“Yes, it is,” Vanderveen replied firmly, as the security operatives were forced to let go of her arms. “I’m sorry to interrupt your meeting, sir, but it’s very important.”
“It had better be,” Nankool said grimly. “It turns out that you were correct about the possibility of a revolt, but that doesn’t make up for the fact you went AWOL, and entered into unauthorized negotiations with a group of people who are trying to overthrow a legally constituted government.”
Most of the officials agreed and said as much. “That’s right,” one of them commented. “Who does she think she is?” another wanted to know. “The president should bring charges against her,” a third put in, as the wayward diplomat made her way to the front of the room.
Vanderveen’s appearance was anything but professional. Her hair was matted, her face was covered with grime, and her clothes were caked with dried blood. Other people’s blood for the most part—acquired while working in the makeshift aid station inside Building-516. But some of the crusty matter belonged to her as evidenced by the battle dressing wrapped around the young woman’s right biceps as she turned to face the president and his staff. “I don’t blame you for being angry,” the FSO-2 said contritely. “But desperate times call for desperate measures. And, with all due respect, Mr. President, what many considered to be a legally constituted government was overthrown in order to make way for the Confederacy!”
“She has you there!” Zimmer put in lightly, and that elicited some appreciative chuckles.
“And I didn’t negotiate with the rebels,” Vanderveen put in carefully. “All I did was offer myself as a point of contact, a person who could carry a message to the Confederacy when and if the time was right. And that’s why I’m here.”
“All right,” Nankool said wearily. “Say your piece.”
Vanderveen glanced at her wrist term. “The rebels will announce a new government in one hour and forty-six minutes. The offer I brought earlier still stands. If you recognize the new government as legitimate, the provisional leadership will agree to full membership in the Confederacy, and place the Hegemony’s military under centralized command. Your command.”
“That could make a big difference,” Undersecretary of Defense Zimmer put in. “Our generals counseled against fighting a winter campaign on Gamma-014, General-453 ignored them, and now look where we are! We need the Seebos. And the shipbuilding capacity that the Hegemony has.”
“That’s all very nice,” Ambassador Cowles put in cynically. “But what if the rebel leaders get killed in the next hour or so? Or, they make their announcement, and the population fails to respond? Some sort of alliance is better than none, and if you come out for the rebels only to see them go down, we’ll wind up with nothing. Or, worse yet, a new enemy! Because at that point the Alpha Clones could become so angry they would be tempted to cut a deal with the bugs.”
It was a danger, a very real danger, and everyone in the room knew it. Even FSO-2 Vanderveen. Nankool looked from face to face, made a fateful decision, and opened his mouth to speak.
The sky was clear, the air was still, and it was hot. Sirens could be heard in the distance, as the badly overtaxed Romos rushed to cope with still another demonstration. But the Bio-Security Building was surrounded by a cocoon of silence until a long string of airborne surveillance cams snaked out of the city beyond and began to circle 516 like a necklace of black pearls. Taken together, they generated a loud humming noise that caused a tremendous flutter of wings as hundreds of rot birds left the bodies they had been perched on and took to the air. Don’t go far, Alan thought to himself, as the scavengers lifted off. There will be more to eat soon.
“Okay,” Fisk-Five said, as he aimed a small handheld camera at the rebel’s face. “Say what you’ve got to say—and hurry up! We don’t have much time.”
The government had done everything possible to keep the rebels off the main com channels, but that was hard to do, so long as all the technicians continued to side with the rebels. “My fellow citizens,” the rebel began. “My clone name is Trotski-Four. But my new name is Alan Free-man. As I speak to you, the forces of oppression are preparing to attack Bio-Storage Building 516. If the Alpha Clones are successful in their efforts to kill, and thereby silence us, they will insist that they did so in an effort to protect you. But what they are really trying to protect is the status quo, which is to say their power, so they can pass it along to replicas of themselves. Not power conferred on them by the people, but power they are born to by virtue of a plan, handed down to them from a dead scientist, which no one is allowed to change.
“Well,” Alan said, as he stared into the camera. “If you’re happy with things as they are—then this is nothing more than a day off from work. But if you, like so many others, would like the freedom to choose another line of work, or to have a sexual relationship, or to produce natural children, then take to the streets and support the new Clone Republic! A provisional government, led by me, will prepare the way for a constitutional democracy, which will take over one year from today.
“But in order to accomplish that, it will be necessary to show the Alpha Clones that the new government has the support of the people,” Alan said urgently. “So take control of your lives! Be whatever you want to be! And demonstrate your power by continuing to strike until a member of the provisional government announces some sort of settlement. At which point I want you to remember that we are at war with the Ramanthians. Our citizens are fighting on distant planets, and it’s important to support that effort by running our factories and other institutions as efficiently as possible. And that means it will be necessary for most of us to remain in our present functions during the ensuing transition period. Thank you for your support,” Alan finished. “And let this be our first day of freedom!”
“Good job,” Fisk-Five said, as he lowered the camera. “But I think we just ran out of time. Look at that!”
