through everything they had, remembering that each horse would only be able to carry about one hundred thirty pounds of gear. That, plus the additional three hundred pounds of tools and supplies the humans and John could carry, added up to slightly over eight hundred pounds of freight.

So there were tough choices to make, and some arguments as a result, but there was general agreement where weapons, ammo, and medical supplies were concerned. The same was true of nonperishable food, although Qwan was forced to give up some of the canned items she was fond of, and the suitcase full of beauty products that Margaret wanted to take was voted down. Benson, by contrast, was allowed to keep almost all of his carefully selected hand tools and hardware, plus a quantity of liquor, for what he called “medicinal purposes.” The rest of the carefully packed loads consisted of tents, tarps, and kitchen equipment. Clothes were limited to three outfi?ts each. Except for John—who could go without if necessary.

It was evening by the time everything was ready, and rather than tackle the trail in the dark, the decision was made to stay where they were until morning. So a fi?re was built, and the humans gorged themselves on canned food, while John stood sentry duty. Something the android could do all night without experiencing fatigue.

Margaret thought it would be diffi?cult to sleep that night, but she surprised herself by dozing off almost immediately, in spite of the fact that she had killed a man earlier that day. And when she awoke, it was to the smell of canned hash frying over the fi?re, and coffee perking in a fi?re-blackened pot.

Margaret discovered that she was sore from sleeping on a thin backpacking mat, but otherwise fi?ne, as she set about caring for the horses. It was an endless task even under the best of circumstances, but was made even more demanding by the need to load and unload the Arabians every day, plus fi?nd something for the animals to graze on. As the three of them sat down to eat, Benson suggested they destroy the items they couldn’t take with them. But Margaret refused. “People are desperate,” she said soberly. “Who knows? The extra supplies could save a few lives. Let’s put them in the back of the truck and leave it unlocked. We’re all in this together.”

Benson knew that the supplies could just as easily fall into the hands of people who didn’t deserve any charity, but chose not to say anything. So everything they couldn’t carry went into the truck. And an hour later they were gone. More exposed in some ways, but safer in others, as the forest closed around them.

The succeeding days were hard, even harder than Margaret had expected. For even though she was in better shape than many her age, Margaret was sixty-one years old and used to a life of privilege. And it was hard work leading an often-recalcitrant horse all day, carrying a pack, and battling rugged terrain. But Margaret became tougher with each passing hour as her body grew stronger.

There were worse things than the rigors of the trail, however. Like the day when a loud thrumming noise was heard, and a Ramanthian shuttle passed directly above them before they could hide, but, inexplicably, continued on its way. And there were three encounters with other groups of refugees, one of which involved a party of twelve heavily armed men who could have easily taken everything they had. Fortunately, all of them were would-be resistance fi?ghters, on their way to join forces with a group called the Earth Liberation Brigade, which was determined to throw the bugs off the planet.

But the moments all of them dreaded most were when the trail passed remote homes, a large number of which were clearly occupied, or crossed highways, which was even worse. On one occasion it had been necessary to wait until nine in the evening for a seemingly endless Ramanthian convoy to pass. Then, like ghosts in the night, the foursome led their pack animals across the pavement and into the woods on the other side.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the group came up over the saddle between two hills and were able to look down into Deer Valley. Something they did with great care, having learned how important stealth could be over the last week or so. John took charge of the horses while the rest of them elbowed their way forward to look down from the cover of some sun-warmed rocks.

There had been a gold mine on the property hundreds of years earlier. After that played out, the valley had been used as a cattle ranch, a private estate, a bed-and-breakfast, a religious retreat, and a hunting preserve, before turning into a private estate once again when Charles and Margaret Vanderveen purchased it twenty-one years earlier. At that point the spread included a sprawling two-story ranch house, a guest cottage, an elevated water tank, an old barn, and the new stable Margaret had commissioned two years before. But as Margaret looked down into the valley, she saw little more than fi?re-blackened rubble where the house and barn had once stood. There was no way to know how the fi?re had been started or by whom. The obvious suspects were Ramanthians and/or looters. It was a terrible blow, especially after working so hard to get there, and Margaret felt a rising sense of despair as Qwan put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Margaret,” Benson said, as he eyed the valley through a pair of binoculars.

