When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Mary said fi?rmly.

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

  Vanderveen’s eyebrows rose. “Death squads?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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