Alan turned to look in the direction of the other man’s pointing finger. Though not an expert on military spacecraft, the clone didn’t have to be to know that the ship coming their way was big! At least twenty times larger than the police assault boats that were circling the building. And, given the weaponry the warship carried, it could destroy both Building 516 and half the city if those on board chose to do so. That suggested the Alpha Clones were prepared to sacrifice the DNA repository in order to kill the rebel leaders.
The ship was only two hundred feet off the ground, which made it all the more impressive, as repellers roared and the destroyer escort drifted in over the building. The downdraft blew debris every which way, and the air was thick with acrid stench of ozone, as a huge shadow fell over Alan. The rebel thought about running, knew it would be pointless, and saw Fisk-Five aim the camera at him. To record how brave he was? Or document the end of the Clone Republic? There was no way to know.
As Alan waited to die, one of the Crowleys pointed upwards. Her hair was flying, and it was necessary to yell in order to make herself heard. “Look at those markings!” the woman said. “That ship belongs to the Confederacy!”
As an assault boat parted company with the larger vessel, the rebel realized the woman was correct! Did that mean what he thought it meant? Alan felt a sudden surge of hope as the assault boat circled the building and came in for a perfect landing. A hatch opened, stairs were deployed, and a familiar figure appeared. But rather than rush forward and embrace him, Foreign Service Officer-2 Christine Vanderveen took up a position next to the stairs, as a second woman appeared. And it was she who came forward to shake hands with Alan Freeman.
“Hello,” the woman in the tidy business suit said. “My name is Marcy Cowles. Ambassador Marcy Cowles. On behalf of President Nankool, and the Confederacy, please allow me to be the first to congratulate you and your fellow freedom fighters on the creation of a new government. I know you’re busy, but considering the circumstances, this might be a good time to have lunch with the president.”
Alan turned to eye his su
rroundings. Once the warship arrived, the police boats had been forced to back off. He could imagine the frantic radio traffic between them and various government agencies as hundreds of bureaucrats were forced to confront a problem the founder hadn’t prepared them for. He and his fellow revolutionaries were safe for the moment, but that would end once the ship left, so the choice was really no choice at all. “Are my friends invited as well?” the rebel wanted to know.
“Of course,” Cowles responded blandly. “We look forward to meeting all of the brave freedom fighters who will go down in the annals of history as having founded the Clone Republic.”
Alan looked over to where Vanderveen was standing. Her blond hair was whipping in the downdraft from the warship overhead, and despite the condition of her filthy clothes, she looked regal somehow. He wanted to take her into his arms, but knew he couldn’t, and nodded instead. “Thank you,” Alan said, as he turned back to Cowles. “It would be an honor to join the president for lunch.”
There was a sense of purpose within the conference room, as Booly made arrangements to evacuate the president under fire should that become necessary, and senior staff members took furious, and in some cases, frantic calls from individuals inside the Hegemony’s government. It quickly became apparent that while some of the clones were trying to hold things together, others had capitulated, and were seeking asylum within the Confederacy.
That left Nankool and a handful of others to watch video provided by both the rebels and the Confederacy’s destroyer escort, as Cowles, Vanderveen, and the rebel leaders entered the assault boat and were subsequently taken aboard the warship that was hovering above. That left the Romos and Nerovs to reoccupy an empty building. A victory of sorts, but not the one the Alpha Clones had been expecting, as their carefully organized society crumbled around them. The process continued to accelerate as a new video clip appeared on the rebel-dominated com channels.
“There it is!” an aide said excitedly, and Nankool turned to look at a screen off to his right. “Good afternoon,” the digitized version of himself said. “My name is Marcott Nankool and, as president of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings, it is my pleasure to formally recognize the Clone Republic, and assure its citizens that not only will the existing military alliance remain in force so far as we’re concerned, but we look forward to having even closer ties with your democracy during the days ahead. I will meet with Provisional President Alan Freeman within the next few hours and provide him with whatever assistance he requires.” The last phrase was directed more at the Alpha Clones, than the citizenry, and amounted to a thinly veiled threat. Now that the Confederacy was committed, it couldn’t back off, even if that meant a clash with the police.
Nankool watched his likeness smile—and knew what was coming. “For all too long the two major branches of humanity have been divided by a social system that could deliver peace and prosperity, but at a very steep price, that being the loss of personal liberties. Foremost among them was the right to vote, the right to choose a profession, and the right to procreate. Congratulations on the acquisition of your newfound freedom—and the responsibility it entails! Because, like us, you are at war. . . . And the future of all humanity is at stake, along with the well-being of other sentients as well. It will be up to you to chart the exact path that your new government will take, but the Confederacy will be there to help in any way it can, and to celebrate your accomplishments. Thank you.” And with that the screen faded to black.
Meanwhile, even as Nankool’s message was delivered to the population, half a dozen protest groups converged on the building that housed the Chamber of Governmental Process and became a single mob. That was when Alpha Clones Antonio and Pietro boarded a shuttle, and were transported up into orbit, where the admiral in command of the Hegemony’s home fleet agreed to take them aboard his flagship, but only as prisoners. Not because he hated them, but out of fear of the political consequences, were the military to take sides.