“It looks like the place was looted. Wait a minute. . . . What have we got here? Kids, that’s what, a couple dozen of them.”

Margaret wiped some of the tears away with the back of her hand. “Children? No adults?”

“Nope,” Benson replied. “Not so far as I can see. Here, take a look.”

So Margaret accepted the glasses and eyed what remained of the family retreat. There had been a caretaker, of course, but there was no sign of him, which was certainly understandable given the circumstances. From what she could see it appeared that some of the children had made themselves at home in the guest cottage, with the rest living in the stable. The oldest looked like she was fi?fteen or sixteen and the youngest about four or fi?ve. “Come on,” Margaret said, as she backed away. “We need to get down there. . . . Those children need our help.”

“I was afraid you were going to say something like that,”

Benson grumbled. But he came nevertheless—and was right beside her when Margaret made her way up a dirt road and onto her property. A ragged-looking teenage girl was positioned on the cottage’s front porch. The youngster pointed a

.22 rifl?e at Margaret as she and her companions made their way up a gentle slope. The teenager was fl?anked by twin boys and a blond girl with a runny nose. “We don’t have anything worth stealing,” the girl said tightly. “So go away.”

“My husband and I own this ranch,” Margaret said calmly.

“Not that such things mean much anymore. . . . But you need to know that my friends and I plan to stay. And we’d be happy to have you and the other children stay, too. This was a self-supporting ranch at one time, and if we work hard enough, it can be again.”

The teenager was silent for a moment before lowering the rifl?e. Margaret could see what might have been relief in the girl’s eyes. “I’m sorry about your house, ma’am. . . . It was already burned when we got here. My parents are dead, at least I think they are, and that’s the same for all the rest. I started out with the two I was babysitting—and the rest kind of glommed onto us. I couldn’t tell them no.”

“No, of course not,” Margaret said understandingly. “My name is Margaret Vanderveen, the young lady is Lisa Qwan, the man with the scruffy beard is Thomas Benson, and the android is named John.”

“My name is Christine,” the girl said. “But the kids call me Chris.”

Margaret felt a lump form in the back of her throat but managed to swallow it. “That’s a very pretty name. Well, Christine, there’s a lot of work to do, so we might as well get started.”

As night fell two days later Margaret took a fl?ashlight and made her way up an overgrown trail to the hilltop where she and her husband liked to sip hot chocolate and watch shooting stars fl?ash across the sky. And now, even though she knew that a lot of what orbited the planet was evil, she chose to look beyond that and talk to her husband.

“We’ve got a lot to do,” Margaret said, as she stared up into the night sky. “The ranch will continue to attract trouble so long as it looks habitable. So we’re moving everything of value into the old mine shaft. Benson says all of the supports are in good shape, and I trust him. Once that work is complete we’ll burn the guest cottage and the stable. We’ll keep everything hidden after that.

“The children are going to need help, Charles. . . . Lots of help—and lots of food. So that will be the next thing to worry about. But right now I’m just thinking of you. . . . On cold, cold, Algeron, worrying about me. Well, I’m fi?ne, Charles, just fi?ne. And someday, when you can come home again, I’ll be here waiting.”

There was no reply of course, there couldn’t be, but what might have been a shooting star chose that exact moment to streak across the sky, and Margaret took it as an omen. Darkness would hold sway for a while—but a new dawn would surely come.

Given that most of our forces are not equipped for arctic conditions, and the fact that there is every reason to believe that the enemy is drawing us into a trap, I recommend that we suspend the push into the mountains until we can equip all of our troops with appropriate clothing and winter conditions abate. It is my considered opinion that the existing strategy will lead to a significant and unnecessary loss of allied forces.

—An extract from COMFORCES Command Memo2842.417 from General Mortimer Kobbi toGeneral Jonathan Alan Seebo-785,453

Standard year 2842

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

Colonel Six, the surviving members of his company, two hostages taken from Marine Firebase 356, and roughly fi?fty heavily laden Ortovs had been hiking all day. And everyone was tired. But, before the clones could eat and crawl into their sleeping bags, Dr. Kira Kelly insisted on screening them. Her offi?ce consisted of an open space next to a roaring fire. It warmed her right side but did nothing for her left, as the snow continued to fall. The big fl?uffy fl?akes hissed as the fi?re consumed them. “Next!” Kelly said, and a brawny Ortov made way for a teenage boy. “How do you feel?” the doctor inquired, as the youngster took his place on her guest rock.

