“Thank you,” Nankool said, “for keeping your head, and continuing to do your job under what were clearly trying circumstances. But no, I don’t think we should pursue the course you recommend, and for a variety of reasons. First, because the chances of a successful revolution are slim, but the chances that the Alpha Clones would find out about our meddling are high . . . Which means we could lose whatever benefits may derive from the existing relationship. And believe me—the situation is tenuous already. General Booly wants to shoot most of his clone counterparts.
“Second, even if such a revolution were successful, a period of internal instability would almost certainly follow. And instability runs counter to our interests.
“Third, the whole idea represents a distraction at a time when it’s very important to keep our focus. I’m sorry, Christine, I really am, but I want you to forget this particular idea.”
The diplomat felt her spirits sink. Was Nankool correct? Or was he so depressed regarding the war with the Ramanthians that his judgment was impaired? And if that was the case, what if anything, should she do about it? Having never been invited to sit down, Vanderveen was still on her feet. “Thank you for seeing me, sir. . . . I know how busy you are.”
Nankool nodded and watched Vanderveen leave the room. Something was missing from the transaction, something important, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Not until the door closed behind her and the truth dawned on him. Rather than agree to his request as Christine normally would have, she had chosen to leave. Did that mean something? Or was it her way of expressing disappointment? There was no way to know. Nankool allowed himself a protracted sigh, turned his back to the room, and looked out through the window. It wasn’t supposed to rain, not during the day, but hundreds of water droplets had appeared on the glass. That made it difficult to see.
The security people were waiting for Vanderveen when she left Nankool’s makeshift office. They took her to a clean room, where she was debriefed all over again. The people who were responsible for the president’s safety were primarily interested in the abduction, the people Vanderveen had interactions with, and their ostensible motives. But the intelligence types, both of whom were listed as “support personnel” on documents submitted to the Hegemony, chose to focus their questions on the underground society, the possibility of a popular revolution, and which individuals might come into power should such an event take place.
Vanderveen couldn’t answer questions like that, but told the debriefers everything that she could, in hopes that Madam Xanith, who was in charge of the Confederacy’s intelligence organization, would find the information to be credible and pass it along to Nankool. Thereby putting the possibility of a revolution in front of the president again.
Finally, having been squeezed dry, Vanderveen was allowed to go to her room. It was dark by then. Vanderveen took a hot shower, ordered dinner from room service, and ate it while watching a government-produced news show. Earth lay in ruins, but thanks to thousands of brave Seebos, the battle for Gamma-014 was going well. Or so the nearly identical smooth-faced coanchors claimed. Once again Vanderveen was reminded of her mother—and wondered what had become of her. Was she lying dead in the ruins of the family estate? Had she been thrown into some sort of POW camp? Or been attacked by looters? There were so many horrible possibilities.
Having eaten half her dinner, and being totally exhausted, she went to bed. The streetlights made patterns on the ceiling, but rather than fall asleep, Vanderveen found it impossible to turn her brain off. No matter how hard she tried, Vanderveen couldn’t get Alan, Mary, and the rest of them off her mind. Especially Alan—and that troubled her. Both because of promises made to Santana and the possibility that her interest in the clone had clouded her judgment. Did she really believe that a revolution was possible? Or was she trying to please Alan? And how did he feel about her? Did his parting words carry a special meaning? Or were they just a nice way to say good-bye?
Dozens of possibilities, problems, and questions swirled through her mind, all seemingly part of a giant puzzle that she couldn’t quite make out or fully understand. Eventually, at some point, sleep took over and carried Vanderveen into a land of troubled dreams. A place where every hand was turned against her.
But six hours later, when Vanderveen’s alarm began to chirp, and her eyes popped open, Vanderveen awoke to a sense of clarity. It was as if her subconscious had sorted through the problems and come to some conclusions. If not about her relationship with Alan, then about the political situation and the action she should take. Which, if things went wrong, would not only end her diplomatic career, but result in charges of treason. The possibility of that caused a knot to form in her stomach, but in no way sapped her resolve, as Vanderveen went to the table where the comset was waiting.
The nine-digit number had been memorized at Alan’s urging, and for reasons she hadn’t been entirely sure of at the time, withheld from the debriefers. But it was safe, or so the Fisks claimed, so long as Vanderveen followed their instructions: Dial the number, provide a time, and hang up. That was the procedure. So Vanderveen entered the correct sequence of numbers into the keypad and waited for someone or something to answer. The device at the other end rang three times before a synthesized voice came on the line. The little video screen was blank. “Leave your message at the tone,” the voice said, and a beep followed.
Vanderveen said, “Ten this morning,” and broke the connection.
It was 8:37—and there was a lot to do. Not the least of which was to write a carefully worded memo to the assistant secretary of state in which Vanderveen put forth her arguments in favor of a relationship with the free-breeder underground and made clear her intention to act as an unofficial liaison between the revolutionaries and the Confederacy.
Then, with that chore out of the way, it was time to tend to other more routine matters. Like cramming as many necessities as possible into her briefcase, which she should be able to carry out of the hotel without generating any suspicion. Then, having sealed the memo in an envelope that she intended to slip under the secretary’s door, Vanderveen left her room.
The park, located four blocks from Vanderveen’s hotel, was a popular place for retirees to congregate during the day. Especially given the fact that the dormitories that the clones lived in were rather bleak. That was why the Fisks had gone to considerable lengths to disguise themselves as harmless Hornbys, and were seated around a concrete table playing chess, when the free-breeder female entered the park, took a long look around, and sat on a bench. There were cameras in the park, lots of them, and the clock was running.
But, unlike the old days when the Fisks had been forced to work alone, they had help now. Based on a signal from a Fisk, one of the Hornbys began to argue with an Ortov, and it wasn’t long before fists flew. That caused all of the security cameras to swivel toward the disturbance. And they were still focused on the fight when the police arrived. The conflict came to an end at that point, but when the Romos went looking for the free breeder who had been spotted just prior to the fight, the woman was gone. And none of the retirees remembered seeing her. FSO-2 Christine Vanderveen, daughter of Charles and Margaret Vanderveen, confidante to President Nankool, and the recipient of numerous awards for distinguished service to the Confederacy, had gone AWOL.
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 mo
untains 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 first. 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-fifty-three 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 officer 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 first 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 computer-controlled drones, allowed the aliens to lay down effective fire along both margins of the crowded road—the only place to go since cliffs, steep slopes, and carefully laid minefields 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 fire 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 fifty-ton monsters opened fire 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 fire indefinitely.
“This is Alpha Six to Alpha One-Four, and Bravo One-Four,” Santana said, as Sergeant Omi Decker carried the officer off the ice-encrusted pavement and into an area of well-churned 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 fix on the bastards? Over.”
“Yes, sir,” Private Simy Xiong replied confidently. “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 wreckage-strewn 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 confirmed. “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 fire. As Deker carried the officer 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 difficult 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 confirmed. “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 find 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 first squad, first 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 first 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 traffic dwindled to almost nothing, the first 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 flooded 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 benefits were offset to a great extent by the maintenance the cyborgs required. Because fluids that flowed 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.
When Duty Calls Page 16