As that was taking place, Marcus went out to confront the mob. It was common knowledge that an earlier version of himself had not only fallen in love with a free breeder, but produced a child by her, believing the birth would trigger systemic changes within the Hegemony. But that Marcus had been wrong. The other Alpha Clones had been able to keep things under control, eventually forcing the visionary and his family into exile, thereby leaving all the existing problems unresolved.
But the historical connection meant that would-be free breeders had come to see any Marcus as a potential ally even though the current replicant had been a faithful and unwavering enforcer of the founder’s plan. For that reason, Marcus believed that the workers would listen to his pleas to stop rioting and return to work. So even as his clone brothers fled, he went out to greet the riotous mob. There were hundreds of them, representing dozens of lines, all mixed together. And it was an ugly sight to behold.
The workers could hardly believe their eyes at first, as one of the normally reclusive Alpha Clones came out to speak with them, and did so without any Nerovs to guard him. That was why the crowd actually let him speak a few paragraphs of what they saw as government mumbo jumbo before surging forward.
In a bloody denouement that was televised for all to see, the workers tore the Alpha Clone apart. And that, in the judgment of the historians who would write about the revolution later, was the moment when the old government truly came to an end.
Christine Vanderveen was naked. More than four hours had passed since Antonio and Pietro had fled, Marcus had been killed, and Alan finished his lunch with Nankool. The Clone Republic was a wildly chaotic reality by then, and the new president knew there were thousands of things that he should do, and eventually would do, but only after what he wanted to do—which was to spend some quality time with Christine Vanderveen. A private meeting which, thanks to his new title, he’d been able to insist upon.
And now, as the blond encircled him, Alan was lost in the smell of her freshly washed hair, the softness of her lips, and the urgent thrust of her hips. He wanted to please her, but knew very little about how to do so, and feared he would lose control.
But Vanderveen’s passion was a match for his, and it wasn’t long before the pace of their lovemaking quickened, and both were carried away by successive waves of pleasure that seemed to last forever. And left both lovers wonderfully exhausted.
Alan said things he had never said before, whispering them into her sweat-glazed skin, rubbing them into her pores. And Vanderveen answered, though not with words, because she knew things her lover didn’t. She knew the Clone Republic’s interim president would be required to travel to other planets, where he would meet hundreds if not thousands of attractive women. More than that, she knew that in spite of the chemistry between them, and the extent to which she admired Alan, there was another. The only man who could truly fill the emptiness inside her, the man with whom so much had already been shared, and the man she had been thinking about when the pleasure had been at its very peak.
Alan fell asleep, and had every right to, given all he’d been through during the previous week. That made leaving easier. Eventually, when the president of the Clone Republic awoke, he would find the note:
My dearest Alan,
Your newfound freedom will bring many challenges, including those posed by the human heart. Mine is filled with gratitude for the time we spent together, as well as admiration for the man that you are, and will be in the future.
But there is another. . . . A man to whom promises were made—and for whom I must wait. But I will remember. . . . Not with shame, but with joy, and the sure knowledge that you will find your way to happiness.
Affectionately, Christine
16
However skillful the maneuvers in retreat, it will always weaken the morale of an army. . . . Besides, retreats always cost more men and material than the most bloody engagements; with this difference, that in battle the enemy’s loss is nearly equal to your own—whereas in a retreat the loss is on your sid
e only.
—Napoleon I
Maxims of War
Standard year 1831
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC
Snow was falling, the air was bitingly cold, and the steady rumble of mortar and artillery fire could be heard as elements of the Legion’s 1st REC, the 3rd Marine Division, and the Clone Republic’s 7th Infantry Brigade fought to hold the bugs back. The effort had been successful largely because the trenches intended to bar entry to Yal-Am also made it difficult to leave, so long as they were occupied. But allied forces wouldn’t be able to hold the chits back for long, something Legion General Mortimer Kobbi was painfully aware of, as a ragtag collection of battle-weary officers filed into the clone-built structure next to Yal-Am’s stone quarry.
There was no heat and the big 155mm-sized hole in the roof allowed snow to filter down into a space that was half-filled with slabs of frosty granite, some of which might very well become grave markers eventually. But the walls were mostly intact, blocking the wind. That, plus four blazing burn barrels, gave the impression, if not the reality, of warmth as the inside temperature hovered at twenty-six degrees.
Rows of makeshift benches offered the attendees a place to sit, and many were so weary that they took advantage of the opportunity to rest even though they knew it was important to keep moving. The officers were a motley group representing the Legion, Marine Corps, and the new Clone Republic, which many of them had only recently heard about. And, because of all the casualties suffered during the last few days, Kobbi noticed that captains, lieutenants, and even sergeants had been sent in place of the generals, colonels, and majors who would normally participate in a command briefing.
When Duty Calls Page 28