“Fine,” the clone replied fl?atly. His features were impassive, which was typical of the Ortov line, but the doctor could see the curiosity in his eyes. Chances were that she was the fi?rst off-world free breeder he had ever been allowed to talk to. There was something innocent about the clones—a quality that Kelly found refreshing.

“So why are you limping?” the doctor wanted to know.

“I wasn’t,” the teenager countered evasively. Kelly sighed. The Ortovs were tough, and took pride in that, sometimes to their own detriment. “Remove your left boot.”

The boy did as he was told.

“Now the sock.” Kelly noticed the careful manner in which the sock was removed and soon saw why. The teenager’s toes were black and swollen. It was a sure sign of gangrene stemming from frostbite. But which kind? The dry type, which she and Hospital Corpsman Sumi might be able to treat without having to amputate, or the wet kind? Also known as gas gangrene, which is caused by a dangerous bacteria, and can follow dry gangrene if left untreated. Kelly cupped the boy’s heel, brought the dirty foot up within inches of her nose, and immediately caught a whiff of the foul-smelling gas associated with wet gangrene. She lowered the foot, got out a roll of gauze, and began to apply it.

“I’m sorry I have to tell you this,” she said kindly. “But your toes are badly infected—and at least some of them will have to be removed. We’ll take care of that as soon as we arrive wherever it is we’re going.”

Now there was fear in the boy’s eyes. His voice quavered when he spoke. “Will I be able to walk afterwards?”

“Yes, you will,” Kelly said gently. “But it will be diffi?cult at fi?rst—and it’s going to hurt.”

Two adults were summoned to help the boy—and Kelly told them that a stretcher would be required to transport him. Then, just as they were about to carry the teenager away, he cleared his throat. “Doctor?”

Kelly looked up. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Kelly said, “You’re welcome,” and watched the other Ortovs carry the lad away. It must be strange to live with people so similar to yourself yet not have parents, Kelly thought to herself. But with more potential patients waiting to be seen, there was no opportunity to consider the complexities of clone society.

Kelly was still screening the Ortovs when a visibly angry Colonel Six appeared fi?fteen minutes later. Snow went crunch under his combat boots, and his breath jabbed the air in front of him. “There you are!” Six said accusingly, as if Kelly had been trying to hide from him. “What’s this I hear about a stretcher? The Ortovs can’t carry each other around on stretchers. Who will haul the supplies?”

Kelly was disinfecting a cut and didn’t bother to look up. The truth was that Six frightened her—but she was determined not to show it. “Beats me. It looks like you have me confused with someone who gives a shit.”

Blood rose to suffuse the clone’s face. “I rate a sir!”

“Not in my book you don’t,” Kelly replied matter-offactly, as she secured a dressing over the small laceration.

“You’re the one who wanted a doctor, and here I am. Please feel free to turn us loose anytime you want to.”

What Colonel Six really wanted had nothing to do with Kelly’s status as a doctor, but the Seebo couldn’t say that, so there was very little for him to do but turn and stomp away. Kelly watched him go out of the corner of her eye, let her breath out, and was surprised to learn that she’d been holding it. She was afraid of the clone, and appalled by his ruthlessness, yet strangely fascinated by the man as well. That frightened her all the more.

Even with some two dozen fi?res, tarps to keep the worst of the snow off, and some high-quality clone-issue mummy bags, it was a long, cold night. When morning fi?nally came, each member of the party was given a large portion of mush, along with a mug of unsweetened tea. Once breakfast was over, it was time to reshoulder the heavy packs and follow the soldiers into the silent, snow-shrouded forest. Kelly made a point of checking to ensure that the boy with the gangrenous toes was being transported on a stretcher and was pleased to discover that he was. Could that be interpreted as a peace offering from Six? And if so, why did she care? It wasn’t a subject Kelly wanted to think about, so she pushed it away.

