When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

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

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  Night had fallen hours before, but having nothing to fear from above, the Ramanthian base was lit up like a double helix on Founder’s Day. That made it easy for Colonel Six and his men to see what was going on inside the razor wire and pick targets for their 81mm mortars. The weapons had a range of approximately six thousand yards, which meant they would be able to reach everything within the perimeter.

  To prevent such an attack, groups of civilian POWs had been placed adjacent to, and in some cases right on top of, key targets, including the command bunker, shuttle pad, and ammo dump. And, based on hours of careful scrutiny, Colonel Six knew that the hostages weren’t free breeders but law-abiding founder folk. Which put the officer in something of a moral quandary. Because as a soldier it was his job to protect civilians rather than kill them. So what should he do? Break off the attack? So the Ramanthians could kill more civilians? Or attack the base, knowing full well that POWs would die along with the enemy, in hopes that other innocent lives would be saved?

  It was an extremely difficult decision, but one the founder had anticipated, and provided for in her book, The Great Design. “When forced to choose between genetic lines,” Hosokawa had written, “the hierarchy must always choose the action that will benefit the greatest number of people. Because society is the organism—and the organism must survive.”

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

  And fire the clones did, with the 81mm mortars, which began to drop bombs into the camp with monotonous regularity, crew-served 5.56 × 45mm light machine guns, and extremely accurate sniper rifles. Which, unlike the .50-caliber weapons preferred by the Legion, fired bolts of energy. They were visible but eerily silent.

  The result was a hellish symphony in which the staccato rattle made by the light machine guns provided a sharp counterpoint to a series of percussive booms as the 81mm mortar rounds marched across the compound. Those sounds were punctuated by the steady bang, bang, bang of semiautomatic weapons, shrill screams as dozens of hostages were killed, and a chorus of strident whistles as Ramanthian noncoms attempted to rally their troops. There was outgoing fire, too, but it was spotty at best, because only a third of the Ramanthians had been awake when the attack began and dozens were cut down as they emerged from their bunkers to join the fight. All of that was clear to see because, for some inexplicable reason, the lights were still on!

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

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

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

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

  Seven adults and two children had somehow survived the slaughter, and were herded through the wire, and into the darkness beyond as a thrumming sound was heard. The key was to gain the relative safety of a cave located more than a mile away before the enemy shuttles could sweep the area for heat-emitting targets. So the clones ran, and ran some more, as the ominous thrumming noise grew steadily louder.

  Then the fugitives were there, being passed from hand to hand into the back recesses of a natural cave, as the alien reaction force circled the now-devastated camp, and began to land. The first pilot to reach the scene had the good sense to land outside the wire, but the second put down right on top of the numerals “666,” and the noise generated by his engine triggered two carefully positioned satchel charges. The resulting explosion blew the aircraft apart, killed seventeen Ramanthians, and confirmed what General Akoto already knew: The clones were down—but not necessarily out.

  PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  It was nearly noon, but thanks to a decision made by bureaucrats in the Department of Harmonious Weather, rain had been allowed to fall during the daylight hours, thereby reducing the view beyond the water-streaked window to layerings of gray. Which was the way Vanderveen felt as another sad-faced official left President Nankool’s temporary office, and thereby cleared the way for her. Something was clearly wrong—but what? Rumors were running rampant, but none of those who knew were willing to say, so that the chief executive could notify each staff member personally.

  So it was with an understandable sense of foreboding that Vanderveen entered the dimly lit office, crossed the wooden floor to stand in front of the utilitarian desk, and waited to be noticed. Nankool, who was staring out through a large picture window, heard the footsteps and turned. The smile was forced and the words had a rehearsed quality. “Christine . . . I’m sorry to pull you away from your work, but I have some bad news to impart, and I felt I should do so personally. Especially given the fact that you have family on Earth.”

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

  So the president told her, and because he’d been practicing, the story of how the home fleet had been destroyed unfolded rather smoothly. Which led to the inevitable question. “What will the Ramanthians do now?” Vanderveen wanted to know. Her lower lip had begun to quiver, but that was the only sign of how the young woman felt, as Nankool rounded the desk. She was strong, very strong, as the chief executive had learned firsthand on Jericho. But the possibility that her mother might be in danger had shaken her.


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

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

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

  Vanderveen left the office with those words still ringing in her ears, made her way down to the first floor of the building, and from there to the street. It was still raining as she turned to the left and began to walk. Office buildings rose around her, their windows eyeing the street, while their walls channeled what little foot traffic there was. But unlike Los Angeles, where multitudes crowded the streets day and night, there were only a few pedestrians to be seen. That was how it would remain until the end of the workday. A strategy intended to keep productivity high—and limit the amount of time available for “counterproductive” activities.

  But none of that applied to Fisk-Three, Four, or Five, all of whom were born revolutionaries. They were average-looking men, with uniformly light brown skin, even features, and nondescript clothes. And, as Christine Vanderveen turned a corner, they followed. Because here, after two weeks of patient surveillance, was the opportunity the Fisks had been hoping for. “She’s northbound on ninth, headed for Q Street,” the lead operative said into his sleeve mike. “Let’s take her.”

  Vanderveen, whose mind was focused on Earth and what was about to unfold there, was completely unaware of the white box truck until it swerved over to the curb. That was the moment when a side door whirred open and two Fisks grabbed her from behind. They took control of the diplomat’s arms, lifted Vanderveen off her feet, and carried her toward the truck. She tried to call for help, but there wasn’t enough time, as the men threw her inside. The whole evolution consumed no more than twenty seconds. Three more seconds than the Fisks would have preferred, but well within the margins of safety, as the young woman struggled to free herself.

  Number four pressed a pistol-shaped injector against Christine’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. Vanderveen felt a sharp pain as powerful sedatives were injected through both the weave of her jacket and into her bloodstream. There was a moment of dizziness, followed by a long fall into an ocean of blackness, and a complete cessation of thought. When Vanderveen came to, she found herself flat on her back, looking up at a blur. It gradually resolved into the face of a man who had a bar code on his forehead, intensely green eyes, and a three-day growth of beard. Judging from his expression, he was clearly concerned. “Ms. Vanderveen? How do you feel?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Including the right to have free-breeder sex and babies,” Mary said firmly.

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

  Vanderveen’s eyebrows rose. “Death squads?”

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

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

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

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

  “All so the great society could survive,” Alan concluded. “Which, when you think about it, was Hosokowa’s child.”

  “So you’re doing what you were created to do,” Vanderveen mused out loud. “Doesn’t that mean your efforts are doomed to failure? Because other lines are dedicated to canceling you out?�
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  “Not this time,” Alan said grimly. “There’s too much unhappiness. The people are ready to rise up and take control of what is rightfully theirs!”

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

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

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

  Suddenly, Alan had one of Vanderveen’s arms, and Mary had the other, as they hustled the diplomat out of the storeroom and down a hall. Off in the distance the muted rattle of automatic fire could be heard, as the secret police attempted to search the building, and the Fisks sought to delay them.

  Then Vanderveen was propelled through a doorway, down a flight of metal stairs, and into a room filled with what appeared to be the building’s heating and cooling equipment. Machines rumbled, whined, and purred as the threesome jogged between them. The floor-mounted access hatch was made out of steel, and protected by a three-sided tubular railing and a length of bright yellow chain. The sign that dangled from it read, “Danger! Authorized personnel only!” But that didn’t stop Alan from unhooking the chain—and motioning for the women to enter the restricted area. Mary turned the wheel mounted on top of the hatch, pulled the dome-shaped closure upwards, and motioned with her free hand. “Down the ladder! Quick before the Nerovs come!”