The trail wound between stands of three-hundred-yearold trees, and crossed a dozen icy creeks and streams, before eventually coming to an end at the foot of a fl?at-topped butte. That seemed strange since all the other hills and mountains in the area had rounded if not jagged tops. The mystery deepened as Colonel Six led the column up a slanted walkway that ran along the west face of the butte. A uniform walkway that was far too wide, and far too well engineered, to have been created recently. What might have been round windows appeared at regular intervals. Many were open, but some had been sealed, using a variety of materials. So there was no telling what the structure was. Kelly had some friends by that time—one of whom was the Ortov female who had been assigned to carry about a third of the doctor’s medical equipment. The clone explained that the complex was believed to be contemporaneous with similar ruins found on about 10 percent of the planets that had been surveyed so far, which suggested it was the work of the mysterious civilization generally referred to as “the Forerunners.”

Regardless of its origins, the butte offered local civilians a place to take shelter after their town had been destroyed, which was why Six had decided to take his troops, hostages, and stolen supplies there to rest and regroup. When the people in front of her came to a sudden stop, Kelly was forced to do likewise, and took the opportunity to look around. The sky was pewter gray, and her breath fogged the air before a light breeze blew it away. Now that she was standing still, Kelly could feel her body temperature start to drop as sweat cooled her skin—a phenomenon that could lead to hypothermia unless the column began to move again. Kelly’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden fl?urry of gunshots, distant yelling, and a physical response as the entire line recoiled in response to whatever was taking place at the top of the incline. Some of the Ortovs stood on tiptoe, trying to see what was going on, but none of the clones ran. Moments later a Seebo appeared, skidded to a stop, and waved Kelly forward. “Come on! They shot Three-Three!”

Kelly had no idea who “they” were, but followed the Seebo up past the long line of Ortovs, with Sumi bringing up the rear. Two minutes later they arrived on a landing, where a Seebo lay sprawled on the bloodstained snow. Six was there, pistol in hand, kneeling beside the fallen soldier. Other clones, weapons at the ready, were clustered in front of a metal door. “Hurry!” Six said urgently, as he waved Kelly over. “They shot Three-Three in the chest!”

Kelly was struck by the obvious angst in the offi?cer’s voice—and the expression of concern on his normally stern face. He was clearly upset, and even though the doctor disagreed with the Seebo’s approach to almost everything, she felt sorry for him. And a little bit pleased to discover that there was something the cold-blooded bastard cared about. Even if it was an exact replica of himself! Yet this same man was responsible for killing more than a dozen marines. . . . So liking him was wrong. Very wrong.

“Get out of the way,” Kelly said, as both she and Sumi moved in to displace Colonel Six. “It’s a sucking chest wound,” Kelly said, as she removed a blood-soaked battle dressing and heard the characteristic hissing sound. “Where is this man’s body armor?”

“The idiot left it unzipped,” Six replied darkly. “Can you save him?”

“Of course I can,” Kelly answered confi?dently, as Sumi handed her a sterile patch. Three of the edges bore adhesive, so that when the dressing was placed over the purple-edged hole, air could escape the chest cavity. But air couldn’t enter the chest cavity when the Seebo inhaled. Which was important because the bullet had passed through the Seebo’s lung and caused it to collapse. It was a life-threatening injury if not treated immediately.

“Okay,” Kelly said. “Let’s get him inside, where it’s warmer. We’ll put the chest tube in there.”

“They won’t let us in,” Six responded angrily. “A group of revolutionaries took control of the complex.”

Kelly stood. “Revolutionaries, as in people who want to overthrow the government?”

“Yes!” Six answered emphatically. “And when I ordered them to let us in, they shot Three-Three!”

“Did you try asking instead of telling?”

“I don’t have to ask!” the soldier insisted loudly. “They are required to obey me!”

“Let me give it a try,” Kelly said reasonably, as she approached the door. The metal was dimpled where bullets had struck it, but the door was otherwise intact. A small portal located about chest high was closed at the moment, but could obviously be opened. Kelly felt sure that someone was standing just beyond the door listening and perhaps peering through a crack. “This is Lieutenant Kira Kelly,” the physician said loudly. “I’m a navy doctor. . . . You don’t trust the Seebos, and I understand that. But it doesn’t alter the fact that we have a wounded man out here—and he’s going to die unless you let us in! So, here’s what I propose. . . . Colonel Six and three of his men will offer themselves up as hostages against the good behavior of everyone else. Then, when the Seebos are ready to leave, you’ll let them go.”

“What?” Six objected. “I never agreed to that!”

“No,” Kelly said reasonably, as she turned to look at him.

“But you should. . . . Unless you want Three-Three to die.”

“Damn you!” Six said fervently. “I should never have brought you!”

“On that we can agree,” the doctor said sweetly. “So what’s your answer? Yes? Or no?”

“Yes, blast you,” the Seebo said disgustedly. “Did you hear that?” Kelly inquired, as she turned back toward the door. “The offer stands.”

There was a long pause, as if some sort of debate might be taking place within. Then came a clang as the smaller portal opened, and a bland-faced Fisk appeared. “Tell the hostages to put their hands on top of their heads,” the anarchist said brusquely. “And no funny business.”

The larger door opened moments later and was quickly slammed shut after Six and three of his Seebos went inside. A long, agonizing fi?ve minutes passed before the door swung open for a second time. A Fisk armed with a submachine gun motioned for them to enter. “There’s a room down the hall on the right. All weapons must be placed there, but two Seebos can stay to monitor them.”

Kelly looked at Lieutenant-790,444, who nodded in agreement. “Okay,” the doctor said as she turned back toward the door. “It will be as you say.”

“Good,” the Fisk said. “Welcome to the Sanctuary.”

The Forerunner complex was so huge that the approximately fi?ve hundred clones who had taken refuge in it occupied less than 5 percent of the available space. But given the bitterly cold weather, there was no incentive to spread out since doing so would require more fuel for the makeshift fi?replaces.

There was no heat source in the cell-like room that Six had been placed in, however. Just a built-in bench made out of the same material as the butte itself. So the Seebo was sitting on the bench, huddled inside his sleeping bag, when he heard the sound of voices. The door rattled and opened to admit Kelly. She was holding a brown ceramic bowl, a spoon, and a tubby thermos bottle. Even though Kelly was a bit grubby, and clearly tired, she was still beautiful. That’s what Six thought anyway, as one of guards pulled the door closed, and Kelly presented him with the bowl. “Here, hold on to that while I serve you some soup. It’s actually quite good.”

Six held the bowl with both hands while the doctor opened the thermos and poured a generous serving of chunky soup into the waiting container. It was steaming hot, and the rich odor made Six realize how hungry he really was. “Dig in,” Kelly said understandingly. “And have some of this.” So saying, Kelly removed a big chunk of crusty bread from a cargo pocket and brushed some lint off it. “Sorry,” she said.

“Bon appétit!”

Six said, “Thank you,” as he accepted the bread. “For the food and for coming. How is Three-Three?”

“He’s going to be fi?ne,” Kelly assured him, as she took a seat on the other end of the bench. “We reinfl?ated his lung, closed his wounds, and gave him a broad-spectrum antibiotic. The Ortov boy is doing well, too. . . . Although it’s going to take him some time to recover.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Six said, as he paused between spoonfuls. “So what’s going on?” he wanted to know. “Will the rebels let us leave? Or was that a lie?”

“The sooner the better is the impression I get,” Kelly responded. “I know very little about Hegemony politics, but if I understand correctly, the revolutionaries want to overthrow the Alpha Clones in favor of a democracy. And they see the Seebo line as part of the problem.”

“They’re wrong,” Six said sternly. “Dr. Hosokowa’s plan is perfect. All we need to do is follow it.”

“Well, it’s good to see that you have an open mind,” Kelly replied lightly. “No wonder they want to get rid of you!”

“They’re free breeders,” Six said accusingly. “And there’s no place for free-breeder children in the plan! So what they want won’t work.”

“It will if you change plans,” Kelly said mildly, as she came to her feet. “And let people be whatever they want to be. Or are capable of being. My father is an accountant, my mother is a teacher, and I’m a doctor. That may not be all neat and tidy, but it works! Sorry,” she said, “but they want me to return the bowl.”

Six gave her the bowl but kept what remained of the bread. “Tell me something. . . .”

Kelly raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“In your society, where people choose each other, can a soldier be with a doctor?”

Suddenly Kelly knew something she should have understood all along. In spite of all his straightlaced posturing, the Seebo was as horny as all the other men she knew, but he felt guilty about it! The schoolboy crush might have been endearing except that she had been abducted. Yet where was her anger? And why had she come to visit him? She felt guilty, confused, and strangely compassionate all at the same time. “Yes,” she answered soberly. “A soldier can be with a doctor. But only if both people want to be together.” And with that she left.

Kira Kelly was thousands of light-years away, sailing her father’s boat across a sparkling lake, when a hand shook her shoulder. “Wake up,” Six said urgently. “Get dressed! We have to leave.”

Kelly looked at her watch and groaned. It was 0126.

“Why? It’s dark outside.”

“Because a battalion of Seebos is trying to get in! I’m not sure yet, but it’s my guess that at least one of the radios we stole has a tracking device in it, which revealed our location. The rebels claim that government forces want to arrest me.”

Kelly struggled to kick the sleeping bag off. “Arrest you? Why?”

“Because I chose to fi?ght the Ramanthians my way instead of their way.”

“But what about the perfect plan?” the doctor wanted to know. “If it’s perfect, you should follow it.”

“The plan is perfect,” Six replied defensively. “But some of the people who are supposed to implement the plan aren’t. General-453 is an idiot.”

“So you’re a revolutionary,” Kelly said, as she fastened her boots. “Just like the people you detest.”

“Don’t you ever stop talking?” Six demanded. “Hurry up.”

“No,” Kelly said fi?rmly, as she stood. “There’s no need for me to hurry since I’m staying here.” It wasn’t what the doctor wanted to do, but it was what she should do, and Kelly was determined to take a stand.

“We have Sumi,” Six replied evenly. “And the revolutionaries want you to leave in spite of what you did for them. So get ready.”

Kelly felt a strange sense of relief knowing that the situation was beyond her control and went off to pack her things. Twenty minutes later a Fisk led the soldiers plus twentyfi?ve heavily laden Ortovs through a maze of passageways, down what seemed like endless fl?ights of stairs, and out into the freezing cold. The pursuing Seebos were on the other side of the butte, and the chase was on.

PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

Consistent with Founder Hosokowa’s master plan, every city of any size had an elaborate water-recovery and purifi?cation system designed to take advantage of rainfall and runoff, thereby reducing the need for dams, wells, and expensive pipelines. Once collected, the water had to be stored, which was why the lake-sized reservoir had been constructed before the city was built above it, and had subsequently been capped with a one-foot-thick duracrete lid. That, for lack of a better location, was where the Revolutionary Council was about to hold its fi?rst and possibly last public meeting. Even though the space wasn’t intended for such gatherings the high-arched ceiling, and the lights that twinkled like distant stars, gave the place a majestic feeling. Folding chairs had been placed on top of the lid, a temporary PA system was up and running, and a ring of pole-mounted spots threw light onto the seats.

Security was extremely tight. Having been given only an hour’s notice prior to the meeting, the attendees were subjected to DNA analysis as they entered and were processed through a receiving area. The precaution was intended to make sure none of the attendees were surgically altered Romos or Nerovs. Once that formality was out of the way, the representatives were funneled into twelve cleaning stations, where dozens of tiny robots were removed from each delegate and they were given new clothes. Then, and only then, were the men and women who had been chosen to represent the various lines allowed to fi?le out onto the concrete lid and take their seats.

Christine Vanderveen hated the cleaning process, but was willing to go through it, in order to be present at the very start of the revolution. Assuming Alan and the rest of the Council could muster the votes necessary to start a revolt. Because in order to succeed, the would-be revolutionaries knew they would need support from all of the genetic lines, and at least 70 percent of the overall population. Many of whom were satisfi?ed with their lot in life—or too afraid to oppose authority. Still, Alan believed suffi?cient support was available, and the Council did as well. So once Vanderveen had clothes back on, she was in a hopeful frame of mind as she walked out onto the lid. Because if the revolution was a success, and the Council kept its word, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings would have a new member. Which would be qualitatively different from the lukewarm alliance currently in place. Could that impact the battle for Earth? Vanderveen certainly hoped so, because her mother, and billions of other humans, were in desperate need of help.

Speed was of the essence, lest the Romos and Nerovs get wind of the gathering, so the last of the incoming delegates were still getting dressed when the meeting was called to order. Vanderveen, who was the only foreign dignitary present, had been given a seat in the fi?rst row, where she had a good view of the seven-person council. Though not allowed to record the proceedings or take notes, Vanderveen did the best she could to memorize what went on for inclusion in the report she planned to write later. But would anyone be willing to read a document authored by a renegade diplomat? Yes, Vanderveen thought they would, but only if the revolution was successful. Because at that point Nankool and his senior staff would be desperate for an “in.”

With the preliminaries out of the way, Alan rose to speak on behalf of the governing council. In terms of appearance, he was almost the polar opposite of Antonio Santana. Because where Alan had light-colored hair—Tony’s was midnight black. And where Alan was idealistic—Tony was cynical. And where Alan was a man of ideas—Tony was a man of action. Yet there were commonalities as well. Both men were intelligent, caring, and funny. So how to choose? Promises had been made to Tony—but the two of them weren’t engaged. All of that was going through the diplomat’s mind as Alan began to speak.

“Welcome to what may very well be a historic meeting. We are gathered here to consider the fi?rst step on a very uncertain path. Which, when you think about it, was the very thing the Founder sought to avoid. Because she believed that all of humanity’s problems, reverses, and tragedies stem from uncertainty. To remedy that, Dr. Hosokowa and her advisors created a plan, a blueprint by which predictable people would do predictable things and produce predictable results.”

Alan paused at that point. As his bright green eyes made momentary contact with hers, Vanderveen felt something akin to electricity jump the gap. “And it worked,” Alan continued soberly. “Not perfectly, not in every case, but across society as a whole. The pain previously associated with familial relationships was eliminated. The massive gap between the rich and poor was closed. Everyone had equal access to health care. Each person had useful work to do. And even nature was tamed to some extent.

“So, why give that up? Well, the answer is simple, if somewhat counterintuitive. A predictable existence may be safe, but it’s also boring, and stultifying, and colorless, and joyless. Because without pain there is no pleasure, and without challenge there is no success, and without freedom there is no opportunity to fail! And ultimately to learn from failing.

“That’s why the Council and I invited you here,” Alan continued earnestly. “To tell you that the time has come. Conditions will never be better than they are right now! Let’s take back our lives, and the right to live them as we see fi?t, even if we suffer as a result. If you authorize us to do so, we will strike a blow for freedom, and the revolution will begin. I cannot tell you when, where, or how for reasons of security. But I can assure you that once the blow is struck, you and your line will recognize the event for what it is. And that will be the moment when you must lead your brothers and sisters to the ramparts—where those who worship the status quo will defend it to the end. Thank you for listening. The voting process will begin now. No one will be allowed to leave the area until all votes have been submitted and counted.”

There was a stir as monitors began to make the rounds, and individuals representing the various lines began to cast their votes. Vanderveen was proud of both Alan, and the speech, and felt sure that Nankool would approve as well had the president been present to hear it.

The results were available fi?fteen minutes later. Vanderveen felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach as the results of the vote were brought forward for review by the Council prior to the formal announcement. Because if those seated all around the diplomat had a stake in the outcome, then so did she, and those she had chosen to represent. Whether they wanted her to do so or not!

Vanderveen watched carefully as the piece of paper was passed from person to person. She tried to read the Council’s faces, searching for the slightest glimmer of joy or disappointment, but without success. Because one of the hallmarks of the perfect society was the need to conceal one’s emotions. It was something all of the clones were extremely good at. So when Alan rose to read out the results, the diplomat had no idea of what to expect. “The votes have been counted,” the rebel said gravely as he looked out over the assemblage. “And your decision is clear. You chose freedom—

and all it entails. The revolution has begun.”

There were cheers as the delegates came to their feet, and somehow, in all the hubbub that followed, Vanderveen found herself in Alan’s arms. There was pleasure in the long, tender kiss that followed, but a sense of guilt as well. Because promises had been made on planets far, far away. Promises that echoed through her mind, robbed the kiss of its sweetness, and left the diplomat confused, for the memory of the legionnaire was bright and clear. He was smiling down at her as they lay together on the hill above her parents’ estate, toying with a lock of her hair, while a hawk wheeled high above. Then a cheer went up, the embrace came to an end, and the vision disappeared. It was a sunny day, and as Vanderveen followed Alan and a team of Fisks along a busy street toward Bio-Storage Building 516, she was struck by how unassuming the drab onestory structure was. Except that description wasn’t really accurate. For Building 516 was an inverted skyscraper that extended hundreds of feet down below the planet’s surface—

a design intended to protect both the structure and its contents from everything up to and including an orbital attack. Because there was nothing more precious to the Hegemony’s hereditary social structure than the sperm and ova stored in the carefully maintained bio vaults below. There were duplicate facilities, of course. Two of them. Both located on other planets. But neither had the symbolic and emotional heft that 516 had, which was why it was the perfect place to start the revolution. And why it was heavily guarded. But the freedom fi?ghters had a number of things going for them, including the element of surprise and a cadre of revolutionary sympathizers who were waiting inside the building. The assault was timed to coincide with the morning rush hour, a time when it was perfectly natural to see lots of people on the street. Normal, that is, until a hundred of them suddenly broke away from the main fl?ow and turned in toward the storage building.

Vanderveen heard the staccato rattle of gunfi?re as the shock troops at the head of the column took submachine guns out from under their trench coats and opened fi?re on the Seebos stationed in front of the main entrance. Only one of the six soldiers managed to fi?re a shot, but it was deadly, and the diplomat had to step over a dead Fisk as she followed the others into the building. She felt sorry for casualties from both sides of the confl?ict. The second line of defense consisted of four Romos. They were in charge of the security checkpoint located in the lobby beyond the front door, and having already been alerted by the sound of gunfi?re, were waiting with guns drawn. But as the policemen turned their attention outward, and prepared to fi?ght the invaders, two female Crowleys attacked the men from the rear. The gentechs were armed with pistols that had been smuggled into the facility piece by piece over a period of weeks. And even though the women weren’t experienced with fi?rearms, they didn’t have to be, since the unsuspecting policemen were only a few feet away.

Most of the Romos weren’t members of the hated death squads, but some were, which was justifi?cation enough as the Crowleys emptied their weapons. There was no way that body armor could protect the policemen’s heads, which appeared to explode as the high-velocity projectiles hit them. As Alan, Mary, and Vanderveen followed a phalanx of Fisks into the lobby, they were forced to pass through something resembling a slaughterhouse. The diplomat had seen a lot of violence during her relatively short career, and even been forced to take some lives herself, but she had never experienced anything worse than the sight of the blood-drenched walls, the smell of suddenly released feces, and the pathetic whimpering noises that the single survivor uttered as he lay fetuslike in a pool of his own blood.

A Fisk pointed a gun at the Romo, as if preparing to fi?nish him off, but Alan intervened. “No,” the Trotski said fi?rmly.

“He was doing what he was bred to do. . . . Just as you are.”

The anarchist gave Alan a strange look and turned away.

“We need a medic!” Alan shouted, and one paused to help, as more rebels pushed in off the street. Many were carrying supplies in case of a siege.

“All right!” Fisk-3 shouted. “The alarm has gone out—

and government troops are on the way. . . . So let’s get some people up onto the roof! And watch your backs. . . . There are still plenty of Romos and Nerovs inside the building.”

At that point, all of the measures intended to protect Building 516 from external threats were turned against the authorities, as they were forced to set up a security cordon around the now-impregnable fortress, and try to come up with a plan to force their way in. Except that the people inside had hostages, billions of them, in the form of frozen sperm and ova.

Meanwhile, as heavily armed revolutionaries worked to block all of the street-level entrances to the building, specially designated teams went looking for Romos and Nerovs who had already gone into hiding. Except that hiding was diffi?cult to do, because the Crowleys knew where to look, and it wasn’t long before the remaining security men were killed or captured, leaving Bio-Storage Building 516 secure—for the moment at least.

All of which was bad enough from the government’s point of view. But what happened next took the loss of Building 516 and multiplied the disaster by a thousand times as the enterprising revolutionaries tapped into the planetwide communications system and took control. Suddenly, out of nowhere, both the Alpha Clones and millions of citizens found themselves looking at a man who’s offi?cial name was Trotski-4, but introduced himself as “Alan.”

As the revolutionary began to explain why Building had been taken, one of Nankool’s aids rushed into the president’s temporary offi?ce to tell the chief executive about the live feed. It was only moments later, as Nankool’s staff gathered around to watch the impromptu newscast, that Undersecretary Zimmer said, “Look!” And pointed at the screen.

“It’s Christine Vanderveen!”

And sure enough, standing behind the clone named Alan, to his right, was the missing diplomat. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the president was heard to say. But Nankool had a smile on his face—and that was a wonderful sight indeed.